“Whitmore’s got himself a monster in the smithy.”
But they didn’t know him.
Nobody knew him.
Not yet.
THE FIRST MEETING
My father arranged our meeting the next morning.
I heard his footsteps first. Heavy. Deliberate. The kind of steps that made floors creak and men swallow their breath.
When Josiah ducked through the parlor doorway, he seemed carved from the very beams of the house — enormous, intimidating, otherworldly. But his posture was humble, head bowed, hands clasped, the classic stance of an enslaved man standing before a white family.
“Josiah,” my father said, “this is my daughter, Elellanar.”
He lifted his eyes for only a moment — dark brown, unexpectedly gentle — before lowering them again.
“Yes, sir,” he said softly. His voice, shockingly, did not match his body. It was quiet. Calm. Almost tender.
I asked him if he understood my father’s proposal.
His answer broke my heart.
“I don’t know what I want, miss. I’m a slave. What I want doesn’t usually matter.”
When my father left us alone, I invited him to sit. He glanced at the delicate parlor chair as though it might collapse beneath him.
“The sofa, then,” I suggested.
He sat on the very edge, careful not to lean back.
“Are you afraid of me, miss?” he asked.
“Should I be?”
“No, miss. I would never hurt you.”
Then he flinched when I mentioned his nickname — the brute.
He wasn’t a brute.
And within an hour, he proved it.
Because when I asked if he could read — a dangerous question for an enslaved man — he admitted the truth.
“Yes, miss. I taught myself.”
And then he began to speak of Shakespeare with a depth and intelligence that stunned me.
Caliban. Prospero. Freedom. Power. Humanity.
For the first time in years, I found myself smiling. Engaged. Fascinated.
He wasn’t a monster.
He was brilliant.
