The Watchman's Grace Read online

  THE

  WATCHMAN’S GRACE

  By

  CRAIG JOHNSON

  ISBN NUMBER: 978-0-9689253-1-7

  AUTHOR WEBSITE

  www.craigjohnsons.com

  © Copyright 2011 by Craig Johnson

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, computer or any other information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.

  Contents

  Foreword

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  AUTHOR WEBSITE

  Foreword

  This book is written heart, soul and mind in tribute to all those that have come and will come, but whose stories have never been told. I thank my loved ones for the determination, spirit and resolve to see that small triumphs can lead to great journeys.

  These contents are written for the memory of my ancestors, in remembrance of my loving parents, and for the future of all generations hereafter. I say to everyone who reads the following they are all part of one human family. If we are to be proper custodians of this Earth for future generations, we need to take accountability today.

  I remain optimistic that with true determination, we can still look towards an exciting future.

  Craig Johnson

  THIS BOOK IS A WORK OF FICTION AND NOT MEANT TO REPRESENT ANY ACTUAL PERSONS OR EVENTS. ANY SIMILARITIES PERCEIVED OR OTHERWISE ARE PURELY COINCIDENTAL, AS THIS IS A WORK OF FICTION.

  Chapter One

  From A Place Once Called Home

  Freedom passed through the generations can be lost in an instant

  Standing proudly as he surveyed the product from generations of earthly toil, Kigwa’s royal robes radiated in vibrant colors of gold, green and red. Only dyes extracted from the finest local vegetation were used to splash regal life into these garments. His strong hands were adorned with brilliant golden rings handed down through his family line, now headed by wise Chief Salwex. Completing his resplendent costume were distinctive white and black beads draped around his graceful neck. Kigwa was none other than the powerful Prince of the Ehra tribe.

  Today was to mark a joyous celebration, giving thanks for the fortunes of Ehra through decades of peace and war, famine and plenty. Kigwa wanted this year’s celebration to be the greatest. As he inspected the preparations around the village, his trusted aide approached him with some urgency.

  “There can be no more time to waste Kigwa!” panted the faithful Sangwa. “You of all people know that when you are summoned by an elder to an urgent meeting of those in power, one must cast all other things aside and heed the call to assemble. They are waiting for us down by the Sacred Watering Place at this moment!”

  Kigwa weighed this information carefully before responding. “And you, Sangwa, are certain this matter requires my presence over preparations for our annual Festival of Abundance? Our people have worked hard all year to ensure a beautiful ceremony. What matter is more important than to recognize their efforts?”

  Sangwa did not hesitate in response. “I feel more so Kigwa than any other task requiring your noble wisdom. When we return, there will still be time to consider other matters before you. Your grandfather, Chief Salwex, would expect no less. I urge you Kigwa to leave at once!”

  Kigwa studied the serious expression on Sangwa’s pleading face. Then he made a sweeping gesture with his left hand, dazzling sparkles flashing from his golden ring fingers.

  “Lead us on then! We shall take council with them at once.”

  Leaving his large thatched hut with whitewashed exterior, their soft sandals strode over compacted red earth as they departed. Outside, women ground out mealy fufu with mortar and pestle under a filmy carpet of summertime humidity.

  Men were long gone outside their village, tending broad swaths of upland rice and tall cassava plants for their families’ sustenance. Locusts did not visit this growing land, so a bountiful harvest tipped the scale of feast or famine in their favor. Children dutifully scattered about with their small chores, helping maintain the flow of daily life for the Ehra.

  Both men, dressed in flowing light gowns of breezy linen, walked assuredly over rolling hills that ran inland from the coastal plain of the ocean. As they came closer to the coastal plain itself, rolling green terrain gave way to a large mangrove swamp, far enough inland not to be affected by tidal floods.

  Here, warm sea and heavy hot air conspired to create dense earthy tangles of high shrubbery, clinging to soft rich soil in verdant clumps. Between gathered masses of stunted growth were clear green patches of tall grasses and bog. Hidden here was a uniquely raised plateau of land crowning the area known as the Sacred Watering Place.

  Rushing forward on a beaten track, Kigwa gained a better look at the traditional meeting grounds. When they were almost upon their destination, Kigwa suddenly realized he recognized just one member of the assembled group. That person was none other than his grandfather’s arch rival, Konti.

  “Sangwa!” he exclaimed. “Who are these people assembled with Konti? I know none of these other people! Where is the rest of our tribal council?”

  Before he secured an answer, Kigwa felt both arms pulled hard around his back while a rope held fast against his neck. He immediately felt a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “I did not tell you a lie Kigwa,” Sangwa grinned fiendishly. “Those gathered here in the Sacred Watering Place will soon be in power of our village. And Konti will obtain his rightful place at the tribal council. Your grandfather was foolish not to seek alliances with our neighboring tribes to fight united against those from our northern borders!”

  Kigwa spat out with venom at this base betrayal. “You are a silly boy in your thinking Sangwa! You just allowed the scorpion into your bed, but its sting will not be less because you welcomed it!”

  At that point a tall proud man of aged bronze skin spoke. “Kigwa, dear Kigwa, I am so sorry to have our last encounter under these circumstances!” chided Konti cruelly. “But time is a servant to no one, and a master of us all. Your grandfather has not learned this, and it is to his disadvantage he has not provided wise council to his people.

  “Like him, your problem is that you trust too much in the better nature of man. But do not worry about the future of the tribe. It will be under much better council. Now I will take leave of you and your line for good. Bind him and take him away from these lands!”

  The last memory Kigwa had of the Sacred Watering Place was Konti striding away in triumph towards his close gathering of confederates. Then a dull blow to his head brought a long darkness.

  When Kigwa finally came to his senses, he
witnessed a strange scene indeed. Sangwa appeared to be speaking in an unknown language with a man colored like hot white sand. His ghostly skin, drained of healthy darkness, was adorned in a heavy costume which exposed little to the sun’s beating rays.

  While observing these two men, Kigwa felt the constraint of iron shackles around his hands and feet. His royal costume and all accompanying jewelry had been stripped away. Crude restricting metal cut hard against his pulsing flesh.

  As he regained full measure of his surroundings, Kigwa realized he was now on the coast of the Great Ocean, with low green hills behind him and endless white sand underneath. Then, gazing further out to sea, he spotted a massive wooden craft anchored offshore. It struck him as menacing in its powerful presence, with its tall billowing sails whipping out orders of authority. This could only be a boat of the pale man, those strangers of dour cloth and angry faces.

  “Sangwa!” he yelled out. “Explain what is happening here Sangwa! What are you to do with me you wretched animal?”

  Sangwa ignored his protests. Looking around, Kigwa spotted four more unfortunates bound in similar fashion, marching towards a small rowboat. Kigwa heard rumors of pale men and their appetite for strong men and women, but until now it was just talk. Finally, after nodding favorably towards the pale man, Sangwa strode towards him.

  “Do not worry Kigwa,” replied Sangwa calmly. “Konti has banished you to show his mercy to the village. You will be well taken care of across the Great Ocean. The pale man has given his word of that.”

  Kigwa could not believe what he was hearing. “You disloyal bastard!” he screamed at him. “You were taken in with the highest of trust by my line, my family, to serve us back with the same bond! You dishonor your name, and for what?

  “You are a fool if you think there is salvation with Konti! By the time he is through with our people it will make your treachery today seem like a child’s chore! Change your madness and do the honorable thing. For the sake of our tribe, free me!”

  Sangwa shook his round head violently in disapproval. “Nothing you could do will possibly compare to what I was offered. And so you know, I despised every minute that I was in your family’s service! I waited patiently for a chance to find my true worth; by way of Konti it came!”

  “You’re a fool to think that way,” pleaded a desperate Kigwa, sweat stinging his begging eyes. “Free me and let us find a way together to make our tribe as powerful as it once was! This is what I can offer you Sangwa. I swear it!”

  “You can offer me nothing! Now across the Great Ocean you shall go.”

  “Have you no shame in conspiring with a strange pale man to rob the Ehra of a sacred leader? Chief Salwex nurtured our people through good guidance and hard industry. Konti will use brute aggression to seek what cannot be taken. It will destroy the Ehra in time, mark my words!”

  As two other pale men came forward to take him away, Kigwa continued to shout back at Sangwa. “There is no defeat here! There is only treachery. And as long as I have the blood of my forefather’s running through my veins, there will be no surrender until I reclaim my rightful heritage. Be sure of that, you miserable thief!”

  Sangwa waived off Kigwa to his capturers while screaming out his final words. “You are not welcome here anymore! If you ever try to return here it will mean your life!”

  As he was pulled away, Kigwa struggled to break free from their heavy grip in a futile exercise. He could not understand their speech, his circumstances or his destination. But he knew these familiar scents wafting amidst rolling hills and mangroves were to be no more. And that was more than enough to stoke a deep anger within him.

  Chapter Two

  THE LIGHT IN A FULL MOON CRIES

  Environment shaped a desire to escape

  From the moment he was jammed into a dank, stench filled hold, Kigwa knew this would be a trial of his worst ordeal. He was truly abandoned, without warming kinship from fellow tribe folk. Men, women and children, all speaking different tongues, fought to gain air itself. When the creaking ship set sail, it was a miracle the floating travesty did not collapse from its own derelict condition.

  Depraved days plodded by in the belly of a wooden beast. Sickness, defecation and oppressive dead heat conspired to weaken all. Kigwa began to crave the demise of these fellow passengers so he could gulp more stale air for lasting another day.

  Kigwa’s very being began to atrophy under starvation. Groans of the dying sang a tortured hymn for unyielding suffering. Amidst death’s haunting stages, there was many a moment when he truly wondered if the corpses thrown overboard were shown more mercy than that which waited for him.

  Through every second, upon each minute, there permeated an overwhelming stench from hundreds within these desperate confines. For many, their last breath on earth was taken in this poison stew of abject misery. Kigwa imagined himself breathing the remnants from every lingering perspiration which countless vanquished released; an unmistakably musty odor of sheer desperation.

  As their number steadily decreased, the thought of ending his suffering became seductive. The countless scenes of human decay assaulted Kigwa’s senses, making his will melt to nothing. Iron shackles dug hard into sallow dark flesh, reinforcing feelings of utter helplessness. With no end in sight, he felt his resistance slowly slipping away.

  Yet despite these abject hardships, Kigwa’s determination somehow survived. His shattered will held through frequent bouts of scurvy and dysentery which captured victims with increasing frequency. Daily, deceased were plucked from this sweating cage and thrown into the vast depths of a consuming sea. But still he clung to a primal hope for survival.

  “I must keep my mind sane to look for just one opportunity to escape these pale savages!” muttered Kigwa quietly. “As long as I am alive I can right this crime. And damn those that have taken part in this treason to an eternity of punishment!”

  It was some days later when Kigwa overhead two fellow captives debating the merit of survival. This harrowing journey of the Middle Passage sought out the weakest part in everyone’s nature. Now, Kigwa made out desperate urgings from one captured soul from a neighboring Ehra tribe to his companion.

  “We must not let the pale man sacrifice us to his devil god!” pleaded a young man to his female company. “Do not eat his food so he can fatten us for his slaughter. We should remain pure to our faith and leave this earth of our own will!”

  When Kigwa strained to look from where this conversation took place, he instantly felt deep pity. Both souls had been taken from their prime and made withering carcasses of bone, draped in a thin film of flesh. The male bore tell-tale signs of a harsh beating upon his soft back, a mash of scared brown ridges scabbing to save mangled flesh.

  “I have no will left to live Mapto,” a decimated young lady replied. “My last words will be heard only by you, for I do not have strength to last a day longer. I need to escape this hell! We will not see freedom again.”

  Kigwa felt ashamed overhearing such an intimate conversation, though these extreme circumstances made a mockery of any pleasantries. The brutality of the pale man stripped their sense of self in deep lashes of indignities. Turning away, he summoned his remaining strength into an unfathomable will to survive.

  *****

  After some six weeks at sea, the slave ship The Relentless came upon its dry land destination. Those kept as beasts in the hull below had long ago lost all sense of time and space. Soon their kidnappers, hardened by their trade, came storming below to continue forward. Each man, women and child were hauled like cargo to the deck.

  Hurried into direct sunlight, Kigwa’s eyes burned red after weeks of stale midnight below. His skin tingled endlessly from hot needling rays of midday sun, yet surprisingly this heavy humidity was no shock. To him, this air was much fresher than the sweaty stench in The Relentless’s floating mortuary below.

  Twisting uncomfortably in hi
s shackles, Kigwa counted one survivor for every two that had boarded The Relentless. Mapto and his female companion were not among them. Just as he finished his tally, they were prodded down a rickety gangplank into the teaming bustle of a strange port town. Half naked and starved, they were lined up beside a raised wooden platform and forced to stand rod straight. By this point Kigwa was powerless to put up any defense, his fortitude destroyed during those arduous weeks at sea.

  Looking at a gathering throng of pale men, Kigwa noticed one of his fellow captives led onto the crude stage. First, a number of hard looking pale men would raise their arms and shout in a strange tongue. Soon, one would gain the stage, whereupon he would run his thick hands upon the captive. Their mouths would be forced open, arms and legs grasped; teeth run over with grimy fingers. Finally, a mass of colored paper would exchange hands and the pale man would drag off his dazed prize. Then the next unfortunate would be placed on the scaffold, with the whole process repeated.

  Kigwa knew what he saw. His disloyal aide Sangwa had kidnapped him for placement into some type of servitude. But he had no idea what purposes these pale men had for him, making Kigwa very agitated. Perhaps like Mapto, he should have taken his own life. As heavy set thugs pulled him onto the platform, his time for wishing was well past.

  While the barking from a frantic auctioneer pierced the air, numerous pale men launched their waiving arms skyward. Unlike others, Kigwa’s time on stage seemed quite a bit longer. Finally, all hollering ended with a large pale man coming towards him. His hands ran over every inch of Kigwa’s strong physique. After grunting his satisfaction, a large pile of colorful paper changed hands. Then Kigwa was led away in quick fashion.

  Moments later Kigwa found himself sitting on a wooden bench in a hay wagon. His purchaser rode this rickety cart at a fast pace, well beyond the outskirts of the port town. Throughout this hasty ride, the determined driver did not utter any noise, focusing solely on his destination.