Mothers aren’t supposed to hate their children. But Ada hated hers, her first child, long before she laid eyes on it, long before it opened its own eyes to the world. And she hated it now, hours into labor, as pain split her body open, her own cries ringing in her ears like a wounded animal’s, as she prayed, Please, God, let us both die, let me never know the pain of loving it.

“Almost there,” Cora said breathlessly as she knelt at the foot of the pallet, holding the hem of Ada’s cotton dress. “Keep pushing.”

Hot tears ran down Ada’s cheeks. What she wouldn’t give just to die, be done with it already. No more pain. Hadn’t she felt enough of it already? Oh God, hadn’t she felt enough?

Another knife-thrust of pain cut through her flesh, tearing another scream from her lungs. Somehow worse than any cowhide lash, worse than any beating she’d ever had, worse than anything the worst of overseers, masters, or mistresses could give. Never in twenty years of pain had she known pain like this.

“Keep going.” Cora held her legs tight. “Almost there.”

I can’t, Ada wanted to scream, but the words wouldn’t come. Pain crushed her like the waves of God’s flood, sent to destroy the earth. She let out one last, tortured scream.

Then the pain retreated. Left her lying there on her pallet, stained now with her blood. Her cries replaced by the choked wails of her newborn child.

“A boy.” Cora laughed with relief, cradling the blood-flecked, plum-skinned, kicking baby. “Want to see him?”

Ada closed her eyes and shook her head. No, she didn’t want to see him, not now, not ever. “Let me rest a little,” she managed to say, and laid her head on the wool blanket.

The last thing she thought, as her mind slipped into sweet, dark relief, was how little use it was to pray for anything. Her own death, or the child’s. To see her husband again. To be away from this place. To be free. It was all the same. God never answered her prayers. Never.

Thomas took aim and pulled the trigger. His spaniel carried the woodcock back in her teeth. He shot two more birds, then turned back toward his plantation.

The quarters were still and silent as he walked past the cabins. It was a Saturday morning, after dawn, so the field hands were already at work. Only a few stray children were running about. Then he caught sight of a girl at the water pump, washing a blood-soaked wool blanket.

“Hey, you,” Thomas called out, coming nearer. “Why aren’t you at work?”

The girl jolted and dropped the blanket. He recognized her now, from her short hair and dirty white kerchief—Cora. He’d bought her three years ago, probably for more than she was worth. The auctioneer had claimed she knew medicine, which as it turned out meant she could grind herbs into bitter hodge-podges that poisoned people as often as it made them well.

“Well?” Thomas said. “Didn’t you hear me?”

Cora flinched. “It was Ada. She was having her baby, massa. I was helping her.”

Thomas took a sharp breath. “Ada, you said?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I see.” Something he couldn’t make sense of tangled like a knot inside him. “How is she? The baby?”

“Baby’s healthy, sir. A boy.” Cora picked up the soaked blanket. “Ada’s well too. Just resting now.”

So they were both alive. Thank God. “Well, keep taking care of her today, you hear? Do whatever is necessary to help her recover. The baby too.”

“Yes, sir.”

Thomas turned away and began walking toward his house, but stopped before reaching the porch. No, he’d better go to see Ada, see how she was recovering. Maybe now, after her son’s birth, she’d be willing to quit this game she’d been playing with him. Willing to speak with him. Willing to see reason. Willing to reconsider his offer.

He walked past the rows of cabins until he reached the one where she slept. Inside, the newborn boy was wailing and kicking, swaddled in rags on the floor. Thomas set his fowling-piece and the three bloodied birds against the rain-soaked wooden timbers. Ada was lying in a pile of wool blankets on her pallet, her eyes closed. Her dark skin was beaded with sweat, her thick black hair was coming loose from its braid, her white cotton dress was stained with blood. Yet somehow she was still beautiful. He grabbed a stool and sat next to her, watching the unwonted tranquility of her face as she breathed slowly in and out.

The baby’s wails grew louder, but Thomas resisted the impulse to try to comfort him. He couldn’t afford to let himself feel any affection or concern for the boy. Better to think of him as just another natural increase of his property, to sell or put to work when he was old enough. What use would it be to think of him as his son?

The door opened, and Cora came in with a pitcher. “Shh,” she murmured, crouching to pick up the crying baby.

“Cora…” Ada mumbled, her eyelids fluttering.

The sound of her voice made Thomas’s heartbeat quicken; it had been so long since he’d heard it.

“How you feeling?” Cora asked. She knelt to rearrange Ada’s blanket. “Want some water?”

Ada nodded, eyes still closed. Cora poured water from the pitcher into a gourd. Ada opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. Then her gaze met Thomas’s. There was a brief, unfocused softness in her face, as if she’d forgotten who he was. Then her expression hardened into the usual hatred, clouding her face like a black veil. Just like the shroud of silence she had wrapped around herself ever since he’d sold her husband.

Ada looked away from him as Cora handed her the gourd, and drank the water slowly as the baby began to cry again.

“Shh,” Cora whispered, cradling him.

Ada seemed to scarcely notice her son’s cries. She just kept staring into the gourd in her palms as if neither Thomas nor the baby existed.

Thomas sighed. So she was sticking to this infuriating game. She knew he didn’t want to sell her, and she seemed to have lost all fear of pain. He could beat and lash her half to death, and still she wouldn’t do what he wanted. Even when all he wanted was for her to quit this stubborn, sullen silence of hers.

“Cora, leave the cabin,” Thomas said. “I need to talk to Ada alone.”

“Yes, sir.” Cora nestled the baby into the folds of the blankets beside Ada and left.

Ada was still staring at the gourd, her lips pursed in a habitual expression of insolent hatred.

“I’ll give you one more chance to accept my offer,” Thomas said.

Ada narrowed her eyes as she stared into the cup.

“I’ve been generous to you. I’d treat you well.”

Ada said nothing.

“I’d give you a cabin of your own. Better food and clothing, less work.” Thomas glanced at the infant swaddled in blankets beside Ada. “And I wouldn’t sell the boy. I might even consider freeing him.” That was a false promise, of course—why would he relinquish his main source of influence over her? “It would be in your own best interests, and your son’s. You’d be wise to accept.”

Ada set the gourd on the floor, lay down on the blankets, and closed her eyes.

Thomas clenched his fist. How dare she treat him like this? All he wanted was for her to give herself to him willingly. For her to treat him with the respect he was owed. To show him gratitude, deference, maybe even love. Was that so unreasonable to ask?

“You ungrateful wench.” Thomas stood from the stool.

Ada didn’t bother to open her eyes. Thomas stood there for another moment, staring at her, trying to decide whether to say more or to leave, whether to try to hurt her more or to conciliate her. Either way seemed a matter of indifference to her.

Once more he glanced at the red-faced infant in the blankets. The boy was asleep now, his eyes closed and peaceful. Thomas flinched and looked away. What was it about the sight of the two of them, mother and son, wrapped together in woolen blankets on that dirty, blood-soaked straw pallet, that pierced him with such a sting of bitter regret?

Thomas shook his head and turned away. How weak and foolish that was. What on earth did he have to regret? He picked up his fowling piece and the bloodied corpses of the birds and left the cabin.

Ada stepped closer to the edge of the ravine, the stones sharp and slick against her bare feet. Below, the rushing waters of the creek swirled green and shining in the sunlight. The baby started to fuss and cry again, as if something in her touch had warned him of the viciousness in her heart. It would be so simple, so easy, to just let go. To let him fall into that rushing water below. To dig a little grave afterward, and say it was fever that did it, she’d done her best to take care of him, but what could she do? Life is such a fragile thing.

The baby let out another cry and clutched her dress with his tiny palm. Ada looked away from the rushing water, into his reddish, puckered, ugly face. Now, a week after his birth, her hatred had softened a little, turning to something more like pity. Poor thing, doomed to be loved by neither his mother nor his father. To kill him would almost be a mercy next to what his father would do to him if he lived. Or could you call it living? More like an unendingly slower, more painful dying.

Ada stared down into the churning water, cradling the baby closer to her chest. No, she couldn’t do it. Besides, he wasn’t the one suffering, not yet. He wasn’t the one who could no longer bear the pain of living. That was her.

The babbling of the creek below was like a gentle whisper, beckoning her, offering her eternal peace, relief, numbness. Why not take it? Why not slip down into that soft darkness? There, where all sins would be forgiven, all pain forgotten, all long-lost mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers and husbands and wives reunited somehow.

But instead she stepped back from the edge of the ravine. Her body was too stubborn, too weak. Too set upon living—for what? Nothing. Only misery. To be a draft mule, a brood mare for the man who’d taken away her husband and everything else she’d ever loved. What kind of life was that?

Still, she couldn’t do it. She just sat down on the dirt as the baby kept crying. She wanted to cry too, but she couldn’t even do that. She hadn’t even cried on the night when she first came back from the fields to sleep alone, on the empty pallet where she’d once slept with Michael. She hadn’t cried for years and years, not since she was a little girl, the day she was sold away from her mother. That day had drained out all her tears, leaving only a drought inside her, the whole rest of her life.

Below the water murmured like a half-forgotten voice. The sunlight on her skin like a warm, gentle touch. She closed her eyes, trying to listen, to feel, to remember. She sifted through the dark, frozen soil of her mind for what lay buried there. Like a graveyard. Or maybe like seeds waiting for the day they could sprout again. She dug until she found a memory of Michael. The night before he’d tried to run. When she’d begged him to stay. What had he said? So long as there’s any chance, it’s worth it. Otherwise, there’s no hope at all.

No hope at all. Ada opened her eyes. The green leaves of the trees were rustling in the wind. Clouds drifting in the blue June sky above. So much beauty in the world, if only she could grasp it, make it hers. How?

How else, save how Michael had tried to do it? He was right. She understood that now. Even if it failed, that’d still be better than not trying. Being alive, and in pain, that was still better than being dead. And staying here any longer would mean staying dead.

“Shhh,” Ada whispered, clutching the crying baby to her chest. “Hush. Hush.”

She bounced him gently and ran her fingers over his soft hair. And soon he did hush, closing his eyes as if he’d found peace at last. A stirring of something more than pity rustled in her chest. Guilt? Love? She didn’t know. Either way, a new desire had taken hold of her. A desire to take him somewhere far away. Far away from this place that would surely destroy him.

“Shh, shh,” she murmured as she stood, and the baby fussed half-heartedly in her arms. But soon he quieted again. And as she walked back through the woods toward the quarters, she tried to think up a good name for him. Michael wasn’t right. He wasn’t Michael’s son. Another angel, maybe. Gabriel. Yes, that was a good name. Gabriel.

“How you like that?” Ada whispered to the baby. “Gabriel?”

The baby blinked his eyes open sleepily, then closed them again. At least that seemed better than crying.

“Gabriel it is,” Ada muttered, walking up the steps to her cabin. She opened her door and lay down on her pallet. Stared up at the rotting wooden rafters dripping with rainwater. Held her son close to her chest. And thought about how to get out. How to get far away.

Thomas pushed open the door of Ada’s cabin. Inside it reeked of salt herring, boiled hominy, sweat, dirt, rotting wood, and dried blood. Only the little boy, Isaac, was still asleep under a pile of blankets. The pallet where Ada and her son slept was empty.

A dull pain ached in his chest. But no, surely she wouldn’t have, surely she had more sense… Especially after what had happened to her husband, shouldn’t she know better?

He walked to Ada’s empty pallet. Staring at the abandoned, blood-stained tangle of blankets, the dark suspicion in his heart festered until he could no longer bear it. Hadn’t she hated him with venom this whole past year? Hadn’t she resisted him stubbornly, unrelentingly? But if she had escaped, it wouldn’t be for long. He knew precisely how to track her down, and then he would punish her so harshly, she would never think of leaving him again.

He bent to pick up the blankets, balled them in his fists, and left the cabin. He walked through the quarters toward the cornfields until he caught sight of the overseer in the distance, standing with his whip beneath an oak tree.

“Organize a search,” Thomas said as he came near. “A slave’s gone missing. Ada. You know her? Field hand, around twenty years old?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, don’t delay. Delegate today’s work to the drivers, then go and alert the authorities.” Thomas handed him one of the rolled-up blankets. “Give this to the bloodhounds to sniff. Search the woods.”

The overseer nodded, folding the blanket. “Understood, sir.”

Thomas turned and walked back toward the stable. No time to waste. He wouldn’t wait for the rest of the search party. Instead he saddled his fastest horse, leading it out by the reins, and picked out his best bloodhound, giving it the other blanket to sniff.

Then, spurring the horse into a canter, he followed the bloodhound’s trail, leading him toward Ada.

Breathing heavily, weak with exhaustion, Ada sat down on a mossy tree trunk as the baby started to cry. “Shh,” she murmured, bouncing him gently.

She looked up at the oak leaves rustling in the morning light, at the dirt path stretching northward. How long had she been walking? If no one had seen she was missing yet, maybe she would have enough time. But if they’d already sent patterrollers after her, she might not make it. If only she could hurry up, maybe she’d have a chance. But the birth had left her so weak, and she was already so tired, toting the baby all this way.

“Hush,” she whispered as the baby let out another cry. Too dangerous to let him keep crying like that. “You hungry?”

He kept crying, so she unbuttoned her dress and let him suckle. At the touch of his lips against her breast, her body tensed with its usual hatred. An urge to push him away, never to let him drink her milk again. Then, as usual, her skin heated with shame. What kind of mother hated her own newborn son? But she couldn’t help it. Something about his touch always reminded her of the way he had touched her.

Ada sighed, resting her hand on the baby’s head as he kept suckling. Of course, it wasn’t the boy’s fault. He was just a sweet, innocent thing. Innocent of everything his father and master had done. Maybe, if only she could get away from this place, if only she could forget his father, maybe one day she might even manage to love him.

The baby was still suckling, but she pulled him away. No time to waste. She buttoned her dress, cradled him against her chest, and set out on her way again, down the glen. It was light now, and she still hadn’t crossed the creek. But the sound of rushing water told her they were close. If she remembered right, there was a fallen tree she could use to get across. It shouldn’t be much farther.

But just as she caught sight of the rushing green water, she jolted at a bark, coming from some distance behind her. Her body tensed. Visions flashed through her mind: sharp teeth, her own skin torn up and bloodied, Thomas Bailey dragging her back half-dead to his plantation, tying her up to be lashed, putting his dirty hands on her again, years and years of bearing him more children to be sold or sent to the fields… Oh God, please no. She couldn’t do it, she couldn’t. Better to die than go back to that.

The hound’s bark echoed through the woods again, louder. If only she could make it to the creek, maybe she could throw it off her trail. Holding the baby close, she started to run. Right away, he broke into a piercing wail—so loud, surely it could be heard a mile away. Oh God, how could she be so stupid? She stopped and bounced the baby to try to calm him down, no luck. The hound’s barks were getting louder, louder. No, she couldn’t make it to the creek in time. Where to go? How to get away?

She ran to a thick, gnarled oak tree, grasped a low branch, and tried to climb up. But she couldn’t do it with the baby. The hound barked again, very near. Then, feeling something bump against her shoulder, she remembered the knife in her bag. She fumbled for it and grabbed its handle just as the hound reached the oak tree and leapt at her, teeth bared. She slashed the knife blade across its throat. The bloodhound let out a pitiful yelp and crumpled onto the roots of the oak tree, blood gushing out. The baby wailed and wailed.

Ada let out a sharp breath. But before she could gather her wits, a dim thudding came from somewhere close by. Horse hooves? She pressed herself against the tree trunk and held the baby close. Oh God, why wouldn’t he stop crying? The thudding stopped. The sound of boots stomping the dirt. The baby’s cries were loud enough to split her skull open.

Her fingers tightened around the knife handle. As the footsteps came closer, closer, she glanced down at the bloodied blade. And finally she understood what she had to do. No, she could not go back to that man, could not go back to that life. She looked at the dead bloodhound, its throat cut, no longer twitching, its eyes like black glass. At peace now, in a place beyond all pain. Beyond all pain… Please, God, why couldn’t she feel that same relief? And she was human, she wasn’t like the hound, whose death was nothing but a dark, bottomless gulf to fall endlessly into. No, she had some hope of redemption, of salvation. Something to leap toward on the other side of that dark gulf. Wouldn’t that be better? Better than returning to him, to that place, to that life, which was really only a hell, a death in life?

Yes, it would be better, far better. God forgive me.

Gripping the knife, she swung around to face Thomas Bailey—the man who’d taken away everyone she ever loved, the father of the child in her arms. He stood some twenty feet from her, his hand on his pistol.

She raised the knife to her son’s neck. “Let us go,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady, “or I’ll cut his throat, and mine too.”

As a writer working mainly in the genre of literary historical fiction, I am particularly drawn to stories that explore themes of power, oppression, resistance, and social change from a historical materialist perspective. I believe that only by understanding the past can we understand our present world, and only by understanding our world can we work toward changing it. I write historical fiction because of its potential (in the words of Toni Morrison) to “familiarize the strange and mystify the familiar,” to uncover the contingent, constructed nature of our present social reality, which we might otherwise take for granted.

This philosophy informs my novel series THE AMERICAN INFERNO, which explores the history of American slavery, the Civil War, and Reconstruction from a leftist, anti-racist, and intersectional feminist perspective. Initially inspired by Charles Chesnutt’s The House Behind the Cedars, and later influenced by Octavia Butler’s Kindred and William Faulkner’s Absalom, Absalom, the series is a family saga, a roman-fleuve tracing the interrelated lives of the enslaved and slaveholding inhabitants of a fictional Virginia town from the 1840s to the 1870s. One central plot thread is a love story inspired by the “passing” novels by early African-American novelists such as Frank J. Webb and Charles Chesnutt. Another central thread tells the story of a slave revolt. I feel compelled to research and write about these aspects of history because slavery and its legacies, as well as the unfinished social revolutions of Civil War and Reconstruction, have shaped American society to the core.

This excerpt comprises the opening scenes of the first novel of the series, THE HUMAN FAMILY, told from the alternating perspectives of the enslaver father and the enslaved mother of one of the series’ protagonists. My use of both enslaved and slaveholding characters’ points of view, throughout the series, builds on innovations made by previous historical novelists, including Margaret Walker in Jubilee, Valerie Martin in Property, Edward P. Jones in The Known World, and Toni Morrison in A Mercy. The multi-perspectival approach was necessary to demonstrate the story’s central theme: namely, how oppressive ideologies and systems destroy the possibility of reciprocal, fulfilling human relationships, and ultimately damage the oppressors as well as the oppressed. This theme, inspired by James Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time, strikes me as still relevant in our present-day world, which continues to be shaped by capitalism’s privileging of profit over human life and its oppressive systems, rooted in hierarchies of race, nationality, ability, gender, sexuality, and class.