They had spent long hours debating what they would name their children, where they would send them to school, and what sports and activities they would be involved with. Alan would be the ideal dad, planning family outings on the weekends, and taking part in all evening activities. Ssabra would be the world’s greatest mom, packing lunches for the children before they left for school, doctoring cuts and scrapes, listening to stories of their adventures over home-cooked meals, and helping them with their homework in the evening.
Everything would have been perfect, but fate had pointed a cruel finger at them one gray November afternoon on a rural Iowa road. Ssabra had told Alan it was much too cold to go riding in his Fiat Spider convertible, especially with the top down, but he wanted one final spin before storing the little sports car for the winter.
About five miles out of town, they came upon a wooded lane where shadows lay heavy upon the road. Alan never saw the patch of black ice, and didn’t realize they were in trouble until the car started to slide. He immediately lifted his foot off the accelerator, but was too late. The little car missed the curve and went airborne over a drainage ditch.
On the other side of the ditch was a fence of wooden posts and barbed wire. The car hit the fence at an angle, sheering off two of the posts.
There was a high-pitched twang as the strands of barbed wire snapped like guitar strings. One of those strands whipped back as it broke, catching Alan around the throat and cutting his flesh to the bone. He died within minutes, drowning in his own blood.
Ssabra shook her head and blinked her eyes, pushing back the memories before the tears came. She looked around the plaza, noticing that the Hispanic couple were no longer sitting on the bench across from her. They had gathered their three children, and were now making their way across the street to the church. She watched them until they vanished from sight, then turned to see who else was walking through the area.
She remained sitting on the bench for another hour, then decided to grab a bite of food before heading back to work. She didn’t want much, so she purchased a club sandwich from a little coffee shop on St. George Street. It was still early in the evening, but a couple of street musicians had already taken up position on the narrow avenue, risking a run-in with the local authorities and the possibility of being arrested.
Giving a couple of dollars to each of the musicians, she took her sandwich back to the plaza to eat it. Unfortunately, someone had already claimed the bench she had been sitting on, so she was forced to eat her dinner seated on the ground next to one of the old cannons.
Finishing her meal, Ssabra slowly strolled back to the office to get ready for her ghost tour. She was giving a tour of the south side of the city that night, which was usually a little less hectic than those given on the north side. It was also a lot less crowded.
Arriving at the office, she went into the bathroom to slip into her costume. Once dressed, she put a new candle in her lantern, checked to make sure she had a lighter with her, and then headed out the front door to meet her group.
The south side tour started at nine p.m., with the participants gathering together in front of the Lightner Museum. Since she had time to kill, Ssabra chatted with some of the tour members while she waited for everyone to arrive. She never knew who would end up in her group. Once she had half a dozen horror writers in her party, who were in town for a book signing at the local Barnes & Noble.
By nine o’clock all but two of the twenty-five people in her group had shown up. She stalled for a couple more minutes, then decided to get the show on the road. The missing two people had either changed their minds about taking the tour, or they were hopelessly lost. If they did show up at the office after the tour had started, one of the employees would help them catch up with the group.
Ssabra lead her group away from the museum, traveling down unlit cobblestone streets that were just perfect for the telling of ghost stories. Slipping into her role of spooky storyteller, she described the various hauntings that were starting to make St. Augustine famous. She talked about the bed and breakfasts where guests checked in, but they never checked out. She pointed out the lighthouse across the bay, informing her audience that the ghost of the old keeper still climbed the spiral staircase each and every night. And she told the group about an unsolved murder that had taken place in the city several years earlier.
The tour concluded on St. George Street, with Ssabra making a point of ending in front of a fudge and candy shop. There was nothing like a slice of homemade fudge to top off the evening. Many of the people in her group agreed, hurrying inside the store to purchase a late-night treat.
The tour guide was just saying her good-byes, when a couple of the members in the group asked if she would take them to the cemeteries on the north side of the town. Apparently, they had read the morning paper, and knew about the human remains that had been found. Ssabra hadn’t read the paper that morning, and was surprised to learn more remains had been found behind the Old Drugstore.
She wondered if the remains found in the cemetery, and those found behind the Old Drugstore, were from the same victim. Ssabra was also concerned about how safe it would be to take someone to the Tolomato, but the police were probably keeping a close watch on the area. The eight o’clock tour groups had already been to the old cemeteries, and there had been no reports of danger.
Even though she was fairly sure the area was safe, Ssabra tried to beg off from doing additional duty as a tour guide. It had been one hell of a day, and all she wanted was to go home. But one of the men offered to pay an extra forty dollars for her time. He even promised a generous tip.
As tired as she was, she should have turned the offer down. But forty dollars plus tip was good money for a presentation that would probably only take fifteen minutes. Besides, both the Tolomato and the Huguenot cemeteries were only a short walk from the north end of St. George Street. She could pay the graveyards a quick visit and then be done for the night, with a little extra money in her pocket.
Ssabra realized she had made a mistake when they arrived at the Tolomato Cemetery, because everything Chief Tolomato had said to her came back in a flash, causing goosebumps to break out along her arms. She had been trying all day not to think about the dead Indian chief, or the Shiru. But now, as she stopped in front of the cemetery, she couldn’t help but wonder what kind of evil creature might be lurking in the darkness.
Swallowing hard to keep her voice from trembling, she turned to the others and told the ghost stories connected with the ancient burial ground. She only told two stories, and she talked faster than she normally did, wanting to be done with her tales and away from the spooky graveyard.
Finishing up at the Tolomato, she lead her handful of thrill seekers to the Huguenot Cemetery. The Huguenot wasn’t as dark as the other cemetery, and she didn’t feel isolated and alone when standing in front of its gates. No matter where she stood at the Huguenot, she could still see traffic moving along San Marco Avenue, giving her the feeling that others were just a scream away.
Telling her final story for the night, she gratefully accepted the money placed into her hands. She even told the remaining tour members about the local bars in the area, pointing out which served the best and the cheapest drinks. The tour members were delighted with the information, scurrying off to continue their night of fun.
“Whew. Finally. Now I can go home.” Ssabra stuffed the money into the pocket of her dress. She thought about crossing the street to the Irish pub, maybe having a beer or two before heading home, but decided against it. She was tired, and a couple of beers might put her to sleep. Better to do her drinking back at the apartment.
She had just turned her back on the Huguenot Cemetery, when she heard laughter coming from above her.
Startled, she spun around, shocked to see a man sitting on the lowest branch of an oak tree. He was of average height, with a slightly muscular build. The front of his head was shaved bald; while the hair on the back of his head was long and tied into a br
aid, adorned with a wild turkey feather. Several earrings hung from each of his ears, and a strand of beads circled his neck. He was dressed in a long white shirt, and matching pants, with shoes and socks almost the same color.
The man was sitting in the oak tree, holding what looked to be a long-stemmed clay pipe. He was looking down at Ssabra with a smile, apparently amused that he had surprised her. He was there, and yet he wasn’t, because some of his features were not clearly defined. She could see him, but she could also see right through him.
The sight of the semitransparent man startled Ssabra, causing her to stumble back and trip, landing on her butt with a dull thud. The lantern she held hit the ground harder than she did, one of the panes of glass breaking in two.
“Ow.” She picked up her lantern and examined the damage. “Look what you made me do. I’ll have to pay for this, and these things are not cheap.”
She looked back up to the oak tree, but the man was no longer sitting on the branch. Instead, he now sat on the stone wall a few feet in front of her. He was still smiling at her, and she suddenly realized who he was.
“Shit!” Ssabra quickly got back to her feet, forgetting all about the broken lantern. “You’re Tolomato. You really do exist. You’re not a brain tumor. I can see you.”
“Of course you can see me,” he answered, his grin growing even wider.
“But this can’t be possible. It can’t be real.” She shook her head.
“Why not?”
“Because you’re dead.”
“Dead and buried for many years.” He placed his hands on his chest. “I look pretty good for a dead man.”
“No. No. No. This can’t be happening.” Ssabra looked around to see if anyone was watching, but there was no one else in the area. Even the last members of her tour group were long gone, on their way in search of alcoholic beverages to kill their thirsts. She also needed a drink. A really strong drink.
She turned her attention back to the stone wall surrounding the Huguenot Cemetery. Tolomato still sat upon the wall, smiling at her. She started to argue the possibility of his existence, but she really didn’t see much point in it. Either she had just suffered a massive brain aneurysm, and was laying in a coma in some hospital, or she really was having a one-on-one conversation with the ghost of a dead Indian chief. Since the thought of a brain aneurysm depressed the hell out of her, she decided to go along with the ghost theory.
“Okay then, answer me this: if you’re a dead Indian chief, and you died over two hundred years ago, then how come you’re speaking perfect English? How about that?” Ssabra smiled, thinking she had come up with a very good question. A dead Indian from some long vanished tribe should not have been speaking her language. He should have been speaking a tribal dialect, maybe with a few words of Spanish scattered in. But Tolomato spoke English with very little accent. She could understand everything he said.
His smile did not falter. “Are you sure I am speaking English?”
Ssabra nodded. “I hear you. You’re speaking perfect English.”
“And how are you hearing my voice?”
“What do you mean? I don’t understand.”
“Are you hearing the sound of my voice with your ears, or are you hearing it inside your head, as you heard it earlier?”
She had to stop and think about it a moment. “You’re right. I’m still hearing your voice inside my head.”
The Indian nodded. “Then you are not hearing my voice. You are hearing my thoughts. Thoughts have no language.”
“But I see your lips moving,” she argued.
“My lips are moving because it is easier for me to speak and think at the same time. This is the first time I have tried to speak with the living since I crossed over, so it is very difficult for me.”
“The first time?”
Tolomato nodded. “You are the first.”
“But why couldn’t I see you before?”
“You were not able to see me, because the veil was still over your eyes.”
“Veil?”
He nodded. “The living cannot see the dead, unless they are made to see. Or unless they learn how to see through years of spiritual training, meditation, and fasting. We do not have years to wait, so I have used my energy, and all of my power, to touch your spirit and open your eyes. I have removed the veil that blinded you, allowing you to see things as they truly are.”
“I’m not sure I understand. You mean I can see spirits?” Ssabra turned around, looking up and down the street. “Where? I don’t see any other spirits. Only you.”
Tolomato shook his head. “Stupid woman. You do not see any spirits, because there are none to be seen. You think a parade is going to be held just for your amusement? Even with the veil lifted, most spirits cannot be seen unless they want to be seen.”
“How long will I have this gift of sight?”
“Forever. Once the veil is removed it cannot be placed back. Your spirit now knows how to see other spirits, and it would not be happy being blind again.”
A nervous sensation danced across her stomach. She was almost afraid to look around, fearful of what she might see. “But what if I don’t want to see such things?”
Tolomato’s smile failed. “You no longer have a choice. The veil has been removed, and things cannot be put back the way they were. I am sorry, but I need your help. You will now see the world with new eyes, your gift growing stronger with each passing day. Soon the spirit world will be as real as the world you already know.”
Ssabra was silent, not knowing what to say. A very special gift had just been given to her. She had also been handed a huge responsibility, and the weight of it was heavy on her heart. She didn’t know if she was ready to have the veil lifted from her eyes, but the choice was no longer hers to make.
“Did you do as I told you to do?” Tolomato asked, changing the subject. “Did you go to see those in charge?”
She quickly told him about her experience at the police station that morning. The Indian was greatly disappointed to learn that Detective Colvin had not believed her story.
“Maybe you can talk with the police yourself,” she suggested. “Surely they will believe you.”
The chief shook his head. “Because of your heritage you are more open to the visits of spirits than others. A white person would hear my voice and blame it on bad food.”
She laughed. “Yes, but you picked an Indian that doesn’t know much about her ancestry.”
“True. But I did not know that when I picked you,” the ghost replied. “Maybe there is someone still who can help us. Have you any money?”
“Some.” Ssabra nodded.
“Enough to stay in one of the city’s smaller inns?’”
“I’m not sure. Maybe. If not, I have plastic.”
“Plastic?”
“Never mind. It’s a long story,” She didn’t want to explain credit cards and the new American banking system. “I have enough money.”
“Good.” Tolomato’s image faded, but his voice was still heard. “Then let us go. I think I know someone who can help.”
Chapter 20
The voice of the dead chief was still with Ssabra as she slowly walked back to her car, even though his image had disappeared back at the Huguenot. It was a pity the voice didn’t also disappear for a while, for it seemed Tolomato never grew tired of talking. Maybe it had something to do with his being dead for so long, perhaps he didn’t have anyone to talk with on the other side. Whatever the reason, the Indian kept up a continuous dialogue as she walked along St. George Street, making comments on this and that, and poking fun at things he found amusing.
Of course, Ssabra could not reply to any of his comments, for then it would look like she was talking to herself. She didn’t want to be labeled as a crazy woman so she remained quiet, not even giving a reply when he directed a few of his comments at her.
“This place has changed a lot since I was alive,” Tolomato said, continuing his one-sided dialogue. “When I
was here most of the buildings were made out of wood, with roofs of palmetto fronds. There were a few buildings made from shell stone, but that was not until after the fort was built.
“There were a lot of soldiers back then too. Not too many today. That is good. My people didn’t like the Spanish soldiers. They were afraid of their guns, and their dogs. The Spanish soldiers were quite mean to the native people of this land; sometimes they fed our women and children to the dogs.”
Ssabra stopped walking. She looked around to make sure no one was watching, then whispered, “The Spanish soldiers fed Indian women and children to their dogs? That can’t be true. Can it? This town embraces its Spanish heritage. Surely the soldiers couldn’t have been that bad.”
Tolomato’s voice grew harsh. “This city embraces its Spanish heritage because it has forgotten how cruel the Spanish soldiers really were. They did not come to this land to explore it, they came to conquer and destroy. They claimed this land as their own, even though thousands of people were already living here. Those you know as brave explorers are known to my people as butchers.
“De Soto, Pánfilo de Narváez, even Ponce de León. Their names struck fear in the hearts of the native people living in this land, because they brought with them death and destruction. They destroyed our villages, stole our land, murdered our women and children, and enslaved our men. They did all of this in the name of their king, and in search of the precious yellow metal.”
“Gold?”
“Yes, gold. A useless metal. They thought this land was littered with the yellow metal, but what was truly valuable was the land itself. Look at it now. What was once forest is now covered with stone and buildings.”
Ssabra looked around, seeing the city of St. Augustine in a different light. What she had always thought of as Europe’s first foothold into an untamed new world, might actually have been the first nail driven into the coffin for the native people who already lived in America.
She had always considered the early Spanish explorers to be brave and noble men, spreading culture and civilization throughout the world. She had never looked upon their arrival in Florida as anything else. Living in St. Augustine, it was easy to get swept up in the love affair the locals had for the old Spanish settlement.
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