Swing Low: Chapter 1

Pre-release of Swing Low, is underway

A few years back, I experienced a particularly sleepy period of my life, a time when I received very little actual sleep. I will simply call this time “First Child" The dreams spawned by this bizarre new change in my life, gave birth to the idea for Swing Low. -B.C. Crow

I hope you read myprologuein the last post. If not, l recommend starting with that, since it helps set the stage for this book.

Remember, I highly encourage any constructive comments on this and other chapters. Also, no matter how good I or others proofread, there always seems to be something missed. Please feel free to point those out for me.

Most of all, please remember to share this with your friends. After this pre-release is over, then I'm finished giving it away for free. But anyone who signs up for my newsletter before then, will get a complimentary ebook version when this is officially published.

Thank you again for being a part of my final draft. Now the part you came here to read:
Installment #2 of:Sing Low: The Hangman of the WoodsBy B.C. Crow (Download audio podcast here) ()Chapter 1School. What a circus of emotions and self-doubt. Where did the other boys find the confidence to stand out? I’ve spent my whole life trying to just fit in. Peer pressure has always pushed against my self-identity. I’ve come to learn that in this I might not have been alone, even if I was a complete loner. Friends would have been nice, but I didn’t know the first thing about finding them. For a while I tried to shut out that chapter of my life. I resurrect it now, because it serves a need. Exposing my naked shame has become less burdensome. Sometimes a story is bigger than one’s self. And one must bear that burden and its disgrace openly for the greater good. In truth, as I look back, my journey gave me a unique perspective. Sometimes I was just one of the crowd, other times I was the odd one. I had my own choices, but none were easy. Following the crowd meant betraying myself. Following my own will meant parting from socially accepted patterns. Perspective is something that should be treasured, so I am grateful for my humbling experiences.I feel that my journey started just a few years ago. The particular day I think most of is so vivid in my mind, not just because it happened the day after I resolved to enjoy journalism, but because of an epiphany that I experienced. It was the start of much soul searching and questioning that has directed my thinking over the last few years.“Hey buddy,” a kid named Akamu yelled out. I turned, eyes opened hesitantly. Now would be a bad time to trip on the war-torn cobble walkway. Akamu was in my class, but among the more popular of students. Having learned to be cautious, I opened my expression to one of accepting, but also not committing to the salutation. As Akamu ran up to me, my face remained passive. Inside, though, little butterflies of hope tried to raise my hand in greeting. My emotional safety measure worked yet again. Instead of stopping to acknowledge me, Akamu rushed past as indifferent to my presence as I was to any of the many stray dogs that I too had ignorantly passed this morning.I don’t remember the other boy’s name, but I do remember that he was new to the program. He'd transferred to grammar from computer science school last month. This transferring between programs is not uncommon, but after the first year of vocational preparatory schooling, the effort to catch up in the new field of study becomes much more difficult. What I do remember of this boy is that he was not the handsome kid that Akamu was, and that I hated him. Okay, well, maybe hate is a little harsh, since I’m generally not inclined to harbor harsh feelings toward anyone. But I was a little jealous of him. Within only one month, the newbie was able to reach a level of esteem among the students that I had been unable to accomplish in the whole year.As many men know, fifteen is an awkward age for a boy. Maybe I’m overgeneralizing. Some, like Akamu, seem to trudge through this pubescent stage of life with enough confidence to betray their own misgivings. Not me. If the physical arrangements of this age weren’t bad enough, the mental deficiencies are enough to vex the smartest of boys. I think everyone at this age is living in a muggy mental fog.After Akamu passed, I fixed my eyes on his back. I wondered, if I did move to the pre-medical school of biology, would the fresh start be enough to propel me into the higher echelons of adolescent admiration? This fascination took root in my daydreaming as I continued my walk to school. All the while Akamu and his friend could be heard laughing in front of me, at least until we joined other students and were funneled into the school building. Good thing their faces were directed away from mine. Mine was blotching red with embarrassment. I don’t know if their jokes were directed toward me. They probably weren’t, but it sure felt like it. I hated being the timid loner.Large green trees and shrubs had grown back, but still couldn’t hide the drab after effects of the war. The school buildings were among the exceptions with colorful facades decorating the neighborhood. The exterior of each prep school radiated an atmosphere indicative of its study. The grammar school was bright and colorful: reds, yellows, oranges, all mixed with tie-dye patterns, cleverly insinuating the need for creativity. How else could a future journalist write such a convincingly vibrant lie for the powers that would soon pay their wages? The facades that displayed uniformed walls of reds and blues belonged to the two pre-med schools just two buildings down. Separating our field of study and theirs was the engineering school, a crisp gray-and-blue facade suggesting the need for strenuous mental focus. Along this whole street, various other schools were arranged, either connected to another building, sharing a building, or in some cases for the larger ones like business and manufacturing, standing alone.Inside they all looked the same. If the colorful exteriors helped portray a high enthusiasm for academics, the dull beige interior was enough to transform any exuberance into melancholic submission. There were two main classes each day, the first of which I was walking into and finding my seat. The subject of both classes varied from day to day, with the first class usually dedicated to general topics that would be studied regardless of the school, leaving the second class for more-specialized training. Most days I would sit down a few minutes before Krystal. She was one of the few Caucasian kids I knew. I’m pretty sure she was from the United States, and it seemed odd to me that she would end up here. While I don’t know much about American culture, I had to guess that she was annoying there, as well.Krystal, like most Americans, was a little on the heavy side. Her thick stumps for legs climbed into a milky sausage trunk before ascending into a perfectly rounded face. Taller and more developed than most girls her age, she boasted with every artificially fruit-scented pore of her body. Her hair was always done up so perfect and massive that the kids sitting behind her had to lean into the aisle to follow the instructor’s lessons.She wore more makeup in a day than my mother put on in a year. She must have had dry skin, too. This made little sense to me, since the climate here is so humid to begin with. Still, she almost always could be seen rubbing some fruity lotion onto some part of her body. Not even the expensive clothing she donned each day could compare with the one ornament she favored most. It wasn’t one that could be seen, but definitely heard. Her prized possession was her voice.Never before have I known anyone who loved to talk as much as she did. She always had an answer or question for the teacher, even if it was ridiculous. Her brimming self-confidence persuaded her to volunteer that voice of hers for any and every musical expression of talent whenever the opportunity arose. Finally, and most unfortunate for me, I was the one boy in the class she pitied enough to befriend.“Hey Iddo,” she often began. “How are you doing?”Generally, before I could respond, she went into something more self-serving, like on this particular day when she mentioned, “Oh hey, did you know that I tried out for the multi-school play this quarter? They’re doing The Wizard of Oz, that’s an American musical, and I’m hoping to get the main part of Dorothy. Of course I already know every song in the show, so it would only make sense for me to get the part.”Not being completely oblivious to American cinema, I did know, and had seen the movie version once before. If I could have responded, I would’ve mentioned that Dorothy wasn’t the part I’d like to see her play, but the character of Glinda the Good Witch. The reason for the witch was because she had a much smaller talking role but was more elegantly adorned. Krystal and her natural pomp would never do as Dorothy because Krystal was the least humble-looking person the director could cast. I should know something of this, because, due to the poverty in this part of the world, humble-looking people were abundant. I was unable to convey my opinion to Krystal, as the instructor had scratched the outline of his lesson onto the chalkboard to begin the class.The irony of comparing Krystal to a witch at the beginning of the day only compounded the experience I had during my lunch break. Like usual, I kept my head down and tried not to attract any attention. After having eaten my lonely meal, I endeavored to leave the cafeteria before Krystal finished hers and made a show of recognizing my singularity. I don’t know if her intentions were usually meant to cheer me up, or if they were more an attempt to make herself look compassionate. In either case, the times she did catch me, it was usually to my social detriment. Hiding from social interaction was depressing in its own way. But if I was going to feel like a loser, I might as well do it on my own terms. After making my way to the restroom, I locked myself in one of the stalls. I only had to urinate, but due to my self-consciousness, I wouldn’t have been able to perform in the shared trough.As I concluded my business, a group of five or six boys entered the room. From their voices, I knew them to be the sort that I shouldn’t find myself alone with. Thus far I’d managed to avoid a situation with them, but I’d heard of others who weren’t so lucky. So, pretending that my business wasn’t complete, I stood on the toilet to wait for their departure. What I witnessed with my ears and to a small degree my eyes, for the cracks in the stalls did permit a little spying, I would never forget.On the boys’ agenda was an experiment in the black arts of witchcraft. I’d often heard of this practice, and my parents warned me of neighborhoods to avoid for that reason. But this was the first time I’d experienced with my own senses the abominable practice.“I learned this from my cousin’s dentist,” Kelii bragged. Kelii, being the chief among the miscreants, went on to explain, “Yeah, he took me to this witch doc, and I brought my dad’s phone with me to record what he said. The crazy quack must have been a hundred years old, but he said this chant with his hands on my head. Then with his bare fingers, man, he just pulled out my wisdom teeth—didn’t even hurt.”“No way!” at least two of Kelii’s friends said, not disbelieving, but rather in excitement.Whether Kelii had transcribed the chant, or if it was by memorization, the boys began their ritual with Kelii acting the part of dark priest. After having all but one person link arms in a circle around a boy, Kelii placed his hands on the kid’s head and repeated the spell that would bring strength to his fingers and numbness to the patient. Having made an end to speaking, he pierced his comrade’s tongue with a cheap stud. With excited, albeit distorted, praise, the newly adorned friend exclaimed, “Thweet, dood. Di’in eben hurt a-aull!”Two others asked to have the task administered to them, one of them chickening out when his turn came. The other had his tongue pierced with a similar result. During the entire ceremony, I couldn’t help but feel what can only be described as a muddle of thought. My body felt as if it was being wrapped in a thick blanket of darkness. Not cold darkness, but hot clammy darkness. It made me shiver with claustrophobic discomfort. The Devil. It could only be the evil master of sorcery himself. In that darkness, I received my most disturbing epiphany ever.If there was a Devil, and if he truly was capable of giving such powers to those who call on his nature, shouldn’t this son of perdition have his opposite? Shouldn’t there also be a God? Usually people are brought to believe in God by feeling good or guilty. For me the seeds were planted in my mind by that enemy of light. Everything I’d ever believed, or rather disbelieved, came into question.Despite my experience, what followed later that afternoon would overshadow my morning epiphany. My questions about God would ebb over the next few days as I redirected my focus. Funny how inaction can dull the most powerful of epiphanies.But for now, my thoughts continued churning throughout the second-period class discussion. I just couldn't shake the memory of those piercings. I wasn’t quite distracted from the lecture. How I paid any attention was a miracle. Master Haimi, the teacher of second period, was discussing political events. She mainly referenced the growing crime rate. Her lecture touched on the roving bands of marauders that plagued the region.These mercenaries are like pirates of the land, pillaging and taking advantage of anyone they can plunder. Most of them, with exception of the youngest bands, are rarely punished. Even if they’re caught, the sentence is only severe enough to give the appearance of justice. With few exceptions, the judges are as much invested in the marauding as the troublemakers, receiving bribes, gifts, and services from them.Like a weapon without a cause, these remnants of the war contribute to the corrupt nature of our government. Since they are often employed by corrupt political figures, and since we journalists-in-training would likely be helping with some of their propaganda, we needed to learn how to get on with them. But they weren’t the most dangerous people we had to worry about. Usually they just rough you up and move you on your way. They don’t care about politics. As long as they get paid and have their fun, the rest of the world could be swallowed into the earth.According to Master Haimi, the real force to be reckoned with when discussing politics was the Believers. Those of us considered common pagans were the prime target for these religious enthusiasts. They wanted power. Rumor was they had it, too. At least they had it over nature. They still wanted political power, but their numbers were still too few. This also was something they were trying to correct. They wanted their celestial law to be common law. Master Haimi related how these Believers had once visited her.“You’d better read up on these fellows, or you’ll never be able to stand up to them. They come at you so meek and unassuming. But when they speak, their words stab at your bones. They leave scars that tear at you long after they leave. They aren’t friendly toward the witches, but that’s probably because the witches know all their tricks. Once you become a Believer, they have you for life. Only a few have ever escaped their spell. Those who do can never bring themselves to believe in anything, let alone God, ever again.”There it was again. God. I sat in my chair, chin resting on my desk. Master Haimi’s voice droned on while I drifted into my own foggy world, trying to make sense of it all. There was a conflict happening. The Devil had never seemed so unassuming, but now I knew he was real. God had never seemed important, but shouldn’t evil have its opposite? And if the god of the Believers was really the Devil . . .“Iddo!”I jumped in my chair, smacking my knees hard on the bottom of the desk. Laughter rippled around the classroom.“Iddo, I asked you a question. Were you not paying attention?”I pulled at my shirt. The back of my wooden chair had used my own sweat to plaster the shirt to my back. The breeze that often came through the open windows rarely cooled the un-conditioned air of the classroom. “Yes, Master Haimi, I just—”The bell rang. My breath caught for an instant. I let it out with a sigh of relief. Master Haimi was waving her arms frantically, trying to settle the class down while she finished her interrogation. We’d all been sitting still for the last two hours without stretching. She lost the battle as kids ignored her and rushed to the door. I wove in and out between the other students, my book bag slapping against everyone’s legs. Amid their annoyed protests, I was able to lose myself in the crowd before she could grab me by the ear and humiliate me even further. I had no doubt that she’d remember to pick on me first thing tomorrow, but by then I’d be in a better frame of mind to answer her.There was one thing worse than being scolded by Master Haimi. That thing was waiting for me at my locker. I debated turning around and letting the master have her run at me, but I had little doubt that fate would be so kind. This threat at my locker would wait for me. It always did.End of Chapter 1Thanks for reading. Remember to comment on anything you liked or that you think could be fixed.Click here to read Chapter 2Copyright 2017: While I encourage you to share this link with your friends and family, please keep in mind that this is copyrighted material. Under no circumstances do you have the right to re-publish any or part of this content without specific written permission from BC Crow and Blue House Publishing.