shifty-eyed, foulmouthed bunch—although, I admitted, it was quite lonesome with just Jonas and Uncle to talk to. Frankly, there were many nights I lay awake wishing I’d a friend, begging God for a
real
friend, someone my own age, someone who liked my company—a companionship I’d never experienced before. But Billy Dorsett wasn’t my friend of choice, nor would he ever be, not if I’d anything to say about it. I hoped God hadn’t sent Billy as the answer to my prayer. He was about as pleasing as a horsefly in the eye.
“What is it, Billy?” I asked, not looking up from my journal.
“My head aches.”
“Go talk to Jonas. He’s the surgeon.”
“He said he’s feeling out of sorts and to come talk to you.” Billy sat cross-legged beside me, as if we were old chums.
I stifled the urge to groan and tell him to clear off. Instead, I set aside my journal, hoping my businesslike manner would rid his mind of any ideas of friendship. “Right, then, I’ll fetch you some medicine.”
Returning, I handed him a pewter tankard filled with water and tartaric acid—good for headaches. “Drink it down.” I picked up my journal, waved away mosquitoes, and within seconds was sounding out African words:
“kchì … sala …”
“How long does it take?” Billy asked.
I blinked at him, pretending I’d forgotten he was there. “What the devil are you on about? How long does
what
take?”
“The medicine. To work. How long do I gotta wait?”
“Until your headache’s gone.”
“Oh.”
I returned to my journal, fanning myself a bit with my palm-leaf hat before setting it back on my head.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Does
what
hurt?”
“That.” And he poked my chest wound with a grubby finger.
“Bugger and blast, Billy! Keep your hands off me! Of course it hurts, you dolt!”
“Sorry. Just wondering, is all.”
“Don’t you have something to do?”
Billy shrugged. “Not really. What are you reading?”
I sighed, pulling my journal away from his prying eyes. “You know, Billy, it’s helpful after drinking medicine to rest awhile.Especially if you’ve a headache. Apply a wet rag to your forehead and shut your eyes. Two to three hours should do it.”
“My headache’s gone now.”
“Oh.” I suspected that there had been no such thing as a headache in the first place.
“I wish I coulda been there.”
“Been
where?
Billy, can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I wish I coulda seen it when you branded him.”
I turned away, disgusted, and gazed off into the distant sky, the clouds heavy and promising rain, my wound throbbing. I was trying to forget that dreadful day.… The fire of hatred in his eyes. His teeth, filed to points. The stink of burning flesh. My own shrieks of pain … To forget the shame I felt over the rage that had consumed me and the pain that I’d inflicted upon him. Him—a helpless slave.
“They say you branded him hard, like you was trying to reach his backbone.”
“Clear off, Billy.”
“They say he’s a mighty warrior. Or
was
a mighty warrior, anyways.”
A warrior?
I admitted a grudging admiration toward the slave who’d defied us. Who stared directly at his captors with unabashed hatred. Who refused to make a sound even as I inflicted horrible pain upon him. Certainly the slave possessed a courage I could never hope to have.
“They say he’s meek as a lamb now, all ’cause of you,” Billy was saying. “That you could poke him with a sharp stick and he won’t do nothing.”
“Who says he was a warrior?”
Billy shrugged again. “Everyone. They say his name’s Ikoro, which means ‘warlike,’ and that he hates us white folk.” Andhere Billy raised his bum and released some wind with a loud honk, grinning. This display of bodily functions seemed to distract him, however, as for a while afterward he appeared at a loss for words.
“Well,” I prompted him, after scooting away several feet, “what else do they say? Exactly why does
real
friend, someone my own age, someone who liked my company—a companionship I’d never experienced before. But Billy Dorsett wasn’t my friend of choice, nor would he ever be, not if I’d anything to say about it. I hoped God hadn’t sent Billy as the answer to my prayer. He was about as pleasing as a horsefly in the eye.
“What is it, Billy?” I asked, not looking up from my journal.
“My head aches.”
“Go talk to Jonas. He’s the surgeon.”
“He said he’s feeling out of sorts and to come talk to you.” Billy sat cross-legged beside me, as if we were old chums.
I stifled the urge to groan and tell him to clear off. Instead, I set aside my journal, hoping my businesslike manner would rid his mind of any ideas of friendship. “Right, then, I’ll fetch you some medicine.”
Returning, I handed him a pewter tankard filled with water and tartaric acid—good for headaches. “Drink it down.” I picked up my journal, waved away mosquitoes, and within seconds was sounding out African words:
“kchì … sala …”
“How long does it take?” Billy asked.
I blinked at him, pretending I’d forgotten he was there. “What the devil are you on about? How long does
what
take?”
“The medicine. To work. How long do I gotta wait?”
“Until your headache’s gone.”
“Oh.”
I returned to my journal, fanning myself a bit with my palm-leaf hat before setting it back on my head.
“Does it hurt?” he asked.
“Does
what
hurt?”
“That.” And he poked my chest wound with a grubby finger.
“Bugger and blast, Billy! Keep your hands off me! Of course it hurts, you dolt!”
“Sorry. Just wondering, is all.”
“Don’t you have something to do?”
Billy shrugged. “Not really. What are you reading?”
I sighed, pulling my journal away from his prying eyes. “You know, Billy, it’s helpful after drinking medicine to rest awhile.Especially if you’ve a headache. Apply a wet rag to your forehead and shut your eyes. Two to three hours should do it.”
“My headache’s gone now.”
“Oh.” I suspected that there had been no such thing as a headache in the first place.
“I wish I coulda been there.”
“Been
where?
Billy, can’t you see I’m busy?”
“I wish I coulda seen it when you branded him.”
I turned away, disgusted, and gazed off into the distant sky, the clouds heavy and promising rain, my wound throbbing. I was trying to forget that dreadful day.… The fire of hatred in his eyes. His teeth, filed to points. The stink of burning flesh. My own shrieks of pain … To forget the shame I felt over the rage that had consumed me and the pain that I’d inflicted upon him. Him—a helpless slave.
“They say you branded him hard, like you was trying to reach his backbone.”
“Clear off, Billy.”
“They say he’s a mighty warrior. Or
was
a mighty warrior, anyways.”
A warrior?
I admitted a grudging admiration toward the slave who’d defied us. Who stared directly at his captors with unabashed hatred. Who refused to make a sound even as I inflicted horrible pain upon him. Certainly the slave possessed a courage I could never hope to have.
“They say he’s meek as a lamb now, all ’cause of you,” Billy was saying. “That you could poke him with a sharp stick and he won’t do nothing.”
“Who says he was a warrior?”
Billy shrugged again. “Everyone. They say his name’s Ikoro, which means ‘warlike,’ and that he hates us white folk.” Andhere Billy raised his bum and released some wind with a loud honk, grinning. This display of bodily functions seemed to distract him, however, as for a while afterward he appeared at a loss for words.
“Well,” I prompted him, after scooting away several feet, “what else do they say? Exactly why does
Similar Books
