Chapter XXIII

XXIII.

WHEN MIRA WOKE, she felt a searing pain in her forehead. She reached up to touch the wound and her hand was wet with blood. She wiped herself clean using the front of her shirt.

Wherever Mira was, it wasn’t outside. Inside a barn maybe. She must have run far enough away to get to one of the barns on the southern side of the house.

The air was stuffy and damp. A putrid mix of feces and urine, of decaying flesh. Of rot. Light streamed in from slits in the wooden walls, and Mira could see two tables, one with an array of paddles, whips, and a cat-o’-nine-tails, the other just a tabletop. All the instruments were stained a brownish-red color, dirty from blood.

Mira got up from the ground and walked over to the door. It was locked.

She jerked on the handle, pulling a couple of times in disbelief. She couldn’t figure how she’d gotten locked inside. How long had she been unconscious? It couldn’t have been that long, but then the light must mean it was morning. She began to bang on the door, crying for help, hoping someone would come.

Soon enough, Mira heard men’s voices from outside. She started to bang again but the sound of a loud wailing scared her enough to stop. The men’s voices grew louder. They were heading toward her. Mira crawled quickly across the floor to a corner to hide, burying herself as much as she could in a pile of damp straw.

The door opened and two white men entered. They dragged another man and threw him on the ground. The man on the ground was black. His clothes were ripped, and his shirt was stained a deep red on the side. His wrists were tied with rope. He tried to get up but one of the white men immediately grabbed the whip from the table and struck him down. He fell instantly and gave out a muffled cry.

“What’s that?” one yelled, and the man on the ground winced quietly, appearing to want to deny them the satisfaction of hearing his pain. The white men loomed over him and Mira held her breath, afraid that they’d hear and be emboldened to do more damage.

The two white men were almost identical in their dress. Both wore dark vests over white collared shirts. Belt buckle badges flashed. Wide-brimmed hats covered their heads. Their boots were caked in mud and the bottoms of their pants were darker than the rest, damp from the river where they’d hunted. These men were pattyrollers, self-appointed with the task of maintaining order. They carried themselves with a sense of righteousness as they enforced their judgments.

“He’s one of them that orchestrated this mess. That’s what they’re saying. He’s the one.”

“What about the others?” a third voice called, and Mira saw Roman enter the room. He walked in leisurely, as if on a stroll, as if the entire day had been saved for this. He appeared unbothered by the stench in the room.

The expression on his face was one of ambivalence, perhaps an air of slight annoyance that was directed more at the two white men.

Roman Woodsman. He was the common horror in all of this. He had orchestrated those women, gathered them together to profit off their bodies.

He was the one who’d forced those men to dig what she’d thought were graves, but maybe the task was a futile one, the act itself meant as punishment. They were slaves after all, their life of labor worth more than death, and it was their labor that had made him. The bending of backs until they broke. Their blood had made his money.

“Soon enough we’ll get them all. Don’t worry,” one of them assured Roman.

“What happened to this one?” Roman asked.

“Got hit by one of the bullets. Won’t last much longer. He’ll be gone before he’s rightfully punished.”

“A shame,” Roman said calmly, his demeanor in complete opposition to the other two men’s.

“Where’d you find him?”

“Bill here found ’im out on Keener’s property, in the cornfields.

Heading toward the swamps.”

“They’re all out there. We’ll wait ’em out.”

“We need to send a message,” urged the pattyroller who’d whipped the slave. “Make a public display for all the others so this never happens again.”

“This wouldn’t have happened if you were doing your job, Henry,”

Roman said, briefly betraying his own contempt. Henry lowered his head in shame. Roman ignored him, focused his attention on the kneeling man. “I already know what I’m going to do.”

Henry waited for an answer but Roman refused to elaborate. He asked to be left alone and then Henry left. He wouldn’t be able to see what would happen next. Bill stood, awkwardly.

“You can leave too now.”

“What about the money? You said if I caught you this one you’d give me the money for the land.”

“You’ll get your money. Leave me be.”

After they were gone, Roman walked over to the table, paused at each of the devices. The slave continued sitting on his knees, shoulders hunched, his body in clear pain.

“Jeffrey, I know you can’t help running away. I’ve heard of Cartwright’s theory. That it’s an illness. A type of madness. Annabelle seems to believe this too, which is why she treats you all the way she does. ‘They’re like children’ she tells me, ‘they can’t help themselves.’ She’s always carrying on, and I was inclined to believe her, but a child wouldn’t do this. A child wouldn’t do what you’ve done.”

Mira looked at Jeffrey’s face. She recognized his panicked look. She wished she could do something, but she remained frozen in the straw, watching in horror as Roman mused over each of the tools on the table.

“On a trip to Philadelphia, I saw a man with the finest shoes. They were a lustrous black and didn’t creak when he walked, and I was so curious about them that I stopped the man in the street and asked him what shop they came from so as to make a purchase for myself. Would you believe”—

he paused for effect—“would you believe me when I say that he told me they came from the skin of Negroes? He told me that and I laughed because it sounded preposterous.”

Jeffrey squirmed on the ground. He wrestled with the rope, trying desperately to loosen the bind. He didn’t try to plead with Roman, nor did he apologize for the revolt in the hope Roman would show some sort of leniency. He laid all his hope on the dim possibility of escape.

“They tied it tight, didn’t they?” Roman asked. He appeared unconcerned with Jeffrey’s efforts, instead picked a thin blade from the table. “Turns out he was correct. There’s a whole market for human leather, and not just for shoes.”

“That’s what you did to the others, isn’t it?” Jeffrey muttered. “I heard the stories, but I didn’t think they were true, but they are, aren’t they?”

“I’m told that the best leather is right here,” Roman said, ignoring Jeffrey’s question. He took the blade and pierced it on Jeffrey’s thigh, forcing a small pool of blood to form. Jeffrey winced again and Roman smiled.

“A buyer by the name of Aldridge has already paid me because he wants a pair of loafers fashioned from your flesh. Many will pay good money for a piece of you. Your tongue. Organs. Teeth. Skin. I’ve gotten so many offers. A man’s got to know what his property’s worth. So you see, I am going to sell every part of you and all the others. Every piece I can, and whatever’s left I’ll feed to the dogs. Even after your death you’ll still be of use to me. I want you to know that. Even dead I’ll have a use for you yet.

Don’t worry, this will go quickly since I won’t have to cauterize the wound.

I imagine it’ll go quickly for you as well. You’ll pass out from the pain soon enough, and your body will fail from the blood loss.”

Roman’s thumb ran along the smooth exterior of the metal blade. He kneeled before Jeffrey, stared directly into his eyes. He then whispered something to Jeffrey she couldn’t hear and Jeffrey closed his eyes, mumbled a few words before quieting. He was still after that, resigned to his fate. Roman pulled a rag out of his pocket and stuffed it into Jeffrey’s mouth.

Roman pushed Jeffrey so he was lying on the ground. He stood over him before sitting on his chest to keep him still. He took the knife and pressed it against Jeffrey’s face, beginning at the top of his jaw. He was careful not to press too hard. Jeffrey bellowed. Mira wanted to close her eyes, but she knew she had to learn the final piece of the story she’d pushed away. This is what Jesse had meant. Every day I see I struggle. She told herself not to look away. This was what was needed from her. To look. To see. She watched in horror as Roman guided the knife around Jeffrey’s face, beginning with the fleshier parts along the bottom. She hoped that by the time he’d moved from ear to ear Jeffrey would lose consciousness. Jeffrey writhed, but between his tied arms and the weight of Roman on his chest

there wasn’t much he could do. However much he squirmed, Roman was stronger, and Roman worked with the skill of someone who’d done this before. He was focused and patient as he slid the blade around Jeffrey’s face.

Roman was right. It did not take long before Jeffrey stopped moving, either from passing out from the pain or having finally succumbed to death.

Roman briefly stopped at this point, saying a prayer for the spirit who’d passed. When he finished his task, he stood up. All of his clothes were covered in blood. Blood on his pants. Blood on his shirt. Hands dripping with blood. He dropped the knife, unconcerned now if it wasn’t within his reach. He stretched his back and the crack of his joints echoed. Then he leaned down and picked on a piece of Jeffrey’s face, pulling on the skin as it peeled off. He held it in the air in front of him, this skinned face. Jeffrey’s face. It looked thin, like wet paper. Blood fell from the hanging flap into the dirt. Roman let it fall, waiting for the last of it. When the blood had slowed, he brought the flesh near to his own, slowly breathed in the scent. He closed his eyes and inhaled. He took another breath before bringing this mask of skin to his face, layering it on top of his own.

There was more to be done.

When Mira was a girl she had once stood outside while the boy she loved roamed this plantation taking photographs. After, he’d asked her what she’d seen and she couldn’t bear to speak it. Some horrors were unspeakable, unimaginable even, but weren’t they all until they happened?

While she had waited for him to come back to her, she’d seen a man wearing the stolen face of another. Hidden deep under the straw, Mira saw the man again.