Read Online Blonde Roots by Bernardine Evaristo - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Bernardine Evaristo
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barked some kind of warning at me, using body language that required no interpreter.
If only I’d not been in shock. If only I’d been older, wiser, more quick-witted, braver, I might have taken that one chance to run away. I was a fast runner. He was too cumbersome to be agile. I was unshackled. I still recognized that part of the forest. It would soon be dark. I would have found my way home.
If only I’d known then that I had already lost my family and neighborhood, that I would soon lose my name, my language and my country, then my stupid legs might have taken the risk-I’d have dashed into the undergrowth without a backward glance.
Then it was too late, the man cocked his head, turned and lumbered toward me, grabbing my legs so that I fell onto my back and my skirts once more rode indecently up my legs. He bound my mouth with a rag, fastened my hands with rope, and placed an iron collar around my neck to which he attached a chain with workaday expertise.
He began to lead me deeper into the forest following the track cleared by Gervase the beekeeper.
It was a Sunday. Gervase would be at church all day.
WE CONTINUED ON OUR WAY: me following the swish of his muddy kilt, the ingrained dirt in the creases at the back of his knees, the contraction of his wide shot-putter’ calves, his scuffed, chipped clogs.
He gained momentum with each stride, holding a stake in one hand with which he stabbed the ground. His clogs crushed and crunched the branches and leaves beneath them.
He walked so quickly I choked against the iron collar like a billy goat being dragged up a hill.
I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that I wasn’t one of the local poachers and I wasn’t a prisoner of war, either, and that I’d never stolen anything in my life, except for skimming off cream when I was sent to collect milk in the morning, but all my sisters did that so please let me go, sir.
If only I’d known then what I know now; that I was a prisoner of someone whose conscience had signed a contract with the Devil long ago.
I belonged to him now.
The weak sun started its weary descent toward the east. I could tell we had walked many hours. I also knew from the position of the sun which direction would take me home, even though I was now in a part of the forest I no longer recognized. My first hours of bondage had an almost instant maturing effect. Once the initial shock had passed, my mind began to plot with the cunning of an adult’s. If he ever let go of the chain, I’d beat it into the thicket and follow the stars and moon home.
I kept looking behind me.
At first I fully expected my father to creep out of the undergrowth with “the lads,” all wielding cutlasses and making such a din that my kidnapper would drop the chain and flee into the forest.
Pa released me from the chain, wrapped me in his arms, stroked my hair backward with the soft pad of his thumbs. He wiped my eyes dry and, with gentle admonition, chided, “Look at the pickle you’ve gone and got yourself into this time.”
Expectation turned into prayer.
When that didn’t work, fury set in.
Where the bloody hell was my dad, my creator, my protector ?
AS DAYLIGHT FINALLY BEGAN to succumb to darkness, we came upon a clearing in the forest. It was a camp. Fires were burning. A boar was roasting on a spit. There were barrels of alcohol. I could hear laughter. Was it a fayre?
But before my elation could bubble its way up to the surface, I saw something that filled me with alarm.
In the middle of the clearing was a roped-off corral. Surrounding it were guards with swords, muskets and truncheons. There must have been hundreds of people inside, all chained to one another, lolling about, looking filthy and exhausted.
I was no longer alone, but the community I was about to join was a wretched one.
There were big working men in there, rendered as helpless as children. Some of them would have fought in wars, could carry a cow on their backs
If only I’d not been in shock. If only I’d been older, wiser, more quick-witted, braver, I might have taken that one chance to run away. I was a fast runner. He was too cumbersome to be agile. I was unshackled. I still recognized that part of the forest. It would soon be dark. I would have found my way home.
If only I’d known then that I had already lost my family and neighborhood, that I would soon lose my name, my language and my country, then my stupid legs might have taken the risk-I’d have dashed into the undergrowth without a backward glance.
Then it was too late, the man cocked his head, turned and lumbered toward me, grabbing my legs so that I fell onto my back and my skirts once more rode indecently up my legs. He bound my mouth with a rag, fastened my hands with rope, and placed an iron collar around my neck to which he attached a chain with workaday expertise.
He began to lead me deeper into the forest following the track cleared by Gervase the beekeeper.
It was a Sunday. Gervase would be at church all day.
WE CONTINUED ON OUR WAY: me following the swish of his muddy kilt, the ingrained dirt in the creases at the back of his knees, the contraction of his wide shot-putter’ calves, his scuffed, chipped clogs.
He gained momentum with each stride, holding a stake in one hand with which he stabbed the ground. His clogs crushed and crunched the branches and leaves beneath them.
He walked so quickly I choked against the iron collar like a billy goat being dragged up a hill.
I wanted to tap him on the shoulder and tell him that I wasn’t one of the local poachers and I wasn’t a prisoner of war, either, and that I’d never stolen anything in my life, except for skimming off cream when I was sent to collect milk in the morning, but all my sisters did that so please let me go, sir.
If only I’d known then what I know now; that I was a prisoner of someone whose conscience had signed a contract with the Devil long ago.
I belonged to him now.
The weak sun started its weary descent toward the east. I could tell we had walked many hours. I also knew from the position of the sun which direction would take me home, even though I was now in a part of the forest I no longer recognized. My first hours of bondage had an almost instant maturing effect. Once the initial shock had passed, my mind began to plot with the cunning of an adult’s. If he ever let go of the chain, I’d beat it into the thicket and follow the stars and moon home.
I kept looking behind me.
At first I fully expected my father to creep out of the undergrowth with “the lads,” all wielding cutlasses and making such a din that my kidnapper would drop the chain and flee into the forest.
Pa released me from the chain, wrapped me in his arms, stroked my hair backward with the soft pad of his thumbs. He wiped my eyes dry and, with gentle admonition, chided, “Look at the pickle you’ve gone and got yourself into this time.”
Expectation turned into prayer.
When that didn’t work, fury set in.
Where the bloody hell was my dad, my creator, my protector ?
AS DAYLIGHT FINALLY BEGAN to succumb to darkness, we came upon a clearing in the forest. It was a camp. Fires were burning. A boar was roasting on a spit. There were barrels of alcohol. I could hear laughter. Was it a fayre?
But before my elation could bubble its way up to the surface, I saw something that filled me with alarm.
In the middle of the clearing was a roped-off corral. Surrounding it were guards with swords, muskets and truncheons. There must have been hundreds of people inside, all chained to one another, lolling about, looking filthy and exhausted.
I was no longer alone, but the community I was about to join was a wretched one.
There were big working men in there, rendered as helpless as children. Some of them would have fought in wars, could carry a cow on their backs
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