Chapter 13: Broken bones

(KALEO)

Red King, or Alfred, as he was called in those days, was born poor. Not poor, as in a swollen stomach black child standing in a slum in some African news story. Poverty-stricken child born to dirt poor parents in America. By ten he was working in the fields all day, as were his parents and older siblings. By working in the fields, please understand they were basically slaves to the landowner.

Living in a shack that was sweltering hot in summer and wet and cold in winter. His older siblings stopped attending school to work a full day by the age of fourteen. But even with six members in the family working, Red King told us, his most prevalent memory of childhood was the constant hunger burning in his stomach.

She recalls a long walk with him through the commune. “I knew poverty intimately. I felt it on my skin. Sunburns from working in the fields all day. Insect bites and wounds that fester because we have nothing to treat it with. Dehydration that makes your skin wrinkle like a shirt that is too large for your body.

He resisted his parent’s request that he leave school as his older siblings did. However, once he turned sixteen, the landowner told him unless he works full-time, seven days a week, he needed to leave. He had no choice, but decided to not go quietly into that dark night. He fought constantly. Soon the overseers marked him as problematic, and beat him on the slightest provocation, or deducted large penalties off his pay for causing damage or costing the landowner money.

After one bad ‘discipline’ session, which ended with him in bed with a broken leg and a shattered hand, he had twenty-four hours to leave. Or he could agree to working for two weeks without pay. He had no money, no place to go. He couldn’t even walk. He was stuck. Chained to a shack and land that didn’t belong to him. Working twelve-hour shifts, seven days a week, to enrich a landowner he hated, who also hated him.

Blaire sighs as she hears Red King’s voice speaking in her memories. “Chained,” he says. “They chained me. And whatever money I earned, someone was waiting to grab it. After six months of working, I didn’t even have enough for a doctor, or a train ticket out of town.”

And so the day came that three overseers and the landowner arrived at the shack to ensure Red King left. He was still there, of course. He had no means to leave, and no place to go. As they dragged him outside, he grabbed the gun from the leather holster of one overseer and shot at the landowner.

A red flower of blood bloomed on his chest, tainting his white shirt. He touched it, looking at Red King with raised eyebrows. Someone grabbed the gun from him as the owner fell to his knees. They beat him into a coma, but he didn’t die.

“I woke up in jail that night,” Red King tells them. “Laying there, barely able to breathe, bleeding from several wounds, I remembered all the times mamma stood on her knees, praying to God. How she called to him with tears running down her face. For hours and hours. Begging him to save her, to save us. To set us free. For years, she prayed. Sometimes she used verses directly from the pastor’s Sunday sermon. But her god never came. And as I laid on the cold cement floor in jail, shivering from pain and anger and cold and hunger, I called out not for mother’s god, but his enemy.”

“You know why?” he’d ask at this stage. “Because even though I left the farm, I was still in chains. That no matter where I went, there would be chains. I was born into chains, and I was going to die in chains. Period. And I knew from bitter experience that mamma’s God made promises he didn’t keep.”

“I’m not sure when exactly I gave up on her God, but I knew he could not right the wrongs of the world. So I called out to the Devil. I asked him to come to me. And he came. On the third night, just before sunrise. We sat across from each other on the floor, talking about what kind of help I wanted.”

Red King said that the Devil gestured towards the cell’s gate. “I can open this gate right now. And all the others, too. And then you can walk out.”

“But I was no fool,” Red King continues with a chuckle. “That will be useless,” I tell him. “They will come looking for me, and since I’m hurt and broke, I won’t get far.”

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“I can heal you, the Devil suggested. Nah, I told the Devil. Then he said he can give me money. More money than I would ever earn. So much money that I could never spend it all. But by this time, I already understood that money won’t satisfy me. Money means nothing. People can steal or spend or lose money. And in the end, you will be in chains again. The freedom money promised was a temporary solution.”

“The Devil asked me what I wanted. I had three days and nights to think about this while I waited for him to come. Even longer. I started thinking about this the first time my hands bled from picking cotton in another man’s fields. So I told him what I wanted was power. With power, you can achieve anything you want.”

According to Red King, the Devil didn’t even blink. He just asked what kind of power granddad wanted.

“So I told him I wanted Dark Magic. And I wanted it to run through my blood to every descendant ever born, and to anyone who made a blood oath with me. Forever and ever amen. Never diminishing.”

And that is the story of our genesis. That is how Red King sold his soul to the Devil. He healed his wounds with his own Dark Magic. A day later, he walked out of jail by simply stepping through the wall as if it wasn’t there. Once outside, he used the gift of Dark Magic to earn money and a reputation. He got things done. He set wrong right.

He met my Grandma Sophie, and they had three children. In the community, they were a power couple. Their home was a place of safety. When you had no place to go and nobody on your side, you went to Red King. Red King adopted down-and-out people and invested in them. He watched them grow out of chains. Poverty chains. Abusive chains. Addictive chains.

Red King set the captives free. They called on him, and he answered. He was more, much more, than a man. Even more than a king. He was the God that broke chains.

He bought the ranch where he used to be nothing but a slave, burned everything on it down to the ground, and salted it like the Old Testament in his mamma’s book talked about. Finally, he built it from scratch. Proper homes for people to live in. Roads. Fruit orchards. Vegetable gardens. Cattle folds. Chicken coops. Warehouses. A commune of free people living and working together.

And Red King ruled them all.

Blaire sighs, getting up from the cold ground because her stomach aches for food. The last proper meal she had was yesterday, before sunrise. There isn’t anything left to eat in the car, so she’ll need to go into town. But first a shower to wash away all the grime from the atrocious work of the day before. She wiped her hands and face clean before she fell asleep, but her body was too tired for anything else.

It’s almost noon before Blaire reaches town. She parks in front of a diner. Every eye in the street watches her. She shrugs, grabs her wallet, and leaves the car. This time, she locks the doors. She figures she’ll need it for a few more days at least. What happens to it after that is none of her concern.

She steps into the diner with what she hopes others perceive as confidence. The brisk walk makes her aware of every sore muscle in her body. All eyes inside turn toward her, and heads move closer together. Whispers hang in the air as the gossip machine works its way through the place.

“Table or take-away?”

Blaire turns her face towards the speaker. It is a young girl, golden hair and blue eyes. Slim figure. Black slacks and a white shirt. On the left side, just above the swell of her tiny breast, in embroidered fancy letters, is the name Nancy.

For a moment she considers the take-away option, but then the sound of whispers entices her into more. She gives the young girl one of her brightest smiles.

“A table, please, Nancy. I’m too hungry to drive all the way back to The Farm before I eat. And I still want to pop into the general store for supplies, too.”

The girl’s eyes widened. She obviously heard about Blaire from others who saw her driving through, but has never seen her. Nancy assumed Blaire was a passer-by, just driving through town to somewhere else.

Well, she’s not wrong.

She follows Nancy through the tables, refusing to look at anyone already seated, but can feel their eyes on her, hear their whispers as she passes. She’s beyond caring what anyone else thinks of her, anyway. And despite what she might have heard, Nancy is keeping it professional. Blaire makes a mental note to leave a large tip for this reason alone.

“Do you need a moment to look over the menu?” Nancy asks as soon as she sits down. “Or do you know what you want?”

“Well,” Blaire answers, looking up at the server’s smile. “It’s my first time here. I’m just in town to take care of business. I’ll be gone as soon as it’s done. What would you recommend to someone that hasn't eaten since breakfast yesterday?”

The girl’s eyes widened, her mouth forming a nice round “O” shape. In her mind, Blaire adds another ten dollars to the tip. Nancy wasn’t very professional at that moment, but her reaction was sweet. The concern on her face is real.

“Mother made some hearty stew,” she answers. “It’s packed with meat and vegetables.”

“Sounds perfect. Bring me a portion of that and do you have any baked pasta dishes?”

“Lasagna?”

“Yeah. Bring me one of those too. Is there anything that will keep well until dinner, if I take it home?”

“Hmmm…” Nancy opens the menu, flipping through it quickly. “What about kebabs served with either a baked potato, chips, or mash? There are oven baked vegetables on the side, if you want some.”

“Yes, but not chicken kebabs.”

“Beef, then?” she asks, writing furiously on her little pad.

“Yes, that sounds outstanding. Not chips though, they never taste good after they get cold. Mash is better.”

“Let me repeat this then,” Nancy says, and reads the order back.

“Perfect,” Blaire answers.

“Nothing sweet to end the meal with?”

“Oh, gawd no,” Blaire answers. “But I’ll have a cup of the strongest coffee you have. Black with no sugar. And keep refilling that until I’m done.”

Nancy turns to walk away, but Blaire grabs her by the wrist. The girl turns back quickly, but there is no fear or disgust in her eyes at all. The smile Nancy gives her is unforced.

“Thank you,” Blaire says softly, but she knows the peaked ears at the neighboring tables will still hear her words. “Thank you for treating me with kindness. I really appreciate that you don’t…” she waves her hand to indicate the rest of the room. “…well, all of this.”

Nancy nods, looking shy suddenly. Blaire lets go of her wrist and she walks away with the determination of someone with an important mission.