The night before was
cold, dreary and chilling. For a covering, he had only a thread bare wrapper
and jumper he had worn all week. Where he laid, he hid his icy-blue hands
beneath the jumpers. To what effect? The warmth was no better than that felt be
one trapped in an avalanche of snow. Some fifty meters away, in the thicket, howled
a noise wind. As the noise grew louder he ducked his head underneath the
covering. Where he laid, he could hear chattering just behind the door. He
snuggled closer for warmth and to eaves drop on the ‘nothing’ he was certain would be up for
discussion.
‘Mama, mama! Tell Pete not to pick his
nose while I eat. It’s so yucky!’ Beau yelled. He snorted at the voice
of the 10year old that was decidedly spoilt. ’I too have a mama!’ he whispered silently. The moon was
gradually shadowed by clouds. Those words sounded strange to his ears. He said
again, ’I do have a mama’. This time uncertainty slipped into
his guileless heart. It seemed more like a question. ‘Time for dessert! Cakes or cheese?’ the lady of the house shrilled.
Clattering of plates, forks and moans. Soon the lights were dimmed and the
locks turned. There he knew that the punishment was meant to last the night. He
groaned within himself as he thought about how warm the cold stones of the
kitchen floor would be. Sleep seemed a long time coming. His now stiff muscles
gradually shut down as his drooping eyelids came to a close.
************************
The
fragrance of the bouquet was in rapturous harmony with the sweet aroma of the
crumpets and freshly brewed tea. Beside the jam laid a plate of scrambled eggs
and some strawberries. Somewhere in his consciousness, he knew that it was
surreal. Hardly had he come to his conclusion when he felt a sharp pain hit his
ribs. He numb joints quickly warmed with life. Above him, towered a dark angel
with a menacing look. The glare was undoubtedly hate-filled only that it was no
angel. If it was, who knows, he could have called on his guardian angel to
teach this imp what a good kick-in-the-rib was. It wasn’t an angel’ it was his ‘master’ and that was the clarion call to begin
the day.
What
was today going to be like? Would it any less arduous than the day before?
Could he set his plans in motion? He only had time to turn over the bucket of
rain water collected two days ago and thrown on a singlet and trousers. Sullenly,
he strode beside the mare on which his master rode on. Mr. Phil wasn’t his master in the strict sense. He
was actually his maternal uncle. He had joined the Clawson household at the age
of five, having spent the next six years with them, Phil Clawson was the father
figure he could remember. These days, his mother had become a blurred face in
his dearest memories. Would she still recognize him and feed him with the cakes
that she brought with her those nights she came back from the bakery. He
squinted his eyelids as if to conjure her from the fog that laid ahead. The
road was even more hazardous, the pools of water had yet to dry up. Walking barefoot,
he couldn’t but have his
foot bruised by the stones that laid like treacherous fellows in the pools.
Though he couldn’t see beyond the
illumination of the lantern that jingled in his hands, he could feel that the
old bruises underneath his foot had been opened. Each step made the journey
less comfortable. He couldn’t but hope that the got the plantation soon enough.
There, he could rest his foot as he bent over the mounds to harvest the already
matured potatoes.
Midday soon chased away the morning as the sun
shone insidiously. It was past lunch. Phil strolled through the field whipping
anyone who wasn’t working hard
enough, for him, sweating profuse equaled working hard. He smiled at the
thought of the whelps that would definitely mare their body. ‘Those lazy rapscallions. All they do
is eat, wait till I’m out of earshot
and run me down’, he muttered to
himself. Hurrying to the farm house for a glass of bourbon, he flipped through
the calendar. It was the last week of harvest. He would have to visit that old
shack where the priest did nothing than hate his guts. For him, it was a
slight. He was loved by everyone in the society. Well he couldn’t say ‘everyone’ but he had loads and loads of
friends. As long as he visited the cops on regular basis, they too featured in
that list. Why wasn’t he like the
former, content with the tithe? ‘Take a thirty and get back before the whip
gets on your back!’ he ordered.
They sighed in relief as the hungrily ate the
pale and thin soup that was served them by the cook. Marti ran his eyes through
the bent heads that slurped at soup. Holding his in his hands, he made a
beeline for the younger boy whose soup had turned over as the other scrambled
for their meal. ‘We could share
mine’, he said smiling at him. He sat next
to him on the floor. In silence, they took sipping turns. Soon, they both
stared at the empty bowl. ‘Thanks Marti’, he whispered. Encouraged, mort asked
for his name and soon they started chatting as if they had not a single care in
the world.
His name was Juan. He had a mama, a papa and
three younger siblings. Mr. Phil had come to their house for a meal one night
and the next he was on a journey that led to the plantation. His mama had
promised that if he was a good child to Mr. Phil, he would be back by spring. ‘How many springs has passed?’ Marti asked. Getting uncomfortable,
he answered in a stiff voice. ‘A couple. Three or more’ Marti couldn’t extend the invitation to him. The foreman
blew the whistle. Juan picked up his hoe and Marti walked toward the farm
house. It was time to leave.
Striding
beside the mare again, he was left breathless on arrival to the market. He
stopped to take a breather and soon had to go join the remaining laborers to
off load the produce which was going on sale that evening. Each did their work
in grave silence only pausing to sigh when Mr. Arnold the foreman looked away.
Soon the treacherous sun gave way to dark and businesses gradually grinded to a
halt. At the final whistle, the boys were rounded up. Compelled by the whip,
the formed a file and made for the farm house.
Arnold, could be heard yelling obscenities that the fagged out workers.
Marti was left waiting at the door while Phil
balanced the account. He peep through the window and saw him bent over stacks
of bills and money. Nothing has ever been able to engross Phil as much as money
could. It was obvious that he barely tolerated his third wife. His children, he
believed were a bunch of Satan’s imps that made a profession of whining. One
had never engaged in so much self-idolatry like Mr. Phil in the whole county.
Heaven forbids that he ever bids for the any office in the next county’s election. Marti laid flat on his
belly. He crept to the barn and clicked his tongue. From the dark emerged
little heads, One, two, five, ten, fifteen little boys. Not a single word was
spoken. Like their leader, they crawled on their bellies. Their bruised elbows
didn’t matter. All the wanted was to escape
the hell hole that had since become their life. In the dark, aided by
moonlight, they crept to freedom or so they thought.
**************************
Draining the last of the bourbon
in his glass. He stretched in a cat like manner then bent to lace his boots that
he had to pull off at a point. It was then he notice how quiet the silence was.
Where could that loser be? He muttered to himself. ‘Marti! Marti! Come right in this
minute you oaf!’ he waited to
hear footsteps approaching the door but heard none. Losing all patience, he
took angry strides and soon he was out of the gate. Marti was nowhere in sight.
Mr. Phil wasn’t the least
perturbed. He went in for the lantern in search for him in the barn. ‘Marti, game over, it’s time to head home. You might make a
tasty snacks for whatever wild animals out there. However, I want none of that
happening anytime soon. It was the same cold silence.
He felt the cardinal
points meet in his head. The wind blew harder and the temperature kept
dropping. Just then, he could hear Arnold call out to him. ‘Boss! Boss!’ he trimmed the lantern and headed
back to his office. ‘Over here Arnold’. ‘The boys have escaped, fifteen of them. They
are going’. He paused as if
to let the information sink in. Mr. Phil narrowed his eye and a creased formed
on his forehead. ‘Marti isn’t here either’ was his reply. Swinging to action, he
instructed Arnold to get more hands and the guard dog. There was going to be a
man-hunt for the boys. ‘And be on your
way already. We won’t have them
speaking to the wrong people. Especially those that not on the payroll. Okay?’
Arnold knew better than replying his
malevolent boss. He quickly bolted for the door. Phil slumped b in his chair
with his head hung down. Seething in anger, he wondered how a klatch of dimwits
could cause so much topsy-turvy. They had to be taught a lesson, each one of
them.
**************************
The full blast of the
sun’s ray knocked them weary as they emerged
from the tunnel. They travelled through the night, pausing to catch a breath or
take some pressure off their bruised and bleeding knees. The grimy dirt which
etched on their faces and the grimace stuck on their lips told tales of the
hunger pang that plagued them all night. The younger ones joined whined and
others sat wearily on the ground strewed with faded leaves.
Marti slumped to the
floor. His muscles ached and had become stiff.
He placed his head between his thighs, on his feet, he traced trickles
of dried blood sprinkled with sand and grasses. His stomach growled. He couldn’t let his weakness show. The boys
depended on him so much. It all seemed easy in his mind. He had carefully laid
out his plan. They ought to have found some road or highway by then. They were
stuck in the middle of nowhere. For the first time in years, he felt so
helpless and realty needed a cuddle.
‘What do we do now?’ gilbert asked moaning. He was a little
taller than Marti but no way wiser, he had a mop of black hair that hadn’t be cut in nearly two years. He looked gaunt and frail. Feebly, he ran filthy hands through his hair.
Marti stared for what seemed to be a light year. He jumped to his feet and soon the boys
rallied round him. He asked for volunteers who would go with him to search for
whatever edible fruit they could find. Reluctantly, four of the boys
volunteered and rose to their feet. Soon, two more joined.
An hour air more, they came back with some
bunch of wide berries. There was no
waiting. They went through each bunch till all that laid on the ground were
stalks. By noon, Gilbert showed them the stream he had found. Hurriedly, the
exuberant boys followed his lead and soon were bathing in the stream. It was a
reprieve from the hateful glare of the saucy sun.
When the sun receded in
the sky, they began their journey to freedom. Soon it was dusk. They had to
stop for the night. Marti closed his eyes and soon was lost in a world where
all things seemed the same. He was at
the Clawson’s. He stood in their
kitchen frightfully staring at the broken dish. He was panic struck. All that
stood between him and the eerie silence was the heavy thuds of boot
approaching. Mr. Phil walked with a whip. His intention was incised on his
lips. Next, he was on his straw bed. Mammy, the house keeper mopped his feverish
body. In a soothing voice, she explained that he had passed out that night and
had spent two days in a fever induced delirium.
Frightful scenes from
the previous years plagued his dream. He knew he had to wake up but just couldn’t rouse himself. The panic cry that
tore through the air just when he relieved the day when he got branded with a
hot knife, jolted him out of his night mare. The others were definitely
terrified. He didn’t have to ask
what had transpired. He could hear the distant barks of dogs. They were to be ‘rescued’. A frenzy broke out. Fleeing in
different directions, no one looked out for the other. An hour turned to three,
Marti was clearly distress and in a fit. The barking grew less distant. It was
only a matter of time before he would be found. He didn’t want to imagine what punishment fate
had in store. He closed his eyes and prayed for his guardian angel to save him
from the horde of demons that were bound to tear him apart when they found him.
Arnold spied something in the behind the
trees. He cocked the shotgun and he stealthily advanced on whatever was there.
It was a sleeping Marti. He signaled to Mr.
Phil few yards away. Taking the gun from Arnold, he poked the weary child awake.
‘You louse. What in tarnation were you thinking?
You’re gonna be real sorry’, he promised. Marti was led to where
some boys were bound. In a file, they were led out of the forest.
Late at noon, they were no way near ‘home’. They stopped to feed the horses. The
boys watched their ‘rescuers’ gnaw at huge chunks of meat. They
offered the boys none. ‘We gotta take
down some,’ Phil announced
between bites. ‘Four ‘re down, why keep so many? Take a pick
Arnold’. Arnold squinted through the puff of
the cigarette he smoked. ‘Marti’. The rumbling laughter made Marti
raise his head… Mr. Phil
*******************************
The frail cassock flayed against the wind. He
pulled the edges together and continued with his speech. The lighting racing
across the sky promised a long, cold night.
Every heart was grieved and forlorn. ‘These are our sons, your daughters, his nephews,
her grandchildren, and our future. No more can this continue. Here we are today
to inhume these little bodies. These are seventeen little boys whose death none
can explain or comprehend. The police is as clueless as I am. Only a name is known. Marti Escalon, nephew
of Phil Clawson’. Chloe Clawson dabbed at the tears cascading her
eyes, she watched her husband’s face. It held no warmth at all. Could that
be his way of grieving?
The
priest went on and soon the caskets were lowered into the graves. Just then,
she imagined her son being lowered. Her heart pulled tighter within her. Two
nights before, the detective had stopped by. She was too scared to tell Phil
about it. Hell! They hardly talk about anything. She searched through her
handbag as the buggy pulled at the train station. She paused to search through
the crowd. There was Mammy and her boys.
