NOTE: This is historical fiction; I retain original speech for authenticity; it aims to reflect a certain era’s voices, not to stereotype.

Savannah, Georgia

August 1880

A peach hung low on its branch in the midday sun, reaping the heavy burdens of a summertime heat. There, under the canopy and patchy shade of its tree, the fruit slowly deteriorated. Its twisting stem barely gripped. Its skin, blotchy and dry, no longer flashed its true colors, and had stretched itself into a rough deformity. It had been tortured without water in the light, stripped of pride, and left defenseless against the finch, who desperately picked their beaks into it’s hanging body, hoping to satisfy their thirst; but its drops only made the birds more impatient. They perched themselves atop the strongest branches and waited for the fruit to fall, where they would jump and dive and swoop up what pieces it could before it joined the rot. For in the scorching soil below, beetles, maggots, and all the rest feasted. In a mindless apathy they worked, and never did stop. They were as hungry as the finch and it was only after a new fruit would fall, did they take a moment to pause. 

Within the grove, trees ran row after row and spread for miles on each side, where leather-tough hands picked its crops and fought to keep their conscious minds afloat. It was the years hottest season, when the bees hardly stayed for long. They came and went in the early morning, just as the edge of the sun kissed the horizon, and didn’t return until the day’s tasks were done. The land was quiet, and silence swept along with the breeze. Cicadas hid their humms under the earth and the finch suffered far too much in the heat to chirp when the sun was up. All that remained were the workers, who’s distant chatter could be heard to the county line.    

“Ah ain’t want nuh lickins’ fuh dis, yah heah?” went the woman. She stood underneath the tree, holding a basket in hand filled almost to the brim in peaches. Her face folded as she used the rag pulled from her breastpocket to swat at the fruit flies surrounding them. She ran the cloth back up to her brow, soaking up each droplet that seaped underneath her bandana, then went, “yuh nuh what happened tuh Mary las’ week?”

“Six gashes cross de back, ah know’se ’t already Betty,” spoke a man below, who took the basket and placed it atop his shoulder. 

“But is youse not hongry?!” He asked, in a deep tone so raspy that it sounded like his voice had been marinated, for years, in syrup and cigarettes. He arched his back, and though crooked and stout, was able to keep his shoulders balanced with the weight of the basket. The mans dark skin shown many wrinkles and his eyes, glossy and teary like a bulldogs, convinced one that each fold had a story. 

“Ah’s workin’ Johnny. Naw ah ain’t hungry, but ah could shuh’ use some ah dat wahtah. How bout’chu head o’er ’n fetch us some muh, yessuh?” 

“Oh sho’ thang Betty,” he fired, while slowly lowering the basket and its contents back down to the ground. Then he turned and went on with a metal pitcher in hand over to the wagon, which staked itself into the soil a few dozen trees away. There, rested on its wooden frame, stood an old whiskey barrel. Johnny reached down to its spicket and began filling the pitcher, keeping his gaze below. On the side of the barrel, painted in a red brighter than a ripe watermelon, read “DIRTY N*****S WATER”. 

He quickly made his way back to Betty, kicking up dirt over the rotting fruit around him, but never saying a word to the other workers. For the shade kept everyone reserved to only those under the same tree.   

“Miss,” he murmured, handing the pitcher back up to her.

“Thank yuh,” she replied, taking a slow swig from its body before slamming it back down into his hands. She reached across her to pull off a washcloth, which hung along a thick branch above the one she picked from. Broken leaves and small bugs were caught in its thread. She gave it a few shakes, then soaked her brow again.

“Naw Johnny, ‘s yuh hungry?”

“Ah is, but youse de one dats sho’ lookin’ hongry. Ah seen de way youse been lookin’ at dem peaches, eyes ah’most tryna cut’cha ah slice.” 

“Well naw Johnny…. ah sees yuh, ’n ah know yuh hungry. Shuh’ mus’be hahd wurkin’ when yuh sittin’ undah dat tree. Mus’be tired from ah’ll dat re—”

“Shut it fo’ Gawd do Betty!” Johnny cursed, as he slapped her across the face. The sheer pain shot through her faster than the mark could form, bringing tears to run over the burn. She held her cheek tight, cowering back to the other side of the trunk and pushing the basket behind her. Droplets clumped together where her jawline met her neck, morphing into murky clouds from the dirt it took along with it. Suddenly the muttering workers around them grew louder.  

“Let ah axe a’gin,” Johnny demanded, now resting his back against the trunk directly opposite from Betty’s side. He drove his head back, scraping his knappy hair along the bark, and ripping pieces off that he largely ignored. His tunnel vision stayed at rest, where his eyes peered through the holes of the canopy and into the blue sky. Then he shifted his gaze down to his carpenters shirt—its bottom fabric cut off above his belly, and its only spot left clean under the flap of its collar. He pulled it back to wipe his brow. 

“Ah’was wurkin’Johnny, jus’lakyuh ‘pusedtuh!” She cried out, speaking in gasps that pushed out clumped words between each breath. 

“Youse right ‘bout one thang Betty. Ah’s tired ah restin’. Ah’s hongry.” 

Suddenly, Johnny reached out and grabbed a peach from the basket and held it in front of his eyes. 

“Ya’lways been!” She yelled and stood up, turning to snatch it from his hands before returning back behind the trunk; but to Betty’s surprise, Johnny hadn’t lashed out to claim it back. Instead he remained still and his voice, soft and buttery, had only gotten calmer. 

“Evah think ‘bout de past?” He then asked.

“…Yessuh, ah duhs.” She responded, puzzled by his abruptness. 

She reached down for the rag and took the pitcher with her back to her side. 

“Wheah else’d mind wandah ’n dese fields?” She asked, sinking her rag into the water.

“So youse a dreamer then?” He asked.

“Suh hahd nut tuh be. Ain’t easy livin’, but ah says ’t bettah naw den befuh,” her eyes scanned the trees ahead of her, “ah’s been thinkin’ de Lawd gave us mem’brin tah mind us ‘bout de wurst. Ah mean, what’d we be thinkin’ bout if we fu’get?”

“Runnin.” 

“Wat’chu tryna run from?” Betty asked, then pulled the rag out of its brown water to let it drip over her feet. 

“Ah mean, we’se ain’t free.” 

“Say’s dat a’gin?”

“Youse heahd me, ah said we’se ain’t free.”

“Naw Johnny, yah shuh’ yuh ain’t thirsty? Yuh speakin’ lak yuh guts drunk uh sumpin’, what’s been happenin’ wit’chu?”

“Youse really wanna know?” he asked, pulling himself up the trunk and walking back to face Betty. 

“Ah does.” She replied, then scanned his face for answers.

He motioned with his sharp eyes for her to listen, and after feeling a quiet attention upon him, scratched the sweat that had been trapped inside a deep scar on his cheek. Then he began:

“We’se born slaves. Born ’n chains wit’ah soul fo’ de purpose tuh work ’n dats ’t. Within de rail-roads, de fields, de pens, all ah ’t. Dey told us cotton fo’bidden, rice fo’bidden, tobacco ’n all de rest. But dem peaches, naw dem peaches okay. Dey okay tuh eat, dey okay tuh grow, dey okay tuh pick. Dey e’en bring ‘em tuh us each day afah’ workin. We’se use tuh throw dem peaches ’n de rivah late ’n de eve’nin. Mistah Henry, he’d drop ‘em ’n de firepit. Leav’d all kinds ah ash. Lak de color ah squirrels ’n such. Youse ain’t had de choice. Well, wife ’n kids ah mine, we’se throw’d ‘em peaches ’n de rivah tuh wash ‘em off. Call’d ’t natures seasonin’. Coase cuz we’se ain’t git no salted meat from Mistah Henry. No ma’am—”

“Kids lak tuh be ’n de wahtah?” Betty anxiously interrupted.

“Yes ma’am. Kids love jus’ bout e’erything ‘bout de wahtah. Whole family does. It’d always been ah little ‘scape from de rest.” 

Johnny let out a sigh, acting as if the air was beginning to close in on his throat. 

“Den came de enin’ afah de war enid. Yankee blues all wearin’ de same clothes, jus’ something ah ain’t neva seen befo’. Lak dey was sold together, ’n fighting fo’ what? Ah saws ‘em when dey got heah, ain’t looked lak dey won anytha—”

“But we’se wun, Johnny.” Betty interrupted again.  

He dug his fist in the dirt and pulled out a thin weed to scrape his nails along, while he tried to keep his shakey wrists steady.

“Las’lection came!” He paused, “…dem boys ’n blue went on home wit’it. Ah ain’t seen em since, not ah single one.”

“Johnny they’se ain’t ‘round nuh muh since de wah endid, but we’se gettin’ helped naw. We’se free. Quit actin’ lak a dawg Johnny, yuh actin’ suh sad yuh guts me wur’yin’ bout if yuh gunna bite.”

Quickly he broke out into an anxious itch, scratching bits of broken bark and leaves and twigs off his face, with his eyes strained wide open. He began to speak wide enough for his whole mouth to show. Brown and tarnished teeth each angled themselves in no similar direction. Some reached long enough for his tongue to touch, while others were so grinded down and belittled that one would think his gums would suck them back in. As he spoke, his lips clenched both broken arrays into a smile, exposing the gaps that appeared more evident than before.

“Grove up North fieldin’ mo’ peaches den cotton, mo’ den we’se got heah. Callin’ itself Fruitland, thinkin’ dat apples ’n oranges’ll sell mo’ den tobacco.”

“Dat ain’t neva de truth.”

“Oh but Betty ’t is! Ole’ workin’ friend ah mine use’tuh make ah livin’ deah befo’ he came down heah. Had a scar lak mine ’n spoke so well you’d ah thank he was a white man.”

“Ah ain’t seen ‘em befuh’, where he frum?”

“Athens ’t turn out, but ah neva know’se what happen tah him heah. Folks ’twas sayin’ he’se ran up tah Carolina. Workin’ shipyards ’n such ahs thinkin’, but who knows?”

“Must’ve seen de Lawd ’n his sleep.”

“We’se all have, but some ah us gots tah stay.”

“But we’se free tuh leave Johnny, yuh ain’t chained tah nobody…. Johnny?!”

He stood now with his back turned to her, scanning the vast grove that appeared before him. There were the chirpping finch, resting upon its branch, and the maggots feasting upon the rot below; but nothing in the field had caught his eyes more than the trees themselves. How unkept they looked, with their branches in any such length, flailing in any such way, yet they stood strong within their roots. He thought to himself, “how many are there?” Then his eyes began to run along in a craze of disheveled impatience, stretching his sockets and twisting every fold of his brain in a desperate effort to find where the trees found their end, but there appeared to be no end. The heat, since the mornings passing and the bees departure, had rose with the soil. It swirled up the stench of those decomposed and brought about a haze in the distance, too cloudy for one to see past it. 

His madness grew. For as he reached the end where the haze began, he witnessed how the trees had changed. Their fruit had disappeared, swallowed up whole by the endless green brush. It was all that was left and, as his eyes searched past through the haze, green was all he saw. Then he shook awake, so startled that the built-up sweat broke off the crevice of his scar. He turned back to Betty. “Fo’bidden fruit! Ah sho’ wish ah ain’t free! Cause I sho’ woulda enjoyed dem peaches! But no! Naw dey jus’ ah notha’ black burden an ah white gift! Damn Hoovah! Damn de Masta! Let Gawd strike ‘em dead from where’er he stands! Ahh!” 

Johnny began to howl and cry out in a thunderous tone, swinging his fists into the air and cursing, while Betty froze still in fear against the trunk of the tree. 

“Ah’s ain’t free…ah’s ain’t free…ah’s ain’t free, an youse!” He shouted, turning his gaze back down to Betty. “Youse ain’t free neither, but ‘tleast youse could leave!”

“Yuh crazy!” Screamed Betty. With tears soaring from her shaken eyes, she stood up to come face-to-face with the man. He was not much taller than her, and with the slouch of his beaten back, the two appeared almost the same height. 

Johnny laughed at her response, bringing the manic intensity of every muscle in his body to an unexpected low. Then he began to unbutton his shirt, looking at Betty with a strangely assuring smile. 

“Ah ain’t.” He replied. Then he turned the shirt inside out, bundled it into a ball, and stuffed it against his face to mask his chuckle. 

“What’chu… what’chu mean ah could leave?” Betty stuttered. 

Suddenly, Johnny threw his shirt to the side, and looked into her eyes. 

“Knows mah daughtahs?” He asked.

“Ah neva seen ‘em.”

“Well, dey loved de wahtah lak ah said,” he continued, “but dey sho’ loved dem peaches mo’. E’en afah de wah, e’en afah we’se git ah own Fruitland…e’en afah signs, dawgs, fences ’n all de rest ah his ways.” 

“Hoovah?”

As if the word pressed a button in him, Johnny without hesitation, ripped a peach from a branch above and cried, “Hoovah! If Gawd made Jesus, den damn Lucifah fo’ he made him! Ah know’se ’t! He’se made ah freed slave ah slave a’gin. Five thousand he chahged me fo’ five peaches mah chillen’ took. Paid back ’n chains!”        

“Johnny t’ain’t nuh way yuh payin’ dat back, yuh kids neither. Yuh guts tuh run naw, yuh can take’em wit’chu!”

“Ah nevah will!”

“Yessuh yuh can Johnny, Hoovah ain’t gunna fin’ yuh!”

“Youse lyin’. We’se all see it, Hoovah knows!”

“Yuh guts tah have faith.” Betty muttered, then looked down into the soil where the bugs swarmed a fallen fruit. 

“Ah ain’t got no faith.”

“Well yuh guts tah try!” 

“Ah ain’t gon’ try, cause ah know’se ah’s ah slave an de best thang a slave’s tah do’s tah keep goin’ on. Youse act lak yah fig’gered ’t out? Youse ain’t e’en take ah risk. Take ah peach if youse got faith.” 

For one, there are two worlds—that of their reality, and the journey to escape it.

His cotton shirt, soaked through from a muddy mix of sweat and liquor, weighed him down as his feet struggled to find level ground. In strange ways he moved—a pinched figure swaying about the grove, but with a tainted certainty. It was within his lifeless body, where the veins were pulsing to a burst, and straining his eyes into a murky bloodshot as clouded as his sense of time. 

“Dooz’ie ’t slow!” He cursed, while he struggled to find where the soil met the sky. 

Here in the grove, no tree came tall enough to give him shade, yet each step found a way forward; but gravity, in its silent unpredictability, was at anytime a powerful friend or foe in the mans journey. Drunken apathy pumped a blind confidence, and following that, a step forward into whatever the soil held below him. Sometimes a pile of crumpled leaves, or half-buried ditches, but mostly it was the roots that had fought their way to the surface. They tripped his staggered form, throwing him sideways into a nearby trunk. He’d break his fall on a bruised shoulder and wrap his arms around the branches until the swishing sound of the bottle ceased. Then it was another swig from the glass, a sticky burn that brought back his spirits.

For miles he had repeated this, moving onward down the row that stood two walls of ivy on either side. At a distance they whispered and urged the man into a manic judgement. The trees ran far along, and at the end, where blue met green and the bees kissed the pollen, a big white house stood tall.

He heard the rustle of branches, but felt no breeze. There sat figures, much like himself it felt to him, except blurred in appearence. They had no mouth! No nose! No eyes! They’d distorted into simpler shapes. Then none at all. Left with nothing but blank and black faces. 

“Dooz’ie ’t slow ah tells you!” He cried, pressing his knuckles into each eye and rubbing off the sticky dew. 

Then he darted his gaze back at the couple, foggy in sight, crackling broken branches beneath their feet. The sun was wringing consciousness from every ounce of him and leaving the poison to dry. Underneath the tree ahead, he could make out so few—the tan hanging cloth, those dark faces, and the shine of what they held in their hands. He slouched forward. Within the canopy he could smell the fruit, some rotten below, but one in the hands of a dark figure, a black one, and that fruit in hand—it was forbidden in deed!

“Betty run!”

The basket split in half, sending with it a flurry of pulp and screams in every which way. Peaches lay in pieces where the man broke his fall, sunk into the earth along with the shattered glass. There they stood, overlooking the drunken figure laid before them. His shoulders arched akwardly where the arms twisted back and his shirt clumped into sweaty mats. By his feet, where one wore a canvas boot and the other what was left of a sock, appeared a lurking colony of ants. They feasted, not only on the newfound fruit, but the rotting pile left out of the shade.

“Ah’m sick ah duh massa!” Pray Hoovah neva wake!” Betty screamed and pleaded, then violently kicked the pitcher and its water into the man’s chest. 

“Oh Lawd, pray Hoovah neva wake!” 

Johnny stood beside, still slumped against the trunk, but silent and focused on his shakey hands. Cuts carved deep into them. He watched as blood seeped through hidden marks and mixed with the pulp, ears tuning out Betty’s thunderous rant. 

“Ah know’se de Devil’s workin’, he workin’ heah!” Hidden ’n watchin ’n he laughin! He ‘shuh does. Ah…. Ah know’se ’t! They’se mus’be mo ’n dat bottle den licka’! Mo’ hap’nin fo’ em den getin drunk. Ah know’se ’t ah jus’ know’se ah do!”

By this time, other workers had formed around them, witnessing her outcry underneath the shade of the trees around them. Grouped in two’s and three’s and four’s, they rested against the trunks and muttered to eachother between breaths. None had confronted, nor helped them, but instead stayed back. 

Several minutes passed and Betty hadn’t once stopped. She still stood over the man, twisting her tone into various curses without giving attention to those congregating around them. Beads of sweat clumped to her face, flowing down her cheeks with each spoken word. Then, after another long verse, her eyes flashed. Suddenly she had stopped and began to think, while scanning those around her and wiping the bloodied pulp from her neck. She shot her gaze back down at Johnny. 

“Yuhs ah lyin’ son, ah work ah nuh Gawd dat ain’t neva hads de guts tah run yo’self. Yuh a cuwahd, ’n dem peaches was neva gon’ be yuhs ‘f yuh ain’t take ‘em yuhself.” 

“Youse ain’t gots de right tah say ah thang woman!” Johnny fired back, then without hesitation grabbed a split half of the basket and clubbed it into her head. 

She collapsed, hitting the back of her neck against an exposed root. 

“Damn yuh Johnny! Ah knew yuh was nuthin’ but a roach! Soon as yuh dawtah got caught!” 

“Damn yo’self. Youse ain’t had de lick ah fight’n fo’ as long as ah ‘member, ’n de sec’n youse gets ’n trouble yuh callin’ quits? Youse always gon’ be a black bitch!”

“Ah ain’t nobody’s bitch!” She cried, then lunged out at Johnny, but before she could get a grip on his neck he had swung back down on her head. There, towering over Betty’s body, he continued to strike with full force. After several more swings she fell unconscious. 

“Youse de bitch! Ah know’se ’t. Ah ain’t nobodys!” He cried down at her broken face.

“Youse ain’t fight fo’ long… ah know’se ’t!” Johnny howled. He shook with his voice and stomped the ground as if trying to wake her up; but as he kept his view on her eyes, his tone quickly surrendered into a raspy and dry depression. 

“Betty…. Betty? C’mon ah know’se you gots fight ’n yuh.” 

He bent down to slap her face, but her bleeding head fell back into the dirt. 

“Don’cha put dis on me naw Betty, ah know’se youse a fightah.” He cried again, but as he bent back down to shake her, a man appeared behind him.

“Lettuh be Johnny, she gone. Yuh beata head in so bad, she lookin’ no bettah den dem peaches smooshed undah yuh feet. Massa Hoover, when he do wake up, gon’ fine out ‘bout you killin’ ah worker. Suh, ah reckon boy, you gots two options. Which’s it you wanna heah first?”

“Willy, ah ain’t killed ha she jus’ took ah little too hahd ah hit’sall.”

“Yuh either bury her ’n run, oh stay ’n take a killin’ worse den yo’ dear friend heah e’er took. What’s ’t gon be naw Johnny?”

“We’se ain’t free….ah….ah…..ah cin’t go no long!” 

“Yuh gots two choices Johnny.”

He wiped his tears off with the sleeve of his shirt and pulled back his attention from Betty. 

“What choice did ah eva have?”

He looked down at his master, who laid unconscious on the other side of the wrapping trunk. His figure remained still, and crutched into a ragdoll no different than when he first collapsed. Down at his belt hung his .44 and a golden ring of keys.

“Ah’s tired ah restin’, naw ah needs tah run!” He yelled and without a moments pause, took the pistol from his masters holster. Willy tried to stop him, but he was too quick. He unloaded the whole six rounds into the back of his head, ripped the keys off with the belt, and ran as fast as he could.