Carolina Conjuring

by Alison Claire

  “Gott im himmel!” Mister Hack exclaimed, reverting, in terror, to his native German.

  They were the last words he’d ever speak.

  The whip went from cobra to constrictor, wrenching free of Mister Hack’s hand and spinning tightly around his neck.

  He was yanked out of the stirrups and his horse bolted into the forest. Ezekiel watched as the night watchman’s feet kicked frantically and he clawed desperately at the leather wrapped around his throat.

  A sly smile crossed Ezekiel’s lips as the sheer horror of Mister Hack’s dying moments filled his brain and played like a symphony in his mind.

  The sadistic revenge was as incomprehensible as it was succulent to Ezekiel. He savored Mister Hack’s sputtering suffering. He’d enjoyed nothing in his fourteen years of life more.

  Ezekiel Walker was born Ezekiel Indigo.

  He was fourteen years old the day he watched his brother die. The lynching of Emmanuel would be the first thought Ezekiel had every morning for the rest of his life; it drove his rage. It was the axis upon which his anger spun.

  He would never forget it or forgive.

  Ever.

  Aleta’s powers had been roused the moment her brother had died. The shock had likewise awakened Ezekiel’s gifts.

  He too “heard” his brother’s final thoughts; “felt” the pain Emanuel felt as he took his last breath.

  Aleta had been changed, but Ezekiel had been reborn.

  It wasn’t just thoughts he could read. His fury gave him powers he’d never even imagined existed. He wouldn’t discover them all that day. Over the years and decades since Emanuel’s death, he slowly learned how much command he held over himself and the world around him.

  The incident with Mister Hack, the night watchman, had been an unexpected delight for Ezekiel. He wasn’t sure how he did it, but he knew he wanted to do it again.

  And again.

  His anger emboldened him.

  Where Aleta’s trauma had left her more empathetic to the pain others felt, Ezekiel’s trauma had left him with nothing but contempt for the people around him. He saw pain as weakness, yet he considered the people who inflicted the pain as enemies who needed to be dealt with.

  Mercilessly.

  The first people to know the conscious wrath of Ezekiel would be the Walkers.

  The morning he last saw his mother, it was still raining.

  After killing Mister Hack, Ezekiel panicked.

  The grave he’d been digging for his brother had become a muddy quagmire. Burying him no longer seemed an option.

  With daybreak only a few short hours away, he had a problem: a second corpse.

  When Mister Hack’s body was discovered, John Walker Jr.’s sadism would know no bounds. Ezekiel wouldn’t even be surprised if Junior would slaughter every slave on the plantation, then go into town and replace the entire staff from the auction. As much as killing Mister Hack had temporarily sated Ezekiel’s thirst for revenge, he’d put himself, and his entire “family,” blood and otherwise, in terrible danger.

  He tried in vain to use his newfound abilities to dig a deeper hole for Emanuel, but to no avail. He couldn’t access his powers on command yet, and no matter how deeply he felt the loss of his brother and summoned the pain to the front of his mind, nothing happened.

  Ezekiel clawed at the soggy earth, but it was hopeless. He considered running away, but he recalled how far Emanuel had gotten when he attempted escape, and he knew he’d fare no better.

  Defeated by the elements, he tugged his brother beneath the tree and around the back, out of sight of the fields and said a prayer over him.

  As he turned to return to his momma and sister in their quarters, he whispered a promise to Emanuel. “They all gon’ suffer. Every one of them. You rest easy, brother. Oh yes, they gon’ pay.”

  Ezekiel ran back to the house, dodging hailstones all the way, the downpour soaking him to the bone.

  Entering the small dwelling, Ezekiel found his mother laying on the floor on a long piece of osnaburg fabric, the same one she’d used to swaddle Emanuel, Ezekiel, and Aleta as babies.

  “Gawd Himself weeps with us,” she said quietly, to no one in particular, as Ezekiel arrived, ignoring the hour and that her son was dripping wet. It was a mantra she repeated again and again, clutching at the fabric, holding an imaginary baby in her arms— rocking the memory of her infant son.

  It had been two days since Emmanuel had died. His mother had barely been able to move, much less get off the floor. Bolstered by Ezekiel’s presence, she managed to get on her knees, to pray.

  “Lawd,” she cried out. “Help me to forgive them. Please. I need to forgive them, Jesus. Fill my heart, Lawd.”

  Ezekiel was enraged at the prayer and made it clear to her.

  “They the ones should be asking forgiveness, Maamy. What they done is what only God could fuhgit.”

  His mother looked up at him, her eyes wide. The tears had ceased. There were none left to give. She was dehydrated and depleted.

  “Chil’ if I’m forgiven, I must forgive.”

  “Why, Maamy?” Ezekiel raised his voice, something he’d never done with his mother before. “They kill him. For nuttin’. I nebbuh forgive them for taking muh bubbuh.”

  His mother raised her finger to her dry lips. “Shhhh. Your sistuh still sleeps.”

  She motioned for him to join her on the floor. Before he knew it, hot tears were rolling down his cheeks. He was a foot taller than his mother, but she cradled his head in her arms like he was a child again.

  “One day, chil’, you have to. Not for them,” she said wiping the tears from his face. “For you.”

  She tapped his chest. “For your h’aa’t. So you can keep libbin’. I lub you, sweet son. You my last boy. Don’t let them take your soul. It’s one ting we have they can’t take. Ebbuh. You swaytuhgawd?”

  Ezekiel shut his eyes tight and nodded his head.

  He couldn’t bear to look at her when he lied.

  For the last few hours before the sun rose, she held him there as he dozed into brief, fitful spells of sleep. His rage and fear wouldn’t let him relax enough to sleep deeply; he knew that once Mister Hack’s body was discovered, his worst nightmares would come to fruition.

  Just before dawn, when even the rooster was still asleep, John Walker, his wicked son, and two other farmhands entered the shanty which was home to the Indigo family.

  “Junior, you and Karl take that one, we’ll get the others ready to go,” John Walker Sr. said, gesturing to Ezekiel, who rubbed his eyes and tried to understand what was happening.

  John Walker Jr. kicked Ezekiel in the ribs, not hard enough to cause damage, but firmly enough to make it clear that he expected immediate compliance. “Let’s go, boy. On your feet!”

  Karl, a nasty man with broad shoulders and dark, close-cropped hair, yanked Ezekiel to his feet and shoved him toward the door.

  As he was being pushed out the door, Ezekiel looked back over his shoulder and made eye contact with Aleta, who’d been startled awake and looked scared to death.

  It was the last time he’d ever see his mother, who wailed behind him as he was led down the path toward the larger slave quarters that housed the rest of the men and boys.

  Aleta and Momma Indigo were bound for the auction, and Ezekiel was headed for, at best, a life without the small comforts afforded the offspring of a trusted house slave, and, at worst, a tortuous death for his role in Mister Hack’s demise.

  Karl and John Walker Jr., pistol in hand, guided Ezekiel past the slave quarters and the large barn, around to the back of the house. The rain spat angrily down on the three men as the rooster crowed along with day breaking over the horizon.

  They continued past the main house and reached the edge of the covered back porch of the guest house, currently unoccupied. They were out of sight of the rest of the plantation.

  “Did you go somewhere last night, boy?” Junior asked, pointing his pistol at Ezekiel menacingly as Karl s
tepped behind him with a length of rope and began to bind his wrists.

  “N-no sir, I stayed with my momma, s-sir,” Ezekiel sputtered.

  “Did you see my uncle last night?” Karl growled directly into the slave’s ear, pulling the rope painfully tight around Ezekiel’s wrists.

  Junior sensed Ezekiel’s confusion.

  “Mister Hack, stupid,” Junior said, holstering his weapon. He paused a moment, but when Ezekiel failed to answer quickly enough, he backhanded him across the mouth, splitting his lip and sending him crashing to the hardwood porch.

  “Do you want to end up like your brother, boy?” Karl hissed. “You best start coming up with some answers!” Karl kicked Ezekiel in the stomach and then on the back as he fell onto his side and curled reflexively into a ball.

  “Now his uncle may have just decided the rain was too hard last night and he rode over to the Wellington farm to have that house slave Rebecca he’s so fond of. There’s always that chance,” Junior said, squatting down so his face was close to Ezekiel’s. “In which case you’re taking a beating for nothing. But,” Junior stood back up and delivered a series of vicious kicks to Ezekiel’s back and arms. “You’re gonna take it regardless, just because I enjoy it so much.”

  Ezekiel felt searing pain in the smell of his back. He’d been hit there often enough to know that he’d have blood in his urine for at least the next few days.

  “Your Momma and sister are headed for auction. Your brother is hanging from the tree out yonder. You’ll be the only Indigo left here, for however much longer you can survive,” Junior taunted. The kicks continued, from both men. “I tried to convince my Daddy to keep Aleta. At least a few more years, so I could see if she was as sweet as your Momma.”

  Ezekiel sobbed, the pain from the punishing kicks all but forgotten in lieu of the psychological torment.

  Karl took his turn to squat down closer to Ezekiel to whisper his own perverse venom. “I don’t know what John Junior was waiting for. Aleta looks plenty ripe to me, boy, even dark as she is. You ought to thank him for keeping me off her as long as he has.”

  The alcohol on Karl’s breath was unmistakable. The thought of him getting his hands on his sister made Ezekiel’s guts churn, and if he’d have had anything on his stomach, he’d have vomited at Karl and Junior’s laughter and the wretched implication.

  “Aw, don’t start crying now, boy, it ain’t gonna help you any. There’s no getting out of this,” said Junior. “Go on, get him up, let’s let him have this strap while he comes up with some answers.”

  Karl lifted Ezekiel to his feet, bleeding from his nose and mouth, ears ringing.

  Junior produced a wide swath of leather hanging two feet long with a short, braided handle.

  “I ain’t gonna lie to ya, boy,” Junior explained. “This is gonna hurt like hell. And you can answer my questions now or after, but you’re gonna answer. And you’re gonna take this strap either way, just for having such a worthless brother.”

  Karl unbound Ezekiel’s wrists and tied them again in the front, lifting his arms to toss the rope up and over one of the support beams for the porch. Ezekiel’s battered body was too weak to resist. “And for being so ugly.”

  Stretched up onto his tiptoes, Ezekiel closed his eyes tightly and tried to summon whatever it was in him that killed Mister Hack. He wished Karl and Junior dead with every fiber of his being.

  Nothing.

  In his mind, he saw flashes of his momma and sister in the back of a wagon, rolling down the bumpy road that led to the main entrance to the plantation. Aleta was trying to soothe their mother, who was disconsolate.

  It was a role reversal from a lifetime of Abigail Indigo being the unassailable backbone of the family. She’d made the hunger, the pain, the thankless toil, the loneliness and heartache all tolerable somehow. Even when her own husband, Everett, fled the Walker Plantation, fate unknown, Abigail remained a bottomless font of positivity and love. The loss of Emanuel and the separation from Ezekiel, however, had left her gutted.

  Destroyed.

  She’d had to be carried to the wagon. She didn’t care if she was punished or even killed, her limbs felt like they weighed more than the branches of the mighty oak from which her son had been hung.

  Aleta smoothed her Momma’s hair and kissed her forehead, reflecting all the years of mothering as best she could.

  Ezekiel could “hear” Aleta telling their Momma how much she loved her, how Emanuel and Ezekiel would always be in their hearts, no matter what, and that they’d all be together in heaven one day.

  “What are you smiling about, boy?” John Walker Jr. shouted at Ezekiel, who was lost in the vision of his sister and mother.

  When an answer failed to come, Karl punched Ezekiel twice in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him.

  Ezekiel gasped for breath.

  When he recovered, he spoke, shocking Karl and Junior.

  “Dat bastard dead. I kilt him.”

  “What did you say?” Junior asked, holding up a hand to keep Karl from delivering more punches.

  Ezekiel spit a mouthful of blood onto the wooden floor of the porch before lifting his eyes to meet John Walker Jr.’s gaze. “Mister Hack,” Ezekiel said calmly. “I kilt him dead. And he pissed hisself like a baby.”

  Junior’s eyes went wide. He staggered back in disbelief. “That ain’t true, but just for thinking it you’re gon’ hurt like you never hurt before.” He lifted the leather strap to swing it, but Karl intervened.

  “What if he did, boss? What if he bushwhacked him?”

  “He layin’ right out there under that big tree where you kilt Emanuel,” Ezekiel replied. Aleta’s strength emboldened him. He’d find a way to summon the power inside him again or die trying. “All you devils are fixin’ to join Mister Hack out there. Today. I’m gonna pile you all up right out in that field, I prom-”

  Ezekiel was cut off by John Walker Junior’s right hand crashing down on his jaw, followed by the leather strap tearing into his back repeatedly.

  The pain nearly short-circuited Ezekiel’s nervous system, but he fought to remain conscious. He knew that if he passed out, he may never wake up again.

  “Got anything else smart to say, boy?” Junior asked. “Huh? No, I didn’t think so. The only sounds I want to hear you make are some of those sweet screams I know you’ve got in there. Yeah, they’re gonna hear you all the way up in Mount Pleasant, boy.”

  Junior wiped the sweat from his brow as he watched Ezekiel hanging limp in his bonds.

  “Boss, I’m gonna ride out and check on my uncle if it sits right with you,” Karl said.

  “Sure. I know you ain’t got the stomach for what this one here needs, anyway. But I sure as hell do.” Junior grinned and slapped Ezekiel hard across the face. “Come on now, boy, wake up so I can have some fun.”

  Ezekiel struggled to lift his head. Try as he might, whatever magic he’d wielded earlier had abandoned him. He was resigned to the fact that once Karl found Mister Hack, his own death would be long and painful.

  But he’d be free. Free of the Walker Plantation, of the hunger and the pain and the heartache. He’d be reunited with Emanuel by nightfall.

  “You stay right there, boy. Can you do that for me?” Junior mocked Ezekiel and walked around the side of the house where he’d have a clear line of sight across the field to watch Karl and his horse approach the tree.

  To Ezekiel, it felt just as real as any of the blows that had been delivered by John Walker Jr.

  He jolted upright in his bonds as his mind synchronized with Karl’s. Unexpectedly, inexplicably, he saw through Karl’s eyes as the man got down off his horse and fell to the ground next to the lifeless body of Mister Hack. Ants had found the body, and Karl took off his hat and tried to chase and wipe them from his uncle’s face.

  Energy coursed through Ezekiel’s body.

  Junior hopped back up onto the porch. “Karl found something out there. You weren’t lying, were you?”

  Ez
ekiel managed a bloody smile and slowly shook his head. “No, suh.”

  “It’s gonna take you days to die. I’m gonna cut everything off you. Piece by piece. You must be the dumbest ni-”

  Suddenly, John Junior’s hands went to his throat as he gagged on his own racial epithet. He couldn’t catch a breath, couldn’t swallow, and couldn’t call for help.

  He took a staggering step toward Ezekiel before dropping to a single knee. Catching himself with his left hand lest he collapse prostrate on the ground, Junior fumbled to pull his pistol from the holster on his belt. Tears and snot streamed down his face.

  A loud crack resounded across the plantation as the beam holding Ezekiel’s wrists split in half, freeing the beaten slave.

  He fell to the floor next to Junior, who still gagged and gasped, the effort to pull his gun forgotten as his inability to breathe required his full attention.

  Hoofbeats closing in marked Karl’s imminent return, and voices grew louder as workers, free and otherwise, converged on the guest house to investigate the noise.

  That’s when the roof over the porch collapsed, covering Junior and Ezekiel with splintered wood.

  “Junior’s under there!” Karl’s voice shouted over the din, as panicked Walkers, farmhands, and slaves worked to clear the wreckage.

  “Careful now,” Karl called out. “We’ve lost one man already. Be careful!”

  Before they could heed his warnings, however, the broken beams and shattered roof exploded into kindling, knocking the assemblage back onto the ground. Karl was first to regain his senses, and he rushed to Junior’s side.

  Curiously unharmed, John Walker Jr. sat up and wiped dust and dirt from his face.

  So concerned with Junior’s condition were the rest of the group that it took a moment for anyone to notice Ezekiel Indigo…levitating.

  From the edge of the porch, Ezekiel rose into the air, floating some fifteen feet off the ground. Sweat and blood-streaked but smiling broadly.

  “Kill it!” John Jr. shouted, pointing at the apparition visiting the Walker Plantation.