Author's note:
I know I usually do these at the end, but this one is so important, I thought that I'd do it at the beginning.
1) I've decided – for the next few chapters, at least – to change the lengths of Everbound's updates. It's hardly a crime to write a chapter of 6,000 words! In these Ziio parts in particular, there is so much to be explained. I'm hope that's OK! I know some people have said they like long updates...
2) Has anyone heard of another fanfiction website? It's called Archive Of Our Own, or AO3 for short. You guessed it! I'm gonna get an account. This time I'll keep my username the same as my tumblr: tomatoegeek. This is so that it's easy to find me, as tumblr and AO3 go hand in hand!
3) Anyone here like anime? Shingeki no Kyojin (Attack on Titan) in particular? Me too. Well, it would mean a lot to me if you all read my best friend's Jean/Marco fic: 'The Witch's Son'. I have watched her writing style blossom in the past two months and I am SO proud of her. She's a fantastically talented writer!
Thanks, and sorry for such a long Author's Note! Now, where was I...? Ah, yes. Ziio.
ZIIO
Where should I begin?
Given the choice, I would not speak yet. First, I'd hear from you. What my son and his father have done in a space of sixteen years. I would ask you a lifetime's worth of questions, and smile as I listened to the answers. But I cannot. From the moment the Assassins embarked on this voyage, Jack gave me strict orders to tell you everything. From beginning to end, from horrific to hopeful...everything. I suppose I'd planned my story for a while. How would I describe certain things? Should I censor some of the truth, or unveil even my darkest hours? Yes. I decided I would be honest, even though honesty may not be a virtue...
Now, my son, are you aware of what happened during the village fire? Good. In which case, it all begins on my journey home. There I was, walking along the forest path, when I met some old friends.
There were four of them. All of them I recognised, none of them I trusted. The Colonial Templars.
From behind a tree, the hand of William Johnson grabbed me by the jaw. He swung me round to face him. In the second that I could think, I drew my knife and stabbed at him. I must've put the blade into his shoulder, because his hand withdrew from my mouth. He stumbled away clutching his arm. But there were more Templars to face. How they found me was irrelevant now: all I had to do was fight them.
Charles Lee, Thomas Hickey and Benjamin Church charged at me, trying to batter me enough that I could fall. They didn't want to kill me. When Thomas drew his sword, Charles shouted back at him to leave me living. I couldn't climb the tree, and I couldn't run to the village. Why would I bring trouble to its mouth, when already the tribe was in ruins? And so I tried to fight them. Even when they had me wrestled against the tree, I cried out for someone in the valley to hear. But nobody was awake.
I was running out of options. I was about to try and push them back, but they were all holding me down; I could hardly breathe. And then there was darkness.
How they put me to sleep, I cannot remember. But I do remember where I woke.
It was dark. I was lying against a cold surface. I tried to move – but my hands, and mouth were bound. My limbs ached with fresh bruises. It took my mind several moments to remember, for my eyes were moving like the sea. But I did remember...and I shuffled to sit up, horrified.
There was no light in the room. Not a candle, or even a window. A cellar? I didn't know. I had never been in one.
How could I have let this happen? I thought to myself, over and over. I couldn't shed a tear...not yet. There was still a chance that I was dreaming.
I was not. Minutes later, footsteps clattered like chains from nearby. I slid along the floor and backed against a wall. A wall rough as stone, but not as rough as what I saw. The sound of keys clicking into a lock made me shuffle further back. Then, there was light. Not an awful lot: just enough – in my sudden dizziness – to illuminate his face.
Charles Lee.
Internally, I scowled at him. Part of me was determined to stand up and escape, but part of me wanted to be far away from him. My head was spinning far too much for that.
"Rise and shine, savage," he hissed. "I trust you slept well."
I wanted to retort; tried to, even. I'd forgotten: my mouth was covered. I cowered further into the room's corner. That was, until he approached me. Torturously slowly.
"Get up." He grabbed me roughly by the arm, wrenching me to my feet. I stumbled as my head flew from side to side, too weak to push him off.
Firm grip on my wrists, Lee led me up two candle-lit staircases. As the daylight became more obvious, I was able to spot another problem: the clothes that Haytham had given me were slashed and torn, covered in grass and bloodstains. It couldn't have been my blood. I was hardly injured in the fight...was I?
Charles tormented me further with snide comments; about my fighting skills, about my people and about my reason for being...wherever I was. Not that he made it clear. He didn't need to: I was already calculating a way to break free.
The staircase opened up to a more tepid, more ornate hallway. Carpeted red and gold, it bore grand paintings on the wall. They lined every door, the people in the portraits staring down at me with intense blue eyes. Two servants bustled about cleaning further down the hallway. So where did I fit into this picture?
Just as I was about to jolt away, Charles whipped me round. His eyes – exactly as the portraits' – flashed dangerously. Were they his ancestors? Perhaps I was right in thinking this was his house.
"Now, the rules are simple," he growled. "You stay exactly where I put you, and your blood remains unspilled. No little...escapes this time. Don't even consider evading us, Ziio. You will lose."
Perhaps his use of my name was a chilling trick, but I submitted. He led me on into another ornate room: one with a large round table. Around it sat the other three Templars. Their eyes darkened on seeing me, except for Johnson. He lay back in his chair, sunlight reflecting off his closed eyes. At his feet, a negro slave girl tended his bloodied shoulder. She was bandaging the wound when we entered.
"Leave us," Charles ordered.
The slave girl (she couldn't have been older than twelve) pinned the strips together and scurried from the room. I watched her go with a sinking feeling: how could the Templars enslave a child like that? Of course, that was self-explanatory. They were Templars, whose beliefs were in freedom's counterpart. Heaven knew what they'd do to an adult like me.
"I have her here," Charles said to Johnson.
"Bring her in further." William didn't even open his eyes. "I want to take a closer look."
Like a victim of a circus, Lee jabbed me forward with his finger. I hadn't the strength nor the courage to protest, so simply stared bitterly at Johnson. He opened his eyes and stared back...but it was not a look of discontent. There was a certain satisfaction. An awe. As I approached, Charles pushed me to kneel on the floor. My nostrils must've been flaring.
"Quite the fighter," Johnson mumbled after a while. "And such strength she holds."
"Wot about knowledge?" came the voice of Thomas Hickey.
"Not yet. First, let her talk. Charles?"
Lee whipped the cloth from my mouth. I didn't hesitate for one moment.
"What have you done with me?" I demanded, even before the band was off my ears.
"Oh, nothing...yet," Charles purred.
"Where am I?" I continued. "How did you find me? What do you wa –"
"All in good time." Benjamin was next to speak. He was behind Johnson, such that I couldn't see him.
What to ask next? I was determined to keep them talking; to catch them out somewhere. What if I wasn't alone? What if they'd captured more of my people? Suddenly, a fear washed over me: was Ratohnhaké:ton safe? He had to be. The Templars had interrogated the village already. They could hardly do much more 'useful' damage.
"I had better be your only prisoner," I threatened nonetheless, "else the Kanien'kehá:ka will find you..."
I was interrupted by an almost manic laugh. I glared at its source: Thomas Hickey. "Wot would we want with those sods, anyway? We got everythin' we need right here."
"You will have nothing from me."
"So you say."
"Only wait until Haytham hears of this!" I shouted.
"He needn't know," Charles chuckled sardonically. "William, where would you have me put her in the meantime?"
In the meantime?
"Back in the cellar, I think," mumbled Church. "She seemed no trouble in there –"
"No." William's voice made me waver in fear: if not the cellar, then where? What would these sadistic men have planned? "With her build, she could become...useful."
Quickly I smothered my fear. If I let it even peak through my eyes, I'd be a hare to their weapons. "I do not care for that tone, you bastard!"
It was the bravest thing I'd said...and also the most foolish. I was silenced by a sharp slap across the face from Charles. I struggled not to exclaim: nothing – no fear or agony – could show. My life could've depended on it.
"Place her back from whence she came," Johnson mumbled monotonously. "Then, we will talk."
All this mystery made me more desperate to break away. As Charles swivelled with a nod – leading me out – my senses took hold. I couldn't escape yet. I had to know what was happening. So far, I'd learned that I was alone. Judging by the outside sun, it was mid-morning. How long was I unconscious for? Where was I? And there was still the question of what Jonson meant by 'useful'.
I didn't want to think of it, even as Charles locked me back in the cellar. This was all a nightmare; a fear of leaving Haytham's homestead. Surely I'd wake up beside him, any moment now? I closed my eyes and let exhaustion wash over me.
"Get up."
Several hours of tossing and turning left me delirious. The cellar floor was cold – and the light very minimal. Lee's voice was like a thorn prick: sharp, and harsh. And he waited not a moment. Before my eyes could flutter open, he'd grabbed me under the arm and hauled me up. I swayed on the spot, as if I was still sleeping.
Once again, Lee led me into the ornate hallway. But this time, we were not heading for the 'Templar' room. With a sharp jerk toward the front door, I was outside.
The sky was a precursor to sunset. I looked around (in the little vision I had, overwhelmed by the light) and saw a similar setting to Haytham's homestead. There was an outstretch of allotments, a stable, distant hills and trees. Eight or nine slaves toiled the field on either side. Somehow, they emitted a silence – and silence in the woods always means something is wrong.
The semi-forest air filled my lungs with life...but I said nothing. It was foolish to oppose Charles until I had the energy; until I had something else to oppose him for.
The next two hours were a blur. I was bundled into the back of a horse-drawn carriage. I say 'carriage'. It was more of a cage, with thin wooden bars. It was covered with a sheet; I could not see where we were going. By 'we', I mean the man at the reins and – not Charles – but Johnson. They sat at the front of this cage, leading the two horses forth. Neither of them said anything...nor me.
It was on that journey that it dawned on me. The Templars did not intend to keep me temporarily. Wherever I was headed for, it was far from home; from Ratohnhaké:ton. Often with the Templars, I could switch all grief to anger. Now fear – such that I'd never known – was eating at my strength. I was powerless and alone.
After what seemed like hours, I was bundled out of the cage. It was dark now, such that I couldn't make sense of my surroundings. Not that it mattered: I would come to know them well. Bare footed, I was standing on grass. Shadows of trees, rocks and even cliffs lurked in the distance. There was a rhythmic chipping noise from not far off. Johnson took me by the wrists. He pushed me; I stumbled into the depths of this place. It was the depths of my new life.
Brittle as glass with fear, I couldn't question where I was. Johnson may well have been carrying my corpse – even then I would be more responsive. The evening flies attacked my skin; I barely noticed. Questions were numerous as fireflies, but they stayed on my tongue. Already I had spoken out today – and received a bruise from it. That was enough for one abduction.
"I suppose..." To my mild surprise, Johnson spoke in my native language. "I should take you to your house."
Your house?
"My house is in Mohawk Valley," I snarled.
"I'm afraid not." Giving up on speaking Mohawk, he returned to English. "As of now, this land is untouched. Unknown. You will help me to make it thrive."
"How so?" I asked bitterly.
"You'll see. You'll see. First, I'll run through what will happen tomorrow –"
"If I am still here tomorrow."
"Let me be clear," Johnson hissed in my ear. "There are no escapes. Should you attempt it, I will find you. And I have men to see to it that you're punished...suitably."
"And why not simply shoot me down?"
William stopped walking. With a knowing laugh that made me want to strike him, he murmured: "Heavens, no. You're far too valuable for that. Now, tomorrow. The place I am taking you will be where you sleep from now on. You share with others – a dozen; half if you are fortunate. In the morning, when the doors are unlocked, you will conform to instructions and stay silent. Are we understood?"
I spat disgustedly.
"Come on, then. No standing around. Are you trying to be bitten to death?"
We approached the silhouette of a building. The chipping noises from afar had stopped. Instead, I could hear muffled voices: dull tones that I'd never heard. Johnson pushed me straight to the front of the building – more of a hut, in fact – and it became clearer in the moonlight. It was made of half-sanded wood, with only one door. There were no windows or extraordinary features: only a chimney and wooden platforms on which the hut stood. The voices were coming from inside. My stomach did a terrible flip: I'd guessed what sort of people were in here.
William summoned a guard to open the door. As soon as it was unlocked, Johnson shoved me (weakly, with his injury) into the darkness. I toppled to a rough floor: concrete? I couldn't tell. Any light there was to judge the size of the room disappeared. I heard the click of the door shutting, then the jungle of keys locking it.
Head and heart still pounding, I sat up in the pitch darkness. All around me voices were scattered like rats. I saw no faces, nor the size of the room. I tried to rub my head from the impact, but my hands were still bound.
Suddenly I heard scuffling, then the sound of two logs being hit against each other. A flame appeared from the centre of the room – and its creator placed it on a fireplace. The flames leapt into life, illuminating a brick fireplace and a long wooden wall, lined by dirty bedding on the floor. Behind each blanket were two or three negro women. They pointed and whispered at me; I tried to ignore them.
The woman who made the flame was no woman at all. She was a young girl – perhaps not even an adolescent. She, too, was dark as coal. The whites of her brown eyes were like pearls in the darkness. Pearls that gazed softly upon me. I had to look away, unable to face judgement.
Slaves. I was in a cabin filled with slaves.
Ratohnhaké:ton, you originally thought I was in slavery. Indeed you must've predicted this first part of my story. I had to explain this to you nonetheless: my first day at this place was consequently the most memorable.
After moments of just the crackling fire, the young girl approached. Her hair was tightly curled on her head, but bounced on her shoulders. Her large lips were frowning...in sympathy? What did I know? The other women were losing interest in me, but this child (the only child in the room) knelt beside me.
And she began to untie the ropes around my wrists. I was so oblivious to everything – the faces, the day's events and bleak emotions – that I hardly noticed. I did notice the blood flowing like freedom into my hands. I flexed my fingers, relieved.
Still the girl wouldn't look me in the eye. She, too, had a numbness about her. From being a slave? She said nothing as she withdrew her fingers: gnarled, non-childlike fingers. Should I thank her? What if she did not speak English, or Mohawk?
"You are not from Africa."
Perfect English.
"Where was your home?"
"M-Mohawk Valley," I mumbled, barely moving my lips. I would've instinctively stayed silent; trusted no-one. But this was a child. What harm could she do?
"That is strange. Our master does not take many men from these lands."
On hearing the word 'master', I felt myself fall a little further. Johnson was my master now. I was an object; a belonging. The moment I could walk from Haytham's land, I was deprived of my freedom once again. What sort of ungodly fate was that?
The girl noticed my sorrow; she extended a frightfully thin hand. "I am Soyala. The master knows me as Emily."
Shakily, I shook her hand. It amazed me how mature she behaved for a young girl; particularly one from a different culture. I wouldn't have had a clue how to interact with others at her age.
"Ziio," I struggled in return.
But for how much longer?
I glanced at the other women pressed against the wall. Each probably had a name; a story to tell, as well as a name which they were hand-picked against their will. Perhaps they were known not by name? Was that why they seemed so stony-faced? None of them were prepared to approach me. I was the different one: the weed in the crop.
Soyala didn't seem to think alike. She crawled past the brick fireplace and over to a set of bedding. I supposed it was hers.
"Come," she whispered.
Hesitantly, I followed her to the corner of the room. My hands and knees were numb as I crawled, and my gut despaired at its emptiness. Soyala bunched the hem of her filthy skirt and clambered into the bedding. She beckoned me to follow again. She didn't mean...she was going to share her bed? No. That was unreasonable.
"Come," Soyala repeated. "You must warm yourself."
I tried to thank her as I clambered in, but all I exhaled was a squeak. Why was I weakened so? I was hardly far from home; from liberty...was I?
At that moment, truth caved in on me like walls. I was so close to the things I'd longed for; so close I could've touched them. But I was trapped inside a new prison. A forest prison, which would come to taunt me. There was no freedom. There was no Ratohnhaké:ton. No tribe. No Haytham to save me. This was my home, now. What horrors this home had in store, I could only fear.
I didn't care that twelve other women watched me. Like great glaciers from mountains, the tears rolled down.
I seldom cried. Even when I did, it was out of desperation; a last resort. I'd been hoarding emotions of fear and anguish all day. Now, they were released: spores of sadness.
Soyala put her arms around me, offering comfort. It was no use. With loud sobs I sank deeper and deeper into reality. My shadow cowered against a wall, away from the fire. Already I had been reduced to nothing. I'd barely been in this hut for one minute.
"Ssh," Soyala cooed. "It will be easy in the morning."
But it was never easier. Starved of my son, the trauma would never come to fade. The need to climb a tree, or go out hunting – I soon discovered – would remain with me like a memory. The desperation to break away would taunt me each night. Already I could feel it.
And that was just the first day of this life.
"Put your backs into it!"
The voice was that of Thomas Flood, yelling aggressively at any who stopped to wipe their forehead. It was barely noon and sweat welled from my every pore. I looked around. It was a similar story for the other women. There were seven of us; we were hunched over the pot of cement like doomed witches. Our limbs had been stirring since dawn. By now we were lifeless as the mix itself (well, I was, having cried myself to sleep the previous night).
I still wanted to properly thank Soyala. She was working at another station up the hill: the cement mixer was too challenging for a child's body. It'd have to wait until we returned. I was a complete stranger to her, and like a compassionate woman beyond her years, she did everything to make me comfortable. To this day I am greatly in her debt. How many hearts – robbed of their rights or otherwise – would do what Soyala did?
The land before me was a sloping hill. Trees with dappled leaves swayed like chains of beads. The birds mocked me with their cheerful songs, and the horizon with its open space. This valley was not open at all: it was my new prison with no escape. Its beauty was dashed with the sighs of slavery.
The slaves' overseer (whom I would soon know as Thomas Flood) took to me as "fresh meat". As we were herded like livestock to our stations, I witnessed his fondness of keeping the women quiet. One of the slaves from Soyala's hut muttered something; moments later she sported a white whip mark across the shoulder. I gulped, fearing the same fate. I almost faced it when Flood stood in front of me: the last in the line. His eyes – somehow unfocused – washed over me.
"Name?" he barked in an Irish accent.
"Kaniehtí:io."
He sniffed disapprovingly, drumming his fingers on the whip. "That'll never do. From now, you answer to...Ruth. Is that clear?"
No answer.
"Now, get in line and work!"
It became clear that every slave had an English name. Betty, Jane, Isobel, Martha and Susan were just some unfortunates. I would never answer to Ruth - not from anyone but Flood. The other women (mixing cement with their bare hands) often called each other by different, African names when Flood wasn't looking. I was never involved in their conversations; none of them spoke English. Soyala was the only one...and we were apart for most of the day.
Another question which stayed unanswered was why. Johnson could've picked any man or woman: off the slave market, from another merchant or even another Mohawk. Why did he go to such an effort to choose me? Perhaps there was another reason. The Templars had always wanted more from my tribe than brick-making...
What were these bricks to build, in any case?
In the days that followed, there were no answers; just hard labour. With every turn of the cement, with every bead of sweat on my skin, I missed home more and more. I worked on little food (despite Johnson's will to keep us all healthy, there was never enough bread for everyone). There was never enough sleep for anyone. There was never a shelter from the merciless sun, nor the summer rain. Day after tedious day, I was going downhill.
I had only been in this place for two weeks, and already I wanted to escape.
The day's routine went a little like this: we would be woken up at the rise of the sun. We were each handed a piece of bread on our way out of the door. Sent to fetch tools from the largest hut, we marched down to our stations. We would toil for three or four hours – if we were fortunate, without grave harassment from Flood. We had another piece of bread at noon. Returned to our stations. Worked until sunset. Herded back into our huts.
Every day I sweated off the tears I wanted to cry. I couldn't do that, or I'd be punished.
Out of fifty slaves on the site – most of them men – just two were punished during my first fortnight. I watched from a distance, horrified, as a negro man was dragged away by his earlobe. The cracks of the whip splintered the air like a musket. I daresay Flood flogged the poor man unconscious; he did not return from behind the hill. The second man faced a similar fate...but that was a few days later.
That evening, I felt my humanity leaving my body. This land was a graveyard of souls: drained of all its character and peace. Every person seemed so distant. Even Flood – with his sharply-cut beard and brows – seemed lost in a bottle of gin while he 'oversaw' our efforts. I knew it from the beginning, but I was going insane. Confused, traumatised, exhausted, hungry and homesick, I found myself crying alongside Soyala again.
"I cannot accept this fate," I wept into the bedding, "yet I find myself here. Why?"
Soyala's little hands stroked my arm. "We will live to see freedom. We simply have to wait."
I stared into the pitch darkness...and knew she was wrong. Unless Haytham – or my tribe – found out of my whereabouts, we were going nowhere. Those first two weeks were some of the worst, because I had no clue what to expect. Even as the days became predictable, my motivation was leaving me with every breath. I tried to escape on two occasions...and I still bear scars from my punishments.
1760 was a blur of misery. With every day being exactly the same, it was difficult to know how much time had passed. The shorter days and harsher winds were the only indicator: winter was coming.
By this time, Soyala and I had become inseparable. She was only a child – so of course she cried countless times at her slavery. I had comforted her – much like she had to me, or as I would've to Ratohnhaké:ton. I did not treat her as my daughter; that was never what she was. Soyala did not remember her mother: she'd been born into slavery, so she said, and passed from master to master. Taught English by her first master, she would do menial tasks for rich men until she was old enough to work. Johnson only purchased her out of sorrow: he'd bought all the other adults from the merchant and couldn't just leave one child.
Despite all her previous owners, Soyala never made a friend. She relied on her fearless optimism to see her through the days. When I arrived at this site, she'd said, it was something of a relief. All we had was each other: an unlikely friendship, between a twelve-year-old and a twenty-nine-year-old. We'd occupy ourselves in the evenings exchanging stories of our past. I told her all about my son, tribe and Haytham...and in return she'd share the fragments of African culture she knew. These included songs (she had a beautiful singing voice), words and a beaded bracelet she'd had since infancy.
We passed many winter nights by that fireplace, mostly ignored by the other women. But it soon became clear why we were making bricks: that same winter, we were given the task of building new huts. Laying foundations took a week. Then came building them up to form brick longhouses. Other men were ordered to build a fireplace. By February 1761, the new slaves' quarters – all five huts – were complete. But there were still hundreds, maybe thousands of bricks left over. What did Thomas Flood have planned?
You probably by now have guessed. I was among the fifty slaves to have built Johnson Hall. The slaves' quarters were simply the start of Johnson's large-scale project. Needless to say, it was never Johnson's project (he never visited this working site, anyway); it was our hands who laboured to build his mansion.
My desire to run away never ceased. Now, I had nothing – not even a name. The only person who knew me as Ziio was Soyala. Apart from that, the overseers would refer to me as 'Runaway Ruth'. This was due to my poorly-planned escapes.
I despise speaking of my years in slavery. No human in this world should experience captivity; its scars have littered my mind and body for years. All I can say is this: often I was torn between wanting to run away, and wanting to die.
But I couldn't die. Not yet.
I was all that Soyala had. There was a cliff just an acre from my work station...so why didn't I approach it; teeter on its brink? Because Soyala's optimism would've been wasted. Her selflessness and spirit would be thrown away, with just one step. What sort of monster would that make me? Giving up on her; on Ratohnhaké:ton and Haytham; on freedom?
No. I was going to escape.
I often spoke to Soyala about my plans. They were always rushed, because I was desperate to leave as soon as possible. She would listen eagerly as I rambled about the world outside this land.
One day, I offered for her to come with me.
And so we stitched a cooperative plan. It involved Soyala and me pretending to faint from effort. Both at separate labour stations, we were dragged over to the rest area (for sick slaves only). It was a small plain with various flannels and water buckets; it was also the place where I'd been flogged on too many occasions.
We waited. Eventually the 'guards' who waited for slaves to come round walked away. Both at once, Soyala and I opened our eyes and scrambled into the thicket. My heart was racing – home was so close, I could taste it!
"Ready?" I whispered, breathless.
Soyala bit her lip, nervous. "What if we are caught?"
"Ssh. We won't be, if we hurry. Come!"
In reality I had no idea where we were going, but I fought my way through the bushes nonetheless. I'd never made it this far before. I pictured the valley; the vast and beautiful Mohawk Valley, and my limbs surged with determination. I could hear Soyala fighting forth behind me. I glanced around. No guards could see us from down the hill. The thicket was the lining of our work stations, so we'd have to slip along quietly.
Stealth was no challenge for me.
"Ziio, this is a bad idea," Soyala whimpered.
"Ssh!"
I was so focused on freedom, my accomplice's wishes were but breeze to me. Was that my most selfish act yet? Heaven knows. I thought I was being selfless, trying to help Soyala to freedom. One day I'd come back and free all these poor slaves. But I couldn't save everyone.
Focus on the future later. Now, how to sneak down the hill...?
A man in a brown coat turned. Realising that it was Flood, I ducked. Soyala did the same...but only when it was too late. Like a snake biting its victim, Flood had paralysed her. She gasped; my stomach dropped.
No, no, no...
"Halt!" Flood yelled, now running towards us.
It was too late: another attempt had failed. But what did I do? Stay and surrender to another punishment? Turn and run, risking a greater persecution still? Flood had never killed any of Johnson's slaves. I did not wish to be first, knowing how painful my death would be...
"It was me," I confessed, wishing to keep Soyala from harm. "It was my plan, sir."
Roughly, Soyala and I were hauled from the thicket. The overseer cursed us in an unfamiliar gaelic language. Irish, I supposed. Strange...the details I noticed when I was afraid. I dared not show that I was afraid, being led past several staring slaves. I re-applied my sour-faced mask, praying that Soyala would do the same until we arrived. Not that I knew where we were headed...
You would've thought Flood was leading us to torture. To flogging, or some form of excruciating grief. But he did not. Soyala and I were not punished. Instead, we were locked inside our slaves' quarters. Why he intended to leave us there, I didn't know. Soyala seemed relieved; I was sceptic. He had something else planned for us. Something special.
"I'm sorry," said a tearful wreck before me. "I should have crouched. That way, he would not have –"
I stopped Soyala by putting a hand on her shoulder. Her earthy eyes welled with sadness again, so I said: "No. I should be sorry. Putting you – a child – at risk in such a way. Besides, I had barely planned this escape. Just like all the others."
At that moment, my eyes also filled with tears. None of them fell; they swam before my vision. I'd shed far too many tears in the past six months. It was beginning to make me ill; feeble and hollow inside. The question I thrived on was: would I ever make it out of here alive?
The answer was yes. Both of us would make it out of this land alive. But not in the way we expected. In fact, I was taken aback by how it happened. I will explain that a little later. Though I was hardly relieved to leave the slave site, it felt reassuring to see the last of it.
But I hadn't seen the last of it. Not yet.
Told you it'd be a long chapter!
No doubt that's raised a fair few questions (sorry if it was fast-paced. I found it tricky to follow even as I was writing it haha) but that's only the first part of Ziio's epic story. There are a lot of twists and turns coming up! I'm amazed she's still alive, to be honest...but my lips are sealed! :X
Next update should be about 2 weeks? Depends how this new style/length of updates goes, plus I'm on summer holiday now so I have lots of time! Sorry for the wait!
Psst! Go read 'The Witch's Son' by livsws (my best friend) because she's an astounding writer! Type it into google or something. Well worth reading, and I'm not just saying that because she's my best friend either!