A History Lesson part 1

To the locals, the island was called Ayiti. To the Spanish, it was called Hispaniola. To the French, it was Saint Domingue. To them, it was a memory, a home they last saw while they were loaded on the boat.

Queen Obeah Alvit sat in quiet meditation. They normally took the men but as she was a spiritual leader, the French were afraid she might inspire a revolution so they sold her to the colonies in America. The boat rocked peacefully but what comfort that could’ve offered was negated by the darkness of the lower deck and the cramped quarters. Obeah continued to keep her hands together and her eyes closed as bodies jostled against her.

“Are you still pray’n, Obeah?,” a mocking voice could be heard nearby but in the shadows, it was hard to determine where it was coming from. She recognized the voice nonetheless.

“Baracoa,” she began softly, “Are you still complaining?”

“Look at us, sister,” he growled in the dark, “There is no complaining here. There is only the obvious. Your prayers to the winds and the water do nothing to save us, nor did they help us from being captured and sold.”

“And smelling of rum every night helped matters, King?,” her emphasis on the last word was intentional and not at all respectful.

“Don’t call me king,” he snarled, “I’m not a priest anymore. And you’re no priestess.”

“You are just as much of a priest as I am a priestess. Nothing has changed that. Iseda will guide us.”

“Maybe it would have if we still used magic,” he scoffed, “You banned mystic practices so the white man wouldn’t fear us in hopes that might leave us alone,” his chains rattled as he motioned to the ship’s walls, “What good did that do us?”

“Fate will decide what happens next. We just need to make sure it’s on our side.”

“Fate is magic, you can’t-,” he cut himself off and shook his head, “If I’m still meant to be a priest, then I’ll conjure our escape myself!”

Heavy footsteps were heard as a portly man rushed downstairs, holding a whip. They didn’t understand most of what he said but some of them knew his name was Hawkwood. “Little less noise, ya bastards!,” he roared as he shook the whip in his hand. Hawkwood was the most aggressive and violent of the British men on the ship to the point that even his fellow slave traders found him cruel. It took very little for him to turn to violence and it wasn’t uncommon for him to get drunk and pick fights while they were ashore. According to him, it was a family trait and he was oddly proud of the Hawkwoods’ aggressive nature. “I’ll sew ye mouths shut if I hear any more claptrap!,” Hawkwood cracked his whip in the darkness, not caring who it struck or how many people it landed on. Some of the men hunkered down as red lines emerged on their backs. Satisfied with the silence that followed, he sauntered back to the upper deck.

“I will not see another one of my brethren beaten,” Baracoa said bitterly as he watched some of the men try to rub their backs in pain, their chains preventing them from applying any amount of comfort.

“I don’t like it anymore than you do,” Obeah told him, “Do you still remember your mystic training?”

He gave her a surprised look.

“Nothing else has helped so far,” she explained, “Maybe it’s time to explore other options.”

He nodded and began to summon the natural energies he had learned as a young priest-in-training. It had been a long time since he used magic but he remembered. The men who noticed encouraged him by rhythmically slapping their hands on the deck. Queen Obeah said nothing and let it play out. The rhythmic beat continued and more joined in. It was now loud enough that Mr. Hawkwood would likely return soon, so it was understood that they had crossed a line and there could be no turning back. They welcomed their fate, whatever it may be. Baracoa focused on the chains holding him and soon, they began to glow.

Centuries later…

Alysa walked through a Chicago suburb with a single backpack over her shoulders. She looked at the slip of paper in her hand and then at the addresses of the houses before her. Once she found the right one, she stepped up to the front door and gathered the courage to knock.

Soon, a middle aged, African American man opened the door. He wore glasses and a sweater, looking every bit like the professor Alysa saw in photos.

“Hi,” she said with a nervous smile.

“Alysa,” the man responded with an equally nervous smile.

They shifted, unsure of how to greet one another until Alysa made a few nervous laughs and they both silently decided to go in for a hug. “Come in, come in,” the man motioned her inside. She was brought in to a living room and she sat down on the couch silently. “Are you hungry or anything?,” he asked.

“No, I’m good, thanks,” she said as she placed her backpack next to her.

He took note of her bag and tried his best to hide his sadness, “Is that… everything?”

“Yeah,” she patted her bag and likewise tried to hide her sadness.

He sat down, “I know I said this over email but you can stay here as long as you like.”

“Thanks, but I really just want answers. I’ll go back to Winghaven in a few days.”

“Of course, of course,” he sat back and looked around, “Are you hungry or anything?”

“No, I’m good,” she politely told him.

“Guess I already asked that, didn’t I?,” he chuckled.

“It’s fine,” she told him.

There was an awkward silence that seemingly went on for hours before he spoke again, “I know! Let’s make a rule. If a topic of conversation gets too awkward or uncomfortable, we can say ‘stop sign’ and move on to something else.”

“Okay, that’s good. That’s good.”

“So… How are you? I’m sure you’ve been better but overall…”

“I’m okay physically. The house burnt down and I got kicked outta the priesthood, so the rest… not so much.”

“I’ll give you all that you need to get you an apartment and anything else.”

“We got insurance.”

He smiled a bit, “You didn’t take anything when your mother passed, either. I guess you’re pretty independent.”

“I dunno… I also feel weird taking handouts.”

“If you ever change your mind, I’m here and I can try to give you anything you need.”

“Thanks,” Alysa was silent for a moment, “Can you tell me about my mom? Like from your point of view. I think I know the whole story but I kinda wanna hear you tell it.”

“Sure,” he rubbed his knees nervously, “So, as you probably already know, I’ve been a professor of African and Caribbean studies for a little over 20 years now. Uh, with a focus on religions. I contacted your mother while writing a book on Iseda. We got to know one another over time and she felt I had a certain… uh, intellectual drive to take part in a ritual.”

“The Heir Ritual,” Alysa clarified.

“Right. I agreed and asked if I could report the findings, which she agreed to as long as I didn’t use any names. She wanted the ritual…”

“… For an heir,” Alysa finished the sentence to help make the conversation a bit easier, “And that’s when you and mom conceived me.”

“Yes,” her father, Delroy Spangler, answered, “You know I’ve reached out to you a few times since your mother passed. I wasn’t sure if there was any resentment there.”

“Nah, I just didn’t know when the right time was. Being honest, I think I might’ve just been nervous. Dunno why.”

“Same here,” he chuckled.

“Maybe this kinda nervous laughter is someth’n I got from you.”

“I think you’re right,” he chuckled again, letting his guard down.

“But yeah, I know you weren’t the kinda guy who just leaves their kids. You and Mom had a different kinda agreement. She wanted a priestess with the right set of attributes and you wanted to write a book.”

“If it’s any consolation, I considered your mother a dear friend. And again, I’m absolutely here for you and any of your needs.”

“Yeah, I get that. I guess sometimes I wished my mom wasn’t so practical or whatever and just got married and been with someone she liked romantically.”

“We certainly didn’t have a romance, no… but it wasn’t as if I didn’t find your mother… unattractive.”

A disgusted look crossed her face and she held up a hand, “Okay,… stop sign.”

“Yeah, of course, sorry,” he shook his head in embarrassment, “I just didn’t want you to think… that we didn’t care for one another, I suppose.”

“Yeah, I know Mom just wanted a dude who knew about Iseda but wasn’t in Iseda so she could avoid any kinda drama. Meanwhile, he needed to be healthy, and smart, and kind so those attributes would transfer over in the ritual.”

“It’s not the most typical way for parents to meet, all things considered.”

“Mom wanted me to be a priestess and as long as I remember, so did I… But to be honest, I sometimes wanted to be normal… the last few days especially.”

“I don’t doubt it,” he looked out the window at nothing in particular and then back at Alysa, “In your email, you also said you needed a history lesson of some kind?”

“Yeah, with all the shit that went down with my temple kicking me out and an Iconoclast telling me I don’t know the whole story, I just wanted someone from the outside to tell me the history of Iseda.”

“For what purpose?”

“I dunno yet. I guess I’ll find out what I’m looking for when I see it.”

“Well, might as well start with my book,” he happily stood up and advanced to the book shelf behind him.

“Uh, this book ain’t the one where you talk about… y’know, …conceiving me?”

“This one’s purely on history, don’t worry,” he laughed a bit before handing her a large volume, “What do you know about how Iseda came to America?”

“It came on slave ships. There was Mama Obeah Alvit and Papa… uh…”

“Baracoa.”

“Yeah.”

“Obeah and Baracoa were from Haiti. They would’ve been called king and queen, not mama and papa.”

“Right,” she began leafing through the pages, “So where should I start?”

“The first chapter’s as good a place as any.”

Three Centuries earlier…

The slave ship jostled on the waves. A spell summoned a magnetic force that stripped them of their chains and they huddled together in the darkness, their voices never getting any louder than hushed whispers.

“Fate has given us a chance,” Obeah told Baracoa, “I’m sorry I haven’t encouraged the use of magic.”

“And I’m sorry I haven’t taken responsibility as a priest,” he admitted, “That ends now. We are all united in this cause.”

Mr. Hawkwood raced down the steps, placing himself in front of the crowd of slaves, his whip once again in his hands. “Ye daft bastards don’t yet understand what this is?” he raised his whip once more, ready to strike, but one of the men rose to his feet, grabbing both arms. While he was taken by surprise, another stood up and covered his mouth. Limbs sprang from the darkness and dragged him to the floor where a discarded chain was wrapped around his throat. He kicked and tried to scream for help but the men held him down until he stopped moving. Mr. Hawkwood was the first to go. The other traders on the boat knew of his supposed family curse: violent deaths for violent lives. This was true for him as his body was eventually dumped overboard where it was eaten by sharks.

The former slaves made their way to the top deck quietly. A few crew members were busy steering and manning the ship, too distracted by their work and the sound of crashing waves. They didn’t notice the men sneaking up on them until it was too late; they were quickly subdued and tied with ropes or chains. As they knew how to man the ship, they would be kept alive as forced-navigators.

Baracoa then instructed the men to take what rifles and pistols the crew had despite not knowing how to use them. They served a purpose. When they ventured into the sleeping quarters, the traders saw that they had weapons and immediately surrendered. They were brought below deck and chained up just as the Haitians once were.

“We should kill them,” Baracoa told Obeah.

“They’re no longer a threat,” Obeah explained, “For now, we let fate take us with the wind.”

The ship continued through rushing waves and a cool breeze, inevitably reaching the shores of an unknown land.

Continued…