Chains of Time

by R B Woodstone

  “You’ll see,” says Harry. “Mas’r Van Owen—he’s a good man, a good Christian man.” But I know he’s trying more to convince himself rather than me.

  In the kitchen, I sneak a look at a wrinkled newspaper that the women use as kindling to start a cooking fire. The date reads October 9, 1860. The news on the pages is irrelevant local chatter. The date is what’s important to me. I sift through the random knowledge imprinted in my mind and recall that soon eleven states will secede from the Union and form their Confederate States of America, paving the way for the nation’s bloodiest days since it murdered the original Americans. I cringe when I think of the term Civil War. How can war ever be civil? And what could be less civil than wanton murder? In visions, I have seen Van Owen in his gray uniform. So proud. So certain of his good fortune. And, later, so defeated.

  Hundreds of thousands of people will die in the coming battles, but Van Owen will not be among them, a fact that makes me doubt all of my people’s stories of higher beings that guide our days on this world. For what sort of god would allow Van Owen to live when so many good people perish?

  The weeks roll on. With each one, I ease my charade a bit. Gradually, I move from speaking in the thick African accent—which I lost even before I left Mkembro—to speaking whole sentences in drawled Southern slave English. Every day begins the same way: Harry knocks on my door to announce that the workday has started. Some mornings, I wake confused. I look around my bare cabin—with only its bed and chair and four thatched walls—and I feel certain that something is different. Perhaps the lone chair has been moved slightly. Perhaps the dirt floor is not as it was when I went to sleep. I look for footsteps, but I never find any. Wouldn’t I wake, I wonder, if someone had entered? If Van Owen had entered?

  Harry always knocks on my door first—for mine is the cabin closest to the main house—and then, through the thin walls, I listen to him make his way down the rows of slave dwellings, knocking and calling until all 150 slaves are awake. I am the only with private quarters. The others are crammed six or seven to a room. The conditions are pleasant, the older slaves tell me, compared to what they experienced on other plantations. But they have all heard worse stories—stories about the cargo holds of slaving ships: weeks of sitting upright, pressed together so tightly that breathing was a chore and air a commodity. I hear tales of cargo hold Africans who strangled the weak and the dying among them just to make more room or more air—or perhaps just out of madness. I am too ashamed to tell them that even in the Middle Passage, I had my own room, albeit a cell on the deck of the ship.

  We slaves eat our meals together. We sit on splintery benches and eat tasteless offerings. The food is mostly grain cereals, though sometimes we are treated to small portions of catfish or beef or possum or cornbread. The worst part is the blandness. I long for the rich and richly colored spices of my home. I am so starved for flavor that I find myself imagining how food would taste if it were spiced with tobacco.

  Many of the other slaves' faces are scarred from branding or beating. Several men are missing a finger or a hand or several toes, punishments for trying to flee or from simply looking at white women. One man has only half his tongue. One woman has a scar across her throat. Others seem so bruised emotionally that they rarely even lift their eyes from the ground. They bury themselves in their work as if dedication can hinder woe. Yet, sometimes, after meals, there is music. A few of the enslaved break out instruments made from basins and washboards and wood-and-wire, and they play and sing and dance. Often, their songs are religious, evoking stories of Abraham or Moses or Jesus. I wonder if they have ever beheld artists’ renderings of these figures—white men, always. White men with white features and white thoughts. My brethren here know nothing of the beliefs that should be their heritage. They have no connection to their past, to their ancestors. Such is the legacy of slavery. It tears us from our past, it tears us from ourselves.

  The strangest thing about the plantation is that I see only slaves here. I know that there are armed white men who guard the plantation from afar, but I never see them. Meanwhile, Van Owen’s mansion looks large enough to house every slave on the farm, yet I never see anyone but Harry enter or exit it. I hear nothing of Van Owen having friends or a wife or children. One day, when the other slaves are eating, I sneak to the window of his mansion and gaze inside. I can see only his sitting room: a mahogany floor, walls covered with Victorian tapestries and religious paintings. Overhead, a giant crystal chandelier hangs from the ceiling, each dangling glass shard offering a distorted reflection of the entire room. Some of the decorations are so familiar somehow. I feel that I have seen them in visions—but not here. It was the same room, but it was in another place, another time.

  Suddenly, I feel a hand on my shoulder. I spin, cursing myself for my curiosity, ready for battle.

  “Amara,” Harry says to me, nodding his head back and forth, “you know better than that. Mas’r Van Owen will be back anytime now; you best get yourself back with the others.” But there’s something in his expression that worries me. His words don’t feel like a warning at all—more like an expression of fear.

  The other slaves sometimes speak of running away. One day during the morning work hours, Norma—Sam’s mother, who does most of the cooking—sees me staring off when I should be picking tobacco. With my bucket in my lap and my arms hanging limp at my sides, I must appear as if I’m sleeping with my eyes open. I’m lost in a vision, watching Regina do her homework while Terry sits near her reading a book. Norma shakes me from my reverie and points to the surrounding fields, warning me, “They’re watching. They’re always watching.”

  There is nothing there, though, but rows and rows of tobacco plants and trees and fields.

  “They’re watching,” she repeats, nodding, “so you watch yourself.”

  I don’t see them until my sixth week, when an altercation breaks out between two slaves. A young man has taken improper liberties with another slave’s wife, and the two men begin brawling in the horse barn at twilight. The tumult is such that I hear other slaves racing toward the barn to intervene. Before I can even make it out of my bed, Harry’s voice resounds through my closed door.

  “Stay put,” he calls to all of us as he trots off toward the barn with his whip in hand. I crack the door slightly and watch him closing in on the barn, but he’s too late. The white men get there first. Four of them, half-clothed, come tearing across the tobacco fields, rifles in hand. One of them has two dogs on a lengthy leash, snarling and barking as they gallop toward the barn. Barely able to hold them back, the man finally drops the leash, and the dogs continue on their own, trained as they are to hunt Black men. And then I hear sounds that will stay with me for all of my days—the screams of two men being eaten alive by dogs, as four white men look on, laughing. Harry stops running. He stares toward the barn for a time, his hands shaking. Then he turns back toward the slave housing and ambles home, head hung low. As a woman’s voice cries out in horror, I think of Norma’s words: They’re watching. They’re always watching. They are.

  After the melee, I lie awake all night, trying to induce the visions—trying to complete the pictures that I see. I long to understand why I’ve seen so much of the future and yet so much is still hidden from me. I lie in the darkness, emptying my mind of all thought, beseeching the visions to come, but they don’t.

  The next morning, I am ready for first meal even before Harry knocks. Instead of moving on to the next house, though, he enters mine. I’m seated cross-legged on the ground. He walks toward me and kneels, facing me in that strange crouched position that tobacco-planters find comfortable and comforting: both feet flat, back hunched slightly forward, rear-end hovering inches from the ground so that all weight is on the feet. He rocks easily forward and back, shifting his weight from his heels to the balls of his feet, and I wonder just how many decades he spent in the fields in this position for it to come so naturally.

  “I hope,” he says with a slight stutter, “y
ou weren’t too scared by what happened last night.”

  “It was…sad.”

  “I came to check on you ‘cuz I was worried ‘bout you.”

  “Why?”

  “’Cuz Mas’r Van Owen told me to watch out for you.”

  “He did? I haven’t even seen him here since my first night.”

  “He comes and goes.” Harry looks down. “He says all kinds of things ‘bout you. Crazy talk that you’re some sort of witch princess, that you’re dangerous. Other things, too.”

  “Do you believe him?”

  He breathes in, tries to offer a denial that he can’t quite muster. “Well, I don’t know what you are, but I’ve never seen anyone learn English as fast as you.”

  “And that makes me a witch?”

  He smiles a bit, and, for a moment, I can picture him as a young man—handsome, strong, and yet never free, always a slave. He has never lived anywhere but this plantation. He has always been someone’s property. I try to imagine how I’d view the world if I’d never seen Africa, never experienced free will. But then I wonder if it’s better to know freedom only to lose it—or never to know it at all.

  “I saw the mas’r come visit you on your first night,” Harry confides.

  I don’t answer.

  He nods his head back and forth and speaks slowly, painfully. “I heard you screaming. I wanted to come help you, but…”

  “It’s okay, Harry.” What could he have done to help me? Any intervention would have meant his death.

  It takes him three tries to get the next questions out: “Did Mas’r Van Owen… did he touch you? Did he hurt you…?”

  “No, Harry. He just wanted to scare me.” I think about that night—Van Owen’s hands on my head as he tried to wrench his way into my thoughts. I screamed. And I resisted. I kept him out by focusing on Mkembro, by thinking of the colors of the foliage and the taste of the fruit paint. Even as Van Owen pressed harder, I thought of the sounds of the birds, of the way the ocean howled as it struck our sands, and I smiled. And then, just outside, a blue glow lit up the horizon. Lightning? I wondered. Van Owen spun, his expression curious. His gaze went first to the gap in the wall—to the blue light spilling in through it and then receding—and then back to me, his eyes tracing my body hungrily. And then he stormed from my hut. Finally, I abandoned my façade of strength, and I passed out.

  “When you screamed,” says Harry, “I thought…”

  “No. He didn’t hurt me. And he was distracted by lightning outside.”

  Harry’s tired, old eyes met mine and then shifted away. “Yes,” he said, “I remember that flash. It wasn’t lightning, though.”

  There is something in his voice—something he wants to tell me. He opens his mouth as if he will tell me, but then he stops himself and turns the topic back to Van Owen. “He ain’t going to stop, Amara.” His tone is dire. “I ain’t never seen him like this with a woman before, not any woman. The way he watches you.”

  “The way he watches me?”

  “All the time, Amara—from his window, through the curtains. He stares at you, and then he turns away like he feels guilty or something. When he left for his Confederate meetings, he said not to let you get too comfortable—just put you through the motions—and I started thinking maybe… maybe… he’s gonna hurt you or something…”

  “Maybe he just plans on sending me elsewhere,” I tell him, confident that I will live. After all, the visions have shown my four generations of descendants. I’ve seen myself old and stooped. This plantation is not my last stop in this life.

  “Amara, the way he looks at you—the way he grits his teeth when he talks about you—I think he don’t trust himself around you.” Harry’s mouth turns downward, his lip almost quivering. “I don’t think it’s safe for you here.”

  I finally realize then that Harry doesn’t mean that Van Owen is going to kill me. He is concerned instead that Van Owen is becoming obsessed with me, that his obsession may drive him to a different sort of violence against me.

  He is risking a great deal telling me these things, betraying Van Owen’s trust. “Harry, you shouldn’t be here. If Van Owen learns that you warned me…They say he’ll be back from Charleston soon…”

  He nods no, his puffy eyes looking strangely intense. “Amara, Mas’r Van Owen’s been back a lot since you’ve come. He comes for a night or so and then he goes again. He just don’t let himself be seen. He been back from Charleston three days already. I bring him his meals. I bring him newspapers and letters and wine and other things. Sometimes he come out at night when everyone asleep. Sometimes he come in here to see you.” Our eyes meet. Suddenly, I share his fear. “I saw him once. He was just sitting there in that chair by the bed, watching you sleep. I heard a noise at night, so I peeked in your window hole and I saw him.”

  So Van Owen had been in the room with me. The chair had been moved.

  “I think you should leave. Tonight. I can help you…”

  I remember my vision of Harry—the one I had when I first arrived—the one of him hanging from a tree. I hadn’t thought of it since that first night, but now I know for certain: I am the cause of it. He will die because of me, because of this conversation we’re having right now. I stare into his sad, sad eyes and try to make a connection. Perhaps my visions are not definite. Perhaps I can change the reality they show. Maybe Harry can live. “Harry, if I leave, you must come with me…”

  “Oh no, Amara,” he almost laughs, his voice proud as he shoots down my offer. “I’m in charge here. I’ve got responsibilities, people to look after. I can’t leave here. This is my home.”

  How then can I convince him, I wonder? Harry is old and set in his ways. Even more so, he is right—he does have people to look after, people who are safer because he’s here.

  “Harry, what if I told you that I am a witch, and that I can see the future—and that it’s dangerous for you to stay here?”

  He stands quickly and straightens his pants as he if were wearing an expensive suit instead of stained overalls. “I don’t want to hear no more talk o’ witchcraft. That other one talks about witchcraft too.”

  “What other one?”

  He stares at me. “The other one who asks about you.” Suddenly, he looks embarrassed. “But I promised…”

  He wants to tell me more, but I can see he won’t—not because he’s scared but because he won’t break a promise. He’s not talking about Van Owen. But who else? For a moment, I think about entering his mind and taking the truth from him, but he is such a simple man. How can I betray him—invade his mind as Van Owen tried to do to mine?

  Before I can decide, he starts shuffling backward, speaking too quickly, desperate to end the conversation. “He’s brown as you and me, Amara. You got nothing to fear from him.” All I came to say is the guards play poker every Thursday night startin’ at midnight. So, if somebody wanted to leave the farm, that would be the time to do it. That’s all I came to say.”

  Before I can argue, he’s out the door, continuing with his morning wake-up routine and leaving me to contemplate where one can run in a foreign land, with only waking dreams as guideposts.

  The day slides by. I keep watching Van Owen’s mansion, looking for some sign of life or movement. I wonder if he’s in there, watching me with his telescope—the same one he pointed toward my homeland all those months ago. I keep trying to bring on some vision of a runaway attempt, but there is none to find. I have no foresight about fleeing here. And the visions come only when they wish to, not when I entreat them.

  By midnight, I begin to grow certain that I’m not supposed to go anywhere—that it’s best for Harry and me and everyone else if I remain where I am. Perhaps I’m supposed to stay here until Lincoln sets us all free. Then, as I prepare to retire for the night, my door creaks open. I’m ready to turn and face Van Owen. I’m strong and rested now. I feel that if he were to challenge me now, I could infiltrate his mind and destroy it from within. The door whines. I take a deep bre
ath and spin—and I see Sam, the boisterous, young slave whom Harry punished weeks ago.

  “Are you ready?” he asks, holding tight to the doorframe, his eyes wild.

  “Ready for what?”

  “Mister Harry sent me. He said you needed an ess-cort—that you don’t know your way around here. I’m supposed to get you to the edge of town. He ‘spects me to come back after I lead you out, but I’m gone. I ain’t comin’ back.”

  I already know what Harry’s punishment will be if I run. What retribution would there be then for Sam?

  “Sam, you must go back to your cabin now. It’s too dangerous. You don’t know what might…”

  “I can’t go back, Amara. I had to sneak past the poker cabin to get here. There’s a guard outside there with two of them hounds. I was lucky to get by them the first time. I’d never make it back without them seeing me. We’ve got to go. Come on.”

  I have no choice. He can’t go back, and he won’t go on without me. The damage has already been done. Harry has already broken Van Owen’s trust; Sam has already escaped his cabin. I must go with him.

  I stay close behind Sam as we scuttle across the tobacco fields. We rush breathlessly through the crops, and the scent is intoxicating. I want to fall on my back and roll in the leaves, to drink in their fragrance, to cover myself in their aroma. I resist the temptation.

  Sam turns back every now and then, and, in the moonlight, his eyes show such fierce intent that I have no choice but to be pulled along by his fervor. Like Harry, he has never known freedom. How can I tell him that if he waits but a few more years—for Lincoln’s proclamation—we will all be free? I would never be able to convince him, and it’s too late to turn back anyway. So we run. For what feels like hours we run until finally we meet a narrow stream shaded by a row of elms extending for miles.

  I think about the blue light that distracted Van Owen and about Harry’s words about that other one. Who was it? Harry said that the man spoke of me and witchcraft. What can it mean? If I leave now, I’ll never know. But Sam brings me back to the moment.