Then, Whack!
I’ll never forget the sounds of the shrieking, the barking dogs, the Twack! of the whips.
By the time it was over, the plantation owner’s words had become increasingly slurred. Drinking from a glass bottle and wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he shouted in a primitive, animalistic voice filled with rage, “Hang ’em! They were plannin’ to leave anyway. They’re all free now! All the niggers are free—can you even imagine that? My property, all gone. You make an example outta them right now! Boys, bring the rest of ’em out. Make ’em watch!”
Mary ran out of the shadows. Waylon tried to grab her. He reached too far as she tore herself from his grasp. He fell—right into the area lit by the moon and the flickering torches where everyone could see him.
Dogs continued barking. The people went deadly silent.
Jessey, Henry and Basil stared at him. I’m sure they thought an angel had stepped up to save them, that he would use some kind of supernatural power to smite their enemies and rescue them.
The other men, the tan ones now restraining barking dogs on leashes to keep them from attacking, also stared. They did not think we were angels.
Perhaps aided by alcohol, the plantation owner recovered from the shock of encountering a type of humanoid creature he’d never seen before, at least enough to respond. He staggered closer to Waylon. Then, raising his bottle in the air, he shouted, “The niggers have brought a demon into our world! That nigger woman there—Basil—she came to us from Louisiana! Auctioneer told me nothin’ ’bout her except she’s strong and a good worker. Well, that may be, but I always suspected her of practicin’ voodoo. Just look at her eyes, all mysterious and lit with evil. There are times when her eyes are blank and a man can see his reflection in them. Deuteronomy 18:10: ‘There shall not be found among you any one that maketh his son or his daughter to pass through the fire, or that useth divination, or an observer of times, or an enchanter, or a witch…’ Men, let the dogs go!”
In his inebriated state, he seemed to expect the dogs to go after Basil because that’s what he had in mind.
I watched in horror as the dogs attacked Mary. He didn’t seem to care, as though he intended for her to be next.
Five large dogs raced toward her. They knocked her to the ground, sank their teeth into her flesh and shredded her alive. She screamed until she went unconscious or death took her.
I sat down with my back to the closest tree, held my stomach and wept in silence. Tears poured down my face. I was terrified for Waylon. I wanted to help, but I thought the best way to do that was to remain hidden. If Waylon or any of the slaves ran into the forest, I’d run with them to the pod, hide them under its camouflage cover and then move them somewhere else in space-time. If I made myself visible, I’d never win against the plantation owner, his men and the dogs. I realized that I could turn my empathy level way up, so that I’d begin sharing thoughts and feelings with everyone nearby. That would scramble the minds of everyone from the time period we were visiting, as their brains weren’t evolved enough to handle it. However, the degree of hostility and fear in their minds would either drive me insane or kill me and I’d be no help to anyone.
Holding onto the tree for support, I dragged myself back up to a standing position, so that I could watch everything going on and keep track of where Waylon was. As I peered through an opening in the leaves, I saw more torches floating in the darkness, moving toward the group in the front yard. Word must have gotten out to people in the village about what was happening here.
Soon, I heard many angry voices filling the air. And then people holding the torches became visible.
The dogs continued to bite and tear flesh from Mary’s body. Her beautiful face was completely gone. I looked away. Sadness and horror welled up inside me. I fought back intense nausea.
Finally, the plantation owner shouted, “Enough! Call off the dogs!” Staggering, he walked around Mary’s body. Taking another swig from his bottle, he said, “And here lie the remains of a witch.” He pointed to one of the men holding a snarling dog by its leash and said, “You clean this up later, you hear me?” Pointing at another man, he said, “And, you, get a priest from the village to cast her demons out before her remains are put to rest. I don’t want our plantation haunted by Satan.”
The crowd roared and shouted.
The plantation owner said, “Men, we need to teach all our slaves a lesson. These three were planning to escape.” He waved his bottle in the direction of Jessey, Henry and Basil. “Nothing will stop them, now that the government has set them free. If I’m to lose them anyway, something that will seriously harm my profits, I say let me get one more benefit from them. Let them serve as an example to any more that think running away is a good idea. Hang them! And see if you can hang the demon!”
No! No! No! No!
The crowd descended on the three darker skinned humans and on Waylon. Several men carrying ropes placed a loop around each of their necks. They dragged them, writhing and kicking, to the area below a tree. Throwing the free end of their ropes over the bottom branch, the men pulled until the bodies flew upwards, necks snapped and the captives hung like dolls.
I didn’t realize it; but as I saw Waylon’s body go flying up off the ground, his neck snap and his body go lifeless, I screamed.
The next thing I knew, I was being pursued by a mob and their dogs. I ran as fast as I could all the way through the forest to the pod. Falling off the downed tree into the stream, I scraped up my knees and lost time. I barely made it to the pod before the dogs caught up with me.
It must have seemed that I was a supernatural being—another demon exactly as they perceived Waylon to be—to the people pursuing me. When I jumped into the pod, I became invisible under the protection of its camouflage cover. It was like I had popped into another dimension.
In the next moment, I did exactly that.
The ship flew up into the air and disappeared with an explosion of light.
Chapter 13
When I made it back to the TTA, I felt like a shell of my former self. Reporting Waylon’s death was the hardest thing I’d ever had to do in my entire life up until that point.
Another team went back to retrieve his body. Had the angry mob and the dogs not been chasing after me, I would have done that myself—both out of respect for Waylon and in order to keep from violating the Law of Noninterference to such an extreme degree. Leaving a green-skinned body behind in times where our kind did not exist would mess with timelines to an extraordinary degree. Even so, we didn’t avoid the problem completely. It fills me with revulsion and horror every time I think about it, but some of the people from the village sliced off parts of Waylon’s skin and used it to make potions.
Just like the people of East Africa, or the cannibal tribes who ate their enemies for strength, they wanted to absorb supernatural powers they believed he possessed. It made no sense to me. If you thought someone was evil, why would you want to take that into yourself? The analyses I’ve read suggest that it’s an attempt to gain the perceived power of the demon or the enemy.
I couldn’t bear thinking about this happening to Waylon.
I went to his cremation service. It was a beautiful tribute. We saw his life story and his accomplishments play out across our lenses. His body was ignited upon the stone altar in the memorial hall of the TTA. His parents led the procession down to the stream that carried his ashes away on a tiny boat to the wasteland beyond. Our enclave felt that the ashes were going out to wide open spaces where only the dead could thrive, and we hoped the ashes of our bravest heroes might somehow fertilize those lands.