The air was dead, laced with the anger and greed of men.  I looked out over the crowd, an innate evil lingering in each man’s eyes.  I could see it all from my pedestal of humiliation, my scaffold of shame.  It was a sunless, winter day in Virginia and the blue of the sky was covered with a flawless blanket of gray clouds.

I stood beside my compatriots, hardly standing from exhaustion and a deafening sense of defeat.  I could barely hold my head level, much less think anything but thoughts of darkness.  Despair was my best friend and regret my muse.  Words had long ago run dry; they were far too expensive for me.  Thoughts were all that remained and they haunted me.

Beckoning ghosts lulled my attention to the present.  I gathered myself and once again panned the sea of men.  I was surrounded by my enemies.

My gaze fell to my hands, encased in biting rope.  A brief wish fled across my consciousness but was immediately dispelled by the sight of my hands...my black hands.  Dark as the midnight sky, black as the depths of the ocean where even the light of the sun cannot reach, these hands were a curse.  I had lived happily for so long in this skin; now it was only a source of condemnation.

Movement on the skyline caught my attention.  My eyes were drawn to a flying creature, a great, solemn eagle floating softly on the stagnant wind.  A sigh welled up and dared to escape my lips.  I pushed it deeper inside me, adding to my collection of inaudible protests.

At least you can fly, my dear, I thought to the bird.  Why don’t you teach me?

The only audible response I received was the auctioneer’s cries drawing nearer.  The eagle perched on a sturdy branch of the nearby tree, apathetically watching the affairs of men.  

Soon, a rough hand grasped my elbow, pushing me forward.  Dozens upon dozens of scrutinizing, jeering gazes pierced me, nearly pushing me over with their force of a thousand tornados.

My memory swept me back to a time when I had not despised my situation.  I had been a little girl, carefree and unconcerned with matters that didn’t apply to my limited life.

“Don’t wander outside the boundaries, Kuna.  Don’t ever step into the forest.”

My mother’s words, those words that I should have heeded, teased me.  They have taunted me for as long as the sun has risen over an alien horizon.  The same, relentless reasoning spun through my head:

I should have listened.  I shouldn’t have been so curious about that enchanted forest.

Some spoke of evil spirits, others of crazed, possessed men.  There were stories of weightless, glowing nymphs that could take your breath away with their beauty.

In actuality, the forest was infested with slavers– black slavers that disguised themselves as neighbors.  Enchanted indeed.

How could a man betray his own countryman?  How could one person sell another’s soul?  Who could dare place a price on a human soul?  What audacity, what effrontery!  The thought alone sickened me.

“Let the bidding start at seven hundred dollars!” the auctioneer was saying, my awareness slipping back into reality.  “Do I hear seven hundred?”  The ringmaster’s gaze panned the audience, an eager smile on his full face.

“Here!” a man yelled in reply, raising his hand.

“Seven hundred.  Seven-fifty?  Do I hear seven-fifty?” he boomed more enthusiastically, the money nearly swimming before his eyes.

Another hand rose from the mass.

“Eight hundred?” the auctioneer dared.  Panic rose within him when he received no response.  He pushed ahead theatrically, enunciating my finer qualities,

“She’s a lovely, strong lady; she’d make a wonderful house slave.  Just look, she has the face of a mother...”

“Don’t ever go near the woods,” my mother’s voice echoed.

“Do you hear me, Kuna?  Never go into the forest.  Do you hear me?  Do you hear me?”

I hear you!

My tongue had nearly overcome me.  My mind screamed at itself but my mouth remained blessedly shut.  To speak would be to invite pain.  I had disciplined myself well; it had now paid off.

The auctioneer’s voice thundered in my ear, announcing my pitiful value.

“Seven-fifty going once, going twice– ”

“Nine hundred!” a voice roared from seemingly nowhere.

I knew that voice.

My eyes raced to find the owner of the voice– that wonderful, familiar voice.  A voice from heaven.

A tall, young black man stepped through the parting crowd, approaching the block with a confident step.

“I’ll buy her for nine hundred dollars,” he repeated.

I looked down on the man and a chill of hope and utter joy consumed me.  My fingers tingled and my heart beat a rapid war-drum’s song.  My worthlessness melted away.

Just a few feet below me stood my husband, a glistening smile on his handsome face.  Bright stars shone in his night-sky eyes.  His arms were outstretched, welcoming me.  

There before me, no longer a mere dream, stood my beloved.  I couldn’t find my breath.

I didn’t even hear the auctioneer ask the crowd for a better price.  My thoughts were saturated with one man.  My ears lost their use.  I watched as he handed the auctioneer the money and stood, waiting patiently, as I was reluctantly untied.

The moment I was free, I leapt off the platform and embraced my beloved.  I didn’t take the road of shame down the steps like the others, my head hanging in disgrace.  I had been bought by someone who cared for me, who had worked long and hard, suffered blood and tears, to earn the money to free me.

We walked, arm in arm, from the plaza of death.  My life of toil and hardship had come to an end.  I left it behind with the chains and despair.

I was loved.  I was bought, released, from a situation that I had fallen into because of my own stumble.  I didn’t deserve it, but I was given it.  I was handed a precious gift: redemption.

“You’re far from home, Kuna,” the sweet voice said.  I shook my head gently.

“No, not anymore.”