Free Blonde Roots by Bernardine Evaristo

and brag about it in the local inn, could shoot an apple from the top of a boy’s head and leave him standing.
    The women sat with their backs to the guards.
    I would soon understand why.
    I would also soon learn to tell the difference between exhaustion and defeat. To recognize the point at which a person’s s spirit is extinguished. After which death is the inevitable consequence. And how some chose death as the only route to freedom.
    I later learned that some of those people came from as far away as Spain, France, Belgium, Portugal, Denmark and Germany.
    I never knew then that we came from every walk of life too. Regardless of social status, profession, political or religious persuasion, we were all going to the final frontier of Europa-the end of civilization as we knew it.
    In time I came across people who had been farmers, black-smiths, bakers, pastry makers, medicine men, preacher men, musicians, fishmongers, poulterers, watermen, fishermen, wool-men, silk women, wrestlers, paviers, cooks, cock fighters, girdlers, carpenters, haberdashers and housewives, as well as lords and ladies, even those of royal blood. Among our number were the king and queen of the Royal House of Portugal-and all their children.
    To the right of the corral, slave traders were sizing up new arrivals like myself, exchanging goods which were loaded up onto carts; or they were sitting cross-legged on the ground, a day’s work done, toasting their good health and good fortune, knocking back grog that a serving boy poured into pewter tankards from a barrel.
    They looked as if they’d discovered one of the great secrets of life—that money really did grow on trees.
    My kidnapper tugged me toward the traders. I had lost control of my body. It was no longer I who decided whether I walked to my right, to my left, backward or forward, and at what speed.
    He approached two men with big-feathered hats and black hair cascading to their shoulders-in the style of the pirates I’d heard about in Pa’s stories. They had neatly trimmed black beards that tapered to a point, like the description of the Devil I’d listened to in sermons at church. They wore velvet-green frock coats with toggles, silk knee breeches and over-the-knee tan leather boots with little heels. It was the attire of gentlemen. They looked like identical twin brothers. Rich twin brothers. My kidnapper’s demeanor changed as he approached them. He bowed deeply, helmet in hand. They remained upright and nodded, curtly.
    They made an offer. It was accepted. I was sold.
    I wasn’t worth haggling over.
    A guard prodded me with his musket into the corral, where I was introduced to an iron coffle-a rod to which collars were attached at either end. Attached to the collar behind me was a boy who wore hessian knickerbockers and a laborer’s smock. His face was smeared with freckles and his hair stuck out haphazardly like thick sheaves of corn. He smiled; I stared blankly back. He went cross-eyed.
    I had found a friend.
    His name was Garanwyn, and he came from a farm on the Welsh border with England. He and his younger brother Dafyyd had been sold by a rival farmer, who wanted to increase his stock of sheep.
    Dafyyd was curled up asleep in front of me, sucking the fingers of his right hand into his little mouth. Blue veins mapped out his blood supply beneath translucent skin, which showed the ribs of the carcass he would soon become.
    Looking up, I caught sight of my kidnapper heading back into the forest, an invigorated spring in his step, even as he tried to keep steady two caskets of grog, which were balanced on his shoulders.
    A shiny new kettle was tied around his waist.
    When I turned my attention over to where the traders gathered, I unexpectedly caught sight of someone I recognized. His cart had just rolled in loaded up with sheep’ wool, cowhide, a couple of live bullocks. Stumbling and chained behind it were two bruised and furious young men with thighs like shanks of oxen.
    It was