sharp bends. When the boats got too close, the whole flock rose as one, emitting the shrill, whistle-like cries for which they’re named.
Unperturbed, a black umbrella egret continued its stealthy march along the river’s edge. Splayed wings curved mysteriously over its body to shield the light’s reflection as it searched for juvenile fish.
Jayvyn absently noticed a far-off trio of hippos, slowly meandering, partially submerged, along the shallow waters inside a particularly large bend. Dense thickets of mangrove and palm choked the shore.
The sun, now starting its downward arc toward the horizon, cast growing shadows over the wide river.
The man whose wife was brutally slain knelt, head down, sobbing. His young, now motherless, child clinging at his knee—terrified, bewildered—mouth fixed in an agonized frown ringed with tearstained dirt.
After a long journey down the wide, serpentine river, they finally reached a great clearing with what seemed an unlimited expanse of water beyond. Jayvyn had never seen the ocean before. It stunned him to see water extending to the horizon and as far as he could see to either side.
After beaching their boats on the shore, the villagers were unloaded and stood looking uncertainly at their surroundings. A very large space, surrounded by a tall fence, dominated the clearing. Many white men stood outside the fence.
A large number of Blacks, none of whom Jayvyn had ever seen before, stood inside. In fact, he’d never seen so many people in one place before.
Peter D Brown, Author 