"Mama! Mama!"
It felt like it was just yesterday, living in a world where I sat hopelessly, watching her go.
"Clay! Don't look at me!"
She was carried off that night, when the moon was at its highest, where the stars were at their brightest, twinkling.
"Mama! No! Mama!"
I was screaming, wanting her to not be taken away, moved to another farm. They had taken her from Hudson. Far away. Into the night.
"Mama!"
She told me the night before, when the stars were bright too, that... "When those stars up there are shinin' bright, you know papa and mama are watchin' you."
I was amazed by them, how they shine so bright.
Once I was tossed from Hudson and into this place, I haven't seen them shine the same. They're empty, gone, a spirit cast away into a void of nothingness. There's nothing there for me. Nothing here, and now, there's nothing in Hudson.
I am a stone cold man, lost in a place filled with colored folk. No, they're not like me: a black man whose taller than the ruler of their country, whose strong-willed body will never break stance against an enemy of comparable size, whose true nature is masked by his defeat--no, these folk are animals, speaking ones. I don't know what to call them, because they sure as hell aren't horses. They aren't ponies either, even though they say they are. No pony speaks a language like them; that's a colored man's job to hoot and holler whenever they wanna speak. Instead, I come across these animals as a group built on sounds of humans without a compass nor a sense of words. All I hear is notes. No English. No French. They're all here, seeing me, glaring at me while I am stuck in a place where I can't help but see and hear them. They just stare, without English or French, and make those sounds.
The one who I can speak to is their ruler. She knows me. She knows my language.
So I am going to her, and only to her.
"Eszz, astume!" a guard bellowed. He stared at me, his eyes glaring. Just like everyone else. He stares. It stinks, doesn't it?
Esa, ecume astume!" another bellowed. They wanted me to stand down and wait. I know the drill. It's the same old, isn't it? The same old stares, the same old orders, just like my master. The same old everything.
Nothing changes. If it did, well it sure passed our time by. My mama, my papa, my little sis too; we're all stuck in the same pattern. No change, no love. We're just harked at for what we do best. Pickin' that good ole cotton. He got us a gin once, but that thing broke in two after one of the blades caught in my sis's hair. Her hair was strong as iron, apparently. Too bad my master was not appreciative, they could've saved her hair for some bald white man.
So, like the fields, like the family life, like time had never stopped; I waited. We waited. We waited for her.
"Esta, gard!" she said. "Ave, Clay!" The only words I heard from her in English: a good morning that wishes my name. Then, when we were in secret, that would change. I guess she only changed for me. Figures.
I smiled and greeted her. "Hello, Celestia!" Her eyes are the same. They are bright, unlike the rest of her animals. "How are you?"
She gave me a smile, like always, before she growled at her guards. They reluctantly (one to the right even twitches and grimaces as he moves) moved aside, and with forced smiles, they said in unison, "Vonour, Celestia's Human."
They never figured out what "human" was in their language. So they slid the word in to compromise for their own lack of translation. Again, no compensation. We're just slaves at heart--no, I am enslaved here. They're gone.
I saw that guard grimace again, and as I walked past, I heard him utter "Denour, human.", which, if I'm not mistaken. was slang for wishing death upon one person, or "without welcome". Maybe the phrase meant something else. I don't know, confusion: it's me, my life.
I walked with Celestia, the magical animal whose eyes glimmered in the light, to her chambers, where she would request from her maids two delectable little cups filled with tea--Celestia said so herself in English to me--while she gracefully sat on her pillow: the giant, purple plump of comfort while her maids gave me a plain, old grey wooden chair they had stole from the dining room--wherever that dining room was--and got just for me. Great: beggars can't be choosers, and choosers can't be beggars. We're all the same. Slaves.
"Asta--resut, Clay?" her voice was like an angel. "Szetus?"
She had asked me if I were available for the day and if she was a witch--no, she just asked me if I was tired and if my journey was fair. Yes, that's the translation; no witches here. "The journey was fine, Celestia. Thank you for asking." A smile wouldn't hurt for measure, right?
She saw it: the smile. I may be wrong, but she might like it when I smile. Maybe it's to show understanding and not just a fake mask to ensure that you're hurting inside. Maybe we're all smiling both for and of the purpose, but never to it. Maybe we're destined to stopping ourselves before we get too close to using the smile correctly, so we mask it to make ourselves feel better. Maybe my time is up, and I'm still stuck in the time where we count our one's and two's the same, and where each slave's body was the same representation as three-fifths of a white man's wealth. Maybe we're still property, and maybe I am too, property of Celestia, not of myself.
I don't know, life is confusing me. It's always confusing me. This world is a bundle of confusion.
After a moments worth of time, we stood in front of her chambers. The only thing that blocked us from entering the English only zone was the doors, which kept us with her animals. Two, which I thought we had gotten rid of, stood at these doors. Again, glares. They were focused on me. Maybe I'm the enemy of them? Maybe they'll whip me, strike me down, tell me I'm a slave, tell me I'm captive still? Maybe they'll murder my mama and papa and send their corpses to the farms beside them, giving them new names so that they can still be animated as living corpses who do work. Maybe they'll remember us some day, how they used to take care of my sis and I, who now live in hell. We're... alone--no, I am alone. She died a long time ago.
She, with the power of her horn, grasped the knob and turned it to the side, letting the lock relinquish its vice grip and let us through. The heavy doors swung open and there, waiting, patiently, was the room she and I waited for so long: Celestia's chambers. There she rushed in and beckoned me with her hoof. With a smile, I walked in, and there, I was held captive.
I'm here now, Mama. Captive again. Maybe Celestia will give me some tea so we can chat about life. The life I wish I had.
