Free Song of Slaves in the Desert by Alan Cheuse

another boat just like it drifting a few yards behind—“may we find simple fare beneath the slow-flowing waters…”
    The Niger current lapped gently at the prow of their barge. A few minutes later and they turned toward the shore, where the chefs would make a feast and the musicians and dancers would perform into the night.
    As darkness set in around them and the drumming subsided Zainab, her belly full and her head a bit woozy from the heat of the day-long trip in the sun, felt herself sinking slowly into a familiar state, the dreamy false freedom of the lifelong captive whose only escape from her condition was sleep. And yes, she did dream, dreamed she was dreaming, and listening to a voice from the river.
    “Oh, dear girl, I have fallen as rain to meet you here, to assure you that whatever happens all will in the end be well. Lean toward me.”Zainab bent her head toward the stream. Out of the flowing current a hand arose and painted her forehead with water from the current. This made her feel so calm she said to herself as she slept that if life always felt like this—a gentle palm upon her forehead—she could live it all the way through.
    At which point she was torn from her sleep by shouts and high screams.
    Tall figures stood at the fire, waving sticks of flame.
    A gunshot rang out across the star-diffused sky, and other screams rose into the shadowy dark.
    “Mama!” Her youngest child, a boy as plump as the big man, shouted in her ear. “The fishermen! They killed my father!”
    Her daughters came screaming, and nightmares rode into the camp on camels higher than the tallest among the slaves, dark bodies of the beasts and dark bodies of the men blocking out the stars.
    These were indeed fishermen, fishers of men.
    And women.

Chapter Ten
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This Charming City
    Free of the stink of the auction house, this charming city overtook me with its delightful houses, narrow structures that faced onto side gardens and stretched back further into gardens behind. There was as much foot traffic as in New York, and the edges of the streets were filled mostly with these walkers, almost exclusively black-faced, women with children slung over their backs in little bundles, and men with garden tools and others hauling crates and packages. But though all of these folk appeared to be working, there was much less of a hurry and hustle about the streets than in my native town, mainly because the heat was such that everyone, slave or free, had to carry about the extra burden of the temperature and its humid essence.
    “Here is the courthouse,” my cousin said, as we approached an impressively erected building, though of a miniature size compared to our New York structures. And the Episcopal church. And another church. And a meeting hall. At the corner a crowd of men on horseback, in rough country garb, jittered and huddled, their horses covered with dust. A short man with wiry hair sat high upon a tall stallion in the center of them, the horse so white it glowed almost blue.
    “What’s this?” I asked.
    My cousin shook his head.
    “It is a man named Langerhans,” Rebecca said. “If man he is. He is more like something carved out of the mud…”
    As if he had heard her say his name—though over the noise of the horses and at this distance it seemed doubtful—the mud-man turned his head, following us as we moved by.
    “Halloo!” he called in our direction, touching a finger to his right eyebrow in a sort of salute.
    “Ignore him,” my cousin said to Rebecca as the white horse stepped closer.
    “Saw your nigger girl just now, carrying some basket or other,” the man said as his horse danced sidewise toward and yet away from us.
    “Thank you, Langerhans,” my cousin said, “as you are paid to keep watch, it’s good to know you’re on the lookout.”
    “You are welcome, sir,” Langerhans said, a shy grin spreading across his face. He showed dark teeth and it was not a pretty sight, and yet,