Dark Justice: A Supernatural Thriller

by Donnie Light

  The gods had been powerful tonight, showing their dark powers to all present. The spell was mighty and required the energy from all of the camp to cast it. A spell such as this one was rare. The gods must look into the heart of the man asking for the spell, and judge that he is worthy. They must also determine if the priest is worthy, and his soul clean. They must settle upon the sacrifice to be given. When this is decided, it would be told to the priest. It is then up to him, to the extent of his knowledge and his powers, to call forth the justice of the gods. If all is in order, they would begin the ritual.

  Mendalla-Umba’s people had always lived by this system. They only used the spells to battle evil, never for personal gain. The old priest looked back upon his first spell. It had been cast upon the evil spirit-creatures of the sea. These spirits had eaten most of the fish from the sea and the village’s fishing nets brought in little food. They depended upon the fish for nourishment and the empty nets caused much concern among the villagers.

  The village elders summoned Mendalla-Umba to their council, directing him to speak with the gods.

  Mendalla-Umba pleaded with the gods to help them, and used all of his powers to persuade them. He performed his ritual as his father had taught him.

  The fish had been few before the spell, barely enough to feed the children, but within a few days, the fish were back. The villagers once again harvested their food from the sea. In return for their deed, the gods asked only that the first day’s harvest be sacrificed to them for their great task!

  Mendalla-Umba had cast spells against the evil spirits that caused sickness among his people. He had cast spells against the insects that ravaged their scanty crops, and against the evil spirits that dried up their land, holding back the rain.

  If the cause was worthy, and if the heart of he who asked of them was honorable and pure, the gods would consider the request. The gods would then name their price, to be paid in the form of a sacrifice for granting the deed.

  Mendalla-Umba did not know how the gods battled the evil, for he was merely a man. He knew only the outcome. The rains would come, the insects would die, and his people healed.

  If his people died, then they would know their hearts were not noble, or their faith was lacking. If the rains did not come, it was because of some injustice his people had done to anger the gods. The gods were powerful, the gods were honorable, and the gods were just.

  Mendalla-Umba retrieved a small crystal from his burlap bag. He had found it while working the fields for Master Browning. The gods had now asked him for it. The gods had told him of their plan to bring forth a mighty servant to carry out the task requested of them. The gods would call forth the Eater of Hearts to aid the running slave.

  Mendalla-Umba had trembled when the gods told him of their decision. He had heard of the Eater of Hearts, but had not thought of it being sent here, for this spell. It was one of the most powerful of the servants of the gods and its power struck fear into the heart of the old priest.

  The ultimate sacrifice was usually that of a human life. Mendalla-Umba had only cast one such spell, many years ago in his homeland.

  At that time, the evil spirits that dwelled below the ground began to heave the earth. The sea had licked the land with a furious wave, destroying most of the village and killing many people. The crops had been washed away, threatening the remaining villagers with starvation. Huge cracks had opened in the rocks, threatening to release the evil spirits from below.

  Mendalla-Umba had flown with the gods as he had earlier this night. They would require the sacrifice of a warrior to stop the evil spirits. The village had gathered for their energy. A mighty warrior had volunteered his life, just as the gods had said one would, to save the village.

  The gods had asked a mighty price for the spell that Tobias sought. The gods had not seen Tobias’ life as the ultimate sacrifice, for to Tobias, death would be no sacrifice at all. It would be a release. Tobias the runner was dead already, as the gods saw it.

  Instead, Tobias had been given a mission; a mission that would prove to be more of an offering than immediate death. Tobias had also given of himself, his right hand, for the spell that he had called for. Mendalla-Umba had made the cut quickly, hoping Tobias would suffer as little as possible. The bones had yielded easily to the sharp ax. The potion would alleviate the pain for a while. The gods were pleased, and the gods were wise.

  Mendalla-Umba took the small crystal, and placed it in a bowl. He then took Tobias’ severed right hand, and like a hideous inverted udder, squeezed the fingers to milk them of their blood. The bloody stone was retrieved from the bowl, and placed in the palm of the severed hand. In a death grip like no other, Mendalla-Umba wrapped the fingers of the hand around the stone. Wax from a candle was then dripped between the fingers, sealing the stone inside.

  Mendalla-Umba walked over to check on Tobias. The potion he had drank was working now, giving Tobias a fitful, though much needed, sleep.

  The priest walked outside with the hand. The air was cool and dew had fallen over the camp. The fires had burned down to a bed of furious coals. Mendalla-Umba dropped the hand into the center of the coal bed and with a long stick, raked the coals to cover it.

  The priest sat before the fire. The smell of burning flesh was immediately noticeable. He could hear a sound above the quiet crackling of the fire. Leaning closer, he heard a faint hissing and sizzling, as blood from the severed end of the hand dripped upon the hot coals.

  The bed of coals had been smokeless before the priest placed the gift to the gods into it. Now, a column of smoke resembling a light gray snake, wriggled its tail as it climbed into the sky to meet with the gods.

  The priest began to chant, quietly, almost to himself, but he knew the gods would hear. It was well past midnight and the woods surrounding the camp were completely quiet except for the sounds of crickets and an occasional toad. Mendalla-Umba sat with his eyes closed, chanting quietly, until he lost track of time. The chanting was automatic. He need not think about it to do it.

  His mind wandered back to Old Africa. He remembered his father, one of the most powerful leopard-skin priests ever. He thought about the great pride that his father had known when Mendalla-Umba, his only son, had become the Kuaar Muon of the village. His joy had been mixed with sorrow, for his father knew the burden a priest carried upon his shoulders and how it weighed upon the mind and body. A priest must be strong to serve the gods and his people. A priest must be willing to kill to appease the will of the gods. Emotions must be set aside and not allowed to interfere with judgment. Now, Mendalla-Umba knew what it was to maim, to cripple, to the same end. Although his heart was heavy, he knew he had only done his duty.

  Reflecting upon the events of the night, the old priest noticed a sudden brightness from the fire, just before he felt increased warmth upon his face. The brightness had been powerful enough to sense through closed eyes. Upon opening them, Mendalla-Umba was nearly blinded.

  A small orb, about the size of a child’s fist, glowed brightly about three feet above the ground, directly over the fire. With a light nearly as intense as that of the sun, Mendalla-Umba could barely look at it. Through squinted eyes, he stared in amazement. The priest hardly noticed the few, large drops of rain pelting his shoulders and the top of his head. Within a minute, the light rain turned to a heavy downpour. Mendalla-Umba could hear the hissing fire as the rain drowned it out. He could feel the heat upon his face decrease as the rain seemingly cooled the orb, dimming its previous brightness.

  The bed of coals was soon a wet pile of ash. The orb maintained its position above the fire pit, but dimmed to a faint yellow glow. The rain continued, sending small streams of runoff throughout the camp. The priest was aware of the voices of some of the slaves, probably complaining about getting wet through leaking roofs.

  Mendalla-Umba kept his eyes on the mysterious thing before him. After a moment, the orb dropped, all at once, as if some invisible hand had suddenly released it. It landed with a squishy
plop!

  The rain stopped as suddenly as it had started. The camp became quiet again. The rain had quieted the crickets and toads and now the only sound was the dripping of water from the roofs of the cabins in the camp.

  Mendalla-Umba cautiously approached the fallen orb. He probed at it with a stick, trying to rake it from the muddy ashes. Upon getting it on open ground, he noticed it was no longer glowing. His heart pounded rapidly at the thought of what he had just witnessed. Without touching it, he held his hand close to see if he could feel any warmth. Sensing nothing, he cautiously picked it up. It was only slightly warm. He carried it over to the well and rinsed it off in a puddle that had collected around its base.

  Tobias groaned as Mendalla-Umba entered his cabin. The old priest studied the orb intently as he approached a candle for a better look. It was marvelous! The gods had shown Mendalla-Umba a power he had never seen before. He silently praised them for their awesome power and wisdom.

  Mendalla-Umba placed the orb in a small leather pouch that he also took from his secret burlap bag. He placed the pouch beside the bed where Tobias tossed about. The potion was wearing off and he could see the fear and pain on the runner’s face.

  He took his burlap bag back to its hiding place and looked into the sky. The stars shone brightly and no trace of a rain cloud could be seen. In the east, a faint pink glow lined the horizon. Morning was near and Wilbur would soon be expected in the fields.

  – Chapter 4 –

  Tobias awoke with a start, having been replaying the events of the night in his half-sleeping mind. He jerked himself upward, trying to support himself with his hands only to awkwardly discover the amputation of his right hand. He hoped it had all been a dream, a very bad dream.

  His arm burned like rampant fire. Blood-soaked rags covered the stump, and Tobias shook it briefly to rouse the swarming flies that had gathered there.

  Wilbur returned to the cabin, void of the body paint, dressed in the same tattered clothes he had worn the day before. “Time to run, Tobias,” he said. “Time to get your pitiful ass as far away from here as you can.” There was no sympathy in Wilbur’s words, although there was in his heart.

  Tobias had gotten exactly what he had asked for and now had to pay the price. The spell had been cast, and its completion depended upon Tobias’ strength and will. Mendalla-Umba had bid the will of Tobias and the gods. To Wilbur the slave, his concern now turned to being caught harboring an escaped slave. The slave catchers would probably pass though here, led by their dogs, and suspicion alone would be enough to warrant severe punishment. Wilbur had to do all that he could to protect himself and the other slaves from being incriminated in any way.

  Tobias stood, swaying slightly as he tried to regain his balance. His head swam and he felt weak from the loss of blood. He steadied himself by leaning against the wall.

  Tobias held his stump-arm upward and studied it. Streaks of dried blood ran from under the saturated rags, like dark lightning bolts from a gore-soaked cloud. Flies continually swarmed the dressings, buzzing about in a frenzy.

  “Here’s you a little blade and a piece of flint,” Wilbur said. “It might help you out some along your way.” He pushed the small knife and flint into Tobias’ pocket. He then took Tobias’ left hand into his own, and tied the drawstrings of the leather pouch around his wrist. He looked into Tobias’ tired eyes. Fear and pain were waging a battle to control the runner’s face.

  “Whoever ya’ give this to will be cursed,” he said, trying to avoid Tobias’ eyes. “The gods say to give it to him as a gift, and yo’ spell will be done. Ya’ got to give it freely, and don’t let anyone steal it from ya’.” Wilbur pulled a rag from his back pocket and used it to reinforce the dressing on Tobias’ stump. “It’s got to pass from the giver to the taker, and the taker will be cursed.”

  Tobias started to protest, feeling there was no way he could make the trek back to Master Richards’ plantation. He decided against saying anything, only nodding his head in confirmation.

  “What is it?” Tobias asked, bouncing the pouch in his hand, trying to get a feel of its weight and shape.

  “This po’ old man don’t know. The gods call it biit loac, The Eater of Hearts.” Wilbur rubbed his face, a now familiar gesture to Tobias. “Don’t go lookin’ at that thing in the pouch. It’s a mirror of fear, and it knows what’s in the hearts of men.” Wilbur took Tobias’ shoulders in his hands. “You just got to git it to yo’ Master, that’s all the gods say. The gods will take care of the rest. Now you go on and git. Remember, I ain’t never seen ya’, and you ain’t never been here.” Wilbur turned his back to Tobias. “You go on back into the woods,” he said. “It’ll be light soon, and if y’all gits caught here, the spell will never be done.”

  Tobias was too stunned to say anything, and didn’t know what to say anyway, so he headed for the door. Swaying like a drunk, Tobias made his way to the woods. The morning light was still faint and the air was cool. A glow in the east gave Tobias his bearings and he turned northward.

  Wilbur stood in the door of the cabin. Tobias looked back at him. They exchanged glances and then Tobias was gone.

  The ways of the gods were sometimes strange, but their will had been done. Wilbur felt that his duty was over. He knew what Tobias was facing and tears filled his eyes. He had not even had the time to get Tobias some food for his journey. Although that couldn’t be helped, Wilbur felt a tug at his heart for the runner. Good luck, Karmanna, son of Harub, Wilbur thought to himself. Tobias had not told him his African name, but the gods had.

  The other slaves were beginning to wake up and they had a full day’s work ahead of them.

  § § §

  Tobias slowly made his way north, keeping the rising sun on his right. After about an hour he came to a stream where he began to replenish his lack of body fluids. Drinking deeply of the water, Tobias wondered how he would ever make it back. That was the last thing he had expected to have to do.

  Tobias had expected to die. He thought his life would be demanded as his sacrifice to the gods and had accepted it. Being asked to return to his plantation was something he had not anticipated. He felt he would never make it. His mission sent him straight toward the slave catchers instead of away from them. His arm hurt worse than any beating he had ever known.

  Tobias lay next to the stream for a few moments, thinking. It had taken six days to find the priest. He had stopped at two other camps inquiring about a Kuaar Muon, and they had directed him to where Wilbur lived. He had been physically strong then, able to move quickly, to hide, and to run. He had been nearly exhausted by the time he had found the priest. Now he was beyond exhausted. He was also crippled.

  He considered just staying where he was, never to face Master Richards. He also considered how that would just waste the spell, letting Master Richards go on as before.

  No, he could not do that. Wilbur and his entire camp had risked helping him. He could not come this far and just let it go. He must dig deep within himself, somehow manage to get back and carry out his task. He had vowed to the gods that Master Richards would know their justice and fear their power. Whatever the gods had in store for Master Richards, it started with Tobias’s journey back home.

  Still lying along the side of the stream, Tobias wondered what was in the pouch. He felt it again through the soft leather. It was round, and weighed as much as three or four hen’s eggs. He wondered what it was that would carry out this spell.

  Let Master Richards be the first one to see its power, he thought.

  He stood up and looked into the stream. A crayfish was silently searching for food among the rocks in the shallow water.

  “Hey, Mistuh Craw-Daddy,” Tobias said, licking his lips, “you sho’ look like a fine meal to me.” Using his teeth, Tobias untied the leather pouch and laid it upon the bank.

  Catching a crayfish with one hand proved to be quite a challenge. He managed to catch four of them. It was a meager meal, but he would find more food later. He spe
nt about fifteen minutes wading in the shallows before moving on.

  Before he left the water, he took a few minutes to wash some of the blood from himself. He sat down on a rock and managed to rinse off his right arm. A tendril of reddish-brown water snaked its way downstream from Tobias before diluting enough to run clear again.

  Tobias retrieved the pouch from the bank and slipped his hand through the looped strings, drawing them tight with his teeth. He felt slightly better and the small gain in strength would carry him a long way before he stopped again.

  Recovery from the exhaustion, hunger, and loss of his hand would require time. Time Tobias didn’t have. He was moving closer to the slave catchers, and had a long way to go before his journey ended. He needed strength, sleep, and food.

  He moved rather slowly that day, making his way through the woods. At least the shade of the trees kept the hot August sun off his back as he traveled. The woods were thick, almost shutting out the rays of the sun completely. Only a few narrow beams of light penetrated the leaves, spotting the ground beneath with round blotches of light. He felt safe in the woods. The chances of anyone finding him here were slim.

  The same could not be said for the rest of the trip. After he left the cover of the forest, Tobias would be in the open more often. He would travel during darkness, trying to pick up a few miles each night, making whatever headway he safely could in the daytime.

  Tobias reached the Northern edge of the woods about two hours before sunset that first day. A tobacco plantation lay in a valley to the north. About three miles to the west, Tobias noted a narrow strip of woods winding in an irregular path Northward, probably bordering the same stream he had crossed this morning. Tobias would rest here until well after nightfall. Then he would decide if he should follow the road or the stream.

  He poked around in the woods looking for anything Mother Nature may offer in the way of food. After finding only a few edible roots, Tobias happened upon a wild apple tree. The tree yielded some small, bitter apples. The first apple instantly dried his mouth, but after gobbling three or four his stomach was temporarily satisfied. He wished his pants sported pockets, for he would have liked to take a couple of the sour apples with him. But, given the fact he had a hard time carrying anything, he would pass, hoping to find more food along the way.