Draft of Exposition (not finished quite yet)

The hot summer sun beat down on his back. The thick August air smelled sweet with the aroma of sugarcane, which he was chopping diligently with his machete. He closed his eyes trying not to feel the sting of the sweet juice dripping into the cuts on his hands or his tired shoulder muscles. He found it was easier to focus only on his job and nothing else. He would try to cut each stalk efficiently and with precision. Hack, hack, hack, getting lost in the rhythm.
He glanced down the row to catch a glimpse of the overseer watching intently for any mistakes, any slackers. The thought of that man giving compliments made Maurice laugh, although he kept it to himself. Master Lessard, the overseer, looked down at Maurice working, said nothing, and continued on his rounds. This was comparable to a nod of approval coming from this strict white man with his neatly trimmed black moustache. Maurice decided to slow his pace now that he wasn’t being watched.
Hack…hack…hack. He found this rhythm not as easy to get lost in and he felt the floodgates of his mind open with repressed memories. All morning he had tried not to let himself think about it, but he had already admitted it to himself and once he had, it was too late to stop it. Today was the anniversary of his mother’s death. Of course he would never know the exact date, but annually Master Paré would come around looking to buy slaves. Maurice didn’t know where he was from, but he was a trader and every year, like clockwork, he would visit during the muggy month of August.
Six years earlier, on Master Paré’s third annual visit, Master Fortin, the owner of the plantation, had been looking to sell a tall, thin, frail woman who was Maurice’s mother. Of course, nobody in the family knew about this plan, because the day Adèle was going to be sold she died instead. Her illness came suddenly and during her last moments she had been coughing, vomiting, and in the heat of the day she collapsed. She had died in the fields, which disgusted Maurice most of all. She died with the whole world knowing she was a slave, she died working her fingers to the bone.
Once he saw the distinctive white speckled horse of Master Paré he knew that the anniversary of her death had come again, for the sixth time. He had only been eleven years old at the time, but from that day on he resented everyday he had to work in the same fields where his mother died. His heart grew harder, and harder, his hatred grew deeper and deeper. His hatred of the pale skin of white men, his hatred for the binding shackles of slavery. Because of slavery his mother had been worked to death under the threatening crack of a whip. Leaving him to care for his little brother who had also died a year later when he got a high fever.
Émile was six when he died, strong and tall like Maurice, with dark skin that he inherited from his mother. Both Émile and Maurice were fathered by Master Foritn, which was not unusual. On the plantation of about 200 slaves no one quite knew how many mixed children there were. Maurice’s skin reflected his white father’s, but his face perfectly mirrored his mother’s. Almond shaped-eyes, long eyelashes, a sharp set jaw, a warm smile and round cheeks. Adèle’s face was not the only trait Maurice had inherited. She passed down to all of her descendants her towering height.
Maurice tried not to think about that awful day years ago, when he realized how cruel the world could be. He found his thoughts straying to Célèste, his new wife who was pregnant with his baby. He knew they weren’t legally married, but that didn’t matter to him. _________(blah, blah, blah, don't know what to say here yet)________________. ________ –
His thoughts were interrupted by Henrí, another field hand:
“Maurice, three nights from now there is something big going on in the woods,” Henrí whispered, just barely moving his lips. Maurice looked up with his eyes, scanning to see if there was anyone in hearing distance. He didn’t move his head even the slightest inch and he never deviated from his rhythm of hack, hack, hack. Maurice and all the field hands had perfected the art of talking while working. You could never be too careful. Not only did you have to check for overseers, but even your fellow slaves couldn’t always be trusted. People were loose-lipped and some would say anything to get their freedom. Maurice and Henrí had been friends since they were younger than Émile and they trusted each other.
“Yes?” Maurice whispered back. He had the feeling the information Henrí was about to tell him was important.
“There is a meeting of slaves.” He said, “A man will be there making a prediction about the future of this colony.”
“What do I care about the future of the colony?”
“It’s about freedom.”
That got his attention.
“What do you mean?”
“The man is predicting a war, a rebellion.” Henrí continued, “it will be the biggest we have ever seen, it will end slavery.”
Maurice raised his eyebrows.
“Please come,” Henrí said. “The winds of change have started to blow.” And with that he heaved his full bundle of sugarcane over his shoulder and headed down to the next row.
Maurice stopped his endless rhythm for a second to stand upright and wipe the sweat off his forehead. Maybe it was just his imagination but he suddenly felt a slight breeze blow, churning the heavy August air.

Word Count: 980