She was lying on the ground when she regained her senses. The sun was high in the sky. Groggy, head throbbing, she started a chant to return to her true form, but pain doubled her over instead. There was iron encircling her ankles. It was the only man made substance capable of binding a Spirit and it burned like hot coals against her skin. Fear grabbed her. Looking around she saw that she was not alone.
Seated nearby were hundreds of men and women shackled by leg irons and connected to each other by lengths of heavy chain. Slavers stood over them, guns at the ready. Her fear increased. To her shock, shimmering behind the faces of some of the captives were other Spirits of wood, air, fire, and earth who’d apparently been masking as humans, too. Now, like her they were caught and powerless. There were also demon spirits, who though bound, smiled greedily from within their human facades in anticipation of feeding upon the misery and terror. Aya closed her eyes and sent up an urgent plea to her mother for help, but received only silence. She pleaded, begging for forgiveness. Again, nothing. The enormity of her plight was staggering. She had no idea where the slavers were taking them or why. Being immortal and considering herself above the petty worries of humans, it hadn’t occurred to her to enquire about the fate of the thousands of Africans taken captive before. Now, she wished she had done so. A short distance away sat scores of chained children. Their anguished cries tore at her heart and she wondered about the fate of the king’s son. But it was HER own fate that was most chilling. Until she found a way to be free of the iron, her true self would remain trapped.
She and the other captives were dragged to her feet and forced to march over land to the coast. Some died along the way. Those who balked or could not keep pace were shot.
Weeks later, when they finally arrived, they were fed into the belly of an enormous wooden ship bobbing atop the water like a waiting beast.
CHAPTER TWO
Charleston SC
1820
Ezekiel Grange walked through pens of the city’s slave market holding a scented kerchief to his nose against the gagging stench rising from the scores of unwashed African bodies. Having recently inherited a substantial amount of coin from a dead relative, he wanted to buy more slaves to supplement the few he currently owned. Grange was an ambitious man. Through marriage six years ago to the wealthy, buck-toothed spinster Rebecca Ware, he’d advanced from a poor store clerk to a low rung member of Charleston’s planter society. In comparison to the truly wealthy, his holdings were small, but his business acumen was sound, and he was convinced it was just a matter of time before his name and estates became synonymous with theirs.
To that end, he’d come to evaluate the blacks for sale. The broadsides circulated upon the arrival of this newly docked slaver claimed it offered an impressive cargo - strong hardy bucks, females ripe for breeding and a number children, which many of his class preferred because they were young enough to be malleable. Once they ceased crying for their mothers and grew older, they’d be docile and content with their lot. As adults, if they were fed and allowed to rest now and again, they’d work from sun up to sun down – much like oxen.
Due to the market’s poor lighting, determining which of the captives to place bids upon was difficult, but Grange kept up his slow stroll. Peering back at him out of the gloom were eyes of the furious, the sick, the terrified, and the mad. Having seen enough he left.
Outdoors, the sun was shining. Glad to be free of the stench and gloom, he drew in deep breaths of sweet clean air and walked over to join the other planters to wait for the auctioning to commence.
At first, Aya wondered if this was the Land of the Dead, but seeing no human ancestors, she knew that was not the answer. The ocean crossing had seemed endless. Only occasionally were the captives given precious moments above decks to take in fresh air. Some took advantage of the moments to dive into the sea. As they swam east, many received bullets in their backs but others were left alive so sport could be made while they were eaten by sharks swimming in the ship’s wake. Through it all, she continued to plead to her mother for deliverance.
For the moment, she was in a pen filled with women. She didn’t know the true numbers of Africans with her but she assumed there were many because the stagnant air was a fetid mixture of sweat, fear, and excrement. Off in the distance the darkness echoed with shrieks of broken minds, wails of the terrified, and low-toned ancestral songs of the dead.
A guard pulled her and a few other women away from the main group and led them away. They were still hobbled so walking was difficult. The line was stopped and they were unceremoniously doused with buckets of cold water which left them gasping and shivering. Afterwards, they were handed thin sack-like shifts to cover their nakedness. To aid the process, their ankle restraints were removed, but her hope that she’d be free of the burning iron long enough to regain her strength were dashed when new shackles were placed on her wrists. She wanted to scream her frustration. Instead she gathered herself and waited for what would follow in this nightmare she’d brought on herself. As the guard roughly prodded them forward, she vowed that when did she escape, she’d never walk the earth as human again.
Grange watched the line of women emerge from the back of the building and saw them instantly draw away from the noon sun as if it brought pain. He assumed it had been some time since they’d stood in full light, but he wasn’t concerned with their discomfort. He was in the market for a breeder, maybe two and if he could use one of them to slake his own needs, so much the better. He’d yet to bed an African but he’d heard they were quite insatiable and his groin tightened with anticipation.
The women were now positioned next to the bucks and a small group of children. He shook his head at the haughtiness some of the men and women displayed. It was always a pleasure to watch his overseer break that spirit and show them their rightful place. He focused attention one of the females. She looked particularly angry, and if eyes could kill, not a one of the men who’d come to bid would be alive. He found her tall lean frame to be of interest though.
One by one the Africans were examined. To judge their health, the pen’s owner forced their mouths open so Ezekiel and the others could get a good look at their teeth. The Africans strained against their shackles, but the planters ignored it. No one wanted to shell out good coin for a slave already sick from the passage.
The men’s genitals were exposed and manipulated to answer questions about each buck’s ability to produce seed. The women’s shifts were raised to show if their hips were wide enough to bear the number of children necessary to ensure a planter’s future. To Ezekiel’s trained eyes, the tall lean woman he’d found interesting earlier appeared to be young. With the right mating, she’d likely produce seven, eight – maybe more. He approached her to physically gauge the size and heft of her breasts. At his handling, she didn’t flinch or cower. Instead she stared back with the arrogance of a queen. Smiling faintly, he turned away and placed his bid on her.
Minutes later, she and three others – a man, a woman and a girl child were put in the back of his wagon. He climbed onto the seat and signaled his African headman Jeremiah, to guide the team of horses home.
CHAPTER THREE
As the wagon bumped along the uneven tract Aya’s fury consumed her. Had she been sold? After being handled like a beast and witnessing all that had transpired back at the pens, the answer could only be yes. Did they not know who she was? Did they not know that the only thing between them and death were the shackles around her ankles and wrists? It was obvious they didn’t, and being in no position to illuminate them only increased her rage and underlying misery. Why hadn’t her mother answered? Were the irons smothering her appeals? She had no answers. She took a moment to assess the other captives riding with her. The man’s eyes blazed with an anger that mirrored her own, the woman too. Tears spilled down the cheeks of the little girl and the woman took her upon her lap and held her close.
Aya was curious about the African holding the reins. Had he been purchased as well
? She wanted to ask him how long he’d been in the land, but held onto her questions until she could speak to him alone. The slaver beside him must’ve sensed her interest because he turned and looked directly at her. She met his knowing smile distantly and focused her attention on the countryside. She already knew what he had in mind, which meant he’d be the first to die.
After some time, the wagon finally came to a halt in front of a large house made of stone and wood. Around it were open fields bordered by trees. In the fields, a group of Africans stopped their digging to watch Aya and the others disembark.
“This is your new home,” the African driver said to them in the common language the African tribes shared. “My name is Jeremiah. The white man is Marse Granger. He now owns you.”
Aya assessed the white man who now had a name.
“You will work for him until death. If you run away, you’ll be found and whipped.”
Granger addressed them in words she didn’t understand so she paid him no mind and kept her attention focused on Jeremiah who translated, “Marse Granger says if you work hard, you’ll be treated fairly.”
A man with a gun walked up to join them. He was pale, short and stout. There was a black whip hanging from the belt at his waist and his blue eyes were cold as a demon’s. The driver Jeremiah introduced him as Sales. “He’s the overseer. He makes sure you put in a good day’s work and will punish you if you don’t.”
Sales said something to Jeremiah. Again, he translated, “He expects to you to be able to understand his words as soon as possible. Doing so will make it easier to know what you’re supposed to do in the fields. You’ll also be given new names.”
And at that moment, the one she knew as Granger pointed her way and said the word, “Sarah.” She supposed it was what she was to be called. She saw no harm in answering to it. For now. Eventually, she’d reclaim the name given to her by her mother at her creation. The man Granger gave her a final long look then turned and walked towards the wood and stone house.
Sales then removed their irons. Aya sighed with relief. The burning ceased and a low hum of power entered her body through the land beneath her bare feet. It was very weak however, lacking the the vitality and sacredness that flowed with such force back home. It felt as if its innate power had been fouled somehow. She glanced up and found the driver watching her intently - he knows, came the thought. Careful not to stare, she studied him closely while he gave further instructions on what was expected. There was a faint glimmer around his form, as if he were Spirit born too, but the sparks were dim as dying coals.
She and the others were taken by Jeremiah and Sales to a place the called the “quarters,” where they would sleep during the hours they weren’t toiling. The walls and roof were made of old wood slats, and there was a thin pallet filled with husks to sleep on. She and the woman who’d accompanied her from the pens, now named Ollie, were to share the space.
They were instructed to rest up for the remainder of the day. It was late afternoon, and work would begin at sunrise. The moment the men left, Ollie laid down and cried softly until she drifted off to sleep. Aya didn’t need sleep, nor did she need to eat. All she needed was enough power to take on her true form so she could kill the slavers and return home.
CHAPTER FOUR
As dusk arrived, Ollie awakened and left Aya to find food. Moments later, Jeremiah entered. He studied Aya silently for a moment. “Greetings, Spirit.”
She inclined her head. “Greetings to you. How long have you been in this place?”
“Ten years.”
She sighed with the sadness of that. “Are you content?”
He shook his head. “I was born of the Fire, but his land lacks what I need to break the cage over my true form.”
“How were you taken?”
He offered a bittersweet smile. “I was making love to the wife of a king. He discovered us and before I could escape, he pierced my side with an iron spear. The pain left me so weakened, his men had no trouble binding me with chain. I was sold to the slavers the next day. And you?”
She told him her story.
“Sad. Sadder still is there’s no way home. The longer you walk this land the weaker you become, until finally you begin aging just as humans do. There’s nothing for us to look forward to but death.”
The revelation was appalling. There was no such thing as death to an Immortal, yet he was telling her that would be her fate. “I will find a way home.”
“At first, I believed that, but now I’m resigned.”
“Are there many of us here?”
“No, but we’re all destined to spend the rest of their days under the boot and lash of the slavers.”
“Do they know of us?”
“No. They consider us dumb beasts, incapable of performing the wonders we once had at our fingertips. Even if they were told, they wouldn’t believe. Their knowledge of our world is as limited as their minds.”
“Tell me about this place and these people.”
She listened to his tales of being forced to work like beasts in the fields, of little food and even less care. Of how those who tried to escape were hunted down by men with dogs, returned, tied to the whipping tree, and whipped until the blood ran down their backs like rivers. Repeat offenders were branded with hot irons, and in extreme cases had feet or legs severed to make them stay enslaved.
Suddenly, Granger was standing in the doorway. He began speaking. Aya didn’t understand his words but by the suspiciousness in his eyes, she thought he might be asking Jeremiah his purpose for being there.
Jeremiah replied calmly.
Granger looked between the two of them as if trying to determine the truth in Jeremiah’s words. He seemed satisfied but barked two words.
Jeremiah nodded and left them.
Granger then turned his attention her way. Aya didn’t possess the full breadth of power she was accustomed to wielding. This fouled land had so far only supplied her with a small amount, but should he attempt what she saw in his eyes, she’d only need a small amount to make him wish he’d left her at the pens.
Ezekiel smiled at the woman he’d named Sarah. He’d spent all afternoon thinking about the acts he wanted her to perform on him, and now, just the sight of her tall lean frame added to the hard need in his loins. He remembered how hot the skin of her breasts had been in his hands, and he wanted to know if the rest of her held the same heat. “You and I are going to get along very well.”
He knew she didn’t understand his words, but it didn’t matter, she’d understand plenty when he got between her thighs. To that end, he closed the distance between them. He grabbed the neck of her shift and suddenly found himself up by the ceiling of the room! Terrified, eyes wide, he flailed and kicked, but was held there as if by the invisible hand of God. He stared down. She wore a small smile but there was a dark storm roiling in her eyes.
“Stop this!” he demanded.
Instead, she began a sing song chant that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“I’ll have you whipped to death, you African bitch!”
He was slammed to the earthen floor so forcefully, he cried out in pain, only to be raised high again. Blood poured from his nose. Her smile turned deadly. He hit the ground again with even more force. He screamed and was above her once more. Her dark eyes taunted him. He begged, “Please!”
But there was no mercy. She repeated the witchery. This time, his ribs and pelvis exploded from the impact. And as he lay there moaning, unable to move, the last thing he remembered before sliding into unconsciousness was her stepping over him as she walked out into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Based on what Jeremiah told her of the slavers punishments, Aya was certain she’d be facing death should she be found and returned, but that fate was preferable to a life of servitude and physically servicing Granger. She’d taken such pleasure in introducing him to who and what she was. She’d been careful not to kill him because she wanted him to suffer and for that
suffering to linger; hopefully for the rest of his days. He and his kind were plagues on her homeland, and now, she’d taken a modicum of revenge for all the grief and misery they’d caused. But she was no closer to going home. Her appeals to her mother hadn’t borne fruit, so the time had come to appeal to her father. She was seated in a small clearing a few miles away from Granger’s quarters. Father Moon was high in the sky and she was bathed in the rays of his cool light. She sent up a prayer filled with her despair and longing. She also pleaded for forgiveness, then settled in to wait.
A few moments later, to her surprise and delight, he shimmered into view, cloaked in the form of an African king. She bowed her head. “Father. Thank you coming.”
He sat beside her and drew her to his side, then kissed her brow. “I cannot stay long because other gods rule here, but take this.” He handed her a small root. “It’s a gift from your Mother. You’ve been away too long to return to who you were, so you must swallow it. In three days, it will help you transform.”
She studied the small brown thing and looked up to question him about it but found herself alone. “Father!”
On the wind, she heard him whisper. “Three days, daughter. Hide yourself away, then return to the slavers. You will need their help.”
Return to the slavers? What kind of help could Granger possibly offer? The words made her wary, but had she listened to her mother’s advice she wouldn’t be enslaved, so she swallowed her misgivings along with the root and tried not to worry.
With the aid of her limited powers she kept herself hidden from the roving groups of men and dogs hunting her by turning herself into small things like tiny birds, fish and honeybees. She couldn’t hold the forms for very long but it was enough. Since swallowing the root the area surrounding her spine itched constantly, and her skin felt as if it were drying out and shrinking. Her fingers and toes were becoming misshapen, the nails turning black. What is happening to me? Once again, she had questions for which there were no answers, so on the third day, she came out of hiding and walked back to Granger’s land.
Crystal Clear Page 6