“Few debut novels pack the punch of a seasoned professional, but Dark Justice does just that. Visceral, complex, and riveting, here is a story that spans time and pushes the genre’s boundaries. Kept me reading until the early morning hours.”
—James Rollins, New York Times bestselling author of
The Last Oracle
“Dark Justice is a story that begs to be finished in one huge gulp. Light pulls the reader along, moving effortlessly between the past and the present as he spins a tale of revenge, loss, love, and yes, well-deserved justice. This book was as taut and enjoyable as any high-speed car chase movie. Give it a try!”
—Sylvia Shults, author of Borrowed Flesh and
Ghosts of the Illinois River
“With a dual storyline from both past and present, this novel (Dark Justice) wove the two tales together in expert fashion. The suspense in each storyline is tremendous and Mr. Light really knows how to build on it with each chapter. I truly had trouble putting this book down… the storyline was enthralling. I will definitely be looking for more from this author.”
Red Adept’s Kindle Book Review Blog
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
Dark Justice
By
Donnie Light
Copyright 2006
Smashwords Edition
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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, glistening 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.
“Remember our brother, stolen by white men, as many were, and brought to this land! Curse the white Devil who beat him, who spat in his face, who took of his blood! Forgive not he who tore out the heart of our brother and made him run! Show this white beast what it means to run for your life! Let him run, and let him hide! Give peace to our brother, his run will someday end! Show the white man your power! Send your justice!”
The priest dropped to his knees, breathing hard. The fire blazed in one last glorious display and then died to a flicker.
The gods had listened. The priest walked past Tobias, motioning him to follow. He also beckoned two other slaves, both young men, to join them. They walked in silence to a tree stump near the edge of the clearing.
A splitting ax had been stuck into the stump and the priest lifted the handle, working loose its bite on the hard wood. The priest looked into the eyes of the younger men. With no exchange of words, they grasped Tobias, one on each arm, and bent him over the tree stump. The old priest lifted the ax and swiftly brought it down. The blade sliced through the cool night air and a horrible scream exploded into the night.
Chapter 2
August 1991
Lt. Galen Morris pulled open a cabinet drawer in the back of the ambulance.
“Hey, Bob, we need more tape and gauze over here,” he told his fellow crewmember. “While you’re in the supply room, you might as well bring more run forms; we’ve only got a couple left on the clipboard.”
Galen checked over the rest of the supplies and was satisfied that his ambulance, 1-Charles-47, was well stocked and ready to roll on their next call.
Galen was one of four full-time firefighter—paramedics that staffed the mostly volunteer, Willow River, Illinois, Fire District, Station Number One.
Until a just a few years ago, Willow River had been a completely volunteer Fire Department. As the community grew, the township board decided to hire four fully trained fire fighters to staff the department during the daytime hours when most of the volunteers were at work.
Galen stepped out of the ambulance and headed for the soda machine. The cantankerous old machine had not been in a good mood lately, having cheated several people out of their money. This was evident by the number of fresh dents and shoe marks in the lower panel. Galen deposited his coins slowly, giving each a chance to register. Before he could make his selection, a call came in over the radio. The speakers popped with sudden energy and a hollow voice crackled out a message.
“Attention Willow River Station One. 3342 Old School Road. Possible heart attack.”
As message repeated itself, Galen had already headed for the rig, his soda still in the machine. He climbed into the back of the ambulance while the volunteer driver and an EMT also climbed aboard.
The ambulance quickly left the station as the siren punched a hole in the quiet evening.
Galen knew the patient at 3342 Old School Road, having been called to this address on previous occasions. It was the address of his best friend.
Galen picked up the microphone from the mobile radio mounted in the back of the ambulance.
“Charlie-47 to dispatch”
“Go ahead Charlie-47”
“We are en route to 3342 Old School Road. Can you advise us of any details of the call?”
“10-4, Charlie-47. The caller complained of severe chest pain radiating to jaw, and left arm. The caller also requested that you come in the rear door.”
“10-4 dispatch. Do you still have the caller on the line?”
“Affirmative, Charlie-47.”
“Dispatch, please advise the caller our ETA is approximately four minutes.”
“10-4, Charlie-47.”
Hang in there, you old geezer, Galen thought as he prepared the medical kit that he would take into the house.
The resident, Professor Albert Gaston, had chronic heart problems. A wonderfully interesting old man, Galen and the professor had become close friends over the last couple of years. In fact, Galen had just visited Gaston a few days ago during one of his many “check-up calls.” Gaston had been his bubbly self at the time and the two had talked for over three hours. The old man fascinated him, and Galen always felt better after visiting the professor.
Professor Gaston had retired a few years ago from a college out east and moved to Willow River to be near his ailing sister who had died a few months ago. As professor of anthropology, he had traveled the world and had written several successful books including a string of bestselling novels. His large Victorian home was just outside of town. Interesting and rare artifacts from various cultures around the world filled his house. All it took to engage the professor in an extensive conversation was to show some interest in something from his collection of artifacts. The professor had many unique views on the world, especially concerning those two subjects that Galen always avoided talking about in polite company; politics and religion. Galen would sit for hours listening to Gaston explain how those two subjects were the major source of change in the world, most of it negative.
Gaston had been everywhere. From the Arctic Circle to the tropical rain forests of South America, Gaston could tell stories that would keep anyone engrossed for hours.
They had become more than just friends. Gaston had been Galen’s first medical call after reporting to active duty at Willow River. He had been captivated by the old man’s wit, his gentle disposition, and the brightness in his seventy-eight-year-old eyes. Their friendship had started after Galen’s first visit and had continued for the next two years.
The professor, like Galen, had no family nearby since his sister had died. He did have a nephew in New York, but they never visited each other. The professor had never married and rarely had visitors.
Galen had thought of the professor as the grandfather he had never known. One of his own grandfathers had died before he was born, but to hear his mother describe him, he sounded a lot like Al Gaston. He had been kind and gentle, yet wise and opinionated.
Galen also told stories about some of the emergency calls he had been involved in during their frequent visits. Having been a five-year veteran of a station in south Chicago, Galen also had plenty of stories to tell.
The two men - one old and wise, the other young and strong - always enjoyed the company of the other. Many people would think Galen and Gaston, so far apart in terms of years and background, made an odd couple indeed. But their friendship had only grown stronger over time. Galen and the professor had spent many hours together, sometimes sipping coffee, sometimes beer, talking about anything and everything. On more than one occasion the visits had not ended until the wee hours of the morning.
Hang on, Al, we’re on our way, Galen thought again as the ambulance sped out of town.
Audra Winters was also preparing herself and the equipment for arrival at the scene. Audra had only completed her EMT training a few weeks ago, but commanded herself as if she were a seasoned pro. Only the slightest signs of nervousness fluttered about her face.
The ambulance reached the long driveway that lead to Gaston’s home and the driver cut the siren. The sudden silence was deafening.
“You grab the O2 kit,” Galen said to Audra as he opened the side door and jumped out of the rig.
Audra already had it in her hands.
Galen ran to the rear of the house and opened the back door. Gaston was leaning back in a kitchen chair, phone still clutched in his right hand. He was a small man, with short gray hair and a round belly. Upon seeing Galen, he dropped the receiver, which bounced noisily on the tile floor.
“There’s a lot of pain, Galen,” the professor managed to squeak, clutching at his chest.
“Okay Al, you hang in there, and we’ll get you to the hospital.”
The ambulance driver, Bob, appeared with a gurney.
Galen turned to Audra, “get him on 15 liters of O2, pronto.”
Audra began to set up the portable oxygen and Galen began taking vitals.
Within minutes they were en route to Rockford Community Hospital, about 15 miles due east.
Gaston was wincing with pain, thrashing about a bit, and trying to talk to Audra. He lay on the gurney with his head and shoulders elevated. Audra sat on a bench to the patient’s left and Galen, on a single seat to his right.
After establishing an IV, Galen was on the radio with the emergency room getting his orders from the ER Doc. A bag of IV solution swung back and forth on a hook above the patient’s head.
Audra was doing her best to calm Gaston down. He was naturally very anxious. Although his heart problem had manifested itself years ago, it was not something you could just get used to. Gaston had been placed on several medications and Audra struggled to write them down for the emergency room physician.
Galen finished with the radio and began to hook up the heart monitor to his patient. The professor grabbed Galen’s hand as he attempted to adhere the heart monitor leads to his chest.
“Galen,” Gaston croaked, “I have to tell you something.”Gaston’s breaths were very labored and he was in a lot of pain.
“Don’t try to talk, Al. Just try to calm down,” Galen said as he busied himself with applying the monitor leads.
Gaston tightened his grip on Galen’s arm. “I have to tell you now,” he gasped.
Galen responded sternly, “Al, try to calm down. After the doctor fixes you up, we’ll have plenty of time to talk.”
Gaston looked into Galen’s eyes. Galen saw there the look of the dying. Galen had seen that look more than a few times in his career. There was a certain look about people who were dying, and not just the obvious trauma victims, struggling in their last minutes of life. This look required no blood, no missing limbs and no broken bones. This look came from inside, from the core of their being.
Gaston started to talk again and reached up to remove the oxygen mask that hindered his speech.
Galen reached for the old man’s hand and stopped him from removing the mask. “Al, you need this. It will help you. Leave it on, I can still hear you.”
Gaston hesitated for a second and removed the mask anyway.
“Galen, I need you to...,” his face tightened into a knot of pain, “...to do something for me.”
“Sure Al. We’re doing all that we can. Just hang on ‘til we get to the hospital.”
Audra was trying to get the oxygen mask back on his face. Gaston kept turning his head in an effort to avoid it.
“No, Galen... something else,” Gaston said, still attempting to push the mask away. He was becoming agitated trying to communicate while in so much pain.
Galen continued to hook up the heart monitor as he listened to Gaston’s raspy voice.
It is especially hard for an ambulance crew to work on someone they know and care about. Galen was trying to save the professor’s life, while at the same time, trying to take the time Gaston wanted, but maybe did not have. Galen wanted nothing more than to talk to the professor and was doing everything he could to keep him alive. He was doing his best to ensure many lengthy conversations with his friend in the future.
“Galen, please,” Gaston croaked, “Listen...to me.”
Galen looked at Gaston again, trying unsuccessfully to avoid his eyes. The look was worse. Death was close.
Galen managed to get the monitor hooked up and began transmitting the readings to the hospital. Galen had done all he could for now and turned his full attention to speaking with his friend..
“Galen, you must do something for me, if I... die.”
Gaston could only whisper now and Galen leaned close, holding his hand. “Don’t you give up, Al. I’m not givin’ up, so don’t you give up!”
Gaston shook his head to indicate that he had not given up. “A box, on my...my bookshelf, in my...study.” Gaston gasped for breath, “a wooden box, send it to...to.” Gaston was struggling to speak and the expressions on his face changed in a random pattern of fear, pain and anxiety, like a kaleidoscope of emotions.
“Send it to...Paxon, Prof...essor Paxon, at Baxterrrrr... College.”
Audra tapped Galen on the shoulder and nodded at the heart monitor. The monitor indicated Gaston’s erratic heart rhythm was steadily worsening.
Galen turned back to the professor, tears filling his eyes. “You stay with me, Al!” Galen choked out, “we’re almost there!” Galen wanted so badly to tell Gaston he was going to be okay, but Galen had never lied to a patient and would not start now.
Audra put the oxygen mask back over Gaston’s face. Galen held his friend’s limp hand as he constantly checked the equipment. He leaned close when he heard Gaston begin to speak again. The oxygen mask muffled the professor’s speech, but Galen could understand him.
Audra was on the radio with the hospital, who was asking for a patient update and an ETA.
“Galen,” the professor groaned. A small squeeze from Galen’s hand let the professor know he was there. “Call him; tell...him that ...
The professor squeezed his eyes closed in pain, and Galen could not understand what he was saying. The professor then took and deep breath and tried to continue.
“Eater...of...hearts.”
Gaston’s eyes looked glassy and stared straight ahead as he spoke. His lips were a pale blue and the look of death had washed the other emotions from his face.
Audra was taking another blood pressure reading. The look on her face was enough to tell Galen it was very low.
Galen wiped at the tears in his eyes then turned back to Gaston.
The professor looked up, meeting Galen’s eyes. “Galen,” he said, trying to focus, “I...I...love you.” The old man squeezed Galen’s hand then pulled it toward his cheek.
The ambulance was only two minutes away from the hospital when the heart monitor signaled a shockable pattern.
Audra, who had been intently watching the heart monitor, shouted that the patient was in v-fib. Knowing what was coming next, she changed her position in the cramped ambulance.
Galen tried to set aside his emotions and got back into his role as a professional paramedic. He was reaching for the defibrillator when an indicator on the monitor signaled that the patient was in ventricular fibrillation.
“Let’s defib!” Galen shouted. He had trouble positioning the defibrillator unit paddles through his tear-blurred eyes.
“Clear!” Galen said, making sure Audra was not in contact with the patient.
Gaston reacted to the shock with a spasmodic jerk, heaving up from the gurney.
Galen leaned back, and looked at Audra, who closely watched the monitor.
“Nothing!” she shouted.
Again, Galen positioned the paddles.
“Clear!”
Gaston jerked again and the monitor signaled a weak heartbeat.
“Got it!” Audra shouted, intently staring at the monitor.
Galen replaced the paddles on the defib unit and moved to the professor’s head. “Al!” Galen shouted as he checked for a carotid pulse. “Can you hear me?” Gaston reacted with only a twitch in his face. Galen knew it was useless.
The monitor still signaled a heartbeat, although very faint and erratic.
“Al, I love you too,” Galen said, leaning close.
Galen would never know that Gaston had heard and understood because the professor could only react with another twitch.
The heart monitor flat lined this time as the rig was pulling into the emergency room gate.
Chapter 3
The old priest, (named Wilbur by Master Browning, Mendalla-Umba by his father) gave Tobias a drink of a medicine-brew he had concocted. He watched Tobias take the drink, then lay down on the priest’s bunk, delirious and in a lot of pain. He moaned softly and his eyes rolled crazily behind their lids.
Wilbur, having no family of his own, shared a cabin with four other slaves. He had asked the other slaves to find another place to bunk down for the night, leaving him alone with the runner. He had also asked the rest of the slaves to try to get a good night’s sleep. Mendalla-Umba did not want the field bosses to be suspicious that the slaves might have been up all night, doing that ‘African mumbo-jumbo stuff’ again. The old priest would probably be up the entire night himself, which would be bad enough.
He lit a couple of candles, which cast just enough light for him to see. His shadow moved upon the wooden walls of the cabin like a dark ghost haunting the night.
He left the cabin and retrieved a burlap sack he kept stored in a hollow tree at the edge of the camp. He kept his secret things in the sack, things necessary for his duties as leopard-skin priest. Among these things were various small bones, dried leaves, a few pebbles, and a coin.
If Master Browning knew he was still practicing the religion he had brought with him from Africa, they would undoubtedly beat him again. He had taken several beatings for his faith, refusing to drop the practice and have the white man’s god forced upon him. Instead, he and the rest of the camp kept their beliefs a secret.
There was no name for his religion, for it was the only one his people had ever known and everyone abided by its rules. His people had called upon the same gods for millennia. It was their way of life. Their beliefs were the one thing the white man could not strip them of, though try as they might. In this camp, Mendalla-Umba kept the faith alive.
Master Browning wanted them to pray, to Jesus. He pressed his beliefs upon the slaves many times, forcing them to listen. He told them there was only one God, and Jesus was his son. Mendalla-Umba could not, would not, pray to Jesus. Jesus could not make his spirit fly and could not talk to him like the gods of his fathers. The old priest did not understand the white man’s God, but understood his own as well as anyone. He had seen their power, and knew of their wisdom.
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, 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 spent 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.