Draft of Rising Action

That night, after a dinner of leftover table scraps, some of the young slaves met around a campfire near the cabins. It was their tradition in the summer to gather around the fire sharing stories, laughs, and songs. Occasionally one of the house slaves would bring a stolen bottle of whiskey, smuggled under the thin fabric of her dress. They always knew not to be too rowdy, or else someone from the plantation was bound to hear them.
Maurice and Célèste walked towards the blazing fire, a beacon of light under the black night sky. The fire was in the middle of a clearing in the thick woods, you could not even see a glimmer from the main house or the road. They were walking with their arms around each other. Célèste had always found it amazing how they could still walk in a straight line, even in such a close state of embrace. She was amazed again tonight as they navigated deftly over the rocky ground, the silkiness of the soft grass brushing their feet.
There was already a gathering of about fifty slaves around the fire, including Henrí who was looking their way. He smiled at Maurice,
“I’m glad you came.”
Maurice nodded in response. It was unnecessary to talk the way they had in the field, knowing they were among friends.
“Is their anymore talk of the meeting?” Maurice asked.
Before Henrí could say anything Célèste took a step away from Maurice and crossed her arms over the curve of her stomach. Only about three months along in her pregnancy she was just beginning to show. She raised her curly eyebrows,
“Meeting?” She was obviously suspicious, especially since this was the first she heard of this.
Henrí looked back and forth between the two, bowed his head and left quietly. Maurice sighed,
“Henrí said there’s going to be a meeting in three days time. There will be a high, vodoun priest there, making a prediction about a rebellion.” He paused. “It’s said he sees a revolt that will end slavery.” He took a deep breath and looked her straight in the eye. “Imagine, Célèste, freedom coming in our lifetimes. Imagine a battle strong enough to give us freedom.”
Célèste looked at the ground, trying to pry up a rock with her toe. She still had her arms crossed and her eyebrows were knitted together.
“So you are going to this meeting, then?” She asked looking up at him.
“Yes, I am.” He responded calmly, again looking her straight in the eye.
She just shook her head. “Don’t you know you are going to get yourself killed?”
“Célèste,” he said impatiently, turning his eyes away from hers for a moment. “I –“
“I’m serious Maurice,” she interrupted him. “There’s been revolts, people have died, there’s still no freedom.” She put her hands on his shoulders and softened her voice, “Do you really think it’s going to work? Do you really think it’s going to happen this time? Just because we have passion when we fight doesn’t mean anything. They have guns, Maurice. They have whips. And they have no mercy. They will kill people, they might kill you, Maurice.” Her voice was choking up, but she took a deep breath to calm herself. “I don’t think freedom is going to come now. I don’t think it’s going to come in our lifetime. I don’t think it’s going to come in the life of our baby.” Her eyes were full of tears, but they never broke away from his. “If you want to live to see her born, you don’t go to that meeting tomorrow.”
Maurice watched Célèste’s beautiful face gazing into his own intently. The firelight flickered across her cheeks. “Maurice, please don’t go to the meeting tomorrow,” she whispered pleadingly.
Maurice sighed again, still never looking away. “Célèste.” He paused. “Don’t you understand?’” He asked just pleadingly as her. “The only way our baby can live in freedom is if a war happens. The only way we can free ourselves is if we fight. I don’t like it, but it’s the way it has to be.
“I don’t want our child to live in slavery. I don’t want him to have to carry water buckets over his shoulders. I don’t want her to have to serve the white men when they have their dinner.” Their eyes were held together by some supernatural force. “Please, try and hear what I’m saying.”
“I do hear you, Maurice, I really do, but…”
“I scared of losing you,” she said in barely a whisper finally breaking their gaze as she turned her head to look into the fire.
“You won’t.” But even as he said it he was scared. What if he did die? Living would for sure be better than dying, even living in slavery. Maybe Célèste had a point. Who knew if the rumors were true. Who knew if this would be the revolt to end slavery. Should he really risk his life for something so uncertain? He thought of what would happen if he did die and left Célèste all alone to raise their child. He had to be there for them, Célèste and his unborn baby, they were all he had. How could he be there for him when he was off fighting a war? How could he live with himself if he didn’t fight? This fight may give them freedom. Freedom was the best thing he could promise them. He was torn. He looked again into Célèste’s eyes seeking some sort of answer. What should he do? He saw that she was just as confused as him. She answered anyway. Her voice was lost and solemn,
“I don’t know, Maurice, I just don’t know.”

There was a hissing sound as the icy water was dumped on top of the hot coals. A few men stomped on the ashes, throwing handfuls of dirt down to quiet the embers. Célèste had left the campfire around an hour ago, but to Maurice it could have been just minutes. There was a sick feeling at the bottom of his stomach. He knew that in the near future he would have to do something he dreaded. Whatever he decided to do would involve this reality.
As Maurice walked back to the cabins with a group of five men or so he thought of Célèste. This was the only time in his life when she wouldn’t be able to help him out. He knew she was there for him, but he would have to make this decision on his own.
His thoughts were interrupted by the voices of his companions.
“They’re coming from everywhere. All around the islands.” Said André, a short, sturdy, slave about a year older than Maurice. “Of course I couldn’t say anything about it around the fire while Pascal was around,” he continued. Pascal was known around the plantation for being Master Fortin’s spy; he would turn against his own kind for an extra scrap of bread. “This priest’s name is Dutty Boukman, he’s from Africa. Came here as a free man.”
“Does he really see the end of slavery?” Asked Thibault, a younger, darker man.
“Yes.”
“Even if he doesn’t, his prophecy will certainly spark a revolt.” Said Zacharie, the oldest of them all. “This is the beginning of the end. There are so many people coming from all around, runaways and freemen alike. There will be enough fighters with enough passion to cause a commotion.”
“Is this real then?” Maurice asked. “This meeting, it’s not like all the other’s, it will change something?”
Zacharie nodded solemnly.
“I have seen with my own eyes this Dutty Boukman, he is for real. His prophecy is real.” Zacharie said. Zacharie knew what he was talking about and everyone trusted him. And Zacharie ended up being exactly right.
Maurice felt a thrill in the bottom of his stomach where the lump of dread once was. He couldn’t help feeling excited. Although, he would still have to face a difficult decision, he knew now that freedom would be coming. With or without him people would fight and maybe someday they would win. Now he had to decide whether or not to join them.
As they walked back under the deep night sky, Maurice found out more about this gathering. Apparently it would start when the regular campfire ended. It was to take place a mile or two in the forest at the site of the old burial ground. Maurice felt the feeling of dread return once again to the bottom of his stomach. His mother was buried our there somewhere, but she had never been given a proper funeral. He knew that graves would soon be filling up, that was the cost of freedom.

After saying goodbye to his companions Maurice returned back to the cabin he and Célèste slept in along with many other slaves. He navigated his way in the dark to the pallet he and Célèste shared. He laid down next to her and listened to her breathing in the dark. It wasn’t deep and steady, it came in small spurts. He realized that she wasn’t asleep. She turned away from him but before she did he caught a glimpse of her face. Clearly illuminated in the moonlight pouring in from the doorway he saw the tracks of tears glistening on her cheeks.

Maurice decided to wait a day before he told Célèste about what he heard after the campfire. He saw the opportunity during dinnertime one night. He had been working all day, they were close to being done with the harvest of sugarcane. That meant a big celebration where there would be singing, dancing, and good food. Nothing compared to what he was eating now. He looked down at his chunk of stale bread and an under-cooked chicken breast. He had come to the cookhouse early to hopefully grab a piece of meat before his fellow field workers did. The nearly pink piece of chicken was about as big of a deck of cards and it was one of the only scraps of meat that was not eaten by the Master and his family. Maurice felt lucky to have it. He thought about the harvest celebration with the spits of roasting pig. He realized it probably wasn’t going to happen this year.
He gazed over at Célèste who was next to him leaning on the back wall of the cookhouse. She too had a piece of bread, hers fresher, and some chicken, hers a leg that had been saved before the food was sent to the main house. He always tried to get the best food for her, figuring she needed to keep her strength up because she was pregnant.
He sighed and looked at her. He watched her watching a group of children laughing and playing tag.
“Célèste,” he sighed. “This is what I think.” He paused. “I think the rebellion is going to happen no matter if we are a part of it or not. I talked to _______,________,_______ after you left last night. This meeting is the real thing. The revolution will begin soon after it. War is going to start whether we want it to or not.”
Célèste stared off into the distance, past the children playing tag.
“I know,” she said seriously. “I just want to know, are you going to fight in this war?”
“I’m not sure I have a choice.”
“What will I do?” She asked looking up at him. “If you fight how will I have this baby without you? How will I survive the war with a newborn child? How will I live without you?’
“How will you live with me?” He said desperately. “Célèste, either way you are going to have this baby and it won’t make a difference if I’m there or not. Your life will be hard, my being there won’t help. I can’t protect you.”
They looked at each other. She realized what he said was right. For once they could not be there for each other. She knew that having Maurice by her side would help even if he wouldn’t be doing anything. But he needed to fight, she couldn’t stop him from that. He didn’t even want to fight, he realized. He wanted never to leave Célèste’s side, he wanted to make a life with her and always be able to protect her. She wanted that too, but neither one of them could have it. They were torn apart from each other unwillingly.
“I think you should go to that meeting Maurice,” she said in a calm voice. A voice that had lost hope.
“I will,” he said the same way. “I think you should take care of yourself. When the revolution starts find someplace safe to stay. Get someone to help you.”
“I will.”
They both stared at the group of children playing tag. The children would have to stop playing tag eventually. They would have to grow up.

Through the thick blanket of trees Maurice could see the roaring, towering, burning flames of the fire. His callused feet worked their way over the damp forest ground like they had been doing for years. He wondered in the back of his mind if the forest ground would change because of the war. Would it get burned? Would it be stained forever with blood? It seemed that his whole world had changed since that day in the sugarcane fields when Henrí first approached him. He tried to remember what he was thinking about before that. Oh right, it had been his mother he was thinking about. He knew that slavery had killed his mother and he had just then wanted freedom to come. How could he have known how much freedom would cost?
By now he had made his way to the clearing of the old burial ground. He saw in the center of a group of men a strong, tall man with deep dark skin and large brown eyes. You could tell he was from Africa when he spoke. Maurice could not yet tell what he was saying yet. There was too much tumult from the men standing around him. There were many, many men around the campfire. In fact, he saw, there was more than one campfire. There were campfires all around the burial ground. He searched the crowds for a familiar face. He saw Henrí and moved along the perimeter of the crowd to get to him. When he got right up behind him he tapped him on the shoulder. Henrí turned around and smiled wide when he saw Maurice.
“You came,” he said in voice that seemed to suggest he knew Maurice would be coming all along. “But, you’re late.”
“I know, but what is this? I can barely hear him speak.”
“It doesn’t matter, here’s what’s going to happen: seven days from now we all will revolt at once. All around the island, or least in the northern part of the island, wherever we can word out fast enough. During the week we will be collecting weapons secretly and right when the sunsets on the seventh day we will attack without warning. Everyone will revolt all at once and they won’t be able to defend themselves. It is the most ingenious plan. This Dutty Boukman he predicted those three men would lead the rebellion.” He pointed out three, very serious looking men standing in the inner circle of the fire. “Maurice freedom is upon us. It is here now, not someday, not tomorrow: now.”
But Henrí was wrong. They had seven days. Freedom was upon them… in seven days. He had seven more days with Célèste. One week more to live in peace. Seven more precious, beautiful, cherished days. He put this thought in the back of his mind to hold onto as he turned back to the center of the fire watching the man standing beside it.
He could know hear the man clearly and realized that he was beginning a chant. Maurice heard it perfectly and others heard it too and began to chant with him. It was in his native African language, but no matter what language, any slave, anywhere, would understand this.
“freedom,”
“freedom,”
“freedom!”
“FREEDOM!”
The word rang in his ears.

Word Count: 2,720