##Myriad##-- Chapter 2

The brightness of the sun outdoors hurts my eyes and blinds them. Wincing, I put a hand up to shield them from the harsh light. The Overseer yanks me over to the nearest crew working on the frontline of the pruning. I spy a pair of discarded sandals and snatch them up; grateful for my good fortune, I don them quickly.

I work steadily under the oppressive heat gathering branches the ones with shears have cut. I do the best I can given the pace we are required to work at, trying to find the smooth parts of each stem. I am not always so lucky.

Someone shoves shears into my hands and pushes me towards the overwhelming tangle of leaves and blossoms. I hack mechanically at the brush, squeezing past branches to get to the thicker base stems. Thorns the length of my thumbs and wickedly sharp claw at my exposed shoulders, back, arms and legs. Their touch leaves those punishing marks on my body, the branches seem to jeer at my vulnerable state and make my work all the more harsh. The air is stifling.

Sweat trickles past my brow and stings my eyes. I shake my head to fling the moisture away, my arms buried deep in the branches. Someone slaps me; I’m not sure what for. A taller man growls and points to the roots of the nearest bush, where fallen leaves and dried blossoms have accumulated like dust under a bed frame. He is clearly indicating I should climb under and sweep the spider-infested mess out, probably because I am the shortest in the work group. Needless to say I have no such inclinations to do so. And in so few words, I tell him.

He promptly hits me and shoves me under the bush. I scramble forward to avoid his kicks.

Its grueling work, as I knew it would be. Even the luxury of shade cannot be enjoyed for the dust and cobwebs that float up with every swipe of my hand. I turn my fingers to the prongs of a rake, keeping the image of the steadfast tool in my mind as my fingers alternately scrape over things that scurry and crawl. It does little to calm my racing heart here in the dark, closed space of thorns and dust. My eyes water from endless sneezes.

I feel something clamp onto my ankles and yank, hard. Branches skim my face as I am pulled out from the bush backwards. "To your left!" I hear the Overseer order, as he stomps off to see that the work crew starts in on the next section of wall. I wipe the back of my wrist across my gritty mouth, breathing a deep lungful of hot dry air in through my nose to help steady my tilting world. Dehydration combined with the work combined with the yank have gone and set me off balance.

I’m yelled at for stalling and pushed forward, my feet rustling over paper-thin flower heads and brittle twigs.

We join another group, and step in to lend a hand with the monster of a bush they are pruning. To me it is immediately obvious why the Overseer needs our combined efforts: despite the bush being bigger and more overgrown than the last, the real problem lies in the group itself. Two male slaves are perched like proud rooks on ladders and wield the heavy shears. Apparently they think their positions are lofty in more ways than one, and being the considerate oafs that they are, they are clipping with abandon. The two unfortunate slaves below, a young man and a girl, are consequentially enjoying a thorn shower as they collect the fallen pieces. I watch as a falling branch snags into the girl’s hair and she shrieks as it scrapes her scalp. My teeth seem to grit of their own accord.

Soon enough I am part of the shuffle. I keep an eye on the girl as she sniffs and goes about her tasks. I realize now that the shriek might not have been because of pain, but because the trailing branch left a shallow red welt across her cheek. Looking at her strategically placed whipmarks, I would say that this pretty young thing was trying to "earn" at place indoors tonight. She’s disappointed that the labors have marked her and barred her from service. The other male works quietly, going about his task with his eyes on the ground. His legs are crisscrossed in stripes and bruises, but then most indoor male servants are allowed the modesty of long pants. His docile manner alone may be enough to buy him a ticket to the House, if the Overseer continues to lose workers to the elements.

And slaves are dropping like flies.

Workers emerge from the contrasting nightmare of thorns and blossoms with hands gouged from cutting tools and gashes from falling limbs. Only a few are judged serious enough to be sent —or carried—to the infirmary. Most are bandaged on the spot and send back in line.

The little snippet of a girl is working next to me, listlessly clipping with hand shears to shape the jagged leafed edge to the wall. She’s tired and tuned out to the world. She doesn’t flinch as a branch falls to the ground a few scant inches away. My eyes look up to see another branch falling, and this time it looks as if it won’t miss.

I slam into her, knocking her to the side as the heavy branch falls across my back. I’m able to get out of the way before the full weight drops on me, sliding on the thick layer of brown leaves. We’ve caused too much commotion for the Overseer’s taste, and he sends an officer over to investigate. After sorting limbs from limbs, I jump to my feet, my body protesting loudly but my pride louder. I will not be yanked again today.

Too late I realize my skirt has shifted, the note for the nobleman already fluttering out like a pale butterfly. I snatch at it, desperate to grab it before someone notices. The Overseer is occupied, but the other slaves aren’t. The girl I just shoved out of the way of the falling branch snatches it. I’m not even considering gentleness as I take it back. She howls as I crush her fingers together and rip the paper out of her shaken grasp. I stuff the paper back into my skirt just as the second commotion comes about, the girl glaring daggers at me as she is slapped and hauled to her feet. She’s angry about missing her second chance at getting a spot indoors—— turning me in for having a forbidden item might have worked favorably for her. I gaze unpityingly in her direction before being called back to work.

Through the day the sun stays strong, as I knew it would. The Overseer finally orders buckets of water drawn and carried to the site, as more and more workers have succumbed to heat exhaustion. I myself have never been one to faint easily, and I keep myself occupied besides by watching the others around me. Some I keep an eye on because they are uncaring in their work and I need to keep light on my feet for my own sake, some because they don’t look out for themselves. Slavery has a way of breaking a person’s spirit.

But even the most uncomfortable day has to end sometime. Eventually dusk settles in and signals the end to our labors. We gather what tools and ladders we have and start the slow walk back to the shed on the outer edge of the Estate. Watching my fellow miserable souls trudging next to me as we take heavy steps to the distant building, I can’t help but ponder the value of human life---how it can be bartered and sold, and how it can be extinguished. I see the hollowness shining out of a few of the haggard faces around me, and speculate on the degrees of death. I wonder if a person that is a shell without the spirit can really be called a person anymore. I wonder how much a dream can be crushed before it dies.

And then I see some around me that are not lifeless. I see sparks of personality, of awareness, of humanity, in their eyes. To my right is a woman with hair shorn short like a man’s, her bronzed arms well muscled with several seasons’ worth of work. Her mouth is set in a determined line and her eyes are level. An older woman passes me from the House, buckets in hand for the outdoor well. She still holds her back straight despite her years, and her stride is measured and strong.

I glance behind me. I’m surprised when the young man from before meets my gaze, the one with the quiet demeanor. His blue eyes reveal little, but a calm fierceness burns in their depths that contradict his seeming passivity. He too, has not been cowed.

I set my sights back to the dirt road I tread. The sky’s lantern has dimmed, the deep colors of twilight seeping across the land. I know that our day is not over yet, despite the day’s closing, but somehow today it does not rouse my anger or even despair. I have souls with me, human souls, who have not yet given up the fight to be alive.

And neither have I.