We ran, faster than either of us has ever run before. The footsteps of the men kept pace with us through the jungle. Danae and I had both dropped our fruits a long ways back and now we just ran.

“We can’t lose them”, Danae said, with fear visible on her face.

“What should we do?” I replied, sharing her fear and frustration.

“Hide!” she yelled, and I leapt behind a tree. Within a few seconds I heard voices and then a group of men emerged from the undergrowth cursing and looking about, obviously confused. There was only one white man in the group. He had a sword and machete attached to his belt and a bayonet in his hand, while the others only had a rusty cutlass or pistol. This man was very confident and soon strolled away from the others.

“I know there was one, I saw her running.” one of the black men said.

“Yes, I did, too,” another replied. The whole company started up saying, “Yes” and “Me too”.

“Here she is.” I heard a low voice behind me say. I turned around and he gave me a sly, toothless grin and then quickly brought the blunt end of his sword down on my head. The last thing I saw before the black consumed me was the haunting grin of the white man that stole me from my home.




*
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*
It’s been ten years since then and the memory still haunts me, but life here on Sugan Plantation is good, better than many slaves.
“Brigitta, come here please, and hurry,” Mrs. Emily calls out from the main parlor. Mr. Thomas is sitting on the sofa, with his back straight and shoulders stiff, while Mrs. Emily sits in her rocking chair knitting profusely. She has a sad look on her face and tear stains on her cheeks so it does not surprise me when she tells me, “Edward passed away last night.”
Edward is Mr. Thomas and Mrs. Emily’s son. He was born sickly a few months ago and has been supervised by Elyse, one of our best caretakers, since birth.
“I am so sorry Mrs. Emily” I said to her, and I really did mean it. She and Mr. Thomas had wanted a son for so long. They’ve had three boys, but none have lived.
Mrs. Emily looks up at me and smiles, “Thank you. I have a favor to ask of you though.”
I nod, expecting to be asked to go fetch our blacksmith for a coffin or to tell the messenger to deliver a message to Mrs. Emily’s mother, but that is not what she asked of me. “I need you to go fetch one of Thomas’ documents from our bedroom.” I was shocked. No slaves I have ever met have been asked to go into their masters’ quarters. “It is one labeled, ‘Owenheart Trade’”
“Yes ma’am,” I replied as I started up the stair case. When I rounded the corner to the bedroom I realized I had been holding my breath. I released it, immediately feeling better, and said to myself, “Relax, Brigitta. This was an order, you’re doing nothing wrong.” With that I opened the door and entered the dark room. The curtains were closed, the bed was a mess, and papers were strewn across Master Thomas’ desk.
I walked straight to the desk and started pushing papers around, trying to find the correct one. I continued to be surprised when I found the right paper. It was full of red Xs and dark marks through many large numbers. I don’t know how to read or write, but I could tell by the vigor that these marks had been made with that this was not good.
“Here you are, ma’am,” I said as I handed Mrs. Emily the trade record. She looked up at me and smiled, but it vanished as she looked down at the document. Her face had gone pale and so had Master Thomas’ as he saw what she was reading.
“You may leave us now,” Mrs. Emily told me with an edge in her voice. I was relieved to be able to go, the atmosphere of the room had gone sour and I wanted to escape.
Later that night I lay awake on my straw bed, thinking about what I had seen earlier. All those numbers and red Xs and dark marks, what did they mean? Those symbols haunted me through the night, but the worst nightmare had yet to come.
“Ah!” The piercing scream woke me before dawn. All the slaves were awakened by it and soon heads were peeping out of all the huts, faces turned towards the house. Then the door sprang open and Mrs. Emily came sprinting out in just her night clothes. She had tears running down her cheeks and her hands were red. I ran up to her trying to calm her, I was one of the slaves living closest to the house because I was a maid. It was then that I realized that her hands had blood on them, and a lot of it.
“Thomas… He’s… He’s,” she couldn’t finish. She fainted in my arms while some of the other housekeepers, including Elyse, ran inside to see what happened.
Twenty minutes had passed when Elyse came back out along with the others. All of us slaves had gathered in a large group and the house maids came over to us.
“Master Thomas has been murdered,” Elyse told us, keeping her voice low and controlled. All at once people were asking “By who?” or “Who could do such a thing?” But Elyse had no answer.
Our men went into the house to see if the murderer was still inside, but the men found no sign of him. They carried out Mr. Thomas’ body, wrapped in a sheet, to our blacksmith, Jack. Immediately Jack began working on a coffin for Mr. Thomas. Meanwhile we all tended to our daily chores.
That night, Mrs. Emily followed her husband and son into death. Jack began working on a coffin for her as well.
The afternoon of the next day, both of my masters were laid in the ground with their four deceased sons between them.
Mrs. Emily’s mother was at the funeral, she took care of the house and us slaves. It didn’t take her long to decide to sell us. Two days later, at precisely 11:30, the auctioneer came to talk to Mrs. Emily’s mother, and, at 12:00, the auction began.
As always the household items were the first to go, and then, us.
“Our first slave up for auction is… Brigitta. She is a household slave with extraordinary crocheting and knitting skills. She also has some field work experience,” Called out the auctioneer. Then the bidding began.
“$500...”
“$600…”
“$700…”
“$900…”
“$2,000,” a voice called out from the back. I was more surprised than the auctioneer.
I knew that voice. I knew that face. I knew that woman.
“$2,000 folks…” shouted the auctioneer.
It was her! It was Danae, my sister, my twin!
“Going once!”
I ran towards her, arms outstretched for an embrace long awaited. She was not a slave, but a free black.
“Going twice!”
After an eternity our arms went around each other, each of us crying tears of joy at being reunited.
“Sold!”