ZIIO
At first, moving to Johnson Hall was a blessing.
The slaves' quarters were located in the gardens. It was a building next to the mansion, with four large, empty rooms. Each slept two or three slaves – which was useful, as Johnson took more negro men into his household.
All the slaves under Flood were gone. They'd completed this piece of duplicitous art: once a death camp, now a landmark. Quite a landmark it was, too – or so Soyala said on arrival. Johnson Hall was much like William's former home. The shutters were glossed with red paint, and the door a similar complexion. The only difference was the size. There were four windows only on the ground floor, and many that peaked above. The first one – Molly and William's chambers – was masked by heavy, chinked curtains. The next one along was little Jacob's, then Elizabeth's. Magdalene slept with her parents; she still cried for some nights.
I still cried for some nights.
The winter air was thick with misery. Every evening, I still heard the heavy hum of labour. The cracks of metal, mortar and massacre of our sanity remained. Even Soyala had trouble adjusting to our new home, at first – but hopeful as she always had been, the girl soon settled. Slavery was all she'd ever known. Johnson Hall was all that she could expect.
As for me, I let the memories creep in. Pains, joys, freedom, captivity...I knew not what this land would do for me, but surely it would only build upon my deep-laid sadness. Returning to the place I came to lose hope, gave me a sense of time. My life in slavery was repeating itself...so would the injuries, too?
However, I was given some glad tidings: Flood had been fired. I heard this from Molly one day, while I stood with her bathing the infant Magdalene. Clearly William had told her of our mistreatment by Thomas. As I say: Molly was an unusual woman, and disagreed with the beating of slaves. How ironic, when she'd been the cause of one for me...by her own husband.
I never forgave Molly for her false testimony. She did, however, soften after the move to Johnson Hall. Perhaps because Christmas was coming? Because she'd had more sleep? More time with William? I should've known from the beginning: there was a deeper meaning to her kindness. Although I didn't object to her diffused temper. Still Molly spoke of setting me free – or asking her husband to do it. No mention of Soyala, of course: like so many others in the colonies, she disregarded negroes as worthy of freedom.
I knew William would never set me free. Soon, Molly was to find this out as well. I was carrying a bundle of laundry upstairs one December morning, when I overheard raised voices. Raised voices in Mohawk.
"How many times must I remind you?" Johnson barked. "To set the woman free would be the death of us! Not to mention the Templar Order."
"You speak with confidence, but what are your sources? What difference could a Kanien'kehá'ka make to your organisation?"
Cautiously, I pressed my back against the door.
"The world of difference, Degonwadonti. The world of difference. In the right hands, Ruth has vital information. One day – when obliged to share it – our Colonial branch will have answers for all of our associates."
"And what makes you think," Molly bit back, "that she'd be willing to share this information? Would she not have done so already? She has had three years to open up."
"I don't think you understand," Johnson sighed. His voice coming closer suggested he was pacing round the bedroom. "She is the only access I have to such knowledge. We have tarnished all trust from her people with...other methods. A little force, a threat to attack her village...it would hardly take much to have her talking."
"If she comes from a village filled with...knowledge, why not ask them?"
"That would prove to be quite an ordeal. Her village believe us responsible for an onslaught three years ago. Should we approach the land again, we can expect a hostile greeting. It would not be impossible, per se. But we would have to wait decades to recover their trust."
"And if they discovered a tribe member enslaved?"
"I can't set her free, Degonwadonti!" William's voice rose suddenly. "If she returns home and runs her mouth, her people will seek revenge. Then this whole goddamn land will wish us dead. Is that what you want?"
There was silence, then the baby began to cry. Molly started to soothe her, before continuing: "All right. If freeing her is deemed impossible, why not give her to another Templar?"
"They haven't the facilities to keep her in custody."
"Nonsense," Johnson's wife scoffed. "Charles? He's no shortage of space in his home –"
"He'd kill her, given the chance."
"Haytham?"
At the mention of Haytham, the hairs on my neck went skyward. I leaned in closer...and oddly enough, heard William laughing. Laughing.
"If Haytham knew of Ruth's whereabouts," he said coldly, "then God help us all."
Of course, by 'us all' he meant 'the Templars'. Not to mention the others who had given me misery (mostly Flood, partly Molly and her children). Haytham would've been enraged by this hell I'd lived. If only he knew.
In fact, he came to visit Johnson Hall that December. He was the first of the Templars to venture up to William; to congratulate him on 'his' handiwork. Naturally I was locked away in the slaves' quarters. I wanted to cry out; to let my voice carry to Haytham's ears. There was no hope: he was led immediately inside. The thought of his presence was a ray of hope, however: if he was a frequent visitor, perhaps one day he'd come close enough to hear me.
The other Templar visits were more eventful. First came Thomas Hickey. Being Johnson's associate, it seemed only fitting that he would be a regular guest at Johnson Hall. Quite why he never came to Fort Johnson was beyond me. William never hosted any meetings; I had my theories as to why. Infidelity was not a far-fetched guess.
The moment Hickey laid eyes on me, his greedy self returned. Even while I worked unwittingly with the Order in 1755, I'd never liked Thomas. He, however, broke into a malicious grin.
"Well, well, well. Runaway Ruth. Lookin' a bit scrawny, sweetheart."
I shot him a venomous look.
"Wot? Didn' ya miss me?"
The urge to punch him was almost irresistible. I could not, even if I wanted to: I was carrying a tray of gin. Normally this would be one of the men's jobs. I supposed Johnson wanted to humiliate me in front of Thomas.
The next to visit – the following day, in fact – was John Pitcairn. While I had no ardent hatred for him (he was not involved in my kidnap), I still kept my distance. Pitcairn was there on my penultimate night at Haytham's. He would've been among those trying to find me. Perhaps he'd spoken against my abduction. No, wishful thinking as usual. He'd have informed Haytham, if that were the case.
The next was Church, which passed uneventfully because Molly summoned me upstairs. I am grateful for that, too: hearing his and Johnson's conversation would only have filled me with angst.
The worst of all was Charles Lee.
This abduction had been his idea. If he had it his way, I would've been chained to the wall in his dark cellar, forced to spill what I knew...and my blood. Lee had spoken against Johnson keeping me here; I'd overheard them when I was loaded onto the cart. I couldn't predict what he'd think of me now.
"Why, scum of the valley," he almost cackled when I took his coat. "You're still here."
I gritted my teeth. Recently my tears had turned to anger; it was much more satisfying to despise the world. It was not, however, satisfying to be taking Charles' coat straight from his shoulders.
"And how fares your behaviour?" he said patronisingly. "No more wasted escape plans, I hope?"
"I've no interest in sparring with you," I said monotonously.
He cocked a ratty eyebrow, making me shiver with deep-flowing hatred.
I listened to them talking from in the kitchens. I'd never longed to hear Hickey's words, nor Church's (what was there to speak of but gin and gold?). But I clung to Lee's every syllable, desperate to hear a hint – anything – that indicated a visit from Haytham.
"Quite a palace you've built for yourself, William."
"I beg to differ, really. It was a humble three-year project."
I clenched my fists at his false modesty: as if Johnson Hall was his endeavour.
"I particularly love this drawing room," Lee mused. "Is that mahogany, on the wall?"
"Painted white, aye. Gives it a sense of comfort."
And whose comfort would that be?
"I tell you: this room would be an ideal gathering spot. Drinks could sit over there, people stood here..."
"Indeed. In fact, I was considering exactly that some time this Christmas."
I perked at this: there'd been no mention of a Christmas party until now. Perhaps Johnson expected the slaves to whip a feast from nowhere. Either that, or Molly had objected. Nonetheless I zoned out from their conversation for a while, until...
"I wouldn't invite Haytham, if I were you."
I gasped, then covered my mouth to stop myself. Surely Johnson wouldn't refuse to let his loyal friend join the celebration? It gave me a chance. While once I was clutching at straws – one doomed escape plan after another – I had nearly lost all motivation. But whenever Haytham's name was mentioned...it would give me a fresh dose of hope. He could be the key to the lock in my chains, could he not?
"Why not? To slam the door seems a little suspicious –"
"But what about –" Charles broke off; I assumed he whispered my name. "She'll use any excuse to see him again. And then, God willing, our deaths will be quick and painless."
"We can lock her in the slaves' quarters," Johnson shrugged. "Honestly, Charles, she's less trouble than you fear. And while the woman is under my watch, she can't go anywhere. Flood...well, he good as drove her out."
There was an element of truth in there. But it wasn't Johnson who made me want to stay here – it was his employed guards, who unlocked the door to the slaves' quarters and led us, like prisoners, to the manor house. Charles had been reassured that I was 'less trouble than you fear'. Why had Johnson gone as far as to employ people to guard me?
Christmas came, covering everything in a fresh white blanket. Fortunately, Elizabeth and Jacob were not struck with flu this winter. Instead of tending them, I knelt in the kitchens – tongue between my teeth – trying to place a fresh layer of marzipan on the Johnsons' Christmas cake. How William had afforded all this sugar struck me as odd. Surely had better things to spend his money on? Firearms? Land? Armour? Mercenaries? I voiced this opinion to Soyala, while she dusted sugar off her usually brown fingers.
"My old master made this cake each year. It was a sign of wealth and splendour, I believe."
I scoffed. Some elements of this society – the excuse of arrogance through money – disgusted me. As if this house was not a trophy in itself! Why include a cake, drowned in more fluid than I'd sweat in a year?
How Molly had adapted to this society, I had no idea. Why did she celebrate Christmas at all? It was hardly for her husband's sake: he was no better a moral Christian than the next Templar. I knew very little of his faith, but Haytham once spoke of some absolutes: do not steal, do not murder, do not commit adultery...I was confident that William had broken all of them. Why did Molly accept him for it? She did seem to love him, despite their frequent arguments. Nowadays it was less on Johnson's absence; moreover my presence. Molly did disagree with my captivity, yes, but that was not the reason she wanted me out. I was an invasion tof her privacy; she despised having someone who knew so much about her, but cared for her so little.
I knew there was a reason behind her kindness. She was attempting to mask the fact that she didn't want me. She didn't want any of us. But if Molly could barely find time to talk to her own children, I predicted she would never cope independently. It was never that the woman neglected the world. In fact, she was very involved with the Iroquois politics; the loose tethering of peace among tribes. Back at Fort Johnson, she had a team of men (some white, some Mohawk) visit her often. They debated on actions that should be taken to preserve the lands, to stay the almost inevitable war, to protect the natives, and so on. But Molly would never cope as a house or trophy wife.
"In ways, I understand her sorrow," I voiced reluctantly one evening. "Bearing all those children, when she knows her husband has little time for them."
"At least Johnson is devoted to her," Soyala piped up. She may have been older, but she was no less credulous than when we met. "Everything he purchases or says, it concerns her at most."
"I would beg to differ," I sniffed. "All these business outings and trips into town. Molly may be blind to what Johnson does, but she is not ignorant of it. She knows, Soyala. She knows."
The children were becoming more demanding at Christmas. Magdalene Helena had learned a few words – some English, some Mohawk – and babbled them repeatedly at night. In the end Molly became so irritated, she decided that the two-year old was "old enough" to have her own chambers. There was certainly no lack of space in Johnson Hall.
Jacob continued to stab at my corpse of patience. Molly either had political visitors, or she was occupied by other means. As before, she despatched me to play with her impatient son – throw a ball for him to fetch (indoors: William understandably did not trust me in this landscape), or some other bizarre game. You would think that this was the easiest part of slavery. But let me tell you, my son: it was one of the most painful. At this age, Jacob reminded me constantly of my Ratohnhaké:ton. The blank acknowledgement in his eyes when he saw me...it was a continuous vision that my son no longer acknowledged me. And as this agony flared like a fever, I wondered for how much longer I would acknowledge him. Or anyone.
But I wasn't even granted the right to die.
True, there were plenty of ways – given that no guards were supervising me – I could've ended this misery. But I couldn't bring myself to; not when there was a possibility of Haytham's visit. That was my last ray of hope. After that, the only motion that kept my heart beating, was Soyala. Thank heavens for her presence; her warm heart and hopeful nature. That warmth was enough to stop me from becoming hollow as glass; from falling and shattering. But there was very little of the original Ziio left in me. I was Ruth, now. Ruth or Kaniehtí:io.
And that was before Johnson's Christmas party.
I assume by now that you've been told. Haytham certainly made his guess. Of all things, this is the most difficult to speak of. Even the death of my father and brothers is easier to describe, without echoes of the trauma still haunting me. Some nights, I still dream of that fateful night...and wake up drowned in sweat and fear. Up until my years of slavery, I was a strong woman. Stronger than many men: I could kill a Brit with my bare hands. This event reduced me to a shadow. No ego, no courage and no pity from the world around me.
I expected to be left alone in the slaves' quarters. As the din from the merry men inside echoed, I found it difficult to fall asleep. I curled up into a ball, hugging my knees. That was when the keys to the lock jiggled. I looked up in alarm.
The overseer had let someone in. I remember little of my visitor's face. Of course, I could easily find out by looking at Aaron or Alexa. But I don't want to view them in that way. I don't want to view them as scars of what happened next.
As the man came in – blind drunk – he tormented me a little. I tried to escape; he caught me by the arm, pushed me against the wall and the deed was done. I still remember the cider on his breath; the dryness of my lungs; the doomed distress signal of my tears. I still feel the wasp-like stings on my body and heart. I could hear my heart shattering with every second. All I wanted was for this to be over.
It was over quickly enough.
Even after his hand was released from my mouth, not a squeak left my lips. He turned, as if nothing ever happened. My chest struggled for air as I glimpsed him. Inside I was hollow like a drum. Tense. Flayed. Dirty. Through my distorted vision and hearing, the door was wide open. That was my only ever chance of escape...and I couldn't move.
His eyes glazed over immediately. Not in a distant, poetic way: a predatory focus on what he had done. He savoured his bodiless victim once more, staggered towards the door and left. That was it.
For a moment I could barely feel the pain. But as it came seeping through like venom, I slid down the concrete wall and dissolved. Of all the misfortunes – my family's deaths, my first capture, the fire, being enslaved and this – why did they all befall me? Was I trapped in a continuous, doomed cycle?
I didn't even tell Soyala what happened, that night. I spoke to no-one for weeks. Even when Molly asked me a question, I'd ignore her. My words had been forced back down my throat. This incident – which filled one man with satisfaction – turned me from fearless to fragile. Anyone who came near me melted into oblivion. All I could acknowledge were my fresh, dehumanising visions.
In the new year of 1764, my shaking hands were holding Magdalene Helena. She wept softly as I dressed her; she wanted to run off and play with her sister. I wasn't listening to her words – but Molly was talking back to her, ordering the child to keep still. As I paced each of Magdalene's limbs into her garment, a revelation snatched me like an eagle. This would be my fate, to care for children. For my body to ache for months...to raise a child born out of hate. I would live with the memory of Christmas, every single day. And suddenly the future ahead swept me like a hurricane. I couldn't resist the gales of terror, tearing me from sense.
And I vomited in front of them.
When I returned to the slaves' quarters that night, I knew my assumptions were true. As Soyala asked me what was wrong earlier, I wept weakly into her shoulder. Her beautiful long hair became drenched in my tears. My lips trembling, I finally admitted: "I think I am in trouble."
"What sort of trouble?" she whispered, wide-eyed. She gasped when I stroked my stomach, understanding. "My god. But Ziio..."
Even as someone with no freedom, Soyala was fairly innocent. That was the first time that childishness disappeared from her face. She had grown up...in all the wrong ways. She squeezed my hand harder, a bleak anger resting on her eyebrows. She knew. Without having to say a word, the young girl understood.
Two months passed. Before long, Molly discovered she wasn't the only pregnant woman in the estate. I think that I told her – but there is a possibility she guessed for herself. Strangely, she seemed to give me a little slack. When she asked me who the father was, I shook my head. She bit her lip, wondering if she'd seen any men venture outside at the party.
"No," she said, somewhat sympathetic. "But the sad thing is, even if I knew, I could not help you. He was perfectly entitled to do so...in your...predicament."
I gulped. She was referring to me being a slave and not a free woman. My pregnancy only added to her desire to sell me. I pretended to ignore it – continuing to make Molly's bed; braid her hair; bathe and dress her. But I continued to hear fragments of her arguments with William. He continued, adamantly, to refuse my freedom. I was hardly focused on freedom or changing hands: all I could think of was the child inside me. What would happen to them? To me? Could I cope with this, if only for three seasons?
"If...if Molly concludes by selling me," I choked to Soyala one night, "I want you to know this: you have been an incomparable friend. Thank you for holding my sanity, for taking my tears...for everything."
Instead of crying with me, Soyala frowned. "If you are leaving...then I want to come, too. I cannot be alone!"
"How could you join me?" I despaired. "Molly would never agree. She needs you – you are young and healthy."
"But...still a woman!" Her voice rose hysterically, her coal eyes glowing in the dark. "Ziio, what if I were to feign trouble, too? I may be young, but not too young. Yes! I could tell her that I am quick with child. We can go together!"
"Soyala...you should not lie for my sake! What if we stay?"
"I can say that the child died," she murmured energetically. "No matter the outcome of this, I will stay with you. You have my word."
I smiled: the first time in months. This plan to escape could truly work. It wouldn't undo my predicament, but who knew? Perhaps we'd be sold to a more caring owner. Anything was better than Johnson Hall, and the hauntings it held. Why would I care where I lived or died? I was doomed, in any case.
So Soyala told Johnson that she was with child. Well – she didn't so much as tell him, as keel over in pain.
"What has befallen you, Emily?" he asked. "Colic? Indigestion?"
"No, sir," she stammered. I caught her eye while walking upstairs; she flashed a subtle smile. "I believe I am with child."
"What?" William almost exploded. His face went from pastry-white to whiter still. I turned around, pretending not to hear him, as he swore: "Jesus, Mary and Joseph. Another one? Who did this to you, girl?"
"I don't know, sir," Soyala replied, realistically tearful.
"I'll have the head of the bastard that did this." William sighed. "Wait here, Emily."
And he strode on up the stairs, brushing me aside. I knew what he was doing: he had to tell Molly. How would she react to it? I imagined her very unwelcoming to the idea of other people's children. William had children from a previous marriage; none of them lived at Johnson Hall. That was an indicator if ever I saw one.
"Was I good?" Soyala whispered.
I hurried down the stairs, dropping my batch of laundry. "You were perfect. Now, all we do is wait."
And we did. Now that Molly knew Soyala's lie, she feigned sympathy to her as well. Despite her colour, she was still a child – and worthy of pity in her unfortunate situation. The most disgusting part was this: the rape could easily have happened to Soyala, too. She seemed dainty and fragile, like a fledgling bird...but not fragile enough to avoid my situation.
At last in March, Molly came for us.
It was obviously against her husband's wishes. It was dawn one morning; the keys to the slaves' quarters clicked. In strode Molly (hastily dressed, by the tangles in her sleeves) and the slaves' overseer. "You are to tell no man of this, do you hear? Not a word to William." She pressed a small brown bag into his hand; its contents rattled healthily.
"Aye, ma'am," he repeated. "Not a word."
As the door opened wider, we were flung into early daylight. I pretended to be sleeping; Soyala sat up on sight. Our bedding was moth-bitten and stained – which seemed to disgust the well-mannered Molly Johnson. Either way, she sailed up to us in her overly smart dress. "Emily? Kaniehtí:io? Rise."
Soyala stood on command, helping me to my feet. Already my stomach was weighed down with the extra bulk. It had only been nine weeks. Why was the baby quickening so early?
Molly took us both by the arm, trusting that we would not escape. Soyala shot me a hopeful look as she was handed to the overseer: we were finally leaving this wretched land! This was the last time we would see these quarters, in the thickness of their grime. We would not be able to bid farewell to Kona and Yenpu, or to the male slaves I never knew. Cruelly, this did not seem to bother me. Soyala alone had harboured my trust in this place.
I watched each feature of the land – the sloping hills, the flourishing flowers, the waterfall, the guards – all disappear. Already it was a sort of closure for us, but our slavery days weren't over yet. The overseer and Molly led us past a bush: the one Soyala and I once hid behind. It made me wonder if we could escape in our new home.
We never would. Not with the child inside me.
Molly loaded us into the cart: the same one that brought us here. Her face seemed bleak as winter, but she said not a word as we began to move. She must've looked out of place: not only was she a woman driving a cart – a pregnant one, at that – but a Mohawk. Was Molly pretending to cope in a society she did not belong to? Or did she prefer this life? Strange, the things that cross your mind when you're silent.
"How long have we been travelling?" Soyala whispered after a while.
In truth I had neglected to count, but I held up four fingers. Where were we going that would take four hours? Surely there was a slave market in Johnstown? Unless Molly was really setting us free. That fleeting joy was immediately stifled. What if she was simply transferring us to another owner? Not...no. Not Charles Lee. She wouldn't dare, would she? Johnson would find out in the blink of an eye. What he'd say or do to his wife then, I neither knew or cared.
To me, this move was another twist of the knife from Molly. Yes, she was undermining her husband, but she was also deceiving us. It was the final spit in our faces, showing us slaves that Molly had the power to dispose of us when we were no longer useful. It told Soyala and me that she could have her way; a twelve-mile ride was all it took.
Twelve miles?
We passed a wooden pole in the street; it read: 'Amsterdam – 1 mile'. As we passed it, I read the other side of the board. 'Johnstown – 11 miles'. We'd travelled an awful long distance. For what reward? I supposed Molly had some interest in the money she'd receive for us. Already she'd lost some by bribing the overseer; not to mention the trouble she'd gone to in order to keep this secret. I wondered if William had woken up by now; realised the half-emptiness of his bed. Or reacted.
These streets were busier than Johnstown. The sun had barely risen, and already a stout man ambled around snuffing out the lamps. Shutters of shops either side were open; the torturous scent of fresh bread filled the town air. Market stall owners greeted Molly diplomatically: she must've been something of a personality here. But she ignored them, seemingly screened by her own dutifulness. She'd spoken no words all morning – perhaps because she regretted doing this.
No, she doesn't, my mind bit back angrily. Otherwise, she'd have explained her actions. Or is she too dignified even for that?
Talking of dignity, I'd never lacked in it more. Bundled into a cage, my stomach screamed for some breathing space. It was always uncomfortable being transported – but I'd never had to sit this way while quick with child. Soyala had crossed her legs under her serving smock – which didn't look overly convincing, but Molly was focused on the brick road. I couldn't do the same, even if I'd wanted to.
Thankfully, I was granted this breathing space soon enough. Molly steered the horses onto a pavement, stopping the wagon. Soyala tapped me, fearing I might be asleep (but in reality I'd closed my eyes as not to see my fate). The young girl's eyes glimmered with trepidation, but when my face spoke you'll be fine to her, she relaxed.
Molly stepped down from the reins, unlocked the cage door and took me by the elbow. We were attracting unusually long looks, passing through Amsterdam square. Although the place was almost desolate, people halted to have a better view of the two slaves. What were those market men thinking? Why were we being sold? Why were we so well-dressed for slaves? Was that really Molly Brant, wife of Sir William Johnson?
We turned the corner to see a hive of negroes in the distance. They were all huddled together on the streets; it took me a long time to contemplate the fence restricting them. So this was a slave auction. I'd expected it to be a coffee house of sorts, where men smoked and shared news and flicked their eyes disinterestedly at us. No. It was outside.
Soyala's pupils dilated: this must've been a familiar sight. Fifteen men, four women and all of them in chains. Their eyes, too, seemed trapped in a different world. Africa, perhaps? That must've been how so many slaves coped: they left their souls and hearts at home. They blanked out the world; obeyed like a herd of sheep.
Molly led us up to the solitary white man. In his hand was a whip – scaled like a snake – and his rimmed hat was pulled low. Their conversation was brief and half-hearted; Soyala glanced across at me to see how I was. Fine, I signalled back, though there were a hundred places I'd rather be. I waited for Molly to stop talking to the dealer; for some sort of farewell.
But there were no goodbyes.
Even if Molly had regretted her actions for a moment, I didn't see. She turned on her heel, walking briskly around the corner. I was unsure how to feel, watching her go: angry? Not exactly. My wrath had become worn and tired from travelling. Betrayed? Molly had done worse. Frightened? Of what, death?
Bitter.
Yes, that was how a slave should feel. More bitter than the crops these men would soon reap. I wondered, as we were chained and shoehorned into the pen: what would we do? It was unlikely a plantation owner would have need of us. Soyala appeared feeble (though I knew otherwise); myself, with child. Perhaps a couple would come along, desperate to raise surrogate children. One thing was certain: we wouldn't be the first bought here.
I was absolutely right.
First, the auctioneer paraded three burly men. A crowd gathered at the sight of them; some were intrigued, others truly bent on buying them. Hours passed; only a few purchases were made. My feet felt heavy with my own weight; my hands hurting from chains. Now the morning had almost passed, we were in broad sunlight. It warmed the men's bare backs, shining like water on stone. Ironically, I was the black sheep in this flock. The 'panis', as William once had called me: the Indian slave. Would I fetch a higher price for my lighter skin?
My stomach churned with hunger and the burden it bore. Soon it was early afternoon; several slaves had disappeared. A man in a smart blue cloak bought a dozen negro men – yes, a dozen. No doubt they were to be the fodder of a plantation. Now, all that remained were the women.
Passer-bys stopped for fleeting looks, then continued along their way. I studied a few faces in the crowd: a middle-aged man sat on a bench, a child chasing a black dog around the square, a working class woman dusting white flour off her apron. All of them met my eye for a split second...then continued. That was all I was: a piece of scenery; a pregnant property not worthy of their pity.
I sucked my lip, trying to quench my thirst. The crowd grew throughout the afternoon, from a few strays to a wasp-like swarm. Another middle-aged, but a woman. Two small girls, dressed up and following a relatively aristocratic mother. A baker. A man in a red cloak. A young blacksmith.
A man in a red cloak?
I noticed it only after Soyala tapped me. We were the only slaves left in the pen (as few people had need of two fallen women). With chains sagging her hands, Soyala's tap was more of a rough nudge.
"Look," she whispered, alarmed.
I followed her line of sight...and it was at the man with the cloak. He stood absolutely motionless – almost trying to erase his presence. I squinted to look closer. And I saw it at once. The recognition was sharp as an arrow: thin face, long queue of dull hair, small moustache, unfocused eyes. Thomas Flood.
"What?" I gasped to Soyala. "How did he –"
"I thought he was..."
"Fired," I finished, squinting to look closer still.
It stung my nerves as his eyes centred; flashed on seeing me. It sent memories of all the scars he'd left; the pain he'd inflicted. But Flood's face wasn't one of surprise – furrowed brows, he looked dutiful. He was here for us...or for me. I gasped again, whipping round to warn Soyala. But my indiscrete movement caught the dealer's eye.
"Silence!" he snapped, waving his whip threateningly. To my surprise, he unhinged the gate of our wooden pen and approached us. I flinched, preparing to be flogged...but all he did was take Soyala.
I saw the momentary panic on her face: this was not the plan. We were supposed to stay together! I followed the dealer in vain. Just as he was about to close the gate on me, I spoke with gritted teeth.
"She stays with me."
"All right," the Scotsman sighed, mildly surprised at my English. He took hold of my chains, dragging me roughly like a horse. I just about heard him mutter: "Might fetch a higher price for the both of ye."
Flood whipped his head upright, piercing me with a cold stare. He approached. Even before the dealer could announce us, he cut through the gathering crowd. There was no doubt about it now: Flood was here for us.
A woman barked at him – insulted by him pushing her aside – but was ignored. Thomas had already greeted the dealer.
"How much for the Indian?" His low purr made my heart race with adrenaline.
"Bidding starts at fifty pounds."
Flood reached up to scratch his moustache...and something caught my eye. Something which made me lose the air in my lungs. Something that symbolised almost all the enemies that ever I'd had. It was a thick, silver ring on his right hand. I knew for certain it was not a wedding ring; the metal was far too matted for that. With unwavering certainty, I whispered it to Soyala.
"The Templar ring."
She didn't respond; the dealer was looking our way – but her eyebrows became concave in confusion. Why did Thomas Flood – someone whom William had dismissed – wear the Templar cross? Who had induced him into this dreadful cause? None of that mattered now. All I could think of was a life in his corrupt care. Torture. Beating. Who knew? Perhaps even more rape.
At that moment, I'd have happily died. That was what crossed my mind as I spotted a sharp silver blade from someone in the crowd. It was tucked half-visibly under her elegant white wrists...
I blinked. The woman in question stood talking to a man in a brown coat. She was young – in her mid-twenties, I supposed – with long, wavy auburn hair. Her skin was rose white; her eyes – even from this distance – turquoise blue. Her dress was just as striking; it billowed like green smoke around her toes. She kept glancing this way, as if nervous that someone would see her. The man stood next to her – presumably her husband – pointed to us.
I wanted to show Soyala, but by now, Flood was taking a 'closer look' at us. I bit down on my tongue, desperate not to retaliate, as he ran his finger along my belly. He completely ignored Soyala, but glared me directly in the flickering eye.
"As she is pregnant," he began, "I'd like to take her for forty. How does that suffice?"
"No. Bidding starts at fifty pounds," the dealer repeated.
"But...as my intention is plantation work, she won't be worth that money. Not to mention the child, whom I will have too feed and clothe, 'til the day he grows to work –"
"And why would you want a fallen woman for plantation work?"
Both men turned to the English voice. Like a ghost, the emerald dress woman had appeared at the front of the crowd. I had neglected to watch her, but was taken aback by her appearance (and indeed, her bravery). In this society – as I learned the hard way – women were to conform. My eyes flicked to the silver glint below her sleeve. Under the white lace was a tip of what could only be a blade.
No. She couldn't possibly be...
An Assassin?
They have all died out. There are none left!
Flood eyed the woman with distaste. The crowd was silent now, waiting for some form of conflict. Even the slave dealer backed away from this, his new customer. She glanced at Thomas' Templar ring; I wondered what her thoughts were. Had she followed him here, as per Assassin nature?
She couldn't be an Assassin.
"Pardon my curtness, ma'am," Flood began in his Irish accent, "but I do not see how it's any business of yours."
The woman was a great deal shorter than them, but seemed to have a taller air as she replied: "As it happens, these two women may have business with me."
All hope I'd had of trusting her was crushed: she was here to buy us, like all the rest.
"Are they both in trouble, pray?" she asked the salesman.
"Aye."
"By forceful means? The girl strikes me as too young for childbirth."
"In all due respect, ma'am, who knows? The creatures inbreed all the time. Such accidents occur, I'm afraid."
I wanted to hiss at the man, but restrained myself. Instead I watched the unmoved face of the woman. Flood began to walk around her, displeased by sudden sale competition. She continued, unperturbed by his threats.
"I'm rather looking for two maids for myself and my husband. Our premises could accommodate both children suitably, and I daresay the women – woman and girl, that is – would be better built for housework than what this man is proposing."
Flood grew angry; the silence of the crowd intensified. "Nonsense. I'll take the Indian for seventy pounds and have done with it."
Mutters arose like a flock of birds. Seventy pounds? I assumed that was expensive, because the dealer grinned. Thomas was loving this attention, now: he turned to his audience to listen to their dramatic approval. Soyala flinched at the humiliation: a born actor, she was, but after a day of people ogling her, she was uncomfortable. I watched the crowd curiously.
"I therefore challenge that offer."
Flood whipped around, and just like that, the chatter ceased. All eyes prayed on the woman. What was she going to say? Eighty? Ninety?
"One hundred and thirty pounds for them both."
Whatever mutters Flood had caused, this woman completely quashed them. Shocked shouts of "What?" echoed like seagulls. One hundred and thirty? Even I – with little perception of money – knew this price was unreasonable. I knew that was more than many men earned in a fortnight. But I was far from the most shocked, and so was the dealer: it was Flood. As well as rage and disbelief, he now harboured a sort of desperation.
"Ridiculous!" he roared. "And for what? Two maids who won't work for nine months!"
"No," the woman replied coolly. "For precisely four new additions to our household. Now, if you please, I'd like to make a purchase."
Flood's face was condense purple as she pressed a purse into the dealer's hand. He stuttered like a beggar, then began to unchain us. I wasn't truly paying attention, even as my hands throbbed with a sudden flow of blood. Why was Thomas so desperate to buy me? And why just me? Had Johnson sent him to buy me back?
"Please! One hundred for the Indian. I'll have the money delivered to ye –"
"My apologies," the lady said monotonously. "The Indian is not for sale."
Now, the audience began to back away. Flood remained, statue-esque, as Soyala was cut free. The woman blinked in my direction. It wasn't the softest of stares I'd ever received (I suspect Haytham bore that title), but she was less harsh than Molly. Perhaps my new life would not be dreadful. Still, my heart was pounding as she linked arms with us roughly, striding through the crowd.
Soyala chewed her lip nervously, but my semi-placid face put her at ease. Yes, this woman wanted us to work – but why pay such a high price? There had to be a reason. I tried to look at the silver beneath her sleeve. Maybe I was wrong; maybe it was something as useless as a bracelet. My heart began to sink.
The woman's eyes locked straight ahead, oblivious to the people parting around her. As she paced past, she nudged the man with the brown coat and murmured: "Let us away."
He nodded; I realised that he was the man she was talking to earlier. He followed closely behind, and when we finally turned away from all the dumbfounded faces, he spoke to our new owner.
"One hundred and thirty!" he muttered in an English accent. "A high price for tailing a troublemaker, my love."
"That it was," she replied, not looking back. "But what would you have me do? Leave them in Templar hands?"
My ears pricked at the word 'Templar', but I said nothing. Neither did her husband; he strode on ahead of us towards a horse-drawn cart by the side of the road. Supposing this was their cart, they had moored it by a tailor shop. The man clambered onto the wooden seat, beckoning us to do the same.
I studied him for a moment: short chestnut hair, similar moustache, pale skin. If I hadn't seen these two as a couple, I'd have thought them brother and sister. The only difference was the shade of their eyes: while the wife's were blue-green, his were almost navy. Similar to Haytham, I couldn't help but think. Not that it made me trust this man. Abuse from so many had shattered my trust for men in general.
"Templar hands or not," he said at last, "you did the right thing. My god, knowing what Flood might do to them..."
"It pains my conscience just thinking of it." The woman shivered, then released our arms. The couple had been speaking as if we were invisible. Now, at last, she addressed Soyala and me. "Here we are. Climb aboard."
Soyala and I exchanged looks, then did as she bade us. Whether this woman was an Assassin, now I was uncertain. But Assassins did not operate in large crowds. I remembered what a dear old friend – Achilles Davenport – had said: "We work in the shadows to serve the light." So where did this mysterious couple fit in?
Speaking of fitting in, we had trouble doing exactly that. The front of the cart comfortably seated three; it was a struggle to squeeze Soyala onto the end. Silently, the man picked up the reins and we were away. I watched the buildings roll past; this was a different street to where we arrived. The sign posts read different names; foreign towns I had never ventured to. How far had these two come? Did it even affect me?
"Before we go..." The man addressed his wife carefully. "Is it worth chasing after Thomas now?"
"After the attention we attracted? Not likely," the woman responded, tight-lipped. She straightened the creases in her emerald skirts...and I tried to glimpse the hidden blade lookalike. That was, until she caught me staring at her sleeve – and retracted it.
"Ah! I've neglected to introduce myself. Evangelina Stirling; Eva, as I prefer. This is my husband, George."
George twisted in the seat to smile warmly. It was convincing enough for Soyala, who attempted a smile back...but I continued to stare at the pavement. This didn't stop Eva from addressing us again.
"And you are...?"
"Soy – Emily," Soyala corrected herself, flustered at being spoken to as an equal.
Eva pulled a lukewarm frown. "Not your master's chosen name. Who are you, really?"
"Soyala, ma'am."
"Soyala? Hm, interesting. And you?"
Once I realised that Eva was indicating me, I hardly moved my lips. "Kaniehtí:io – just, Ziio."
George laughed mellowly. "I was expecting something far more unpronounceable. Thank heavens – that spares my English tongue!"
"And where did you work before?" Eva fired.
I glared at Soyala, telling her to answer all questions. "J-Johnson Hall, ma'am."
Quite unexpectedly, Eva gasped. Even George looked up in alarm, chestnut brows furrowed. If they knew Flood, they knew Johnson Hall. So where did we stand in this unexplained owner change?
"You poor mites." Eva's voice bore little sympathy, moreover contemplation...but I could see in her eyes that she instantly felt sorry for us. Did she know something of that hell house, which only hours ago, I called home? "In which case, you must've been acquainted with Mister Flood, there."
"Tch," I sniffed, running my thumb over a once-bruise.
"If that is the case, are you aware of why he so desperately wanted you?"
"No," I admitted.
"If we share with you the truth, you might have an insight into his intentions. I'm afraid I have no clue why Flood has taken to you, and not Soyala. But I will share what I know of the man. George?"
"Indeed. But it's your place to tell them, my love. I only aid you from time to time. Remember?"
"I do, very much so." Eva swivelled to face me (and Soyala behind). The welcomeness in her eyes vanished like moonshine; she adopted a low, serious tone. "In truth, George and I have no interest in your service as maids. Our presence – my presence in Amsterdam – was for no more than to tail Mister Flood. He has been behaving suspiciously of late, gathering merchandise for his so-called 'plantation'. I never suspected to see two young slaves doomed to his care."
I was hardly young at thirty-two, but was intrigued nonetheless.
"My husband and I so happen to disregard slavery. An abomination of freedom, exploiting others for privileged cowards such as Mister Flood."
This is interesting.
Do not trust her, yet. This all seems too feigned.
"Of course, any man who purchased you would cage you unreasonably," Eva continued, a little casually. "But Mister Flood – well, I am sure you can imagine. He is a cruel, drunken excuse of a man –"
"Eva," George interrupted. "Focus."
"Apologies. I have many things I would say for him, but I should begin with the basics. Firstly, did you see the ring around his finger? As it was his right hand, it couldn't possibly symbolise marriage." Eva stretched her left hand, showing us a small, presumably gold ring. "Pray, have you ever encountered a similar ring at Johnson Hall?"
At once, most of my mistrust melted. "The Templar cross," I muttered. "Flood bore the Templar cross. But...how do you know of it?"
Eva blinked in surprise. "I might ask you the same question."
"My explanation would last for all of the journey."
"I do not concur," George half-smiled. "It's an awfully long road to Philadelphia."
No. Philadelphia? Was that not hundreds of miles from here? Would we make it home by dark? I voiced this to them, stunned.
"Don't you concern yourself," Eva reassured. "Now, where were you? The Templar cross."
"Yes," I murmured thoughtfully, staring at the desolate road. "The Templar cross..."
Wow – this chapter makes Everbound reach over 100,000 words! Gee, I never realised it until now...anyway, another super long chapter! I guess you can kinda see where this is going. Eva and George? We know them...muahahaha
In all seriousness, thank you once again for the amount of support this story has received! :D if you ship Ziiham, you're officially awesome. Make a badge and pin it on your wall. Or, maybe don't :P
Oh PS, I'm away from home all week starting Sunday so, I'm not sure how delayed the next chapter will be! I'll keep y'all posted via tumblr (no pun intended!)