B. James Wilson's Blog, page 7

Dark Prophecy

 

Dark Prophecy

Core Sound, June, 1718

Henri sat cross-legged in front of Oguna, as he often did, like the child he’d once been in Africa, the boy, Nwoye, now only a distant memory. Grande Maronage’s aft cabin was shrouded in the smoke and incense of her burning pot. The scent of it and her monotonous droning filled the space around him. She rocked back and forth, shaking the soft, leather pouch that contained the sacred bones, while Henri sniffed at the herbal tea she had prepared. He took a deep swallow and closed his eyes, relaxing, withdrawing from the pressures placed on his shoulders by his leadership role. After a moment the droning stopped, Henri heard the soft rattle of the pouch’s contents rolling out onto the dry, splintered planks of the cabin floor, a scattered assembly of small, white bones. Behind the veil of smoke rising from her pot, Oguna studied the pattern they formed.

As the tea began to take its effect, a dreamy remembrance of his recent voyage to Cap Francoise entered Henri’s mind, thoughts of Maya pleading with him to return to the peace and freedom of Le Ruisseau and the way of life they made for themselves and their children in that place. Then, in direct conflict, a vision of Oguna’s exhortation that he remember the Dyula people anxiously awaiting the return of their king, her insistence that Abana, the royal daughter, bare his child, a royal son, to be the rightful heir to his throne, not some child born of Maya’s womb and lowly station. Henri’s mind drifted through the recent past, reviewing his accumulated power and the riches lying in the stone vault at Le Ruisseau, the dowry jewels safely hidden away, the gold and silver bars and coin, a lifetime’s riches, all waiting for him there. Then, the king’s breastplate which he wore even now, began calling him to its service.

As when he was a boy, Henri was soon overcome by a sensation of floating high above the scene, seeing himself sitting in front of the old witch. He opened his eyes and, there she was, sitting straight up in front of him, her vacant eyes looking through him to a vision beyond the moment, opening him up like the door to a closet that contained his future, enabling her to rummage inside. The chanting began again, dragging him into the dark closet with her, as if she’d taken his hand and pulled him along. The sound of her voice, ancient, dry parchment, created swirling, familiar visions. Visions of an expansive and desolate dune, of being separated from his own body, watching the white jackals tearing at his flesh from someplace high above, and then, a dark prophesy of death and doom, a cry of raging battle, the smell of gunpowder and decks flowing with blood. A face loomed up before him, raging, demonic, twisted in the throws of death. It was Teach, calling out to him, from a burning hell, “Blow the ship!”

Reunion

Reunion

Le Ruisseau, 1717

Maya lounged in the shade of one of the few overhanging palms on the windward side of Ile de Long, watching the children splashing in the shallow water of the reef, as they worked the traps there. She loved this part of the day as much as the children did. A life of ease, gathering the bounty that the sea provided along the edge of their reef. It was amazingly productive, for the small amount of effort required, like having baskets full of fresh fish, crabs and lobster delivered to her hands each day. Enough to feed the whole community and enough left over to trade with the Viscaynos. She lay back in the cooling shade, closed her eyes and listened to the happy sounds of children making play of their work. To Maya it was the most comforting sound she could remember ever hearing, a reward she received each day in return for the pain and suffering she had lived through, the fear of her experiences in Africa, the torture of her enslavement and her suffering in the cane fields of the white jackals.

In the orchard, on the sandy ridge at the center of the island, Odulette stood up and wiped the sweat from her brow. Even at this early hour, the sun bore down relentlessly, the dense growth of the jungle cut off the shore breeze so that the air stood thick and still. She struggled each day in the heat, fighting a constant battle with the undergrowth that choked her stunted lime trees, trying to improve their yield and, at the same time, her life and the life of her daughter, Hope.

She straightened her aching back for a moment, stretching and shading her eyes from the glaring sun. From where she stood she had a clear view of the bay to the south. She blinked her eyes, hardly believing what she was seeing at that moment. The sloop had appeared suddenly, from behind the screen of ubiquitous mangrove trees that grew on the western tip of La Roche, across the creek from where she stood. Odulette knew instantly, by its lines, that it was Grande Maronage. She was so excited that at first she couldn’t speak. She dropped the cutlass she had been using as a scythe and ran from the steaming orchard. When she reached the main path, at the center of the island, she turned south, in the direction of the creek, crying out, “Their here! Their here!”

Maya heard an unintelligible scream that fought its way against the wind, through her light sleep, startling her awake, leaving her unsure whether she had actually heard it, or just dreamed it. She looked first to the children, counting each one to be sure they were all there. Then she struggled to her feet and called to them. “Children! Come!”

She ran off toward the center of the island with the children following. They early learned the connection between quick compliance to adult commands and survival. Hearing alarm in Maya’s voice, they ran to her side and, together, caught up with Odulette at the rocky point on the southern tip of Ile de Long. Tears were streaming down Odulette’s hollowed cheeks as she wrung her hands with excited agitation.

“What’s wrong?” Maya asked.

“Their here!” Odulette cried, pointing down the creek to the west.

As Maya looked, Grande Maronage came into view, turning into the creek, sailing in their direction. Maya fell to her knees, sobbing. Their long lived anxiety would soon be at an end. Both women searched the deck of the ship for their respective mates, watching in silent prayer as the ship slowly made its way toward them. Then, seeing him at the bow, falling to her knees beside Maya, Odulette screamed his name, “Collin!”

A moment later, to her great relief, Maya caught sight of Henri, manning the ship’s tiller, resplendent in his golden breastplate.

Thanks to My Readers

I want to thank everyone who has read, or taken an interest in my Novels, 'Kingdom of Light' and, 'The Sign of Jonah', both books in the series, 'By The Book'.

I would like you to know that I will soon release my new novel, 'Triangle: A Memoir of Black Caesar'.

Triangle is a story of the struggles of three young men who are thrown together into the crucible of The Devil's Triangle in the 'Golden Age of Piracy', as it is called. It's a departure novel for me, not part of a series and will be available in digital form just in time to celebrate Black History Month, in February.

As part of that release, I felt it important to revise, 'Kingdom of Light' because that novel never received an adequate edit, so I have pulled it from distribution while that work is completed. I apologize for any inconvenience it may cause you and I promise that the book will be available once again later this year. In the meantime I am serializing the revised text on the link below. If you haven't read 'Kingdom of Light' and you wanted to, you will find there up until the time of its re-release.

Thanks for your patience and your interest in my work.

https://castawayspoint.wordpress.com/...

A Call For Shares

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A Memoir of Saint Augustine, 1716

I am told that Governor Antonio de Benavides was in terror when he descended the stairs to find his house filled with more then fifty desperate men, pyrates all, who’d as soon cut his throat as spit. He tried to retreat back up the stairs, but Teach got hold of him and asked where he thought he was going. The governor was so terrifyed he could not speak. When his wyfe and children were brought down into the midst of them, he offered all that was in the treasury if Teach would just spare their lyves.

Our men, who were spread throughout the town, found the guardhouse empty and soon learned that the garrison of one hundred twenty, upon learning that Black Beard and his men occupyed the town, had run off to hyde in the wood, north of the settlement.

The governor sent a runner, with a note, one of Teach’s own men, to summon the king’s tax collector, ordering him to open the counting house and give Teach all that was contayned in the treasury. It wasn’t much, a bag of silver coins and a few bars. Teach nearly beat the man to death before he would believe him, that there was no more to be had.

The people were so poor that many houses and hovels burned that night for the lack of ransom. I am ashaymed now of what was done, but I was not present with them, not that I would have had the power or inclinaytion to put a stop to it. I was in the tavern at the wharf, with the Frenchmen of Bonnett’s crew, indulging myself, as I too often do.

When Henri returned and found me so disposed I thought he would kill me, or leave me to the wrath of the townspeople. But he took me by the scruff of my neck and fairly threw me into the longboat, returning me to the ship, upon which we left that town with Teach also aboard, who left his men to march back to Saint Matthew on their own. Though the adventure gayned us little in the way of treasure, it served to embolden Teach with a new idea to raid other, richer towns along the coast.

Collin Aldworth

Williamsburg, June, 1719

 

Saint Augustine

For those who have been following the “excerpts” from my new novel, “Triangle”, I apologize for the gap. I have been very busy working on a final edit  in preparation for its release next month. That edit has finally caught up with the excerpts that I’ve already released, so here is the next installment of the story. I hope you will enjoy reading it and that you’ll be patient with me. I promise, I am working hard to provide my readers with the best quality material I can produce. Here’s Dark Prophesy:

An excerpt from “Triangle: A Memoir of Black Caesar”

~

Daniel Carnes spotted the fleet of ships approaching from the north early in the day. He watched, from hiding, as they anchored just off shore. One of the ships, a larger, naval sloop had familiar lines, looking much like Black Caesar’s ship, Grande Maronage. He couldn’t be sure, the ship was anchored too far out for any detail to be clear, but he had a sense that he was right in his estimation. He didn’t recognize the other ships anchored with her, two frigates, one large and one small, along with two naval sloops and two smaller merchant sloops.

It was clear to him, by the lack of markings, or colors, that this was a fleet of pirates. Their close presence worried him, considering the Queen’s Dowry that he guarded, hidden in the dry well of the abandoned mission. He’d spent his days since the storm, many months now, awaiting rescue, but he was careful in choosing a rescuer, not trusting a fleet of pirates, more hoping for a small boat with one, or two fishermen who could be easily overcome, or perhaps tricked into leaving their boat on the beach, unattended, for him to take.

He kept a close eye on the fleet of ships throughout the day and into the afternoon, watching dories from the other ships, plying back and forth to the familiar sloop, until darkness fell around them. In the dark, Daniel came out of hiding, following the narrow creek from its source near the old mission, to its outflow at the beach, there, to keep watch, in case any should come ashore in the night. His caution was not disappointed. Sometime after midnight, gaging by the position of the stars, he was awakened by the sound of oars banging against the hull of a small boat, one he could barely make out against the backdrop of white sand that formed the beach. Within minutes of the alarm, a black giant strode past him carrying a heavy leather satchel, following the creek inland, toward the crumbling ruin of the mission.

There was no doubt in Daniel’s mind that it was Black Caesar who’d come ashore. Still fearing the man for his size, his strength and his mean disposition, Daniel waited until Caesar had gone a safe distance before beginning to follow him. He watched from a place of hiding among the ruins, as Caesar searched through the overgrown gardens. He could barely contain his panic at the coincidence that Caesar found the old well hidden beneath a dense covering of vines and bramble. His mind reeled at the thought that Henri had somehow discovered him, that by some magic he had divined the location of the Queen’s Dowry, sailed hundreds of miles and, now, walked across this island directly to its place of hiding, without hesitation, in the dark. What were the chances of such a coincidence? Then he remembered the witch, Oguna, her Obeah magic and her divining power. He was frantic, his heart pounded in his throat. He thought to call out, to somehow distract Caesar, but fear grasped his vocal chords. As he was trying to think of some way to overcome the giant, he was surprised and relieved to see Caesar suddenly withdraw from the well, leaving the ruins empty handed.

In the morning, Daniel lifted the heavily, planked cover from the well, fastened another length of rope to the root of a vine and climbed down to the sandy bottom of the well, where he discovered the heavy satchel Caesar had been carrying. It lay on top of the dowry chest, a length of old, rotted rope draped over them both. He opened the leather satchel and gasped, seeing the amount of gold coin and silver plate it contained, more than a hundred pounds. He couldn’t believe his luck.

Apparently Henri knew nothing of the dowry and hadn’t noticed the chest lying in the darkness, at the bottom of the well. His stumbling upon this hiding place was, indeed, an unfathomable coincidence, not witch’s magic at all. The addition of the satchel nearly doubled the value of Daniel’s stash and now, if he could just survive long enough to find his way off this island, he would be rich beyond all his wildest dreams.

Morning Dew

Morning Dew

by B. James Wilson

A tiny drop of dew

Dangles precariously

From a winter bare bough,

Shimmering in morning sun,

Dependant on its power,

Like a beacon bold and bright,

A lighthouse in the forest,

But only for a moment,

Before its time is passed.