The Soul’S Famine

By A.T. Haessly

Mary Olamuk begins her life in the trying times of South Africa's Apartheid. Having little, her family is taken in by a successful businessman. Mr. Hemingston becomes her surrogate father. She takes it upon herself to follow the teachings of the Hemingstons and her idolized brother until the innocence of youth is torn from her hands.

She loses much in her lifetime, but still she continues to strive for her dream of becoming a doctora healer to those in need regardless of color or class. All was on track, but fate often places us on another road.

Her life is taken from her, yet death does not keep her. Years pass, the world changes, and the youth slumbers. She is risen from her rest to the life of a developing Horseman.

Angels, demons, and false priests will all play a role in the metamorphosis of Mary, the sister of Conquest and War . She will find her place in the world as the bringer of pestilence and plagues. She must adventure down the path the universe has set for her for her grand becoming.

Famine will ride.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jun 9, 2017
• ISBN: 9781524658380

A.T. Haessly

I am from the state of Wisconsin, USA. I have studied writing throughout my years of schooling and, in all those years, have assisted in the production of these stories. Writing was simply a hobby but quickly became something more. Friends and family have helped me get this far, and without them, I would not have succeeded. I’ve combined my ever-growing style of writing with my vivid imagination to fabricate these novels. My works possess spiritual and moral ideals. I write for both entertainment and consideration. I intend them to be read with an open mind. I believe that opening our minds to these topics will better us; it will better humanity.

Book preview

Chapter 1

M y story is one that is unique to the Horsemen (at least to those before me). I did not transform at the loss of a loved one. I did not become what I am today by making a deal. I did not lose my mind—though darkness had found its way into me. I was forced into this position; this curse that has become my bles sing.

I will not say I have always felt lucky for having this bestowed upon me. I have hated the Creator. I have hated those that follow the words of the Great Powers. I have killed for no more reason than vengeance and pleasure, but this is not me any longer. Let us begin my story.

Born in South Africa, my mother raised my older brother and me by herself; my father was killed shortly after my birth by foreigners. I was named after a woman of days long gone because my mother believed it to be beautiful. Mary, the name she always found so pretty.

But the time we lived in was harsh; our people had become subject to the rules of a foreign land. In 1953 my mother was allowed to move us into the township of Soweto. All of this happened because the men with light skin decided we were less; that we were barely humans. They called the segregation and its laws the Apartheid; though it should have been named appropriately—Discrimination and Hatred.

This discrimination would destroy many of my people, but I must say not all of these white men were evil. A man, Tucker Hemingston, would one day see my mother and her two children at the market trying to scrounge up enough food for the three of us. A larger man with white hair and a friendly smile; a bear of a man. He was not one to tell us we were less because of darker skin. To him, it was only the substance of one’s character that spoke of their worth.

He offered my mother a job taking care of his home while I was still three years old; his home near the edge of Soweto closest to the center of Johannesburg. How could my mother refuse? A white man, in a time of ignorance and hate, took in families and paid them well for simple jobs; even offering smaller houses beside his own as shelter for those who would work for him.

I remember little of those days or the reason we caught his eye, but I will never forget what he’d done for us.

He took good care of us.

My brother and I were allowed to play as we wished. Dubula kept me busy for hours while our mother handled her duties. We would run through the fields and toss simple balls to one another. He was my best friend, and what better ways to spend your time than with someone you love?

Mother would clean Mrs. Hemingston’s clothes with a smile while sharing pleasant conversation with the lady of the house. A few other families were also under Mr. Hemingston’s employment and care. He was a kind man.

Dubula was ten when we moved into the care of the Hemingstons. It seemed a society all its own. Years would go by like this. The world of hatred and discrimination would fade from my young eyes. Mr. Hemingston said that all the children of the families he cared for should attend school, and so my brother and I would walk with the others to our classes each day with smiles on our faces. The small building gave me hope.

The teacher was an African woman who said she had learned many things from the men and women from other countries, and we would in turn learn each of those topics and courses as we grew. Dubula was so much smarter than I was. Even though he had never truly been schooled he was given special books by our teacher because he would finish his work so fast. What she never knew was he finished all his work while helping me finish mine as well. I loved him. Ever friend and family member was treasured. I adored the Hemingstons for giving us such a life.

I learned of the world both in class and at home; though the majority that stuck with me was the knowledge I gained within the walls of the Hemingstons’ home. Mr. Hemingston would always be home. He said his foundry could run well enough without him being there (often smoother without his meddling, he’d say). He loved to play with the children and talk with them. I so enjoy seeing the light of realization in their eyes, I heard him say to my mother once.

As I grew, my family took to the ideals of Mr. Hemingston. He had a voice of a lion; and the heart of one to boot. He spoke of a God that watched us from high above. He spoke of a son that was given life amongst humans, and he would later give his life that we would be saved in the life to come. I always liked his fables, but Dubula and my mother would take these teachings to heart. At the age of ten, I did not truly understand these concepts.

Dubula loved to discuss such ideas and religion with Mr. Hemingston. Mr. Hemingston saw promise in my brother, even at the age of seventeen, that he offered him a job managing his foundry. Dubula accepted promptly and anxiously, but first he had to attend two years of special schooling at a local college for white students.

Dubula would continue smiling as he would leave for the bus stop early in the morning each day. I would walk with the other children to my classes, but I missed him. My brother was the foremost reason I did so well in school. He would always help me out when he returned from his own schooling, and for that I was thankful; though the teacher realized that all of those answers I had given in class when called upon had truly come from my brother’s mouth.

The world I had grown in had changed from suffering universe to a plentiful garden. I was happy in my ignorance. I had a family, food, shelter, clothes, friends, schooling, fresh water, and a chance at life. But this world was shattered one day when Dubula came home with an unusual smile. A smile that still shined, but a shine that reflected red as blood flooded his mouth and swollen eyes blocked his vision.

I sat in the room where my mother and the Hemingstons took care of my brother. Mr. Hemingston even called the local doctor to come and treat Dubula, but when the doctor came and saw my brother he turned to the master of the house and pulled him aside. They walked away from the group that tried to take care of Dubula; though he said he was alright.

How he smiled as the blood flowed from his puckered lips.

Mr. Hemingston told everyone to hold on a moment while he spoke with the doctor. He walked by where I stood near the door and nodded to me with frustration in his eyes. I had always seen him as a white giant with a loving nature, but at this moment I saw anger I had never known. He marched with shoulders back and jaw locked. His hand brushed through my hair as he tried to comfort me, but I felt the rage that trembled his sure fingers.

Through the cracked door I heard why anger existed within such a peaceful man. I can’t treat him.

What do you mean you can’t treat him? You’re a doctor, aren’t you? Or did you mean to say you can’t treat a black man? If that’s the case, then you aren’t a very good doctor. Mr. Hemingston was poking the doctor’s chest with each of those last words.

The doctor nervously laughed at this, I simply don’t believe I should be the one to treat him. I have many other, He looked away from the fiery eyes of Mr. Hemingston, patients that I need to keep business with.

I hope you do not regret this decision, doctor; a term which I use very loosely. Mr. Hemingston walked toward the door where I stood. I quickly ducked back against the wall as though I had not been eavesdropping. Mr. Hemingston turned for a final insult, I will make sure that these children here take that position away from you and every other fool in this country. Now get the hell out of my house, you lowly son of a bitch. The doctor quickly darted for the door at those last threats of Mr. Hemingston.

What’s the matter? I couldn’t pretend I had not heard this; pretend that I had not just heard my brother was being denied treatment for no other reason than his skin color.

Mr. Hemingston froze at hearing my voice in the doorway. I heard a cough to clear a swelling throat and a large arm run over the face that was not looking toward me. When he turned around to answer me his eyes had lost all of the anger, but even more passion was present within.

What do you want to do when you grow up?

What do I want to do? I looked through the door and saw the bloody cloths that had been used to clean my brother’s wounds. No one would come to his aid that had the knowledge of how to truly treat him. No one would help the man who’d helped me most of my life. I knew then what I wanted to do, I want to be a doctor that helps everyone.

A powerful laugh boomed from the large man that was Mr. Hemingston, A doctor you say? Interesting. He knelt down to look me straight in the eyes, "You will help everyone? Make sure those who deserve help are given it? You will do what is right for this world? I nodded quickly, Then I will make sure a doctor is what you become."

Am I smart enough to do that? I remember being worried that I’d fail without my brother in the room with me.

A light chuckle sounded out in the hallway, You are a smart young girl, Mary. He smiled and moved a hand to cover his left breast, "Only those who think without their heart and mind are stupid. Do you think you’re stupid?"

I shook my head, I just think my heart is stronger than my brain.

He laughed and threw those large arms around me to lift me up into the air for a bear hug. I giggled along with him as he carried me into the next room where the families still were trying to treat my brother. Dubula smiled at me and waved off any more help; saying it will be better in the morning.

All was fine from then on; at least for a while. Dubula would go back to school and finish out his two years. He would go on to manage parts of the foundry under Mr. Hemingston’s leadership. I was thirteen when my brother took that position at the foundry; two years of schooling and a few months of learning the basics of the company. Mr. Hemingston threw a party for Dubula on earning his place in the company. Many of the workers were there, but the majority didn’t seem as happy as the rest of us.

Near the end of the party Mr. Hemingston made an announcement, This man here, Dubula. He pointed to my brother who smiled back with appreciation, I am thankful for all you have done and all of the effort you have given to succeed; getting you to where you are today. He looked out over the workers and families at the party, I want to announce that since I have no children of my own, He looked down to his wife and rubbed her shoulder. She looked up with a smile and brushed his hand with her own. She returned a nod, I want to announce that in the event of my retirement or inability to continue running the company, Mr Hemingston walked closer to my brother and pulled from his pocket a silvery chain with a shining cross at the end, Dubula will become the new head of Hemingston Metals.

The crowd cheered and yelled as friends congratulated and clapped for my brother as he thanked Mr. Hemingston and put the cross around his neck. What a great day for him.

I remember that smile—that same lively grin. His friendly and bright disposition shined at the center of that party. Even with the unpleasant scars marking his lips and the left side of his face, that smiles out sparkled even the silver about his neck.

But not all were happy at hearing this.

Wouldn’t it be expected that you should hear a tale that ends happily, yet this is only the beginning. It would be a shame if there wasn’t development, or at the very least some sort of existential, rhetorical point to be made. This story has not reached its peak, but instead it had found its beginning.

Hatred takes over, and we see the innocent and hardworking driven down into the same pits of slag to wallow with the common animals that dare call themselves human. Instead of following suit, these beasts will tear us down. All that humanity has accomplished and all that we have become can be washed away against the tides of time; all it takes is the hands and voices of the weak minded and spirited to demand that their twisted sense of justice be followed absolute.

A year, one month, two weeks, and three days had gone by since that announcement. I was fourteen as that cross of silver fell into my hands. I was fourteen when the smile I had known all my life, a smile that brightened my life, was gone from the world. I watched in the rain as a wooden casket was lowered into the ground labeled with a stone that possessed my brother’s name.

I held back my tears so that my mother could release hers. My hands were gently placed on her back to comfort her, but tears fell harder than the rain that day to soak that casket as it was placed into its final resting place. Mr. Hemingston had an angel statue carved for the tombstone; an angel that stood about his height. This angel prayed with her eyes facing the sky above my brother; a prayer that would do nothing. I took the cross in my hand and threw it into the hole. What good had it done? What good had those years of belief and discussion done? In the end, my brother had died at the hands of those unprosecuted workers that couldn’t handle a black man above them. This world was full of hatred; and I was now part of it.

This veil had been violently removed from my eyes. The world was filled with cruelties that I had only been part of before my mind could fathom the importance of other’s actions. All because things we can’t control… all because of stupidity we see our entire race hindered.

The rain would continue to fall for the rest of that day. When everyone else was gone I still stood over the filled hole that held my brother—kept me from being close to my only real friend in life.

Dubula, I choked on the words as the rain covered my tears, What do I do now? I turned around to that angel above him. She looked so sad. What do I do? He trusted you. What do I do? I waited for an answer that never came in my human life. The angel just kept her eyes toward the sky, Answer me damn it! I kicked at the stone and pounded my fist against its mass. No words came from above or the angel that stood before me. What do I do, brother?

I rested my head against the stone and sobbed. The Earth had claimed my brother and left me to suffer. The rain did not soothe or comfort me, but when I opened my eyes I saw the engraving at the angel’s feet; beneath crimson flowers placed in his memory. Follow your heart and smile always. Below that was his name, but reading it only sent me into a further rage and depression. I fell to the ground and cried where my brother rested, my world shattered.

Chapter 2

M r. Hemingston died shortly after my brother had at the hands of a local gang of black men; proof no side was safe in the endless war of ignor ance.

After word got out that many white men had killed a successful black man and received no punishment there was a sudden increase of violent groups in the area. Mr. Hemingston would be shot on his way to the foundry one morning, but as the doctor treated his injuries he asked for me. He and his wife would be waiting for me on his deathbed.

I remember his question, Do you still wish to be a doctor?

He had a cross around his neck, and I had never noticed it until that moment he laid in his bed awaiting the reaper, I do.

A smile like that of my brother came to him, My wife will continue to make sure you are schooled. Promise me you will follow that dream; follow your heart.

I began to cry. This wasn’t fair. The two strongest figures in my life were gone. His last words were telling me to follow my heart. To do what was right. That damn cross around his neck. Tears fell from my eyes as his wife sobbed over his body. I stayed with her that whole day and made sure she would be alright, and for the years that followed she would take care of me and my mother. The other families moved on, but my mother and I stayed with Mrs. Hemingston and helped her with the home. At her gracious offer, I continued schooling to fulfill my promise to become a doctor and treat those who needed it… who deserved it.

It was a new world, one that had developed within the entirety of Johannesburg. Violence had increased, gangs ran rampant as slums enlarged in population and territory. I walked through major streets to and from my special classes even though it took longer than the back roads because those streets would surely be dangerous—even more so at night.

One night I would arrive back to the large home of Mrs. Hemingston; a home she now shared with my mother and me. We all lived so well together and loved each other’s company, but those two were far too religious for me. I would arrive home to the two older women reading passages from that damned book and discussing their views on it. It was nice to hear intelligent conversation, but I wish I heard different topics at times.

The years we lived with Mrs. Hemingston would be full of her and my mother reading passages to me and shoving those ideals down my throat. Each sentence plucked at deep strings of hatred as I remembered that silvery cross that rested six feet in the ground beneath the praying angel.

Through the large doors I walked and into the parlor where a fire was already living and warming the house. The two older women sat across from one another sharing ideas on more of the holy word; as I said, it was a favorite pastime for them. The foundry ran itself as Mr. Hemingston had said, and weekly payments fueled their unending conversations and appetite for tea.

Delight thyself also in the LORD, my mother began, but I would quickly end her sentence before she could finish the line.

and He shall give thee the desires of thine heart. I gripped my chest and walked to the seat next to Mrs. Hemingston. Both women looked at me with slightly cocked heads and narrowed eyes as though I were a child who said something foolish.

No need to give such negative connotation to these teachings, Mary. Mrs. Hemingston waved a hand at me while the other moved toward her cup of tea on her right side. I remember the fire roaring behind her, but between the two older women.

I see no reason not to. I was never truly cruel with them, but I was not as accepting of these teachings as they would have hoped. I choose to question the physical world around me. My mother leaned closer to me and I mirrored her movements to take the cup of tea she had offered me, Those who believe are better off spending more time taking charge of their own lives than asking an invisible power to solve their problems. I took a sip; I remember delicious tea with honey as my mother had always made. People praying for success or for their problems to be solved sounds like the story of wishing with a monkey’s paw. Better to help yourself and make it easy on the old man.

That is a good point, but we should not ask for God to simply make life easy or to take away our problems. We should ask Him to help us solve them ourselves, my mother looked to me over her cup, Mary, who gave birth to God changed the world and followed His word.

I am named after a woman that was impregnated by one people’s God and had her son sent to die for them, but they are in no better shape in our world than those of our country.

Mary! My mother gasped at my response.

The Jews are those that did not follow his teachings, Mrs. Hemingston entered the debate.

So, this God would be vengeful against those who suffered for praising Him for centuries? Simply because they did not all follow one man’s teachings they would be forced a hell in this life and one in the next? Another sip hid my smile.

No one knows what truly awaits us when we die, Mrs. Hemingston retorted. Perhaps it is the Jews that will run Heaven. Maybe it will be the Hindus or the natives of these lands. Maybe my years of devil’s advocate had broken through to her.

So only one group can run Heaven? I laughed a bit at this idea, Did your god lose it in a game of cards to another?

I thought God was your god as well. My mother questioned me. No one in that room was angry or held spite; for that I was thankful. It was as it should be—friendly debating.

People often forget the spiritual exercise of debating and resort, instead, to argue with vile tongues. Words meant to be intellectual and convincing turn to poison in their own mouths. These people infect the world like a depressing plague.

Perhaps there is an old man in the sky, or perhaps we are all simply a miracle of matter and evolution. I shrugged with another sip of the wonderful tea, Men kill each other every day in the name of their god, and yet not a single god has come down to put an end to it or congratulated those who won in his name. Either these gods do not care how humanity acts, or they are pulling the strings from far beyond with a sinister smile on their faces.

Or God will let us handle ourselves. As you said, Mary, Mrs. Hemingston pointed out, God will stay out of things while we handle ourselves. It can’t harm us to simply ask for a bit of help along this long journey, can it? She shot me a smile that acknowledged my defeat. I wasn’t angry or anything like it. I loved learning, and as I grew I became as smart as my deceased brother had always been.

What a thought. Thank you two for the talk and tea. With a bow and a final drink I walked toward my room. That night went by easy. I remember sleeping well. The morning after would be the start of a new life for me.

Don’t go! I remember mother saying to me as I walked out that next night to go and learn more of medicine. She kept telling me throughout the day that she had a dream in which my name rested beside that of my brother; the angel of stone praying for both of us.

Now the God above us talks to you? I scoffed at her. All day I remember telling her to calm down and that everything was fine.

Around six at night I would take my journey to the college across the township. Through the main streets I would walk to avoid any gangs or ruffians. The foundry stood halfway between the house and college, but down a perpendicular road to the main streets. Across town and by the cemetery I walked; even across the distance of the vast grounds one could still see the praying angel of stone from the roads. A far distance away, but still clear where my brother was laying.

I continued on my path and went to class, and nothing happened. I learned what I needed and wanted. Around ten o’clock I set back for home, but this time I remember something catching my eye. Walking back down the main road I looked over to the dark cemetery where I couldn’t hope to see the angel in the darkness, but something out there was lit. It was too dark to see the angel of stone, but in its area was a small flicker of light.

While gangs and the violent men of the area may attack on the streets it seemed that all understood the graveyards were to be left alone. Let the dead rest seemed to be a common law of the warring parties. So across the grass and dirt I walked. It was a clear night, but it smelled as though it would rain. It was warm and dark. I made sure to keep clear of stepping over someone in the ground as a sign of respect.

Walking by crosses and symbols of more local beliefs, I kept on my path. The angel of stone was just ahead of me. When I came to stand at her feet, tears fell to the ground where my brother rested. Hanging from the angel’s hands that were held together to the sky swung a silvery chain with a cross; one that looked exactly the same as the one Mr. Hemingston and Dubula wore. It swung like a pendulum above his grave, but it didn’t shimmer as it once did around his neck because of the chunks of dirt that were stuck in the open links of the chain.

Who put this here? I lifted a hand to grab it from the angel, and as I did something grabbed my ankle.

I jumped and turned around, but no one was there. I know I felt something, but no one was around me. My eyes fell to the ground at my feet where the grass was undisturbed. I turned back to the angel and grabbed the chain; snatching it away from the stone guardian and ran. Quickly, my legs carried me over the cemetery grounds and back onto the main road.

Panting, I examined the cross in my hand. Dull and dirty; still a beautiful reminder of my brother. I may not have been religious, but at least for my brother I would keep it. I should never have thrown his away, and who ever left it there must have wanted someone to have it. I slipped it over my head and looked down to see it rest softly against my chest.

Back down the street I walked. Soon, I was walking pass the street that held the foundry where my brother use to work.

This is where it happened.

A whistle from down the street and in the shadows. A few voices cackled and whispered as they came closer.

Hello. A taller and built man I have seen around town throughout my life walked closer to me. I remember reading in the paper that he was the leader of local gang, but nothing could keep him in prison for more than a few months at a time. Many believed it was his gang that killed Mr. Hemingston (hard to believe he survived as long as he did in the unforgiving lands of our country).

I kept my eyes down and kept walking. I said hello. Another man walked in front of me, but he was about my height. He had no shirt on and because of that I could see he was much stronger than I.

I believe the man is talking to you. The man in front of me pointed back to the group’s leader. She isn’t very polite is she, Baruti? That was definitely him; I remember that name. He was all over the papers for months after Mr. Hemingston’s murder. I found it a wonder that the man stayed just beyond the reach of the law that was so willing to hang.

No, she isn’t. Why don’t we teach her how to be a polite, little woman. He moved closer and paused as he took a closer look at me. I wanted to keep moving, but soon twelve men were surrounding me and keeping me still so that Baruti could look me over. You live with that Hemingston bitch, don’t you? Those damn liars? After all they’ve done? All they took from us? What they did to him?! Don’t you?! He pointed at me with narrowed eyes as he rambled off his aggressive questioning.

I need to go. I’m very sorry, I tried to back up but one of the men gave me a gentle push forward with his crossed arms to assure me that I wasn’t going anywhere.

You do! He laughed and with him the other men joined in, And what do we have here? He leaned in closer and grabbed the cross from around my neck. With a quick yanking it was in his hands and released from me. You’re a Christian? He looked down his nose at me while his fist gripped the silver tightly.

No, I’m not. My brother use to wear one just like it. It wasn’t really a lie, but he didn’t accept it.

With a nod the men all moved in closer, Do you know what we do to the white men’s dogs? I was scared. I was alone, and I knew how this was going to end. Had I not grabbed that blasted necklace or even seen it from across the graveyard I would have avoided these men by minutes. I would have grown up with my mother and Mrs. Hemingston. Instead I shivered while the large man leaned in next to me and whispered, We put them down.

A heavy blow came across the back of my head. For a few minutes I blacked out, but quickly awoke to find myself being dragged backwards by my arms into the foundry garage doors. The heavy metal slid down and rattled as they locked the door to my escape.

Releasing me, I was dropped on my head by two of the men. I remember hearing the maniacal laughing from the group while I stared at the lit ceiling where a few overhead lights shined down. This place has been deserted for a few years since the death of its owner, and yet they had the lights still working. Their dim den was the fallen empire of the king they had murdered.

Who wants this one, boys? Baruti, spun and rallied his men while I tried to focus on my surroundings. I was helpless. Needed a way out, but I couldn’t find any escape besides the large doors they had locked when I was forced inside.

I could use it. The man that had blocked me from walking past the group stepped forward and cracked his knuckles. The lights reflected off of his sweaty torso and made each muscle very pronounced. Not many people had the food or nutrients to even survive, yet these men were all in shape. I feared what they had done to achieve such physiques, but what they were about to do weighed heavier on my mind.

I tried to crawl away, but as I moved toward the door I felt another grip around my ankle. This one pulled at me and dragged me back toward the middle of the large room’s floor. I tried to get away and fight him, but he was far too strong for me. Tools and abandoned equipment lay all across this room, but not a single utensil was close enough for me to grab and turn into a weapon.

A heavy hand fell across my face and forced my skull against the cement below. My brain scrambled, I tried to find the man through double vision.

Don’t resist. That’ll only end in more pain. All the men laughed at his sick humor.

I tried to struggle. He jumped on top of me and held my wrists down to the floor. I couldn’t oppose him, but I tried as hard as I could to kick or bite him, but, when I tried to sink teeth in his flesh, he slammed his forehead into mine; sending my head back into the cold floor. The room was blurry, and I could only feel him continue touching me with his lips.

My shirt was torn open. The flaps of fabric fell to my side and allowed his bare skin to press against mine. The nausea of my discombobulating was only increased by the absolute surety of what he was going to do. What I was unable to stop.

Help was all I wanted. I was yelling in my head, "Brother! God?! Where are you?!"

Get her, Fenyang! Hemingston whore!

His hands grabbed at my breasts; rough hands left immediate bruising. My body ached. My eyes flooded over with more tears, but it did me no good. My resistance only broke his concentration for a moment.

I said stop! His right hand left my waistline where it planted itself into my left temple. I coughed as more wounds opened up, more air escaped me, and more hope faded.

Oh! Damn.

His overzealous hands continued to trace my entire body. One hand would pull at my simple pants which opened easily. I tried to plead, but the muffled slur of words brought another hand across my face. The revolting, wet kisses continued to fall across my flesh.

Don’t let… no! I couldn’t hear well over the yelling and the blood rushing to my ears.

Lying… Put her down!

He… for this?

Dubu… Damn them! Damn… all!

They all just yelled and egged him on. I tried to look around for something, but I couldn’t see straight. I had noticed; however, that I was shuffling our masses closer to one of the work benches. Mostly in attempt to defend against his final goal, I had kept on squirming.

When or how I got closer, I didn’t care. Anything hard, sharp, or simply deadly would do. I bucked my hips and threw my right hand outward and broke his grip for a second. My hand hit one leg of the table, but within a second his hand was right back around my wrist and holding me down.

Reality was fading from the blows to my head. I could feel the dust of the abandoned building mingle with the warm blood dripping from my wounds—a warm muddy sensation on the nape of my neck.

With all I had my body persisted to resist. My bare torso did not concern me, but the warm sensation of his hands prying my legs open drove me insane. I could feel the fight paralleling my consciousness. Innocence, all I had left, would have been stolen from me if not for the benefits of my struggle.

With my hands open and palms up I felt something fall into my right hand, and for this I am thankful.

I don’t know what exactly it was, but it was cold and metal. It was thin and strong. Enough energy was in me to buck upward one more time with fading vision. However, my right hand didn’t pull away. Instead it charged forward. It thrust straight into the side of the head that assaulted me. I couldn’t see much through hazy vision, but in my groggy state I could feel the warm liquid leak over my hand and onto my body.

That warm liquid rushed over my naked stomach to create a stream of a fresh spring that would ripple over the floor. Only drops had been taken from me, but in my final moments I had taken payment by spilling all that he had.

Gurgling echoed in my ears; a sound I still hear at times, but when I look back on it I smile. That bastard was let off far too easily. But, back to the story. My assailant fell against my body—this time motionless.

No more unwanted kisses. The hand that was against the crevice of my thighs couldn’t lift itself to hold back the flowing red, but instead twitched madly against my body. Innocence may not have been stolen, but it was surely lost that day.

Yelling continued. I heard men swear at me and heavy feet hitting the floor like a stampede. Get that bitch up!

I pushed the corpse off of me and struggled to crawl backwards; to escape. I didn’t get too far before a multitude of hands grabbed me and heaved me to my feet. The metal tool in my hand tried to find another body to plant itself in, but my right hand was one of the first things secured. The tool was ripped from my hand and thrown to the ground with a metallic ringing.

Baruti walked toward me while the other men held me still. I could barely see him, but his large form was too difficult to mistake even in my dizzy state. His large hand grabbed me, thumb on one cheek and his fingers on the other, squeezing my face and holding me still.

His massive hand fit around my head easily. His hand a vice like the iron within the abandoned building. This iron; however, smelt potently of fresh feces and aged sweat.

You want to meet your God, right? His body was turned sideways while he yelled in my face. His hand let go of my face so that I fell to gaze at no particular one thing.

I couldn’t look up. It was as though weights were hung around my neck—a heavy chain resting around my shoulders.

Look at me when I talk, a backhand swing shot my head back over my shoulders. Blood continued to flow. I couldn’t see it, but the warmth escaped me to flow quickly over my lips.

His hand reclaimed my skull in a tight hold.

I’ll let you meet Him. I’ll let you see the great man in the sky that those fucking Hemingstons put in people’s heads. he paused to laugh with the men that held me still with hands all over my body. But sadly, he paused and looked away from me. He snapped his head around and with it came his other hand. Vision left me, and I could feel warmth flow over my face, you won’t see Him.

My eyes were cut through the center, my nose separated horizontally, and the socket bones were cut apart. The knife which cut through me would be my goal; that someday I would have my vengeance. I was let go; all of those hands released their grips so that I fell to the ground below.

Fluids fell over my face, the liquid that once assisted my sight found its way into my lips (which parted in an attempt to cry out). The watery and thick rivers mixed to create a metallic, sour syrup that choked me further.

I couldn’t scream or yell, but I wanted a savior. I wanted someone to pick me up, I wanted my brother back. I desired those simpler times of innocence. All had shattered in such hastened time.

All aspects of that life had left me.

I now lived in pain where once pleasure had thrived. I now understood abandonment where once pleasant conversation gave me hope. For all I had learned and tried to ascertain in life, I felt something else take me over in my final moments.

I knew pure hatred.

A great man died because of the Hemingstons, and now we’ll take more of them every day. Hope Heaven accepts our kind, the men all laughed at their leader’s sick humor. I heard what sounded like a metal spring click. I knew what it was, but I didn’t want to believe it.

With my final breath, I could only scream as fear and hatred bled from me.

Then the gun went off.

Chapter 3

P ain, blinding light, and rushing air were all I could sense at the moment I woke up. Coughing and gagging, I spit out the dirt from my mouth. Where w as I?

I was panicking; I remember the feeling of fright and swinging my arms to find a release. My waist was still stuck and my legs unable to move.

I screamed. No warm liquid flowed over my face, and I was going blind, it seemed, by the bright light in my face. I screamed more and more with growing confusion and frustration.

Adjusting eyes fine-tuned themselves to show me the yellowing grass that lifted toward the sun between my dirty fingers. I needed to get out. Get out of danger, but with more examination I saw only a green field with stones surrounding my yellow patch. A field I knew already. A field of stones that existed solely to remember.

No, my lips were dry and the word almost didn’t sound right to me. The greens of the field were brilliant, but when I glanced down I saw I was stuck in a hole in the ground. More pushing and pulling brought me to sitting within a patch of dying grass amongst the field of flourishing green grass.

I wasn’t in the foundry—clear to me then. I sat in my sea of dead grass looking around at my surroundings. The world was so vivid and bright; much more so than I remembered from my days with my mother and brother, but such a world baffled me. That is, until my eyes lifted from the hole to see the stone figure beyond it.

I lifted my head to the blinding light, covering my eyes with my hand to my forehead, and behind the hole stood a stained and praying angel. A great statue of a somber angel with hands to the sky was erected there, but I didn’t want to believe it. Eyes fell down the figure; stone was damaged and worn as though decades of rain had torn at her hardened clothes and smooth skin. When I came to the names carved in stone I saw the horrifying truth.

Dubula and Mary, siblings set to rest forever.

That bullet had sent me to my grave; a grave I had just broken out of and crawled to the bright world above. I looked back at my last moments. All the moments tied together in my head to create the sadistic tale; each face of the twelve that had attacked me was fresh in my mind. Those twelve faces were so perfectly defined within my brain even though the night I was attacked I could barely see any of them.

Even being reawakened for only a few minutes, I could tell how I had changed within my grave. My body looked even thinner than it was in life, and when I moved my fingers across my face I could feel the scarred line across my nose and side of my eyes.

A single mark that would forever remind me of my human life, the scar remained after those years in the ground. My wounds had healed and my body changed, yet that tough and slightly discolored skin remained a living relic of the events which brought me to where I am.

What happened? I continued to examine myself while my mind ran through the memories. One of the twelve was dead, and I could see his face as the blood ran from his neck with the screwdriver I was holding buried into his flesh—I couldn’t even see it before but my mind recalled, no, enhanced it. The wound where the metal went in, the way I dug it around and widened the hole so that blood could escape with a rushing force, and even the way the muscles beneath could be seen momentarily as the tool was torn out to unleash the dammed up liquid.

I saw Baruti’s face and his remaining ten men. I didn’t know their names, but my muscles tensed with each new face rolling by my mind’s eye.

I was back. I was back from the dead! I remembered it all! The blade that went by my eyes and the loud bang that sent the bullet into my body; I felt the healed hole in the middle of the cut across my nose. This body had healed itself, and I was back—and absolutely, with a vengeance.

With some hesitance, I pushed against the ground and tried to stand. My muscles were stiff, but I felt as though lifting my weight was as easy as blinking. That first rush of the change was exhilarating. Again, I turned to the great stone angel while flexing and relaxing my fists over and over to feel the power rush through them.

What do I do next?

The angel didn’t answer me, of course, but for the second time in my life I saw dull silver shining from around the hands of the angel. A lot had happened in such a short time, and I know this may be a rushed story, but I feel it is important to get to the point. The importance of that necklace wasn’t known to me then; none the less, I took the dulled chain from the angel’s hands and placed it over my head.

Looking down I noticed my burial dress was one of my mother’s favorites in my wardrobe. It was dirty with the stains of my escape and torn around the stomach. It was a simple white gown, but the earthen discoloring seemed to give it some life.

As I said before, I was thin. I felt so small, yet I felt like the great lionesses of the savanna. Convinced by the images of my head, there were things I needed to do. I was to be a lioness, and it was time I got hunting.

I don’t quite know the words for this drive. As with the others, we Horsemen have our flaws. Irrevocable senses of purpose or desire. Perhaps amplified traits we possessed which heightened in our metamorphosis, or perhaps our blessings merely cursed our lives further. From the moment I could think, breathe, and stand I was set on the course.

No matter the cause or reason, I enjoyed it.

That’s right. I didn’t care about the reason or how I came back. I was here and that was enough for me. I knelt and kissed my hand; slowly placing the marked skin upon the ground where the head of my brother rested below. Goodbye brother, I will be back.

I stood and turned toward town. That sense of destiny or purpose leading my newly awakened mind (filled with a thoughtless hope and giddy eagerness).

There were hundreds of new stones in the field of green grass, but the stones I had remembered standing tall were now worn and crumbling. I questioned how long I had been gone. It must have been quite some time for that place to fill the way it did—or that is what I thought in my ignorance of the world’s events.

Before I confronted those beasts which sent me to my grave, I had to see the woman that was forced to burry a husband and two children in one lifetime. One step threw me over the width of three graves. I don’t know whether it was the shock or simply that I was enjoying myself… but I laughed as the shivers shot up my spine at the surprise. I laughed the whole time I ran from the graveyard to the street. No control at that point.

Being newly reborn with such a contrast in physical strength—it’s a thing of beauty. I can’t explain it exactly, but I can say I relished it thoroughly.

When I came to the street I halted. Down the way was the foundry. Each broken window, rusted metal door, and each crumbling stone was visible to me even down the distance of road. One stop wouldn’t hurt.

No one had seen me running; as far as I could tell, but there were people on the street now. I was careful to not draw attention to myself, but that seemed near impossible being dressed in a torn and dirtied white gown.

Walking normally was a difficult task at first. Many people gave me looks as I walked down the street. Each step was taken carefully, and I looked down at my feet to make sure there wouldn’t be any mishaps. I am sure I was quite a sight.

Right, then the left, then back to the right. It was hard to not dash as I had moments ago. While walking, I flickered between my feet and the faces on the street sides. There weren’t many people around me. It seemed however long I had been gone was enough time that most of these streets had died off