The Kidnapping of Inda Jackson

By Cher Foth

From the languid old South to the dreaming spires of Oxford and finally to the burning sands of the Iranian desert, mark the journey of young Inda Jackson.

A contemporary story of a grandmother’s early love affair and her granddaughter’s first discovery of love come full circle, uniting two family dynasties, springing from the early plantations of Georgia and the ancient kings of Persia.

Orphaned since the age of five, Inda is raised by her grandmother, Lydia, and her circle of steel magnolias. With Lydia’s sudden death, Inda’s world implodes once again. But Lydia had secrets–a gold ring encrusted with rubies and sapphires that never left her finger, tear stained letters, and a faded photo at the bottom of her safety deposit box.

Attending Oxford University, Inda discovers a brighter world and, for her, the planets stop spinning when she meets graduate student, Philip Zand. His every look sets her heart afire and she is drawn to him as a moth to a flame. But there is a problem–they’re just friends. Everything changes when Inda is attacked by Ari, a rejected suitor. After Philip leaps to her rescue, he realizes that love has arrived on little cat feet. But nothing IS settled. Ari remains close by with danger right around the corner.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Cher Foth
• Release date: Mar 31, 2015
• ISBN: 9780986214530

Cher Foth

Cher Foth, a native Kansan, has a B.S.B.A. from Auburn University and is a member of the American Association of University Women and the Florida Writers Association. Living and traveling throughout the world, she has absorbed the rhythm and color from these exotic places, translating them into the texture and voice of her novels. She resides with her husband in Florida, playing tennis and enjoying her granddaughters and cranky senior cats, Lucy and Cuda.

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Southern World Publishing

U.S.A.

The Kidnapping of Inda Jackson

By Cheryl Foth

Copyright © 2014 Cheryl Foth

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are fictitious and are the product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

Printed in the United States of America

Acknowledgements

I would like to make the reader aware that the following books provided a wealth of information and contributed to my research. Without them, it would have made the writing of this book impossible. I’m especially indebted to Wilfred Thesiger’s, Arabian Sands. His many journeys through the great deserts of the Middle East, depicting the hardships and dangers, were a testament of his tremendous courage and love for the people and land. He understood the Bedouin tribes and felt a kinship and bond, more with them I think, than his native England. He, too, felt the siren call of the desert, which was impossible to ignore and would continually draw him back.

Wilfred Thesiger, Arabian Sands, 1st ed. (E.P. Dutton and Company, Inc. 1959)

Lois Beck, The Qashqa’i of Iran, 1st ed. (Yale University Press 1986)

Fredrik Barth, Nomads of South Persia, 1st ed. (Oslo University Press 1961)

Gertrude Bell, Syria, The Desert & The Sown, 1st ed. (A. Wheaton & Co. Ltd 1908)

Gertrude Bell, Persian Pictures, 1st ed. (Ernest Benn Limited 1928)

Robin Lane Fox, The Search for Alexander, 1st ed. (Little, Brown and Company 1980)

FOR KRISTA AND COURTNEY

The theory goes that we are only six steps away from every other person on earth; that we are not locked in our own narrow world but part of a vast spider web of human connections. That is what is referred to as six degrees of separation.

Chapter One

The Slenderest of Threads

The black rain came down in unrelenting sheets. The windshield wipers worked with a frantic flapping as the couple inside talked and laughed. They were anxious to get home to their sleeping daughter. Her fingers brushed his and while turning to look at her, he didn’t see the large pool of water in the road. The silver Volvo skidded, careening wildly toward a row of slender trees impacting with a thunderous crash. Like a huge hungry beast the car ripped them down finally flipping on its back to expire. Clouds of hissing steam slowly wafted towards the sky as leaking water hit hot metal.

The rain had stopped with the only sound of the night the eerie spinning of a tire. A porcelain arm lay exposed, the still hand resting casually in the wet grass. The now visible moon flooded the wreckage with light, the shattered glass sparkling in the moonlight.

When the Charleston police officers arrived at the scene, they didn’t have much hope for the occupants inside. The car was severely mangled. First aid probably would not be required. After calling for an ambulance and taping off the area, they searched the vehicle. They pulled the man’s wallet out of his coat pocket locating his driver’s license and discovered a picture of the couple with a small laughing child held between them. A brown furry Paddington bear wrapped in a pink ruffled blanket lay in the back seat

Joe, they must have a young daughter. We’ll have to follow through.

Joe let out a deep sigh, I never get used to this part of the job. This is one door I don’t want to knock on tonight.

The officers stepped under the yellow tape and headed for the police cruiser. Their shift couldn’t end soon enough.

The pounding woke Inda. She abruptly sat up in bed rubbing her eyes blinking, the room drenched in bright moonlight. The salty ocean breezes swept through the open window cooling her warm, damp face. Creeping out to the top of the stairs she saw two men in dark blue uniforms at the front door talking in low urgent voices to the babysitter.

Is this the residence of Laura and Charles Jackson?

Yes, is there anything wrong?

Do they have a daughter?

Yes, Inda. She’s upstairs asleep.

Are you the sitter?

I’m their next door neighbor, Mrs. Crabtree. What’s happened? her shaking voice becoming high pitched with alarm.

We need to get in touch with the next of kin immediately. Do you know who that is?

Yes, Charles’ mother, Lydia Jackson. She lives in Savannah.

Can you give us her phone number and address?

I’ll have to go next door to get it.

Don’t call her. We have to follow procedures by notifying the Savannah Police department. They’ll personally contact her.

Of course. I’ll stay with the child until she arrives.

We appreciate that, ma’am, but we have to stay as well or call in the child social services.

They moved into the living room, their voices becoming muffled.

Hours earlier Inda’s parents had been standing in the hall ready to leave for the evening. She instinctively knew they were going someplace special. Laura Jackson’s crisp blue taffeta dress rustled when she moved, her sleek blonde hair pulled back by a gold and diamond clasp. Charles stood in front of the gilt hall mirror in a white linen dinner jacket fiddling with his bow tie trying to make a respectable knot. They hugged and kissed their daughter holding her tight against their chests. Her mother’s fragrance lingered in the air as she ran to the front window waving goodbye.

See you tomorrow, Sugar, they shouted driving off.

Now filled with a terrible dread, Inda sensed they were never coming back.

She crumbled against the wall slowly sliding down to the floor and began to softly cry.

I was told that God needed them more than I did. How could God be so cruel? I was only six years old and He was ancient beyond measure. How could He need them more? I later decided that it must be that our lives are suspended from the slenderest of threads to be fatefully whisked away in the flash of a sunset. I would try to recall those early memories but they were becoming more dulled with the passage of time. I’d pester Lydia to tell me about the accident in an effort to make sense of the senseless.

Oh, Sugar, it was a late Saturday night and they were coming back from a party, Lydia said brushing tears from her cheeks.

What kind of party? What did they do at the party?

They had on their prettiest clothes, dancing and listening to music.

What made them have the accident? Did the car break?

No, Sugar, it was the rain.

Oh, Lydia, I miss them so much. Why did they have to die? I wailed.

Hush, hush, Sugar, I can’t answer that question. I can only imagine it was God’s will. I so miss them, too, Lydia whispered as she hugged me tightly.

The nightmares came in the blackness of the night. They always began with blazing sunshine and a sandy beach littered with small white shells. The deep blue ocean gently lapped the shore and I was building a sand castle. My mother sat close by reading a book, her large brimmed straw hat almost covering her face. Then suddenly the sky turns jet black. The wind began to build blowing mother’s hat off. She starts to chase it running along the beach, but the wind is too strong, tossing it into the mounting waves. The howling winds and pounding surf become as one, forming a tsunami that threatens to engulf us. I panic and scream and scream calling for mother, but I can’t see or hear her. And at that precise moment when all hope is lost and fear is at its greatest, Lydia gathers me in her arms to cradle and soothe my trembling body.

Sitting on the bedside she softly sang, stroking my hair and brow, wiping my tears away. Many times I awoke to find her curled up beside me. Sometimes she told stories about Savannah to try and push the nightmares away.

Tell me about the pirates again, I begged.

But Sugar you’ve heard it so many times.

I know, but I want the one about Blackbeard.

Blackbeard it is.

Plumping up my pillows she pulled the satin slipper chair close to the bed. Satisfied that I was suitably tucked in she would begin.

Well, Blackbeard, the fiercest pirate who ever lived, had this long black beard that came up to his eyes. With his hat pulled so low over his brow all you could see were his blood-shot eyes, which made him even scarier!

Did he really have a secret tunnel under the Old Pirates House Restaurant? I blurted out impatiently.

Absolutely! It was pitch-black and narrow with hordes of rats with sharp yellowy-brown teeth and red beady eyes hiding and watching in the dark. The tunnel was so low that the men bumped their heads on the overhead beams covered with curtains of spider webs as they made their way to the waterfront.

I shivered at the thought of those sharp teeth and luminous floating eyes, forgetting for a moment about my own tragedy. I thought, instead, of the poor hapless seamen and the terror waiting for them at the end of the tunnel.

Lydia continued, It was used by all of the ship’s captains when they needed more crew members. It was a dangerous business and if they couldn’t find volunteers, they would shanghai them.

What’s shanghai?

It’s taking someone against their will, like kidnapping.

But wouldn’t they yell and fight and try to get away?

Yes, but it wasn’t that easy. The sailors were too intent on having a good time, drinking way too much grog and bragging of their high seas adventures. When they passed out, that’s when they were dragged down into the rum cellar under the inn floor and through the tunnel to Blackbeard and his waiting ship. He paid five dollars in gold for each man which was a great deal of money back then. The sailors were given a choice of joining the pirates or having their throats cut and thrown overboard.

And at that point Lydia would signal the end for one night with hugs, kisses, and, Sleep tight, don’t let the bedbugs bite.

It took many stories for Lydia to chase the demons away and bring peace to my dark world. Nor did the light of day rescue me from this blanket of anxiety and panic. When Lydia left the house, she usually took me with her. If she couldn’t, Cora would take over guiding me into her kitchen and draping an apron over me. Together we’d bake biscuits or a cake. Lydia would come home to find me with a flour smudged face and a big smile. It was wonderful therapy and it worked.

Cora always said, Doin’ is better than talkin’.

When I started school and met Jordan, who became my best friend, things began to really change and the dread burned off. I became a happy little girl once again. I began to trust life.

And so it all began in Savannah, a city so full of charm and hospitality that General Sherman refused to burn it down to the ground on his march through Georgia during the Civil War.

After the funeral I went to live with my grandmother, Lydia Graham Jackson, who I always addressed as Lydia. She was brought up straight and true when character and manners counted above all else. A member of Savannah society she could trace her blood lines back to the original plantation owners and revolutionary citizens with each generation serving as governors, senators, and generals in the service of their state and country. The Grahams were an important part of the political and social fabric of Savannah and our name was held in high esteem.

Lydia always said, Inda Jackson, your good name is a great treasure. It’s the first thing that you enter this world with and the last you leave with. You must never let it tarnish.

My earliest recollection of Lydia was of a ring that she always wore. It must have been as important as her wedding rings because she never took it off. She wore it on her middle finger next to them. When the light caught it just so, the sparkle was enough to blind you with all those rubies and sapphires encrusted in the gold band. She told me it came from a faraway land and possessed great magic.

Where did you get it? I demanded to know. Who gave it to you? Grandfather?

No, it wasn’t grandfather.

Oh pretty please, let me try it on, Lydia, I constantly begged.

If I take it off it will lose all its magic powers. Besides, your fingers are too small.

How do you know the magic will go away? What if it won’t?

But if I’m right the magic will be lost forever and you wouldn’t want that to happen, would you, Inda?

No, but….

And then Lydia would give me a stern look and that would be the end of discussion. I’d scamper off to think about the ring and make up stories about the mysterious person who gave it to her and where that faraway land might be.

We are the remaining leaves on our family tree. Lydia’s brother Teddy, husband Marshall, and my parents were the last to be buried in the Bonaventure Cemetery where so many of our ancestors already rest. The seventy-acre cemetery lies three miles out of town along the Wilmington River shaded by two hundred and fifty year old moss laden oaks. Savannah has endured great fires, yellow fever epidemics, and two wars with many of her dead lying within these gentle confines. The unusual tombstones and mausoleums dot the landscape creating a surreal city of the dead.

The air is heavy from the perfume of the dogwoods, magnolias, camellias, and azaleas while the sun streaming through the trees glances off the tombstones. Winged angels, miniature Grecian and Aztec temples, towering granite spheres, a whimsical black and white marble baby grand piano, and stones simply engraved Our Mother mark final resting places.

One of the most poignant markers is for little Gracie Watson who died of pneumonia in 1889, two days before Easter at six years of age. The grieving family erected a life-sized sculpture made from white Georgia marble. She sits in her Easter finery with hands on lap, ankles crossed and long hair spilling onto her shoulders looking out from behind the black iron fence. Visitors to the cemetery claim to hear her sobbing and further swear to have seen tears glistening on her frozen marble face.

The equally noted bronze sculpture, Bird Girl, did not have such a romantic or tragic pedigree as little Gracie. She was a garden statue that appealed to the Trosdal family who installed her on their family plot. Head tilted to one side with out stretched arms, she held two shallow bowls supposedly to feed the birds. Becoming too much of an attraction after she ended up on a popular book cover, she was removed to the Telfair Museum for her own protection.

This nether world of beauty and allure has become a favorite tourist destination. The haunted ghost tours come nightly by candlelight to walk the grounds peering into the dark and listening for little Gracie’s weeping. We must feel some sort of kinship for those who lie beneath us as we stand by their graves and try to imagine their stories of love and death, triumph and tragedy. Here, death never seemed so pleasant.

Lydia and I made regular visits mixing in with the flow of tourists. After we placed flowers and paid our respects it was inevitable that I would wander among the other headstones reading the inscriptions. Some would be obscure, some would be funny, and some would be sad and wistful. They all told something about who was sleeping under the ground which was mostly all of the great families of Savannah. Lydia knew every one and would tell me stories of their adventures and follies. The Bonaventure was a great big three dimensional history book.

I would ask, Why do we come here? and she would answer, Because it’s important to remember and honor our kin. It’s a tradition, and traditions remind us of who we are. It’s the glue of our society.

Lydia was a great story teller and deemed it important that I should know about our family beginnings which also paralleled the history of Georgia.

She would say, If you want to know who you are, you have to know where you’ve come from.

But what if you were an orphan or adopted? I questioned.

Then that would be a different situation. You could make up your own history. You could come from royalty and be a princess or your ancestors could have been pirates like Blackbeard.

Our story began in 1733 when the English General, James Oglethorpe, came down the Savannah River landing his ship, The Ann, by the Yamacraw Bluff. In Lydia’s telling I could feel the fear of those apprehensive passengers shifting uneasily on the deck with pistols stuck in their leather belts, hands at the ready. The site of a band