Dark Justice: A Supernatural Thriller

by Donnie Light

  Dark Justice

  By

  Donnie Light

  Copyright 2006

  All rights reserved

  A print version of this book is also available on Amazon.com

  http://www.DonnieLight.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual person, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the copyright owner is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or printed editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

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  Subject matter and categories include: Supernatural Thriller, Action Thriller, Paranormal Suspense Thriller, Occult Horror, Mythology and Folklore, African Mythology, Urban Fantasy Thriller, Dark Fantasy.

  For Barbara and Adam, two very special people who have helped me so much on this story that they have every right to lay some claim to it. Without you both, this story would never have gotten into print. With you both, this story is much more than it ever would have been otherwise. I am deeply thankful for the input and constant support.

  To all you other readers who have made Dark Justice a small part of your lives, many thanks.

  — Donnie Light

  – Chapter 1 –

  August, 1806

  Tobias faced the bittersweet reality that he was probably living the last day of his life.

  The escaped slave cautiously approached a small camp. Moving silently from tree to bush, he worked his way to a shallow ravine. He listened intently for the sound of baying hounds. He took his breaths in long, hard pulls that fully expanded his chest. His nostrils flared as he breathed and streams of sweat stung his eyes.

  The slaves who inhabited this camp were still working in the fields. They exchanged their life energy for a meager amount of food and a place to lay their heads. Tobias looked at the neglected shacks of the camp. Their gray, weathered boards looked as old as the dirt path on which they sat. A half-dozen of these shacks lay in a rough semicircle at the base of a majestic hill, making them look much smaller than their actual size.

  Three old women tended a fire in the center of the camp, preparing to cook a meal for the tired workers upon their return. A few children of toddling age and smaller milled about their feet, occasionally breaking the silence with a cry or a laugh that echoed through the hills.

  Tobias gathered a bunch of crumbly, dried leaves from the floor of the forest, stirring up the rich, moist scent of the rotting matter beneath. He would rest until nightfall, and then approach those in the camp. His exhausting run had worn him down to a point of near collapse, but sleep had not come easily since his escape. Looking up through the thick canopy of the forest he saw only flecks of the reddish-blue evening sky between the leaves.

  The runaway slave listened intently to the near-silence. He did not expect to hear the wailing dogs that were surely on his trail, but kept alert for the sounds just in case. He had done his best to confuse the hounds, knowing that it would only delay them. He figured he was a full day ahead of the slave-catchers, enough time to do what he needed to do here.

  Please, give me this night. Let me have my wish this once, oh gods, and let my run end here. He prayed his silent prayer to the gods of his religion in his native tongue.

  Tobias lay quietly in the darkening woods for another hour before noises from the camp caused him to stir. Peeking over the lichen-clad trunk of a fallen tree, he spied on the group of little shacks.

  Four young black men had gathered around the well that marked the center of the camp. One was raising the bucket as others anticipated their turn at the water. Older slaves slowly entered the camp, herding children who were just old enough to begin working in the fields. Their bare feet raised a cloud of dust as they slowly trod into the camp. A couple of teen-aged girls with small babies slung onto one hip quickened their pace to reach the water ahead of the others.

  Tobias would wait until things settled down before entering the camp. He watched closely as the slaves put large pots to boil on the cooking fires. Thick ropes of smoke and steam from the fires blended, snaking their way upward in the calm evening air. As the enticing scent of vegetable soup rose from the boiling cauldrons, darkness fell.

  The fugitive slave again lay back and peered into the darkness. Painful memories, like poison-tipped arrows penetrated his mind. Tobias winced at these dark memories and a tear escaped from beneath tightly closed eyelids. He thought about Master Richards, the man he ran from. Pain jabbed him again at the thought of never seeing his children again; and his wife, now dead at Richards’ hands.

  Tobias had never experienced such total sadness. The sadness was so thick that it nearly suffocated him. His mind whirled in confusion as he pondered why his life had taken such an unfortunate turn.

  Master Richards had generally been a good man during the years that Tobias had been in his service. He had been stern, yet fair. He had been determined that things would go his way, sometimes to a fault. Yet during those years, he had treated Tobias and the other slaves fairly and consistently. Herein lay Tobias’ cause for confusion; how had things gone so terribly wrong?

  After waiting for full darkness to fall, Tobias cautiously entered the camp. He prayed for acceptance by this group as he approached the fires. He prepared himself to run—his muscles like springs under tension—in case he was not accepted. He did not know what he would do if he were turned away. A slave on the run had limited choices.

  The slaves, a surprisingly small group of about twenty, sat talking quietly among themselves until Tobias breached the ring of light cast out by the fires. All heads turned toward him, silenced by his sudden appearance. Their dark, shiny faces reflected the orange glow of the fires. The whites of their eyes glowed brightly in the light as tiny reflected fires danced in the wet, black pupils.

  Tobias squatted before an older man and looked into his aged eyes. The man looked to be in his late fifties. He was scarecrow-thin, tall, and had short, graying hair.

  “I’m needin’ some help from y’all,” Tobias said, never breaking his gaze on the old man. “I’m lookin’ for a Kuaar Muon.”

  Tobias watched the old man’s face closely for a reaction to his request for a high priest. The old man said nothing, but his eyes indicated he knew of what Tobias sought.

  “I been hearin’ that there’s a mighty pow’ful leopard-skin priest in these parts, and I need him bad.” As Tobias waited for a response from the old man, an older woman grabbed him by the arm.

  “You be a runner for sure,” she said, dragging him by the arm. Fear grabbed Tobias at the thought of the woman turning him in to the slave-catchers. “Let’s get you a bowl and get you out of the light,” the old woman said.

  The tension within Tobias eased as the old woman led him behind a shack. “If a Master was to find you here, it’d be our hides,” she said. She had Tobias sit on a stump of firewood that had not yet met the splitting ax. “Y’all just sit right here and I’ll get you a bowl,” she said, turning back toward the fires.

  Tobias looked
around for a few seconds, trying to readjust his eyes to the darkness again. He could still see the ghostly flames of the fire on the inside of his eyelids when he closed them.

  A couple of minutes later, the old man appeared with a bowl of soup and handed it to Tobias.

  “How long has it been since you last eat, runner?”

  “I found me some berries yesterday,” Tobias said, accepting the bowl.

  “Eat it slow then,” the old man croaked. “Men can’t be livin’ on berries.”

  Tobias put the small bowl to his lips and drank some of the soup. It ran down his throat, satisfying his hunger and warming his core.

  “How long you been runnin’?” the old man asked as he pulled up a stump of firewood for himself. He sat heavily, and leaned against the shack.

  “Six or seven days,” Tobias replied, running his sleeve across his mouth to dry it.

  The old man looked at him suspiciously, raising one gray eyebrow. “You mean to tell me that you been runnin’ for that long, and you ain’t dead or cripple yet?”

  Tobias looked long and hard at the old man before he spoke. “You run hard, when you run for your life.”

  The old slave nodded, eyes full of thought and gazed into the dark woods. After a moment he spoke. “I’d say, you’ll be runnin’ some more.” He stroked his face with one downward sweep of a skeletal hand. “You here right from Africa, ain’t ya’?”

  Tobias looked at the old man and nodded. “I was brought here during my sixteenth summer,” Tobias said.

  “Well, ya’ can’t be stayin’ around here,” he said, looking at Tobias. “If Master Browning was knowin’ you be holed up here, he’d beat my po’ black ass somethin’ terrible.”

  Tobias finished slurping up the last of the vegetables out of his bowl. “Ain’t meanin’ to cause no harm,” he said, and placed the empty bowl on the ground. “If I can see the leopard-skin priest, I’ll be off runnin’ again.”

  Tobias began kneading the tired muscles in his legs.

  The old man looked up at Tobias. “What you be needin’ a Kuaar Muon, fo’?” the old man asked. “Not that there’s one here, ya’ understand.”

  Tobias stopped the muscle-rubbing and stood up. “I think I be needin’ to tell that to the Kuaar Muon.”

  The old man rubbed his face again, a look of worry in his eyes. He studied Tobias’ eyes as if reading something there. “Keep on talkin’ then and follow me.”

  The old man led Tobias into the woods where they would not be heard by the others. Tobias told the old priest his story. After an hour of listening, the old priest told Tobias to stay where he was until he returned. The old man got up stiffly, knees popping and other joints creaking with age and abuse. Alone, the old Kuaar Muon headed deeper into the woods.

  Tobias sat quietly where he was, listening to the sounds of the night. Crickets serenaded their mates and the tree-frogs supplied a chorus. A half-moon cast a faint blue light down upon the forest. His mind raced with possibilities.

  The old priest sat alone in the dark woods, chanting in the tongue of old Africa. As he sat on the dew-moistened grass beneath a great oak tree and became quiet, he let the sounds of the forest comfort him until he could no longer hear those sounds. His mind reached out into the ether, searching for the spirits of his elders, his god.

  In his mind’s eye, he saw the heavens; so glorious, so expansive. A smoky haze came into view, swirling, mesmerizing. This haze began to take shape, dividing into individual elements, resembling human figures. Becoming ever more focused, the haze resolved itself into the images of faces, shoulders and torsos.

  In his mind, the old priest addressed the assembled spirits in his native language.

  “Oh grand ones, I seek your counsel. A troubled soul has come to me, seeking justice.”

  “Be at peace, my child. We have been following this one’s journey toward you. All things are not as they appear,” a spirit replied.

  “Thank you, Grandmother,” the priest said. “What this one seeks, I fear is beyond my abilities.”

  Another of the assembled spirits then spoke. “If you believe what he seeks is beyond you, then it is indeed beyond you. If you believe that it can be achieved, then it will be achieved. You must decide, and what you decide, will be.”

  The priest thought a moment, then replied, “Forgive me grandfather, I hear your wisdom. I only fear that I will not be able to fulfill…”

  “What you fear are not your abilities,” yet another spirit interrupted. “You fear the obstacles that stand before this tortured soul. I say to you, the obstacles before this one do not block his way; they provide the way.”

  The old priest reflected on his own troubled thoughts. “Your wisdom is great, and it is always trusted. This one seeks justice, but the unjust is not of our clan.”

  The spirits smiled at the old priest. “My son,” one of them said, “is the unjust one not a man? Does he not belong to the clan of mankind? Does the color of his skin make his injustice less so?”

  Another grandmother spirit spoke to the priest. “This particular injustice has set many things in motion upon your world. While certain paths through time have now been lost, other paths have now been cleared. The path that is chosen will depend upon the strength of man’s will. You cannot choose the outcome, nor can we. In order for justice to exist, injustice must also exist. The gods favor justice, but in this case, injustice wields much power. The balance no longer exists. Many possibilities are now open to resolve this injustice. In the end, only one will become reality.”

  “Thank you, Grandmother. Your message is wise and clear,” the old priest replied.

  “To restore the balance will require much energy,” one of the spirits said. “Justice is the stronger virtue, but justice has limited paths available in this case. However, the will of this soul who seeks your help is indeed strong. If his will prevails, it will give justice the stronger path for generations beyond his own.”

  “I do not fully understand,” the old priest said, “but I trust your counsel. Please guide me as to your will, and I will perform as expected.”

  “Alas, my child, we already know you will perform well. Like a well-worn path, we see this clearly. Your task will be only to convince the others, to stir their passions, to make them believe it is so. Their energy is crucial to this mission to restore the balance of justice and injustice. There must be a ceremony, tonight, to see what paths will then be opened for justice to prevail.”

  After an hour the priest reappeared and sat next to Tobias. “You know that this is a mighty spell that you be askin’ fo’,” he said, and put a hand on Tobias’ shoulder. “And you know that you’ll be payin’ a mighty big price for it.”

  Tobias nodded and swallowed hard. “So, it can be done?”

  “It can,” the old man said, “and I reckon it will, judging from what you have told me.”

  They sat in silence for a moment before Tobias spoke again. “I ain’t got much to give,” he said, “but I’d give my life to see it done.”

  A serious look fell over the old man’s face. “I’m afraid your po’ old life ain’t worth spit right now,” he said, and then lowered his head. “I’m afraid that what you’ll have to give,” the old man paused, “will be worse than dyin’.”

  § § §

  Within a couple of hours Tobias found himself sitting in a small clearing just a few hundred yards from the camp. A small fire glowed weakly in the center of the clearing and the old priest sat next to it. The entire camp population was also present, down to the smallest baby.

  The priest had shed the tattered rags he had been wearing earlier and was now naked. His upper torso had been smeared with some kind of paint, and as he sat before the fire, he applied the same paint to his face.

  There were several small bowls set before the fire and the priest applied the contents of each to some part of his body. From the last bowl, he slowly drank. Some of the contents dribbled from both corners of his mouth, running in dark, gli
stening lines down his neck. He rose and poured the remainder into the fire.

  The fire hissed, as if in pain, and a column of black smoke rose from its depths.

  The priest began to speak in the tongues of Old Africa. The rest of the slaves began to chant.

  Flames from the small fire began to lick high up into the air. Crackling sparks flew wildly into the still night.

  The gods were listening. Every eye in the camp watched the priest as he began to dance around the fire. Some of the men began to use their legs as drums, slapping a rhythm upon their thighs. The priest, wearing only the paint, raised his arms to the sky and began to dance faster. The chanting speeded up to match the rhythm of the priest. His body glistened with sweat. His eyes glowed madly. The Kuaar Muon was no longer in this world, but among the gods, begging for their approval, for justice.

  The priest could see his body dancing around the fire, no longer under his control. His spirit sped through the night sky. He fondly remembered his own father, also a leopard-skin priest, who had taught him to mind-fly. He rushed through the night searching for direction from the gods. He heard their voices questioning him, asking of his worthiness.

  The answers came. The gods explained to the priest the direction he was to take. Yes, the white man would pay for his actions. The unjust one must be punished for his sins against the children of Africa. The gods would unleash a power upon the white man as never before. And the runner would run again. He must. There was a mission to accomplish and a price to be paid.

  The priest praised the wisdom of the gods and asked their blessing as he bid their will.

  With a speed that could not be calculated, the old priest’s spirit returned to his body with a thud, the impact knocking him down. He lay on the ground for a moment shuddering uncontrollably. The camp was quiet, except for the crackling of the fire. The old priest slowly rose to his feet. His body no longer glistened with sweat. Covered with the dust from the ground, it looked dull, flat. He turned to face the other slaves, their faces an ashen shade of gray. The slaves began to chant again, as the priest raised his hands over his head and began to speak his native language.