The day was surely coming when they would no longer be forced to toil in the fields.
They laboured while others were dressed in finest, thinnest linen gowns and sat on plump cushions eating sticky dates prepared by yet more slaves. A young boy with skin as dark as the night sky stood, wearing only a piece of cloth around his waist to prevent his nakedness, and wafted a palm leaf to cool his fat and bloated master with its created breeze. The boy was from the far off lands to the south; he was considered an exotic gift, but treated no better than the rest of them. Most of the slaves were from a land to the north. They still dreamed of that land, with its salt water lake and hills sparsely dotted with trees. All the slaves did. It was home still, despite the generations of slavery they had endured. They all dreamed of home. Probably even the little boy, whose home was so far across the southern desert in lands that hardly any civilized man had trodden upon. Although, in this world where civilization seemed to be measured by the number of slaves you kept, his land sounded like Eden.
One day they would be free. It was written, it was prophesied. They would slave no more for these heathen masters who worshipped their numerous gods, each representing a different aspect of their lives. The God of the sun, the god of the harvest, of a particular city or place. They did not know the one true God. The slaves were his chosen people and one day their torment would end. There were already whisperings among the slave pens, that one had been born who would free them. A rebel who would lead them back to their promised land. Born of their blood but raised up by those who persecute and enslave them. His name was Moses.
The day was fast approaching; They would be slaves, no more.
Copyright: Kristian Fogarty 10/05/2018