Jean Genie
Copyright© 2026 by Rachael Jane
Chapter 44: The Slave Market
Saint‑Pierre, Martinique, February 1677
The thick, wet, clinging heat hits Awa like a second layer of cloth the moment she steps out of the ship’s hold. La Coccinelle is the first slave ship to arrive in Saint-Pierre in weeks. News of the ship’s arrival has brought dozens of plantation owners into town, eager to buy more slaves.
The guards march the new arrivals toward the slave market, a fenced square of packed earth and wooden platforms. The air smells of sweat, salt, and the sharp tang of spices drifting from nearby stalls. Awa glances at her surroundings. The town before her is huddled along the coast with a thick forest of tropical trees spreading uphill towards an imposing mountain beyond.
Voices rise around her. Eager buyers calling out questions, auctioneers shouting prices, slaves murmuring prayers under their breath. Awa keeps her back straight, her gaze lowered. She was only eight years old when she was sold into slavery, but she remembers how to move in places like this: quiet, composed, and never trembling.
The Maristela Bracelet lies invisible on her wrist, warm against her skin. I appear as a faint shimmer beside her. My shape is like a mist, translucent, invisible to anyone else. I let Awa feel my presence like a soft hand resting lightly on her shoulder. She doesn’t turn her head ... she doesn’t need to. She feels me settle over her, calming her fears and steadying her breath.
The female slaves are presented for sale in batches of six. Each slave is shackled to a post on a platform to allow prospective purchasers a short while to examine the women close up. The whole process is degrading, but Awa suffers the indignity with a quiet calm.
The auctioneer steps forward, wiping sweat from his brow. “This one speaks some French,” he announces, tapping Awa’s shoulder with a stick. “Enough to understand orders. Enough for shop work.”
Awa keeps her expression neutral. She knows better than to show hope. Shop work is hard, but infinitely preferable to working on a cotton plantation, where life expectancy is short.
A woman in her mid‑forties approaches Awa. She has the pale Creole complexion of a second or third generation French colonist. Her hair is pinned tightly beneath a linen cap. Her gown is neat but not extravagant. She carries herself with the stiff posture of someone accustomed to being obeyed. Awa and I will later learn her name. Chantal Duverger.
Madame Duverger’s hazel eyes sweep over Awa with brisk assessment. She taps her nails lightly against the handle of her fan, obviously a nervous habit. Awa notices.
“Speak,” Chantal says. “Do you understand me?”
“Yes, madame,” Awa replies softly, her French clear and only slightly accented. “I understand what you are saying.”
Chantal’s eyes narrow with interest. “Where did you learn?”
“In Nantes, madame.”
Chantal nods once, curtly. “Useful.”
She inspects Awa with quick, practised movements; checking her teeth, her hands, her posture. A humiliating experience for Awa although it isn’t unduly cruel. But nor is it gentle. Like cattle being appraised by a farmer, Chantal is efficient and detached. Awa feels my presence steady her again, a quiet reassurance that she isn’t alone.
Chantal straightens and steps back. The auctioneer takes bids. Chantal outbids the two plantation owners who can find cheaper offerings among the rest of the human cargo.
Coins change hands. Awa is unchained from the post, and led off the platform and through the crowd. Chantal keeps a firm hold on Awa as they walk, as though frightened that she may escape despite her shackles. Her nails tap against her fan again, an anxious rhythm masked as impatience.
Awa glances once toward me in my shimmering form. I meet her eyes with a soft, encouraging smile.
Awa lifts her chin and she steps forward into her new life.
The Duverger town-house sits above the shop like a stern matron watching over her domain. The street-front consists of pale stone walls surrounding three sides of a narrow courtyard. Entrance to the courtyard and building beyond is through a pair of iron gates. The air smells of dried citrus peel and expensive imported spices.
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