by Hawke, Jessa
“You were to be a monk... No?”
Peter could barely speak for the blood pouring from his nose. “I was going to live my life as a monk in hope of cleansing my soul after killing you.”
“But this... it never had to come to this.”
“Kill me, as I no longer wish to live.”
Feeling faint, William could not muster the strength to pick up his broadsword. He instead unsheathed his dagger. As he went to slit Peter’s throat, his hand was met by Beatrice’s.
“No, let him live.”
“Why should I? He will not allow us to live in peace.”
Beatrice did not relinquish her grip. “Knowing that we’re happy while he is shackled in the dungeon will serve him better than the tortures of Hell.”
“You’re wicked, Beatrice.”
“No. I’m just a simple weaver.”
THE END
Her Untamed Cowboys
All of time and space exist somewhere, but her world is narrowed down to one pinprick of space on the skin of the universe. There is nobody in any place in all the world that can hear her, nobody from her past or her future. In fact, there is nobody to hear the stifled screams of her inner horror but her own mind. Her mouth is pressed into the bed, the springs around her squeaking with his exertions. Her arms, well-muscled and dark, but still too weak to fight him off, are bound behind her back, and the inner sanctum between her thighs is being invaded. She tries to clench her muscles, to block him off, but he is ramming into her like a weapon of yesteryear. This is what his ancestors did before they plundered and pillaged whole villages—they took great armies of men, great, angry men, who used the strength of their bodies to lift huge battering rams and take down the fortresses of cities. White men, blood made thick in their veins by years of inbreeding, the same kind of inbreeding that they forced upon the thousands they enslaved, treating them no better than mating animals.
They bred them, putting the cloth of ignorance over their eyes until those that they subjugated to their rule become one unwashed mass of creatures. Children with their parents, mothers with their sons, brothers with their sisters. In a litter of rats, humans are shocked to find this kind of incest, but this time, the time that is now, is the time in which humans do it to other humans, whites doing it to the black they own. If you are less than human, then all of this is easier to impose, easier to imagine, the kind of perverse experiment that will be repeated over and over again throughout the course of history until at last, the world can stand it no more.
She can stand it no more. Master has spread her buttocks and is ripping her. It hurts, it hurts when he thrusts into her dry soil, racking the inner walls of her with pain. He grunts above her, allowing himself the sounds that he has robbed her off, and she can feel his saggy white paunch on her back, dripping sweat onto her, shaking it off his face, wiping it off with a hand and smearing it against her shoulder blades as if she is nothing more than a towel, a thing for his use. It is not the first time, and it is not the last. Her mind, which has created a version of herself to watch from the outside, talks to her.
Perhaps he will be finished quickly this time.
She knows better. She knows that although his time is limited, that his wife may come upon them at any second, this is common practice amongst all of his buddies. Nobody care about her, and she has gone numb, anyway. Her man, Jim, will know about it, of course, because Master will swagger about her while she is in the house, strutting like a peacock, claiming his territory as if she was a post he had peed on.
Isn’t that what he’s doing now?
She shuts her eyes as his thrusts intensify, and tries to imagine the song they sing when the end of the work day is done, the only time she feels relief. It is hard, because the bed pumps with Master’s pumps, but she almost manages to lull herself away from reality when he lets out a loud groan and spills his seed inside of her.
Better hope he doesn’t get you big, girl.
She closes her eyes and feels her lashes wet against her cheek.
Better hope, indeed.
* * *
Selema’s body is the last thing on her mind, but she cannot help but notice the stares. Damn men. Always looking to see if they may touch. Well, they can’t.
This town is quiet, much too quiet after growing up in a busy city like Chicago. You can literally see the dust settle on the air as the mail carrier’s horses pull up the mail wagon to the post office. It’s a town that must seem rough to others, but to Selema, it is nothing compared to the urban jungle; maybe, however, she just doesn’t know its intricacies yet and shouldn’t be so quick to judge. Maybe those stares at her breasts, hips, and face aren’t nearly as intimate as she thinks they are; they could very well be glances of a darker nature. After all, it was not so long ago at all, two and a half decades at most, that slavery was abolished. From the glances she now recognizes as hostile, Selema thinks that perhaps word has not caught up with the fine folk of the west just yet.
That’s just fine. She’s not there to make friends, anyway.
The horses nose at the ground and stomp their hoofs lightly. She pats them gently on the neck before stepping into the post office. The withered gentleman behind the counter is sorting through mail by hand and looks none too friendly as he spots her. It’s unusual for a woman to be strutting about town alone, she figures, but even more unusual for a woman of color to be doing so. Never mind that her green gown, bustled in the back in the latest fashion is of a higher quality than most of the women’s in town—maybe that’s even what’s contributing to the intenseness of the stares—never mind the fact that it offsets her green eyes. She carries the mark of double indemnity on her person like a stamp made from permanent ink, the kind of ink that never washes off.
Selema’s searching for the root of being yaller, not trying to hide it. But it looks like being this color here won’t earn her any favors, judging from the post master’s expression. Well, she’s not one to be daunted by an old white man, Selema decides, and steps up to the counter, settling her satin bag on it and resting her gloves on top.
“I’m looking for Misters Lee and Roberts, if you please.”
The postmaster looks her up and down. “I don’t please, ma’am.”
She regards him coolly, knowing the full measure of her glance. “I’m gonna be here a right long time, mister,” she says, her voice soft and dangerous. “And I reckon’ it’s better to be friendly than enemies.”
The postmaster weighs her words for a moment, then turns to the myriad of little boxed-up spaces behind him, heavy with the protection of the metal around them. “They live in that there ol’ plantation, the one ‘bout a mile down the center road.”
She smiles, as if to say, “Now was that so hard?” She turns on her heeled boot and is almost out the door when the postmaster calls out to her. She looks over her shoulder.
“Whatchu want them for, anyhow?”
The smile on her ebony face deepens, and the postmaster notices two dimples in either cheek. It would be a nice smile if it wasn’t exactly like a cat’s, sly and self-satisfied. “Oh,” she says, as if the taste of the word in her mouth is a surprise, “We’re neighbors.”
And what exactly that means, only she knows. The bell clangs above the door as she exits the post office.
* * *
Somehow, Selema is not surprised to find that the plantation down the main road seems to be somewhat abandoned. Two men living together, seems like it would be fairly quiet to begin with. It’s always the women making the noise, filling homes with sound.
“Hello? Anyone there?”
She lifts her skirts as she pushes open the white-washed door. The house is neatly, if spartanly kept. She knows that the two men who live here are cowboys, but she has planned her visit carefully to make sure that they are not out on the range at this time of year. Upstairs, she hears noises, and surmises that they have not heard her come in. No time like the present to make her arrival known. She climbs the stairs and he
ars a sound like an animal in pain and quickens her step. The door to the room is locked, but through the keyhole, Selema catches sight of something wholly unexpected.
She is not quite sure she is seeing what she sees, but she has some theories. She saw something like this once before, in a seedy little bar on the end of Little Italy. Her father had some business to attend to, and he left her behind the bar with his friend Rudy, who was tending bar. It was early in the morning, before dawn, and she wondered what kind of men you find at a drinking hole that early. This was before her breasts and hips and thighs intruded on her life and made her less invisible, so she snuck out from behind the bar, sliding her back against the wood paneling of it, and began to wander. Behind the heavy oak door of the toilets, she heard the sounds of scuffling.
She hears it again now, behind a door that is similar.
A small push, and now there is a crack through which to view the happenings on. At first, there is nothing but a tangle of pale flesh, joints in odd positions, hairy legs sticking out from a seeming heap, and then the image arranges itself properly. Long moans are emanating from the two men sliding their bodies on each other, two men who are grasping each other’s cocks with their hands, their eyes locked as they stroke, over and over again, grunting out loud as only men can in the throes of something illicit, as if they are angry, but have given in to their true natures at last.
The door creaks a little, and both men halt. Selema did not think it was possible, given how drunk they are on each other, but the tangle is untangling, limbs are coming straight, and suddenly, there are two forms frozen on the bed, their backs to each other. One is reddish-hued, with freckles all over his shoulders and chest, and a fine sprinkle of light copper hair on his body, and the other has soft, dark, thick curls cropped close to his head. There is something about both of the men that strikes Selema as just a little bit off; perhaps it is the dusky hue of the brunette’s skin or the overly full lower lip of the redhead, but she scarcely has time to dwell on these things because the men are jamming their limbs into their clothes and making fast headway to the door.
She stumbles backwards and since she does not know her way, bangs her calf into a small table piled with shoehorns. She falls, and her ankle throbs with pain. She cannot run, and before she can even think of a good escape plan, the naked men are standing before her.
My, but they’re glorious. Well-conditioned muscle, a fine smattering of hair everywhere, and those manhoods—well now, they’re just simply a part of them, are they not, like a long continuation of the very essence of their virile masculine souls. Selema’s mouth goes dry, an unlucky circumstance considering the two men have a look that speaks of a fear that lends itself to anger, a defensiveness of an animal once it is cornered. For a moment, their eyes lock, something primitive passes between them, and nobody speaks.
It is Selema who breaks the tense silence.
“I take it the women of the house are not here,” she says, her tone glib.
“There have never been any women here. Not since Ezrah’s mother died,” says the tall red-haired man, the dark bite of his gray eyes nicking at her.
“You must be Jeb Lee, then,” Selema says, righting herself and picking herself up from the floor. “I’ve been looking for you. I never did expect to meet you under these circumstances.”
Jeb stands with his powerful arms crossed over his chest. “How much did you see?”
“Enough.”
“Why aren’t you running off to tell the neighbors then?”
“Because I know what loneliness is, and it is not my place to cast judgment on anyone.”
She is from Chicago. Things don’t faze you once you’ve lived there.
“So you don’t care?” asks Jeb, and there is a softness in his eyes that tells her that this is the point from which there is no return, the one where she can either create a lasting relationship of trust or one that will ultimately leave them at war forever.
She fixes them with a steadfast look. “I don’t care.”
“Then what can we help you with then, marm?” the darker one with soft brown eyes asks her.
Selema shoots him a sharp look. “How ‘bout putting some pants on and offering a lady a seat and a cup of tea first?”
In the kitchen, the dark one busies himself putting a kettle on, although Selema can feel the resentment rising off of him in waves. She can hardly blame him. If someone came in and disrupted her illicit lovemaking session and then refused to leave, she’d be mighty put out, too. Nevertheless, she settles down on one of the rough-hewn chairs and accepts the steaming cup they present her with.
“Your mother was the head of this household until she died you mentioned,” she says, blowing softly into the hot liquid, not meeting their wary eyes.
“Yes,” Jeb answers, eyeing her warily. “I guess we clean forgot to ask who it is you are, Miss…”
“Jameson,” Selema says, and then quietly, without skipping a beat, “As in Jameson Plantation.”
Ezrah shoots her a sharp look. “As in this plantation?”
Selema fixes her green eyes on the pair of men, who are now fully and totally at attention before her. “Sugar, please?” she sweetly requests. Jeb hands it to her mutely, slamming it a little on the table in front of her. “I know this seems a bit strange to you, gentlemen, but the fact of the matter is, I’m not truly sure how to approach the matter. I came here to enlist your aid, and instead I found…well, truth be told, I expected a less sensationalized introduction.”
Jeb has the good grace to soften his expression. “Enlist our aid how?”
Selema hesitates. “Well, truth be told, I’m looking for answers. I only discovered who I am about two months ago, and it took that long to save up for passage here from Chicago, so I’m a bit at a loss.”
“What exactly is your connection to this house, Miss Jameson?”
“Please, Selema.”
“What is your connection to the house, Selema?”
“My mother lived on this plantation some twenty odd years ago. I knew that she came from this state, but I was never truly too sure about the extent of my history. I suffered some memory loss as a child and never recovered what I had forgotten. I think it was likely because it wasn’t too happy a happenstance.”
“Yes, times were different back then,” says Ezrah quietly, an almost-apology in his voice.
“Is there anything you do remember about your past?” Jeb asks, settling into one of the crude chairs across from her.
“Big Jim, my father, used to tell me some things, long before he was killed, about how something bad happened to my mother, but he would never say what. Jim had some unscrupulous dealings with some unsavory gentlemen in town, and then this one day, our neighbor girl, Millie, comes running down our street yelling that Big Jim’s been shot. So I rush over to the hospital, and he tells me, right there on his deathbed, he tells me.”
Selema stops, overcome by the memory. Ezrah leans forward. “What did he tell you?”
“He tells me this address. He says he remembers it because of the man who bought him. The one who did something bad to my mother. And that’s when I knew, you understand?”
The two men shake their heads no. Selema draws in a long breath. “Look at me, gentlemen. What do you see?”
They take her in, the narrow slope of her shoulders, the long length of her cocoa-tinged fingers. They take in the curl of her hair, the blush on her cheeks, and finally her green eyes. Understanding dawns, bright, sharp, and painful and Selema sees it in their eyes; it is a look she recognizes, because it is so similar to the one that was plastered over her own face when she herself realized the truth.
The Master of the house was her daddy.
Not an unusual circumstance, of course. It was the days of hypersexualized black woman, the hips and thighs seen as those of a humanized cow, fertile and ripe for plowing into if the head of the household wanted certain needs fulfilled. Thousands upon thousands of women conceived of as cattle,
as vessels for use alone, allowed never to speak out, not understanding that they did not deserve such fates, forced to live with the children of those unions, forced to love them with a mother’s love that springs, unbidden, from some eternal, hidden source.
“I came to find out about my mother.”
Ezrah and Jeb exchange glances, and the truth beneath the truth becomes apparent. Not only did this young woman’s mother belong to this house, but their father committed an unspeakable act, although the two men know many of their neighbors would disagree. But if what she says is true, and there is that quality about her story, voice, and the slight tremble in her tone that makes them particularly inclined to believe her, then that means she is—
“Sister,” says Ezrah hoarsely.
* * *
“I grew in the yellow house down the way, just a mile down,” Jeb says to her, the words burbling from his mouth like a dam that’s been unstoppered. He is bending down at Selema’s knees, tending to the ankle she twisted. It hadn’t hurt at first, but when the blood began to trickle down to her toes, Jeb decided to pull out a medical kit.
They had retired to one of the rooms while Ezrah went out to round up the horses. There was no tense silence here, although Selema found it hard to concentrate on what Jeb was saying. The man was so damn attractive. What a waste, she thought to herself, taking in the delicate whiteness, how his thighs spread out into broad muscle when he kneeled, and how soft his hair looked. It was all she could do not to bend her head down until the tip of her nose brushed his reddish locks, to smell the hay she knew clung to him still, to inhale the scent of sex and desire that was fresh on him.
“Is that how you two met?” Selema asks, mostly to distract herself from the distraction of his looks.
When he turns his head to look her in the eye, she finds that her breath catches on the sweetness of his brown eyes, like the ocean after a storm, hinges on the furrow between his dense brows, latches onto that mouth like suction, like an invisible force pulling her forward. Down, girl.
“Look it’s not what you think,” Jeb says, and catches his bottom lip in pure white teeth. His shoulders, still bare and tantalizingly sculpted with little hollows along his acromion process, tense, and he drops his gaze to the floor before throwing down the cotton swabs he has been using in a fury that causes Selema to pull back away from his seeming anger. He crosses over to the other side of the room and runs a hand through his hair, making it stand every which way like a madman’s.
