1- Remembrance

Whenever I polish with pine oil, I remember the path that brought me here. The majestic mountains of the Appalachians like deep green carpet swaying in the spring. The creak of the horse drawn carriage pushing further West as it rocked me back and forth; clattering the iron chains around my small wrists. I had an older white man to steady me but touching him was out of the question.  I was only 8 years old then. Speechless but clinging to what little prayers I remembered from my mother. At this point in my life I can no longer recall the language of my tribe, even the name eludes me. But when the syllables have been literally beaten out of you, one has no choice but to surrender to a new life.

Up until my 16th birthday, I wasn't treated differently from any other Negro.  As I said before, I was 8 when I was taken from my Virginian home. From what I could gather from my uncle, I was traded for 5 black stallions and a gold barreled firearm. I could remember the tobacco flavored kisses the master left on my forehead as he pushed me into the arms of a tall blue-eyed man. Pierre Lavallette was his name, pale and eloquent as all the Frenchmen my mother warned me about. I had seen him many times before mostly during play with the other children I grew up with. He used to watch us from his black carriage smoking opium through a fancy blue pipe. His hair was a lustrous cluster of fair curls that fell just a bit passed his shoulders. Pierre was a beautiful man of high society with a slim nose and scarlet lips. Long blond eyelashes rimmed his unpretentious eyes as he relaxed against the door.  I always ignored his beckoning fingers but a few of the children ran up to him without fear. It makes my heart ache that now even their names are forgotten. I spent so many late nights trying to remember but perhaps my brain cannot hold that much information of the past.

Pierre was from Louisiana and had an incredible appetite for food and terrifyingly enough, little girls. I use to be the pitcher girl back in Virginia. I was good at making beverages and Pierre was delighted in the way I poured him his wine whenever he came to visit. He and Master would sit out on the front porch observing the field hands. Master engorging on chicken and grilled vegetables while Pierre fisted on shrimp with a golden fork. He smiled whenever our eyes met and would grab my arm whispering how lovely I was before dismissing me with a pat on the rump. He scared me. He still does.

 Louisiana was a murky landscape of weeping willows, mosquito infested swamps and plenty of moss. We had to take a boat to get to the Frenchman's house and Pierre repeatedly pointed out the random breaks in the water's edge and the distance clapping of ripples.

"You see darling, if you ever plan to run from me, you might slip through the guards but the alligators are quite nimble. Of course, the speed of a bullet is no match for a Negro." His accented voice was gentle but hung in the air much like a noose.

A greenish tail rose from the black river and slapped the side of the boat. I screamed instinctively leaning over to Pierre who pressed my head into his narrow chest. For a man in love with food, he was a rather thin man.

"Oh little child, you are far beyond perfect. But I must behave myself."

The Lavallette manor appeared like a royal palace to a child of 8 years. Its white washed exterior shone like ivory under the full moon and my eyes became exhausted as I attempted to take in the acres of lush wetland. Pierre placed his hands on my shoulders pushing me closer to the house.

"I know you will enjoy it here. You didn't have any sisters back home, correct?"

I only nodded with his grip seemingly tightening with every step.

 "Wonderful. Well now you have 20. They will take good care of you so you need not worry. Hmm." He massaged my shoulders as we followed the boatman who held a lantern along the stone path. "Colonel Brigham didn't feed you much did he, darling?"

He jerked my arms to stop and leisurely hovered over me to clutch my bare stomach.  I was taken from my bed when the trade was finalized.  "Let's feed your little belly and clean you up first. My flowers must always be in bloom."

I shuddered as he pressed himself into my back, his swaying blond hair nearly white against the starry night sky. We must have stayed that way for 10 minutes listening to the bullfrogs and distant clapping of the river. A mosquito danced about my eye and I blinked it away far too scared of what would happen if I moved. Up ahead, the boatman had made it to the front door and looked back at us patiently.

"Do you know what I want you to call me?" Pierre muffled in my hair. "Call me, my Love. Master is fine too but my Love is so much more....honest." His fingertips were cold against my skin leaving my stomach and venturing further below. I inhaled heavily not daring to cry.

"Do you like it here, my darling?" I couldn't determine whether he meant his touch or the elaborate palace but I exhaled churning out the tiniest response of "Yes, my Love."

Pierre chuckled showering me with kisses and nips that turned me into stone. I wanted to cry out for my mother, my uncle, any of the children back in Virginia but my voice was nearly gone. I tilted my head to the sky desperately begging God for a sign. I searched the constellations for any indication that I would be free when a light appeared in a window on the second floor of Pierre's manor. A cluster of little shadows appeared, swaying with the Southern wind. The shutters slowly opened and a little girl with brownish hair stuck her head outside. She stared own at me face a blank slate and only when she raised her hand as if to say "it's okay, be patient" did my heart begin to relax. She was young like me, black like me and I knew she could be trusted.