Sins of Omission by Irina Shapiro Read Free Book Online

skin.  “They summon the devil, I tell you.  They dance around the fire and make incantations until they are not human anymore.  They become his vessels of sin; that’s why they are so black.”
    “Is that so?” Max asked, annoyed by the man’s ignorance.  If these people could summon the devil, surely they could do something to help themselves, rather than be enslaved by the thousands and brought over from Africa to be abused by their white masters. 
    “But they go to Sunday service,” Max remarked, more to continue the conversation than because he was really interested.
    “Oh, aye, they do.  They’ve been baptized into the Church of England, but it’s their own gods they worship,” John explained, his voice harsh with emotion.  “They worship Vodun and are guided by the Loa.”
    “And how do you come to know all this?”
    “I hear them talking,” John replied vaguely. 
    “Do they not speak in their own language?” Max asked, surprised.  Most of the black slaves spoke some English, but they conversed between themselves in whatever dialect they’d spoken in their native land. 
    “Believe me or not, but that’s the truth of it.  You can see for yourself if you like.  They’ll be at it come the full moon, and mark my words, Johansson will be ill that night.”
    “But they are locked in for the night, how can they perform their rituals?” Max asked, still clinging to practical details and refusing to credit what John was telling him.  John just snorted in the darkness, letting Max know that he was an ignoramus who failed to acknowledge the powers of the devil and the dark magic that summoned him.
    Max turned over on his side and pondered this information.  He had noticed that Johansson was ill from time to time, and left several of his deputies to oversee the slaves while he retreated to his house to recover.  Max just assumed that the man had some kind of recurring gastric trouble, since he tended to turn white and clammy and ran for the privy clutching his stomach, but he hadn’t noticed that his bouts of illness corresponded to the cycles of the moon.  Max snorted with disgust.  Why was he even thinking about this?  What difference did it make?  If Johansson managed to shit himself senseless, he would only rejoice, as would the rest of the population of the plantation. 
    Max rolled back onto his back annoyed with himself for even entertaining such thoughts.  Perhaps he was just searching for something to focus on to take his mind off the unbearable and relentless drudgery his life had become.  He’d been at the plantation for less than two months, but already he felt his body wasting away as he toiled in the fields with insufficient food and rest, and not enough water.  His skin was tanned to a deep brown, and whatever little body fat he’d once had had melted away, leaving him thin as a whippet, his forearms bulging with ropey muscle.  Perhaps people in the twenty-first century should go work on sugar plantations instead of going to fat farms or gyms to lose weight , he thought grimly — results guaranteed .  Max gritted his teeth as he acknowledged to himself that which he could never say out loud.  The veneer of civilization had been stripped from him, slowly robbing him of his humanity, and he didn’t much like the person that was left behind.

 
    February 14 th , 1686
    Paris
     

Chapter 7
     
    I stood back and surveyed Frances as she turned this way and that, displaying her new gown.  It was made of pale blue damask threaded with silver, and worn over a cream-colored underskirt with matching lace frothing at the cuffs and decorating the top of the bodice.  Frances had matching blue slippers and silk hose that tied mid-thigh with pale blue ribbons.  Her golden curls had been swept up with a few ringlets left loose to artfully frame her face.  She was a picture of teenage loveliness as she smiled at me shyly in search of approval. 
    “You look beautiful,