Note from Beverly Jenkins:
For those of you who don’t know, I’m an avid fantasy reader. Authors like N K Jemisin, Ilona Andrews, and Jim Butcher take me on journeys filled with magic, wizards, and dragons. I’ve always wanted to try my hand at the genre so I’ve included a very short piece that may or may not grow into something more in the future. I hope you enjoy it.
CHAPTER ONE
Central Africa
1820
Aya loved being human. As a daughter of the Sun and the Moon, she had abilities to take on any form: an eagle in flight, a leopard chasing prey, a honeybee seeking nectar. But by shrouding herself in flesh, she could walk among the people of the villages, relish the warmth of her mother rays, enjoy the kiss of her father’s gentle night breezes, and savor the solid strength of Africa’s soil beneath her feet. As a human female, she’d witnessed childbirth, learned the art of cooking, planting, and the songs that mourned the dead. As a male, she’d joined the hunts, woven bolts of beautifully colored cloth, and posed as a warrior to a king. Her mother the Sun cautioned her against spending so much time as someone other than herself, but Aya, filled with youthful arrogance and hubris didn’t listen.
On the day that would change her life, she learned a local village would be naming its king’s infant son. She especially enjoyed celebrations. No matter the occasion, there were always elaborate dishes, skilled musicians, and lots of songs and dancing. As night fell, and her father Moon rose in the sky, torches were lit and the revelry began. Aya had just joined the circle of women for a dance to honor the child’s mother when a horde of men brandishing swords and guns rushed into the torch lit village. The king’s warriors took up their spears and shields to meet the foe. Chaos ensued. People ran. Women and children screamed. The intruders were slavers; a pestilence that had been scouring the continent for decades. Aya was forbidden to intervene in human affairs, but seeing the newly named baby snatched from his wailing mother, she raised her voice to chant down the whirlwind, only to be felled by a crushing blow to the back of her head.
She was lying on the ground when she regained her senses. The sun was high in the sky. Groggy, head throbbing, she started a chant to return to her true form, but pain doubled her over instead. There was iron encircling her ankles. It was the only man made substance capable of binding a Spirit and it burned like hot coals against her skin. Fear grabbed her. Looking around she saw that she was not alone.
Seated nearby were hundreds of men and women shackled by leg irons and connected to each other by lengths of heavy chain. Slavers stood over them, guns at the ready. Her fear increased. To her shock, shimmering behind the faces of some of the captives were other Spirits of wood, air, fire, and earth who’d apparently been masking as humans, too. Now, like her they were caught and powerless. There were also demon spirits, who though bound, smiled greedily from within their human facades in anticipation of feeding upon the misery and terror. Aya closed her eyes and sent up an urgent plea to her mother for help, but received only silence. She pleaded, begging for forgiveness. Again, nothing. The enormity of her plight was staggering. She had no idea where the slavers were taking them or why. Being immortal and considering herself above the petty worries of humans, it hadn’t occurred to her to enquire about the fate of the thousands of Africans taken captive before. Now, she wished she had done so. A short distance away sat scores of chained children. Their anguished cries tore at her heart and she wondered about the fate of the king’s son. But it was HER own fate that was most chilling. Until she found a way to be free of the iron, her true self would remain trapped.
She and the other captives were dragged to her feet and forced to march over land to the coast. Some died along the way. Those who balked or could not keep pace were shot.
Weeks later, when they finally arrived, they were fed into the belly of an enormous wooden ship bobbing atop the water like a waiting beast.
CHAPTER TWO
Charleston SC
1820
Ezekiel Grange walked through pens of the city’s slave market holding a scented kerchief to his nose against the gagging stench rising from the scores of unwashed African bodies. Having recently inherited a substantial amount of coin from a dead relative, he wanted to buy more slaves to supplement the few he currently owned. Grange was an ambitious man. Through marriage six years ago to the wealthy, buck-toothed spinster Rebecca Ware, he’d advanced from a poor store clerk to a low rung member of Charleston’s planter society. In comparison to the truly wealthy, his holdings were small, but his business acumen was sound, and he was convinced it was just a matter of time before his name and estates became synonymous with theirs.
To that end, he’d come to evaluate the blacks for sale. The broadsides circulated upon the arrival of this newly docked slaver claimed it offered an impressive cargo - strong hardy bucks, females ripe for breeding and a number children, which many of his class preferred because they were young enough to be malleable. Once they ceased crying for their mothers and grew older, they’d be docile and content with their lot. As adults, if they were fed and allowed to rest now and again, they’d work from sun up to sun down – much like oxen.
Due to the market’s poor lighting, determining which of the captives to place bids upon was difficult, but Grange kept up his slow stroll. Peering back at him out of the gloom were eyes of the furious, the sick, the terrified, and the mad. Having seen enough he left.
Outdoors, the sun was shining. Glad to be free of the stench and gloom, he drew in deep breaths of sweet clean air and walked over to join the other planters to wait for the auctioning to commence.
At first, Aya wondered if this was the Land of the Dead, but seeing no human ancestors, she knew that was not the answer. The ocean crossing had seemed endless. Only occasionally were the captives given precious moments above decks to take in fresh air. Some took advantage of the moments to dive into the sea. As they swam east, many received bullets in their backs but others were left alive so sport could be made while they were eaten by sharks swimming in the ship’s wake. Through it all, she continued to plead to her mother for deliverance.
For the moment, she was in a pen filled with women. She didn’t know the true numbers of Africans with her but she assumed there were many because the stagnant air was a fetid mixture of sweat, fear, and excrement. Off in the distance the darkness echoed with shrieks of broken minds, wails of the terrified, and low-toned ancestral songs of the dead.
A guard pulled her and a few other women away from the main group and led them away. They were still hobbled so walking was difficult. The line was stopped and they were unceremoniously doused with buckets of cold water which left them gasping and shivering. Afterwards, they were handed thin sack-like shifts to cover their nakedness. To aid the process, their ankle restraints were removed, but her hope that she’d be free of the burning iron long enough to regain her strength were dashed when new shackles were placed on her wrists. She wanted to scream her frustration. Instead she gathered herself and waited for what would follow in this nightmare she’d brought on herself. As the guard roughly prodded them forward, she vowed that when did she escape, she’d never walk the earth as human again.
Grange watched the line of women emerge from the back of the building and saw them instantly draw away from the noon sun as if it brought pain. He assumed it had been some time since they’d stood in full light, but he wasn’t concerned with their discomfort. He was in the market for a breeder, maybe two and if he could use one of them to slake his own needs, so much the better. He’d yet to bed an African but he’d heard they were quite insatiable and his groin tightened with anticipation.
The women were now positioned next to the bucks and a small group of children. He shook his head at the haughtiness some of the men and women displayed. It was always a pleasure to watch his overseer break that spirit and show them their rightful place. He focused attention one of the females. She looked particularly angry, and if eyes could kill, not a one of the men who’d come to bid would be alive. He found her tall lean frame to be of interest though.
One by one the Africans were examined. To judge their health, the pen’s owner forced their mouths open so Ezekiel and the others could get a good look at their teeth. The Africans strained against their shackles, but the planters ignored it. No one wanted to shell out good coin for a slave already sick from the passage.
The men’s genitals were exposed and manipulated to answer questions about each buck’s ability to produce seed. The women’s shifts were raised to show if their hips were wide enough to bear the number of children necessary to ensure a planter’s future. To Ezekiel’s trained eyes, the tall lean woman he’d found interesting earlier appeared to be young. With the right mating, she’d likely produce seven, eight – maybe more. He approached her to physically gauge the size and heft of her breasts. At his handling, she didn’t flinch or cower. Instead she stared back with the arrogance of a queen. Smiling faintly, he turned away and placed his bid on her.
Minutes later, she and three others – a man, a woman and a girl child were put in the back of his wagon. He climbed onto the seat and signaled his African headman Jeremiah, to guide the team of horses home.
CHAPTER THREE
As the wagon bumped along the uneven tract Aya’s fury consumed her. Had she been sold? After being handled like a beast and witnessing all that had transpired back at the pens, the answer could only be yes. Did they not know who she was? Did they not know that the only thing between them and death were the shackles around her ankles and wrists? It was obvious they didn’t, and being in no position to illuminate them only increased her rage and underlying misery. Why hadn’t her mother answered? Were the irons smothering her appeals? She had no answers. She took a moment to assess the other captives riding with her. The man’s eyes blazed with an anger that mirrored her own, the woman too. Tears spilled down the cheeks of the little girl and the woman took her upon her lap and held her close.
Aya was curious about the African holding the reins. Had he been purchased as well? She wanted to ask him how long he’d been in the land, but held onto her questions until she could speak to him alone. The slaver beside him must’ve sensed her interest because he turned and looked directly at her. She met his knowing smile distantly and focused her attention on the countryside. She already knew what he had in mind, which meant he’d be the first to die.
After some time, the wagon finally came to a halt in front of a large house made of stone and wood. Around it were open fields bordered by trees. In the fields, a group of Africans stopped their digging to watch Aya and the others disembark.
“This is your new home,” the African driver said to them in the common language the African tribes shared. “My name is Jeremiah. The white man is Marse Granger. He now owns you.”
Aya assessed the white man who now had a name.
“You will work for him until death. If you run away, you’ll be found and whipped.”
Granger addressed them in words she didn’t understand so she paid him no mind and kept her attention focused on Jeremiah who translated, “Marse Granger says if you work hard, you’ll be treated fairly.”
A man with a gun walked up to join them. He was pale, short and stout. There was a black whip hanging from the belt at his waist and his blue eyes were cold as a demon’s. The driver Jeremiah introduced him as Sales. “He’s the overseer. He makes sure you put in a good day’s work and will punish you if you don’t.”
Sales said something to Jeremiah. Again, he translated, “He expects to you to be able to understand his words as soon as possible. Doing so will make it easier to know what you’re supposed to do in the fields. You’ll also be given new names.”
And at that moment, the one she knew as Granger pointed her way and said the word, “Sarah.” She supposed it was what she was to be called. She saw no harm in answering to it. For now. Eventually, she’d reclaim the name given to her by her mother at her creation. The man Granger gave her a final long look then turned and walked towards the wood and stone house.
Sales then removed their irons. Aya sighed with relief. The burning ceased and a low hum of power entered her body through the land beneath her bare feet. It was very weak however, lacking the the vitality and sacredness that flowed with such force back home. It felt as if its innate power had been fouled somehow. She glanced up and found the driver watching her intently - he knows, came the thought. Careful not to stare, she studied him closely while he gave further instructions on what was expected. There was a faint glimmer around his form, as if he were Spirit born too, but the sparks were dim as dying coals.
She and the others were taken by Jeremiah and Sales to a place the called the “quarters,” where they would sleep during the hours they weren’t toiling. The walls and roof were made of old wood slats, and there was a thin pallet filled with husks to sleep on. She and the woman who’d accompanied her from the pens, now named Ollie, were to share the space.
They were instructed to rest up for the remainder of the day. It was late afternoon, and work would begin at sunrise. The moment the men left, Ollie laid down and cried softly until she drifted off to sleep. Aya didn’t need sleep, nor did she need to eat. All she needed was enough power to take on her true form so she could kill the slavers and return home.
CHAPTER FOUR
As dusk arrived, Ollie awakened and left Aya to find food. Moments later, Jeremiah entered. He studied Aya silently for a moment. “Greetings, Spirit.”
She inclined her head. “Greetings to you. How long have you been in this place?”
“Ten years.”
She sighed with the sadness of that. “Are you content?”
He shook his head. “I was born of the Fire, but his land lacks what I need to break the cage over my true form.”
“How were you taken?”
He offered a bittersweet smile. “I was making love to the wife of a king. He discovered us and before I could escape, he pierced my side with an iron spear. The pain left me so weakened, his men had no trouble binding me with chain. I was sold to the slavers the next day. And you?”
She told him her story.
“Sad. Sadder still is there’s no way home. The longer you walk this land the weaker you become, until finally you begin aging just as humans do. There’s nothing for us to look forward to but death.”
The revelation was appalling. There was no such thing as death to an Immortal, yet he was telling her that would be her fate. “I will find a way home.”
“At first, I believed that, but now I’m resigned.”
“Are there many of us here?”
“No, but we’re all destined to spend the rest of their days under the boot and lash of the slavers.”
“Do they know of us?”
“No. They consider us dumb beasts, incapable of performing the wonders we once had at our fingertips. Even if they were told, they wouldn’t believe. Their knowledge of our world is as limited as their minds.”
“Tell me about this place and these people.”
She listened to his tales of being forced to work like beasts in the fields, of little food and even less care. Of how those who tried to escape were hunted down by men with dogs, returned, tied to the whipping tree, and whipped until the blood ran down their backs like rivers. Repeat offenders were branded with hot irons, and in extreme cases had feet or legs severed to make them stay enslaved.
Suddenly, Granger was standing in the doorway. He began speaking. Aya didn’t understand his words but by the suspiciousness in his eyes, she thought he might be asking Jeremiah his purpose for being there.
Jeremiah replied calmly.
Granger looked between the two of them as if trying to determine the truth in Jeremiah’s words. He seemed satisfied but barked two words.
Jeremiah nodded and left them.
Granger then turned his attention her way. Aya didn’t possess the full breadth of power she was accustomed to wielding. This fouled land had so far only supplied her with a small amount, but should he attempt what she saw in his eyes, she’d only need a small amount to make him wish he’d left her at the pens.
Ezekiel smiled at the woman he’d named Sarah. He’d spent all afternoon thinking about the acts he wanted her to perform on him, and now, just the sight of her tall lean frame added to the hard need in his loins. He remembered how hot the skin of her breasts had been in his hands, and he wanted to know if the rest of her held the same heat. “You and I are going to get along very well.”
He knew she didn’t understand his words, but it didn’t matter, she’d understand plenty when he got between her thighs. To that end, he closed the distance between them. He grabbed the neck of her shift and suddenly found himself up by the ceiling of the room! Terrified, eyes wide, he flailed and kicked, but was held there as if by the invisible hand of God. He stared down. She wore a small smile but there was a dark storm roiling in her eyes.
“Stop this!” he demanded.
Instead, she began a sing song chant that raised the hairs on the back of his neck.
“I’ll have you whipped to death, you African bitch!”
He was slammed to the earthen floor so forcefully, he cried out in pain, only to be raised high again. Blood poured from his nose. Her smile turned deadly. He hit the ground again with even more force. He screamed and was above her once more. Her dark eyes taunted him. He begged, “Please!”
But there was no mercy. She repeated the witchery. This time, his ribs and pelvis exploded from the impact. And as he lay there moaning, unable to move, the last thing he remembered before sliding into unconsciousness was her stepping over him as she walked out into the night.
CHAPTER FIVE
Based on what Jeremiah told her of the slavers punishments, Aya was certain she’d be facing death should she be found and returned, but that fate was preferable to a life of servitude and physically servicing Granger. She’d taken such pleasure in introducing him to who and what she was. She’d been careful not to kill him because she wanted him to suffer and for that suffering to linger; hopefully for the rest of his days. He and his kind were plagues on her homeland, and now, she’d taken a modicum of revenge for all the grief and misery they’d caused. But she was no closer to going home. Her appeals to her mother hadn’t borne fruit, so the time had come to appeal to her father. She was seated in a small clearing a few miles away from Granger’s quarters. Father Moon was high in the sky and she was bathed in the rays of his cool light. She sent up a prayer filled with her despair and longing. She also pleaded for forgiveness, then settled in to wait.
A few moments later, to her surprise and delight, he shimmered into view, cloaked in the form of an African king. She bowed her head. “Father. Thank you coming.”
He sat beside her and drew her to his side, then kissed her brow. “I cannot stay long because other gods rule here, but take this.” He handed her a small root. “It’s a gift from your Mother. You’ve been away too long to return to who you were, so you must swallow it. In three days, it will help you transform.”
She studied the small brown thing and looked up to question him about it but found herself alone. “Father!”
On the wind, she heard him whisper. “Three days, daughter. Hide yourself away, then return to the slavers. You will need their help.”
Return to the slavers? What kind of help could Granger possibly offer? The words made her wary, but had she listened to her mother’s advice she wouldn’t be enslaved, so she swallowed her misgivings along with the root and tried not to worry.
With the aid of her limited powers she kept herself hidden from the roving groups of men and dogs hunting her by turning herself into small things like tiny birds, fish and honeybees. She couldn’t hold the forms for very long but it was enough. Since swallowing the root the area surrounding her spine itched constantly, and her skin felt as if it were drying out and shrinking. Her fingers and toes were becoming misshapen, the nails turning black. What is happening to me? Once again, she had questions for which there were no answers, so on the third day, she came out of hiding and walked back to Granger’s land.
The first thing Sales the overseer did upon her return was to hit her so hard in the face with his closed fist she fell to the ground. Kicks followed, breaking ribs and filling her with a pain so raw she cried out. Pain was new to her, and now that she’d had her first taste she didn’t want more, but knew this was only the beginning. He dragged her to her feet, then across the field to a large tree, all the while screaming at her with such ferocity, his spittle sprayed her face. He forced her arms around the tree and tied her to it using a length of stout hemp around her wrists. Blessedly It wasn’t iron but it didn’t matter, she had neither power nor strength. The surface of the trunk against her face had no bark and was smooth as glass. It was stained with a red that could only be blood. A whipping tree. How many other captives would’ve had to stand in this place for their blood to become so embedded. Her knees weakened at the reality of the answer. And where was the transformation her father promised?
But there was no time for further questions. Granger arrived, carried on a litter by Jeremiah and three male slaves. She gloried in the sight of him bandaged from head to feet. The other captives stood gathered a few feet away. She sensed by their sad stoic faces that they weren’t there by choice. She was being used as both an example and a warning.
The itch in her back seemed to have caught fire and her spine felt as it were roiling and moving in and out as if taking breaths. Sales grabbed her attention when he moved close and showed her the whip. He growled something and using his hands split the shift covering her back in two. He gasped in shock. Aya cautiously turned her head and saw her spine had developed an enormous hump. To her further surprise the flesh over it was moving as if harboring something alive. Sales eyes grew wide. She saw him hastily glance Granger’s way. She again wondered about the nature of the root she’d been given until the lash of the whip flayed her back like a bolt of lightning and it took all she had to keep her screams inside. Again, and again the terrible whip scored her. Closing her eyes, she prayed to every Immortal she knew, but the whip kept falling until her knees sagged and the blood ran down to her hips. Someone was screaming and she realized it was she. In the dizzying haze of the pain she thought she’d gone mad upon hearing a voice in her head, say, “Hold on, little one. It’s almost time.”
“Mother?” her mind whispered back.
“No. I am more.”
The crack of the whip became unceasing as did the agony. Sales seemed intent upon whipping her to death and she, who’d long since lost all sense of time and place prayed it would come soon. Then a row of raised scales sharp as African diamonds exploded from her spine. Her body began expanding and the rope on her wrists snapped as her arms elongated, talons the color of obsidian replaced the nails on her hands and feet, and her skin began changing from brown to scales of faceted greens, indigo and blacks. Those gathered around the tree fled in terror, while the voice in her head exhaled a sigh filled with pleasure and relief. “Finally. Finally.”
Aya realized that somehow her height now surpassed the tops of the trees. With wondrous emerald eyes, she took stock of herself. Her arms now unfurled into wings and her legs were muscled and strong. She had no idea what her face looked like but she used her large claws to gauge it. She had a snout and a mouth filled with long, razor sharp teeth. “What am I?”
The female voice replied, “Humans name you, Dragon.”
Aya’s head swam giddily.
“And now that I have given you my form, I must leave. I’ve been waiting in my root for the final sleep a very long time.”
Aya sensed the dragon’s presence drawing away. “Wait. Please don’t go, I have so many questions.”
“All answers can be found in the land behind the veil of Africa’s snow topped mountain, so use your wings.”
“I can fly home!”
“Of course. But first, burn the male Fire spirit below you so he can be free, too. Then, if you choose lay waste to this terrible place. Good bye, little one.”
And she was gone. Aya spent a few moments assessing and appreciating the beauty of her new form, and the unlimited power she sensed it held. Thank you, Mother. She turned her attention to Jeremiah standing below her beside the dropped litter. He was the only person who hadn’t fled, unless one counted Granger who was doing his best to crawl away on his useless legs.
“Jeremiah!” Her deep voice shook the ground.
He smiled up. “You’re very beautiful.”
She lowered her head to see his face clearly. “Thank you. I can free you, but I have to burn the body you’re in.”
“Please.”
She had no idea how to do what was needed, but when she opened her mouth a gentle stream of flame cascaded over him as if she’d been wielding it her entire life. Out of the blackened flesh he rose in dazzling, jewel toned flames of his own and disappeared. She wished him well.
Turning her eyes to Granger who now lay shaking with fear, she voiced, “I will let you live if you pledge not to purchase more Africans.”
“To hell with you!” was his answer.
Her reply transformed him into a smoldering pile of ash.
From there, she took the dragon mother’s advice and laid fiery waste to his land. The only thing she left untouched was the whipping tree out of respect to all those who’d shed their blood there. Granger’s captives had fled and she hoped they’d find sanctuary. Surely there were people somewhere in this awful place who believed buying another human being was wrong.
She took flight, and the beauty of her newfound freedom brought tears to her emerald eyes. She couldn’t wait to see home. She did a few practice glides and headed east. Far below, she spotted the overseer Sales on the seat of a fast-moving wagon. When he looked up and saw her he whipped the horses to get more speed. It didn’t matter. She left him as ash, too, and flew on.
As a way of saying goodbye, she banked low over the town that held the pens and enjoyed the sight of the people below running like ants. The pens held captives, so she spared them but not the nearby buildings or the empty slave ships tied up at the dock in the harbor. Those she burned gladly. She then flew east over the ocean for the answers awaiting her back home in the land behind the veil of Africa’s snow topped mountain.
THE END