Spirit of Revenge

Beneath a moonless sky stood a shanty tin roofed shack, rigidly boards marked seasons of spring, summer, fall, and winter.  Grass refused to occupy the soil only mud and animal manure.  A steamy August night in Louisiana seemed to magnify a climate of irritability.  The air was thick without movement.  Screams and voices could be heard coming from a dilapidated structure, “hold’em, me can’t mend’em if he keeps movin all over the place,” momma Tutu said in exasperation, as the women tried to pin the muscular shoulder against what was supposed to be a bed.  Blood soaked rags that once served as a shirt lay on the floor in a corner.  The lantern’s illumination held by Mae revealed angry open slashes across Rufus’s wide back; slick with sweat and blood.  The sight made her nauseous.   Turning her head from the open wounds she looked out the window into the gloom of night thinking to herself, “when’s it gonna be over, is this the life I have to look forward to; beatings for just talking bout freedom,” her thoughts quickly returned to Rufus’s loud groans of pain assaulting her ears.  The old root woman’s hands were as gentle as she could make them cleaning the dirt from the deep slashes down to where pink flesh peeked through.
“How many times me tell ya not to be saying things bout Lincoln’s plans round’em whip carrying crackers,” she said through gritted teeth as she seethed with anger.

“I hate’em...I hate’em all...beat me for having hope to live better,” he said between gasps and moans.  The salty tears that streaked his face became the conduit of hate; hate colored by rage that resided somewhere deep within him threatening to become air and spread among the others locked into an existence of servitude.

Methodically momma Tutu grounded the herbs between her teeth; thinking deeply about the young man’s words, feeling his deep-rooted anger.  She then spit the ground herbs into an old chipped cup then adding another ingredient mixing the two.  “Hold still Rufus this is gonna sting a little bit, but it’ll keep ya clean...so don’t no fever get in ya.”

“Momma Tutu...ya think we is gonna be free by that there thing they is talking bout from President Lincoln?”

 “Hush now...stupid gal.  Ain’t no paper gonna set you free and take away these white folks free labor,” Mae said in a resentful soft voice; as if afraid her words would escape outside.

 “Wasn’t talking to you… now was I,” the other woman shot back in defiance.

“Shut your holes you two,” barked a harsh voice coming from the doorway.  As they all looked up, towering in the door was Ed square jawed and big boned frame smelling of whiskey and cheap cigars.  Silence dominated the small shack.  “Ain’t gonna be no emancipation for you all, so...ya better shut your black holes for ya git some of what Rufus got… whipped that hide right good,” he laughed as Rufus trembled with rage.  The two women could feel the brewing anger as they kept him pended down.  Momma Tutu continued placing the herbs into the wounds ignoring the slave hand mocking them.      

“What’s that ya got there some more of that coon medicine, better brew up some more you all gonna be need’n it if ya keep thinking bout some emancipation gonna be setting loose free labor round these parts, ain’t never gonna happen.”
The intensity in the room began to thicken as the silence became deafening.  Momma Tutu’s breathing became deep and regimented as her body temperature began to rise in the already stiffening hot shack. 

“You really want to leave this room Mista...ain’t no cause to beat down the already beaten.” 

Ed froze at the woman’s words not sure how to respond.  Looking at her through the illumination of the oil lamp, she took on an un-natural look to him.  The black slick complexion and piercing eyes made him uncomfortable.  The others seemed to hold their breath waiting for the repercussion.  Ed pointed a finger at her half-laughing, “Ya know something...old niggra woman you lucky,” he said as he turned and left out of the shack.  Everybody let out a sigh of relief.

 “Why didn’t you just kill’em,” Rufus said in a harsh whisper, “I know you knowed something from where you came from...you is a fresh water African, ain’t no more like you.  You shoulda killed that cracker.” 

 “Jus hush, jus hush for you get us all whipped up good or even lynched, and throwed to the gators for talking like that,” Mae said.  Rufus seethed with anger as the spirit of revenge slowly rolled over him “I’m tired...I’m jus so tired,” he said turning his head to face the old healer.

 “I know you know how to make a man’s heart jus crush all up in his chest...I heard you done it before.”  Then suddenly as swift as sidewinder Momma Tutu’s hands grabbed the young man’s face startling Getty and Mae; never have they seen her move so fast.  Through clenched teeth, “don’t you ever talk bout things you know nothin bout boy... hear me, or I’ll snap ya like a twig.  None of ya...hear me.”

“Yes Ma’am,” they all responded in unison at once with an added touch of fear.  The old woman resumed dressing the remaining wounds becoming lost in her thoughts reflecting back to almost thirty years ago on another hot August night.  As the pages of time flipped pass the scene changed.

Down by the river trying to cool herself off one of the ranch hands staggered up, “wha’cha doing out here all by ya self girly...lookin for some company,” the man said leering at her as she attempted to back away.  You ain’t gone nowhere; not till ol Hank here gets some of that black stuff between them there legs...you is the only black tail I ain’t had yet,” he said with lust dripping from his mouth; his words slurred from the alcohol.  His staggered gait forced his prey back against the tree.  In fear, she trembled as the drunkard came closer.  She could smell the body odor mixed with sweat and the strong smell of whiskey.  Rotten teeth grinned at her,” please mister I ain’t trying to cause no trouble,” she pleaded as she watched him unbuckling his belt.

 “You damned right girly...just you be still an keep yer yap shut,” he said grabbing her pulling her to his stench filled mouth.   Twisting and turning her face away from him, he became rougher.
“Hold still damned ya.”  She struggled even more.  Tears rolling in streams down her cheeks, and then suddenly a large hand made contact with her face.  The open hand that struck her face seemed to echo through the night.  The sudden pain paralyzed her momentarily, and then another emotion quickly replaced her fear like a raging fire surging up through her sending her into an altered state of consciousness. She stopped struggling and became stern and ridged unmoving as the drunkard slave master’s field hand tried to wrestle her to the ground.  He found that he no longer possessed any power over her.  He froze for a minute, “what the hell is this,” he said steadying himself as she glared at him with eyes he’d never seen before,  suddenly he felt a strange and unusual sensation running through him as she just stared at him with the hatred of a hundred years coursing through her with her breathing becoming deeper.  Her mouth turned and twisted uttering words foreign and harsh.  The strange sensation turned to a throbbing and gripping pain that crept up through his legs; they trembled and shook, “what in god’s name is-“ Then his words were silenced as he dropped to the ground; mouth open with no words or sounds exiting it.  Bulging eyes spoke his pain as he grabbed for his privates.  “Please he managed to get out between the groans of pain.  It felt as though a fire had seared his entire genital area.  She just stood there unblinking unmoved by his pleads for help.  His words echoed of how he had taken what he wanted from the slave women; cruel and brutal dehumanizing them with no consequences for his actions. She thought of the heartless acts of cruelty against the women she loved.  She remembered the emptiness in their eyes.  “Heartless does as heartless is and you should be without one,” she thought over, and over in her mind watching the man now grabbing his chest convulsing in the dirt.  “Nobody can hear you now,” said a voice coming from her that did not belong to her, a spirit that had taken up residence in her.  She laughed a low guttural laugh at the dying man, then suddenly her own consciousness returned to her causing her to almost lose her balance; disoriented  and confused she looked down at the slump heap that death had claimed making him cold and rigid.  The man was still gripping his chest as fear gripped her again, only this time urging her to run as fast as she could.  When she finally came close to the old rundown shack, she was drenched in sweat and tears trailed beneath her chin.  The oldest of the young men standing outside seen her running.  Despite the darkness, his eyes were sharp as a hawk.  “What in hell is going on,” he said looking to see if she were being chased, but saw no one pursuing the girl.  An older woman came out, “Reese what is it?”

“Don’t rightfully know yet...looks like little momma.  As she came closer he could see the terror in her face and he began to run to meet her.  “What’s gotten into you?”
 Panting and crying her words were unintelligible.  By then the slaves had gathered around the frantic woman.  Babbling and making no sense one of the older women took her face between her hands calming her down where she could catch her breath. “What’s wrong child?”

 “I didn’t mean it...it just happened...he kept trying...he was trying,” then the tears started all over again as the young woman trembled.  “It was that Hank at it again...damned cracker,” Reese snapped spitting in disdain.

 “Where was ya at this time of night?  You can’t keep going down to the river...it ain’t safe wit them drunken slave hands around....girl I thought I done taught you better gal,” the older woman said in a vain attempt to calm her down,  “did he hurt ya any?”

 “No...I think he’s ...he’s dead,” she sobbed.  Silence fell heavily for a moment as questioning eyes looked at one another.  The terror that once belonged to little momma now belonged to everyone.  “Ooooh my lord child...they gonna kill us all dead.”

“It’s lynching time....”

 “Hush you all,” said a tall slender woman of her fifties.

“Reese you round up the men and go on down to the river see what’s going on,” she said in a hushed whisper as tension filled the hot humid night air sending streams of sweat to drench their cloths.

 No one spoke as their fear ate at them gnawing at their stomachs.  What would they find at the river?  What would the next day reveal?  Would it be the end of a rope or would it be something much more sinister and cruel?

Reaching the river the sight rushed into view; slumped over the ground.  The ashen grey remains stared off into the night; hand still clutching his chest with his belt buckle unfastened.  Just at his feet lay the empty whiskey bottle.  Everyone was speechless trying to ponder the events that led up to the man’s demise since the woman could give no clear details only hysterical sobbing.

 “Oh my sweet Jesus...”

“Hush up June boy...ain’t nothin sweet bout this here mess.”  The men moved closer to the corpse to get a closer look.  “What we spoosen to do bout dis...Huh?”

“Looks like his heart done gave out,” Reese said rubbing the stubble on his chin.

  “I say that ol cracker done got what he deserves look at him ...look at his pants all undone.  He was fixing to have his way with another one of our women...jus last month he gotta hold of Bessie… girl ain’t been right since...jus ruin’t.... I say good for the Sonuvabitch.”

“Shut your pie hole fool before somebody hears us.”

 “Ain’t nobody out here but us.”

“Both of ya shut it...now.  I can’t hear myself think,” Reese snapped.

 “If we weight him down good...”

“NO...we gotta make it look like an accident...like he was swimming to cool himself off and got caught by the current and drowned.  Just take his clothes off hang’em up on that branch.  June boy you keep an eye out...Billy help me get his clothes off.  Jiff you get a branch and dust away all these foot prints and everything, hear me boy everything and don’t leave nothing.”

 “Good lord he stinks...ol dirty bastard.”

“Stop ya yakking and just get’em undressed we gotta make it look like he drowned before anybody comes looking for’em.”

“Alright Reese,” the younger man grumbled resenting the authoritative control.  Within minutes, they had the body undressed and the cloths hung over the tree’s branch.  The silence of the night was almost as un-nerving as the incidents itself; as all manner of nocturnal creatures became silent, witnessing events unfold.

“That ol cracker done messed wit da wrong one.  They always said there was something different about little momma.   Gal got some kinda power we all ain’t never seen the likes of before...now it done come out...that ol cracker won’t be grabbing no more colored women,” Jiff said wiping the sweat from his brow.

I hope you have enjoyed Another reality a place for the 3rd eye to indulge
This was an excerpt from the Cultural-Sy series "To Resurrect and Avenge" Book 1 you can visit www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chasochronicals  or  to watch the book trailer

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The Metal Threat

Down town pandemonium erupted as metal crashing against metal sent screams into the air as bodies scattered fleeing from the 50-ton bulldozer that had seemed to have developed a mind of its own as it rammed unsuspecting vehicles and caused massive damage to parked cars, and oncoming traffic.  An over turned minivan lay on its side pushed against a fire hydrant; the geyser of water added to the already chaotic and frenzied scene with mounting confusion.  Several vehicles disabled by the rampaging construction vehicle made it difficult for emergency responders to get into the area; therefore the metal menace continued on its destructive reign crashing into anything that lie in its path.  Plate glass windows shattered as flying debris stabbed through the glass injuring the customers of stores, shops, and grocers.  Personal belongings littered the sidewalks and street.  Twisted metal signs laid across parked cars pushed up against one another while the driver of the bulldozer shifted to reverse backing over dozens of bicycles.  Terrified screaming pedestrians scrabbled to get out of the way.  Suddenly the bulldozer shifted forward pushing over a traffic light.  Sparks flickered as it leaned in an awkward angle before crashing down to the street sending puffs of smoke into the air.  Several people remained trapped in mangled vehicles.  Anguished cries for help only egged the bulldozer on as it plowed into more vehicles.  One vehicle’s window was smeared with blood. 

Several attempts made by pedestrians to jump on to the bull Dozier to remove the operator failed; confronting  what sat behind the controls of the machine was an affront to nature.  Something that possessed a human body sat behind the controls, but its eyes gave the appearance of something unearthly, as the eyes were void of life in their sockets glaring out at the horrified.  A young man who leaped onto the metal menace in an attempt to dislodge the operator made another attempt.  Shock and disbelief had frozen him in place.  A cold stone like hand lightning fast grabbed the man's throat like a vice.  For that short period, the young man literally looked into the face of death before being flung from the bulldozer.  Again, the machine backed up from mangled metal and turned to ram an approaching police car that had managed to circumvent the mass of tangled wreckage by jumping the curb driving down the sidewalk.  "Wha'da fuck...this is unit 22 on 3rd and Bakersfield road...I got a priority.  Oh my god-” The bulldozer’s huge metal scoop crashed down on the top of the cruiser after ramming it with unnatural speed.  Glass exploded everywhere striking pedestrians and emergency responders.  Horrified on lookers watched as the vehicle looked as though it were being pushed into the ground taking the cop inside with it despite the rounds fired in a futile attempt to stop and unstoppable foe.  His screams died away under the commotion of the screaming pedestrians. In the distance, more sirens could be heard approaching the catastrophic scene as dispatchers shouted for additional units.

"Oh shit did you hear that," she said in mid stride returning to the cruiser with Jackson on her heels, and his ear almost glued to the radio's speaker.  Jumping into the cruiser Jackson flipped the switch for the blue strobe lights and sirens.  "Something real ugly is going on," she said reaching for the radio's mic to respond as the cruiser's tires screeched around the corner almost on two wheels.  "Damn don't get us smashed up before we get there."

"I got this," Jackson replied concentrating on the traffic ahead to avoid any vehicles slow to move from the cruisers right of way. An air horn accompanied the flashing lights and sirens aggressively signaling the cruiser’s immediate approach, and to make way.  "MOVE damn it...don't you hear all this shit?"

"They hear...they think their gonna get a case if we hit'em."

"Yeah they gonna get more than a case...stupid sonuvabitches gonna get dead with all this metal running up their dumb asses."

"All units approaching the vicinity of 3rd and Bakersfield Road exercise extreme caution individual armed with a bulldozer one unit down with pedestrian casualties," the radio blared a second time.  A block and a half away and the chaos could be seen.

"Oh shit," Sierra said staring at the massive pile up of cars and trucks scattered around looking as if they had been dropped from the sky surrounding the bulldozer.

"We're gonna have to foot it...this is as close as we're going to get," Jackson said glancing up at the news helicopters that had joined the grim scene.  The bulldozers engine roared as its operator gunned the accelerator.  To the far left, the smashed cruiser seemed to beckon to the cops.  "Shit...we gotta get to that car."  Seconds later, more of the 7th district cars pulled up as close as they could to the scene.  The injured were removed from the area while cops attempted to proceed to the cruiser mangled beyond recognition, but with lightning speed, the bulldozer maneuvered itself in their direction preparing to ram them; chasing them back behind the wreckage of the other cars.  Again, they tried from another angle careful not to alert its operator.  A hushed crowd waited in anticipation.   Only the roar of the bulldozer’s engine dominated the ground below while helicopters hovered overhead adding to the urgency of the scene.  Closer the men and women in blue crept; cuffs and keys held in place in an attempt in silencing the clink of metal.  Radios were turned completely down, and breaths were held.  Sierra swallowed hard not knowing what she would be greeted with once she approached the mangled wreckage.  "RUN," a voice shouted out.  The swift turn of the bulldozer’s scoop almost caught Jackson as he dove out of the way.  Hot asphalt biting into his hands and knees caused a string of curses to erupt from his mouth.  "Yo man...you ok," a firefighter asked helping him from the ground.  Soon police supervisors were on location setting up their command center.  The intersection was now gridlocked; a standoff between cops and machine filled the atmosphere with eeriness.  Despite the open view of the bulldozer, its operator’s identity remained a mystery.  The only person that saw him was unconscious.

 "What the hell is this," barked lieutenant George Morison while cops and firefighters were desperately trying to devise a plan of rescue. Not knowing the cop's condition made everyone anxious.  "Has anyone heard a radio contact from him?  What is his status...is he dead, alive...what, and what the hell is in the driver's seat...and why can't we get the SONUVABITCH outta there?  What the hell are all of you standing around for," the lieutenant snarled through gritted teeth looking around at the chaos," get these civilians outta here!"

"Sir...their here because ...well...they can't leave...just yet."

"Why the hell not?"

"Because these are all their vehicles and they’re witnesses," the sergeant said pointing around to the wreckage of cars becoming more and more exasperated by the second; with all the questions he had to stop and answer while his men were trying to reach the trapped cop.    “Asshole," the sergeant thought to himself walking away.  "Sergeant...get a paramedic up here...we gotta get that cop outta there; that's if he's even still alive."

"Sir...we gotta get him cut outta there first of all and second; the sonuvabitch won't even let us get close to him... let alone get a paramedic in there," he said growing angry.

"You better get somebody to go in there and get that man outta there," Morrison called after him as the sergeant continued to ignore his demands.  "Damn asshole with fucking gold bars."

"Hey Serg the only way I see to fix this problem is to get a clean shot in...maybe we can nick'em...slow'em down," Jackson said with Sierra nodding in agreement.  "It's gonna take to long to get sharp shooters down here; swat's on the other side of the city on a job at a drug house."

"Why can't we do it," a southern drawn voice said coming from behind them, "I can hit that ass from fifty yards," she said turning all the attention to herself.  Standing there 5 ft 10, 170 lbs, and solid mass the 19-year veteran from Sheldon South Carolina unsnapped her holster.  "Now just wait a minute Max the department is still on the hot seat from the last shooting," the lieutenant said, and then all of a sudden the bulldozer that had been sitting motionless roared to life turning in their direction.  "Oh shit."

 A floored accelerator marked the four of them to be the next target.  Scrambling for their lives with hats, nightsticks and handcuffs flying in numerous directions they barely escaped the deadly menace.  "That's it I'm gonna pop that wild cat," she said drawing her 9 mm from her holster from behind an over turned truck where they had taken cover.  Three consecutive shots rang out stunning everyone the operator of the bulldozer fell limp slumping over the controls. 

"You got'em...damn woman...you da shit," Jackson said in awe.

"Good shoot Max.  OK...let’s go check out what we got here," the sergeant said, but no sooner than he could turn around criticism reared its ugly head, "cease fire god damn it who fired their weapon?"

"Max did sir...she took out the threat."

"That was an unarmed civilian!!!!"

"I beg your pardon sir but that unarmed civilian was armed with a fucking bulldozer trying to ram us," she said fuming, "I used the necessary force needed to stop the immediate threat SIR," she bellowed out standing toe to toe with the lieutenant; un-intimidated by the man's rank.  Jackson and Sierra stood off to the side watching in total disbelief before they joined the others in attempting to free the cop from the mangled cruiser.

"Morrison's an asshole all week," Sierra said clearing away some of the debris.

"Yeah SONUVABITCH coulda at least taking a day off from being an asshole today," Jackson responded.

"That's what you get when ya only think about your own ass...I guess.  What a dick head." 

Finally Morrison stopped arguing with the seasoned street cop; realizing he was getting nowhere.  "Officer I want a use of deadly force report before the end of your shift."

"Fine...it beats being dead," she snapped walking away.  Feeling defeated frustrated and embarrassed Morrison looked for another outlet to vent on; walking over to cops, firefighters, and medics working diligently to free the cop from the mangled cruiser, "I want this mess cleaned up ASAP."  For a minute, everyone stopped and looked at the police supervisor as if he had two heads and went back to working.  The sergeant stepped away from the cruiser wiping sweat from his face, "We can't do that sir...not right now anyway."

"And why's that sergeant?"

"Sir this is a crime scene."

Thanks for taking the time to visit Another reality.  I hope you enjoyed this excerpt from the 

Cultural-Sy novel To Resurrect & Avenge Book one. You can visit me at  

www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicals
also available at amazon

The Stolen

The missionaries became fearful.  The villagers who lived among them began to talk among themselves; they knew that they made a grave mistake in forsaking the ways of the Orisha, their ancestors’ traditions for thousands of years.  When the villagers tried to leave the missionaries tried to stop them; telling them that they would be committing a great sin against god and there would be no salvation for them in heaven and they should stay, but the villagers did not care, they left to find the Babalawos the high priest to make offerings and ask forgiveness from their ancestors, but what they did not know was that they were followed.  That night there was a ritual taking place.  Those missionaries, slavers and soldiers defiled what was sacred and they were doomed and didn’t even know it; by capturing the most powerful Babalawos and Egungun people their fate was sealed.  The slave ship that they were taken to was the Henrietta Marie, a ship that was cursed.  Many days before the raid the Babalawos and Iyalawos put a curse upon that ship so that nothing would work aboard it. They asked Shango, Oya and Yemoja to destroy it for stealing their people.  And they asked Olukun to swallow it with those responsible.  Not long after the ship had cast out to sea it all began.  The crew became sick with malaria and small pox.  It was during one of the rituals that Babaluae was invoked.  The crew became weak with fever. The shackles and chains that had been used to imprison the priest had corroded with rust from the sea air.  All day the Babalawos and others prayed to the Orisha Ogun to give them strength and finally when the time was right Ogun possessed them, and chains were pulled from the beams, and shackles were broken, now they were used as deadly weapons. In the darkness one by one they made their way up to the deck, concealing themselves in the shadows of the ship.  They quickly noted their position by the stars; it would be the stars that would guide them back home.  They remembered how they were brought aboard on the small boats. While they were searching the ship for the small boats one of the crew had gone below deck with evil intentions.  Reaching the cargo hold he saw that the chains no longer held the captives; sending him running and screaming for the crew, suddenly the crash of thunder shook the ship followed by strong and powerful winds; a violent uprising was underway.  The sickened crew was no match for the power of the Orisha possessed Africans.  It was the arrogance of the missionaries to underestimate the powerful religion of the village they invaded; thought of as ungodly heathens fit only for enslavement.  The chains that had bound them were used as weapons splitting open skulls and strangling the clergy who preached of their enslavement as gospels with sermons of servitude. Those that were left alive to weak to fight were left lying in their own vomit.  Others lost limbs and drowned in their own blood.  The captain and remaining crew were taken below deck and chained to the dead so they would know the feel of such cruelty.  Lightning struck into the ship like daggers.  When the boats were finally dropped from the ship strong currents carried the boats away from it.  It was said that you could hear the screams of the crew below deck in the holds of the slaver.  A final lightning strike sent the ship up in flames. Shango’s fire was a blaze that night while Oya’s winds fed his fire.  The fire found its way below deck partially burning the crew because Yemoja’s waves took the ship to Olokun. 

This was an excerpt from a Cultural-Sy novel titled Spirit Walk I hope you enjoyed another weekly segment of Another reality written from my 3rd eye for your 3rd eye. Please visit me at www.wix.com/soyinkaiyabo/chaoschronicals

Momma Tutu

“Serve your slave masters well an when you die you will be rewarded in heaven,” his voice boomed as if it were magnified; while Getty mimicked the de-humanizing words craning her scrawny neck around to glare at the field slaves.

 By now something other was making its way on to the physical plain; something of spirit; something of a fiery nature, something invoked to protect those descendants of very powerful and ancient ancestors. 

The more the good reverend Windwood preached his fire and brimstone sermon demeaning the field slaves the more offended the Congolese Nkisis spirit became.  The more verbally abused they were, the more the powerful Nkisis spirit rose up in anger. On and on the good reverend Windwood ranted his fire and brimstone sermon, then suddenly the painting of the crucifixion of Jesus fell from the wall.  The field slaves trembled with anger and resentment; knowing within their spirit, they were to be no servant to any man. The sermon paused momentarily; taking notice of the falling painting one of the ushers removed it from the floor.

“The lord wants obedience and no other heathen gods shell be worshiped before him,” he shouted pointing to the field slaves causing the rest of the congregation to turn and glare hateful looks.  Again, the air filled with tension bordering on hostility.

“Some house of the lord this is,” Buck muttered, “they about a second away from lynching us...even if we is somebody’s property.”

“You nigras hush ya pie holes while the reverends preaching,” one of the ushers growled.

“Damned slaves oughta have they own nigra church, and not in here wit good Christian white folk.” 

 Mae bit down on her lip until it bled trying to hold her tongue while she held tight to her high John root. 

“It’ll be over soon, “ol man Reese whispered.

“Not soon enough...Indians snuck up outta here before it got started...lucky,” Buck grumbled. Momma Tutu seemed to be the only one unaffected by the sermon as she stood quietly with closed eyes; giving the appearance she could be standing up sleep, but little did they realize she was fighting hard to keep Zarabonda from lashing out.  In her mind, she was in another world as Zarabonda spoke to her inner ear.  He re-affirmed thoughts that had previously visited her mind thoughts that were horrible in nature.  Zarabonda revealed images to her mind’s eye concerning Missy the master, and the good reverend Windwood.  A flood of imagery poured over her making her nauseated.  The wickedness of the good reverend Windwood and Ebeneezer Everts was unlike anything she had ever seen before.  The images were almost maddening, but she withstood them, and their extent of their evil.  Her legs buckled almost dropping her to the floor.  Reese and Manny steadied her, “the heat must be getting to her,” Manny said.

“Ain’t no heat can get to a pure blood Congo woman...them visions she be having...now hush up,” Reese whispered as the hell storm sermon went own. 

“We all need to pray sisters and brothers...pray for our president’s salvation of his soul...because disobeying the lord, and setting nigras free, he has doomed our great nation to HELL.  Pray sisters and brothers...pray to Jesus for the confederate south to be strong...pray for them godless heathens to find Jesus and be good slaves...pray for our brothers and sister that suffered from the slave revolts that left good Christian plantations in ashes.”

“YES JESUS,” a voice from the congregation cried out.

“Let no man steel from the lord,” the reverends voice bellowed out.

“That’s right rev...Let no man undo what god has ordained not even the president of this United States...amen,” a man’s voice barked.  The congregation had become so excited with the reverend’s hell and brimstone sermon it was like a wild animal catching the scent of blood in the air.  Whispers wishing Lincolns demise flowed around from the various pews, “they need a rope for that no good vermin,” another voice spoke from the front of the congregation.  Intentions of violence filled the air like smoke from an erupting volcano as the good reverend Windwood’s words fueled the hatred.  Hooping and hollering in the name Jesus ensued with hand clapping, and feet stomping to the chants of amen save the south sweet Jesus.  The congregation was so excited and riled up that they had forgotten all about the slaves in the back of the church.  By now, Getty and the master's children had begun to feel uncomfortable. Having never seen the whites in such a state of mind, the closer it came to Lincoln's emancipation the stranger their behavior became, as true feelings revealed themselves.

"These white folk is smelling blood in the name of their god," Momma Tutu said; snapping from her trance.  "I say we need to get the hell outta here...they is a split second from a lynching," Buck whispered nervously motioning them all to the door.  It was not difficult to slip out un-noticed.

Back at the slave quarters, Momma Tutu sat in silence rethinking the events of the morning as did everyone else.  "Is that what a good god fearing Christians is suppose to be like," Maggie asked shaking her head," they ain't no better then rapid dogs...calling us heathens...they just as evil as the night's long."

"I can't take no more of those words of the lord," Buck said laughing to himself.

"I don't know how those dimwits in the master's house do it...them white folk hate them just as much as us, and they sit up there Sunday after Sunday sucking it all up," Mae said in disgust.

"I even heard that oldest dimwit spouting off like that reverend Windwood; call'em self preaching to the others ....craziest thing ya ever wanna hear; a house slave imitating a country preacher putting down his own kind," Reese said noticing Momma Tutu's despondent look," you alright? Ya scared us for a minute there...ya having another one of them visions wasn't ya?"

"Yelp, and it was mighty powerful...them folks is something evil...offended Zarabonda to no end...took all the strength I had to keep'em back...I is still feeling a bit winded.  He woulda tore that place apart!"

"I saw the picture fall from the wall," Mae said.

"Wasn't no falling...it was knocked from where it hung.  So much wickedness up in that place....Zarabonda saw them white folk...all of them and how they’d rather see us dead than freed....and that girl Missy....I feel sorry for the girl...she got the devil's seed growing in her belly."  Everyone gasped at the old woman's words.  "What you be saying?"

"I be saying she got the seed of that evil preacher up in her.  Poor girl been passed back and forth between the master's bed and the good reverend Windwood's bed.  Master's seed wouldn't take ...him being all sickly and everything," Momma Tutu said with disgust twisting her face, "make me feel unclean just talking bout it."

"Me too...been feeling something awful every since setting foot in that church," Rufus complained.  It was not long before they all complained of ailments and bad feelings. 

"That's the evilness in them words they be preaching...pure evil that just grabs a hold of ya.  Me people called such evil the Bucra; an evil thing birthed from hate," Momma Tutu said turning down her mouth and frowning as though she tasted something sour.

“Ain't nothin but one thing for us to do...we gotta get cleaned from the white man's evil on us...cause if we don't it'll just eat us alive bit by bit eating us from the inside...all kinds of sickness be on ya before ya knowed it."

"Like the Massa?"

"Yelp ...just lik’em."  They all cringed at Momma Tutu's vivid description as she went on.

“When the owl hoots we‘ll meet in our special place, and you all knowed what to bring."

"Momma Tutu....I hate to say it but something's telling me we is gonna need a little more than just some roots and all....remember what we all talked about? You saw how riled up they was in that church...it ain't gonna be long...we gotta be prepared to make a move.  We is gotta protect ourselves."

“Reese is right I knowed about a path that leads up in the hills to those red people's village...them ones that don't come down to here, and they ain't friendly wit whites either.  They know we is here and that one day we is gonna run away...and they know they is the only ones we can run too."

"I heard it was some slaves living up in them hills already from other plantations after the uprisings," Buck said.

"Is that right? Well why ain't we gone," Rufus said impatiently.

"Just hush boy, ain't time yet," Momma Tutu snapped, "tonight just bring what ya need," she said in a whisper as they all dispersed from the shack.

An imminent sense of danger cloaked the descending night while an undeniable resentment filled the air with hostility all stemming from the good reverend Windwood's Sunday morning sermon of superiority and supremacy only hours ago. 

What was it about those who came from across the ocean in chains stripped of everything they owned; doomed to a life of misery providing comfort and wealth for those that spilled the blood of the original inhabitants.  Laboring from sunrise to sunset day in and day out; seven days a week was their blight.  Was it the determination of dreams of freedom?  Was it the desire to exist in a humane existence that fueled such animosity and resentment from whites to the point of unspeakable acts of cruelty and inevitable violence that set the stage for an imminent demise?

 Finally, the owl’s hoot echoed through the night catching the ear of those who sat in anticipation of invoking the powerful Congo spirit.  One by one, they all slipped off carrying their meager belongings and farming tools with sharp or blunt edges. They all blended into the night. The full moon hung low in the sky with a hint of red around its outer edges as if to suggest some catastrophic event approaching.  

Again, they seated themselves around the fire giving thanks for the little they did have and to be able to pay homage to the creator in their ancestral way despite the fire and brimstone sermon’s threats of physical violence from those who hated and feared them.  Their prayers to the powerful Nkisis spirit asked for safety, protection, salvation, and to be delivered from the cruelty of those who would see them dead before setting them freed.  They prayed to be relieved of an existence of torment and misery.  They prayed to the Congo spirit to be cleansed from evil that had tainted their spirits upon entering the white's place of worship.  Again, roots found their way into the fire sending the pungent smoke into the air.  The spirit's mantra echoed repeatedly.  Small rattles and other items that served as handmade instruments kept a steady and hypnotic beat enticing them to dance around the flames that demanded more of the pungent roots and herbs.  Soon the wind made her presence felt as she whipped at the flames.  Dark clouds made their way to block the moon's illumination.  An entire atmosphere became charged with something ancient and primordial as another presence ripped through the material plain washing over everything like a vast ocean. 


I hope you enjoyed an excerpt from "To Resurrect & Avenge "
Book one available at amazon .com
As usual I'm writing from the 3rd eye for your 3rd eye in Another reality 

The Children of Banjul Part 3

Flailing arms and legs threw water into the air in every direction as the fight ensued.  Briefly Zaire broke the surface allowing his lungs to expel the water and refill them with air before returning to the struggle to maintain his life.  Their icy touch sent chills through his blood compelling him to frantically fight for his life as he swung the curved blade over and over having no affect on his tormentors.  Sinking back beneath the shadow waters the short reprieve gave him enough strength to break free and find his way back to a dry patch of earth as he reclaimed his composure breathing heavily.

Meanwhile in the citadel Mazula howled in madness by the news of Zaire’s escape,” incompetence,” he screamed at the captain of the guard as he swung the overly large hand across the man’s throat slicing him open.  Blood sprayed across the walls and his advisory's face shocking him.
 “Gather a dozen of my best warriors and ready my armor…I will oversee his capture… I will eat his heart.”

Finding their way through the darkness was like second nature as the smell of the stream’s running waters penetrated the air with nature’s nocturnal residents claiming their territory chirping and buzzing along the way.  A small and humble fire was lit where the women began to chant throwing herbs into the flames causing them to crackle. Bluish colored smoke spiraled up into the air as the flames danced wildly.  The elders began reciting the ancient prayer once recited by their ancient ancestors.  Children gathered more herbs and roots to throw into the dancing flames.  Young men fashioned hand instruments from nature’s fruits; rattles and hollowed wood would create rhythmic vibrations to accompany their melodic mantras enticing young women to dance to the rhythms that flowed through the night stirring the heavens.  One by one their consciousness became the collective.  The drumming continued the chanting continued the dancing continued.

Zaire stood upon the dry patch of small earth staring out into the unrelenting darkness,” this is madness,” he growled glancing up at the moon that appeared so close it was as if he could reach up and touch it.   Then the foul stench of the wind returned taunting him whispering,” there is nowhere for you to go warrior allow the shadow waters to claim you,” it whispered spinning the warrior’s head around in all directions to search for the words that stalked him.  Suddenly his heart began to race as if it were filled with a great burst of energy as his chest began to heat up beneath the chest plate with a surge of energy flowing empowering him, “I will be claimed by no such thing,” he said with new vigor silencing the ill words of the shadow waters.  Placing his hand over the chest plate he felt the heat radiating from the amulet as it spoke to him,” you have come too far to allow Mazula’s evil to impede your destiny.  For many generations the blood amulet has protected your line. It is not your destiny to perish at this time,” the amulet spoke clearing away all doubts and apprehension.”

“The blood amulet…it speaks to me?  Am I going mad it has never uttered words before,” he said to himself confused.

“Only in times of dire need does the blood amulet speak to the warrior’s heart…there is no need to be confused trust in your faith,” the words came.

“Your faith is sealed warrior…here in the shadow waters.”

“I think not foul works of Mazula,” he said taking the dagger from its sheath and swiftly cutting across his palm then smearing the blood over the chest plate diving deep into the shadow waters past the dead souls into the black abyss.    

Suddenly the small stream swelled running over their feet, and then up to their ankles.  They continued chanting the ancient prayers as the water grew deeper with its banks growing wider. Up to their waist they continued chanting.  Then suddenly a huge arm broke the surface followed by a leg just as huge.  Then coughing up water the great warrior emerged.  Bulging eyes peered out at the entranced villagers. 

“What manner of being is this we have conjured, is it a god…is it a water spirit,” they thought as the water born Zaire rose up.  The ground beneath his feet welcomed him with every step taken as he towered in height with strength displayed throughout his massive muscular frame.  The villagers remained speechless as stones; pleasantly surprised the magic of their ancestors was still strong and powerful almost making them apprehensive of their own power.   However a small boy named Ekewe walked up to the giant like figure.

“I am Ekewe,” he said with curiosity streaming through his small body. 

Towering over the small boy who only reached to his waist deaf to his words; looking with an undeniable fascination around at his surrounding for only seconds ago he was in an unfathomable watery abyss.  “The amulet returned me to its makers…the ones of the first magic,” he thought returning his attention back to the small boy.  Never had Zaire thought anything so unbelievable was possible.

“I am Ekewe. Did you come from the land of the ancestors?”

Zaire looked thoughtful, carefully contemplating his words. Ekewe spoke again thinking that maybe his words did not reach his ears. 

“Did you come from heaven… the land of the ancestors… in the kingdom of the dead who sit at the feet of the creator?  We pray to the ancestors to protect us from the man-beast Mazula.”

Zaire gathered his composure with the villagers standing around him.

“You must be from the land of the gods,” Ekewe said to the warrior, which brought a great burst of laughter from him, “no… I am no god,” Zaire chuckled, “I came through the watery abyss by way of the amulet into this realm.” 

The boy looked incredulous, “my elders chanted the sacred words, and I did not know what they meant… all I know is that they are words of power.”

Akosuwa then came forth with great wisdom radiating from her; the ancient one having lived over a century.  Zaire gazed at her with great admiration feeling her spirit.

“The prophecy is true,” she whispered walking around the great warrior inspecting him with diamond sharp eyes.

“You are Akosuwa the wise… my great grandmother told me of your kind when I was a small boy… people of the earth who birthed the blood amulet worn by my line.” 

“We thought we had lost those powers when so many of our holy people were stolen many moons ago and we were forbidden under pain of death the use of magic,” she said as tears streamed down her face.  Zaire knelled down on one knee honoring the elder.

Another villager emerged from the darkness; a man carrying a baby in his arms, “they steal from our land during the jackals’ moon.  They steal our people, they have stolen my wife. Our village grows smaller because of Mazula. 

Some of us have vanished without a trace…I have been calling upon you,” Choc said.  Zaire felt the pain of the village as they confided in him. 

“On pain of death no one will ever steel from your village again.”

“You are a god aren’t you,” Ekewe said.

“No… I have come because you have called me here.  An agreement was made with your ancient ancestors centuries ago, that when the heavens were in position the blood amulet would return to the children of Banjul.”

Suddenly loud angry voices penetrated through the darkness with Mazula’s guards wielding swords, chains and shackles waving torches as they burst forth from the forest with chaos erupting everywhere.  The tormentor’s voices penetrated the night denoting their cruelty toward those things sacred to nature. 

“Quickly blend with the essence,” the old woman said with the others in agreement.  Zaire looked intently around all that was left was the fire burning and the drums with the stream’s water steadily growing. 

“I don’t understand…why they didn’t revert to this strategy sooner and saved their holy people,” he thought to himself then realizing the use of magic was forbidden to them by pain of death.   Then shaken from his thoughts his presence was discovered by the king’s guards.

“We have found the prisoner…summon the king,” one voice cried out as they circled him with machetes drawn.

“Do not kill him he is to be the king’s sacrifice…find the others and kill them instead.”  Despite the drawn machete Zaire could sense their apprehension; the tension in their muscles as the smell of fear cloaked them, but he couldn’t distinguish if their fear was instilled by Mazula or if it was due to his uncanny escape and how he survived the shadow waters maybe it was all of the above.

“What is it that Mazula holds over you? You were once good men.”

“Silence you are not worthy to speak to the king’s guard,” one of the men growled with arrogance as the other four surrounded him.  One of the men held iron shackles to be clamped around his throat, wrist and ankles.

“Do you think I would allow you to collar me like some animal,” he said unsheathing the huge curved machete.

“There are four of us can you not count?”  Suddenly a large whiff of black smoke cloaked the man’s complete physical form with his screams ringing through the air shocking the others including Zaire.

“What sort of witchcraft is this?”

“Are you afraid…lackey of the king?” Then again the black plume of smoked appeared before the guard’s eyes cloaking him sending his screams out into the darkness as well.

“Where’d they go…where’d they go?”  Fear wrapped itself around him squeezing him taking his breath away.  Looking around desperately as he backed away from Zaire,” stay away from me,” he shouted steadily backing away from Zaire as he unfortunately backed into the sharpened end of a branch that impaled him through the armor he wore.  On the other end of the branch a young woman faded into view,” we will no longer be hunted like animals for your man-beast,” she whispered into his ear then changing back into a wisp of smoke horrifying the dying man.

“Demon,” the guard shouted as he charged Zaire,” call off your demon.” 

Metal then clashed against metal as the two exchanged blows.  Back and forth the blades swung as the two fought side stepping fallen branches trampling over the camp fire kicking ambers into the air unaffected by the flames while the king and the rest of his guards searched the area calling out into the night,” reveal yourselves we know you are here…by order of the king surrender yourselves,” the guard shouted with Mazula growing impatient.

“We will not be enslaved by the sadistic evil that has taken over our land.  The man-beast is not the true king,” a disembodied voice hissed into the air un-nerving them; causing Mazula to unsheathe the doubled edged sword forged in the devil’s fire giving it powers beyond human understanding.  The skull shaped hilt made for the overly large hand of the king swung effortlessly through the air separating the head from the villager whose words had taunted him spilling his blood on to the soft earth with his body fading into view.  His limp body laid motionless as Mazula stood over him,” find the rest and slay them all if they do not tell of Zaire’s whereabouts.

Zaire and the king’s guard locked into a deadly embrace continued,” surrender to Mazula and he will kill you quickly and I will not have to cut off your manhood,” he boasted until Zaire’s blade found a weakness in his chain-mail; falling to his knees he looked at Zaire in disbelief ,” why do you defend them? They’re nothing…animals scavenging in the forest living in caves.”

“It was because Mazula made them into what you perceived them to be….by taking away their homes…denying birthrights.”  The guard gurgled blood through his open mouth,” please…give me a warrior’s death.  I do not want the last thing I feel to be Mazula’s wrath for failure.”  Zaire looked at him intently with disgust.

“A true warrior does not prey on the weak and helpless…those who can not defend themselves.  You are not deserving of a warriors death you are deserving of the fate of the man-beast who sent you here to kill women and children,” Zaire said as Mazula made his presence known,” he is correct,” he added walking toward the dying man, and with one large hand he tore at the man’s throat slowly and cruelly sending him into convulsions of excruciating pain.

“ You will beg for your fate to be swift, but believe me it won’t…suffering shall be your lot,” he said as his last remaining guards made their appearance.

“Fail me and I will hold your heads as well,” he growled showing them the severed head of their fellow guardsmen with ragged and torn flesh dripping the man’s blood.

“This should prove entertaining,” Mazula chuckled as his two guards prepared to engage Zaire; circling him with shackles they intended to imprison him with.

“Hold still dog this won’t hurt a bit,” one of the guards snarled holding up the shackles intended to humiliate and degrade the warrior.

“Hurry…I don’t want to be in this god forsaken place any longer than necessary,” Mazula said watching his first guard fall prey to Zaire’s powerful blow from the hilt of curved blade that caught the man’s chin by surprise knocking him into the feet of Mazula.  Enraged with his guard’s failure the king’s twin blade cleaved  the man’s head in half,” I said to shackle him not to be plundered by him,” Mazula shouted diverting the other guard’s attention away from Zaire. The warrior took full advantage of the man’s distraction as he swung the blade across the guard’s midsection with such force his body spun around with his entrails splattering the king.  Mazula’s eyes bulged in disbelief his best men not only defeated but slaughtered before his eyes. 

“Am I still dirt beneath your feet?  What does the man-beast have to say now…the one who poses as a king?”  His dark evil began to rise up through him with such force it colored the night with his hate and loathing.  The pointed teeth bared his true nature as they seemed to elongate in his twisted mouth that foamed like some rapid animal.  Picking up the shackles from the blood stained earth,” you are my prisoner…surrender now and your death will be swift...however if you do not I will find everyone in this place and gut them slowly,” he growled as he swung the huge blade through the air manifesting a severed arm with a terrifying scream following; invoking the wrath of the villagers instead of fear. 

“Your evil will fall upon your own head,” the whispers came as a swift shove propelled Mazula forward into a tree.  Zaire watched incredulously realizing he was being given an advantage. 

“The dead await you…they await you for judgment man-beast.”

“The king is beyond judgments,” he roared swinging the blade again as it bore no fruits from his efforts.

“It seems you have no more power here,” Zaire laughed further angering Mazula.

“I have enough…I am the king, guards,” he shouted out,” guards…your king summons you!”

“It seems his majesty has been abandoned…or worse they have died at their own undoing.

“Is that so scum who proclaims himself a warrior…I am curious tell me before you die what dark magic was it you used to escape the shadow waters,” he asked stepping closer to Zaire breathing putrid breath from his lungs into the night air tainting it.  Zaire stood fast unafraid of the man-beast with an unwavering resolve. 

How did I survive the shadow waters….it was with no dark magic I can assure you... let me show you instead,” he said suddenly charging Mazula with the curved blade swinging it so fiercely it was almost a blur shocking Mazula and catching him off guard.  He was quickly backed up a considerable distance.   In an instant the two found themselves at the water’s edge with their confrontation ensuing as the water became waist high.  One by one fading into existence wisp of smoke materialized the villagers to witness the warrior take on the wickedness that had ravished their land for so long nearly stripping them of everything they held dear.  Water splashed high up into the air; over and over the two exchanged blows and matched strength.  At times they would fall beneath the surface thrusting about and then rise again in a fury.  Zaire managed to block the over sized hands as they both sank beneath the water.  The two then broke the surface gasping for air.  “Mazula your reign of terror is over your fate awaits you in the shadow waters,” he shouted seizing him by the throat squeezing with all his might as they disappeared back beneath the surface of the dark water. After a while the water’s surface became still as the massive amount of water transformed itself back to shallow stream revealing only the weapons from the confrontation at the villager’s feet.

I hope you have enjoyed another story from Another reality thanks for visiting

   

The Children of Banjul Part 1

The citadel loomed over the city of Banjul oppressive and foreboding.  Its stone structure’s spires seemed to stab into a dark sky with its arch carved towers keeping a watchful eye for the possible invasion of enemies  and enemies of the unseen world as well.  Walls built of volcanic stones and boulders rose up to great heights surrounding the place that was once the sanctuary of its people; now only vacant structures and pathways with the occasional stray goat stood witness to the abuse of power as its population fled their homes, some in exile and others thrown into the citadel’s dungeons for minor infractions of the law, or worse accused of manipulating the forces of nature and put to death. Only the king was permitted the use of the occult.  Those condemned had their essence extracted to be used in spells to vanquish enemies of the petty conqueror that oppressed them now.  

Deceit and treachery from those thought to be loyal instigated political turmoil and in-house fighting among the ranking patriarchs.  Conflict of foreign policies and a lack of alliances became an open invitation to over throw Banjul’s ruler emperor Lagolas.  Chaos and uncertainty ripped away at his being as he watched his kingdom slip from his grasp as his sons died one by one engaged in battles that possessed no strategic value nor rhyme nor reason only that false accusations made stated that the bordering kingdom’s long standing treaty between neighboring lands had been violated there by invoking an act of war.    Lagolas had long suspected Mazula’s treacherous deeds played a part in the events unfolding with his obsession for the sacred essence; an ancient magic that proved to be neither true nor false only a mystery shrouded in darkness.  Many perished in search of it’s the sacred essence; an opiate with many attributes to open doors to the spirit world and summon its occupants to do one’s bidding, or change one’s physical appearance.  It was the key to overcoming death to live as a god, to turn lead to gold possessing more riches than one could imagine.  And last but not least having sway over the forces of nature.  Many have died for this quest that remains elusive leaving behind blood soaked lands whose spirits can never find peace.      

 In the throne room sat the embodiment of barbarity king Mazula referred to as the man-beast cursed by his ancestors a war oriented soul who lived for the sake of battle.  Blood filled dreams afforded him no peace as restlessness fed his appetite for cruelty.  He would never be afforded the simplest pleasantries of life; the scent of jasmine, the sweetness of honey would evade him as bitterness and the stench of death would remain his closest companion.   

 Losing his son in battle his heart pounded with rage as he inhaled and exhaled. An unquenchable thirst for carnage rose up in him with anger flowing through his veins as if it were blood as he denied an unimaginable truth.  The unholy conception of his son was an abomination before nature itself.  That one fateful night a witch an enemy of his ancestors deceived him sending him one where death had embodied her.  In his time of weakness ignoring the faint stench of death that hung over her accompanied by her cold embrace he indulged his urges.  The attempts of his ancestors to return her back to the kingdom of the dead were futile as he did the unthinkable and banished his ancestors, a fate worse than death itself.  But the powerful spirits would not be denied revenge of such sacrilege.  Propelled by fury an unrelenting curse fell upon him never would he know peace again or of life’s pleasantries as he fell prey to lowest of bestial natures.  His thoughts would be of confusion creating his reality around him with a twisted and dark mind that only viewed the world around him as his enemy suspicious of everyone. Uncontrollable fits of anger often led to someone’s execution.   Afterwards when the anger faded he claimed it as the will of the gods.  It was often whispered that the king engaged in human sacrifice to sooth the raging beast inside of him by eating the hearts of his victims; thus the reason for his rather un-nerving appearance.  The sharpened teeth with nails black as slate was reason enough to fear Mazula.  His blood lust nature draped his spirit as if it were a robe, obsessed with power the tyrannical beast ordered those with loyalties to the previous ruler to be singled out for banishment or death according to their rank or status, or more importantly his mood for the time being.   Empowering those from his inner circle he quickly replaced the generals of the old king whom he despised, and replaced them with individuals lacking the ability to think for themselves and would agree to anything to simply appease the twisted notions of the war mongering tyrant.  From such like minded individuals he formed his own political and judicial council to execute his bidding.

*

 Dozens of Torches lit the circular chamber as shadows danced about free of a physical counterpart against the grey stone walls.  Evil had been birthed; taking up residence where justice once dominated.  Zaire stood before the war council scarred and battle hardened exposed like a raw nerve beneath the chain-mail armor as he felt resentment for accusations made against him at the battle of Zokarius defending Banjul against her enemies.  A place where war raged for as long as anyone could remember, in fact it was completely lost as to why the fighting continued some say it was over unclaimed riches of sacred essence, others say it was over land and what was buried deep within the earth.  Many reasons were given as to why countless wars reigned with its casualties populating the ether. 

Surrounded by political enemies his jaw clenched as he gazed out at the faces that gloated over his perceived defeat.  “Mazula’s lackeys… I knew the time would come when honor would be replaced with decadence of heart where cowards who had never held a sword would determine a warrior’s fate,” he thought.  The council knew they could never persuade him to their political view or control him.  “It is much safer to annihilate what cannot be controlled,” they thought. 

The men seated before him in positions of perceived authority formed the council of law most of which were politically corrupt and immoral void of integrity seething with hatred.   Old and bitter envious of Zaire’s strength, and courage they sought to judge the warrior standing before them.  Battle wounds marked his body like badges of honor.  Restrained by the kings guard’s with heavy chains securing him was the only reason why the council felt so compelled to express such condescending and arrogant overtones laced with complete disrespect when referring to the warrior before them.  Only the privileged witnessed the many sessions of innocents on trial for fabricated accusations falsely lodged against them with no recourse.   

“You are hereby accused of a most heinous act… resulting in the death of your captain… the king’s son Mazula the II heir to the throne of Banjul…by the use of the forbidden knowledge of the dark arts….no commoner should have access or knowledge of the occult or conspire with demons or the dead.   Should I go on,” the voice bellowed out condemning Zaire to doom in just a few short words.          

“If you must to confirm your self appointed importance,” Zaire shot back angering the council that sought to dis-credit him and tarnish his character and reputation like so many that fell before the hateful and vindictive council of Mazula’s political Hench men. 

“I was ordered to slaughter those who posed no threat to anyone…women and children, the old and sickly after the battle was won, despite our captain fleeing at the height of the battle… it is where he met his demise.  He was cruel and cowardly he showed more cruelty to his men than the opposing forces we battled across our blood soaked lands,” he declared as his memories slipped back in time to the raging battle taking place in his memory vivid and clear as the events played over in his mind’s eye.  The sound of clashing steel rung out as armor was splashed with blood.  His ears filled with the screaming of dying men as they fell; some with limbs sheared off.  Others fought on with blood streaming down their faces some even with protrusions of the enemy’s weapon still embedded in their bodies.  He remembered the many times the swift breeze of the enemy’s battle ax whizzing by his head missing him narrowly because of the assistance of the powerful amulet and precious gems that adorned the breast plate that covered the massive chest.  Painted with his enemies’ blood concealing it; it blessed its wearer with power and strength making him nearly god-like, and victorious in battle like his father before him and his father before him.  The amulet’s great power protected them while all others perished in the heat of the battle.  No one ever knew where the amulets came from.  Some speculated that the amulet birthed itself into existence in the far reaches of another realm and was only attainable by those whose bloodline was worthy.  Others say it was cursed as it condemned all others around it to befall a most violent death while engaged in battle as it fed off of the blood lust of war, but no one knew for sure.   So many thoughts had run rapid in Zaire’s mind he couldn’t  help but to wonder if he himself were not cursed, but quickly shook the thought from his mind; for there was no room for doubts or fear as he was jolted back to the present.

“How do you plead,” the words thundered.

“What difference does it make to those of no moral standing…it is of no consequence how one pleads when the outcome is predetermined by the ill deeds of those who abuse their authority in such ways,” the warrior stated defiantly.

 “Then so be it you have here by been found guilty of the black craft and here by sentenced to death Zaire of Banjul son of Jakuta.  Have you any last words?”

“Yes I do…How did the war council come to this conclusion? What proof do you have? Where are your witnesses?  I have the right to face my accusers.” 

Then suddenly the room seemed to have chilled and dimmed with the torches’ flames flickering as dread made its presence felt,” what proof do I have…my son is dead and you are still breathing,” the king said circling Zaire sizing him up as if he were to be devoured at a feast.  “He was a most skilled swordsman trained by only the best since he was a boy,” he snapped breathing heavily with gritted teeth; teeth that were filed down to a point.  The overly large hands that hung by his side baring black nails became clenched fist.  Standing before Zaire seething with hate and loathing for a man who had survived a battle that had taken his ill conceived son enraged him. 

“Sire…your hands,” a voice said gesturing to the droplets of blood that were trickling down to the floor forming a small puddle that darkened and then fouled the air.   Mazula glanced down momentarily un-phased by his blood he’d drawn from himself by his unrelenting anger.  “This dog before me dares to ask for proof I am the king and I need no proof.  You asked to face your accuser…here I am,” he growled only inches away from Zaire’s face ranting insults inciting the warrior to challenge him.  Zaire turned his face away from the hate filled words only to have an unbearable strong hand grab him by the jaw as black nails dug into his skin drawing blood, “what does the dog have to say,”  the king said pushing his face away leaving angry wounds that bled down his neck.  The horrific odor nearly took Zaire’s breath away.  Anger began to rise up swelling the warrior’s chest flaring his nostrils that took in the putrid air that seemed to add to the agitation of his spirit.  The insults and blatant disrespect he received after serving his kingdom perturbed his spirit.  To be rewarded with abuses from those whose quality of life had been greatly improved 100 times built a fire of rage he struggled to silence, but it would not be denied.  From deep within his spirit he felt the surge of truth bursting forth,” the demon seed you spawned dealt his men nothing but tyranny and misery gaining him many enemies.  His abuses of his office and authority granted him nothing but hate.  On the battle field he cowered behind sending good men to die in ill conceived battle strategies of poor planning…because they were expendable…and his father was the king.  The general’s advice was ignored because his father was the king.  He was arrogant ignorant and stupid filled with self importance like the rest of your lackeys.  What got your son killed was not magic or the dark arts or demons it was him fleeing from the heat of the battle as it threatened to overtake our position. We pushed the enemy back while your precious captain ran like a whipped dog…you can not blame magic for his cowardly demise.  And since I am to die my words will forever haunt you,” Zaire said with great satisfaction.  Suddenly an ear piercing howl rang out from Mazula somewhere between human and bestial shocking everyone except Zaire who saw the king for what he was. 

Thanks for visiting Another reality visit again for part two of The Children of Banjul. 
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The Storm's Calling

Paranormal stories supernatural, occult, new age, what ever you want to refer to them as they all contain elements of the metaphysical.  A basic understanding of any metaphysical subject is extremely invaluable.  It could be the oral traditions from a culture's spiritual concepts. Fantasy and  fiction writers' understanding of the basics will go a long way in character development, and origins.  A whole cast of heroes and villains come from just a small understanding of metaphysical science for fantasy writers or any creative story teller.  This is a story centered on the Kundilini and it's Chakra system originating; an Eastern metaphysical concept of how energy flows through our body utilized by many indigenous cultures around the globe.
Now the story begins

Stabbing down from the sky wet and cold came the rain accompanied by fierce winds carrying the spirits of the ancestors strong and powerful.  The villagers scurried in an attempt to escape the brutal elements with their meager belongings, but the fierce winds seem to tear away their homes with the exception of one who stood defiantly in the path of the violent rains and destructive winds. 
“Fools…you don’t honor your dead; especially now.  This is the thinnest the veil has ever been between the physical world and the spirit world… so shear almost like silk.  Eventually the veil will begin to deteriorate in different places and those whose eyes are aligned with their spirit eyes will be able to see on to the other side and those on the other side will be able to see on to this side.  They may even cross over.  Some will go mad,” she said seeming indifferent to the storm raging around her as she was not effected. 

“Miraku…Miraku…you got to get out before the Ganges flood everything,” the young man said soaked carrying a basket containing his belongings standing in the door way allowing the cold rain to find its way into the small structure that served as Miraku’s home.  “Boy…do not fear the Ganges.  The river spirits bring good fortune and clean away the bad.  This is a cleansing so much has plagued our people.  Close my door,” she said pulling him inside immediately calming him.
“We have lost our dream senses…our many ways to dream and communicate with the other side…that’s where our people are, but we can’t see or hear them.  You lost your spirit eyes and the will to dream your world.  Because you’re covered in dirt and filth…that’s what fear is…  Its hate…stop hating and dream walk.  Sometimes dream walking can shift your reality into another existence and teach you…give you wisdom boy. Close your eyes and still your mind boy.  So even when you hear the clock on the wall ticking and the traffic in the roads somehow your spirit sight has shifted now you’re residing in a distant world of spirits in a place comprised of mostly water elementals and ancestors.   They walk the surface of our world. These beings are elements within elements that create their own individual realities and ours too; multi-dimensional plains,” she said in his language compelling him to become still and thoughtful despite the raging winds and rain that pounded all around them yet doing no damage. She listened to the wind and then went on,” look  to the rain look inside of it, and listen to the wind use your spirit ears and eyes.” 

He began to stare out of the window into the falling rain. At first the rain was as if a thousand drops were all falling randomly then simultaneously becoming a sheet of wetness.  The wind once a howling in his ears now became words possessing a familiarity.
He listened closely disbelievingly,” Grandfather,” he asked,” that’s impossible my grandfather has been...”                                                                                

“What…dead.  Why do you not call him what he is… an honorable ancestor with a message he’s been trying to give you since he crossed over.  Open and listen,” she snapped returning his attention back to the storm before him. Again the familiar voice came speaking to him in a way he understood telling him the story he use to tell him when he was a child.

“Long ago populated among the more unique plains of existence was a village of people called the Khakras.  This was a culture steeped heavily into the ancient Rites the way we once were.  They relied upon their chosen to successfully complete a dangerous Rites of passage to empower them…many did not survive.  An arduous journey into the denser plains of existence was only the beginning of the perilous Rites of passage.  They must engage with the non-evolved and attempt to open the seven bridges of consciousness.

On Kun-Li’s fifth cycle she journeyed through many doorways only seen with the spirit eyes during the most sacred time of all ”the storm’s calling” the time celebrated by the water elementals.  Translucent and fluid they relished in their essence existing on the material plain and the non-material plain.  It was their time to congregate with other nonphysical beings, including the ancestors.  Messages were always being relayed back and forth between realms from the living and the dead and others.    At that place of many waters it was divined by the great oracle that her time had come to undergo these Rites.

“Kun-Li… it is you who must insure the opening of the way for the bridges of consciousness, and in doing so you cannot allow your essences to be dissipated or corrupted,” the crystal being whispered in a raspy voice as she glistened eagerly awaiting  the wisdom of the oracle.  The oracle flickered within the bank of mist that hovered over the luminescent water.

“At the base of the mountains in the temple of the deities is where you must find the Kundalini and become one with the fire element.”

“The fire element…you mean I must confront the serpent of fire,” she uttered with fear cloaking her like an eclipsed sun.

“Do not let your fears darken your light….how will you successfully complete the Rites in the denser plains?”  Immediately Kun-Li’s ambient light was absorbed by the mist; beckoning Kun-Li to ride the mist to the mountains of the moon. The mist weaved and coiled around her essence embracing her raising her as the mist traversed from the place of many waters with Kun-Li in its embrace.

Gazing from the mountain’s base was the fierce Kundalini.  Diamond shaped black onyx scales covered the powerful body that coiled around the mountain blocking its entrance.  The emerald eyes watched the approaching mist.  “Ahhhh another wishes to descend down into the abyss of dark matter.  Huuuummm how interesting.”  Patiently the serpent sat awaiting the descending mist.  Kun-Li could feel the atmosphere changing with every breath the serpent took as the mist swayed back and forth with her essence.  Kun-Li wondered how the serpent would react; considering none of the others returned from the denser plains.  Kun-Li attempted to fight back the fear that threatened to dominate. 

“I can smell your apprehension and almost taste the fear that threatens to ravish you.”  Kun-Li paused debating whether or not to approach the serpent that had been destined to swallow up the bringers of fear with its fire. 

“Tell me….shell I devour you now or later,” he hissed spraying fire with every word burning away the mist that had concealed her essence dropping her to the ground. 

Kun-Li’s illumination flickered frantically; being so close to the serpent’s muzzle.

“If you devour me I will not be able to fulfill my destiny.”

“But it is my destiny to devour fear….after all I am Kundalini,” he boasted.

Kun-Li thought intently,”I must master my fear,” over and over Kun-Li repeated like some melodic mantra until the flickering illumination became an ambient and a steady glow.

“Immmmpresssive,” the serpent hissed, “so tell me….what is it that is one with the darkness?  If you answer correctly you may mount the Kundalini… but do not let your ignorance doom you.”
Kun-Li thought long and hard before answering.  The serpent’s head weaved back and forth waiting for an answer with its unblinking emerald eyes gazing over her making her feel uneasy as his tongue darted in and out in an attempt to distract her. 

Kun-Li’s illumination began to pulsate brighter, “it is in the darkness where all colors are one.”

“Immmmpresssive Kun-Li you have earned the right to mount Kundalini, but before doing so remember….other worlds can be terrifying so remember to always master your fear and you will prevail as we descend into the lower realms; there we will rise up burning away all lower base instincts opening the way to the seven bridges of consciousness of the temple up to its apex gaining enlightenment fulfilling our destiny.” 

So with one swift leap Kun-Li mounted the great serpent where they became one raising up to the apex of the temple of deities in a great ball of fire.

Instantly his attention was snapped back to the monsoon’s violent rains and rushing waters.  However, his fear seemed to dissipate as he looked out on to a storm that appeared to bypass them with the Ganges gently carrying them along its currents as if the meager structure was somehow transformed into a seafaring vessel.  He looked at Miraku incredulously,” it is the will of the ancestors,” she said sitting back smiling.
I hope you have enjoyed another story from Another reality and thanks for visiting