Brookwater's Curse Volume One

Patsy.

Prologue

August 14th, 2003 12:08 AM

Before he heard a knock at the door, Christian Brookwater had been sitting in his hotel room absently gazing out the window at a patch of clouds swirling around a half moon. He was stretching out on a love seat, his feet resting on a small ottoman. Two inches away from his crossed feet lay his favorite Bowie knife.

Room service, a voice that was trying, and failing miserably, to disguise itself as a human’s, called from behind the door.

He snatched up the Bowie knife in his left hand and shook his head in dismay. It upset him that faking a room service delivery was the best trap his would-be captors could come up with.

It’s an insult to my fuckin’ intelligence, he muttered as he stood up, closed the curtains in front of him and headed for the door.

On a rooftop a quarter of a mile away, the individuals who were spying on Christian were profoundly disturbed.

We should have set up the guns first, someone barked into a walkie-talkie.

But they hadn’t. The time they would spend setting up tripods would be all Christian needed to launch his offense.

Christian didn’t know about the would-be snipers across the way, but he did know that there were at least two vampires behind his hotel room door. He whirled the door open fast enough to startle them, then buried his Bowie knife deep into the abdomen of the one on his right.

The second vampire opened his mouth, hissed and thus revealed his extended fangs. Undaunted, Christian stepped forward and headbutted the second attacker, but held on to the knife hilt that jutted out of the first.

Before either of the two vampires could recover, Christian pulled them both into the room and kicked the door closed. Then he flipped the second assailant over his shoulder and slammed him hard on the floor.

Turning on his first victim, Christian let his own fangs extend, turned his head sideways and leaned in. When Christian pulled his head back the first vampire’s larynx was torn away. Blood spurted everywhere and Christian found himself swallowing some, even as he spit out the removed chunk of bone and flesh.

Uggh, Christian cried, as he realized he had also managed to get spinal fluid in his mouth.

As the first vampire collapsed, Christian jumped at the second, who was trying to scramble to his feet.

I didn’t call for room service, Christian said as he kicked the unnamed vampire in the ribs, and then pinned him to the floor on his stomach by planting a knee in his back. As Christian spoke, his voice filled with unearthly resonance- a gift most vampires have.

If you move or resist me in any way, I’ll take that knife I used on your friend and split you like a fuckin’ coconut. Now, I’m going to ask you some simple questions and your continued survival depends on whether or not I like your answers. Now, let’s hear your name and rank, pretty boy.

My name’s Robert Abernathy. I’m a constable, working out of Winthrop, the wheezing vampire answered.

Your superiors must not like you very much if they sent you after me. How’d you know I was here?

Nearby, the mutilated corpse with the spurting hole in its neck convulsed twice, then lay still.

I really don’t know how we found out. We were actually getting ready to go to New York to arrest you when we got the word that you’d come to England. But we do know that the World Vampire Council considers you a criminal and want you brought in alive.

Why alive? Christian asked. It was a valid question. Normal procedure for any vampire constable going after a suspect is to kill their target. Only under the most exceptional of circumstances is a fugitive vampire or any other creature brought in for questioning. Christian knew that his circumstances were exceptional, but he wanted to know if everyone else knew it.

No one explained why they want you alive, Abernathy answered. My orders were to ask you to surrender quietly after I got you to open the door.

This must be that English wit they warned me about, Christian said.

Mister Brookwater, surely you’re intelligent enough to see that your current course of action will lead to your ruination. And I feel I should warn you that while we were ordered to take you alive, there are others with us who are prepared to use deadly force.

Are any rachasas with you?

Some of the fear that gripped Abernathy seemed to dissipate upon being asked such an offensive question.

For your information I am a constable, just like you used to be, before you murdered Counselor Caramano. I don’t work with rachasas and I certainly can tell the difference between rachasas and vampires.

Christian used to believe that he could tell the difference between rachasas and vampires. His inability to do so a few weeks ago is one of the reasons he was now a nearly captured fugitive. The untimely demise of Antonio Caramano, a high-ranking member of the World Vampire Council and one-time friend and mentor to Christian, was another.

Christian grabbed Constable Abernathy’s arm and twisted it behind him.

Just one more question. Do you think I have time to kill you before your backup gets here?

* * *

Christian was wrong; Constable Abernathy’s superiors were actually very fond of him. In fact, when the Brookwater assignment came in, it was made clear that someone’s career would benefit from its successful completion. Inspector Nikolai Burta wanted that someone to be his friend, Constable Abernathy, and not the gun-happy maniacs from the Winthrop Strike Squad.

The members of the Strike Squad were just like any S.W.A.T. team in the world, except they were vampire constables working under Nikolai. They were all trained in demolitions, marksmanship and mortal combat, but their recklessness in the name of bravado earned them a bad reputation. So Nikolai, who was never a fan of the squad, told them that they were only along to observe. When the Strike Squad balked, he explained to them that the only reason Christian Brookwater would have come to England, the home of the vampire government, would be to surrender peacefully. There would be no reason to be heavy-handed about this.

Besides, Nikolai explained, having a heavily-armed, four-man team of storm troopers raid a hotel full of humans in the middle of the night to capture one African-American vampire gone astray is a recipe for disaster.

Now, as the sounds of Constable Abernathy being murdered by Christian Brookwater started coming through their earpieces, it was clear that the recipe for disaster was available in different flavors.

There were six of them on the roof: Nikolai, the four members of the Strike Squad and Constable Helen Reese. She was Nikolai’s assigned partner in law enforcement, and more recently, his chosen partner in the bedroom. As the Strike Squad began putting the group’s ‘Plan B’ in motion, Helen couldn’t help but give Nikolai the kind of concerned look that only a lover would give. Unfortunately, he was too busy listening to Abernathy being killed to notice.

One of the squad members positioned himself on the edge of the roof with what gun experts would recognize as a British made, AS50 12.7mm sniper rifle. The sniper’s crosshairs were aimed at Christian’s hotel room window. Another squad member was armed with a large tranquilizer gun mounted on a tripod, a few feet behind his teammate. To insure that the window would not deflect the delicate tranquilizer round, the plan was for the sniper to fire a single round to shatter the window, thus clearing the way for the sharpshooter to fire the tranquilizer round into Christian.

He has to stand up for me to get a clear shot, the sharpshooter explained from his position behind his teammate.

You can see into the room? Nikolai asked.

We both can, the sniper answered. The scopes on these rifles enhance our natural infrared vision to the point where we can see through the curtain he closed. But we still need him to stand up.

If you would’ve let us finish setting up the guns before you sent Abernathy, he’d still be alive, Braithwaite, the Strike Squad’s tactical leader, chimed in from behind Nikolai, as Abernathy’s screams continued over their walkie-talkies.

Tell us again why we have to take this asshole alive? the unoccupied fourth squad member asked as he pulled a pair of binoculars away from his face.

Direct orders from the Council, Helen answered, trying to draw attention away from Nikolai.

Shut up, all of you, the sharpshooter snapped. He’s almost done killing Abernathy. We need to be ready.

Unfortunately, Christian stayed on the floor drawing blood from Constable Abernathy’s neck for several minutes before making any attempt to rise. The vampires on the roof all listened in silent agony as Christian broke Abernathy’s neck.

He’s doing this to rub our noses in it, Braithwaite said to Nikolai.

You sure you don’t want us to kill him? the sniper asked.

Do it the way I told you to, Nikolai said as he closed his eyes in frustration.

* * *

Nothing personal, Christian said through half a mouthful of blood to Constable Abernathy’s corpse. As he stood up, the sniper fired. Christian saw the window shatter through the corner of his eye as he made for the hotel room door. There was a stabbing sensation in his chest, followed by a flood of warmth as he looked down and saw the dart sticking out of his chest. Fighting through the oncoming haze, he reached for the doorknob. Then, his knees buckled and he blacked out.

Nice work, boys, Braithwaite said, since he knew Nikolai wouldn’t.

It’s like I always say. You gotta aim for where they’re going to be, not where they are, the sharpshooter replied, as he threw a toothsome smile back at the rest of the group.

Side Bar I

Christian awoke to the sting of a bullwhip across his back. It took a second for him to realize he wasn’t experiencing a nightmare or a flashback from his human days. Of course, in those days, the bullwhip wasn’t lined with one-inch long metal spikes that would hook the skin and tear flesh and bits of his shirt away when it was yanked back. Specs of blood flew through the air as he grunted and growled with each excruciating blow. The scars the whip created closed after a few seconds, but he knew that his body’s ability to heal itself would eventually give out if this beating continued.

Is this supposed to scare me? he managed to ask after ten gruesome lashes.

Actually, I thought this would help you feel at home. Plus, while I’m not allowed to kill you, I still want to avenge the constables you murdered, was Nikolai’s reply, as he gave Christian another five strikes.

Now it’s your turn to answer some questions, Nikolai said as his fifth blow peeled away. Do you know why you’re here?

Yes, I know why, but I swear I didn’t know she was your sister. Otherwise, I would never have suggested we do anal, Christian answered.

That remark earned Christian another twelve lashes.

As the drug they used to capture him began to wear off, he fought to bury emotions that would distract him from being able to size up his situation.

Christian knew that he was still somewhere in Blackpool, England, probably a few miles away from the Grovesnor, the hotel where he had been staying. He looked at the two pairs of reinforced steel shackles that bound his wrists and ankles. The ankle cuffs extended from chains welded to metal plates in the floor, allowing him less than a foot of movement in any direction. The two chains holding his wrists hung from plates in the ceiling and gave him even less slack than the ankle cuffs. He was on his feet, but looked like a tortured marionette.

The 30ft by 10ft, steel-coated cell was so dark that human eyes would not have been able to see the gear driven steel drop door that served as the only exit.

‘Ingenious,’ he thought, realizing that the door lacked hinges or other weak points to be exploited as a means of escape.

When the beating finally stopped, Christian managed to turn himself enough to see Nikolai’s face. To Christian, the inspector ‘felt’ about two hundred and fifty years old, which was roughly eighty years older than Christian. The spiked bullwhip Nikolai held was so saturated with Christian’s blood that a small red pool formed at the inspector’s feet. He spoke with an accent, but it sounded more Russian than British.

As you know, Antonio Caramano was a member of the World Vampire Council. He brokered our existing deals of secrecy with organizations like your American CIA. In his early years, he built wineries and used them to Discreetly ship calves’ blood to vampires all over the world, bringing an end to the increasingly dangerous practice of hunting humans. He paved the way for centuries of peaceful coexistence with humans and provided the vampire nation with a source of unlimited income once we began selling real wine to the humans. If all that weren’t enough, Caramano probably killed more werewolves than any other European-born vampire.

I know Caramano’s fuckin’ resume’, Christian said, and I was there for some of those werewolf kills. In fact, you guys probably gave him credit for my kills!

Regardless, it amazes me that you thought you were going to get away with what you did.

But I didn’t do anything, he said, even though he was not being entirely truthful.

Christian had been tricked by the rachasas, the homo monstrous, shape-shifting, cat creatures that came to him two years ago while he was in Africa trying to save a kidnapped child.

It was Nikolai’s understanding that the rachasas blamed Caramano for the destruction of a tribe of their kin who were killed in America in the eighteen nineties, while the country’s Western frontier was being settled. According to the WVC, Christian was coerced into amassing the evidence that the rachasas felt they needed to justify an act of vengeance. In doing so, he mistakenly helped to set events in motion that would doom his onetime benefactor.

Nikolai was apparently an admirer of Caramano’s, because a growing anger flashed across Nikolai’s face and his eyes began to burn red.

You betrayed your vampiric patron and left him vulnerable to assassination. I’d hardly call that ‘nothing’, Nikolai said. Furthermore, you betrayed him to help the rachasas! A bunch of porno-movie making, savages with no central government! You’re a disgrace to the rank of constable.

Fuck you, Sissy Mary, Christian said as he turned his back on the inspector. You don’t know what you’re talking about.

The whip flew again, striking Christian on the back of his head. The spikes did not puncture his skull, but the gash was horrific. Christian roared, as the blow jolted him as far forward as the chains would let him.

This ‘Sissy Mary’ may hold the power of life and death over you, so you should be more civil, Nikolai growled. The inspector’s voice began to warble with the same unearthly resonance that Christian’s did back at the hotel with Abernathy. This phenomenon normally occurs when a vampire becomes agitated. It would have frightened a human, but to Christian it was meaningless.

In the seconds it took the wound in Christian’s head to close, he steadied himself and turned to stare at Nikolai in defiance. Only now did Nikolai realize that he wasn’t going to get anything useful out of the tough, black American by whipping him.

Just so you know, Mr. Brookwater, I may be given orders to kill you before the night is out. Nikolai paused to see if that would get a reaction and continued when there was none. Now, this is not America and you are not a human with an assortment of rights and privileges, so unless you have something useful to say…

You fucked up my shirt, Christian said.

Maybe my sister will bring you a new one, Nikolai retorted.

You know something? I’m not telling you shit, Christian growled. So fuck you.

His angry glare bore into Nikolai’s face. Christian’s voice intensified so much that his voice could have shattered a drinking glass.

Disgusted, the Inspector stormed out, sealed the door shut and left the world’s oldest African-American vampire alone with his troubled thoughts.

* * *

Christian Brookwater was imprisoned at Winthrop Academy, a facility that served as the headquarters for vampire constables who had the responsibility of acting as law enforcement among England’s children of the night since 1905. It was located in an obscure patch of forestry bordering the cities of Blackpool and Lancashire.

Prior to 1905, Winthrop was just another boarding school before a sexual molestation scandal involving the Dean and a thirteen year-old girl forced the board of directors to sell the private school and the adjoining grounds to someone who claimed that they represented an American steel company. The purchaser was actually a three hundred and forty-three year old vampire who was following orders given to him by the World Vampire Council, an organization that serves as the executive and legislative branches of government for every vampire in Europe, Asia and North America.

The casual passerby would never get the impression that anything out of the ordinary could be going on inside. Not that there were many who would happen upon the place casually. Winthrop was isolated in a cul-de-sac and surrounded by thick forests, which kept it well hidden from the general public. Few humans even know the building exists.

Of course, the inside had been extensively remodeled. The lobby and main halls were done in marble and granite with cherry-wood furnishings and crystal chandeliers. The classrooms had been converted to offices and laboratories. The gym was still a gym, but the auditorium had become a shooting range, used mostly by the Strike Squad.

It wasn’t necessary to make a great deal of provisions for prisoners, since vampires who violate the law are usually executed on sight. But for the rare instances that a prisoner was taken, the basement office of the child-molesting Dean had become the cell that currently held Christian. In order to contain someone with five times the strength of the average human, the walls of the cell were reinforced with more steel than would be used to make three bank vaults.

Occasionally a wandering foxhunter, lost football player, (that’s soccer player if you’re an American), or a random pair of seventeen year-olds looking for a place to fondle one another would have to be guided off the premises. Otherwise, the immaculate four-acre estate was quiet and outsider free. Humans hired as freelance security watched the building during the day, while vampire constables relieved those humans punctually at sunset. The human guards have all gone through an orientation and know where they are allowed to go within the complex. Most of them have worked there for years and suspected nothing out of the ordinary, but occasionally a human freelancer would drift into the wrong room or ask too many of the wrong questions. If it became a problem, the freelancer was either let go, or in some cases, ended up becoming staff, permanently. This is actually how Robert Abernathy became a vampire.

Nikolai decided to transform the freelancer after finding Abernathy in his office one night in 1984. It had been an honest mistake; Abernathy had been working at Winthrop for two years and was simply looking for someone to ask for a raise that he felt was overdue. After some wandering, he found Nikolai’s office and decided to wait inside. But Abernathy got thirsty and went to what he thought was a cooler sitting in the corner by Nikolai’s desk. He managed to pour himself a glass of blood and was putting the glass to his lips just as Nikolai walked in the door and stopped him. It was a pivotal moment for both men, but years later they’d laugh about the incident like two friends reminiscing over high school pranks.

Nikolai walked to his office, still carrying the studded whip. He was thinking about Abernathy lying in the Winthrop morgue with his body half-drained of blood and a broken neck, lying next to his partner Joseph, who was practically missing his neck. Both of them would have to be cremated, since dead vampires only disintegrate in the movies. The only thing to reminisce over now was that it was Nikolai’s fault that his friend was dead, and that the Strike Squad boys would never let him hear the end of it.

Helen looked up from her own desk in the modest office they shared as Nikolai entered. She was examining Christian’s belongings, which had been collected into a cardboard box and brought to Winthrop. From the look on his face, it was clear the interrogation had not gone well.

Are you all right? she asked.

Yes, he answered, I’ll miss Robert, but I’m okay.

She left her desk, closed their office door and went to him. The hug she gave him was warm and tender. The kiss was even better.

I helped you initiate him, remember? I’m going to miss him too, she said.

When his face softened, Helen broke their embrace and went back to her desk. She was good at separating the romantic aspect of their relationship from the work side, maybe better than he was. She was all business by the time she reopened the box.

I told you it wasn’t a good idea to beat him, Helen said in her thick, cockney accent. Nikolai didn’t know why he hated that accent when the Strike Squad boys spoke, but loved it coming out of her mouth.

But don’t worry. After he goes without blood or food for a while I’m sure he’ll talk, she added.

Always the optimist, he replied, taking a good look at her. She was a stunning English redhead from the East End, who appeared to be about twenty-five, while having just turned two hundred and eight. Her very presence made him feel better.

So you never told me why the Council wanted Mr. Brookwater captured alive, Helen said.

That’s because I don’t know, he answered. But they were very clear about what would happen to us if we killed him.

That’s why you didn’t let the Strike Squad take him? she asked.

Yes, he said. He’d admit to showing favoritism to Robert another night.

He must know something very important, she said. Maybe you shouldn’t interrogate him.

Why not?

Because this might be something we don’t want to be involved in, she explained.

We’re already involved, my dear, Nikolai said. Besides, if he was holding some deadly secret, the Council would never have sent us after him, for fear we would uncover the secret.

Unless they’re planning to kill us when they arrive to take him into their custody, she said as she continued rummaging through the box. A puzzled look crossed her face as she found a jar of Christian’s hair pomade.

Don’t be ridiculous, he scoffed as he watched her open the hair pomade and quickly sniffed the jar before putting it away. Then she seemed to notice something else in the box.

Well maybe the deadly secret is here. It appears your new friend keeps a journal, she said.

As Nikolai came over to her desk, Helen pulled a tan book from the cardboard box and began leafing through the pages. Every few pages the color of the ink changed, but it was all in the same hand.

Nikolai took great pleasure in finding something to ridicule Brookwater about, even if he wasn’t present.

He had the nerve to call me a ‘Sissy Mary’. I thought only sixteen year-old schoolgirls kept journals.

Maybe this Christian Brookwater has an inflated sense of himself. And not a good judge of character, if he thinks you’re a sissy. He smirked, as she made this subtle reference to his sexual prowess.

A ‘ Sissy Mary’, Nikolai corrected, not hiding his annoyance. He looked over her shoulder at the hand-written journal How much is there? he asked.

She skimmed the pages as her trained eye caught glimpses of various dates and references to different eras. His whole fuckin’ life it seems, she answered after her brief perusal.

That’s good news, he said. The next time I go to interrogate him, I’ll have something I can use against him besides a whip.

But by the time we finish reading this, won’t someone from the Council already be here to pick him up, or kill him, or whatever? Helen asked.

No, because the four Founding Fathers are on their way back from South Dakota. They are the ones who are taking Brookwater into custody, or executing him. Until then, ex-Constable Brookwater will be our guest.

The four Founding Fathers, the creators and rulers of the World Vampire Council, are in South Dakota? Isn’t that where Caramano was killed? Helen asked.

They were probably retrieving the body, he said.

They could have sent any number of American constables to do that, Helen hissed as she threw the book back in the box. I’m sorry, but I am beginning to have a real bad feeling about all this.

Well then, all the more reason for us to read this journal, Nikolai said as he retrieved the book from the box. That way, we’ll know exactly what we’re dealing with.

How about we burn the journal and go to Italy? she suggested.

How about we read the journal. Then, we’ll go to Italy. Of course, if reading the journal puts us in danger, we’ll just stay in Italy, he said.

Okay, fine, she snapped after a minute, but we’re not going about this the way we’ve been doing things lately.

What in the world are you talking about? he asked.

I’m talking about how we’ll start paperwork together, and in the middle of everything, you’ll suddenly have to go off on some errand, leaving me in this dingy office to finish the work on my own. Not this time, love. We’re doing this one together.

Nikolai placated his fiery partner by agreeing that he’d stay with her till they were done reading the journal. After all, last thing he wanted to do was upset Helen. He had carnal needs that would have to be satisfied long after Christian Brookwater was dead.

Chapter 1

A Father’s Sins

Clifford Treewell was the master of a plantation just outside of Jasper, Georgia during the 1830s. My father, a man known only as Black Jack, was a black overseer working for Treewell. Black Jack was so diligent in disciplining the slaves that he left Master Treewell with nothing to do except drink mint juleps and count money all day. Black Jack was a big man who used his size to intimidate the other slaves and his guile to manipulate them. The slaves, in turn, distrusted each other as much as they hated him. Keeping the slaves tied up with their petty grievances insured that there’d never be a revolt and Treewell would always maintain control. Where my father learned this behavior is unclear, but my guess is that Treewell must have taught him.

One day, Black Jack saved the plantation from being burned up in an oil fire that had spilled and caught a spark in one of the barns. The way Black Jack ran back and forth with bucket after bucket of water, you’d have thought he owned the plantation, according to witnesses. When it was over, Treewell was so overcome with gratitude towards his ‘favorite nigger’ that he decided Black Jack deserved a reward.

The ‘reward’ turned out to be Odessa, a pretty, mulatto house slave. Master Treewell had tried to have his way with Odessa more than once, but Treewell’s wife was an uncharacteristically strong woman for those times. Mistress Treewell was also very religious and made her stand on infidelity quite clear. Since Treewell couldn’t have Odessa, he figured he’d give her to Black Jack.

Like most of the women on the plantation, Odessa didn’t care for Black Jack. Unfortunately, that didn’t matter to the ill-mannered overseer or Treewell. Black Jack gleefully moved her things out of the main house, and brought them to his shack located at the far end of the slave quarters. Odessa tried to run away, but she didn’t get far. As punishment, Black Jack beat her with a bullwhip right before their arranged wedding, to the point where he had to hold Odessa up during the ceremony.

You don’t have to love me as long as you obey, he thundered as he raped her during their first night together.

At first, Black Jack was happy to have his pretty bride and continued to prosper, as he made a career out of the art of subjugation. However, no man can maintain happiness in a home with a woman who does not love him. Odessa’s sullen mood soon made him her emotional equal. Being miserable at home made Black Jack just as miserable on the field. When a white visitor questioned Master Treewell about a brutal beating he witnessed my father dole out to another slave, Black Jack overheard the remark and ‘sassed’ the white man, as they used to say back then. One thing led to another and before long Black Jack was lynched. I hear the slaves in the field cheered and celebrated for days when he was killed. The merriment stopped when they found out that Black Jack had left Odessa with child.

* * *

Given her circumstances, my mother never had much to be cheerful about. But when Black Jack died, a great weight had been taken off of her. While she still lived as a slave, not having to worry about being raped by Black Jack again put a new spring in her step. Unfortunately, after all the brutal treatment she suffered, she’d never consent to be another man’s wife. She also swore that she’d kill herself before it happened.

Determined that I wouldn’t become like my father, my mother told me as little as possible about him. Anything I know, aside from how horribly he treated her, I heard from the house slaves. They had suffered fewer run-ins with Black Jack than the field workers and weren’t so resentful that they wouldn’t answer the questions I posed when I was just a curious child.

According to what few records I managed to dig up, I was born in the winter of 1836. By then, my mother was moved back into the main house, a Georgian-styled monolith. I came out of the womb lighter in complexion than my mother, but as I grew up I darkened to a coco brown. Mama once said I was ‘in the middle’ of her and my father in terms of skin shade. I was told that I looked like Black Jack, and as I got older, I began to notice the hateful stares I would get from some of the victims he left behind. No one actually said anything to me about the resemblance until I was twelve, and even then it was just random remarks people would make under their breath.

My childhood was one long and uneventful series of menial chores, mostly at my mother’s side. There were few slave children in the house and Mistress Treewell was barren, so I seldom had playmates or friends. I was pretty much alone, except for Mama, who would lecture me about the Bible while I helped her set large banquet tables and serve wine to Treewell’s endless number of guests.

My mother was very serious in front of the Treewells, but she never missed an opportunity to try to make me laugh when we were alone. To the world I was just another slave boy, but to her I always came first. I helped her with her never-ending list of household tasks, but there was no way I could ever repay her for her loving care and comfort. As I grew older I became protective of my mother. Acting on that natural impulse would alter my life in a rather unexpected way.

By the age of sixteen, I was well on my way to being a butler, despite my dark complexion. One day, I happened to overhear Master Treewell in the kitchen browbeating my mother for sex while I was polishing silverware in the adjoining dining area. Treewell threatened that if she didn’t submit he’d send me to the field.

All those boys Black Jack beat up are still out there waiting for him, he said as he tugged at my mother’s dress.

Attacking Treewell would have meant death for both of us, so I did the next worst thing. I walked in the kitchen and said, You don’t have to do nothing, Mama. I’ll go in the field.

My mother began to helplessly plead with both of us, and Treewell was incensed. He let my mother go and whirled around, striking me so hard across my face that I fell.

No! my mother screamed. Then she gasped, as I heard another female say, that’s quite enough, Clifford.

Mistress Treewell had walked in on us, the edge of her gown inches from where I had hit the floor.

Master Treewell froze. My mother began to offer a panicked explanation, but the Bible-thumping southern-belle dismissively told her to help me off the floor and leave. My mother did what she was told and spent the rest of the day tending to my bruised face and worrying over what would happen to us.

Treewell never tried anything like that again. Years later, I would uncover information that made the situation clearer to me. As fate would have it, it was Mistress Treewell’s father who owned the plantation we lived on, not her husband. That explained why she was able to command fidelity when so many other southern white women could not.

Unfortunately, Mistress Treewell’s protection did not extend to me. A few days after the incident, an overseer walked into the kitchen and told my mother to get my things ready. I was being moved to the field quarters. My mother, knowing what kind of resentment awaited me, worried her hair gray and pleaded on deaf ears for Master Treewell to keep me in the main house.

He’s too dark to be in the house, were Treewell’s only words on the matter.

Mistress Treewell, now satisfied that her husband was going to be keeping his penis to himself, proved to be even less helpful.

He’ll be fine, Odessa, she said, as she sat on the veranda, knitting something that was supposed to be a scarf. A little hard work won’t kill him, she added.

Of course, it wasn’t the work killing me that my mother worried about.

My first day outside I was ordered to go help gather cotton. Before I got twenty feet into the field, a much bigger, older field hand accosted me.

I know you, he said. You that damn Black Jack’s boy, aintcha?

I had always tried to be respectful of my elders, but there was menace in this man’s tone and I didn’t appreciate it.

So what of it? I challenged.

The man ripped his shirt off as he screamed at me. You see whatcha daddy done to me?

He turned his back to me to reveal the most horrible bullwhip scars I had ever seen. All cause I was a little late getting back from town one day with some supplies. What give him the right to do that? Yo’ daddy was a nigger, same as me!

I couldn’t answer him because I was truthfully stunned and didn’t know what to say. I began wishing he’d just