Prologue

When I was eleven years and four months, an event occurred that impacted my life greatly. At the time, I lived in a state named Georgia at a cotton plantation called “The Hermitage.” The only life I ever knew was the one where a maid would wake me up, dress me, and feed me breakfast. I’d ride in a carriage to the schoolhouse and participate in my lessons. At home, I’d play with my dolls, eat supper, take a bath, and go to sleep. I rarely glanced behind the house, where rows and rows of cotton plants stood their ground.

But as a fixed minded eleven-year-old, I did not know that not every person lived as I did. I figured everyone had meals and clothes and brass wash tubs with white towels. I didn’t think this way on purpose- I wasn’t an obnoxious child. At least I suppose.

But, as I said, an event, when I was nearly twelve, awoke me to the happenings behind my house. It shook me from the life I knew and lived and how I figured everyone else lived as well. It shook me and rattled me and tossed me and turned me. In the center of this figurative earthquake was one dark-skinned, brown-eyed, warm-hearted girl. A girl named Eshal.

Present

“Catherine, come back here!” a voice called out to me. It was a honeyed voice dusted with discernible Southern African-American tones that belonged to my caretaker, Lucinda. I could picture her chasing after me, her hands open wide to catch me if I slowed down or if she sped up supremely. But I wouldn’t be caught. I wanted to run, free as the wind in my sails. I could run for hours, it seemed. Or at least as long as my eight-year-old legs would carry me.

“Miss Catherine! Whatcha doing? You need to take your bath!”

I continued running, giggling as she chased after me. I felt free and happy and I wished that I would never see that brass bathtub again.

It was now my ninth birthday, and I was dressed in a frilly dress. It was itchy and stiff, but Lucinda told me not to touch it because she just ironed it. I somewhat complied and I turned away from the party to glance outside the back windows. People were working in the fields, picking the cotton under the blaring sun. I turned to my father.

“Why can’t we give them some water? They sure look hot,” I tasked him.

“They’re fine, Catherine.” I tilted my head and looked up at him. “I’ll give them water.” He told me. Unconvinced, I continued staring at the people in the fields. They all had light tan shirts and dark brown skin. They worked under the bright yellow sun, from when the sun made its first appearance in the day to until it made its last.

On my tenth birthday, my mother hosted another party. Once again, many people I did not know brought me gifts and wore freshly-ironed clothes. I wish that everyone would stop getting dressed up for me, so I wouldn’t have to get dressed up either. I mentioned this to my mother, but she told me that wouldn’t be polite. And if my mother deems something “impolite,” I am to never act or speak of it again. I turned my attention to the people in the fields. As if stuck in a repetitive cycle, they picked the cotton, transferred it to barrels, and picked the cotton once more. Other fields-people carried the barrels away and replaced them with empty ones. I wondered if my father ever gave them the water he promised.

It was my eleventh birthday, but I didn’t bother to stay for the mingling. I greeted my guests to keep my mother satisfied and ran out the front door. I walked to the back of the house where a forest stood to the side of the fields. The people were working again, and I noticed they were singing a song as they worked. I wanted to stop to listen, but I couldn’t risk my mother seeing me out the great glass windows in the back. I wandered into the woods and stopped to find a place to sit down when I heard a yap. I glanced below me, above me, circled around until I concluded that the noise must have been my imagination. Roof. There it was again, but louder. I looked around the tall trees again until I saw a small, brown-colored dog hiding under a fallen branch. I reached down to pick him up until I realized that my mother wouldn’t allow any animal of the sort in the house. But this dog was clearly lost or abandoned, so I picked him up anyway and walked back towards the house with him under my arm.

“What in the name of the lord is that?” was a question from Lucinda. I shrugged.

“I found him in the forest. Can I keep him? Oh please, Luci! Can I?” I pleaded. She looked apprehensive.

“You know I can’t do that, Catherine. I’ll go ask your father.” I reached out to stop her, but she disappeared behind the pillars in the foyer so I waited, silently pleading the dog to stay quiet. My father and Lucinda reappeared moments later.

“If that dog makes one noise or one mess, he’s gone,” my father said, appearing from the dining room. He ran his fingers through his gray hair and I noticed that he looked tired. I nodded that I understood and ran upstairs before he could change his mind.

Within ten minutes of my having the dog, he made a mess on my bed. I panicked and tried to clean it up with a towel, but it only made it worse. Resorting to my last hope, I stuck my head out my doorway and beckoned for Lucinda.

“Luci… can you come in here for a moment?”

She followed me into my room and sighed. She looked at me, opened her mouth to say something, but closed it.

“I’ll get a girl to clean it up for you,” was her answer. I nodded gratefully and waited.

Another ten minutes later, a girl with big brown eyes and chocolate-colored skin stepped into my room with soap and a cleaning rag. She looked about my age, which surprised me. I thought only adults worked.

She cleaned up the mess and took my quilt to wash it. She brought me back another one and made my bed and tidied up my room. I sat down in my armchair and watched carefully, petting my dog. I decided to name him Brownie since his coat was a brown color. When the girl was finished, she nodded to me and started to walk out of the room.

“What’s your name?” I asked her as she was walking out the door, trying to be polite.

“It doesn’t matter, miss. None call me by m’name anyways.”

“Oh?” I felt bad for her. Maybe I said something wrong. “Well, I’m Catherine. It’s- it’s nice to meet you.”

“Cath’rine?” she asked, softly. “That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you,” I replied, twisting my fingers behind my back. I wanted to ask why she was working, but I thought it would be impolite. Mother taught me a thing or two about impoliteness.

She nodded again and walked out the door, but stopped in the doorway. “I’m a slave girl.”

“What’s a slave?” I blurted. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that term before.

“It’s a person who works but don’t get paid,” she said, her face slightly falling.

“Really? Why don’t they get paid?”

“I don’t know, miss. I should get back to work now.” She walked out of the room and disappeared into another.

I stood in the doorway for a while, digesting what she had said. A person who works but don’t get paid. Don’t get paid. Works. I ran out of the room and into the next to find the girl dusting.

“Do you want to play with my dolls? I don’t have anybody to play with me.”

She smiled. “Okay. My name is Eshal, too.”

I smiled back. “Come on, Eshal.”

When we played together, we would pretend we lived in a mystical forest. Everyone there owned a unicorn and a big house in the trees. Everyone had food, water, and a well-paying job. I suppose we didn’t know what a well-paying job was anyway, but we pretended we did.

The next morning, I awoke to the song of a songbird and was ushered to school. Brownie stayed locked up in my room with food and water. I wondered if he ever wanted to get out.

At lunch, I sat under a willow tree in the schoolyard, chewing my sandwich slowly. I wished that Eshal could come to school with me, but she would be the only brown girl. It would be hard for her, I knew, so I reckon she’d be better at home.

“Ouch!” I exclaimed as an acorn pelted me on the head. I stood up angrily abandoning my sandwich. “Who did that?”

None of the children answered me, but a few boys sniggered. “Why are you so prim and proper? ‘Oh little darling miss, please pass the teacups,’ ‘Why of course, thank you, madam,’” he imitated as he pretended to sip an imaginary teacup. “None of these others girls act like you, you alien.”

I didn’t see a problem with dressing well, but it seemed as if the other children did. I learned to ignore them, and I think I was able to do this so well because of Eshal.

“Just leave them be, ‘Rine. They just want a’tention.”

Every day after I got home from school, she would come into my room and she would play with my dolls with me. I continued telling her about school, and how I didn’t have many friends. She told me about how her father got beaten for trying to run away and the relentless hours they have to work without getting any reward. I couldn’t believe my father owned a place like this- it seemed too surreal to me. I asked him about it at dinner.

“Why are you suddenly so curious about this?” he pondered. I told him about Eshal and her words. His usually calm, pale face turned red, and back to pale. “You are not to talk to that girl ever again. I will make sure of it.” Each soft, short word pierced my insides, but I nodded that I understood.

“Can I be excused?” I asked.

“May you?” my mother corrected me.

“May I be excused?” I tried to keep my composure.

“You may.” I folded my napkin, hands shaking, and walked quickly upstairs.

Eshal was waiting for me. I told her what had happened. She looked dejected when she stood up to leave but didn’t say anything. I could barely sleep that night, but I did have Brownie to comfort me. I wish that I hadn’t told my father. I didn’t mean to insult him- I was just curious. I learned that night that curiosity was bad, and in order to keep the only secret I had ever kept, I had to avoid it.

I came downstairs the next morning to a group of men crowded around the table. I picked up on meaningless fragments until I heard the tallest of the men say something about “trade away three slaves.” I jumped down the steps without thinking and tapped him on the arm.
“Excuse me to intrude,” I said, remembering my manners. “But I heard you say something about slaves getting traded away. Which ones were traded?”

He gave me a sideways look. “Two twenty-something-year-old men and a slave girl.”

“What slave girl?” I asked, breathlessly.

He snickered. “Aren’t they all the same? If you really want to know, just look down the street yonder.”

Holding my breath, I glanced out the window for the last time. Getting into the back of a cart pulled by two, faulty-looking mules was Eshal.