Suppressed

by Kira Saito

  “You FOOL! SING!” Ghede Massaka ordered.

  I heard the awful thud of a shovel as it hit something. “Ouch!” Sabrina howled in agony. “Not again! I’ll sing! I’ll sing!”

  I didn't come here to be anyone's servant

  Digging the hole; it's me. Burying; it's me (bis)

  I didn't come here to be anyone's servant.

  “You’re trusting the wrong people!” she warned.

  “Did I say you could speak?” Ghede Massaka was disgusted.

  Had I made a terrible mistake? For the first time I really opened my eyes and took in what was around me. Trees burning with rage, a blood filled cemetery, and a very angry loa who demanded secrecy and blind obedience. It was beginning to look as if I had made the wrong choice.

  “Queen, what the hell have you gotten us into?” Louis instantly picked up on my doubt and started to back away from Ti Jean.

  I had made my decision and I had to follow through with it. There was no time for self-doubt and paranoia. I had to behave like a Queen. “We have to trust him,” I said. “He has the answers we need.”

  Louis gave me a drop dead look, but remained standing. I let out a small sigh of relief.

  Ti Jean laughed wildly. “Let it be done!” He grabbed Louis and I by our throats and threw us into the blazing fire.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dark Days

  Darkwood Plantation August 1853- A few months After the Death of Cecile LaNuit…

  My eyes opened and I found myself standing in the middle of a dazzling cotton field. The sun was fierce and unforgiving, as it shone down on the cotton making it appear as if I were surrounded by piles of pure white snow. A hot sticky breeze brought with it the scent of sweet plums and tangy oranges from the trees that grew abundantly in Darkwood’s many fields. Around me, slaves worked diligently picking cotton. Their sweaty heads were bowed in defeat and their lips were tightly pursed as they were terrified that the slightest sound would draw the unwanted attention of the driver. It was August which was cotton picking season and the slaves knew if they picked less than their daily quota they would face a very harsh punishment.

  Louis stood beside me, but he was now someone called Abram. He was my husband. Inside, I still felt like Arelia and had all of her thoughts and emotions, but I also had the emotions and memories of someone else. I was now the plump tongueless lady from the Haitian forest, when she still had a tongue. My name was Collette and I was a slave who had worked at Darkwood for the past ten years. When I was younger, I had been praised for my beauty and quick wit and had been bought for a handsome sum. With my generous figure and sea-green eyes, I was quite the purchase and had been a house slave up until a few months ago.

  You see, slaves weren’t bought only to work, but also to maintain the status quo of the plantation owners. The more slaves a plantation owed, the richer the Master appeared. The richest plantation owners didn’t want any old slaves. They wanted slaves that made other plantation owners envious. They wanted slaves who were physically beautiful, strong, and obedient. Slaves like any other property were a reflection of their masters. For so long, I had been so proud of myself for being all of those things. Those things that made me appealing to my owners. I wanted to make them proud. I suppose, you can say that I had been a content slave, unaware of her own bondage and her own worth. If you’ve only known one way of life you never bother to imagine other options. Another way of life never crosses your mind.

  Though slave marriages weren’t legally recognized under the law, I had my faithful husband, Abram by my side, and our days were filled with love under conditions that were less than idealistic. Abram, like myself, was a prized slave. He was tall, muscular, light skinned, and well spoken. He had also been a house slave up until a few months ago. I glanced at Abram. His eyes met mine and I gave him the tiniest of smiles. I grabbed his hand and gave it a tight, reassuring squeeze. I could feel Louis’ soul inside and I knew that he was terrified. He hid his fear well and continued to focus on the cotton stalks.

  Recently, my entire world had been turned upside down. Abram and I had been tossed out of the main house and were now common field hands. A field hand was the lowest position a slave could hold because it meant working under brutal conditions. For years, I had watched the poor field hands suffer and toil, but I never realized how harsh their existence was. Although August was typically a horrible month for field hands, this year was especially degrading. The slave drivers and overseers were becoming increasingly sadistic and cruel. The smallest sign of resistance got you a lashing or punishment that did not match the offense. We slaves weren’t simply afraid of the drivers, overseers, and Masters, we were terrified of them.

  Darkwood was going through some very dark times. I couldn’t quite explain it or define it, but it had started a few months ago. It had started with the disappearance of Marie Beau, the death of Sophie, and the strange disappearance of Louis Beau. The madness of Lucus LaPlante and the sudden arrival of Emilie and Cecile had turned Darkwood into a place that was full of fear and mysteries. Whispers and strange rumors were swirling around Darkwood. Some said that Cecile had vanished without a trace and had brought on Lucus’ madness. Others were saying that a curse had been placed upon him by Marie, who was seeking revenge for Louis’ miserable existence.

  Recently, I found myself thinking more and more about Marie and what she had taught me. Unlike me and Abram, Marie was anything but a content slave. We had worked together in the main house and she was full of stories about life outside of Darkwood. She was adamant that every person regardless of color or creed had the right to freedom, love, liberty, and education. Where she had gotten these strange ideas from was a mystery, as she had been born a slave. She had also been a Voodoo Queen and the rock of the slave community. With her herbs and potions she had healed fevers, scars, and broken hearts. Now that she was gone, her responsibilities fell on Abram and I. We had learned about healing with herbs from her and though those mysterious loa never spoke to us, we still were able to offer some solace to the weary slaves who needed comfort. With Marie gone, Abram and I had become reluctant leaders. I had taken Marie’s stash of herbs and oils and was secretly using them to help my fellow slaves.

  A snap interrupted my thoughts. Abram had broken a stalk of cotton, which was a costly mistake.

  Bernard, the ever present slave driver immediately rode towards us. His dark face was full of rage as he cracked his whip in the air for dramatic effect. Bernard was one of the many new drivers at Darkwood. Unlike overseers, the drivers at Darkwood were slaves themselves. Recently, Madame LaPlante had chosen a handful of the biggest, cruelest slaves to be drivers. They watched our every move like hawks and took pleasure in their power over us. They wanted to please Madame LaPlante, as that got them extra food and slightly better accommodations. Strange, how the need for food and shelter turn men into animals capable of unspeakable cruelty.

  “No, please! It was my fault!” I protected Abram from the whip by throwing my body in front of his. Inside, as Arelia, I wanted to make this experience as painless as I possibly could for Louis, but I knew that was only wishful thinking.

  Bernard showed us no mercy. He brought the whip down on me with such force that I fell to the ground. Blood had already started to pour from the lashes and my rough, sack like dress was instantly ripped open. My tears were silent and desperate. I feared that even the slightest sound would only bring more unwanted attention.

  “No. Please!” Abram desperately pleaded with Bernard. Instead of stopping, Bernard was joined by two more drivers, equally as brutal and unforgiving. Like ravens feasting on a rotting corpse, they took delight in whipping Abram. He fell to the ground beside me and I couldn’t bear to look into his miserable hazel eyes as they filled with tears of frustration and anger.

  Our hands joined and together we screamed like wild animals as the drivers continued their torment. The other slaves continued to work with their heads bowed. They paid us no attention because they had g
rown accustomed to the brutality. It was just another day in the fields.

  When the drivers finally stopped, we rose and held each other for the briefest second before continuing to pick cotton. Inside, Arelia felt like screaming, weeping and burning down the entire plantation, but Collette needed to tell her story. Louis’ energy was numb as if he were in shock, but Abram would not let him stop his duties. Abram needed to tell his story as well.

  If we didn’t meet the daily quota it would only mean further humiliation and that was the last thing we wanted. Every second of our lives was marked by unspeakable fear. From the moment we woke, we feared that we would be late to the fields. While we worked, we feared that we would accidentally break a stalk of cotton. We feared that we wouldn’t pick enough cotton. We feared fear itself.

  Later that night, Abram and I sat around a blazing fire with the other slaves. We were a miserable bunch as we ate our meager allowance of corn cake and bacon in near silence. The drivers and overseers had banned us from singing. They said our singing was suspicious. The drivers knew that our songs were full of double meanings and coded messages that helped us survive and in some cases escape.

  The night sky was filled with dazzling stars and a gentle breeze carried with it the sounds of laughter and music from the main house. The spicy scent of jambalaya with chicken, andouille sausage, rice, shrimp, and celery wafted through the slave quarters and my heart ached as I examined the hungry faces around me. I knew what life was like in the main house. It was extravagant, full of luxuries that these poor field hands would never know. The children were the most heart wrenching to watch. Their expectant eyes rested upon their mothers waiting for food that would never come. Mothers went hungry night after night as they gave their food to their growing children.

  In addition to drivers who were becoming increasingly cruel and dehumanizing, we had noticed that our daily allotment of food had been dramatically reduced. We were now getting less than half of what we usually got. I was never one to complain, but even I was repulsed by the nearly spoiled pork and corn that they expected us to eat. For the first time in my entire life I started to resent the condition of my existence.

  “Please, take mine.” I handed Abram my portion of bacon and half of my corn cake.

  “No, Collette. I can’t. You need your strength too.” He refused the offering even though I knew he was weak and hungry.

  “You’re twice my size,” I argued, as I shoved the bacon and corn cake into his hands.

  Reluctantly, Abram took the food. His wise hazel eyes fell onto the poor children and without hesitation he gave away his meager share of food. Unable to take the miserable scene any longer I excused myself.

  “Abram, I’m awfully tired and Lord knows it’s been an exhausting day.” My back was raw and sore, but that didn’t match the aches in my heart and soul. Marie had been so strong and she had always brought up our spirits even when times had been at their worst. I had nothing left to offer these poor souls as I was weaker than they were. I was useless at using the herbs and oils that she had left behind. All of this responsibility had been thrust on us and yet we had nothing to offer our people.

  Abram nodded. “I’ll be there in a minute.”

  I smiled. I knew that Abram’s minute would turn into hours. He always sat around the fire telling stories of how his ancestors were Kings and Queens in Africa. He recounted tales of great conquerors, leaders, poets, and scribes. The little slave children looked at him with large, wondrous eyes and mouths agape. They couldn’t imagine a world where all of this was possible. I smiled, but I knew that we needed much more than stories to get us through these dark days. We needed a savior.

  Chapter Nineteen

  A Savior…

  Darkwood Plantation August 1853- A few months After the Death of Cecile LaNuit…

  I turned my back on the group when a familiar voice stopped me from walking away. The scent of that delicious jambalaya grew stronger and I could almost taste the butter and chicken in my mouth. The clink of a spoon against a pot made the fantasy of a magical pot of jambalaya appearing all the more real. A familiar voice sang:

  Them belly full, but we hungry;

  A hungry mob is an angry mob.

  A rain a-fall, but the dutty tough; [rain is falling but the dirt is still hard]

  A yot a-yook, but d' yood no 'nough. . [a pot is cooking but the food is not enough]

  “Am I right? They live in luxury and while you sit out here in poverty and misery.” The voice addressed the group.

  “Emilie?” I turned around. I recognized her from that tragic night when Cecile had disappeared and Lucus had gone mad. He had kicked Abram and I out of his room. He had let Emilie stay at Darkwood out of pity and she was now being paid handsomely for working in the kitchen.

  Lucus had a soft heart, but his madness was making him blind to what was going on at Darkwood. He seemed to accept his Papa’s conformity and Maman’s madness. I wanted Lucus to rise up and take his stance, but that didn’t seem like a possibility. He was too heart broken and weak to see beyond his own suffering.

  Emilie smiled. Her blue eyes gleamed under the moonlight and her brown curls were loose and wild. She wore a simple purple satin gown that indicated that she was a free woman of color rather than a slave. Though she looked the same physically, I could sense that she had undergone a significant transformation. She was full of life and energy. She was no longer the shy former slave who had been living in Cecile’s shadow. She had a new found confidence and vigor that I found fascinating.

  Technically, we were not allowed to speak to her. Legally, slaves were not allowed to speak to free people of color because they were supposedly better than us. I guess we weren’t allowed to speak to them because they would give us ideas. We would begin to see freedom as a possibility, rather than a distant dream.

  I quickly bowed my head, but the enormous pot of jambalaya she held in her hands was too distracting. I snuck a glance at Abram and saw that even he was seduced by that pot as were all the other slaves. Their eyes were wide and mouths agape as they looked longingly at the food. In a matter of a few seconds, Emilie had reduced us to nothing more than a pack of ravenous beasts whose only thought was food. She sang again:

  Them belly full, but we hungry;

  A hungry mob is a angry mob.

  A rain a-fall, but the dutty tough; [rain is falling but the dirt is still hard]

  A yot a-yook, but d' yood no 'nough. .[a pot is cooking but the food is not enough]

  The slaves looked at me and Abram for guidance. I couldn’t argue with her logic. What was I supposed to do? Was I supposed to deny them the food and be an obedient slave? We were starving and we were getting increasingly angry. Unlike me, most of the other slaves had never been content with their bondage. Of course, they put on an act and worked hard to please the Masters, but inside I knew they wanted their freedom and dignity more than anything else.

  “Shhh,” I hushed Emilie, as I walked towards her. “Bernard will hear you.” I was terrified of who would see her and what it would mean for all of us. Although Bernard had new quarters far from us common field hands, he took pleasure in tormenting us nightly with surprise visits. He would take our food for fun, whip those who looked at him the wrong way, and taunted us with his newly found power.

  She merely laughed as she put the huge pot on top of the fire. “I’m not worried about Bernard or any other slave driver or overseer.”

  I was shocked at her confidence and her ability to hypnotize the crowd. The slaves looked at her as if she were a pot of jambalaya, plus a platter of cornbread that was piled ten miles high.

  “Why are you here?” asked Abram. “You know what it means if you’re caught associating with us.” His eyes were full of distrust as he carefully examined Emilie. I knew he thought that she was no more than a spy who had been sent by Madame LaPlante. After all, it was odd that Madame LaPlante let Emilie stay in the main house, while we were made to suffer out in the fields.


  Emilie widened her eyes and looked at the group. She was the picture of innocence and conviction. “I know what it feels like to be in your position. I was there once and I hated it with a passion. I knew that I had the right to a better life. A life that was full of dignity, freedom, and opportunity. My own sister kept me in bondage, yet I stayed strong and fought for my freedom. The same freedom you all deserve.”

  “Shhh,” I hushed her again, but she continued to speak blasphemous words that could have gotten her killed even if she was a free woman of color.

  “I hate slavery. The very notion of it sickens me.” She paused for dramatic effect and stirred the pot of jambalaya while eyeing us.

  The slaves started to whisper among themselves, unable to believe what she was saying. The hard truth was that many free people of color supported slavery. They were far more educated than us and the thought of us slaves being freed was atrocious to them. They didn’t want to be lumped in with the commoners. Out there I wouldn’t be prized for my beauty or obedient nature, I would be just another face in the crowd. Was I ready to accept that fate?

  “I want to help you obtain your freedom.”

  “Abram, what is she saying?” I stared at him, but I saw that he was just as confused as I was. I was doubtful that she was able to deliver the things she was promising us.

  “She doesn’t know what she is saying.” Abram rose and crossed his arms in defense and gave Emilie a drop dead look. Abram was the kindest soul that I’d ever met, so it was odd to see him so hostile towards Emilie. “You should really stop speaking now before you attract unwanted attention. We are not fools. We know what happened in January 1811 when more than 200 slaves joined a revolt on the Woodland Plantation in LaPlace.”

  I nodded. “They ended up dead or worse, sold back into the market. Don’t you think the drivers and overseers remind us daily that there are nineteen markets in central New Orleans alone? Don’t you take us for fools! Don’t you fill us with hope! I’ve seen the hounds myself. I know what they will do to us if we even think of running or protesting.”