MARCH 1997
Sunday, 23rd, May 1751
24th, May 1751
26th, May 1751
28th May
10th June
Sunday, 13th June
Wednesday, 16th June
Friday, June 18th
20th June
22nd June
30th June
3rd July 1751
5th July
The fifteenth day
8th? or 13th? July
Iconography of the Slain
by Carletta Wilson
Sunday, 23rd, May 1751
All traces of shore have disappeared. The
wind blows from the east and a dampness has settled into my clothes. Today,
I insisted that I keep her in my cabin. Captain Davenport stared incredulously,
protested heartily, then, abruptly took leave.
Ever since I went down among them
I fail to sleep. Air thicker than that which engulfed me on the coast burned
within the hold. They stretched like the shadow of some putrid black river
from end to end. Twisting towards me, straining against the irons, with
barely enough strength to breathe, they raised themselves and glared, as
we removed the dead. Every liquid contained within the bounds of human flesh
comes coursing out. We are helpless to stop it. Some deliver their own final
blow by willing themselves dead.
So the spirit lifted me up, and took me away, and I went in bitterness, in the heat of my spirit; but the hand of the Lord was strong upon me. Ezekiel 3:14
Let me start, again, from
the beginning. Each time I begin again I discover something new. One small
gem to illuminate my memory. Who else can I speak to of this, but you? Remember?
When I spoke to you that fated night? We were walking through a tunnel of
fog. The air was chandeliered with a chill that even you noticed. With unaccustomed
fervor I announced, no confessed, that I felt I was being called. Remember
how the stones echoed my words? We were just returning from the meeting
of the Society. It was our third meeting, was it not? But this night it
was pressed upon me to go to visit my uncle in South Carolina to view the
negroes firsthand. Your voice, raised in counterpoint against the passing
din of a horse and carriage reassured me of your devotion. With your blessings,
with support of the Society, I embarked, hopeful, reassured in the righteousness
of my mission.
When I say unto the wicked, thou shalt surely die; and thou givest him not warning, nor speakest to warn the wicked from his wicked way, to save his life; the same wicked man shall die in his iniquity; but his blood will I require at thy hand. Ezekiel 4:18
My uncle, Robert B. Davis,
received me cautiously. After so many years in America, he had changed.
I found a man unlike the one my mother spoke so fondly of on so many Liverpool
nights. He would not give me license to preach among his negroes. In every
manner was I thwarted. Uncle, as well as the other planters, said they saw
no need for the word of God to be spread among their slaves. "Why would
brutes without souls need redemption?" they asked.
Each night, when the plantation was draped
in a curtain of stars and clouds, I heard the night creatures calling to
the earth. From beneath its plowed flesh the earth sighed an answer.
It was placed in my heart to journey to
Africa. What a perfect solution. If we could ship slaves across the sea
why not leave their heathenism in Africa and ship Christians, disembark
souls bathed in the baptism of Christ from sea to sea?
Thou shalt know also that thy seed shall be great, and thy offspring as the grass of the earth. Job 5:25
When I arrived at Cape Coast they had been
without the benefit of a man of God for some time. Africa overflows with
infidels, white and black. Barbarous heathens, professors of Mohammed and
those who have no feeling for the church, abound. Therefore, I set humbly
about my Father's work.
All I asked was that they grant me the
opportunity to speak to them of the redemption of Christ. And that, if possible,
I may perform the baptism for those who are called. The Governor said he
would not stand in my way, but that the traders would not tolerate any interference
in their business. They are not at cross purposes with me, I informed him.
They must come to the fort, do they not? And are held here, yes? With the
aid of an interpreter I could begin to go among them. Besides, there are
gromettos, traders, mulattos, sailors and captains who also can benefit
from the Lord's work.
When I lie down, I say, when shall I arise, and the night be gone? And I am full of tossing to and fro unto the dawning of the day. Job 9:4
I must purge myself of
every ounce of memory of them. They, who are stacked, in irons, on shelves
like so many pieces of meat. They, who came stumbling into town, wide-eyed,
cringing, weak from fear. And me, praying for them, imploring them to pray
for their idolatrous sins. Imploring them to accept God, a God whose faith
is deeper than the inland roads, wet and dry, that reach into the interior
and pull them out and across the sea.
24th,
May 1751
The rains came last night. My dear, sweet Lucinda, I am most impatient to gaze, once more, upon your face, to drink in every melodious word. You must know that I have, not once, betrayed you in all of these lonely years. I do not betray you now, but I cannot bear to let happen to Solemn what has befallen so many of her kind.
26th, May 1751
I have drunk so much since I went down
among them. When they refuse to eat, I force them. When their injuries are
too much to bear I assist the surgeon in their care.
I did not know they captured her. She
was standing near the women and children, staring into the sea. When I caught
her eye, she turned away. Immediately, I covered her nakedness with my shirt.
She is young as a rose before bloom. This womanchild, who I name Solemn.
28th May
I first saw her during an evening when I was visiting the mulatto merchant, Jacob Moore, a man of much repute, among white and black, in the trade. I had just finished saying that I would, if necessary, present my case to the Governor if we could not come to some agreement alone. Weary of me, he lapsed into silence. I took the opportunity to examine his room, my eyes becoming accustomed to the dimness. That he had once traveled to Europe was clear. The relics of his visit, a small painting, some fine cloth, and two solid silver goblets, were set awkwardly among his belongings. It was then I noticed someone standing in the shadow of the wall to the west. The setting sun fringed and framed the window. Her flesh, being nearly the blueblack of indigo dyed cloth, camouflaged her well.
They were children of fools, yea, children of base men; they were viler than the earth. Job 30:8
10th June
Yesterday, cutting the water, I spied five or six sharks. The sun was working its way above the ship. The air was enraged with heat. Not one bird flew in the sky. I spied an African, shouting at the men. "Go no more big water! I no live, you kill! I want (pointing) away! Me favorite fellah! Me favorite fellah!" Swearing, the men told him to shove off, but he seemed determined to make his desire known. Finally, Captain Davenport, carrying irons, came among them. The man hurried off. He is the only black man the Captain permits to move about freely. The irons laced about their ankles, choke them at the neck, pierce, pinch, tear skin. It is no wonder he refuses to be bound by them.
Sunday, 13th June
I counseled the Captain, I told him of
my suspicions regarding the African. I saw him earlier very curiously demanding
food for his slaves. His torso was covered in gris-gris. I was surprised
to find them there. Usually, they strip themselves of everything. As they
board the ships you can see them throwing their beaded necklaces into the
sea. The flesh on their bones, which, I might add, is engraved with rude
designs, is the only memory they'll ever have of that torrid land.
Scarcely had he begun his tirade when
he spied the Captain coming towards us. He quickly moved on. I believe he
was in league with Jacob Moore. Still, I haven't figured out the relationship
between the Captain and him. Why, of all the men slaves, is he allowed to
remain free?
The men call Captain Davenport "Deadeye"
behind his back. He has transported many, slave and free, across this treacherous
sea. According to the men he lost the sight of his eye to a disease which
afflicts the negroes. It has lost all its color and remains in the same
position no matter what the other eye may do. It seems to be fixed upon
some unseen face or object. In fact, the eye reminds me of the eyes of one
of the whites who died on the coast. Revulsion and defiance are words that
come to mind, but even they are not sufficient. I do not wish to see what
he saw upon his death. Half the cargo, of this harvester of death, barely
rests among the living, the other half clearly belongs to the dead. Such
is the Captain's fate that his sightlessness gives him the uncanny ability
to pluck the dead, the nearly dead, from among the living.
So it is, also, with us. The men and I
move about the ship performing the tasks of the living. But, when we rest
our heads, we fall back upon cold, hard beds not confident that we shall
wake. Forgive me, my dear, my black mood. Days weigh upon me. I am uneasy,
restless and unsure. Nights are endless trials of fitful sleeping. I've
taken to tying Solemn in the corner of my cabin with a thick rope. Still,
I sleep, dreamless, feeling as if someone is standing over me... watching.
I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels.
My strength is dried up like a potsherd; and my tongue cleaveth to my jaws; and thou hast brought me into the dust of death. Psalms 22:14-15
Soon after my arrival
on the coast, I was beset with fever. For weeks I labored with illness until
I had to, finally, take to my bed. Solemn came, in the company of an old
wizen woman, to care for me. The old woman teaching her the use of herbs.
The Governor, I learned, intervened on my behalf. He paid Jacob Moore to
come to my aid. Hampered by the cloak of fever, my memory is vague. Yet,
I know I traveled to the gates of that great kingdom and was about to cross
the threshold when the touch of a cool hand distracted me. Upon opening
my eyes, her questioning, silent eyes gazed into mine.
Wednesday, 16th June
Today, the girls and women were made to dance on the deck. The men were made to drum. Our men pursued them mercilessly. I spoke to Captain Davenport to no avail. Arguments erupted over them. Fights broke out. I checked to make sure Solemn was secure. I found her huddled in her corner clutching her shirt.
Friday, June 18th
The worst began last night. The men delighted
in displays of drunkenness. Their uproarious singing could be heard throughout
the ship. In this state they went among the women. They dared me to speak
against them. For my silence, I kept Solemn safe.
I found out something about the African.
He is a Mandingo diviner. How could I fail to see? He was known on the coast
and in the interior for his knowledge of the natives who are sold in the
trade. Certain tribes, it seems, are better suited to be slaves because
of their temperament and capacity for labor. Oddly, they struck a deal.
The diviner's here to travel to America to see where the Captain unloads
the slaves, visit Europe and then return to Africa. The Captain, in return,
is curious to see if his powers of prophecy, so impressive in his land,
extend across the sea.
20th June
Morning came. The sun made its sluggish journey across the sky. I got up very early as it is so difficult to sleep. The sky looked as if it was burning. Every rolling cloud was white as smoke. I felt, not for the first time, a terrible uneasiness. It seems as though something has bewitched the men. The Captain does nothing to curb their advances towards the women.
And in that day it shall come to pass, that the glory of Jacob shall be made thin, and the fatness of his flesh shall wax lean. Isaiah 17:4
22nd June
Jacob Moore's establishment was raided
and burned. He cheated the chief one time too many. Coincidentally, I was
on my way to confront him, for the last time, about the Mandingo seer. His
place was destroyed, burning in fact, when I came upon it. I discovered
Solemn hiding, in the garden, near the fence. On subsequent visits, the
man and I would argue, heatedly, long into the night. I distinctly remember
the night Solemn first served me. As soon as she entered the room I was
aware that she was listening, had been listening all along. Even though
she did not communicate with words I sensed her intelligence. Many nights
after I observed her, how she attended to the man Jacob, with subtle grace.
At first, I sought to place her with someone who would use her well. But
then, she began to cook and care for me.
Before I left the coast, I sold her to
a man who promised me that she would not leave Africa. It is to her credit,
by the will of the Lord, that I live.
I recall one particular instance when
I came upon her in Jacob Moore's garden. Not knowing I was there she moved
about freely. The bright cloth draping her body moved like undulating water.
Birds sang through the trees and air. The sun, though strong, did not burn
me. If there is such a being as a black Eve, I, Charles Patterson Edwards,
beheld her in her garden tending the fecund earth.
Of course, many a white man, out of loneliness,
has taken up with these creatures. Their children parade shamelessly through
the streets. In this strange land there are creatures, chameleons, that,
in an attempt to save themselves from their enemies, can change color at
will and seemingly disappear against the bark of trees or in a stretch of
grass. They do not have one color that belongs, exclusively, to themselves.
These mulattos share a similar fate. They are neither one color nor the
other. They are neither wholly free nor only slave. They can be master,
trader, slave. Are neither loved nor accepted, by either side, only use
or are used as the circumstance prevails.
Jacob Moore, I later learn, had been keeping
her from contact with white men. Why he let her come into contact with me
I'll never know, but, I believe, in his own odd way, the man came to trust
me.
I often found myself staring at his skin.
One could trace the two lines of his parentage in the features of his person.
The range of skin colors, hair and features about the face of these people
is astounding. Sometimes, their color is indistinguishable from that of
a white, but when they speak their tongues burn black.
30th June
This afternoon, I caught sight of that Mandingo near my cabin door. I admonished him, sternly, not to return or I will see to it that he is fastened, permanently, in the irons. I can only get a few of the men to pray each evening with me. The cook is the one exception. I try to spend time with him each day.
He hath said in his heart, I shall not be moved; for I shall never be in adversity.
His mouth is full of cursing and deceit and fraud; under his tongue is mischief and vanity. Psalm 10:6-7
3rd July 1751
I glimpsed a thin moon dancing among the
clouds when Jacob Moore came to speak, face to face, with me. I felt he
had been avoiding me as I had only received word once since our last meeting.
So often a quarrel which erupts between two men in the fort penetrates everyone's
mood. It was like this that evening. There are those who hunger to exchange
blows. I felt in him a seething anger. He accused me of lying. He said I
was trying to destroy him, and therefore, destroy his trade. His arm swept,
in full arc, inland. All this because I spoke to the Governor behind his
back. A filthy fetish was held before my eyes. He accused me of having someone
plant such rubbish in his house. The fetish, a confused conglomerate of
objects, reeking an offensive odor, was pushed in my face. Someone had wrapped
an ancient snakeskin around a crudely rendered cross. Splatters of dried
blood covered the thing. Yanking it from his hands, I denied every accusation
accordingly. As white as he is on the outside, he is as black as the barbarians
in this wretched land. Suddenly, the courtyard echoed with the sound of
our blows. We fought. All my pent-up passion, all my hatred for this godforsaken
outpost at the end of the world, was expended on him. I cursed him. Cursed
the blood that coursed his veins. Cursed the man and woman responsible for
his despicable birth. "You are less than a man, damn you! Less than
a man, damn your soul!" and freeing the cross, I ripped the snakeskin
to shreds.
I stripped myself of every implement of
the cloth save the cross you gave me, save the inclination to kneel, each
day, for forgiveness, in prayer.
And it was revealed in mine ears by the Lord of hosts. Surely this iniquity shall not be purged from you til ye die, saith the Lord God of hosts. Isaiah 22:14
5th July
The mad roar of waves fills me. Sound,
rolling, shrieking. It is the roar of a beast. I believe we will be crushed
beneath the mighty paw of the sea. Keep this in your heart, Lucinda. By
the grace of the spirit, I did not, by my hand, kill the man.
Tonight, Captain Davenport, having drunk
too much over dinner, let it slip that Solemn is Jacob Moore's sister. They
are the children of a slave woman the Captain has long since sold.
The fifteenth day
Fog. We rise to fog. Smoke-gray air curls
about the ship Marie. The men appear and disappear, going about their tasks,
as if characters in a play. Usually, the sea answers the munificent Marie
as she plows and plunders through its waves. But, today, the sea is silent.
My eye begins, so early, its worrisome twitch.
I am about to search for Captain Davenport
when I hear the first cry of alarm. More shouts follow soon after. The fog
is dense, so dense. The Marie is engulfed in a forest of fog. The masts
stand like so many ancient trees. Ropes sway like so many branches. From
within its far reaches strange and fabulous beasts, in the shape of men,
women and children, emerge.
Wheeling, dashing back and forth, I am
surprised by their dexterity. They come at us, swerve, and disappear. Particularly,
given the chains, even the near-dead show their worth. Both sexes carry
children. They force them through the net, throw them into the sea at every
opening. Shadows... shadows... I grab two and hold them fast until a man
tears them from my arms. I try for another, find myself entangled in a web
of clawing, biting women. I try for more but they are shadows... shadows.
They climb the net, the poop rail, any climbable surface and escape into
the sea. They fly from the ship. Climb so high, leap, then soar into the
water. They are like rats against the wood, desperate to escape, finding
every possible means to flee.
Harsh cries rend the air. Sea birds dive,
swoop and swerve. They come as if called. The whump, whump of their wings
clamoring about our faces. Bare feet slap across the deck; hands across
the face of drums. The birds call. The drums answer.
Captain Deadeye, himself, is deranged.
He comes tearing into the havoc capturing every shadow he can claim. He
moves striking as he comes. Lashing as he screams for him. Screams for him,
his voice acrid with the stench of madness.
She weepeth sore in the night, and her tears are on her cheeks; among all her lovers she hath none to comfort her; all her friends have dealt treacherously with her, they are become her enemies. Lamentations 1:2
I race to my cabin. To
my astonishment he is here. Both of them are struggling to get her free.
Her face is no longer the expressionless mask I observe every day. It is
twisted, contorted into a faced possessing a strange despair. Aiiii... aiiii...
aiiii. Whose voice is that I hear? Who is weeping? Who is whispering?
Who is speaking? Who?
Staring at the blood-splattered floor
between them, I realize that this is the first time that I have ever really
heard her voice. She is begging him to leave. She is frantically pushing
him away, but he keeps struggling with the knot too thick for his instrument
to cut. He cries out to her. He repeats a litany of unintelligible sounds.
She finally convinces him to leave. Her ankle, mangled, bloody and twisted.
Crying, she kicks him away.
Pleading and repeating a word I first
find hard to understand, he steps back. His weary voice, drenched with a
word. Wumbu... Wumbu... Wumbu... I realize it must be her name. The sound
of his voice pulls away from her face a name that has fit her like a mask.
"Solemn!" I scream.
Deadeye and his men knock me out of the
way. They tear into the Mandingo with viciousness and he returns the same.
Spit, blood and sweat fly into my face until I, too, join the fray.
And I heard a loud voice saying in heaven. Now is come salvation, and strength, and the kingdom of our God, and the power of his Christ; for the accuser of our brethren is cast down, which accused them before our God day and night.
And they overcame him by the blood of the Lamb, and by the word of their testimony; and they loved not their lives unto the death. Revelation 12:10-11
We take turns lashing
his body. Every surviving slave is made to watch. Solemn is made to stand
before him. Their eyes lock until he can no longer hold up his head. She
mouths soundless invocations. Shakes in small tremors. She does not cry.
Captain Deadeye accuses me of conspiring
mutiny among the slaves. "How so?" I say. "I warned you about
the Mandingo." Even the cook does not speak in my defense. He says
I took the slave as my concubine. The Captain accuses me of fomenting the
uprising, of aiding and abetting their escape.
Cook adds that I pilfered food for her.
He says I treat her as if she were a white woman. Clothing her, removing
her from the reach of the men. Cook shows his face and arms, covered with
scratches. "She can no say no," he screams in my face.
"I show her! Show her! She niggah, niggah gal!"
I swear I never touched her. "You
are a God-damn liar!" Deadeye counters, kicking me to the cabin floor.
I follow the eye. The dead one. It stares at me glistening with glee. "Surely,
you cost me more than half my cargo." "Why should I pay for your
mistake!" I spit, "you knew the Mandingo could not be trusted!
You know what they see. Surely, you were witness to their bewitching gift
of prophecy. Why did you let such a creature on board? He is the devil at
that! A divining devil and you brought him on board this ship just to see
how vast his powers would extend! If God prevails from sea to sea, what
stops the devil then. What stops the devil, then! He had to see that you
lied. He had to know that you were going to sell him."
It is spoken in a whisper. His lips brush
my face. Rum, salt air, in a spray of spit envelop me. "I trust infidel,
savage, devil, beast, whatever you choose to call them. I trust this lying,
worthless-son-of-a-cook, before I'd trust my left toe to you!"
8th? or 13th? July
I have been thrown in with the common men.
Sailors scraped from the scourge of the earth. I am fairly tortured by them
any moment of the day or night. I am the only one to go down among the negroes,
now. It is my duty to clean up behind them and to save as many as I can.
When I carry up the dead I feel the weight of a lifetime sink from their
body into mine. With the weight of the dead, I descend again into a hold
from which, I fear, I shall never emerge again.
Forgive me... pleaseforgive me... Lucinda
Marie. I am no longer the man who left you with tears in your eyes. I have
become someone I do not recognize. As long as I thought I might see you
again, I was reluctant to confess. I went to Africa with the hope and dreams
of an innocent. I was nave to believe that I could convert any of them.
When Reverend Glenn first visited my family he touched my heart with the
word of his work among peoples who do not know God. He spoke, strongly,
about how much we must persist in bringing the word of God to them. I began
to find things, almost daily, that disturbed me. Soon after my arrival,
I learned the church had been built on land sacred to the natives. First,
I discovered a fetish. Then a fowl that had clearly been sacrificed. Implements
and vessels of worship were being destroyed or stolen, one by one.
When I spoke to Jacob Moore he denied
any knowledge of these occurrences. You see, several of his people were
situated to service the church. They were responsible for much of the cleaning
and repairs. They are called gromettos, negroes in employ. They are, generally
speaking, not sold away. I implored him to look into this matter, to search
their quarters, to punish what I suspected in my heart. He refused. Gods,
white or black, have done nothing for him, he said, so why should he for
they?
Forgive me, Lucinda Marie. I beg you.
Forgive me. For I have lied. My lies, like thorns, embrace me. I fear, as
I confess to you, that I shall never again anticipate your embrace. One
evening, when I came in very late after drinking I found her sleeping. Usually,
she was awake and staring, wide-eyed, at me across the darkened room. But
this night, she lay nearly naked, sprawled upon her back. A full moon lit
the room. My eyes fell upon every part of her. Her skin... nightblack. So
much a child, and yet, I felt my pulse racing at the woman I saw sleeping.
I flew into the night. Night spread, her dark stain, inside me.
It is sometime
near the end of July, I believe. It really does not, any longer, matter.
I dreamt, last night, of the rolling hills
beyond your parent's home. Of the green ribbon of trees that skirt them.
We were sitting outside. You, gently rocking in your grandmother's favorite
chair and I staring at the silken bush of your hair as the wind gently played
it undone. Every part of me wanted to touch you, to be touched by you and
so I stood and walked towards the chair. A passing cloud blocked out the
rays of the sun. As shadows fell upon your face your skin darkened. And
darkened. And darkened. Until the smiling girl rocking in the chair was
Solemn. She was staring at me in that expressionless manner by which I came
to know her. Her naked skin engraved crudely with designs. I could not move,
only watch as her body began to swell. The designs changed shape and moved,
fleetingly, across her flesh as if some invisible hand were drawing. I had
the odd sense that they possessed some meaning. And just as I thought it,
so it was. I began to read her flesh. Her flesh flushed in words. They were
names. Immediately, it came to me that they were the names of the dead.
The dead who freed themselves by willing themselves dead. The dead who flew
into the sea. A whispering commenced from the folds of her flesh. Her breasts
grew, fuller, heavier beneath her moaning, trembling breath. Every moving
line bringing forth sound, bringing forth another name for me to read.
She is with child. The chair creaks and
tilts beneath her weight. Spreading her legs, her solemn eyes never leave
my face. Her flesh, a page of desire and disgust. She heaves and trembles.
Clear liquid rains from between her thighs and pools beneath the chair.
She spreads her legs wider and leans backward giving herself fully to pain
or pleasure, which, I cannot tell.
Finally, the moist crown of a head appears.
As if pulled by invisible hands, the baby
turns this way and that until its tiny arms wave. Then, gaining control,
the infant hoists itself round to stare, fully alert, at me. The greyblue
eyes of my mother capture me. The lips part, but do not speak. Searching
that face, I find Solemn's mouth on a canvas of skin that drinks in the
pure black of her, the ruddy white of me. "Where is your God now
that you need him?" it demands. "Where is the God, who will free
you from me, Father? I speak my name. Jacob Patterson Edwards. I claim you.
I claim you with my golden veins!"
I was cast upon thee from the womb; thou art my God from my mother's belly.
Be not far from me; for trouble is near; for there is none to help. Psalms 22:9-10
I look up. The sky is
conquered by huge black birds. I am standing at the door of Jacob Moore's
trading place. The Mandingo seer is adorning Solemn's breasts with beads.
I am forced to my knees. I see bars passing from the Mandingo's hand to
Jacob's hand. Gold passes from the Mandingo to Captain Davenport. Fetishes
cover the walls. Upon each fetish the serpent of Eve drapes across a cross.
A golden bleeding cross. Elephant tusks, glass beads and bones of long gone
slaves fill every corner of Jacob Moore's room.
Jacob takes Solemn by the hand and pushes
her towards the door. Deadeye catches him. In a movement, reminiscent of
a lightning flash, Deadeye slices into Jacob. Jacob slices into the Captain,
into the Mandingo seer and into me. "Where, in what world, do you think
you can flee, to be free of me?"
The diviner, with his rotten teeth, sneers.
The Captain, with his broken smile, jeers. Jacob Moore spits in my face.
We are all speaking as if from the same throat. I stab him. Stab him. I
stab Jacob through and through. "How, infidel, do you murder
the dead?"
The blue beginnings of night pour into
the room as Solemn flings open the door and escapes. I am pushed against
the wall by waves. The room is awash in waves. Every object, washing blue,
begins a mournful clanking like metal against a shoe.
Through the rising sea I watch Solemn
flee. I follow her mad dash across the shore. There in the sea, ships waiting.
There beyond the beach, traders. She runs until I can no longer see her,
until she disappears and I am only left with bloodied footsteps tracing
the shore and the scent of her memory.
I am in irons. But, I am not in irons
alone. Captain Deadeye Davenport, Jacob Moore and the Mandingo seer are
linked to me. The sea is purple with our blood. The chain, long, twisting
and curling like leafy seaweed pulls us deeper, deeper, deeper into God's
endless sea until the hot, salty water grows as cool as it is deep. It is
as if we are falling into sleep. A black, black sleep. And rising up from
the depths, like dreams, a population of souls. Their luminous, skeletal
arms opening, offering the jewelry of the dead... bones... bones...bones.
I fight every filthy one. The caked blood
of slaves stains the rusty links of chain binding me. Scream... I scream...
but all they hear... is laughter.
I fear I shall never see you alive, again.
What a fool I was to ask you to wait for me, to trust that I would return
the same man you set free with so much love. Pray for me, Lucinda, in your
soul, I ask you to pray for me. For this night, though I die, I live.
He that leadeth into captivity shall go into captivity; he that killeth with the sword must be killed with the sword. Here is the patience and the faith of the saints. Revelation 13:10
© The Raven Chronicles 1997