The Road to Damascus

By Krista Raye

Like its biblical namesake, the road into the Depression era, mountain community of Damascus, Georgia holds the same mythical powers of redemption and repentance. Within its rocky pathways lies the secret that binds a preacher’s daughter, the son of a cotton baron, and a black drifter to a lynching fifty years earlier.

Jackson Tate makes his pilgrimage to Damascus out of greed rather than soul searching. On a mission to acquire land for his family’s booming cotton mill business, he doesn’t anticipate his only stumbling block to be in mild mannered, Luke Nations, the pastor of a small church. Nor does he take too kindly when Luke’s daughter, Sarah, cools his advances. But when a flash of blinding light leaves him a contemporary Saul, broken and bruised on the road to Damascus, the world Jackson knew is forever changed.

Amid the lush landscape of the mountains, Jackson is reborn not only through salvation at the very church he wanted take, but through the kindness of the Nations family who shelter and care for him during his recovery. It isn’t long before the reformed Jackson wins Sarah’s heart. When he brings her out of the mountains and back to his home in the big city, their newlywed life is forever changed when they befriend, John Christian, an elderly black drifter.

When John is falsely accused of murdering of a young, white woman, Jackson and Sarah hold John’s fate in their hands. Do they falsify a deposition claiming John wasn’t with them the night of the murder, or do they stand up to Jackson’s prejudiced family and execute a daring prison break along a backwoods road, embarking on a harsh trek to freedom through the rugged North Georgia mountains with Klansmen and hired mercenaries on their heels. Ultimately, the answer lies somewhere on the road to Damascus.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Krista Raye
• Release date: Aug 30, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476069388

Krista Raye

Krista Raye considers herself a Steel Magnolia who enjoys her Southern roots. She has taught high school and middle school English for twelve years. She has also taught Adjunct College courses. She wrote her first story at four and hasn't stopped since.She resides outside of Atlanta, GA with her two very spoiled dogs, Duke and Chance, and her outnumbered cat, Sam.

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Prologue

Marietta GA, 1895

You cain’t save him! the voice in his head shouted as he sprinted through the heavily tree lined woods. An icy fear, which hung around him like a specter, breathed doubt into his ears. But John, yous just a boy. A colored boy at dat. What can you possibly do? Ignoring the voice, he pounded his feet into the red clay, his breath syncopating between pants and sobs. Briars tore stinging scrapes along his face, arms, and neck, springing forth tiny droplets of blood. A river streamed into his eyes as the scarlet beads mixed with pouring sweat. His vision clouded, but he did not stop to wipe his eyes. Vines full of prickly brambles dug into his faded overalls. When they wrapped themselves around his legs and waist like willowy arms, he fought his way out of their crippling grasp.

He continued running as he slipped through the fresh morning dew. He skidded to a stop at the edge of an embankment, just before the hillside rolled into a valley. Below him a horrific scene unfolded: a throng of men gathered around a lone oak tree. Barren and stark, the tree stood in sharp contrast with the lush overgrowth surrounding it. Long, gnarled branches did not give life but took it. The bitter fruit of its offering sprung from the perverse hated of intolerance and bigotry.

Tethered to one of the branches by a rope was a colored man. With legs trembling, he teetered on an old table snatched from someone’s parlor. Large feet encased in worn shoes were barely contained on the table top. Hands scarred from picking cotton to provide for his family were bound tightly in front of him. John watched as his father raised his tear stained face to the heavens, his lips moving in silent prayer.

To the side of the tree stood a man in a tailored suit. He appeared oddly out of place among the tattered overalls and sun scorched faces of the farmers. With a simple nod, the man gave a signal. A heavy set man stepped forward, giving the table a sharp kick.

Papa! John screamed from the hilltop. Like a captured fish flailing at the end of a hook, the colored man’s legs searched for the ground. Panic-stricken, John felt the earth leave from beneath him as he stumbled and rolled down the hillside. When his feet rediscovered the red clay, he sprinted towards his father.

The eyes of the ignorant men honed on the spectacle before them like animals waiting for the kill. Ashes grew at the ends of cigarettes, dangling from lips before breaking off and scattering across the bibs of dirt encrusted overalls.

No! John screamed. Helplessly, he lifted his father’s feet to give him air, desperate to find anything to end the agonizing gasps for air and futile grasps at life.

Cruel laughter erupted from the men. The finely dressed man stepped forward, butting John in the head with the end of his rifle. As he crumpled to the ground, his world faded to black.

Later, John’s eyelids fluttered as he struggled into consciousness. His right temple pulsed and throbbed. As he rubbed his fingers across it, he felt a knot forming underneath the skin. When his eyes focused, the stark realization washed over him. He was alone in a vacant field. The men were gone—their presence only evident by the mark of their footprints in the dust and the cigarette butts strewn around him.

A shadow passed over the noon day sun, and John slowly turned around. His father’s corpse swung in the breeze like a pendulum on a clock. Burying his face in his hands, John desperately tried shielding his eyes not from the glaring sun, but from the hideous distortion his father had become. It would remain an image forever seared into his mind.

The once laughing, soft brown eyes of his father bulged from their sockets, frozen in a glassy, vacant stare. Flies swarmed in and around his gaping mouth, feasting on the blood that trickled down his chin. The mouth that his father once widened to belt the low octaves of gospel songs was perversely altered.

John began weeping. At first, only silent tears flowed down his cheeks. Then harsh, guttural sobs erupted from somewhere foreign to him. Finally, screams of sheer agony ripped through his chest. Eventually, his grief stricken body collapsed to the ground.

***

In the cool shadows cast by the canopy of tall Georgia pines, the stranger’s head snapped out of his prayers. Kneeling down upon the soft earth with his eyes firmly shut, he cocked his head towards the sound. He heard the wrenching cries like those of an animal caught in a steely trap. Rising up, he untied the reins of his horse and began sprinting through the woods. He came to a clearing where the trees melted into an open, unaltered field. As he squinted against the sun, a lone tree appeared in the distance. A body dangling from one of the limbs caused his stomach to lurch into his throat.

He abandoned his horse and ran across the grassy meadow. The thought of what to do once he reached the body escaped him. Would he cut it down? Would he try to console the weeping figure? Finally, prayers for guidance rolled through his mind.

As he drew closer, a figure was hunched over on the ground. The cries coming from it were so pitiful they unnerved the man. When he stepped forward, a fallen branch snapped beneath his feet. The figure lost in mourning whirled around. A colored boy no older than ten stared up at him. From the boy’s expression, the stranger could see that his long, unkempt beard and billowing salt and pepper hair must’ve appeared frightening.

He held up his hands in mock surrender, trying to assure the child of his intentions. Now son, I ain't gonna harm you.

You leave us be, you haint, John whispered.

The stranger was taken aback. Being accused of a ghost was the last thing he expected. Carrying on a conversation a few feet from a swinging corpse was another—it sent a shudder through him. He took a tentative step forward. Why, I ain’t no haint, son. I’m just as real as you are.

John raised his eyebrows. You’s dat strange mountain man dat my mama says is crazy.

Why does she say that?

Cause you’s always roamin’ ‘round in the woods, screamin’ and cryin’ to God.

The stranger’s face grew contemplative. So people say I’m crazy ‘cause I cry out to the Lord?

Cocking his head, John replied, I spose’ so.

Then maybe I am a little crazy. The stranger surveyed the bitter fruit born of the tree. Maybe if more men spent time on their knees searching out the Lord, the world would be a better place.

John peered up at the stranger’s face and extended a cautious hand. Even under the strange circumstances, his manners hadn’t left him. My name is John—John Christian.

My name’s George Lester. Shaking the boy’s hand, he looked back to the figure in the tree.

He’s my pa. Name’s Joseph.

George nodded. You the oldest or the youngest in your family?

Th’ oldest boy. I’s got a brother two years younger.

You was the oldest, but now you’s the man of the house. So you cain’t go home cryin’ to your maw. You’re gonna need to be strong for her.

Yessuh.

Yonder down the path a bit is a stream. Go wash your face and get your wits about you.

John dipped out of sight, and George began the unpleasant task of removing the body. The remaining ends of the noose wound around the tree trunk. From his back pocket, George produced a long knife. The gleaming blade caught the sunlight as he sawed the rope’s fraying ends. When he cut the final strand, the body fell to the earth with the silence of a fallen star. Taking a worn blanket from his saddle bag, George squatted down and leaned over Joseph’s body. He said a word of scripture before gently closing the man’s wide eyes and pulling the blanket over his face. John then trotted back up the hillside.

After they stood in a moment of reverent silence over the body, George asked, How far is it to your house?

’Bout a mile down the road, John replied, motioning to the north.

Then we better get your pa home. Bending down, George strained as he began lifting the body. John mustered the courage to grasp his father’s feet. Together they hoisted the body over the horse’s back. George took the reins and led the animal down the road. John fell in step at George’s side and after walking in silence for a few minutes, he turned to the older man.

So wat’s you doin’ ‘round here?

I’m on my way back home.

Where’s home?

Damascus.

Ain’t dat a place in th’ Bible?

Most certainly is. It was on the road to Damascus where God changed Saul of Tarsus into the Apostle Paul.

John nodded. Where’s your Damascus?

’Bout two hundred or so miles from here, way up in the mountains. George closed his eyes for a moment. You know, I’ve been gone a year, but I can still see my home-place just as plain as day when I close my eyes.

"Why’s you jus now goin’ back?

A few months ago my wife had a baby girl.

John stared at George in surprise. Ain’t you old to be havin’ a baby?

George threw back his head, laughing heartily at John’s expression and his question. Yes, I am a little old to be havin’ a baby.

Jus’ how old is you?

I turned fifty a few months ago, on the very same day my daughter was born.

Is she yo’ first baby?

Naw, she ain’t. I’ve got five grown sons and two grown daughters along with a passle of grandchildren oldern’ she is. This little girl was a surprise to both her mama and me.

But why’s you been gone from yo’ family so long? When George didn’t reply, John peered up at him. You done somethin’ bad?

George continued staring ahead. I’ve done a lot of bad things. He turned to John. You know what it means to repent?

Ain’t it when you tell God you’s sorry for somethin’?

Yeah, that’s right. ‘Cause I’ve done a lot of things that weren’t pleasin’ in the eyes of the Lord, it’s takin’ me a long time to repent.

Has God done forgiven you yet? John asked.

George smiled. I think there’s a few more things he wants me to do before he’s good and forgiven me.

They neared a small shack of a farmhouse where several people were standing in the yard. The sight of the horse carrying the body like a fallen warrior caused the people to hush their talking. They bowed their heads, and several of the men snatched the hats from their heads, placing them respectfully over their hearts. The unnatural silence in the yard brought John’s mother to the porch.

Oh sweet Jesus no! Sliding down the wooden banister of the porch, she collapsed on the top step. Two heavy set women in grease splattered aprons hurried to her side.

When they entered the yard, two men stepped forward. With unspoken reverence, they took the body off the horse and carried it up the porch steps. As her husband’s body swept passed her, John’s mother fell back against one of the women, her frail body shaking with grief.

George wove his way through the crowd. He climbed the porch and extended his hand, but he was met with an icy stare. He cleared his throat. Mrs. Christian, I’m so very sorry for your loss.

In her overwhelming grief, she no longer cared about the rigid and unbreakable code concerning the behavior of colored people towards whites. To her, George represented the very men who carried her husband away to an unjust and untimely death. She stared at him with hate filled eyes and hissed, You git off my land, white man.

John hurried to her side. But Mama, Mista Lester ain’t no bad man!

He’s a white man, and all white men is bad. Don’t you nevah forget it.

When George felt the eyes of the crowd tearing into him, he backed away. You do have my sympathies, ma’am. I will pray for God to give you comfort and strength. He turned to John and said, Walk me down to the road.

John reluctantly left his mother’s side and followed George down the path. Reaching into his pocket, George brought out a ten dollar bill and put it into John’s hand. I wish it could be more, son. I know your family’s gonna need it.

I cain’t take dis money, Mista Lester. You’s already done enough.

Take it, John.

All right den. I do ‘preciate’ it’

I want you to remember somethin’. If you’ll do it, it’ll mean a lot to you in the dark times to come.

Wat’s dat, Mista Lester?

Pray. And I don’t mean just recitin’ the Lord’s Prayer or askin’ for things. Cry out to the Lord with all your heart. Don’t be ashamed to get on your knees or press your face into the dirt. And when trouble comes, don’t turn to drinkin’, fightin’, or women. You turn to God.

John thought about George’s words. I will, Mista Lester. I sho’ will.

George nodded. You take care then. I’ll be thinking about you and your family.

Thank you, Mista Lester.

George pulled himself up onto the horse and headed down the road. John stood at the edge of the path watching until the old man was out of sight. Although many years would pass and he would face many struggles along life’s way, he never forgot the stranger’s words on the road home to Damascus, nor could he imagine how their paths would one day cross again.

Chapter 1

Damascus Georgia, 1920

On the ramshackle porch of his beloved mountain home, an old man drifted into a deep sleep. With a multicolored patchwork quilt draped over his legs, he rested comfortably in a cane rocking chair he built with his own hands. Like the biblical fathers of old, he was an aged patriarch with three generations of his family gathered around him.

The delighted shrieks of children’s laughter filled the air, but his nap remained undisturbed. Lounging in chairs along the porch, his adult children and their spouses sipped sugary sweet tea out of mason jars and gripped their handheld church fans portraying Jesus as a shepherd among his flock. As they whipped the stifling summer air with their fans, they kept the flies at bay and fanned the fires of conversation. On this day, family skeletons danced precariously around the porch in a rich tapestry of gossip and folklore.

The man’s gnarled hand clutched the hickory cane at his side. Like a thief in the night, old age had robbed him of some of his eyesight and hearing. Deep wrinkles lined his once handsome face. Each groove was a telling mark of the life he led. A physical testimony of hard earned wisdom.

He began to dream of the lush green pine trees, the overgrown brush of the mountains, and the flowing waters in the creeks. With eyelids fluttering and nostrils twitching, he descended further into dream. Seeping from the ground, a choking fog encased him. As the mist began to thin, he saw a child.

It was no stranger’s child. This was his grandchild. Of the multitude of grandchildren and great-grandchildren littering the yard, she was the most special. She was his Sarah.

With her angelic face and soulful blue eyes, the little girl was the mirror image of her mother. Although the love he had for each of his sons and daughters was equal, the little girl’s mother unabashedly was his favorite. Like Abraham and Isaac, she was a child of his old age. Turning fifty on the day she was born, Susannah was a delight to him all the days of her life. When his older children were growing up, he had abandoned the mountains to earn a better living for his family, but in the end, he raised more hell than anything. Susannah’s birth brought him home to the mountains for good.

She was truly a gift from God, a living symbol of his redemption and repentance. After only twenty-five years, Susannah’s life was cut short. The grief he experienced at her loss was immeasurable. His only comfort was in the two pieces of immortality she left of herself in the form of her six year old daughter, Sarah, and two year old son, Noah.

And now his Sarah was in danger. Weeping in the mist, darkness loomed over her. An unspeakable evil reached out its claws to devour her. Papa! she cried.

Her piercing scream jolted him awake. Tiny beads of perspiration popped out on his forehead. His heart rattled in fear.

She’s lost!

The conversations and fanning abruptly stopped. What’s wrong, Daddy? one of his sons asked.

He spun towards them. The pure terror in his eyes sent a shiver down their spines. Sarah’s lost! I have to get to her! He stumbled out of his chair, knocking his cane to the floor. It clattered noisily on the porch floorboards.

The children ceased running and playing in the yard. They stared at the old man, frozen in a mixture of fear and surprise.

No Papa, Sarah’s not lost. His son-in-law, Luke, stepped forward. Here she is.

He peered at the child clinging to Luke’s waist. Bring her to me.

Luke answered the command by bringing Sarah to the old man’s waiting arms. Sarah stared up at her grandfather’s face paralyzed with fear and patted him. Don’t cry, Papa. I’m all right.

While the old man clung to her, he dried his tear streaked face in the creases of her dress. He could not shake the feeling of dread within him. The mountain man in him realized the importance of the dream. It was a vision of the future.

***

As the awful march of time wreaked havoc upon the old man, he never forgot the dream. When the Death Angel hovered close at his bedside, he called Sarah to him.

He drew the ragged, painful breath of a marked man. Sarah, you know I’m not going to live much longer.

But why do you have to die, Papa?

Because it is my time, darlin’. All of God’s children have a time when he calls us home, and this is mine.

Tears sprung in her eyes. I wish you didn’t have to go.

Now don’t you cry. Why just think, I’ll be with your mama and my parents and all the beautiful angels.

Sarah nodded, grinding the tears from her eyes with her fists.

But I must tell you something. If you ever get lost in the woods or out in the world and don’t know how to go, pray to me, and I will lead you out.

I will Papa, she promised.

And later that evening in his beloved mountain home and surrounded by his large and loving family, George Lester drew his last breath.

CHAPTER 2

Damascus, Georgia 1936

The kitchen of the Mustard Seed Café worked overtime preparing food during the usual lunchtime barrage. In large cast iron frying pans, grease crackled and popped around farm raised chickens and river fed catfish. Bubbling on backburners, large pots overflowed with fresh green beans, corn, turnip greens, and black-eyed peas slicked and seasoned with fat back and lard. Within old ovens, pones of cornbread baked to a golden brown above racks of fresh apple and cherry pies.

Bursting through the swinging kitchen door, Sarah Nations balanced three plates in her arms. With a smile, she placed them in front of three farmers in overalls. Here you go boys. Let me know if y’all need anything else.

The café buzzed with conversation as Sarah surveyed the burgeoning lunchtime crowd. Armed with silver pitchers of iced tea and water, she made her way down the counter refilling glasses.

Riley Wilson sat poised with his empty glass in hand. You know a man could die from thirst around here, he mused with a smile.

I’m terribly sorry, but we’re a tad bit busy.

He leaned over the counter. How about making it up to me by going out on Friday night?

Sarah shook her head. I don’t think so.

You got better things to do?

Now, Riley, you and I both know it could never work out between us.

And why not?

Sarah blew the stray strands of blonde hair out of her face. Because you and I want very different things out of the people we date. Neither one of us could live up to those expectations.

He snorted. You must think I only want to date you for a good time.

"Oh Riley, I know that’s why you want to date me." Sarah grinned and walked back down the counter, clearing dirty plates and glasses.

What if I promised to go to church with you one Sunday? Riley called.

Perched on their stools and hanging on to every word, the other customers turned to Sarah for a response. At least once a week, one of the young men in town asked her out. Some came from money, some from prestige, and some from nothing at all. The one thing they all had in common was they weren’t looking for the marrying kind.

Arching her blonde eyebrows, she asked, You wanna take me to my daddy’s church in the mountains?

Sure, I’d love to hear him preach.

Sarah walked back down the length of the counter. Putting the pitcher down, she leaned in on her elbows. All right Riley, I’ll make a deal with you. You take me to church for one month straight, and then I’ll go out with you.

She watched with mild amusement as the weight of her offer came crashing down on him.

He shifted uncomfortably on the stool. Well…

She patted his arm. That’s all right, Riley. I understand.

Newt Granger, another café regular, shook his head. Now Sarah, you don’t play fair.

Cocking her head, Sarah replied, I do believe I once read ‘all’s fair in love and war’, Newt.

Newt wagged his finger at her. That’s exactly what’s wrong with you! Too much book learnin’.

Sarah only shrugged. There was no use in arguing with Newt or any of the other men who sought solace for their troubles outside her realm of understanding. Her world differed from theirs. They got their high out of jugs of shine or all night drinking binges at the local honky tonk. Hers came from a one room church at the foot of a mountain, and the spirit of God resonating there.

While the Bible praised the Virtuous Woman and proclaimed her wealth above rubies, the men in town missed the message. With the hard times of the Depression pressing down on them, many turned away from what they viewed as the oppressiveness of religion. Instead they sought the pleasures of life and discarded the Virtuous Women for the Whores of Babylon.

The crowd kept Sarah on her toes for the next hour until they began trickling back to their jobs or to the fields. She closed her eyes in peaceful satisfaction when only the hum of the kitchen fan could be heard in the dining room. The air became cooler, and she sighed. Her aunt, Becky, glanced up from wiping down the booths. Were those men givin’ you a hard time again?

Sarah laughed. Yes, they get a big kick out of seeing who can finally wear me down.

Becky sighed. I just know the right one is going to come along one day.

I know, Sarah agreed. Feeling the weight of the conversation, she quickly grabbed up the trash to take outside.

Like the ominous clouds that bring storms, marriage hovered over her wherever she went. At times, being unmarried at twenty-two was emotionally scarring. It was like the pointy tip of a dagger tearing into her heart at the sight of a couple sharing a tender moment or a loving glance. With every year that passed, the dagger twisted further. While everyone was quick to point out at twenty-two she was hardly an old maid, it did little