There was one spot, between the roots of the giant oak tree at the south end of the cotton fields, shading him from the wind when it howled through the tree-tops at night. The leaves that pooled there over time made something of a comfy mattress, so all Gabriel had to do was steal a hgorse blanket from the stables and sleep there. The multicoloured dawn filtering down through the leaves graced his eyelids, and he awoke slowly.
His curls were slightly damp from the dew, and he ran a hand through them, drawing out a bit of the moisture. Gabriel rose up, stepping into a golden patch of light, letting the sun's warmth drive the spring chill from his body. It was another day. Planting started soon. And who would get to plough? The mulatto. He skirted round the field, haeding up towards the stables to replace the blanket, then headed over to the water barrel to splash his face.
Gordon, the slave driver, was already up and about, yelling. Gabriel hung back as people poured out of the slave quarters, lining up for the morning's porridge. He knew better than to be anywhere but' the back of the line. He kept his eyes averted even from the other slaves, from their flawless ebony skin and dark eyes, features that made them slaves and he somehow lacked, even though he was a slave too.
When it was his turn, and he held out his bowl, Gordon started off on his daily round of insults, trying to provoke a reaction from Gabriel. It was common knowledge on the plantation that Gabriel didn't talk; he was a mute, even though no one knew he was so voluntarily.
"C'mon, mulatto, you too stupid to talk?" Gordon sneered, waving the serving ladle in front of him. The other slaves within earshot were snickering. Gabriel just gazed at him, grey eyes unreadable.
Just serve me the food, you rat, Gabriel thought to himself. Must we engage in this childishness every day?
Gordon's eyes narrowed. "Did you just say something to me, boy?"
Gabriel was well experienced in pasting on a passive, stupid visage, and he employed the tactic now.
In his mind, his mental voice sneered, You'll be holding up the work, and Master Rolfe wouldn't be happy, would he? You'd lose your job, your money, your comfortable life...You're just as much of a slave as I am.
Gordon was glaring now, but Gabriel heard his voice, despite the fact that the man's mouth wasn't moving.
"Stupid, mouthy mulatto...get him whipped to death and hung from a tree... he was muttering. And yet his mouth wasn't moving. His voice was...harsher, crueller, less of the snivelling whine he spoke in.
His real voice, Gabriel told himself. Gordon was glaring at him.
Do you hear me? he wondered in his mind.
"Of course I can hear you," Gordon snapped. Then confusion crossed his face.
Gabriel blinked, shocked, but kept his 'slave face' on.
But I'm not moving my mouth, he sneered.
Gordon's eyes when huge as he realised just what was happening. "He's a witch!" He dropped the ladle into the bowl and leapt back, screaming. Gabriel shrugged and caught the ladle before it went under, giving himself a generous helping of the porridge.
When he approached the benches where the other slaves were sitting, they were just staring at him. He flashed a faux-innocent smile, one laced with bitterness.
(You guys and girls don't want anymore food?)
Smirking to himself, he sat down away from them and began to eat.

Master Rolfe appeared ten minutes later, Gordon raving at his side. Gabriel could hear Master Rolfe's thoughts. The man was not amused. So Gabriel wore an innocent smile accredited to his namesake, scribbling down "I don't know what he's talking about" to all of Master Rolfe's questioning. He was one of few slaves who knew how to write.
Master Rolfe sighed and tried to calm his hysterical employee. Gabriel flashed an innocent smile when Gordon glared over his shoulder, muttering, "Mulatto."
Gabriel reached out with his mind, pushing into Gordon's, and scanning his thoughts. He heard the word again: Mulatto.
So he shoved.
Gordon collapsed to the ground, screaming.
Gabriel's grey eyes glittered.
Is that all I am? A mulatto?