The Seven Daughters Of Dupree free digital audiobook - Chapter 22.

Sitting on the bed in his full shirt, which doubled as a dressing gown, his trousers with suspenders and boots cast o to the side, he held out his hand. The gesture did not inspire forward motion. She recoiled farther into the corner. Wedged herself between the door and the bureau. “You don’t have to be afraid of me,” he said. His voice was at and nasal. It held none of the musicality she was used to hearing when people spoke. No clicks or intonations. Everything even and without distinction of place. The adapted cadence of a man with no home. She had heard tell of the white man before. The pale-faced people who’d come rst with gifts, then their God, and nally their guns. In the village where she’d lived, the rst daughter of a second wife, she had listened to the stories while braiding baskets as her mother braided her hair with seeds and shells. She knew the pale faces supplied the raiders from rival tribes and kingdoms with weapons. Enabled them to capture and conquer as they rode through the night, setting re to everything, taking until their coers were full of yam and their coes of connected people sold into horrors unknown. Now she was amongst them. A prisoner of the pale-faced man who held out his hand. He brought it to his chest and laid it at against his skin. “Master Z. F.,” he said slowly. He punctuated each word by slapping his hand against his chest, overenunciating and exaggerating the shape of his mouth. She heard the screams from the levels below. They were not muted or mued. The voices weren’t tired of begging. Yet here he was pretending as if he did not hear. Or maybe he was merely used to the cacophony of captives clamoring against their gates for attention. For favor. For a chance at a way out. Standing, listening, she knew she preferred being where she was than amongst the many, but that didn’t mean she too didn’t crave es cape. He r epeated himself with his slow, thick tongue she knew was for her benet. He thought her dense, if he thought anything at all, patting his chest as he r epeated the same sounds, “Z. F., Z. F., Z. F.” She r epeated the chant back to him, and he smiled, wide and garish, revealing teeth rotten at the root. With his large hands, he patted his chest again and said, “Master Z. F.,” then pointed to her. Understanding he wanted her name, she

answered. All he heard was a mumble. He tried twice more, and each time she mimicked his tone and copied the exaggeration of his facial muscles to make her enunciation. But in his mouth, he garbled her mother tongue, jumbling the sounds. Z ephaniah Foster pursed his lips and glared with cold eyes. She registered the resignation in his countenance. The give-up in trying to be hospitable. In ke eping up the charade that he was courting and not ke eping. He said, “Sarah,” with renewed condence. “I’m going to call you Sarah. It’s easier for me than the bush babble you were born with.” Named anew, she remained rooted where she was listening to the screams below. Z ephaniah Foster stood from the bed and closed the distance between them. Taking her by the hand, he pulled her to him, covering her face with his lips. Sarah (?) pushed against him, scratching at his skin, and tugged his ears away from her own. He smelled heavily of his own musk and tasted of bitter ale and the decay coming from his mouth. She broke free of his embrace but had nowhere to run. Z ephaniah Foster recognized the wild look in her eyes. The ight response triggered by fear. He’d seen it in every captive he’d ever carried on any ship he captained, but eventually it was extinguished. Lights behind the eyes dimmed and eyelids hooded dark pupils with despair. Very few k ept their feral ways after weeks or months in the dungeons and even more months in the hold of the ship. S h e ’ s j u s t a g i r l , he thought to himself, knowing he would break her, spirit and body; it didn’t matter which came rst. He touched the spot on his cheek where she’d dug her nails and felt the damp from droplets of blood. The realization brought a twisted smile to his face. She thought he looked like a gnarled and mangled tree, one that had shrunken in on itself, close to the ground, all angles and elbows instead of long-limbed branches that reached for the sky and beyond. As she studied his face in the moment, she didn’t see his hand rise, only felt the sting of the slap and the ow of blood from her nose. The blow sent her backward into the bed behind her. Z ephaniah Foster let no time pass taking advantage of her downed defenses. He grabbed her legs and dragged her to him. Turning her over on the bed, he gathered her mid-back-length braids where they hung free at the base of her

neck. She struggled until he held her in a headlock and with one free hand roamed her body, taking from her what he wanted for himself. He grunted and pounded; he the pestle, her body the plantain smashed in the mortar. Torn through and snapped in two, she shrieked and screamed on the bed, became one of the wailing. She bit his thumb when he tried to cover her mouth. Gagged for air when he choked her. She clawed at the sheets, kicked her feet against his thighs, thrashed and bucked her body, made every attempt to ght him o. But he held until he was breathless and she was still. Then he pushed her from the bed to the oor, where she collapsed in a heap of herself. Sarah (?) rolled so that she was closer to the bureau, away from the bed, and folded into the fetal position. She tried to hide herself but could barely move. Her body held the memory of his hands pulling, grabbing, tugging, choking, slapping, beating. Somehow sle ep found her, but she lived her own nightmares. Endless days, endless nights, of the same. In the room, on the ship, until nally there was land. T HE OTHERS WERE PULLED OUT of the hold rst. Marched into daylight, a bucket of cold seawater thrown across their dirty, ashen, and gaunt bodies. Some screamed from the shock, others from the sting, salt in the wounds of the sores that had been ripped into their skin, either from the cat or the cre eping of disease they’d been festering in during the voyage. They were barely able to walk under their own weight, but cries of relief erupted from them all the same as they set foot on the sugar-sand shore, where more pale faces waited. Bound together, arms and feet, they shued up the bank through the sand and into the marsh, tripping over roots and felled swamp trees. Tall grass hid their bodies, but nothing could cover the sound of their voices. Timbres and trebles of rejoicing song de volved into wearied we eps with the understanding that, no, they had not returned home. Sarah (?) was the last to leave the ship. Naked, she followed behind Z ephaniah Foster. He carried her long, loose leash in one hand and the cat in the other. He gured there was a dierence in walking out under your own power and of your own volition or being marched out, chained and coered, with a whip at your

back. There was no whip at his back. It was in his hand, and he hoped she felt it just the same. The menacing threat to stamp out the wildness that still lived within her. It lived in them all. Especially on land. He’d seen it before: a whole shipment turn back toward the sea, running into the surf, openly inviting death. Bodies that didn’t drown bloated, oated, and beached themselves along the sand. That’s when he’d had the job of hiding the evidence. He’d burned the bodies and he’d burned the ships to ke ep from getting caught by the maritime patrols appointed in the North and sent south, as if they knew the cost to ke ep the country aoat. Breeding couldn’t r eplace the import business, ban be damned. No longer a burn boy, but a captain, Z ephaniah Foster walked with the prize he k ept for himself, all the way to his land, where his wife, Elizabeth, waited, mistress in his stead. “This the new negress who’s going to tend to our house?” she asked. Z ephaniah Foster nodded his head. “Yes.” “What’s her name?” “I called her Sarah.” “Well, send her over to Evangeline to get cleaned and clothed before she sets foot in my house.” Elizabeth walked back toward the house made of white paneled wood. Her long dress, the color of a wilted rose, owed about her despite the heat. Sarah (?), still loosely leashed to Z ephaniah Foster, looked around the expanse of the land. The rows and rows of crops being tended; cotton bolls in full bloom. The scores of bodies that looked like her own dotted across the rows with rucksacks across their backs. Z ephaniah Foster gave a tug and Sarah (?) followed. They walked toward the house and then behind it, where the shanties were erected, all wood-roofed and - sided, with dirt for oors. In front of the rst one, he stopped and hollered inside. “Evangeline!” he called, gru and insistent. “Evangeline! The new negress is here and needs cleaning before she tends to the missus.” Evangeline, round and wide, emerged from the interior, a naked baby bouncing in each arm. She shifted their weight as she assessed the girl before her.

“What’s her name, sir?” “Sarah.” He spat, dropped the leash, and walked away. Evangeline and Sarah (?) stood still as Z ephaniah Foster made his way back toward his house, the cat coiled in his grip. It wasn’t until he’d gone up the back st eps, leaving his dirty, mucky boots on the porch, and the screen door clanged behind him that either one of them seemed to breathe. Even the babies had switched to shallow inhales in his presence. “C’mon in here, chile,” Evangeline said, once he was gone. Evangeline turned on her heels and disappeared into the dark. Sarah (?) had no choice but to follow. Bound as she was, she shued her feet through the tangle of rope left on the ground in front of her until she crossed the threshold into the shanty. She blinked rapidly, her eyes adjusting to the lack of light. As they did, her nose picked up the smell of herbs and owers. Sarah (?) looked around the room to the pallet where Evangeline laid the two babies. “I takes care of the babies and the mammies when they birthing,” Evangeline began. “It’s been that way since me and my husband’s own babies never did live.” Evangeline talked as she maneuvered around the shanty, grabbing a pail and lling it with two cups of fresh water from a larger bucket. “I either started bleeding early or they born too early and couldn’t make it past a few breaths. It was all I wanted to give Henry chillun. He had plenty on the plantation, but I was his only wife. We jumped de broom one Sunday right in front of that door you came through, and then Henry turn around Monday morning and used that same broom to swe ep the stables. Massa used his youth up good with the bucking. Was his own personal stud horse, until he sent him to the stables to break actual horses, but his real love was carving. He could make anything outta wood. Would whittle away in the dark and leave me something nice in the morning like this here table and chair. It didn’t last long, tho’. My Henry went on over to the other side last year. He took a kick to the head from one of the mares and then the illness. Nothing I made for him could help him. Truth is he ain’t wanna be helped. All his children sold or dead, it’s enough to make anybody wanna meet ’em in the ground. Massa doctor blamed the ’sumption. But I knows it was the grief.”

Evangeline set a corner of soap and a rag with frayed edges on the small round table beside the water bowl and a smattering of dierent leaves and buds. “Let’s get you washed up,” she said. Sarah (?) held up her hands, which were still bound together. Evangeline untied the knots until she was free. “I’ll let you do your bidness.” She gathered the ropes that held Sarah (?) captive and took them outside. Sarah (?) followed the sound of her voice from the entrance of the shanty to directly behind it, where she heard singing that nearly covered the sound of the ropes being beaten against the ground. When the thrashing stopped, Evangeline’s song changed and got louder, as smoke cr ept from behind the house into its interior. Sarah (?) recognized something familiar in Evangeline’s voice. It held the melodic notes she was used to and contained none of the at, nasal dialect the pale-faced man used. Briey comforted, Sarah (?) grabbed the soap and rag from the table where Evangeline left it, dipped it in the shallow water, and soaped herself until her own skin was raw from the rough material. When Evangeline reappeared, she was carrying a dress. She said, “This here from the big house. From Missus Elizabeth. Her old maid gone on over to the other side and she ain’t wanna wait for none of the young girl chillun to grow up. Had Master Foster go and nd you special. Said she gured waiting a few months better than waiting a few years.” Evangeline laid the burgundy dress with its white apron on the table in front of Sarah (?). “Go’n get dressed now.” Sarah (?) registered the urgency in her voice despite the warmth of her tone and st epped tentatively toward the dress. She traced the fabric with her ngers, palming the lace appliqués on the apron and thumbing the soft material that looked nothing like the rough-hewn garments she’d seen the people outside draped in. “You need help puttin’ it on?” Evangeline asked. Sarah (?) stared with the full moons of her eyes blank and nearly black. Evangeline slowly closed the distance between them, approached with her hands up, the same way people instinctively back away from threats. With no common tongue between them, Evangeline could only act on instinct and what she knew

the outcome was supposed to be. She held the dress open for Sarah (?) to st ep into the bloomers sewn inside. One foot at a time, Sarah (?) put on her new identity. No longer the rst daughter of a second wife in her village, she was now Sarah (?). “Sah-rah,” she mumbled to herself. She tried to make her mouth t around the syllables. To imitate Z ephaniah Foster’s speech and inection when he’d k ept calling the word and looking in her direction every time he said it. “Sah-rah,” she said again. “Yes, chile,” Evangeline answered. “Yo’ name Sarah now.” She st epped away from her, smiling slightly. “You look ne,” she said. “The blackest thing to enter the big house this side the ’lantic Ocean, but missus wanted a new girl and here you is. Now what we gon’ do ’bout this head?” Evangeline reached for her hair, but Sarah (?) recoiled from her touch. Evangeline reached again. Sarah (?) backed away until she was ush against the opposite wall. “Mm-hmm,” Evangeline humphed. “You one of them believe in superstitions. In haints and higes, duppies and the dead come back to life. I can always tell when Massa Foster come back with one o’ you from across the water. Y’all believe the haunt starts on the head. I ain’t gon’ hurt it or trouble you none. Just wanna take it down.” Evangeline held up her hands and turned them back and forth. Seeing her hands empty and uncoated, Sarah (?) slowly st epped forward. Ambling over to the pallet where the babes lay, Evangeline lowered herself onto the covered thatch and opened her knees for Sarah (?) to sit between. “I’se just gon’ take it down,” she said. Sarah (?), towering over Evangeline’s seated frame, slowly lowered herself to the ground. Evangeline grabbed the tail of one braid and used her broken nails to unravel the matted hair. As she did, the seeds and shells braided between strands fell in her own aproned lap. “I reckon we got to see what you done brought us here,” Evangeline said, a chuckle undisguised in her throat.

Sarah (?) leaned against the fat of Evangeline’s belly as she worked her way through her head, unraveling braids, collecting carry-ons, and cleansing the strands. Using the same soap and water, Evangeline scrubbed the girl’s scalp, sullying her new dress only a little, until her hair, springy, thick, and long, stood all over her head. “I can do it for you,” Evangeline said, using her hands to brush Sarah (?)’s hair together. Sarah (?) pushed away until she sat face-to-face with the woman. She opened her eyes to their full height and width to ke ep Evangeline’s attention. The older woman nodded her understanding. Sarah (?) lifted her hands as she tilted her head and closed her eyes. She parted her hair with her own chipped and ragged nails and began to braid a section as she imagined her own mother doing before the battle in the village and the raid they were captured in. Part for part, she imagined it was straw grass or the hair of one of her sisters she was braiding instead of her own, until she reached the end. No more hair to grab, Sarah (?) set her working hands in her lap and opened her eyes. “It’s some beautiful,” Evangeline said, “but we can’t let the missus sees you like that.” She planted her feet and hands on the ground and hoisted herself upright. Evangeline untied the white rag fastened on her own head and let it unfurl to the oor. Holding it in the middle, she ripped it in half and gave a strip to Sarah (?). As Evangeline retied her scarf, covering her own plaited hair, Sarah (?) wrapped the strip around her head until all her braids were covered and her ends were tucked beneath the cloth. “You’ll do right ne,” Evangeline said when she was done. “C’mon, let’s get you over to the big house. The missus don’t like waiting for nothing. She gon’ call on you day and night, and you got to answer her. Especially once Massa make you big.” Evangeline prattled on with instructions Sarah (?) didn’t understand as they walked from the shack into the bright sun of the day up to the back porch of the white house, where Z ephaniah Foster had gone inside. “One more thing,” she said, giving Sarah (?)’s shoulder a squeeze. “No matter what happens in there”—she pointed—“ you come back here wit’ us at night. Ya

hear me? Us.” Evangeline motioned between their bodies. “We belongs to each other now.”

J a n u a r y 1 8 6 1 W a r . R u n . Those were the two words Sarah (?) knew best. She had counted ve full moons since she had arrived. Which meant it had been at least eight or nine since the raid. In all that time away from home, her village, her family, her land, she had begun to pick up on the ways and words of the people around her. In the house, where she worked cleaning and tending to Missus Elizabeth in the day and being broken open by Z ephaniah Foster at night, the word w a r was present all the time. It was loud, said proudly, spoken with a certainty, especially after the secession. For the pale faces who lived in and those who visited the house, war was a foregone conclusion. A matter of when, not if. But it was the other word that intrigued Sarah (?) most. R u n . In the evening, when the work was done and she was able to lie down for a mite in her own shanty, before Z ephaniah came sweaty and searching though she was getting big with his child, she heard the whispers rolling through the quarters like a wave of re. R u n . The word burned every tongue. Singed the inside of the mouths of those who held it and ran laps around the minds of those who’d dare think it. It too was loud, but in a quiet way. When Sarah (?) rst heard it, it had to have been a Sunday evening. The one day when they were not bound to the barriers of the elds, and she to the house, from cain’t see to cain’t see. It was the only time they were allowed to gather together near the marsh—on the side that butted up to the plantation, not the