It was obvious that the tree took nourishment from the stream. Bumps of gnarled roots broke ground near the fence and down the bank. On the opposite shore, miniature trees stretched their roots towards the massive parent. Between them sluiced the stream.
At the very base of the large tree was a pile of white crystals. Share-All asked, “Is this food for the tree?”
“No,” came the answer. “The crystals are a product of the tree. Its roots reach deep into the heart of the stream, where the water is the densest, and begins to draw it up into itself. As it enters the tree, the water is transformed into leaves and bark, as well as these crystals. It cannot use them itself so it pushes them out for others.”
“What are they used for?” she asked.
“Have you never used salt before?”
“Salt! You mean that the stream has saltwater in it? But that is impossible!” she cried.
“For an ordinary stream, yes. But this stream carries the wetness from many eyes of many slaves, many days’ and nights’ worth, many lives’ worth of wetness flow here.”
Share-All understood that it was possible that if the slaves were allowed have their wetness that it could easily fill a stream. But showing such weakness was not allowed. Incredible humiliating punishment would scar a slave’s eyes forever if she was found showing wetness. How could it be, then, that water such as this existed?
“It is forbidden to show wetness. Where does this come from?”
“I told you, the eyes and hearts of slaves. There are those who weep freely as does the tree. Their masters, perhaps, are less severe with them than yours.”
“Why does the tree do this?”
“The tree is true to its nature. It seeks water for life and growth. When it found the water salty, it wept with the realization of what it had touched. Out of compassion, and its own need, the tree sought a way to transform what was. In doing so, it has given several gifts to others: it acknowledges the plight of the slaves; it provides clean water to those farther downstream; and it delivers salt for those who can use it. Because it gave of itself, it in turn flourishes.”
A tree that weeps for slaves!
Work
The slave awoke to find the cat sitting near her face. JeSuis leaned forward until her whiskers tickled Share-All’s nose. She sat back. “Did you sleep well? I did, but then I always do. Will you please open the door?”
Share-All got up and opened the door. She barely had time to look down for the cat and JeSuis was gone. She looked down the hall but didn’t see her. She called, “JeSuis! JeSuis!” There was no answer and nobody came in response. “JeSuis!” she called more quietly, wistfully. “JeSuis,” she whispered.
Stepping into the hall, the slave was afraid to go anywhere that she had not already been for fear of trespassing. For all she knew, she was forbidden to be in the house at all. She looked around fearfully and listened carefully. The house appeared to be empty. She retraced her steps and entered the long room with the large window. She walked over to it.
To her right was the willow tree, directly ahead the fence with its arbor, beyond the fence like a thin line of silver was the stream. She brought her arm to her nose and sniffed. The smell of cat was still there. For a moment she wondered if she had somehow dreamed the bath, the little slaves and the tree. Thinking of the little ones, she turned to see if they were in the yard. The smallest, the one she thought of as NotMuch, the slave girl who lived next to them, was sitting near a bowl of some sort balanced on a stick. NotMuch had a bag between her legs and was opening it.
Her curiosity pushed Share-All past the colors in the cooking room, out the back door, and into the yard. As she came around the edge of the house, NotMuch was getting to her feet. “Hey! What are you doing?” Share-All called. The child looked at her, reached her hand into the bag and flung a handful of something golden into the air. Soon the sound of wings and twitters filled the air. The slave came closer, dodging birds that were trying to land near the feet of NotMuch. As she approached she realized that the bowl she had seen was filled with water. Several birds had landed on its rim and were drinking.
“It’s my work each day to feed the birds,” NotMuch replied. She took out another handful of grain and spread it on the ground. “What work do you do?” she asked.
Share-All was unsure how to respond. It was true that she worked, and very hard. But it wasn’t a single task like feeding birds. “It was… it was… it’s so hard,” she thought. What she did with her day was what she was told to do. But “do” wasn’t the right word either. Most of her day was spent “not doing” as in “don’t do that” and in waiting to be told what she must do. Demands to “do” often didn’t come and so she would spend her day listening for the words, waiting and listening. Could she explain to NotMuch that her work each day was to wait and listen? When Share-All grew impatient and attempted something, no matter how insignificant, she was yelled at and punished.
“I wait and listen,” she said to the little slave.
“For what?” NotMuch replied seriously.
“For instructions on what to do.”
“You mean someone helps you choose?”
“No.” What did she mean? She tried to remember the last instruction she got. The only thing that came to mind was when her mother said to her, “Stand there. Your brother will do that.” So she had stood there while MustStay, her brother did whatever she was had been about to do. It was often like that.
“I often stand,” she said helplessly. “MustStay, my brother, is the one who really has work.”
“What do you know how to do? I’m sure that now you’re here that you will want to work,” said NotMuch.
“Want to? Oh yes, I want to work.” At those words, NotMuch extended the bag of grain towards Share-All. “Would you like to help feed the birds? They’re almost done and then they must do their work.”
“Yes, I’ll help.” She took the bag, put her hand in and drew out a handful of kernels. She scattered them with a short motion. The birds at her feet pecked away, then drank from the bowl. At some signal missed by Share-All, they took off and landed in the tree. There they began to sing.
“What kind of work would you like to do?” NotMuch asked.
“Well, you asked before what I know how to do and I’m afraid that I don’t know how to do anything.”
As Share-All and the one who looked like NotMuch talked of work, Share-All, unable to meet the eyes of the little one for shame, let her eyes wander around the yard. The back was covered with small trees, brambles and all sorts of weedy-looking things. The fence was barely visible. In was in sharp contrast to where they stood.
NotMuch kept speaking but her speech faded when she realized she had lost the slave’s attention. She turned her head to look where Share-All was looking. “JeSuis said that someone really needs to do something with that area but we’ve all been so busy.”
They walked towards the patch. “Do you know anything about gardens?” “No,” Share-All said quickly, although it was a lie. “I mean, well, I know some but not much. Oh, how strange! I just said ‘not much’ and you know, when I look at you, you seem so familiar to me. There is a slave who lives next door to us whose name is NotMuch. You look so like her that in my mind I’ve been calling you NotMuch. It occurs to me now that I should have asked you your name.”
Struck by this revelation, the young slave seemed at a loss for words. Then she spoke carefully so as not to offend the stranger, “I’m glad that I remind you of someone. My name is Gifted.”
Share-All in her turn was surprised. “What an unusual name! You have only one name? Where I come from everyone has two names put together. Like my own, HasNothing, or my brother’s, MustStay, or my father, MustFail. Even the name that only my family uses for me is two words: share and all.”
“Here we have only one name we use with each other,” replied Gifted.
“Ah! So you do have another name!” exclaimed Share-All. “Tell me what it is.”
“I cannot. JeSuis says that when we have your naming party will be soon enough for such things.”
“A party? What is a party?” inquired the slave.
Gifted’s face creased, her teeth showed, and she made the noise of happiness. “In time,” she said, “in time. Meanwhile we were talking about a garden.”
Share-All looked at the brambles which had woven themselves into a tangle. “You would have to clear all of these before you could even see what you had.”
“Would you be willing to do that?” asked Gifted.
“I would need tools, and someone to... .” Share-All paused. She was being offered work. Real work. Not standing, not waiting. A curious emotion passed through her. In her mind, she saw a garden, a real garden. The small trees had been removed, the brambles cleared, the ground turned and planted purposefully. The picture of what could be seemed so clear that when she re-focused on the actual scene before her, she had to shake her head. [does she really know what could be planted or is she simply imagining?]
“You need someone else to what?” asked Gifted.
“I need someone to... .” Again, she didn’t finish the sentence. She was going to say that she needed someone to tell her what to do but even a slave could see, it was obvious what needed doing, at least as far as clearing a space went. After that, maybe then, she would need someone to help. “I, I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think that I do need someone. I do want to do it, though.”
Tools appeared on a box near the fence: gloves for her hands, a shirt to cover her arms, pants to cover her legs, a hat for her head. There were pruning shears, a trowel, a saw, and a shovel. Gifted did not wait to see if Share-All knew what these things were for, she simply turned to her and said, “You can start whenever you choose, stop when you want to. Work as little or as hard as you wish. If you need anything, let one of us know” and walked off.
The slave stood a while trying to decide where to start. If she began at the edge that bordered the lawn and worked her way to the fence, she would at least have a path. With that in mind, she bent down to where a berry bramble was anchored at her feet. Barehanded, she grabbed the cane and tugged. The thorns broke her skin when she put her hands around the cane, then tore more flesh when she pulled. She screamed in pain. Her hands held out before her were ripped and bloody. Wetness sprang to her eyes and her face twisted with the pain. She bit her lip to keep from screaming again. She shuddered with anticipation of the masters descending on her to beat the noise out of her. She stood shaking and listened. No, no one was coming. She pressed her hands to her body to try and stop the burning sensation.
“Here now! Let me see what you’ve done to yourself,” JeSuis spoke as she approached the slave. Share-All’s hearing had not picked up the sound of the cat coming. She held out her hands to the cat.
“We need to get those washed and put something on them to protect them.” JeSuis called out, “Merciful! Bring something for the wounds, please!” A young slave Share-All did not recognize disappeared into the house. “Why didn’t you use the gloves?” asked JeSuis. “Gloves?” came the answer.
JeSuis walked over to the box with the tools on top and jumped up. She pointed with a paw to the gloves. “These are gloves. You slip them over your hands so the thorns cannot hurt you.”
“I didn’t know there were thorns,” said Share-All. “We only ate the berries that MustStay, my brother, picked. MustStay told me that when the brambles grew too thick in the middle, berries were picked on the edges only. He never said anything about thorns.”
Merciful arrived with a rag and water to wash the wounds. When they were clean, she wrapped Share-All’s hands with gauze. Her hands hurt so very much that when JeSuis suggested she try on the gloves, she hesitated. Hard as it was to get them on, her hands felt much better once they were inside. She stretched her fingers. It was almost as if the pain was gone already!
From her position on the box, JeSuis asked, “Do you still want to work?” “Yes, I want to,” came the answer. JeSuis said, “Then you must also put on the pants. They will cover your legs and protect them from the brambles and anything else that is low to the ground. Put on the shirt and it will keep your upper body from harm as well.” Merciful helped her into the shirt, getting her hands with the gloves on through the sleeves was the hardest part. Merciful buttoned the shirt for her. Share-All pulled on the pants and Merciful buttoned those as well.
She gestured with her hand, a sort of wave, first to JeSuis, and then to Merciful, which they took to mean ‘thank you’. JeSuis bounded off the box and was gone. Merciful turned and walked toward the house.
Alone again, Share-All flexed her fingers. She pressed her hands together but there was no more pain. Encouraged, she bent down, grasped the cane which had inflicted the injuries and pulled. It budges ever so slightly. She pulled harder but it still did not come free of the ground. A voice spoke behind her, “If I were you, I think that I would cut them down, then come back and dig up the roots.”
She turned to face another of the little slaves. The young one’s face crinkled and showed teeth. She stood with her hands on her hips. Then they dropped to her sides and she asked, “Would you like me to show you how?” When Share-All didn’t answer, the little one walked over to the box and picked up the pruning shears. “If you do this,” she said as she grasped the cane several inches above the ground and cut it off at ground level, “I think it will be easier.” She took the cane and tossed on the grass beside them.
“Show me again,” said Share-All.
The little one did and said, “You try,” handing Share-All the shears.
Although it was tricky at first, she learned quickly. After she had cut several canes, she picked them up and threw them on top of the first. She straightened up and made the gesture she had made to JeSuis and Merciful. The young slave nodded and walked away.
Now she began working in earnest. Sweat ran down her face and front, her back, her arms, and her legs. [the hat?] She worked until she came to the fence. The path she’d made was just the width of her body, but the stack of canes she’d cut was as high as her head. She staggered out from the fenceline with the last of them.
The world began to spin and her head suddenly felt as if someone was hammering on it. She tried to speak but the words would not come out. She collapsed and lost consciousness.
Someone, or maybe many someones carried her to the house and placed her on a bed in one of the many rooms. Someone placed a cool cloth on her forehead. When it would became warm from her body, they would rinse it in cool water and replace the cloth. How many times this was done! She moaned from wherever she was, “Stop!” and “Don’t!” but they didn’t listen as if she were speaking to them. They simply kept trying to cool her down.
She finally came to some level of consciousness and began to accuse them of all sorts of filthy and violent crimes. They restrained her when she attempted to get out of bed and reassured her that they would never have done such things. In the hall, outside the room in which she lay, though, there was little reassurance for any of them. She was rocking their world with the images she was giving voice to. How could such things be imagined? Why would someone imagine such things? What if these things were real and not imagined? They paced the length of the hall, every now and then poking their heads into the room. What they heard was more of what they already did not understand. They shook their heads and wrapped their arms around each other for comfort.
The whole while Share-All lay there moaning and accusing, cursing and groaning, JeSuis was noticeably absent. At last her voice became softer, the words full of pleading and whimpering. Then finally they stopped.
When she woke, the cat was curled beside her. As the covers rustled, JeSuis stretched her long body first with her rear-end in the air, then forward. She shook her back left leg and turned to face Share-All. “You’ve been quite ill. I think it’s because you were not wearing the hat you were given. How do you feel?”
“My stomach feels very strange and my head still hurts but not like it did,” Share-All replied.
“Do you think you could sit up?”
“Yes, I think I can.” A little slave entered the room at these words and placed a large pillow behind Share-All’s back. “How’s that?” she asked. Share-All gave the hand gesture and the slave left.
For the longest time Share-All and the cat just looked at each other. JeSuis’s eyes seemed even larger and more intensely green than before. She moved slowly on to Share-All’s lap. This time she gave no warning; she simply moved. She curled on the slave’s lap and laid down with her back to Share-All. She began to make a humming noise. The slave could hear it as well as feel it on her legs. The cat’s body was vibrating with the hum. Share-All carefully reached out a hand to touch the cat. As she stretched, she noticed that the gauze had been removed from her hand. She looked quickly at the other. Yes, that one was unwrapped as well. She brought the hand to her face and so no sign of the injury. She laid it on the cat’s back. The humming increased in volume. She felt the cat’s fur soft under her fingers. Felt the warmth of its body. She began to stroke the cat. Tiny movements at first, then a bit longer strokes. JeSuis never moved, never turned and never spoke. How long this lasted, Share-All had no idea. At some point she fell asleep again. When she woke, the cat was gone.
1 comment:
Author Note: I'm not happy about the willow tree thing. It seems way too contrived. What do you think?
I'm also still working on the names of the children. For instance, should Merciful be renamed to Mercy? Gifted is an adjective so Merciful would match it as opposed to the noun Mercy. How important is it to be consistent? There are six small children in all and more characters beyond them. Should I be worried about the names or just get on with the story?
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