I, Land.

Chapter One: Wenzeland

Nights like these were perfect. A full moon cast a spotlight from the distant horizon, across to the Northern shore. There is no breeze. No scents in the air. The wash of the surf over the pink sands goes almost unheard.

Wenzel sits tall in his usual perch, partially hidden from the moon’s glow by branches pulled low. From here he can survey all that he has bled for. He breathes with the rhythm of the silent surf and moves his eyes slowly, carefully, across the horizon, then up and down the water’s edge. He must remain alert if he is to survive the night.

He takes a measured breath, slowly slides his body flat against the rough trunk of the coconut tree, hugs it firmly with his left arm and nimbly rolls right and glides to the soft sand twenty feet below. His movements are practiced and efficient. He stands still for a moment, as if waiting for any disturbance he created to subside. His eyes ever vigilant.

The Overseer twists and ties his long, graying dreadlocks into a bundle atop his head then reaches down with his right hand for his club that lay waiting at the base of the tree. The Beast was his only companion now and she has never failed him. They have seen many nights like this.

He closes his eyes. A long blink that will serve as momentary rest. He will find no sleep tonight. Not a night like this.