Squish… sludge… sludge. I wiped a grimy hand across my perspiring brow. I was following a slave caravan through a miry swamp. Then a much wanted bugle call was heard, informing us that it was time to rest. I sank against the rough bark of a nearby tree and closed my weary eyes. Almost immediately I drifted off into one of my favorite daydreams.

“Hey there, darling, why don’t you come here? I want to give you something.” A woman’s calming musical voice.

I could hear my own voice now, “Mommy, I’m coming.” I held my chubby little hands out. A little half moon necklace soon lies in my hands. The woman’s voice again, “So that you’ll always find me.”

“Slave, what on earth are you doing!?” Came the harsh and hostile voice of my mistress. I jerked awake guiltily. Then I noticed someone behind my mistress that made my spirits wilt even further. The mistress’s daughter. She had that malignant look on her face.

“I think, mother, she was dreaming about her parents. The ones that abandoned the little wrench,” the daughter said sadistically.

“They didn’t abandon me, I was stolen,” I hissed back. “I also recall that your daddy left you and your mother to fend for yourself!” I added spiritedly. Oh dear, I shouldn’t have said that. I felt the stinging slap as it sang across my face.

Then I numbly heard the words no slave ever wanted to hear: “Take that headstrong little imp to the whipping post!” screeched my outraged mistress.

“Um, Mother, remember we didn’t bring the whipping post or any whips,” the daughter muttered.

“Humf, then I guess we could just make her one of the trail blazers and see to it that she gets nothing to eat for a couple of days.”

As I was marched to the front of the caravans I spotted a couple of bare foot, haggard children cowering in the lee of one of the wagons, their terrified little eyes fastened upon The Mistress. I felt heavyhearted at the sight of these children because I knew exactly how they felt. I remember when I was a frightened tiny girl who was dragged into camp. I had been small for my age, and still was as a matter of fact. However after a few weeks, I realized that if I remained that scared little girl, I would never be able to conquer that fear. I slowly began to become more active, showing small resistance against the leaders of the slave caravans. I had made it my job to help new slaves into the camp so they were not so overwhelmed when they were first brought in. One of these was a wonderfully adorable bouncy girl whose name was Lizzie. Lizzie had a notable, irrepressible happy nature- one that I hope no one or nothing would ever crush. One that would not be nourished here. I was snapped out of my revere when I bumped into a tall and leering man. The Mistress said nastily, “Give this girl a stick and no food for three days.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the man growled, “Gladly.”

I crawled into one of the slave wagons where I could sleep in peace. My body was was crying out in agony from the brutal punishment it had endured during the day. My brown hair fell into knotty curls around my sunburned face. Then as I flopped down in tormented agony I heard a surprised yelp that sounded familiar.

“Lizzie?” I peered into hazy darkness of the wagon. Then I spotted my dear friend’s fuzzy blond hair peep up above one of the crates littered around. Lizzie scrambled up onto the crate, tottered there for a second, then half slid, half fell off it. Lizzie was an adorable eight year old with the curliest blondest hair that I have ever seen and the largest most curious blue eyes ever. She was relatively new here, so her pale skin hadn’t been darkened yet by the cruel sun. She didn’t yet have that scared hunted look either that all slaves get after a few months in camp. However, I was the exact opposite. I had lank brown hair that fell down to my shoulder blades. My skin was tanned the color of chocolate from my many hours of exposure to the elements. People always said my eyes were ones that made me unique. They were an elusive green, sometimes dark like that of a maple leaf or light like the ocean in summer time. They didn’t have the pathetic look that most of the slave boys and girls had; my eyes were full of determination and a hint of insubordination that always got me in trouble with my superiors.

Lizzie crawled up to me and asked, “Tough day, huh?”

“You can say that again,” I groaned.

Lizzie searched my face for a bit then pushed her hand into her tattered garment and pulled out a hard half piece of biscuit. “Here, you need it more than me.”

I could hardly refuse. After that, we simply sat in silence for a long time. At some point we drifted off to sleep.

I awoke to the sounds of the camp stirring. I was still smiling from my dream about my mom. The one where she gave me the half moon necklace. I pulled it out and flipped it over to see the calming faded words “I will love.” However I knew that those words weren’t complete. My soul whispered to me that somebody, somewhere was looking at the pair to this moon and wondering… wondering where their precious child could be. Little did I know that I would be meeting that somebody very soon.

I was starving and about to drop from pure exhaustion. Sludge… Slurp… Sludge. My entire body was on auto-pilot. They had given me a large stick to prod around to make sure that we weren’t about to fall into a sinkholes. Usually the trail blazers would switch out every two or three hours, but I had been at this post for almost a day and a half. Very dimly I heard a trumpet calling. Then I picked up a distant rumbling. Halting, I stood docilely, my head bent like an overworked horse.

“Come slave,” My mistress commanded.

I followed without complaint. My mistress came to a very startled and complete stop.

I peered up to see what on earth was happening. My jaw dropped open. It was the most gorgeous carriage I had ever seen. Along it’s sculpted sides were some eye popping black stallions. Astride them were magnificent soldiers, their shining armor glittering in the sun. All except one. She sat side saddle upon the most exquisite of the horses. The coat of the horse was an ebony black, while its mane was of a lustrous silver. The woman was a beautiful brunette with a fair pale skin that must not have felt the touch of sun often. Her eyes were a kind brown. Then the woman spoke, “Men, where on earth are we!?” That voice sounded familiar. Why?

The men looked at each other and then one ventured to say, “I don’t know.”

“Oh, well, what’s life without a little adventure?” the woman said offhandedly. The carriage had stopped where the pavement ended and swamp began. The woman seemed to realize that she was about to enter a swamp, and that there were two people gawking at her. “Oh, dear, we really did take a wrong turn!” the woman exclaimed. “My name is Rachel. What is your name?”

“Um… Ah… My name is Gertrude.” Gertrude stammered.

Rachel peered around Gertrude and upon spotting the grim caravans sniffed, “Oh, you’re part of the slave trading caravans are you?” The two woman glared at each other. While all of this was happening, my sluggish brain was still trying to figure out where on earth I had heard that voice before. Then something in my head clicked. That voice was the one I heard in my dreams! What could that mean? Surely that was just coincidence! Surely! Rachel had by now dismounted and was informing Gertrude of the sins of the slave trade. I slinked up to my mistress.

“Oh, hello! Who might this be?” Rachel inquired.

“That would be my slave girl, Martha,” Gertrude grumbled grudgingly. Rachel had a queer look on her face as she studied Martha. “How old are you, Martha?” Rachel inquired.

“About fourteen years, ma’am,” I replied.

Rachel stumbled back. “Surely not… it can’t be… but she looks like her!” Rachel murmured to herself. Gertrude was looking more and more worried. “Gertrude, where did you find this girl?” Rachel’s voice sounded downright murderous.

“Um… well… funny thing is I can’t remember where…,” Gertrude stuttered nervously.

Rachel’s eyes narrowed dangerously, “Then you’d better remember… quickly.”

Gertrude gulped. Gertrude was used to people being terrified of her, not the other way around. “All I know is that I bought Martha off this shady looking character- tall, real messy red hair, and one brown eye and one blue eye,” Gertrude said submissively.

“I should have known, that inimitable garden hand was behind all this,” Rachel ranted under her breath.

I had been watching this dialogue, with growing confusion. “Mistress, I thought you said that my parents had abandoned me!?”

“Yes, well, I lied,” Gertrude replied lamely.

I turned to Rachel, “You are…?”

“I’m your Mother.”

I felt as if I had been sucker punched. My eyes teared up. I could feel an electric thrill as it coursed through my body.

“My… Mother?” I gasped almost disbelievingly.

Rachel nodded encouragingly. Then an idea wormed it’s way through the exhausted fog in my brain. If Rachel had the other half of the moon then she had to be my mother!

“Ma’am do you have a half moon necklace, with words on the back?” I asked timidly.

Rachel blinked, moved forward and quietly pulled a silver necklace into view. It was a half moon necklace. Rachel drew nearer still. She held my part of the necklace then placed her part next to it. Now it clearly read: “I will love you forever.” “And I will, Martha, I will,” Rachel whispered in my ear.