Walk Through Darkness by David Anthony Durham

fastened to eyebolts in the wagon bed. She was barely more than a child herself, with slim shoulders and small breasts that were round and taut with milk. Her eyes studied her baby, never lifting to meet the gazes of the other slaves or to take in theworld as a whole. She sat cradling the child, nursing it, speaking to it in quiet tones that William couldn’t make out. He couldn’t see the baby, wrapped as it was in a stained cotton blanket, and he found himself longing to see the infant’s newly formed features. He wondered if a child born into such a world showed any sign of understanding it. Did he or she know what life held in store for them, or was it always to be a cruel surprise?
    By midday the voice of an older slave in the other group had become familiar to them all. He spoke encouraging words, hummed them almost, as if the simple directions he gave were hymns meant for a church gathering. He begged them to find a rhythm to their marching, to walk in time with one another, to feel the same breath within them and to share it between them. He urged them not to fight the march. “Lord no, don’t fight it. Don’t fight each other. Instead be the many limbs of a single being.” His words must have helped, for in listening to him William realized the day was passing.
    They camped that evening near a wooded creek well populated with frogs. The creatures set up a ruckus as the day dimmed and carried on long into the night, a croaking chorus with no discernible rhythm and yet somehow musical. The drivers, having doubly secured the slaves, plied themselves with even greater concentrations of liquor. They drained the whiskey keg straight into their tin cups and took the spirit undiluted. They bantered among themselves for some time, while the slaves sat just a few feet away, each hoping that the night would pass without further incident, each knowing that was unlikely. And indeed, before long the men’s revelry turned to distraction and desire. They chose a woman from among the slaves, unchained her and pulled her from the others. William looked away as they shoved her toward the back of the supply wagon. He set his head down, his temple flat on the dry ground, eyes open and staring out at a canted world. He was relieved when Lemuel began speaking, a low whisper but close enough to be heard.
    “One time …” the older man said. “This was back a good few years now. Had me an errand to do one afternoon.” His voice was softer now than William had ever heard it, though not from stealth. He didn’t speak as if he sought to conceal his words, but he seemed to have little breath with which to pronounce them. It was a cool afternoon, he said. He had come up a hillside and stood at the summit with the breeze against his face, the sweet kiss of it something he felt was meant for him alone at that moment. He dropped down into the next valley light on his feet, happy almost. And it was this joy that caused him to alter his normal course. He left the road and cut out through the woods, losing himself within the tree trunks. Only a momentary excursion, but one that reminded him of what it was like to experience the world with free eyes.
    “That’s how come I found them. Was three Negro boys and a girl.”
    He hadn’t known what they were doing at first, but as he drew nearer it became all too clear. They couldn’t’ve been no older than eleven or twelve. The boys had her pinned to the ground. From their seminude states it was clear that each planned to use her sexually. She struggled against them, but the boys were strong and fervent. One grabbed her by the hair and hitched up her skirt and fumbled to find his way into her backside. The sight sent Lemuel into a rage. He ran toward them and kicked that boy with a brogan hard into his face. He grabbed another and yanked his arm loose; tripped the last and sent him sprawling. Before he knew it he had a piece of half-decayed wood in his hands. He was lashing at the boys,