It started out as a clear winter’s day, cold enough for a jacket and a scarf but not bitter enough for several layers of clothing. As Zach Fields walked down to the edge of the lake, he could see his breath spiraling away from him into the air. It was a quiet and peaceful afternoon. He was just going skating, as he had done ever since he could remember. He had not bothered telling his parents, for he would only be gone for a little while. With his skates strapped over his shoulder, he approached the lake. The lake was very large, several families besides his lived in scattered places around the water’s edge. Some used it for a year-round house, but his family just visited for the holidays. He liked it better here, for the forest was all around him and he could almost feel Mother Nature close by He knew where all the animals lived, and even named a few of them. Of course, all the forest animals were fast asleep now. Even so, he was more at home here than anywhere else in the world. Cautiously, he took his first gentle step onto the ice. Testing it, he slowly shifted all of his weight onto its slippery surface. It seemed strong enough, so he quickly tied on his skates and was off. Zach loved skating. He felt as if he was gliding across the land, without a care in the world Zach loved skating. He felt as if he was gliding across the land, without a care in the world. The gentle wind, the ease of movement, he always has and always will love that feeling. Expertly, he did a few flips and turns, stretching his muscles until they felt ready to burst. He etched a few patterns into the ice and twirled around, totally unaware that he was slowly moving away from his house. After a while, he glided to a stop. The wind had picked up, and it had started to snow. He decided to go back. It was harder moving against the wind, so it was slow going. He had at least a mile to go until he reached his house, so he knew he had to keep going. His parents would get worried if he didn’t come home soon. The sun was at its lowest point in the horizon, and the temperature had dropped. The air was sharp and brisk. Each breath sent a freezing dagger into his lungs, filling him with pain. The light snow had turned to a frenzy of sleet, pelting him in the face and making his skin raw and numb. An icy wind blew all around Zach, bringing the cold to the core of his body He shivered. He wished he hadn’t gone so far out. As he got colder, he slowed down. By about ten minutes he was barely moving. He crouched down, absorbing all of the body heat that he could. Suddenly, he heard a creak behind him. A split second later, a groan, and then a crack appeared on the ice. It grew wider, and branched off into several smaller cracks. Then another crack appeared, and another. He sprang to his feet, and flew off. He could hear the groans of thin ice behind him, and sped up. The cracks raced behind Zach, growing and splitting and staying at his back all the while. The sleet and snow made seeing almost impossible, so he had no idea if he was even going in the right direction. Then it happened. The cracks finally caught up to him, and in a split second had surrounded him. He was frantic. He tried to move, but every time he did the ice creaked, and another crack formed. He was trapped. Even as he stood still, the cracks came closer and closer, and in a flash he was submerged in the water. The freezing temperature hit him like a speeding freight train. The cold penetrated his flesh and went straight to the bone. The water sucked all the strength out of him and left him weak and even colder. As he bobbed back up to the surface, his head hit the ice. Using his remaining strength he pushed with all his might, but the ice wouldn’t budge. His skates dragged him down, pulling him toward the murky depths of the lake. His eyelids were stiff and frozen, and no matter what he did they wouldn’t open. He screamed in fright, but only bubbles escaped his mouth. Oxygen rapidly escaped his tired body, and his lungs pounded in his chest for air. He frantically searched for an opening in the ice with his hands, but found none. A wave of pain washed over him, and his lungs throbbed faster and faster and faster. Just as he started to sink into a void of darkness, his hands hit air, and he scrambled up onto the ice. He feebly pushed himself onto the frozen water, and collapsed on its surface. He gasped and wheezed, filling his lungs with air. Coughing, water poured out of his mouth, collecting on the ice. Shaking uncontrollably, Zach curled into a ball to find any heat possible, but found nothing. He shivered and blacked out. When Zach woke up, he was still huddled on the ice. His clothes were sopping wet, and his ice skates were a wreck. He knew he had to move to stay alive. Hugging his dripping coat to his body, Zach made his way bit by bit back to his house. Extremely fatigued, he clomped up the steps to the back porch, and shakily removed his jacket, skates, shirt, and socks. His fingers were blue with cold, and numb. Fortunately, a fire was crackling and sizzling in the fireplace. Zach crouched and warmed himself by the fire. He made a cup of hot chocolate, and was walking back to the living room when he noticed a note on the kitchen counter. It read:
July/August 2006
47
47, by Walter Mosley; Little, Brown and Company: New York, 2oo5; $16.99 Walter Mosley pulls you into the heart of slavery in 1832. He depicts the brutality of slavery and the true meaning of freedom, through the eyes of Forty-seven, an orphaned fourteen-year-old slave. As a child, Forty-seven was taken under the wing of Big Mama Flore, a house slave, who sheltered him from the realities of slavery. The day arrives when Forty-seven is old enough to work in the cotton fields. He now faces the painful realities of slavery Tall John, a mysterious runaway slave, enters Forty-seven’s life. He helps Forty-seven see beyond the fate of slavery and teaches him to believe in freedom. I have never experienced the brutality of slavery, but as I was reading Mosley’s descriptions, I could feel Forty-seven’s pain; his burned shoulder from a branding iron, his infected hands from picking cotton, and his bleeding flesh from being bullwhipped. This book made me think of the grim stories that my grandparents passed on to me regarding the Armenian Genocide. Although there are obvious differences between slavery and genocide, there are some similarities—both groups of people suffered at the hands of others, and both lost freedom. Throughout this book, I could not stop thinking about freedom. Freedom, to me, is having independence and having the right to make decisions and choices. I find it incomprehensible that freedom was taken from some individuals and some still do not have it today. Forty-seven craves freedom once Tall John introduces him to it. He experiences freedom in two ways. First, Tall John informs Forty-seven that by considering yourself a slave, you are. If you say that you have a master, then you do. Forty-seven finally learns that he “ain’t got no mastuh ’cause (he) ain’t no slave.” A second way that Tall John introduces freedom to Forty-seven is by taking him to “paradise.” In paradise, Forty-seven is elated and shocked that such beauty and tranquility exists. This is where he tastes freedom for the first time. Now that he learned the meaning and the taste of freedom, Forty-seven is willing to risk everything to acquire freedom for himself, and for the ones he loves. Walter Mosley’s writing style captivates me. He takes one character, such as Tall John, and changes his personality. When Forty-seven and Tall John first meet, Forty-seven is overwhelmed with his language skills and forwardness. When white men confront Tall John, he is reserved. His personality changes again when Tall John talks to the men in the slave quarters, this time in a humorous way Mosley gives Tall John a sense of humor to lighten up the cruelty of slavery. Tall John’s changing character is a creative feature of Mosley’s writing style which is very well portrayed in the novel. As much as this book absorbed me, I did not like how Mosley combined two genres—historical fiction and science fiction. The science fiction portions of the book caught me off guard and took away from the shocking historical truth about slavery. With all of these painfully unsympathetic scenes in the book, the supernatural scenes do not fit. 47 is a great read for those who enjoy historical fiction narratives with deep meaning. Mosley’s comprehensive characters pulled me into Forty-seven’s world and let me think about emotions that I never thought about before. Tall John helped Forty-seven, as well as me, uncover the true meaning of freedom. Lara Gechijian, 13Lincoln, Massachusetts
Forest
It was the afternoon in the forest. It was a hot and muggy afternoon too, when the air hung heavily between the gnarled and ancient tree trunks, their rough bark creased and lined through the passage of years. The early morning mist had long since disappeared. Spider webs now hung aimlessly between the brownish-green undergrowth, illuminated by the blazing summer sun peering in through the thick canopy of trees. There was a soft crunching and crackling sound of dead leaves and small insects scrambled as quickly as they could to get away as a small patch of bristling ferns parted, and out of it emerged the boy. He pushed his way ruthlessly through the thick undergrowth that covered the forest floor, snapping the sharp, dry branches that stuck out to bar his path, but he did so expertly, making sure to create as little noise as possible. He paused for a moment, panting softly, before turning around to look cautiously over his shoulder. No one. No one but the seemingly endless canopy of tall, majestic trees, surrounded by ferns and bushes, their knotted trunks reaching up to touch the brilliant blue sky that occasionally became visible but was usually too bright for him to look at on days like this. No one but the small brown squirrel that immediately spotted him as he looked, and then scooted off to the other side of the tree it clung to. He sensed a vague lingering hint of danger in this area of the forest Well, it almost scooted. On sweltering, stifling days like these, all creatures in the forest were more sluggish than usual, and as for the boy, he became tired and sweaty more easily. Today in particular. The boy sat down slowly on a nearby burnt and jagged tree stump, only after checking for ants’ nests of course. He sensed a vague lingering hint of danger in this area of the forest, and he knew he would be slower to react to it now, his senses dulled by heat, thirst, and pure exhaustion. Still, he could not go on for much longer without rest. The boy sniffed the air expertly, he had years of experience, but today all he smelt was the pine needles that covered the forest floor, the dark brown soil, and the muggy, stifling, humid air. Seeing as the air would reveal nothing, the boy pricked up his ears and listened. No luck. Only the distant sound of birds chirruping in the canopy and the low, infuriating hum of mosquitoes. The boy wiped the beads of sweat from his forehead and fanned himself unsuccessfully with his hand. His throat was dry and parched, and it would be a long walk to get to any clean liquid to drink. He spotted a nearby almost bare berry bush and grabbed the only visible berry he could see off it. He put it slowly into his mouth. The sour flavor erupted into his tastebuds. He ate it as slowly as possible, trying to savor the moisture. But it was small, and did not last long, doing nothing to satisfy his burning throat. A rustling in the leaves made him jump to his feet. He spun around to see another brown squirrel dashing away through the undergrowth. The boy turned away, and, checking over his shoulder one last time, set off again, walking rapidly through the thick and seemingly impenetrable undergrowth. He had to keep going. This was no time to give up. Suddenly another rustling made him spin around. This one seemed more distant and farther away. The boy eyed it suspiciously and began to slowly back away. The rustling was becoming steadily clearer and sharper as it came closer. From its sound, and years of experience, the boy was able to decipher that it was a much bigger animal that was now coming towards him. The crunching of the leaves from its footsteps seemed to indicate a sort of lumbering, awkward gait. Almost instantly the boy knew what it probably was. A bear. Slowly, his heart thumping against his ribcage, the boy backed away even further. Luckily, he knew how to deal with this sort of problem. Now, all he needed was a tree to climb. The boy scanned the trees, looking for a suitable branch he could pull himself up onto. The rustling, meanwhile, was getting louder. The boy realized in an instant that the bear was too close by for him to have enough time to get onto the higher branches out of its reach. Any minute now, it would enter the patch of forest with the boy. Why oh why hadn’t he heard it coming earlier?! The boy backed away even farther, his mind racing furiously. The bear, judging by its gait and size, was probably a grizzly. There was no escape for him now. The bear had left the boy with no choice. Roger!!! What on earth is this?!! His hands quivering slightly, the boy reached down and pulled out one of his most treasured possessions, his spear. Made from the perfect strong tree branch, with a skillfully sharpened stone arrowhead tied to the top, he regarded it with pride. Slowly, the boy lowered his spear so it pointed to the exact direction of the rustling and, with a pounding heart, waited. Meanwhile, the bear, judging again by the sudden increased speed of its footsteps on the leaves, had broken into a charge and now opened its mouth into a terrible, vicious bloodthirsty roar. A roar that shook the canopy and made the boy cringe with fear. “Roger!!! What on earth is this?!! You’re supposed to be doing your math homework!! Are you hiding in the forest again?!! You had better not be or there will be trouble!!” * * * The boy quickly turned and dashed away through the undergrowth, clutching his spear in one hand, before disappearing, silent as a shadow, away into the muggy depths of the forest. Rachael Goddard Rebstein,
