Chains

Pastor Weeks walked toward his own slave, keeping a hand on the satchel so it didn’t bump against his side.

My heart wanted to force my feet to run, but I couldn’t feel them, couldn’t feel my hands, nor my arms, nor any part of myself. I had froze solid, sticking to the dirt. We were sold once before, back when Ruth was a tiny baby, not even baptized yet. They sold all of us from the plantation when old Mister Malbone run up his debts too high. His bankers wanted their pounds of flesh. Our flesh.

One by one they dragged us forward, and a man shouted out prices to the crowd of likely buyers and baby Ruth cried, and Momma shook like the last leaf on a tree, and Poppa… and Poppa, he didn’t want them to bust up our family like we were sheep or hogs. “I am a man,” he shouted, and he was Momma’s husband and our father, and baby Ruth, she cried and cried, and I thought Momma would shatter like a bowl when it falls off a table. Poppa fought like a lion when they came for him, the strongest lion, roaring; it took five of them with hickory clubs, and then Momma fainted, and I caught baby Ruth just in time and there was lion’s blood on the ground mixed with the dust like the very earth was bleeding, and we left there, we three in Miss Mary Finch’s wagon, and everything in the whole world was froze in ice for near two years after that.

I opened my mouth to roar, but not a sound escaped. I could not even mewl like a kitten.