The Beginning

I was raised in Somewhereland. I was a slave, the daughter of slaves in Somewhereland. I did not know the word slave, there was only what I and my parents were, ourselves. I could not imagine what it might be like to not be a slave, because not to be who I was – that was impossible. I did have the ability to imagine.
In my imagining, freedom was just the opposite of what was, as Heaven is sometimes characterized as other than life. If we knew terror, which we did, freedom encompassed non-terror, whatever that might be!

One night someone had a dream, I cannot say that it was me. Dreaming was a luxury not often afforded an exhausted slave so it became the duty of anyone who had a dream to share it. The dreamer’s name is lost but the dream becomes community property. This particular dream was so fantastic as to attain instant status as “vision” rather than dream. As a vision, it took on prophetic tones, the imperative of fate.

The dreamer stood by the edge of a stream which burbled brightly over rocks. Across the stream was a single farmhouse with a white picket fence. Voices of children, she was sure they were children from the pitch, were making screeching, cackling noises somewhere nearby. She thought to herself, “I want to cross this stream and …” The thought was not finished and she found herself across the stream. She looked back and saw no way to cross without getting wet, but there on the other side were the prints her feet had made on the damp bank wishing to cross, yet she was dry.
She turned to face the house. Should she approach? Again, the noise of children, sounding so unlike little slaves yet strangely similar, tickled her ear. “I want to find those children.”

She had moved, how she didn’t know, in front of house painted in rainbows. The fence pickets waved in the breeze like grass fronds. The arbor in the middle had a gate which stood open to her. She passed beneath the arbor and stepped along a flagstone path. The walk curved around the house to a yard partially shaded by a large weeping willow.

Here were the young people. They had strange grimaces on their faces, mouths were open and teeth were showing. They convulsed, gripped their sides, held their heads and pointed at one another. They circled, joined hands, tripped and skipped sideways. They fell down and again, shrieked and grimaced. They patted one another, helped each other to their feet and began the curious ritual again.

“What is this that they are doing? Why do they make these noises? Why these faces? I want to know... .” The phrase was hardly formed in her mind, when, astonished, she found herself holding the hands of two small ones, They clasped hands with others and began to circle slowly. The speed increased. They began to skip and trip to keep up. A rhythm not unfamiliar took over. Her body moved as theirs did, her feet in liquid motion danced with theirs. Again the speed increased and unable to sustain it, she felt herself being flung outwards. She stumbled, tumbled and was caressed and tickled by the softest of grass. The earth was a sponge which broke her fall and bounced her lightly. She felt pleasure flood through her. Her face held rigidly against emotion twisted slightly. Wetness in her eyes which had nothing to do with pain or anger startled her.

She glared in rage at the ones who caused this. What kind of children are these that would put another at risk in such a way? She looked quickly around to see if anyone were coming to punish her. No. She breathed a little easier and wiped the wetness away. She stood and took a long breath. “Where am I? What was I doing? What on earth possessed me?” The children meanwhile were bending their heads to the ground, curling their bodies and rolling forwards to great shouts and hoots. Some were running and leaping, throwing their hands to the ground, lifting legs in the air and making large pinwheels of themselves. “They are mad little people, crazy.” In spite of this judgment, in spite of her recent anger, she marvelled at their energy, their dexterity. She, who had never wanted to move in such way found herself envying such fluid movement, desiring the bounce, the shiver, the satisfaction. “I want to try that,” she said within herself.

She bent her head to the ground. How strange, she thought as she looked backwards and upside down between her legs. The sky was blue below her, the grass green above. She curled her body as if to sleep, holding her knees and tucking her head against the beatings that would surely come at night, and discovered to her horror that she was falling forward. The grass grazed the back of her neck. She rolled along the ground feeling her spine in contact with its sponginess. Whomp! Her body suddenly stopped. One of the children came to her and said, “If you don’t straighten your legs, and you push a little harder when you start, you can roll forever!”

“Roll forever!” she repeated. “Why on earth would I want to roll forever?” the slave asked herself. “Because,” she thought, “because that was... .” What was that sensation? What had she just done? She rose, bent again, saw the willow upside down. She locked eyes with a little slave just opposite her, both upside down. Her face, below her buttocks, made that strange facial movement then disappeared as she rolled over. The slave did the same. This time she kept her legs bent and went over twice. She sucked air involuntarily, her mouth opened and a sound she had never made before, nor ever heard before except from the children, escaped. Her mouth stretched wider, her belly shook. Again, a wetness came to her eyes. She reached a hand to wipe the tears and had two moments of pleasure before the fear came. Had anyone seen? Or heard? Was anyone coming for her? No. she relaxed a bit, amazed at what was happening to her. Where were the masters? Or the other adult slaves? Why were there only children here? Where was she?

She sat up and hugged her knees. She felt her bones, her flesh as if for the first time. She remembered the unsettling, exhilarating sense of rolling. Her face moved. She felt it distinctly. Saw it as in a mirror on the face of the child nearest her. It creased, showed teeth, mouth turned up at the corner. She shut it down. The eyebrows of the little slave twisted, her mouth pursed. She shook her head and made the odd little facial gesture of pleasure again. Share-All was tempted; the slave looked so silly. She forced her own face into the position. The child’s mouth went wider, showed more teeth and a noise, a cough, a catch came from it’s throat. Share-All widened her mouth, tried to make the sound and couldn’t. “I can make that sound. I know that sound. I made it earlier when I first rolled. I want to …” And she laughed. She laughed and laughed. Tears and noise and belly wiggling all came together. She laid back on the ground holding her sides and laughing. The child walked over and pointed at her and laughed. Share-All pointed back and laughed, turning on her side in weakness with laughter. She was having trouble breathing, she was laughing so hard.

A sound, the sound she had feared, had been listening for as if her continued life depended on it, registered. All sound ceased within her. She knew that she had heard it. Damn those young slaves whooping and hollering! Didn’t they hear it? Don’t they know what’s coming? Her ears hurt with the strain of listening over and under their cries. She waited, struggling to hear it again. It didn’t come. Warily, she rose to her feet. She scanned the yard and beyond the fence for the source of the sound. She couldn’t see it. All around her the children still tumbled and skipped. Sweat on the back of her neck, in her armpits. Was it from exertion or fear? Tears left by laughter now itched on her cheeks. She scratched at them while constantly turning her head this way, then back, searching for the cause of her fear.

The willow danced its branches. Her head swiveled to it. The boughs jumped again. There! Up there! Her heart banged against her chest; her lungs forgot to breathe. Every muscle tightened. Leaves rustled.