DarknessOnThePlains_TheBeginning

by Jayme Malvagio

  Darkness on the Plains

  The Beginning

  By Jamie Malvagio

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 992

  Edgewater, Florida, 32132

  Darkness on the Plains: The Beginning

  Copyright © 2009, Jayme Malvagio

  Edited by Tiffany Mason

  Cover art by Chel Hickerty

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-076-7

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringements, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: October 2009

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Introduction

  Darkness. That one word stirs a myriad of feelings for every living being. To some, it embodies evil. To others, it is just another word for sadness. For us, it means life. But in the end, it is still just a word. Make your own judgment as to its connotation.

  From our birth into this undeath, we have worshipped the night. We spend our days hidden away from the sun’s harmful rays, thinking only of the night to come and begging for its speedy return. We play games within the night's black tendrils. It caresses our skin like a lover’s touch. We are one with the night. We are but children appealing to the maternal nature of the night’s airy kiss.

  We feed, play, love and live an eternity that few know exist and fewer still could fathom. We exist, fearing nothing but the embrace of Ra, whose touch is one of the few things in this world that can harm us. This is not to say that we don’t have our fair share of problems; the life of an immortal is still a life influenced by the world around us. As with any sentient being, life has a way of serving us as many trying times as it does the good ones.

  The vast majority of us are not evil. Nor are we bottom feeders attacking anything that moves in our vicinity. We do sustain ourselves on the blood of mortals, but we are very particular about the humans we feed upon. For the most part, we only take those who wish to die, and when we do feed, their deaths are quick and merciful. Most meet their end in a state of ignorant bliss. There are those of my kind who don’t take the lives of their meals at all. There are clans, even entire covens who keep stables filled with humans for the sole purpose of sustaining the brood. I find this method to be a bit too inhumane for my taste. Would it not be better to have a quick release from your suffering than to live out your years in a darkened basement, waiting for the next visit from your owners?

  We do not surround ourselves with graves or the fetid remains of our victims. Nor do we wish to destroy the world in a bloody rage. In fact, we fully appreciate the beauty of the world mortals have built around us. How could we not? After all, were we not human once ourselves?

  Just as our strength and speed have increased, our capacity to love and remorse have grown a hundred-fold. None who are mortal have an inkling of how love and sorrow really feel. I have wept at the splendor of the night and loved a woman with my cold heart in such a way no human mind could imagine, let alone endure its intensity. The things I see and the voices I hear would leave a mortal cowering in insanity, begging for a merciful release from the constant bombardment of his senses.

  We live amongst you, imitating your lifestyles and admiring your achievements. We see better than mortals, in both the literal and philosophical sense. We spend much of our time watching over you like guardian angels. We give advice and discourage ideas that may lead to the downfall of humankind. We are not always successful, but we always try.

  The following account is about the life and death of Kanati Harjo. He was born nearly two hundred years ago in South Carolina, and this is his story. Before we begin, I should set the stage so you might better understand the world as he knew it.

  He was only two years old when his people were forced to move to the Indian Territory. They settled in what is now Southeastern Oklahoma. Nearly a thousand began the trek, but his Clan was barely more than one-hundred strong at the end of the march. They were part of the thirteen thousand Native Americans that were escorted to their new homes by the U.S. government in the fall of 1838.

  The procession had over six hundred wagons that were meant to carry the sick, elderly and small children. The rest of his people had to walk. It took six months to traverse the winter-encased terrain. A mixture of starvation and fatigue claimed most of his kinsmen’s lives during the trip, while others succumbed to the elements. None made the journey unscathed, be it mentally or physically.

  His father was one who died along the trail. He fell victim to some disease or another, the name of which is no longer important. His mother was Caucasian, though we will never know her nationality. His father met her on one of his many travels into the world of the newcomers. She died mere hours after Kanati was born from complications with his birth.

  Finally, in March 1839, they arrived in the Indian Territory. The bulk of the survivors went on to establish themselves in the northeastern part of the territory between the Arkansas and the Verdigris Rivers. The elders of his tribe decided to travel farther south. Rumor had it that some of their cousins had already begun a friendly community in the area called Tahlonteeskee. For most of the elders, a familiar face was very welcome in such a strange land.

  There were many children such as Kanati who lost either their mother or father, or in some cases, both. It was the responsibility of the elders of his tribe to teach them the ways of their people. They were taught to hunt, fish, and ride. They regaled the children in the evenings with stories about the myths and legends that made them who they were as a culture.

  Eventually, the then fledgling government came up with the bright idea to take one more thing from the survivors of the march…their children. They were gathered in droves and sent to boarding schools. The directors of the program broke off all contact between the children and their tribes, effectively isolating them from their roots. They could not speak in their native tongue. To do so earned severe beatings from the hands of the teachers. They learned to read and write in English. They learned all the skills deemed necessary to turn savages into civilized, obedient cogs in the wheels of society. The directors were sure that once the children worshipped their god and obeyed their laws, they would become the perfect little lap dogs, a lasting symbol of their dominance over the heathens.

  Kanati was sent to the far southeast region of the territory when he was roughly six years old. He received his education at Chesterfield
Academy for Boys. Most of the girls from his Talwa—the village of his clan—were sent to Rolling Hills Female Seminary. It was a beautiful example of government intervention at its finest.

  But enough of my somewhat biased ramblings. You didn’t come here to hear my thoughts. You’ve come for adventure, and a bloody adventure you shall have.

  Chapter One

  Kanati peeked from under his blanket, watching the lantern as it faded down the hall. He spared a quick glance at the other beds lining the wall. Five on his left, four on his right. He and the others were guests at the Chesterfield Academy for Boys, Injun School to those who worked there.

  Should I wake any of them? Who else is crazy enough to try this?

  He pulled a crumpled paper from beneath his pillow and ran a finger over it in the darkness. A map, stolen from the library, ripped from a book earlier in the day. It marked his Talwa, Tahlonteeskee. Home.

  The harsh bite of winter was gone, but the air still carried a chill. At least that’s why he told himself his entire body trembled.

  Sliding from beneath the covers, he willed his breath to come. He listened for movement in the hall, cringing when the boards creaked beneath his feet. Grabbing his boots from beside the bed, he crept in stocking feet to the edge of the room and crouched to eye the shadows in the dimly lit hall. He could barely make out the shape of a door at the end of the hallway, but it was enough. By then, he knew the route by heart, having walked it every day for the last eleven years.

  Forty steps to freedom. Ocasta, please make my feet light and their dreams heavy.

  He could feel sweat pool as it ran down his back. Fear threatened to consume his resolve.

  If they beat me for speaking in my own tongue, what will they do to me for trying to escape?

  A board groaned beneath his feet. He held his breath. He froze halfway down the hall, certain he heard breathing behind him. He whirled, ready to spout an explanation. The hall was empty.

  Keep it steady. One foot in front of the other. You’re almost there—

  Holding his breath, he reached for the knob. The gods are smiling on you.

  “Joseph, what are you doing out of bed?” a voice rumbled behind him.

  Kanati jumped, spun and glared at the man with the lantern. Over a decade of torment and regret crashed over him in waves.

  “My name’s not Joseph,” he growled.

  “What the hell has gotten into you?” The man stepped forward, face puckered, though it wasn’t clear if it was from confusion or anger.

  “I’m going home.” he reached for the knob again.

  “Don’t push me, boy.” The man jabbed a finger at the air between them. “You touch that door and I’ll—”

  “What?” He cast a glance at him over his shoulder. “You’ll give me another beating?”

  The man reached for his hip and snarled when he realized his holster wasn’t there. “I don’t think beating is a strong enough word for what I’m about to do to you.” He began his advance, fists clenched.

  “You’ll have to catch me first,” he said with a laughed and slung open the door.

  He leapt from the porch, cursing as the rough earth dug into his feet. A full moon colored the sloping hills an eerie shade of blue. Nothing on the windswept plain provided him cover. The nearest tree line was over a mile away.

  It’s not far. You can make it. He stopped just long enough to stomp into his boots.

  Gunfire exploded, kicking up wisps of dust and dirt from the ground around his feet.

  Kanati scurried in a zigzag motion, breathing in gulps. Hickory trees raced to greet him. He ran faster, throwing himself into their arms. The branches fought him as he pushed his way through, slowing his escape. A few steps further, then a few steps more, and screams reached his ears. What happened? He turned and took a step back the way he came, but hesitated.

  It wasn’t just the voices of his friends screaming in the night; something was happening to the teachers as well. He cursed his own cowardice as he turned again and pushed deeper into the woods.

  Wind whistled through the trees, their mighty limbs moaning beneath its touch. He was thankful for the relief against the warm night air. The screams followed him, filling his ears, filling his mind with visions of his friends’ faces contorted in agony. Bile rose in his throat and he fought the urge to vomit. He wasn’t alone. Something moved through the branches beside him. He tried to run faster, the branches snapped at his face, pulled at his shirt. Laughter bounced from the trunks; surrounded him. He turned to look for his tormentor and tripped over an exposed root. His breath left him in a rush as his body crashed into the ground.

  Don’t let me die…not here, not like this. He scrambled to his feet, spinning in circles, trying to find the source of the laughter. Why are you doing this to me?

  “You are a willful one,” a deep, angelic voice rode on the night air. “What will you do with your newfound freedom?”

  “Who are you?” he sobbed. “What are you gonna do to me?”

  “If you were a little older,” the voice fell to a whisper. “I would answer that question in explicit detail.”

  “What did you do to my friends?”

  “What makes you think I did anything?”

  “The screams—” He couldn’t bring himself to elaborate.

  “Let’s just say your journey home should be unhindered.”

  “You killed them, didn’t you?”

  The whisper of branches moving with the breeze was his only answer. Kanati was once again alone with his fears.

  Chapter Two

  The stranger slipped further into the shadows, eyeing the young man with interest. Everything happens for a reason. We were destined to meet, you and I.

  He’d heard about the so-called school nearly a week ago and had come to investigate the deplorable conditions first hand. A couple of ranch hands in a little saloon on the outskirts of Muskogee had quite the laugh at the expense of the young men at Chesterfield as they explained to the barkeep exactly how they were taming the savages in great detail. He suppressed a shiver as he recalled the conversation. They were beat, humiliated, and in some cases, outright tortured until they were deemed civilized and given the boot. Some of the more effeminate boys were even subjected to special punishments. And for what? What could their future possibly hold? With the onslaught of rampant racism, it was unlikely that they’d be able to find suitable jobs to sustain them, and even if they did, they’d still be outcasts in any society they tried to call home. Just the thought of what they were doing drove him to put a stop to the abuse.

  He had every intention of slipping into the school while everyone slept and dealing with the problem quietly, but when the young brave burst through that door, all bets were off. There was just something about him—strength, charisma, confidence, a…power that emanated from his very being. He didn’t have to be a mind reader to know that, given the proper incentives, this man was destined for greatness.

  Waiting until his newfound friend disappeared among the branches, he turned and made his way quietly back to the school. He closed the distance with remarkable speed. Twisting, turning, ducking, nary a branch brushed against his clothes or even his cloak. By the time he hit the open field, he was at a full sprint.

  He stood on the porch and closed his eyes, listening for movement from within. With a bemused snort, he opened the door and stared down at the half-dozen writhing bodies on the floor, each bound by articles of their own clothing. They were all screaming, some in protest, others in fear.

  “Stop this incessant sniveling,” he ordered, silencing their wails as he walked through their midst. “I still have one more thing to do before I tend to you gentlemen.”

  Striding to the end of the hall, he grabbed the doorknob and paused. “I know you’re afraid. I could hear your screams all the way out in the yard. I’m going to come in now, but there is nothing to fear from me.”

  He stepped into the room and was met with nine pairs of eyes, wide with
apprehension.

  “Why are you still here?” he asked, throwing his hands out, palms up.

  Silence reigned.

  “Did none of you think this might be a good opportunity to return to your families?”

  The boy closest to him looked to be no more than ten years old, but after a glance at his much older friends, he took a tentative step forward. “We didn’t know what was out there that could be worse than the teachers.”

  He felt like he’d taken a kick to the gut and exhaled accordingly. “I can assure you, little one, that after tonight, you will never have to worry about those bad men again.”

  Whispers floated across the small cluster of kids, gaining momentum as they were received and relayed.

  “The young man who escaped,” he paused as he studied their faces. “Kanati, I believe his name was. Are any of you from the same clan as he?”

  They all shook their heads vigorously. Pity, that…

  “Okay, I want you to gather up some supplies from the kitchen, grab some blankets and make your way back to your people.”

  “But I don’t know how to get there,” a young man cried, his voice shrill with fear.

  “Do any of you know your way?”

  One of the oldest in the group raised his hand.

  “Then everybody stick together. Follow him.” He pointed at the volunteer. “Once you get to his home, I’m sure the elders there can help you find your way to yours.”

  No one moved and he nearly laughed out loud.

  “Go on, git!” He smacked his legs for emphasis, sending them from the room in a scramble.

  After waiting patiently for all of the children to leave the house, he returned his attention to the six faculty members in the hall. He grabbed the one closest to him by the hair and pulled him to his feet.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the teacher shouted, spittle flying from his mouth.