Sojourner: The Journey To A New Beginning

By Angela Kay Austin

Sojourner knew how to run, hide and fight. She would find her family and reunite them. Her mother's secrets had become a gift. A gift that would aide her on her journey.

Oliver had been held prisoner by Frederick, his brother, for a year. Escape meant hurting an innocent, a beautiful woman who he could not forget. He would not stop sea

• Language: English
• Publisher: Bluff City Publishing L.L.C.
• Release date: Feb 28, 2017
• ISBN: 9780692854372

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Spring 1860…

Sojourner, stared at the man sprawled across the cement floor of the blood-soaked cage. Many months had passed, and each day had been the same. Blood and death. She looked at the empty cells around the room. They had once been filled with men and women. The few who remained alive had been taken to another area, she did not know why and would not remain to discover. She never thought she would be able to erase the screams of the men and women from her mind.

She returned her attention to the scarred man. Many nights she had brought water to him, and cleaned away his blood. But, as she kneeled before him, she knew he would no longer drink. He had not taken a sip for many days.

He had made his decision.

She had made her decision.

Escape.

His would be by death.

Hers would be through the front door, when the sun was high in the sky. With her fingertips, she gently touched the cold metal hidden in the folds of her skirt. The man Kirill called Frederick had left the key on one of the blood-soaked tables on his last visit. No one noticed when Journey simply picked it up while she cleaned away the death they had left behind. If she made it outside, she knew they would not be able to follow her. She would have hours of sunlight to protect her.

Softly, she touched a hand to the matted curls of his dark hair.

He groaned. His eyes opened, and quickly closed.

Lowering her mouth nearer to him, she whispered, If I take you with me, you would die. She glanced around the room again, at the empty cages. You will die if I leave you. She could not take a wounded man with her, but no matter how hard she fought against the thought, it would not go away.

You will use the key that you have discovered, and escape. With you, you will take the man whose wounds you tend so faithfully.

Whether awake or asleep, the words would not go away.

Before she stood, Journey whispered to her wounded one, "Tomorrow. Tomorrow, we will run from this place.

~******~

The next morning, Journey wrapped her satchel around her torso, and slipped from her quarters. Kirill no longer made an effort to restrict her movements because most of his prey were dead. One by one, they had succumbed to his deadly torture: sunlight, iron and blood-letting. Each man or woman had appeared to know him or the beautiful raven-haired woman she had seen so frequently. The young woman’s evil was greater than that of Kirill’s. Most quickly realized their danger and tried to run. Except her wounded one. He did not attempt to run.

Her wounded one showed no fear, only anger.

Kirill was afraid. However, she was not certain of whom he was more afraid.

Kneeling at his cell, she placed her key into the lock.

Her wounded one raised to his hands and knees. Pain filled his brown eyes.

She reached for him, but he pulled away. Why? They had precious little time. Come with me. We must leave.

When he finally conceded to leave with her, she helped him emerge from the cage. She knew the sunlight would burn if it touched his skin. But, they had no choice. If they waited any later, Kirill would be awake, and they would not survive.

You must wear these, Journey said as she draped him in heavy dark wools.

No, leave me, please, he pleaded.

She would not. If I leave you here, you will die like the others.

If I leave with you, we will both die.

He was right. Kirill would chase them, but they would separate, and Kirill would have to decide which of them was more important. They would both have a chance to survive. I would rather die free, than live as a slave.

He nodded in agreement, as he permitted her to layer the heavy cloaks around his shoulders. Each garment weighed down his frail frame, but he did not give in to the weight.

Outside in the crisp spring air, she glanced upwards at the cloudy sky. That would give them some protection, but not much. If they could not find additional shelter, she was not certain he would survive. They needed to make their way to the forest as quickly as possible. Both for shelter from the sun, as well as to hide from Kirill.

Are the cloaks too heavy? she asked because his steps slowed.

Leave me.

Again, she glanced upwards. We need to find a place to hide. Journey helped him sit and rest against a tree. Touching the tree with one hand as she rested beside him, she said, You will be safe here until I return.

Glancing over her shoulder as she walked away, she blinked. A branch of the tree curved around him offering him cover from the sun. When she once again focused on him, his head rested on a branch.

Using a wooden bowl she had stored in her bag, she scooped water from a stream, and searched for edible plants. Squirreling as much as she could into her satchel, she stood to return to her wounded one.

At the tree, where she had left him to rest, he no longer sat. She searched the area, but she could not find him. The sun would soon set. Can you hear me? she whispered. We must leave.

Leave me, he responded. Go.

Journey paced back and forth on the moist ground beneath her feet. I cannot. She did not know why, but she could not leave him.

He stepped out from where he hid, and stood in the shadows of two great trees. They offered him shelter from the sun. I am not a man you can save.

I must try. She closed the distance between them.

With each step she took toward him, he took one step away.

Stop it. We must leave now! Journey screamed.

When he turned to walk away, the cloaks that covered him fell to the ground. As soon as the sun touched his skin, smoke bloomed from his body. Flickers of fire sparked from his hands. He fell backwards against a nearby tree.

She ran to him. Grabbing the wools from where they had fallen to the ground, she covered him. Cradling him in her arms, his head rested on her shoulder.

Slowly, he moved his head until his lips rested against her neck.

The touch of his lips to her neck confused her. Leaning in to his touch, Journey craved more. Inhaling deeply, she did not struggle when he wrapped his arms around her pulling her closer to him.

His tongue licked along the length of her neck. Then, he stopped. A strained growl escaped him.

His hold on her tightened, and she nestled her body against his. The scrape of his teeth against her skin sent shivers through her.

I owe you my life, he said. Then, his teeth pierced her skin.

Pleasure flowed through her like none she had experienced. Confusion clouded her mind as she sank into his embrace and he suckled. The fog of her mind cleared, and fear consumed her. She fisted her hands and pounded against the man who held her. If she continued to struggle, she might die, but if she did not, she still might die. Stop! she shouted. Stop.

Hesitantly, his grip loosened, and his tongue slid along her neck.

Stumbling as she stood, she ran. She ran until she felt safely protected by the denseness of the woods around her. She looked back for him, but he was nowhere to be seen. Falling to her knees, she dropped her face to the palms of her hands. Journey wanted to scream, but if she did he or Kirill would find her. No, she would not scream. One day, she would have the chance to pay a debt owed.

The next time I see you, I will kill you.

CHAPTER ONE

June 1862…

Dianthe’s gaze swept across the modest grounds of the plantation. Buildings stood in need of paint and repair. Fields went untended. Frail boney slaves averted their gazes from her as her carriage came to a halt in front of the shabby big house. She inhaled. A putrid sickness filled the air, but beneath it was the faintest hint of the one for which she had been scouring the lands. The slave woman she sought had not been on the land for quite some time, but there was no mistaking the blood that ran through the runaway slave’s veins. It lingered in the air, mingling with the odors of death and decay.

Dianthe did not have a need for the carriage. I am Upir. But there was no need to strike fear in the simple humans. She could use them to her purpose which was to find her son. My sweet, sweet Frederick. All will pay if any harm has befallen you.

The man who greeted her seemed to be a remnant from the South as was his attire. He did not know his death was near. If she did not need him, she would bring death to him quicker to feed her growing thirst and strengthen her diminishing resolve from the sun. Glancing up toward the sun, she smirked at the sun’s strengthening glare. Then she extended her hand at the man beckoning and the touch of his rough course skin annoyed her. She wanted to withdraw her hand and wipe it clean, but instead, she smiled and with a slight curtsy educed the role of a demure woman of the south. Sickening recollections of her pretending to be a happy wife and mother crawled to the forefront of her long memory. She fluffed the silky folds of her skirt in an effort to distract herself from each hated glimpse into the past.

John Brown, her oblivious husband, had believed each clever bloody thought to be his own. His devotion to the slave afforded her every opportunity to beguile him and convince him that the Africans needed a champion willing to act ruthlessly in favor of a greater mission.

Massacre upon massacre. Grave upon grave. No one noticed that she feasted on the men and women who had fallen, least of all John Brown. Their beating hearts had provided her the solace she needed from the curse of daylight.

John Brown had always been an inattentive husband. He simply possessed her. He acted no differently toward her than the men and women he claimed to hate for their treatment of the African.

The mistress of the slowly decaying big house stepped out of the shadows onto the porch.

Dianthe smiled and acknowledged her. If she did not, she would never be able to get the invitation she needed. I apologize for imposing on you this day, but Union soldiers have taken over my home in Virginia and I refused to remain.

The commander of the Army of the Potomac, George B. McClellan had engaged General Joseph E. Johnston. General Johnston had recently been wounded and President Davis had placed Robert E. Lee in his role. Tens of thousands of battle-worn Union soldiers were in Virginia.

She intentionally infused her language with a thick southern drawl. No trace of her true ancestry could be detected. Everything I own is there. She glanced over her shoulder at the buggy she had acquired from travelers abandoning their lands due to war who mistook her for the innocent woman-child she had once been. I am on my way to my family’s property about a day’s ride from here. Would you be kind enough to offer me board until my horses are rested and strong enough to travel?

The mistress of the home did not seem as accepting of her request as the idiot grinning master of the plantation. Surely, a single woman running from the unknown dangers of depraved Unionists would be provided shelter. She only needed an invitation. It did not matter which of them granted it.

Yes, of course, madam. Our home is modest, but we offer a place of solace to any true daughter of the south in need, he said.

She inhaled and she knew the man was the one she sought. He was the father of the woman who held the key to the location of her only son. Dianthe crossed the threshold into the dilapidated home and longed for the lavish grounds of the home she once shared with her son in New Orleans. With the defeat of Fort Jackson and Fort St. Philip on the Mississippi, New Orleans had fallen to the Union. The beautiful home she had shared with her son had been acquired by the Union, but it did not matter. When she found her son, they would take what they needed and begin again.

The worn couches and chairs of the Neale’s home were covered with dust. The floors looked as if they had not been properly tended to in weeks. Even the clothes the man and woman wore were tattered and had been mended one time too often.

A skinny under-fed slave ambled out of an adjoining room to one side of the Great Room with a tray that was not silver, loaded with glasses of what she took for tea, along with a plate of cheese and bread.

Dianthe graciously accepted one of the glasses. She inhaled and the woman’s sickness filled her nostrils. The frail woman stumbled as she turned to walk away and the knife which had rested beside the cheese fell. As the slave attempted to catch it, it sliced Dianthe’s arm drawing blood.

Quickly, the slave sat her tray on a nearby table and cared for Dianthe’s healing wound. The slave wiped away the remaining specs of blood with a worn napkin and the wound had nearly vanished. Without mumbling a word, her dark gaze stared into Dianthe’s eyes.

Dianthe’s fangs tingled at the slave’s quickening heartbeat. Soon, she would need to feed.

The master of the house, Archibald, waited for the slave to finish. However, Sarah fumed at the slave’s error and Dianthe could smell her anger as it seeped into her blood. Dianthe sat in the chair the master of the house led her toward.

The slave glanced back at her and departed from the room much more quickly than she had entered.

She sipped from her tea and stared after the slave as she disappeared through the doorway. If all the slaves were in such poor condition, she would have to feed elsewhere. The nearby town would suffice.

To defeat her husband and find her son, Dianthe would need much more than the failing plantation could offer.

~******~

The copper tag, meant to show Mister’s claim on Sojourner, warmed where it rested against her skin. Again, Journey removed it and rubbed salve made from honey and lavender into her skin where the tag had formerly rested. As the sweet calming remedy learned from her mother soothed the ache, tears fell from her eyes. Placing the tag on the palm of her hand, she studied it and the faintest hint of red spread across her palm. She placed the tag around her neck and wiped her hands on the pile of horse blankets covering her until the color faded.

Angry with herself for allowing memories of her tittuhs and brudduhs, sisters and brothers, to creep into her thoughts, Journey swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. Curled up beneath stolen horse blankets, hidden in a forgotten barn, she did not know why she had been lead back to the family who had owned and sold hers. Her family was no longer in Baltimore. She didn’t know the whereabouts of all of her sisters and brothers or her father. However, she thought some lived in Washington, D.C.

If I am caught, I will be killed.

She squeezed her eyes shut against the night, as she tried to remember her mother’s words, Journey, these tags will never allow you and your brothers and sisters to be far apart. What did her mother’s words mean? Their family had been torn apart and she had not seen any of them in too many months. Her heartbeat raced with the memories of her younger sisters’ tears. Mistress’ hateful smile as her family was sold one by one would never be forgotten.

If it had not been for the child-like white woman who arrived on the plantation, she would have had a chance to meet with Madea to ask of Free and Triumph. Still, others had shared what little they knew. Her brother and sister had not been sold. Journey had thought they would still be on the plantation, but they had escaped. Why would the tag her mother had given her lead her to a place where they no longer remained?

Mister had sold her to a cruel man on a plantation filled with strange men and women. Men and women burned by sunlight and fed with blood. Men and women who had been killed one by one in ways that made her flesh crawl. At first, she thought them evil and the master of the plantation divine. He was not. But then she met the pale man with the sad dark eyes. The dark brown eyes of the man that she had helped escape the torture were hard to forget. Her hand went to her neck. She still did not understand. She had helped him, but he had attacked her. His bite on her neck had frightened her, but it did not hurt. How?

The rotten wooden boards of the dilapidated barn squawked in response to the howling warm night winds. She closed her eyes and forced herself to sleep. Tomorrow, Journey would need to find Madea to ask of her brother and sister. After she found them, they would rescue the others of their family.

~* * * * *~

The next day, the morning sunlight shone through the holes in the roof of the old barn that had provided shelter to Journey as she slept. After she folded the blankets, she hid them beneath broken pieces of wood and rocks. The plantation had fallen from its previous grace and no one worked the part of the fields where she hid. She stripped her clothes from her body and donned the traditional wear of Mister’s slave. The rough cotton of the dress scratched at her skin. How her mother and sisters, except Free, had hated the material. Slave cotton, not the King Cotton that was a source of pride and wealth for the south. Free, her sister did not want to wear fine clothes because it would mean she owed a debt. And her sister wanted no part of that.

Dressed as she had once lived, Journey left the safety of the old barn in search of Madea. She needed answers.

When she found Madea, she sat at a small table stuck in the corner of an over-crowded kitchen. Flour dusted her hands. The older woman prepared bread.

Journey glanced around the room. Nothing looked familiar. Once she had wanted to own a home that was as big and fine as this fallen plantation had been. Foolish! But as she stared at the peeling paint on the walls and the table that wobbled when Madea rested her hands on the tabletop to stand, Journey realized Mister and Mistress sold them because they needed money. Madea was older, but she had never been frail. In a matter of months, Madea had gone from a robust woman to thin and sickly. She did not look as if she could afford to miss another meal. The older woman had cared for her and her family, after her mother’s death. Damn them! They would pay for everything they had done to those Journey loved.

Journey rushed across the room to Madea’s aid before the unbalanced table caused her to fall. She wrapped her arms around Madea and steadied her.

The woman’s cloudy eyes focused.

Madea, Journey whispered. Madea.

Ma…who calls my name. Madea’s hands reached for Journey’s face.

Journey watched the woman squint.

As recognition crossed Madea’s face, a smile curved her