Thomas is eighteen years old. He can speak English, French, and, read some words of Latin. He will one day inherit his father's plantation. For all his dark skin and darker hair, the girls in the town whisper over his strong arms and the way he feels most comfortable in the trees, barefoot in the forest where his mother's family live. But he doesn't care much for them. Their words are too limited – the walls of the houses in the town are too constrictive, and he likes to feel soil beneath his feet. His mother used to come with him – when he was thirteen he went out without telling her, and when he came back she was nervous, agitated, shouted at him for worrying her so. So for a time she would step into the forest with him. She never took him to see her family, never climbed trees beside him, and she only stared at the old raccoon, the wild dog and the weak hummingbird who found him out and raced around him. But she took off her shoes and smiled to herself, and was happier than he had ever seen her before.
That is, until his father came home earlier than expected, saw them returning, clutching berries between their fingers, and looked as though his heart was breaking. As though he had lost them.
So now Thomas goes out alone, and the town girls whisper, with their curled hair and pink cheeks, about the tamed savage of a boy who has an easy smile and a friendly laugh, who shuts his eyes when the wind blows, as though to draw prussian, vermillion, saffron shades from the gussets of air.
Sometimes he could almost swear he hears words, calling to him. But he can never find where they come from – perhaps there is too much of his father, who is polite and godly, within him.
So he will come back, wash the leaves from his feet, sit with the bible by a window, and try not to notice the ghost of wilderness within his mother's eyes.