FICTION — RESTIVE SOULS
The Tale of Shyllandrus Zulu: Chapter Three
Chapter Three of Part Two: The Public Trial of Roland Chastain
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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 4
Chapter 5.1
Chapter 5.2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.1
Chapter 12.2
Restive Souls Part 2: Carolina Rising
Zulu’s Tale (1801–1804)
3.
Somewhat to my chagrin, Diderot advertised the event on various flyers and in the Charleston newspaper as “The Public Trial of Roland Chastain.” The details revealed much more about the characteristics of the event than did the headline, which I suspected was a form of bait to a rapacious citizenry eager for punishment.
Since there were dozens of witnesses, I had argued that there need be no trial, but instead a healing session, and that is what the flyer promised:
Be it known that on the day of December 18, in the year of our Lord, eighteen hundred this first year, that there shall be a public determination of truth and healing for the known criminal Roland Chastain, who hath committed the offense of assault upon one Kerala Heights, a teacher and a beloved member of the Charleston community and a sister of the Vanguard of Mary Congregation.
Furthermore, all honors shall be brought forthwith from our Lord and his ministering angels to heal the known criminal Roland Chastain with the hands of this congregation in all ways peaceful and with the guidance of the Holy Spirit’s loving gestures so that the known criminal may live among us without fear of retribution, thus leaving his criminality to die at the hands of the Spirit of God. So be it by the love of God and the honor of all that is holy.
The flyer went on to list the time and place:
All Saints Congregation House, formerly known as The Exchange, located on the streets of Broad Street and Bay Street, in this city of Charleston, in the province of South Carolina, in this, the newly formed nation of the Carolina Union of the Queen. May God Save the King and Queen and the restive souls of this earth. For now and forever more.
A copy of the flyer is prominently displayed at the Christ’s Union Historical Museum. It was created during frenzied political turmoil during which representatives from a variety of congregations from North and South Carolina, Virginia, and Georgia voted to form an autonomous nation independent from The North American Union. The new nation was named Carolina Union of the Queen, with continued ties to the British Crown. The fledgling upstart received blessings from King George, who had never forgiven the colonists for their rebellion and who viewed the new nation and its 70% African majority as a formal and enduring punishment.
The result was a crowded house. Also sometimes known as The Charleston Custom House, the All Saints Congregation House was perfectly suited for the large event. The formal name for our meeting was, “A Public Determination for Truth and Healing”, with three judges presiding: myself, Diderot, and Romsay, each representing our respective congregations.
Rows of wooden chairs were hastily constructed for the event, and church pews were borrowed from one of the neighboring chapels. The event itself was held on the main floor above the elevated basement.
The assembling, riotous crowd was much larger than I had anticipated. There was an overflow because it was impossible to fit everyone into the building, despite its expanse.
Militia kept the rowdiest of them away from the doors. They prevented a group of about a dozen women, who were carrying makeshift signs of protest against Chastain, into the building.
Given the mood of the crowd, I realized I had overestimated my fellow citizens’ willingness to replace bloodlust with spirituality and forgiveness.
The congregational militia spent well over an hour forging a peaceful assemblage. Eventually, everyone was seated, but it was as if each member of the attending congregation sat upon a pile of hot coals.
Diderot called for more militia, who patrolled the aisles sternly as I finally called the hearing to order. The three of us had drawn lots for the privilege of presiding over the event, but it was beginning to look like less than a privilege.
Luckily, Diderot had drawn the lot as the presiding magistrate. My role was more as an emcee, and I was glad for it.
Despite my trepidations, my hard, deep voice, which Diderot once called a “baritone from the earth’s mantle,” brought immediate silence.
I was wearing my best attire, hoping it would lend some authority to the proceedings. My long, tightly braided black hair rose from the top of my head and was roped into a circle of small shells before spitting forth like a wild confluence of plant life. The ends of each braid were dyed in various colors, such as indigo and topaz and scarlet red.
Several weeks prior I had lined an arc of tiny ivory beads installed with tiny pins over my right eyebrow. The beads were now a permanent feature. I wore a thin ring that ran vertically from just below my lower lip to nearly the bottom of my chin.
Only those nearest me would notice the extensive tattoos across my face — thin lines made from dots swirling around my forehead and cheeks. These had been with me since a young age.
If I was to be a priestess on this new continent, I was determined to look the part.
My purple and scarlet flowing robes were tied by a sash at my midriff. There had been no time to attach identifying insignia to the robes. They were plain in that regard, but the purple color was distinguished, cut by long strips of scarlet at inconsistent intervals so that the garment looked almost striped in the back, whereas in the front there were but two vertical gold strips the width of two fingers on either side. The robes began at my feet and finished at my chin with a tall, angled collar.
I felt quite regal. Diderot had called me resplendent before the crowd began to fill the building.
We sat at a long, curving table with Diderot sitting on one end and Romsay on the other. I sat in the middle. Sitting in front of me several feet away, facing me instead of the audience, was Roland Chastain, flanked by two guards.
I stood to speak: “We are here, my good people, to lay the hands of forgiveness on the violator, Roland Chastain. I begin these proceedings by quoting from the great book, which must guide us in all matters.”
I then began to quote from First John, Chapter Four:
“Beloved,” I said, without reading, so the audience was aware that I knew the passage without assistance, “let us love one another, for love is from God, and whoever loves has been born of God and knows God.”
Romsay stood up and walked to Chastain. He laid his hands on his head.
I said loudly, “Do you, Roland Chastain, take the Lord God as your king, and do you devote the rest of your days to your service to him?”
His agreement to such had been part of the plea bargain between himself, his barrister, and all three congregations.
But Chastain said, “I do not know the Lord, your grace, nor his ways.”
This brought a rumbling wave of discontent from the audience in front of me. Romsay offered no expression.
If Chastain was going to sabotage the bargain, I wasn’t going to make it easy for him. “Anyone who does not love does not know God, because God is love,” I said, continuing to quote John. “In this the love of God was made manifest among us, that God sent his only Son into the world, so that we might live through him. In this is love, not that we have loved God but that he loved us and sent his Son to be the propitiation for our sins.”
I stepped away from my chair, walked around the large, curved, walnut table, and stood in front of Chastain and the audience.
“Do you accept this congregation, its findings, and its attempts to rehabilitate you?”
That had also been agreed upon, but of course, now, I was uncertain of his response.
“I am declared to the Vanguard of Mary Congregation, your grace. I shall abide by her judgments.”
Many in the crowd began to hiss and issue forth invective. “Burn him alive!” said one. “Hang him!” said another.
When I looked into Chastain’s eyes, I saw nothing. No malevolence, no love, no fear, not even, really, the knowledge that I was meeting the gaze of his eyes, which seemed to lead to a vacancy inside his head. But then, through that empty look, emerged a small stare from deep inside that looked like it belonged to a snake’s yellow eyes. The chill sent through me could have instantly frozen hot coals.
I raised one hand to the sky in front of the rowdy crowd. Then I bellowed, quoting from the Book of John in as loud a voice as I could muster, “Beloved, if God so loved us, we also ought to love one another.”
The crowd calmed some. I repeated the sentence in a softer tone after putting a finger to my lips to shush the hostility. Then I continued with, “No one has ever seen God; if we love one another, God abides in us, and his love is perfected in us.”
“God is love,” I continued, “and whoever abides in love abides in God, and God abides in him. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear. Fear has to do with punishment, and whoever fears has not been perfected in love. We love because he first loved us. If anyone says, ‘I love God,’ and hates his brother, he is a liar!!!” And with that one word, “liar”, I thought for a moment that my voice tore through the building like a wave of thunder.
I finished my sermon with a much softer tone. “For he who does not love his brother whom he has seen cannot love God whom he has not seen. And this commandment we have from him: whoever loves God must also love his brother.”
With that conclusion, I returned to my seat. Romsay removed his hands from Chastain and placed them behind his back but remained standing next to the man.
Diderot then shot out of his seat as if expelled by a cannon.
These proceedings had been intended as impromptu. They were now quite officially that.
Or, at least, so I thought.
Diderot, his long black hair flowing out of his kerchief as it flopped against his back in two twisting ropes, scurried over to Chastain.
“And brotherly love he shall have,” announced Diderot to the still restive crowd, motioning to someone outside the hall.
Two men emerged from a side door. One was pushing a small, wheeled cart full of hot coal that perhaps, I thought, was waiting to be frozen by the chill of Chastain’s empty spirit. A long piece of metal extended from the glowing pile. The other man seemed to simply be accompanying the coal man. Both wore sleeveless tan vests revealing dark brown arms seemingly thicker than the Doric columns at the front of the congregation house.
The nervous crowd, which had been resembling a living incendiary device since the beginning, began to settle down to watch in relative silence as Diderot made his way past Chastain and into the audience.
“It’s a difficult form of love, isn’t it, friends?” began Diderot. “But love it shall be. Our criminal will be free to receive his rehabilitation. We all have had enough of chains and iron. His rehabilitation will consist of prayer, teaching, and great attention from the merciful priests and priestesses of our congregation. But it must feature one more thing if we are to allow such freedom of movement.”
He nodded toward one of the men, who lifted the metal rod out of the coals. “As part of this most difficult and challenging form of love, he must wear the brand of his crime for life.” One end of the rod glowed red. Chastain tried to leap off his chair but was easily held down by the man not holding the brand as if Chastain was nothing more than a child’s doll.
“Diderot!” I exclaimed, angered by his duplicity. But the crowd was already on its feet, cheering the fool on. If he heard me, he had an excuse to say that he didn’t.
I couldn’t intervene. To do so would convert the crowd’s taunts into direct violence. It was impossible to gauge how far this crowd could go.
Diderot held his two palms in the air as if in warning and demanded silence. Once again, the crowd quieted, and everyone settled into their seats.
“As her eminence so eloquently stated, this is not about vengeance. Retribution is against the Lord’s work. But we perform this act to give this man a lifetime identification as a scourge against the Lord’s peace. We must, when we see him walk our streets, bear forgiveness to him and show him the kindness we show to our brothers in need. But also, the women of our city must be able to recognize the man and walk to the other side of the street to a safer warren. Forward.” At that, the man with the hot brand approached.
The brand was small, not any larger than a dollar coin.
“Diderot!” I tried again to a quieter room. But I did not intervene. Now, however, I knew Diderot would not be able to deny hearing my displeasure.
Diderot again held his two palms out to keep the crowd silenced, then motioned for the man carrying the brand to approach his target. He instructed Chastain to remove his shirt. Chastain did so, revealing a pale, ordinary upper body that looked neither athletic nor weak. His arms were lacking any muscle tone, but his stomach had no more than a slight paunch.
He had been cleaned up some. When he was first apprehended, his brown hair was thick and wild and long, almost to his shoulders, and he had a full beard. Now his hair was short, and the beard was shaved. His face was long and gaunt, his cheeks somewhat hollow. His narrow chin looked like it had attempted to form into a spoon in his mother’s womb but gave up just as the spoon began to form at the bottom of the stem, curving upward ever so slightly. His teeth were barely discernible through a thin mouth longer than most that, when smiling, looked like it enjoyed wicked pleasures.
Diderot’s man brought the brand toward Chastain and singed the side of his right shoulder with it. Chastain winced but did not scream. Someone had prepared him for this, probably Diderot, I thought, as I watched helplessly.
I was furious at Diderot, who surely knew, and who was steadfastly avoiding my gaze.
Chastain put his shirt back on at Diderot’s prompting, then sat in his seat, seething, staring at me with murder in his eyes, their former emptiness now fully transformed.
When Diderot returned to his seat, he finally looked my way.
I stood up, waving at Diderot’s branders to remain where they were.
I approached them and pushed my cloak from my shoulder down my arm.
“Brand me,” I said to the man who had branded Chastain.
The man did nothing but look at Diderot.
I screamed it the next time. “Brand me!”
I could see Diderot through the corner of my eyes shrugging his shoulders in response to the man I was speaking to.
“Brand me!!”
The man took the brand out of the pile of hot coals with shaking hands.
I turned to face the crowd. “We are all criminals here in the eyes of the Lord.” Then I raised my voice yet again. “Brand me! I take the punishment of all, and so shall the rest of you, whether by brand or by fate.”
Diderot’s man approached me with his shaking hands, so I pulled the brand away from him and did it myself. I handed the brand back to the man and began to speak again as the man slammed the brand hard into the coals, revealing a cloud of small red sparks.
“What must remain sacrosanct in all we do is respect for the human spirit,” I said as I refit the robe over my shoulder. “What is that unique feature of our faith? Is it not that God himself chose to become born as one of us? And by one of us, I do not mean a human. I mean one of us.
“He was born to an ethnic minority in an imperial empire, surrounded by imperial laws, living among the marginalized and the slaves. By treating the accused in this way, we have rejected Jesus’s noble and loving efforts.
“Jesus became incarnate among the oppressed and the imprisoned. He established, during an ancient era where an imperial caste system created various steps on a ladder where each step downward represented another descent into further indignities, the concept of universal dignity, as well as universal indignity. His divine insistence was that every human deserved dignity. Every human was a noble. Just as each of us is a sinner, whether known or unknown.
“And now I ask of you, all of you who are willing to accept the Lord as your savior, those of you, in the great tradition of our teacher, those among you who have not sinned, to leave now. The rest of you, please stay, and accept the brand of the Vanguard of Mary Congregation.
“Not as a declaration of fealty, and not as a declaration against your own congregation, but as a show of unity with us and with the great teacher in whom we trust.”
The crowd noisily talked and chattered and murmured. It became clear that nobody knew quite what to do, until one small woman, not half my size, whiter than an early morning snowfall, wearing a sleeveless white blouse over a long black ruffled skirt, approached me, and bravely presented her arm.
I nodded to the branding man, who shook his head before yanking the brand from the coals. “Unbelievable,” I could see him murmur. As soon as he branded the woman, who let out a loud screech before giggling nervously when it was over, a small line began to form.
As the line grew, I glanced at Diderot stoically, knowing in my heart that Diderot was now aware that his trickery was no match for the trickery of a nanbo, a mother of magic.
Notes
Chapters 1&2
Chapter 4
Chapter 5.1
Chapter 5.2
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12.1
Chapter 12.2
The simulated Trumball painting is actually an image generated by Midjourney
The paragraphs 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):
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