In honor of those who've come this way before me, I offer this collection of writings titled 'Ahead To The Past', a collection that chronicles our journey from our rich, ancient past to modern-day times. With each monthly installment allow yourself to be whisked away to a time and place hindered only by the boundaries of your imagination; where fiction is fact and fact is oftentimes hard to believe. A time and place that can only be accessed by journeying...Ahead To The Past! 

Enjoy!!!  

Darrell

                                             Torn

     The bright, morning sun spread its radiance upon a rich, proud village whose task it was to raise yet another. Overhead a flock of quail flew vigorously toward a nearby stream. The time had come when young boys shed the residue of their recent childhood and began to don the appearance of young men. Almost daily a strict warning went out to them from tribal elders to stay vigilant. A warning that could be the difference between life and death. A warning that too often fell tragically upon deaf ears.

     While in pursuit of a warthog piglet through a tall thick field a young lad suddenly went from predator to prey as the thunderous pounding of a horse's hooves drew near. Frantically the boy turned in all directions until he saw the full flared nostrils of a black speckled horse approaching through the thick brush. Riding high on the saddle of such a beast was the object of the lad's worst nightmare. Stunned stiff by the ghostly sight of the one he'd so often been warned of, the young lad did the only thing he could: He ran. 

     His heart raced with the speed of a cheetah as his feet tried desperately to do the same. Adrenaline flooded his bloodstream like a river, giving him a much needed burst, yet the distance between hunter and hunted rapidly grew shorter. As he ran the height and depth of the thickened field seemed to be working in favor of the husky trapper, causing the young African's strides to become more and more labored. Seconds later an exhausted stumble sent the lad crashing to the earth. Helplessly, he struggled to free himself from the thick, heavy cords that had been flung over, and wrapped under him like a fisherman's net, hauling in it's prized catch. Screams of terror escaped his from his lips, signaling to anyone who could hear of his crucial plight.

      Shivering with fear the lad peered through the net's webbing at the blonde, yellow-toothed, blue-eyed horseman whose smile registered a feeling in the youth that was far from delight. Tearfully closing his eyes the young native sent up a silent prayer as the words of the elders played over in his head. In a flash, and almost too instant to comprehend, a privilege promised to generations to come; a freedom that had been since the beginning of time; a liberty that was once a given, had ruthlessly been taken. Forever.

                                                          The End 

                                                Oh This Journey

     Consciousness returned slowly. Almost unwilling. First sounds. Then smells. Sight would come later; for in the packed storage compartment of this mighty vessle darkness ruled. The roaring inferno of a thousand hells could easily pass for heaven in the midst of this dank, death-infested holding pen. Here, life was death, and death was life. Shoulder to shoulder, head to foot, shackle to shackle, no excess space was spared. 

     The various tongues and dialects that were spoken were ruthlessly discouraged by repeated swings of the cat's nine tails at the hands of the on-deck shipmates. The  languages of the captured were different. However, their screams were frighteningly similar. Heavy pools of vomit, urine, feces, and blood, along with the oppressive heat of the poorly-ventilated compartment combined to create a stench so powerful that flies turned in disgust. For miles around the foul odor could be grossly detected. 

     At the extreme left and right of the vile compartment wooden doors suddenly flew open. The precious cargo grew cold with fear as the scarred leather boots of several crew members descended into the compartment below. Their glistening muskets, as always, were in plain view. One by one, dozens of passengers were dragged up the creeking wooden steps into the blinding light of a mid-morning sun. Immediately they were checked over and placed into three categories: Alive, dying, and dead. 

     Forced-fed, forced-bathed, and forced-exercised, their short-lived reprieve from over-populated confinement hardly faired any better. Young women, with many having never known a man, were forcefully taken to separate quarters to be shared in ways unimaginable. On deck were still more screams. Screams of absolute horror as the dead were tossed overboard like rotting garbage. Screams of sheer agony as the dying were whipped back to life, or literary, to death. Screams of endless terror as the living were taken back into the dark, penitentiary of the living dead. Shoulder to shoulder. Head to toe. Shackle to shackle, they lay and watched as the doors to another world of torture closed tight. Complete darkness soon returned. Together in the midst of their detestable surroundings they agonized as one as they wished, hoped, and prayed for the one thing that could remove them from their misery. Death.     

                                                        The End 

                                                  Price Of A Man

     Huge crowds formed under the awning of a near-perfect sky. Excitement was in the air. Men, women and children gathered with smiles of glee, hoping to get the very best of this month's crops: Negro Men, women, and children. 

     On a makeshift podium an obese auctioneer stood an arm's length from a young Negro woman and rambled his perception of her current worth. A hand in the background quickly went up, signaling agreement of the asking price. To justify the expected increase an assistant, at the command of the auctioneer, pried open the woman's mouth to show the condition of her teeth and gums. 

     Her youth and strength were emphasized as well. Always a major selling point was the present and future potential of her prized womb. Coupled with the virility of a strong young buck, her worth had already increased. Hands popped up from all over. A discreet mentioning of her as the perfect bed warmer sent the price even higher. 

     Masculine hands bearing the golden symbol of their unions slowly went down, but an overzealous eyebrow up front managed to get the auctioneer's attention. 

     "Going once...going twice...sold, to..."

     Offstage papers were signed, hands shaken, and 'property' exchanged. Moments later, a happy homesteader left the auction in a horse-driven carriage, waving to his fellow fellows, with four prized specimens in his possession. The total tally for his purchase...barely that of the very horse that carried them away. 

                                                         The End

                                     Giving Back To The Community

     July. The hottest month of the year, in one of the hottest summers on record. Nearly six weeks had passed since the last batch of rain had fallen. Drought conditions, with their threatening presence, rapidly approached. In the depths of the Wilson Tobacco fields several dozen Negroes toiled under the heat of an unforgiving sun, and under the watchful eye of Tom Walsh Jr, Master Tom Sr.'s oldest boy. A mysterious stomach ailment had left Tom Sr. bed-ridden for the better part of three days. Dr. Tomlin, the family physician, had yet to determine the origin of Tom Sr.'s illness.      

     "Dr. Tomlin, you think my Tom's gonna be alright?" asked Beth, Tom's wife of thirty-one years. 
     "Only time'll tell," he said as he prepared to wash his hands in a cast-iron basin just before leaving. "That be one mighty strong illness he's fightin'. Can't seem to break that fever." 
     "I don't understand it. The other night we be eatin' supper and he's fit as a horse. Next morning', he can't even get outta bed." Just outside the half-opened bedroom door Maggie, an aged Negro kitchen hand with salt and pepper hair and a long scar down the side of her face, listened with intent. 
     "Miss Beth," said  Dr. Tomlin, "if that fever don't break in the next few days contact me soon as be and, I recon, we'll have to take him on in. But make sure he gets plenty of fluids. Have one of your niggers make him up a batch of tea every now and again," he said as Beth nodded in agreement. 
     "I sure will. And thank you for everything Dr. Tomlin. Maggie!" 
     "Yes'em Miss Beth?" 
Startled at the closeness of the answered voice Beth stepped outside the bedroom and saw an equally startled Maggie. 
     "Maggie, how long you been sittin' out here?" 
     "Not long, Miss Beth. Jus' walked up. Came to see if massa' Tom needed mo towels, ma'am." 
     "Well, no. Not right now. But what you can do is go in the kitchen an make us a kettle of tea. Oh! And can you do a little somethin' 'bout the taste? Tom said the tea the other night went down kinda rough." 
     "Yes ma'am," said Maggie as she bowed in obedience.  "I's just put a little mo my herbs in." 
     "Whatever you have to do. Alright now, Maggie. You run along. Master Tom's waitin'." 
     "Yes ma'am." Maggie turned and began a slow limp down the narrow hallway when she stopped and turned back. 
     "Miss Beth?" 
     "Yes Maggie." 
     "If you don't mind me askin'...how is massa Tom?" 
Beth paused, then donned a cosmetic smile. 
     "He's fine. Just runnin' a slight fever, that's all."      
     "Thank you miss Beth. I's be sure to say a praya'," said Maggie as she turned to resume her slow arduous trek back toward the kitchen. Hearing Beth's voice in the bedroom, a devilish grin appeared across Maggie's thick, worn face. 
     "'A slight fever', you say miss Beth?" she softly said to herself as her grin turned into a menacing smile. "I say you bess' go 'head and get out yo black dress."    

                                                           *     *     *

     Standing at the edge of the vast tobacco field Tom Jr. pulled a wrinkled handkerchief from his pocket and removed his shop-worn hat to clear the drizzles of perspiration from his reddened face. 
     "Whew! Sho is hot," he said to himself. Placing his hat back on, a vigilant stare to his extreme left and right showed all to be as it was, when suddenly, in the midst of the sweltering fields, a horrific scream sounded, startling all to attention. In an instant, several field hands scurried toward the source of the hysteria. Tom jr. soon followed. 
     Lying face-down and motionless was a young Negro man who seemed to be a victim of the oppressive heat. 
     "Back! Back," Tom jr. barked, pressing his way through the gathering. As he approached, a strange feeling suddenly came over him. Nervously he knelt to check for signs of vitality. Unsure of determining the slave's current condition, Tom jr. yelled for one of the Negro women to run to the Big House and get help. Zelma, a beautiful young Negro woman, ran with urgency. Tom jr. continued to hover cautiously over the downed slave.    
     High in the branches of a huge Bay tree Ravens cackled frantically. Seconds later in the still of the moment a heavy uneasiness rose up in the pit of Tom jr.'s stomach as shadows in human silhouette fell eerily upon him. Turning to see from whence and whom they came his emerald-green eyes widened with horror at the sight of a huge ax handle held high over the head of a young Negro male whose own eyes held the startling image of a hate-filled inferno. Slave women covered the eyes of their children and hurried them off onto a pre-chosen path in the woods as violent blows were delivered repeatedly and without remorse upon the bloodied, convulsing body of a semi-conscious Tom Jr. Rising to render purposeful shots of his own was the slave who had mimicked such a grave illness. With a final kick to the torso the slave reached down and removed the small revolver from Tom Jr.'s lifeless body. In a mad dash toward anything that resembled freedom he and the others quickly took for the thickness of the woods where they soon joined a waiting Zelma whose mock search for help had brought her back to her true place of destiny.