Free Trail of Bones by Mark London Williams Page B

stables out here, behind the blacksmith’s on
Mulberry Row. Since the animal was potentially dangerous, they
decided to let the slaves deal with him.
    Did the idea of slaves get invented in the
first place when someone realized life had suddenly become too
complex, too much for one person, or one family, to handle on their
own?
    So you force someone else to help handle it
for you.
    “Can I help you, miss?”
    I had followed Sally’s instructions. I was
at the last building on the row, with the wooden fence behind
it.
    “I’m looking for Isaac.”
    “That’s me. You have permission to be out
here by yourself?”
    Sally said Isaac actually grew up with
Jefferson. His family was “inherited” by Jefferson President from
his own father. In other words, the slaves are treated just like
horses.
    “I don’t want no problem with no runaway on
my hands. I don’t want no blame for nothin’.”
    What’s he so scared of? I’ve just come to
look at a horse.
    “You’re that runaway slave girl, right?”
    “No. No slave,” I tell him, with my
newly-practiced English.
    “What do you mean, ‘no slave’?”
    I don’t try to answer. I see the horse I’ve
come for. He’s tied to a post in the small stable area behind
Isaac’s workspace. Even in the shadows, I can see the animal is
still scared, pulling against the bridle ropes that keep it tied to
the fence.
    Poor thing. If the lingo-spot is working,
it’s probably overwhelmed with information.
    “No slave.” I repeat absently, making my way
toward the horse.
    “Really, you shouldn’t—” He’s almost
pleading with me, but I don’t listen.
    Then another voice starts up. Someone ahead
of me. In the shadows.
    “No slave but Brassy.”
    I recognize the speaker.
    It’s Mr. Howard. He’s waiting for me by the
horse.
    No wonder Isaac seemed so nervous.
    Howard probably told him I wanted the horse
because I was trying to escape.
    I probably should tell him I am escaping, though I’m not. It would make more sense than the truth.
But why talk at all? He’ll grab me at any moment, so I have to
focus on the horse.
    “ Sooysaa … ”
    The animal flicks its head in my direction,
eyes widening.
    Show me…
    Show me what?
    Howard is advancing toward me, the same wild
look on his face that he’s had ever since trying on Eli’s cap. He
takes a whip off a nearby post.
    Horses are whipped to control their
behavior. And so are slaves who are caught trying to escape. That’s
what I was told, though it hasn’t happened to me, so far.
    I’ve had a couple of days of rest and
recovery here, at Jefferson President’s estate. After my fall from
the horse, they wanted to make sure none of my bones were broken. I
suppose there was some genuine concern there. “But they also have
to return you to Louisiana’s governor in one piece,” Sally told me.
“They want the merchandise to be in good condition.”
    Unless I can find a way to leave this place,
I am apparently to be sent to this territorial governor within the
week. No wonder Mr. Howard thinks I’m trying to escape. He’s been
telling Jefferson to have me watched more closely and to stop
leaving me alone with Sally.
    “All of America appears gripped by fevers
and fugue states,” Jefferson said in response to one of Howard’s
warnings. “At least, all of Monticello does. It would behoove you
to be sure of your facts.”
    He often said such things in Latin, for my
benefit. He imagines I understand him, and is intrigued by that. Or
amused.
    “She will be wasted on that governor,” he
said.
    Apparently, if one is a slave, one is better
off amusing the master than angering him, and better off still
being thought of as particularly useful. None of it flatters
me.
    Jefferson’s use of the Roman tongue does
allow me to listen more intently with my actual ears, while trying
to tune out the lingo-spot. More and more, the Saurian translation
device seems to be creating a type of noise that can become quite
disturbing. Like