The Bones of the Baobab Tree

By Karin Elder

Set in South Carolina, USA, 18th Century.

A story of slaves. Based on fact, embellished in empathy.

Main character Nicholas. Born on a plantation in 1767. Taken from his mother aged seven, by his Masters’ worker Barn, who heads up the boys for the Moloch cult. Nicholas is initiated. Seeds are sown for Nicholas to become a deranged psychotic. He has a penchant for white females.

Khat, delicate, timorous. Shunned by mother and siblings is raised by her grandmother En; a high priestess versed in voodoo. Is En a force for good or evil? Khat is taken, sold to a wealthy plantation owner. With his first wife he was kind, generous, loving. She died in childbirth. He remarried a harridan, a malicious, vindictive woman. Hence: he became a malevolent, obese, caricature, the antithesis of a South Carolina gentleman. Beth the head cook enfolds Khat. Does she influence Nicholas’s and Khat’s destiny?

Is the novel about white oppression and black submission, or does good triumph?

Plucked from their traditional culture in Africa. Pitched into a white culture of manners, finery, folly and frivolity. Their lives could be forever destroyed. Or could they draw on their own native spirit, the supernatural with a tincture of voodoo – to survive?

The topic thought to be stale, even arid. But my story not only touch the heart of human nature. It pierces its very bowels.

“Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage.” Richard Lovelace.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balboa Press UK
• Release date: Aug 4, 2020
• ISBN: 9781982281861

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Copyright © 2020 Karin Elder.

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intent of the author is only to offer information of a general nature to help you

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the author and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Cover artworks by Ian Bell

ISBN: 978-1-9822-8185-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-8187-8 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-9822-8186-1 (e)

Balboa Press rev. date:   08/04/2020

CONTENTS

My Thankyou’s

Chapter 1   Nicholas

Chapter 2   Khat

Chapter 3   Nicholas

Chapter 4   Khat

Chapter 5   Nicholas

Chapter 6   Khat

Chapter 7   Khat

Chapter 8   Khat

Chapter 9   Khat

Chapter 10   Khat

Chapter 11   Khat

Chapter 12   Khat

Chapter 13   Khat

Chapter 14   Khat

Chapter 15   Nicholas

Chapter 16   Nicholas

Chapter 17   Nicholas 6

Chapter 18   Nicholas

Chapter 19   Nicholas

Chapter 20   Nicholas

Chapter 21   Nicholas

Chapter 22   Nicholas

Chapter 23   Khat

Chapter 24   Nicholas

Chapter 25   Khat

Chapter 26   Nicholas

Chapter 27   Nicholas

Chapter 28   Nicholas

Chapter 29   Khat

Chapter 30   Beth

Chapter 31   Nicholas

Chapter 32   Khat

Chapter 33   Khat

Chapter 34   Khat

Chapter 35   Nicholas

Chapter 36   Nicholas

Chapter 37   Khat

Chapter 38   Nicholas

Chapter 39   Khat

Chapter 40   Khat

Chapter 41   Nicholas

Chapter 42   Khat

Chapter 43   Khat

Chapter 44   Nicholas

Chapter 45   Nicholas

Chapter 46   Khat And Nelly

Chapter 47   Nicholas

Chapter 48   Khat

Chapter 49   Beth

Chapter 50   Khat

Chapter 51   Nicholas

Chapter 52   Khat

Chapter 53   Beth

Chapter 54   Khat

Chapter 55   Khat

Chapter 56   Nicholas

Chapter 57   Beth

Chapter 58   Khat

Chapter 59   Khat

Chapter 60

Chapter 61   Khat

Chapter 62   Khat

Chapter 63   Beth

Chapter 64   Nicholas

Chapter 65   Clarissa

Chapter 66   Clarissa

Chapter 67   Nicholas

Chapter 68   Nicholas

Chapter 69   Clarissa

Chapter 70   Nicholas

Chapter 71   Nicholas

Chapter 72   Khat

Chapter 73   Beth

Chapter 74   Evangeline

Chapter 75   Beth

Chapter 76   Nicholas

Chapter 77   Khat

Chapter 78   Clarissa

Chapter 79   Nicholas

Chapter 80   Khat

Chapter 81   Beth. The Year 1828

Dedicated to my father Mac Elder,

who dreamed of writing a book called

Killer. I’ve done it for us in my

own way – love you from afar.

In total honor of:

AFRICA MUST WAKE UP: Nas and Damien Marley.

WASHED IN THE RIVER: Soweto Gospel Choir & Friends

The inspiration from these songs was overwhelming and emotive. I listened every day, every step of the way.

Don’t be afraid; fear kills – I know!

MY THANKYOU’S

Mummy for introducing me to horses. Daddy for realizing aged 10, I could do something well and buying me a pony: Peppy.

Horses have saved my soul, my life, my very being. They are so special – embrace the sentient beings on our planet. They bring far more than most realize!

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CHAPTER 1

NICHOLAS

The oven screams. Well, not every day, like we get to eat baby pork occasionally too. Squealing little piggy.

Everyone who comes here, dies here, except the planter’s people. They get to choose their destiny. Ours is. Well. Somewhat inevitable. Malnutrition, exhaustion, pain, death. We feel the sun shining on our faces. It restores our souls, though we aren’t supposed to have souls. The sun gives us life. Life and false hope.

Our resources are small. Our hearts, though broken, refuse to let our entrapment destroy us. Our voices when we dare sing to the sweetness of our past, to our ancestors and to their God, lift us up, help us float up out of our utter despair.

My name is Nicholas, this is my story, and you won’t like it, unless that is, you are the planter.

I was born sometime in 1764. Black as burnt logs. Not white. I can’t remember much before my seventh birthday, as this is the day my mother got a beating. Why? Because she didn’t want to let me go. That shock to us shut the door to all my memories. This was the day my planned life began, with the rising sun. My hands tied. The planter always does that, takes them boy kids away when they reach seven. Where they went nobody knew, I was about to find out. Hooded and roughly bungled into the back of a horse cart. Usually kept for moving animal meat, no blacks allowed, this gave me little comfort. Perhaps I’m special, until I felt something damp. Something close to me moved, I couldn’t see but I felt. I felt the heat, I smelt the fear. I heard the tiny sobs. These sobs were to become my companions over the next seven pain filled years.

There was nothing comfortable about my life from this moment. The endless bumps and jars to my body as the horse did its job of taking us away from love, were to become the bumps and jars to everything, physically, emotionally, psychologically. Until. We all just became a hole, an unhuman, black hole of a body. This is what they did to us boys.

The horse and cart came to a stop. Adult male voices were hustling, grunting, hissing and menacing around. Hooded and under the tarpaulin sheet, our ears our only access, knowledge to what was unfolding. All of us trembling, quivering hard, as new born lambs, unable to stand, wet faces, wet shorts, dry mouths. I’m clinging; clinging in stupid hope, the clump of hair I ripped from my mother’s tresses, as we were unlocked from each other. Surely this would bring me back to safety.

Eight of us arrived that day as young boys to join the others. Only one would leave a man. I am that man. One of the strong ones, one of the ones that didn’t break, one of those programmed to be a master’s driver; soulless, ruthless and therefore considered a good breeder; leader.

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CHAPTER 2

KHAT

I am Ka, Khat to you. My name is sacred. I am sacred.

Born on the third day of the sixth month 1769. With Venus in transit, our planet of love in a direct line between the sun and the earth. I am love, the divine feminine, born to bring strength to my kind. Born to rise one day from the ashes of man’s prison. Women keep the secrets in our village. When I reached the age of seven, my grandmother En, began to teach me with ways of spirit.

Each Sunday, I would have to kneel by her side. En sat on a stool, flowing gowns around her, her head dressed with feathers and magic plants. Here in her hut she would greet those that had asked for help, but only those that passed the test of their worthiness. Only then were they allowed access. They came in on all fours, any eye contact meant immediate dismissal. They had to kiss the ground at her feet. Many shook with fear. En was revered. My job was to fan her with a large palm leaf, whilst she dispensed comfort and wisdom to those in need. I was not allowed to talk, only to observe. As years went by, I observed a lot.

En, (although I’m forbidden to call her that). I will. This isn’t a problem as I’m over the sea, my religion forbids any soul crossing the water. That’s another matter. However I owe my protection to En, whom I suspect now rests sweetly in the lap of the earth, guarded by the roots of a baobab tree. Making it impossible for her bones to be extracted to bring harm to her and our ancestors.

Each month throughout the seasons, En would take me into the forest. Here she taught me how to find the sweetest of medicines, for purposes good and bad, for use in healing, protecting or destroying. Each plant, fungus and tree, root had its qualities, they brought security to our people. These were sacred rituals from the start, each item carefully retrieved in order not to upset the cycle of nature. Each living thing being respectfully asked before anything was taken, and thanks given, such is the reverence we have for our earth. It’s a shame man didn’t have the same for our bodies. No permission asked, men, women and children taken ruthlessly from our soil. Our seeds plucked, as my grandmother said. She began to tell me of this wickedness when I reached the age of ten.

One day shortly after the horror stories were beginning to take hold of me, my grandmother became increasingly agitated. She grabbed her bag of ground iboga roots and ushered me to follow her. I always obeyed. We went through the swamps and onto her hut of solace. She strictly told me to guard the door and shut herself inside. After some three hours, of just sitting and waiting I heard En groan. With strict instructions not to enter I stayed put, a knot in my tummy. What followed was a series of high pitched screams, I could hear En thrashing around on the ground, one final howl, and peace took over. Another three hours passed and En emerged. Her face ashen as if painted like the witch doctor. Her eyes hollowed, life had been given to her in there and taken away at the same time. Walking slowly through the vegetation she took my skinny hand. Ka, she said, You will be leaving us soon, the spirit of the iboga has shown me. It is your destiny. Treachery awaits you my child. I cannot stop the wishes of our ancestors. You have been chosen to take your blood to the other land, the land of human sacrifice and hell. Once there you must never speak, until you are further enlightened, this will protect you, your silence and what it is that has to be done to make sure no harm comes to your spirit. I love you and soon we will take the walk to the temple of the snake god Da. There, Vudum will offer you his kindness. I await the sign of the right time.

Months passed, the drought came and went, I played with my siblings, six sisters, each magnificent in their gait, balance and face. I was born different. My mother passed me onto my grandmother after my birth, mother says this was because she had too many children. The other children in my tribe were cruel to me. It’s because you were supposed to be a boy. It’s because you nearly killed your mother, that’s why your head is a funny shape. You have bad power like En. These words were never spoken in front of an adult, as they would have been beaten. En, you see, is our High Priestess, and although there are many queries in others minds, they dare not cross her. Each fearing her, yet turning to her when all else is lost, and to success. They don’t understand, yet they know she is like a god. And god’s require sacrifice, no one wants to be one of those chosen. The giving of life and the taking of life is sacred in our lands. We use the bones of our enemies to build our thrones, to line our temple doors, to ward away the evil spirits, no one wants to be an inside enemy.

One day, after the arid, suffocating drought came torrential rains. En took me swimming in a nearby pool. The water so refreshing against the damp heat of the day. I jump, splash, and fool around, no cares, the outside world severed away from me in this moment of pure joy. Joy it emerges is soon to be taken away from me. As I leave the water, I feel heat running down the inside of my leg, I look down. I gasp. Catch En’s attention. Come here my child, she whispers, the time has come.

Funny, I had totally forgotten the day at the hut when grandmother went into trance. In a few days’ time, I would never forget it again.

She takes me home, gives me some old rags. Tells me how to use them, and to rest until the blood has passed. She tends to me like a new born baby, washing me, dressing me, feeding me with powders and potions, cleansing me inside and out as she puts it. Some of the medicines make me sleep, others make me hallucinate, other’s vomit endlessly. Part of the rites to take me to the place where I will become not only a woman, but an initiate of Mawu. Supreme Being of trees and ropes. You will see a lot of those my child, En tells me. Vodun are the sons of Mawu. When you’re bleeding stops we will prepare for your journey."

Five days pass, I’m a little scared to tell En my bleeding has stopped, but she is a woman and knows it herself. She walks into the room where I am lying on dead grasses and blankets made from reeds. Come Child. I silently obey her, rise up, a pit of fear in my stomach, yet a destiny felt so deep in my heart that I cannot resist. Gather enough belongings for a week. I do so. She watches me with what I believe is a hint of sadness and guilt in her eye, pride too. With my little bundle ready, we leave the house. Go gather three of the fattest chickens, and enough grain for two days. Again I do so, not quite sure what chickens had to do with my initiation at the temple of the snakes.

The sun is half risen over the sky; bright blue, calming, yet empty of any clouds to shelter us on our journey, I wonder is this a sign that no shelter will be given to me upon our arrival.

We arrive at Da, having passed through the sacred forest, many statues of the snake god guiding us to our destination, each one looking more and more foreboding to my twelve year old self, menacing, warning, yet enchanting us on our path. I feel dreamy, somehow not quite there, like I’m floating above my skinny little body, maybe grandmother’s potions have taken, possessed my soul so I’m not fully aware, body and soul separated, the reason soon awaits to be impressed upon my young mind. I didn’t even get to see my sisters, or distant mother, before we set off. I’m different somehow. Yes that’s it, I’m powerful, special. Nothing can hurt me. Or so I thought.

The forest clears, the sun spikes through the tree tops, falling upon my brow, then disappearing again. I notice a path that seems recently cleared. I look up, there is the entrance to the temple. My Grandmother requests that I walk beside her, slowly, feeling the earth beneath with each trepid step. You have to feel the honour to be allowed in this place, if the honour is not felt in your heart too, entrance is denied. I do this. My pulse has stopped racing. Something has taken over, my destiny again. We reach the large carved door. Overhead are paintings in the wood of snakes, entwined, circling, protecting. En knocks on the door, three times with certainty. I kneel beside her. Some moments pass. The door starts to creak. A man appears, he’s vaguely familiar to me, dressed head to toe in python skins. The brown, olive and golden scales not quite as shiny as I’ve seen in the past, death has dimmed them. This does not scare me. He ushers us in. I think I’ve sighted him in our village a few times, though not dressed like this. En informs me he is the guardian of the temple.

We are swiftly taken to a back room. No windows, just shards of light from the rotting roof. He takes the chickens in my net away. Orders us to undress.

I’ve never seen my grandmother naked before. Unlike me her body is ripe and swollen, bulging. She laughs at my facial reaction. Time can do this child. My grandmother unpacks her sack and passes the palm oil to the man. He, in turn, smears our bodies in the sticky stuff. It’s so hot, I can’t imagine why this is being done. Next, we are taken into a large circular room. There are pits, many pits full of pythons, somehow I’m not too worried, as they look docile enough. I guess the heat got to them too. En is given a gown to wear, which is made of grasses in various shades of green and yellow, pulled together with bits of old leather. I’m given merely a wrap to cover my lower body. Then I’m told to swallow the nutmeg paste that En had prepared back at home for me.

We go back outside, to a tree that seems to have a blanket of fresh leaves under it. I am asked to lie down on my back. The nutmeg starts to take me over. Once again I feel like I’m rising from my body, floating. I am vaguely aware of another male approaching, and of a burning pot of embers to the side of the tree. The man draws a sharpened point from the fire, the end is glowing. By now I am lifeless, though not thoughtless. He bows to me, the guardian and En. The glowing end is coming closer to my face, I try to move but can’t, I’m powerless. I close my eyes. A sharp pain enters my cheek, three times slashing down each side of my face, I don’t understand. There are tales of this happening to boys, not girls. It is a rite to manhood, not meant for women. The pain, excruciating, dies down and I float even higher, now watching from above as my body is gently turned over. What happens next takes some time, and I am curious as to why this, why this, I’ve never seen it before, carved, scarred into the skin of my people. My grandmother and the guardian are chanting as the other man goes about his work.

Loa, Loa, Loa. Over and over again. They are dancing now, dancing and chanting in some sort of trance. I have heard that Loa is the spirit that controls nature, health, and the happiness of mortals. How will this scarring bring me that? En’s gown seems to rise around her, though no wind is here, the guardian’s python skins seem to come alive. Something magical is happening here. I am thankful that I’m out of my body, as I watch the sharpened ember being re heated over and over again. Carving, carving.

Something happens; I am suddenly somewhere else. Old women surround me, there but not there, circling me, holding their hands up in prayer. A cloud approaches, maybe this is my protection. It comes closer, becoming luminous, the colours opaque and yet opulent, every colour in nature, every feeling of human emotion emanates, the emotions beginning to encompass, overwhelm me. I cry, tears won’t stop. I am feeling the pain of all those persecuted in the past and those to come. I want to collapse with the enormity of it, but it will not let me. It holds me up. The cloud is now inside me, talking to me. Ka, Ka, the meaning of my name engulfing me. Ka, Ka. I breathe, deeply.

You are our chosen one, you are the master maker of our race. You have a task to bear. The road will be sullied; the road will be full of sacrifice; the road will take you to a harsh land. The road will lead you to our future. Listen to the words of your grandmother. No one else.

Bang. I’m back in my body, I’ve been moved; I am in the temple. Pythons are sliding all around, but not touching me, as if they too are dancing a dance of their own. No venom comes near me. I am lying face down. My face stings, my back even more so. En is gently smoothing over my back a paste. I recognise the odour, it’s sap from shade tree leaves. I fall asleep.

I awaken the next morning, sublimely aware that grandmother has not left my side. Recollections of my dreams slowly awaken in my head, En telling me that it is of the utmost importance that I do not lie with a man. You were always a little ugly. Now you are even more ugly to the eye. This is your protection, for when the time comes, those about you will be innately scared of you. They will feel your power, but not recognise it. This will keep you clean. Your eyes will be the gateway to your soul and those of other souls that will in time see you. You are not to lie with a man until you meet the one who bears a resemblance to our tribe. Then you will join, have a son, and our ancestors will live through him and be appeased. Be at peace child, for peace is your keeper!

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CHAPTER 3

NICHOLAS

The year is 1778. I’m still Nicholas – just.

I’ve spent the last seven years in isolation, well that’s apart from the boys that came and went, survived or perished. Isolation from any kind of family life, well family life as we knew it.

I’ve been living in these underground pits as they call them. Six of them in total, all interlinked, each with an iron locked gate. Wooden fragmented cribs serve as bunks. Above ground, which is rarely seen, lies the remains of a decrepit house. Stripped of any materials of value. Smelly old men bring us scraps of rotten food. Water from a nearby muddy well. Sickness has claimed its toll. And now finally my life is going to move on. But where’s the hope really? All captivity is the same, underground, over ground, same old thing. Same old. Same old. I have become accustomed to being whatever the men who’ve looked over us wanted. I won’t go into most of what I’ve endured, it would make you sick. However, I can and will tell you how the boy became a man.

It’s funny that the men who have presided over our growth have involuntarily almost copied the traditions that my people have talked about. Take the boy, create the man. But what sort of man am I now? Kind, no. Gentle, no. Caring no. Sensitive, no. A bastard, Yes. Cruel, yes. Ruthless, yes. Selfish, Yes. A harmer, yes. A murderer, yes. And why? Well, why is the reason I’m still here. The only good thing in my body? My teeth, big, white. Gleaming. It’s this beautiful smile that hypnotises my victims into a false sense of safety.

The keeper, the watcher, that’s been me these last few years or so. Little pinkies, little pinkies, how many have I thrown into the undergrowth? Took me a while to perfect that art. Months of tearing flesh, leaving bone; more pain endured, but perfect that art I did. I’m not quite that cruel, although if the white men are watching sometimes I would make a show of it. Any one of these boys caught trying to make a dash for it, would be punished, one toe for one dash. Not many dashed again. Not many saw the light of day again.

So, I’m off now, somewhere different, a whore house, I believe, but quite what I’m expected to do there I don’t know. I’ve been trained to sow, hoe, chop wood. Make sure my boys are alright to a point, and kill in an instant, quietly, effectively. Oh, and I know how to make things disappear. My trust has been earnt, being the only boy to come out unscathed, I earned this, my reward for totally wiping out my dignity, my sanity.

My mother never came for me, never looked for me, no news ever came in via the new bait, she’s dead to me now. As dead as I am to myself. Although in truth, that little lock of hair is safe in a cloth under the ground of my first pit. See, one percent of my lost innocence still exists - just.

I’m grown tall, tough, hard. Broad. Big feet, hands, big dick. Wonder if I’ll ever get to use it, the way it’s supposed to be used, not that other way? The white man, who you could say has been my mentor these last years, he’s called Barn, he’s Barney really, told me one day, but he likes to be known as Barn, makes him feel tougher, though how that’s possible I don’t know. He’s taking me now, though not on the cart, under that cover. I’m grown now, so no need to hide this nigger no more. I’m chained now, big heavy iron collar, attached by another chain to my cuffed hands. My feet are free, perhaps he wants my legs strong, my body to keep fit. We set off at dusk. The horse pulls the cart, Barn drives the horse. This nigger walks behind, attached to the damn thing. I feel something now, can’t quite understand what it is. It burns. It hurts, what is to come of me now? How can this man not trust me after all I’ve done for him! And why the chains? I ain’t running nowhere. He’s all I got.

Darkness surrounds us, eerie, quiet. No screams, no sobs, no stench. The ground beneath my feet is dusty, the horse kicking up that dam dust into my nostrils, flared and flat, sticking to the sweat dropping from my body. Seems endless, no noise, it’s almost deadly, a deadly silence, deadlier than death itself. Walking, walking, or should I say dragged along. The moon is high, the sky, bright around it. Our