Song of Slaves in the Desert - Alan Cheuse [28]
“Tambacounda?”
“That is where we are going,” Lilith said. “There is a market there.”
Zainab could not help but groan.
“You heard them talking about that, too?”
“Yes, Mama.”
Zainab felt a stabbing pain in her chest and turned away from her daughter to clutch her hands to her heart.
“What is it, Mama?”
“In that town, a place I have never heard of before all in the days we lived in Timbuktu, they will sell us.”
“No, Mama,” Lilith said. “No, no, no, no. They have a chief there, and he will take care of us, feed us, and give us clothing.”
“He will buy us first,” Zainab said. “For you and me and your sisters he will offer these brutes some coins. Or cloth. Or perhaps even a horse or a camel or two.” She took her daughter in her arms and pulled her tightly to her chest. “You know we are worth more than anything anyone can pay…”
“I like to ride a horse, Mama,” Lilith said. Such innocence in her eyes when she spoke, and when she remained silent—the thought of some man riding her daughter was almost more than Zainab could bear.
“Here,” she said, pushing the sack with the marked stone into her daughter’s hands. “This is not for you to lose.”
***
At a crossroads—could this be Tambacounda?—they entered a large market. Stalls and tents, horses and camels tethered behind them, the vast animal smell of caravan life rose like smoke from a vast fire as they approached. One half the sky lay in darkness—this to the east—the other with the last light of the day. Drums resounded behind the large array of covers and pennants, and Zainab could also hear, ever so faintly, a wavering call to prayer.
The traders led their entourage into the city where from the gates of a domed palace hundreds and hundreds of slaves, armed with various weapons—bows, short lances, shields—burst forth into the large square before it. Within the walls a sultan presided over business in a lofty pavilion, and off to one side stood troops, governors, young men, slaves. Musicians among the slaves blew bugles and beat drums with sticks and made a wonderful sound. Before the sultan’s chair jugglers and acrobats performed. The traders led their entourage off to one side of the courtyard, where a long-bearded man with a book inscribed numbers with a reed pen. His wives and many concubines stood behind him wearing fine silks, bands of gold and silver around their heads, singing quietly among themselves while their master went about his work of dispatching the goods presented to them by the traders.
Zainab screamed and the girls wailed and before they knew it they lived apart from each other for the rest of their lives.
Chapter Twelve
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The Old Oak Plantation
A long, dusty carriage ride brought us to a location about fifteen miles outside of Charleston—and I tried my best to look forward at the road ahead rather than stare at the dusty beauty of the woman—the slave—who had joined us as we left town. A fairly good road, repaired by good hands after spring rains—thick trees covered with vines and mosses—swampy ditches stretching out at either side of the road. My own old New York countryside up near the Bronx farm or the woods atop the cliffs on the New Jersey side of the Hudson seemed barren by comparison to this lush and overgrown landscape.
A near-mile-long avenue of enormous oak trees, a tunnel of trees, led to the entrance of my uncle’s house. With the moss hanging in long beard-like wisps from the upper branches and the light as subdued as in some grotto beneath the ocean, the avenue gave the impression of leading from one world to the next, a road that might take you to the land of dreams instead of merely leading you from the main road to the mansion.
“There is certainly nothing like this up north,” I said to my cousin, even as I stared and stared at the slender shoulders of the slave girl—who sat demurely, waiting for the carriage to come to a halt. “Our winters are cold and chill, with icy winds blowing off the