The Plot It Thickens

For this month's East African Friday Feature, I have been challenged every Friday, to write 1,000 words of a supernatural story. It can be an ongoing story, or bits and snippets but four times for the four Fridays of October. Now in honour of the release of my baby CHILD OF DESTINY on my birthday October 9th (So Y'all know what I want for a present...buy! buy! buy!) I'm going to do an outtake story that can be read on its own. As a nod to East Africa, I'm going to give the story of the ghost slaves in the wood - how they came to be there, and their hopes and dreams for the future. As a nod to my late father, my protagonist is named Bulitia. He's the slave ghost everyone from BDAH to The Swamp to COD keeps meeting and talking to.

“You are a medicine man are you not?” the woman said to him, “You know how to heal and how to…kill?”

Bulitia stared at her, wondering how she could possibly have come by that information. Nobody knew; not his fellow slaves, nor the slavers who caught him. He had been very careful not to give himself away.  For his own sake and that of his wife and child at home: if he had any hope of seeing them again he could not become essential or important to these people. He had to fade into the background, be forgettable. Looked like that plan was out of the window though. This monster knew, and whatever she wanted from him, Bulitia knew it was not good.

“I…have some herb-craft”, he said, “But…semanya ta.”

“Oh but you do my reluctant witchdoctor. You ‘manya’ a lot”, she said. Bulitia felt his heart go cold and shrivel in his breast.  Was she some kind of spirit? How had she come to know Bukusu? He knew it wasn’t commonly spoken here; most of his fellow slaves were from Hispaniola, St. Domingue, and from West Africa. They had strong juju there; and this…creature liked that.  So why him when she was so spoiled for choice?

“It has to be you my young prince. And you will know why soon. For now, I need to transfer you to another part of my ranch. I need you to keep watch for me.”

“Keep watch on what mistress?” Bulitia asked wanting to say no with every fibre of his being. Wanting to stand up and fight and scream and rage. Wanting to escape this place and go home.

“My erstwhile neighbour…Sylvester B. Devereaux,  he has a young boy; this boy isn’t very well behaved. Sometimes he wanders over the line to my side of the fence. I need you to keep watch for him. Make sure he doesn’t do that. Kill him if you have to.”

Bulitia kept his eyes on the ground, not sure he’d heard correctly. His master…wanted him to kill a young boy? A young white boy? Bulitia might be new to the continent but he already knew that shedding white blood was a death sentence.  And though he was willing to die… not like this. Not with the blood of an innocent on his hands. The ancestors would never accept him. He would be thrown into the empty. No; there had to be another way.  Bulitia resolved that very day to run. His first thought, to kill his mistress, was foiled by the fact that he did not know what she was; or if she could be killed.

Asha was cleaning the mistress’ bedroom when she came in and leaned on the doorway watching her. It always made Asha really nervous when her mistress watched her and she would literally do anything to make it stop. She turned around and curtsied prettily.

“Mama I did as you asked”, she said eyes cast down.

“Oh I know you did. And you did it well. I just might sell you to a brothel. You’re a natural”, she said proudly, “But that is not what I am here to discuss. I need to know; what is he holding on to? Why does he still resist?”

Asha bowed her head lower, heart speeding up with anxiety, “Mistress I do not know. I have tried to speak to him, draw him out…but he just turns away from me and goes to sleep. He won’t talk.”

“Perhaps you’re not trying hard enough Asha. Do you need to be motivated? Because I can motivate you. I am a wonderful mistress like that. Let’s see, I could cut that baby out of your belly and sell it to the shamans in New Orleans. They have so many uses for innocent blood you have no idea.” The mistress sauntered forward, running one long nailed finger down Asha’s abdomen. Her nails were sharp enough that Asha thought they could cut her open if they were so inclined. They seemed to grow longer and sharper the closer they got to her womb, where the baby she hadn’t known she was carrying lay vulnerable. Perhaps it would be better for the baby to be cut out while it was still growing.  Allah knew this was no life for a child. Or for anyone really.  But what of the child’s soul? Would it be trapped here if this creature got its hands on it; perhaps she would eat it. She looked like she fed on the souls of babies.

Not mine.

Something in her rejected completely the thought of giving up her baby to this monster. No, she would protect it to her last breath.

“I will try again mistress”, she said, “And this time, I will succeed.”

“Good girl, Asha. Now go; babies are hungry things and you have not eaten today.”

Asha hurried off, before the mistress could change her mind. The only advantage to being a house slave was the access to food. The mistress didn’t care what they ate; so long as she had food when she asked for it, and drink when she wanted it. So the house slaves were fairly well fed; her field slaves too. Still once in a while, one or two would disappear without explanation. They were not sold…Asha suspected that they were eaten. So did the others. They didn’t discuss it though, not even among themselves in their own languages. The mistress was all knowing – they all knew that. And they did not want to know what would happen to them if her red eye fell on one of them. So they kept their heads down and did as they were told.

“Asha”, Laila’s deep voice cut into her musings. She was a fat old woman who spent her days ordering the kitchen slaves about and grinding corn in her huge mortar and pestle.

“Yes mama?” she said.

Laila sighed, “This time, you have bit off more than you can chew”, she said sadly.

Asha looked at her, wanting to ask what she meant but fearing that Laila already knew what she had been sent to do. The thought filled her with shame. Her mother had taught her better. Still she was a slave; mother’s lessons meant less than nothing compared to what the mistress wanted.

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New Release: The Swamp is Full of Mystery

Leyla met Matia at the grotto, picking her herbs.

“Was this what you meant?” she asked tearfully, “When you said my loved ones were in trouble?”

Matia straightened up from her digging, “I am so very sorry for your loss”, she said softly, shaking her head, “I wish I could tell you definitively that the danger is past…but I can’t.”

“No!”, Leyla shouted, tears streaming down her face, “You can’t just give me vague warnings and then….and then…not..”, she choked as her crying overwhelmed her. Matia sighed deeply, and watched her sob her way to silence.

“You have no idea what I would give to not have had this happen. And it was my food that was poisoned…I don’t understand at all. Some bad juju was at work here”, she murmured mostly to herself.

“So now what? What do we do? Do we just go about life like two people weren’t just fucking…killed?”Leyla asked.

Coming soon on smashwords.

Excerpt From The Next Book

“I can’t believe you brought me here to be healed by some wild-haired crazy old lady!”, Roy Lestrange complained to his mother as she pulled him impatiently along.

“I told you, she’s not just some old lady; she’s a witch and she can make you better.”

“The fact that you believe in witchcraft ma…I mean this is 1989”, Roy complained even as he followed her through the trees to the ramshackle house he could see through it. It looked like it was standing strictly by the Grace of God or maybe some magic the witch was using to hold up her residence. Roy didn’t get it; if she had access to all this magic and shit, why didn’t she just magic herself a mansion and a fortune? Why live like an animal in the middle of the bayou with her equally crazy granddaughter?

His mother reached the door and knocked tentatively. They waited nervously for someone to come to the door. It was opened by a wizened old woman with a halo of grey hair; she smiled at them in welcome as if she’d been expecting them…

“Come in”, she said and led the way into her house. Roy was expecting to see the skulls of babies decorating the mantelpiece, maybe with snakeskin covering the walls. But no, the furniture was threadbare but neat. An aubusson rug, clearly old but well kept lay on the living room floor. The couch was covered with throw pillows and a crocheted cover. There were old school pictures on the wall of men and women dressed in old fashioned clothing. A tantalizing smell of freshly baked something emanated from behind the wooden kitchen counter. Roy’s mouth watered and he wondered if the witch would offer them something to eat before the day’s business began.

She led them past the living room however, toward some narrow stairs. The led up to an attic where all the good stuff was. Animal skulls, and chicken feathers, an altar with some sort of statue on it surrounded by offerings of rice and tobacco, black coffee and yams, a straw hat and a cane, pennies, palm oil and roses. This was more like Roy was expecting.

“What can I do for you?” the witch asked her voice surprisingly soft and compassionate.

“My Roy is sick Nannane. Could you heal him?” Roy’s mother asked diffidently.

The witch held out her hand to Roy and he understood that she wanted him to put his hand in hers. He was scared though; he didn’t want to do it. But his mother narrowed her eyes at him and he stretched out his hand and tentatively touched the witch’s with it. She closed her eyes, humming softly under her breath. A warmth suffused his hand where she touched it and then spread outwards towards the rest of him. He felt himself become languid, relaxed and at peace. His eyes closed of their own volition. It was like receiving the gentlest massage in human history.

“You have the wasting disease”, the witch intoned, “What are they calling it…AIDS?”

Roy jumped in shock. Nobody knew that; nobody said that. His mama didn’t know, she couldn’t have told. How had this witch guessed? He opened his eyes and pulled his hand out of hers, standing quickly to leave. His mother was watching him; a sad look in her eyes. The witch’s eyes were serene. She sat watching him, waiting for him to do what he would.

“How do you know that?” he whispered.

The witch just smiled slightly and held out her hands, “I don’t know if I can heal you; that is not in my hands. But I can make you feel better”, she said.

Roy just stared at her, “You can’t…tell anyone. You can’t…”, he stammered.

The witch shook her head, “My work is just as confidential as any priest…or doctor. You need not worry that anyone will know of your illness from me.”

“What can you do for me that the doctors can’t?” Roy demanded.

The witch shrugged, “The doctor gives you medicine for your body. You should continue to take those. I deal with a more holistic approach – your soul, your mind and your body – I call on the healing spirits to help you to feel better, and give you herbs to help your body and soul open up to that healing spirit.”

“I don’t believe in that mumbo jumbo”, Roy said belligerently.

“Indeed”, the witch said, seemingly unperturbed.

“Roy, will you just sit and let the lady do what she can for you?” his mother cut in irritably.

Roy stared back at her with a frown but the habit of obedience was long ingrained and he sat back down, “Okay”, he said.