And that thought never leave her for long. Running, that is. There are things the King Sister will say, and sometimes just how she say it, that make her think there is a place near her side. Or close. That they are women together. And yet there are other times when Emini will drop something, a spoon, undergarment, hairpin, and expect Sogolon to pick it up. Women might be equal here, but she is not the one this princess equal to.
And so the caravan come to a stop in this wet valley. She wait for Emini’s little snore, and the big nose cackle from the sleeping wagon driver. The door hiding behind drapery at the back is locked from the outside, but some fool put a small window right on level with her eye, wide enough to shove her hand through. Now she is down the little ladder to the ground lost in ferns that swallow her up to the knee. All around her the darkness is blue and misty. Tall tree trunks rising up into the dark and necklaces of vines hanging down. Two fires, weak in all this wetness but still going, horses and mules tied off to trees and the women sleeping under furs while two stand watch holding one torch. Farther off. Her wagon is so far back that they wouldn’t see her even if they turn around, and those behind her, all over the bush like white spots, all asleep. Now is the night, girl, say a voice that sound like her. Now is the night to make distance between you and every white woman. Now is the night to run.
But where she running to? say another voice that sound like her. Sogolon hear this voice before, one that sound closer to her, a voice that slow down her step and calm her heart. No. Calm is not what it do to her heart. The voice don’t slow it down with peace, but with confusion and fear. Right here is the bad she know, out there is the good she don’t, which could be worse than bad. Worse than worse. So the voice telling her. But Sogolon getting tired of that voice, tired of its mosquito buzzing in and out of her ear. No bad that she know sound better than the bad she don’t, when that bad is her brothers chaining her around the neck and putting her to live in a termite hill. The bad that she know is Miss Azora training her to be a whore, then auctioning off her koo to the first rapist. The bad she know is the mistress giving her away like a trinket, and the master and his wicked cock, the sharp point of his rage. The bad that she know can go lie down and spread its legs and get ripped open by a buffalo’s cock. She would rather run off a cliff, wade into the deep part of the river, run down a road with no marker, or where there is no road. Is not where you running to, she tell that feeble voice, getting feebler. Is the running itself. Not knowing where to go is what stop too many from going, keep too many staying, and leave too many not knowing that it don’t matter where you running to as long as you run. Not seeing what lay before them never stop anyone from running in the dark. Girl, nobody here give a care for where you go, not even you, so make distance between you and them. You cannot stay here.
See the girl run, but the running is hard. Everything turn into nothing in the dark, and no fire burning to light up these trees. And the ground is tricky, soft and muddy, sucking in her foot with one step, then rocky and sharp, scraping her ankles with the next. Sogolon don’t know where to go other than away, but there is no sun to tell her east from west and she never learned to read the stars that she cannot see. And this is a new moon, so no grand light is in the sky. She try to run but the mud hold to her feet too long, not letting go unless she pull. The ferns wet her calves, and the rough leaves begin to scratch her. Then her toe buck something and she trip. The scream burst through her throat before she even think it and she break through some branches as she fall. Sogolon squeeze her eyes tight, hoping in the quick for mud, but she don’t hit the ground. She wasn’t falling slow—nobody falls that slow when the ground hungry to take you. Maybe she already fall and it is so hard that she lose feeling. Or maybe the fall knock her out and she is lying flat in the dream jungle. Sogolon realizing that her face is still in a wince and her eyes still closed.
Her eyes open to the same darkness, with wet ferns brushing against her face. Sogolon can see leaves at least, and hear night insects. She can even smell the damp dirt. But she can’t understand how she is not feeling the dirt, nor any hurt from the fall, nor mud on her face or in her mouth, or the firmness of the ground. She squeeze her eyes shut, then open them again, but there she is, lying almost flat, a breath away from the ground, but not touching it. She gasp, not in fear but in wonder as her clothes hang loose, away from her. Sogolon wiggle her toes only to realize that she is wiggling in air. She stretch her hands out and the tips of the ferns tickle them until they no longer brush her skin. She is rising, higher than the shrubs, higher than the ferns, higher than the plants, rising into cooler breeze, now higher than Emini is tall. But what if she rise all the way up to the gods of sky? The wind could be playing with her, or toying with her. She hit the ground. Mud in her mouth now. Mud and fern, bulky and bitter, she think to swallow it just to remind her where she is. Is not where you run to as long as you run, but what if there is nowhere to run? It come over her, a sadness that feel like tiredness that sink her. All she seeing around her is nightfall, and all she hearing is insect. She not hearing the others who move at night, snakes, and hyena, and beasts that would dig their teeth right in her neck until the skin burst and her bones break. Nothing big moving through the bush, but if something shift or shuffle Sogolon know she will scream. Just because you’re too fearful don’t mean something not coming for you, say a voice that sound like her. Maybe those who can see in the night already see her, already size her up, already thinking this one will do, now that she is no longer in the safety of numbers, weapons, and fire. A voice that sound just like her say, Girl, you have no memory of this bush. She turn to go back to the caravan only to realize that she can’t see the way back. Sogolon wrap herself in her arms, and tell herself that all that shaking is the ground, not her bones. Nothing to do now but wait until first light and hope nothing out here is waiting for her.
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