Our sorrow multiplied. Without movement, hours were long and torturous. Someone mentioned uprising, but it was impossible. There were no weapons, and we had no strength. Also, unlike aboard ship, pale men did not dwell nearby. They came only to take us to the selling block and return us if we remained unsold. We were captive in a stall unfit for the foulest beast. It smelled of manure, feces, urine, and death. We tried hard not to breathe, but of course that was impossible. Occasionally, someone attempted conversation, hoping to keep our spirits revived, but usually their words had no effect. We were not in the mood for talking. Most days, we peered through cracks in the wall at people and things we’d never seen. All we wanted was to go home. We told our gods we understood. We’d learned our lesson. But they didn’t agree.

So we sat and endured. Sometimes we touched each other lovingly. Such was never rejected. We rubbed hands, heads, feet, arms, and backs until at least some comfort was achieved. We knew only each other’s names, but it didn’t matter. We shared fates, so other details seemed unimportant. We didn’t care about favorite colors or the number of rings in one’s ear. What would’ve been the use of such knowledge? What we knew was that we were alone. We were all we had. So, through touch, nods, and talking eyes we encouraged each other to hold on until we discovered what this life might bring.

This was not the end. There would be another day.

* * *

Fifty dwindled to forty. Horses and wagons carried them away daily as we wailed. Not until then did we know that some pain dwells in wretched silence. It’s called Agony. It finds a resting place in the soul and takes residence as if it belongs there. And it never leaves. It lingers like part of the body itself. It makes room for itself, and settles in like an invisible disease, moving about at will, reminding the host of its deadly presence. If, per chance, one forgets its existence, Memory causes Agony to live again. Its weight is unbearable, although it has no physical substance. It can lie dormant anywhere it chooses then suddenly resurrect, bringing the carrier to his knees. It has no cure. Even time has no effect. Indeed, it grows over time, becoming more excruciating by the day. The only way to survive Agony is to coexist with it. And, so, with each person sold, we crumbled to the earth and wept as Agony eased into our souls. Then we rose and returned to the stall as if we’d simply had a nightmare. We could have seemed divided in our affections, but we were not. Had we given Agony full reign over our spirits we would’ve died instantly. But we wanted to live, so we gave Agony its due, then let it settle and wait for another day.

Because of Agony, we could not sing. At sea, our home was just behind us, closer even in our minds. We bemoaned our shortcomings and promised, in our hearts, a victorious end to this tragedy. Our melody, then, was our strength, our sustenance, our battle cry. We believed we’d win. We believed we’d see our people again. We believed pale men would feel, ultimately, the wrath of a mighty people. Yet in the stall, those hopes dissolved. Some believed we’d get home, but most didn’t. Some still boasted of warriors, but most declared them gone. Some said our gods would come, even if it took a lifetime, yet most said that was too long. So when one or two tried to hum, no one joined in. It was sad that so many had lost faith. Or perhaps we were simply despondent. Either way, we refused to hum. Hope hid in the crevices of our being and would not show itself. So all melody went mute. In the midnight hour, we let insects have the air, and we listened to their discordant cries while our own rumbled in the bowels of our empty bellies.