Forty Acres

by Dwayne Alexander Smith

  Staring at those huge locked doors, Martin couldn’t help wondering if he would ever see the outside of the barn again.

  Damon gave Martin a quick, supportive pat on the back, then he crossed to join Dr. Kasim and the other men. The instant Damon fell into their ranks, his face, like those of his colleagues, turned to stone.

  Dr. Kasim, leaning on his walking stick, took a few steps forward. His steady, wizened eyes scanned Martin from head to toe. This inspection was slow and careful, as if the old man’s ghostly orbs could somehow scrutinize every cell in Martin’s body.

  The unease gnawed at Martin. But he fought the urge to speak. Finally Dr. Kasim’s eyes met Martin’s. More tense seconds as the doctor held him with an unblinking stare. Martin could almost feel the doctor’s will. The urge to avert his gaze was overwhelming, but Martin held fast. He knew what would happen at any sign of weakness.

  When the old man finally spoke, his voice wasn’t much more than a whisper, but each word still seemed to boom in Martin’s mind. “Brother Zantu, are you ready to restore your dignity and honor?”

  Martin nodded.

  “Speak up,” Dr. Kasim said.

  Martin’s mouth was dry. He swallowed. Forced his lips apart. “Yes.”

  “Are you ready to avenge the torture and murder of your African ancestors?”

  Martin knew it wasn’t enough to just say what they wanted to hear. He had to sell it. Had to make them believe that he shared their passion. “Yes,” Martin replied with more conviction, not just in his voice but also in his stance, straighter, holding his head high. “Yes, Doctor. I’m ready.”

  The faintest smile creased Dr. Kasim’s face. “Good.” The doctor turned to the right side of the barn and pointed his walking stick at the center stall. “The object of your vengeance waits for you in there.”

  Martin felt a rush of dread. The Dutch doors on every stall in the barn were wide open, except for the stall that Dr. Kasim pointed to. Not only was that door closed, it was locked by two rusted slide bolts. Something was imprisoned inside that stall, and Martin felt pretty certain that it wasn’t a horse.

  Dr. Kasim motioned the other men back, allowing Martin a clear path to the selected stall. Martin understood what he was supposed to do next, but fear froze his feet to the ground.

  “What are you waiting for?” Carver said. “Open it.”

  Dr. Kasim motioned Carver quiet, then turned back to Martin. “Go on, brother.”

  The other men continued staring; he caught only the slightest nod of encouragement from Damon. The lawyer’s final words of advice resounded in Martin’s head: Whatever happens . . . be strong.

  Taking the first step felt like pulling his foot out of wet concrete. But then Martin was moving. One heavy step after another. The crunch of dirt underfoot was almost as loud as his racing heart. Martin could feel the stares following him. He could hear the shuffle of their feet as the men converged behind him.

  The instant Martin paused before the stall door, he heard a muffled whimper from within. The pitiful, terrified sound made Martin queasy. Be strong, Martin repeated in his mind. Be strong.

  Dr. Kasim whispered behind him. “Those bolts should open right up.”

  Martin gripped the handle of the top bolt. The cold, corroded metal flaked in his hand. He yanked the bolt and it slid open with a dull bang. From inside the stall came a startled gasp and more whimpers. Martin did his best to ignore the sounds as he seized the lower bolt. He tried to slide it open gently, but the old bolt would not cooperate. Martin had no choice but to yank the bolt as hard as he could. It slammed open, evoking another feeble gasp from within.

  “Good,” Dr. Kasim said. “Very good.”

  A thick, frayed rope with a fat knot on one end served as a handle for the stable door. Martin reached for the rope, but Dr. Kasim stopped him short.

  “Wait. Not yet, brother.”

  Martin yanked back his hand to conceal its trembling.

  “Turn and face us.”

  Martin did as he was told.

  The six men flanking the doctor resembled a jury of statues. Dr. Kasim signaled Oscar with a nod. Oscar stepped forward and paused directly in front of Martin. For the first time since entering the barn, Martin noticed that Oscar gripped a small, black leather case. Oscar flipped open the two silver latches but he did not open the case. Instead, he carefully laid the case across his open palms and held it out to Martin. The meaning of this gesture was unmistakable: You open it.

  Oscar’s presentation of the case was executed with a solemn deliberateness that felt almost like a sacred offering.

  Dr. Kasim nodded at Martin. “Open it, brother.”

  Martin reached out and swung the lid up. The scent of old leather and saddle soap filled his nostrils. The case’s red silk lining made the black whip resting inside look like a coiled snake lying in a pool of blood. The whip’s entire tapering length was constructed of thick, tightly braided rawhide. And at the whip’s very tip, a mean frill of knotted leather strips.

  “Do you know what kind of whip that is?” Dr. Kasim asked.

  It took Martin a great deal of effort to conceal the queer sense of relief that he suddenly felt. Finally, he knew what the initiation would be, and in a twisted way, it made perfect sense. They wanted him to whip one of the slaves. The thought of brutalizing another human being terrified and sickened Martin, but whipping wasn’t murder. At least, not usually.

  Martin stared at the whip. “It’s old,” he said. “I’m guessing it was once used on slaves.”

  Dr. Kasim nodded grimly. “Overseers used to call that type of whip a cowskin. When it came to torturing our ancestors, the cowskin was the white man’s favorite tool. Nothing like the bullwhips you see in so-called slavery movies. A cowskin is shorter and meatier. And no fancy wrist snap needed, so there was no chance of missing or striking lightly. Every swing found its mark and left its mark. Not just on the black man’s flesh but on the black man’s spirit. And those scars have been passed down from generation to generation.”

  Martin saw the other men nod and hum in agreement, like a congregation affirming the words of their pastor. Even the two guards by the door nodded their heads.

  Dr. Kasim pointed a crooked finger at the whip. “But this particular cowskin is quite special. Used to belong to the great-great-grandson of a Mississippi plantation owner. He had it on display in his home. Nicely framed and everything, like some goddamned family heirloom.”

  The anger in Dr. Kasim’s voice was palpable.

  “So, twelve years ago,” Dr. Kasim continued, “when we abducted the great-great-grandson, we took the cowskin too. And now it’s our heirloom. The white man used it to beat down our spirit. Now we use it to take that spirit back.”

  Behind Dr. Kasim, heads bobbed up and down, the twist of his story music to the men’s ears.

  Dr. Kasim reached out and squeezed Martin’s arm. “Tonight, my Zantu brother, you have the honor of being the redeemer for our suffering ancestors. Pick up the cowskin.”

  Martin grabbed the old whip by its rigid handle and lifted it out of the case. A few tan scuff marks were the only clues that the well-cared-for whip was an antique. The leather was as supple and flexible as if it were purchased new that very day. But what surprised Martin more was how heavy the weapon was. There was more leather packed into its construction than the tight braiding revealed. Martin let the leather cord uncoil and dangle to the dirt floor. He noticed how balanced the whip felt. Its length was just right—long enough to magnify the full swing of an outstretched arm but short enough to avoid being clumsy. The cowskin seemed perfectly designed to deliver as much punishment as possible.

  “Twenty-five lashes, hard and true,” Dr. Kasim said. “Back then that was the typical Negro punishment. That’s what you will give back today. No more, no less.” Dr. Kasim tilted his head and peered deep into Martin’s ey
es, as if trying to get a glimpse of the younger man’s soul. “Can you do this, brother?”

  There it is, Martin thought. Twenty-five lashes with the cowskin. No one will have to be murdered. With this certainty, Martin calmed a bit. All he had to do was find the strength to get through the next ten minutes, then the rest should be easy. In two days he’d be back home with Anna and this nightmare would be over. Not just for him but for the dozens of people suffering in Dr. Kasim’s slave pit. Martin just hoped that the poor soul locked inside the stall, the person whom he would have to whip, had the strength to survive the next ten minutes as well.

  Martin nodded to Dr. Kasim. “Yes. Yes, I’m ready.”

  Dr. Kasim smiled. “Good. Open it.”

  Cowskin gripped in his right hand, Martin turned his back to Dr. Kasim and the men and stood facing the stall door. He paused to take a calming breath, then grabbed the knotted rope handle and pulled. The top and lower halves of the Dutch door began to swing open as one. Old hinges groaned as ambient light penetrated deep into the pitch-dark stall to reveal what hung limply on the rear wall.

  Martin’s stomach flipped; bile rushed into his throat. It took everything he had to hold down his dinner and at the same time conceal his horror from the eyes behind him.

  The woman was stark naked, gagged, and strung up by her shackled wrists to a rusted hook. Her skin was so ashen and slick with sweat that she almost seemed to give off her own dim light. Although the woman hung facing the wall, Martin instantly recognized her ­strawberry-blond hair and her small, curvy figure.

  It was Alice.

  CHAPTER 62

  The shackles on Alice’s wrist were old and crudely wrought, like the pair on display in Damon’s game room. Martin could see rings of blood where iron cut into the girl’s flesh. Alice moaned in pain as she twisted her body to peer back over her shoulder at Martin. The sight of those terrified emerald eyes made Martin numb.

  Why her? Martin thought. Out of all the slaves held captive at Forty Acres, why did it have to be Alice? Martin had mentally prepared himself to do what had to be done, but he wasn’t prepared for this. He knew that it shouldn’t matter which one of the slaves he had to whip, but the awful truth was it did matter. Inflicting punishment on a complete stranger would be far easier than harming this sweet young girl whom he felt he had come to know intimately. Then it struck Martin, a ­question that filled him with instant panic. Did they know? Did Dr. Kasim, Oscar, and the others know that he and Alice had faked intercourse? Did they know that he was just playing along with their insanity and that he planned to expose them?

  Martin whirled back around to face the men. He expected to confront a wall of hate-filled stares. He expected accusations of race traitor as the guards rushed over to seize him. But none of that happened. From Dr. Kasim and the others, Martin received only stares. Not even a hint of malice.

  The exception was Carver. Carver’s mocking smirk hit Martin like a knife in the back. Martin realized instantly that Alice’s presence had nothing to do with the group’s suspicions about his loyalty. It was Carver’s doing. For the sole purpose of making Martin’s initiation as difficult as possible, Carver had, somehow, convinced the other men to select Alice for the brutal ceremony. Because Carver stood at the rear of the group, the other men could not see the relish on Carver’s face as Martin locked stares with him. Martin was onto him but this fact only broadened Carver’s smile.

  “Something wrong, brother?” Carver asked.

  Martin’s jaw tightened. He shook his head. “Nothing’s wrong. I’m fine.”

  “You sure? I mean, you’re looking a little pale there, my brother.”

  “I told you, I’m fine,” Martin repeated.

  “Oh, so you’re just stalling, then?”

  Martin could not respond. He knew that if he did, the wrong thing might come out, so he was thankful when Dr. Kasim turned and leveled Carver with a silencing stare. The doctor then turned back to Martin, exuding a fatherly calm. “The fear you feel is natural,” he said. “We’re not evil like the white man. Violence does not come naturally to us. But we are forced to do violence to set things right. Do you understand?”

  Martin nodded. It was to Martin’s advantage to play along with the assumption that he was nervous before the task at hand. The less he had to hide his true emotions, the easier his role at Forty Acres would be to play.

  “What you do here tonight,” Dr. Kasim continued, “is not simply a test of dedication; it is a reclaiming of power. A power that you must learn to wear as comfortably as you would a fine business suit.” He gestured toward the stall. “Now, please. You must continue.”

  Martin began to turn but stopped short. He had know. He had to ask the question, but to avoid suspicion he had to ask it just right. He jerked his head indifferently toward Alice. “Why this one?”

  There was an awkward pause, then an exchange of glances among the men. Martin’s pulse raced. Had he gone too far? The thin smile on Carver’s lips seemed to answer yes. It was Dr. Kasim who spoke. “Why does that matter to you, brother?”

  Martin shook his head. “It doesn’t. Not really. It’s just . . . I had a good time with her last night. I was looking forward to a repeat performance.”

  There was another strained pause, but the tension was broken when Damon snickered. Tobias and Kwame cracked small smiles. But this departure from ceremonial composure was fleeting; in the blink of an eye the men’s faces had returned to stone.

  Dr. Kasim shook his head at Martin. “It’s unwise to become attached to the property. Very unwise.”

  Martin nodded. “I understand.”

  Dr. Kasim peered past him, deep into the dark stall. He exhibited no sympathy for the whimpering woman inside. “This one has broken our rules and must be severely punished. That’s all you need to know. Now, we’ve wasted enough time. Please begin.”

  Martin turned back around to face the stall. He passed through the open doorway.

  Approximately twelve feet of open space separated him from the rear wall and Alice. The cowskin whip that hung heavy in Martin’s grip was about half that length. He had to move closer.

  Hearing his approaching footsteps, Alice glanced back over her shoulder like a frightened animal. She spotted the whip in Martin’s hand and became frantic. She squirmed and shook her head and screamed “No!” through the rags jammed in her mouth. The shackles rattled and thudded against the wooden wall.

  With each closing step Martin tried to hold Alice’s gaze with his, but she was too terrified. Her darting eyes were too flooded with tears.

  Martin paused at the halfway point. The darkness of the stall and the distance between him and his watchful audience gave Martin the confidence to whisper, “Alice.”

  Alice found Martin’s gaze. The moment lasted no longer than a single breath, but that was long enough for Martin’s eyes to say, I’m sorry.

  Martin lashed out with the cowskin. A fast, overhand swing. There was no crack of air, just the sharp slap of leather striking skin and Alice’s muffled scream. Her body jerked; there was a bloody gash down her back.

  The sight of Alice’s torn flesh roiled Martin’s stomach again. He had to swallow to keep from vomiting.

  “One,” came a shout from behind him. It was Oscar’s voice. “Harder.”

  Martin whipped the cowskin across Alice’s back again. Alice cried out as a gash appeared on her shoulder blade.

  “Two,” Oscar called out. “Still harder.”

  Martin knew they’d notice if he tried to pull his swing too much, but he thought that he might get away easing up a little. Now he saw it was no good. The mechanics of swinging a whip made it impossible to fake. He had no choice but to use all the power he could muster.

  Martin swung for a third time. The force of the whip’s contact nearly snatched the handle from his grip. Alice’s head snapped back. She wailed mournfully.
r />   “Three. That’s good, brother. Keep going.”

  Martin swung the cowskin again, and again, and again. Each stinging strike was answered by a convulsive jerk and grunts of pain from Alice. By the time Martin reached ten lashes, Alice hung limp in her chains. Blood seeping from deep slashes in her back trailed over her buttocks and down the back of her pale thighs. But far worse was Alice’s crying. Her entire body trembled with feeble, whimpering sobs. The urge to drop the whip, free Alice from her chains, and pull her into his arms tugged hard at Martin’s soul. His eyes burned, verging on tears, but he squeezed back his grief and kept swinging.

  “Fifteen.”

  His brain and body ached with the effort to remain focused, but with each swing of the whip, with each muffled shriek from Alice, he could feel the facade slipping away. Martin did not know how much longer he could last.

  “Twenty.”

  Martin couldn’t bear to see the whip claw into Alice’s back again, so he delivered the last five lashes with his eyes closed. He didn’t care if he missed. He didn’t care if they saw him miss. He just wanted it to end. Martin lashed out at the dark, over and over until finally he heard Oscar shout—

  “Twenty-five. You’re done.”

  Martin’s hands dropped to his sides. Hesitantly, he peeled opened his eyes.

  Alice, her butchered back drenched in blood, dangled before him. Motionless.

  CHAPTER 63

  The fear that Alice might be dead smothered Martin. His lungs ached for air, but he couldn’t take a breath. He couldn’t shut his eyes from the horror before him. He couldn’t move a muscle. The only sound was the thump of his hammering heart.

  Then Alice’s foot twitched.

  She moaned and stirred weakly. She was barely conscious, but she was alive.