FICTION — RESTIVE SOULS
The Tale of Shyllandrus Zulu: Chapter 10
Chapter Ten of Part Two: Diderot returns to a confounding mystery
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A Restive Souls excerpt
As told to eminent historian Emmet Bolo by the high priestess Zulu West.
Chapters 1&2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5.1
Chapter 5.2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.1
Chapter 12.2
Restive Souls Part 2: Carolina Rising
Zulu’s Tale (1801–1804)
10
Chastain’s revelations meant that Margaret Moncrieffe’s story was a sham. But it would be our little secret for now. The only person I could trust with the conflicting versions of her story was Diderot, not because I suspected a nest of spies, but because Diderot was the only one I thought competent enough to fully understand the complexities of the entire episode, including Ahyoka’s and Aaron Burr’s murder and Chastain’s disappearance and now, reappearance. That conversation would have to wait until things settled.
I grasped Ohemeng’s shoulder and led him away from the rest of the group. “What do you make of this confession?” I asked him.
“It seems truthful,” he said. “Would be a strange utterance to invent.”
I nodded in agreement. I realized that asking Ohemeng to ensure that his soldiers keep the results of the interrogation in confidence was preposterous considering how many heard it. But the reference to killing Burr needed to be kept from the governess’s ears for now. I wanted her to assume I knew nothing.
Ohemeng said, “Finding the bounty hunters may prevent Tsărăgĭ reprisals. They won’t believe the word of a pale-skinned criminal that Ahyoka’s killing was the work of bounty hunters.”
“And three Irishmen dressed in clay masks will curry their favor?” I asked sarcastically.
“I believe we have established enough goodwill that it will be sufficient.”
Repeating my sarcasm, I said, “So, four pale-skinned criminals will ameliorate their distrust if we include the bounty hunters’ prey in the accounting. Well then, maybe the governess would be safest in the city center, away from this raucous.” I mostly wanted her away from the scuttlebutt.
Ohemeng chuckled. “I have yet to meet a bounty hunter who considers himself a criminal. As to where the governess is safest? There is no safety during these times. I will assign a contingent to protect her.”
Chosen from a different group than the interrogator, I hope, I thought to myself. I decided I would need to confide in Ohemeng, so I told him what the governess told me.
“Oh my,” he said. “Your grace, your governess is a criminal herself.”
“She has the scars to prove much of her story, Commander. Perhaps she hired someone to do what she thought necessary for her survival. However, this is a problem for New England’s courts. Not ours.”
“An unresolved problem, if there are bounty hunters involved. But you say she was acquitted. So the question becomes, who has decided this possible attempt to remove the governess from power, and is willing to kill a high priestess from the powerful Tsărăgĭ to accomplish this?”
“Chastain says they are bounty hunters. He may believe this to be true. But I suspect something more sinister.”
“She is a friend to you, is she not?” asked Ohemeng.
“If you wish to expand the definition of the term. I met her for the first time just this day.”
“A rewording of my question is in order. She is a friend of the Union?”
“Her proclivities seem to favor us.”
“That has been her reputation,” agreed Ohemeng. “But the rebel factions that fostered the war against the British have powerful representation in New England. Killing the governess here would accomplish much from a tactical standpoint, especially if they could find a way to blame the Tsărăgĭ.”
“I believe they’ve ruined that prospect by sending Irish bounty hunters.”
“You don’t understand. The tactic is this: Kill a Tsărăgĭ priestess on Union soil to prompt retribution. Just as you suspected from the beginning. Well… she would die in the ensuing skirmish, and the Union would have enemies among both the Tsărăgĭ and the New England Federation. I propose to you, your grace, that these Irishmen were not bounty hunters. Their slayings of the three Tsărăgĭ warriors — that was the work of elite soldiers. You will find their training at the most prestigious militia camps that the New England Federation has to offer.”
I was a fool to ever consider that the rebels would capitulate to the possibility of a nation dominated by Afrikers and First Settlers on the eastern shores of the Americas. Of course, Ohemeng was correct about the politics. There were large, dangerous factions that wanted nothing less than to destroy the Carolina Union, and, probably, every single First Settler and every Afriker within it. If they couldn’t have slavery, extermination or endless conflict would have to do.
No matter what I thought of the governess or her deceptive tale, her protection was paramount. It was imperative that we successfully track the bounty hunters, or whatever they were.
However, I also knew that assumptions can become adventitious weapons of war. We had fallen prey to them when we assumed that Ahyoka’s killers were Tsărăgĭ dissidents. And now, Ohemeng was assuming that the Irish mercenaries were New Englanders. That was a possibility, but there were other possibilities.
As soon as my mind began to wander into those possibilities, Diderot and his full platoon of twenty or so men noisily arrived on congregational grounds.
He dismounted his horse, which was at the lead of the contingent. “Your grace,” he said warily as if thinking I might be someone else. “I am quite glad to find you here. Is your guest safe?”
“The governess is fine, Monsieur Diderot. What news have you?”
“We found the scoundrels. Several of them died in a skirmish. There is only one left. He remains uninjured. We sustained only one injury by some miracle — or miracles. And by miracles, I offer no exaggeration.”
I smiled as Ohemeng approached Diderot and pounded his back as they embraced. “How so?” I asked.
“It was as if God himself directed his finger to point us toward the offenders,” he said, switching his glance between myself and Ohemeng as he spoke. “I shall tell you the story in full, but your grace, these are not Tsărăgĭ, nor even a warrior from one of their ancient enemies.”
“Irish.” I was still smiling.
“How can you know this? Never mind. Of course you know this.” At this, he smiled slightly, but I knew a smile was not easily conjured after so much time on a chase and battle. His face looked like it had been dragged through mud, his clothes even worse. They were caked with wet clay, silt, and grime. Meanwhile, several more torches had found their way to the impromptu gathering.
I looked at Ohemeng, who had an imprint of Diderot’s mess on his uniform.
“We have Chastain,” said Ohemeng.
Diderot’s smile grew. “How delightful. The fiend escaped just as we nearly had him in our clutches. Before the birds covered the sky.”
“So it worked,” I said.
“Your grace?”
“Bedíàkṍ sent a flock of starlings,” I laughed. “She wanted them to shit on the criminals, but we used them to point the way instead.”
“Shit, you say?” Diderot looked amused.
“Yes. She wanted to drop a large pile of dung on top of them.”
“I would devote all of my congregation’s dollar coins to witness such a thing,” he laughed.
“I was sorely tempted, but the idea seemed nonsensical.”
Diderot’s voice grew serious, then quieter as it tightened. “The sky was covered. It became as night. Then, a thin, blue crease in the sky appeared, widening at one end, to reveal what looked like a spear in the sky. The flock bent in the sky toward the ground like a great carpet, the blue spear careening this way and that, directly pointing one way at all times. The spear in the sky began to look like it was made from blue liquid within a tapestry of black silk. We felt compelled to ride in the direction of the spear’s curling, moving point, but the flying spear took us to a difficult ride over a wide, turgid stream.
“As we were crossing the stream, we came under attack by at least twenty well-armed men. But their armaments were inferior to our Ferguson rifles. Nevertheless, the ambush should have been bad for us. Instead, we lost not one man. The first miracle. We shot haphazardly toward where the shots were coming from along both sides of the stream.
“We quickly overran our enemy. Most of them escaped into the woods, but I’d estimate maybe ten were killed. We didn’t take time to count their dead, much less bury them.” That was far more than the three reported by Chastain.
“Every one of the dead enemies was bloodless. Your grace, sometimes I find it necessary to shoot a bloodless in the head after they fall to be sure they are not dead soldiers crawling out of graves to exact their revenge.”
That drew a long grin from Ohemeng.
“I cut this off the shoulder fabric of one of them.” Diderot produced a patch of cloth with insignia and the letters FSF. The insignia was simple, consisting of a raised fist holding a rifle tipped with a bayonet. He handed the cloth to Ohemeng. “Do you know of this?”
“I do not recognize this congregation, nor its signature,” said Ohemeng.
“Europeans are not known to form congregations,” I said. I found the slang word, bloodless, used by Diderot and others, offensive, but I rarely stated so. I understood the sentiments behind its use. And I had used it myself at times, with a tinge of regret each time it passed through my lips.
“What else might it represent?” asked Ohemeng.
“I do not know,” I answered. Something told me that Margaret Moncrieffe might.
“That is the same color clothing river bandits wear, sir,” offered a nearby soldier.
Ohemeng gestured for the man to approach. “What else have you?”
“That is all, sir. Apologies. Aside from the fact that river bandits are always bloodless, too.”
Diderot stuffed the cloth into his vest pocket. He was not dressed like a soldier. He was dressed like Diderot, with a flamboyant feathered tassel tied to the end of his kerchief that looked somehow undisturbed by the skirmish. His calfskin pants were caked in mud. His calfskin shoulder-less vest and the dark undergarment underneath were wet with thick rolls of slurry.
“We shall revisit that mystery,” said Diderot. “To continue… we finished crossing the stream after a difficult fight. The crossing was itself treacherous enough without being introduced to the waters in the middle of an assault.” He shook his head and sighed. “Quite fortunately, the musket fire abated quickly, once the enemy realized they no longer had our numbers nor our Fergusons. So, most of our men were spared the hail of musket shot. A few minor wounds. One from a graze, the other from a fallen horse.”
Most large congregational militias were armed with Advanced Fergusons, which featured a cartridge-based breech loading mechanism and were less prone to malfunction than the first generation of Fergusons.
“We then followed the sky arrow that nature provided, although more than one of us assumed it was the work of our necromancers. Which calls me to interrupt my tale momentarily, your grace.” Diderot was wearing a sly smile. “Is there not a passage in the Bible? Leviticus, I believe. Is there not a passage that specifically denounces necromancy?”
I glared at him in response. But he was clearly determined to have his fun, so he continued with, “They are to be stoned, I believe. You know. Per Leviticus.” Ohemeng cackled and shot a punch to Diderot’s arm, revealing that he wasn’t utterly humorless after all.
“Moses was a fulminating fool,” I replied sincerely. “He also said that God took the time to tell him that troops with unexpected male emissions must decamp for the night. I expect you shall be sleeping in the forest this evening.”
Zulu’s opinions about Moses nearly precipitated an international incident when she visited the small but growing Ethiopian Orthodox Tewahedo Congregation in Africa in 1842. The Tewahedo believed in the sanctity of Old Testament scripture.
Ohemeng laughed even louder. “My grace, there are many reasons why everyone loves you so.”
“I believe Moses was referring to nocturnal emissions, your grace,” replied Diderot. “Not of the afternoon kind, which arises,” he coughed a little, “from the thrill of a most satisfying chase.”
Now other men were laughing, and one of them, clearly someone near to Diderot’s heart, exclaimed, “The books of Moses are why Diderot is never seen in church!”
I looked over to the voice from among the crowd of men. It came from a handsome man with a long, straight, black mane under his spired helmet. The man continued in a roar, “The Bible is quite clear! No one whose testicles are crushed or whose male organ is cut off shall enter the assembly of the Lord. Deuteronomy!!”
That sent the men who were not already laughing into a state of convulsion. Even I had to smile at that as I walked closer to Diderot to put my hands on his shoulders. “We shall make this lone exception,” I said in a most serious voice.
He bowed, saying, “Merci, j’t’aime with all the greatness of my heart.”
The men needed the levity. So did I. After the men calmed, Diderot continued with his story. I hadn’t noticed until this moment that their new prisoner had been led by guards toward the front row of men watching us, tied up and watched by men holding bayonet-tipped Fergusons. He was not hooded but seemed to be wearing a uniform with the shoulder patch Diderot showed us.
“Visibility was terrible. The birds’ black blanket created the effect of night. The blue slit in the sky provided some light, but dimmer than twilight. There was a break in the forest into a few low hills full of grass and low brush. As we clambered through, I could see that it had been the home of a recent small fire. Looking to my right, I then noticed acres of burnt land. You can be assured that the arrow created by the birds was not pointing in that direction.
“There, we established a perimeter of sorts. I made a guess here, one based on nothing but instinct, but perhaps more hope than even that. I guessed we were closing in on our prey. So I ordered a few men to remain behind the trees before the space opened by the old fires. Anyone needing to flee our coming assault may, I thought, try to make a quickened run through the easier terrain.
“Among those left behind was that young Tuscarora fool who seems to have such intimate knowledge of the condition of my male organ.”
“Riding with you for these past twenty years has aged me into an old man, Diderot,” the man yelled out with a laugh.
Diderot shook his head and rolled his eyes, then whispered. “It is I, your grace, that has aged. I’m but a frail old fool now thanks to him.”
The man made his way to the front. “What foul thing is he saying to you?” he demanded with a broken smile. Suddenly, he began looking at me with a reverence I had rarely seen. “Oh my. You are…” He bowed. “Your grace, I am most sorry for my beastly language.” My personage was becoming familiar even to those who didn’t know me. It was quite humbling.
I laughed at the poor fellow. “But a different priestess standing here would not warrant such circumspection?”
“I…”
“What is your name?”
“I am Kanatsoyh, your grace.”
I had heard of the man from Diderot’s tales. “I am honored to have you in my company. As for what Monsieur Diderot was saying to me? Exactly that. That he is quite honored to remain in your company.”
“That is most true for me, also, your grace.” He then put his arm around Diderot. “I have taught him much. That has been my greatest honor.”
“I am quite fortunate he has not killed me with his teachings,” replied Diderot with a devious smile. “If not for the daily reminders of humanity provided by his good wife Oo-reeh, I am sure he would have. Shall I continue?”
Meanwhile, much of the crowd of soldiers had dispersed. I noticed several of them walking to the banquet hall, undoubtedly hoping to obtain a well-deserved meal. The only soldiers remaining were Ohemeng, Diderot, Kanatsoyh, and those holding the new prisoner, as well as a few others I didn’t know.
“In short order, if you can, Monsieur Diderot. Your tales can consume several lunar cycles. But I’m quite interested in hearing the rest.”
Diderot continued. “After we left, Kanatsoyh and the others waited, and that is when Chastain burst through a tree line into the gap of the forest. They quickly gave chase, and those who pounced on him brought him here to you. Kanatsoyh here and a couple of his companions somehow caught up to the rest of us shortly after.
“Kanatsoyh could track a deer in a storming flood, so it was no surprise he found us again. The men and the horses were growing tired. We were beginning to consider turning around, but that damn arrow in the sky insisted on its continued guidance.
“Miraculously, the second miracle, I suppose, the arrow stopped moving. It was as if the birds were hovering in the sky, then the arrow swooped down to tree level before disappearing into the western sky. This provided the element of surprise, if, of course, the flock was doing what we hoped. We truly didn’t know. Some in the troupe thought the whole thing a fool’s game, but we encircled the area indicated by the avian structure above us as if the Lord had presented to us a compass.
“Then we saw it. An encampment of dismounted soldiers. Perhaps they had decided to break camp to send patrols to hunt Chastain. It was later afternoon, not yet darkness, so too early to break camp for the night. We didn’t sit around to discuss their intent. We charged them. They were badly outnumbered but fought hard regardless. Except for that coward there,” and he nodded at their prisoner, “who ran away from the fight. The others perished.”
“Lucky for us, his cowardice,” said Ohemeng. “Perhaps I will not need to threaten to pluck out his eyeballs to retrieve information.”
That led to a long interrogation with the man, who said he came from a place called The Free State of Franklin. The mystery of the “FSF” initials on the shoulder patches was solved, but it was an unfamiliar name to us.
The man, who went by the name of Elroy Bond, claimed that it was an independent nation northwest of the Georgia province. Aside from prompting some laughter, there was little to say to this claim. But the man, after Ohemeng prodded him with some mild threats, continued to explain that the territory was filled with disaffected colonial rebels who could not abide by the rise of the freed slaves in the Carolina Union and New England.
He also claimed that they had built a substantial military. Much to our dismay, we had seen firsthand that if the recent attack was their handiwork, their military was a professional one. The free state, Bond said, was under the direction of a man named Andrew Jackson, who had gathered a small force of men almost as soon as the war ended and fled to a small town on the edge of most detailed maps called Nashville.
“Why these incursions?” asked Diderot. “This free state you speak of is far away.”
“Money. We needed money. The bounty on this man’s head is high.” I knew, of course, of which man he spoke. And he knew I knew.
“And the Cherokee. They are everywhere. They done nearly destroyed Nashville. They be all around the Cumberland and taken its port. Nashville, she had maybe two, three thousand of us from all over the territories. It was a right good town but them redskins are killin’ it as sure as I’m sittin’ here. We ain’t got nothin’ against you people. Honest. We just want to farm some land, sell some goods, do some tradin’, and be left well enough alone. But them redskins won’t leave us be. We tryin’ to collect us some money. There’s bounty money on that governess too who is said to be here in your city. But we won’t go after no woman. That be federation business.
“General Jackson, well, I’m guessin’ he thinks if we hit the Cherokee closer to their home base that they’ll back off or some such. I ain’t no general. Don’t know how it might work. But them Cherokee. They’ll turn their wicked eyes on you, too, someday. We just movin’ things along rightly now. Towards the natural order of things and such.”
I knew better, despite my lack of political acumen. And I knew that Moncks Corner was not the home base for the Tsărăgĭ nation, which was vast, spreading into the lands of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, New England, and the Carolina Union. There had been negotiations regarding the Tsărăgĭ joining the Haudenosaunee Confederacy, but there was still bitterness over a previous war with the Tuscarora.
There could be no hope of defeating the Tsărăgĭ militarily. Instead, this Jackson fellow was trying to start a war between the Tsărăgĭ and the Union, or, at a minimum, some congregations within the Union, which would have a similar effect. If Bond’s claims were true, and Jackson had an impressive army, he’d be able to roll in and possibly take land that was not his to take.
“Your grace,” said Ohemeng. “There have been some unsubstantiated reports of incursions from points unknown into the northern expanse of the Georgia province and even into Pakanahuili.”
“I am not familiar with this Pakanahuili,” I said.
“It is a Creek town,” said Diderot. “Growing rapidly thanks in large part to trade with the Muskogee. If the prisoner claims there are one or two thousand citizens in this devil’s lair that is claiming nationhood, I would suggest to you that the truthful numbers are much higher.”
Pakanahuili translates into English as Standing Peachtree, and of course, today is a major metropolis and the primary transportation hub in the southern United States, and the home of the largest international airport in the world.
Diderot’s knowledge of the Muskogee Creek Confederacy, which had founded Pakanahuili, was understandably thin, as he seems to imply that the citizens of Pakanahuili, who were Muskogee Creek, were thriving because they were trading with themselves, which was surely not his intent.
The Muskogee Creek Confederacy’s success was attributable to strong trading relations with a variety of regions in the Carolina Union and with the confederacy’s powerful Seminole allies in the State of Muskogee in the Florida region, which contained a mix of Muskogee and Seminole people. The Seminole were related to the Muskogee but had adopted their own culture and language, with a heavy African influence because of the large numbers of former slaves who had fled to the Florida region from slave states.
The State of Muskogee became the Seminole Nation in 1803 when the Seminole Nation absorbed the Muskogee Creek Confederacy after a brief war.
“Reports from local census takers in Charleston suggest that there has been a surge in the number of Afrikers, and an almost proportional, opposite response from those of European heritage,” said Ohemeng.
“They’re going somewhere,” I said. “Who is this Andrew Jackson?”
Nobody answered. Nobody knew the name.
“This is all a logical next step for the colonial rebels. The land is vast. There are many places for them to settle and regroup,” I said.
“None of their settlements will be uncontested,” said Diderot. “There are First Settlers as far west as your passenger pigeons and starlings can fly. And further south, yet, in lands unknown to even the greatest navies.”
“And they have strong allies,” said the Tuscarora, Kanatsoyh. I wondered about that. Our people and theirs were destined to sometimes have conflicting interests. We were invaders, too. Unwitting invaders, but invaders just the same.
Some First Settlers had taken our people slaves, and the reverse, too, had happened, although not frequently enough to create strife for subsequent generations. Instead, as always, future strife would involve land. We would need to find a way to share the land, but I realized that there may come a time when First Settlers might decide they didn’t wish to share any more land.
And what then? What might future generations do? Would we concentrate our growing populations within the regions we had already made into homes? Or would we seek to expand westward to the great continental river and beyond?
“You wonder about this,” said Kanatsoyh quietly. His astute observation provided all I needed to know why Diderot had taken to him. “I do, too, at times. But both our people share a reverence for the spirit God who governs us in ways beyond anything that the bloodless can ever imagine. My people, we’ve had much warfare amongst ourselves, your eminence. Then, when slavery died and the white-skinned ones were routed from their plantations and ports, we saw then the future.
“Someday Pakanahuili and Charleston will be great cities and both our peoples will live in each. That is what I believe.”
I nodded at this. It was a noble thought.
“Diderot has said that congregations unite us,” Kanatsoyh added.
“And what of those who do not wish to be part of any congregation?” I wondered aloud, thinking about Chastain, who had been forced into a congregation to avoid harsh punishment.
“The world is changing,” said Diderot. “As for those who wish to stumble through life alone? I suppose they can do that. Such loneliness is preferred by some. But most will cherish the congregational way. It provides food and shelter and society for all, even for non-believers such as me,” he smiled mischievously.
I scoffed, knowing full well the strength of his beliefs, even if he didn’t.
I grabbed each man by the shoulder before saying, “Blessings to you — I must return to Bedíàkṍ for a time. Where will you keep the prisoners?”
“We shall bring them to a prisoner’s quarters in the central city in the morning,” answered Diderot.
I bowed for my leave.
Both men nodded and bowed.
When I returned to my home, I saw Bedíàkṍ cleaning a perfectly clean dresser top. Bedíàkṍ was that way. Her desire for cleanliness was not superseded by anything else in this world, not even her gift with birds. If bed linen was perfectly folded, she would take a moment to remind the covering of her extraordinary fastidiousness by carefully refolding it.
Many moons before, she had woven the bed linens herself, then wrapped them in down collected by small teams of avian feather harvesters, who meticulously gathered them from nests because, Bedíàkṍ claimed, down gathered from nests rather than from the birds themselves was considerably softer.
The gathered down was encased in silk, an extravagance I originally had found offensive, but when she established a small congregational factory along the river on the outer limits of Charleston that manufactured them for sale to rich European aristocrats for sums that not even God could calculate, thus defraying the costs for us, who was I to complain?
She remained quiet as I arrived, an almost frightening reaction given her boisterous nature. She didn’t even stop to look at me as she toiled.
“B. What is wrong?”
“Why does the Lord allow such violence?” was all she said.
I took a moment, then pulled her by her wrists to have her sit on the bed next to me.
“It is the will of nature, which was created by God. The crash of an ocean wave against rock is violence. But there is beauty in that violence, just as there is beauty in the violence of a bolt of lightning striking a tree or a great wind blowing the roof off a home.”
“There is no beauty in human violence,” she replied.
“It is the unholy excrement of free will,” I said. “And we are incapable of atoning for it ourselves. That is why God sent his son so that he could absorb the atonement for us. And when we understand that simple truth and greet his holy spirit, who lives inside you always, whether you wish it or not, when you understand it, your heart transforms.”
“Hmm.”
“You do not feel the spirit within you?”
“I do but I have another theory, quite apart from yours, I believe.”
“Enlighten me,” I said, softly stroking the back of her hand.
“It happens mostly with men. But sometimes, I look into the eyes, and I see no soul. Do you think it possible, Zu, that some people are born without one? That they are empty vessels? Not necessarily evil, not good, just empty, with no need for those pesky emotions of guilt and shame?”
“Like an animal,” I said.
“I look into a dog’s eyes, and it often seems like a see a soul,” she smiled. “A bird, not so much.”
“Nothing there at all as far as I can tell. Perhaps there are birdmen among us,” I said.
“From here on I shall call the criminal Chastain, The Bird Man of the River,” she laughed.
“Oh, I believe he has a soul,” I said.
“But a possessed one. Perhaps demons enter empty vessels more easily than others.”
“I find these things difficult to ponder as they occur,” I said.
“These things, they always occur,” she said.
“We have a responsibility,” I said. “It comes with faith. Those empty vessels you speak of, and those who simply have no faith, are not capable of tapping into our inner spirit the way you and I are. The Holy Spirit, we call it, but others call it different things. Our responsibility is to resist temptation because when we do, the demons are neutered.”
Bedíàkṍ leaned into me and softly kissed me, gently pulling on my upper lip with her teeth. “Some would call this a temptation to sin,” she whispered.
“Love cannot be sinful,” I said as I kissed her in return.
Our residence was connected to a longer congregational hall, which contained several rooms, including a large kitchen, which produced the day’s earlier lunch with Margaret Moncrieffe, and some guest rooms.
“I can smell Charleston from here,” said Bedíàkṍ while kissing my hand. She sighed. “It is a most evil smell.”
“The manufacture of textiles is an odorous affair,” I replied. “But not an evil one.”
“The winds must be blowing north,” she replied.
I laughed at this. “There are so many kenaf water retting facilities in Charleston that it doesn’t matter much which way the wind blows. We could remove some of that pungency if we could better manage the economics of cotton production.”
Our Vanguard of Mary had established several cotton production centers, which had done well for our congregation, but we found it difficult to scale the process up. Kenaf may have had the unfortunate side-effect of filling Charleston with a foul summer smell, but it was easier and cheaper to manufacture than cotton.
Kenaf harvesting and production in the early 19th century involved soaking the kenaf for long periods in ponds of water, rivers, streams, and canals. The retting often created unpleasant odors, especially in the South’s humidity, where kenaf grew best.
In principle, 19th-century kenaf retting was the same as modern-day retting involving chemicals in large manufacturing plants. The process still involves separating the bast strands, used in those days for textiles, and later paper, within the plant’s bark from the rest of the plant.
Cotton farm workers and ginners were not happy about payments that were delayed on fabric shipped overseas, and early congregations didn’t have enough money from standard tithes or business profits to give them sustenance while they waited. Kenaf had the advantage of being in a constant state of production, and the time to harvest from seedlings was almost one and a half months shorter than that of cotton.
Kenaf was already becoming the country’s most important crop in the early 19th century and gained importance as its fiber became used for everything from clothing to paper products and building construction. Many congregations of the 19th century used the non-fibrous material from the plant as livestock feed or blended it with soil after harvests to improve the nutrients in the soil.
“Where is the governess?” I asked.
“She took a long walk with Wild Henry, of all people,” she said. “Then she retired to her guest room.”
“Wild Henry will walk with anyone who enjoys the sublime essence of nature,” I said.
“But who walks with Wild Henry? The man smells like the rear end of nature.”
I laughed at that. Wild Henry was famous for his garden and for the stench of effluvia from unknown sources that permeated his clothing. We loved him just the same.
I wanted to confide the governess’s story to Bedíàkṍ, but I didn’t yet know if I’d be confronting Margaret. I considered the facts of her case. I believed her story that she had suffered from her husband’s violent hands. Her home was a battlefield, but she was no soldier.
What then, of her husband’s death? If Chastain’s testimony were true, then Margaret’s attack on her husband was premeditated and did not fall, as best I knew, within the realm of self-defense according to New England law. She could have left her home.
But would I have left given the same circumstances? Or would I, too, after being subject to repeated episodes of violence, seek other recourse? Would I have paid an assassin to resolve my problem? To put an end to my daily terrors?
No matter my sympathies, her story produced another conundrum. She had lied to me. A lie to another person is a lie to God, even though God knows the truth. The conundrum was compounded by the simple fact that I liked the woman.
Bedíàkṍ noticed that I was suddenly lost in thought. I realized that she may have said several things to me as I drifted away with my considerations. “What are you thinking about, Zu?” she asked.
“Not much,” I answered with a half-smile. “Just trying to understand the meaning of truth.”
It was then that I realized that I understood what to say to Margaret Moncrieffe.
All art (Image #1, Image #2) except at the top of the page generated by Midjourney.
Diderot’s friend, Kanatsoyh, is introduced to the reader in great detail in Part One of the novel.
The paragraphs in this excerpt are reformatted to allow for more white space than the original text from the novel. This is sort of a Medium audience thing.
The Restive Souls timeline (always in flux):
Want to see how the world of Restive Souls looks in the modern world?
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Restive Souls is still in late editing stages (it’s just one of those kinds of books). In the meantime, check out my most recent novel here:
This story was written by a human, not by AI or Grammarly GO (More Info)
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