When they were caught, punishment was swift and severe in its execution.

When they were caught, punishment was swift and severe in its execution. Judge and jury called for their heads to be spiked onto poles and placed for miles all along the roads, a premonition for others to see that this would be the future for any who tried to do the same. Laws were created to silence the rumblings. Any who carried the look of insurrection were beaten. They were wounded and maimed. For decades after, the histories were told of those who had rebelled. Of Southampton. Of the German Coast. Of Stono. They told of what happened to their forefathers—how they were either burned to ash or cut into pieces and bartered off to the bidder with the most expensive want. Fingers chopped and sold like carnival souvenirs. Some men believed if the bones of their dead slaves were consumed you could have their powers. Their bodies a Sunday prayer. Their bodies a communion as the bones were milled to a fine powder. Organs torn from flesh, saved in jars to keep.

Those who remained continued on with their work. Fear made them forget, and so each day they suffered themselves closer to death. They longed to let go, to cast down their tools, to hear the clank of metal as it crashed to the ground and let the fields rot from neglect. They dreamed of the tide turning but knew it would never come, and with this knowledge they watched as their brothers and sisters continued to fall, watched their arms flail and knees buckle as they fell to the ground. They watched, saying nothing, as they hid their faces and closed their eyes. Every day loosening further to the reality before them.

At night before they slumbered off, they remembered the stories once told. As they held them in their minds, they swore they could hear whispers—indistinct at first, always saying their names, a susurration, asking for them to hear.

XXIX.

AFTER THE MEN were gone, Mira ran to Jesse. When Mira got to him she saw his face was pressed down in the grass, his body unmoving. He was so still that she was hesitant to touch him at first, not wanting to feel if his skin was cold and have her fear be confirmed. She didn’t see any blood, no pool of it around him, and, taking a breath, she touched his back, felt for the holes, but there was nothing. She searched harder, reaching under his shirt, feeling his sweaty skin, but she couldn’t find any wounds, no mark anywhere.

Mira put her hand in front of his face and waited. His breath was sparse but there, and the wash of relief that suddenly overcame her took her aback. At least he was alive, she thought.