Flight of Fancy: Cora's Daughters (3 page)

Their son Carrig left the tribe and married a French hunter’s daughter, who had given birth to Broc and died.

Unable to raise the small babe on his own, Carrig returned with him for his mother to bring up within the tribe and then left once more. On rare occasion, as Broc grew, his father would return – sparing him a passing glance. Years later, wishing to find him, to know him – to know why he had left him behind - Broc struck out on his own. With a stern and firm warning from his grandfather – trust no white man – especially not the greedy English elite.

Carrying that with him, as a young man – suffering from an injured soul – he worked hard to be the best at everything he put his hand to. As time progressed, he learned life’s hard lessons. Yet – he strove with an urgency to let no opportunity to improve his state of being, pass him by. He believed doing so, would fix what was missing inside. Even though he had been loved and guided by his family, he had a need for something more.

Having learned the ways of his people and living rough off of the land, the young man found that like his father, his skills as a tracker and hunter suited him especially well. Therefore, he decided that like his father, he would be a bounty hunter. It seemed he was to follow in his footsteps.  

Now fully into his occupation, his reputation preceded him. Broc, who spoke with a slight Irish brogue, softened by the many languages of his people - wouldn’t work for just anyone. He extended his services only to those that had the coinage or tender that assured him the type of pay no man or agency would refuse.

Silver and gold – only! No promissory bank notes, nothing on paper. Again his grandfather’s words echoed in his mind… “Do not trust them.” Between the French, Spanish, English and Dutch invasions, only certain coinage could be depended upon, that which was made from the above. For his services, it was that or nothing. At the present - he stood in the town hall, listening to a host of angry men all talking at once. Voices anxiously raised and from what he could make out hackles were up over a lone woman, an escaped slave, a dangerous fancy. She’d been purchased by one of the town’s leading men, the mayor. The mayor had a reputation for buying fancies and then having exclusive parties to enjoy them with others in town, those of his clique. Most of the men from the area knew what took place at those parties. It was a fact that a few of the fancies purchased for them had not survived the night – those that did, would never be the same.

However, this time – for them - something went wrong.

The mayor, the town’s banker and the owner of one of the larger plantations experienced a severe backfire – their victim – so it would seem, refused to be one. As a consequence, none of the three men survived the party, leaving behind widows and children.

As reported by the men, it was said that the undertaker had gone out to one of the bloodiest slayings he’d ever seen, to collect the bodies.

Each of the men’s throats had been slit, their bodies slashed and their privates cut off to lay amidst the carnage. Two of the men lie dead with their eyes wide open in terror as if what they saw had frightened them to death.

Initial theories were that they’d been attacked by a group of slaves. That idea was dismissed because of the location - which was concealed and secretive - at the edge of town. Besides, all the slaves were accounted for – all except for one.    

The Fancy

A few of the men knew of her existence, and knew that she’d worked a few days in the mayor’s kitchen. Like all of his slaves, she had been directed by his other servants and wife.  

Questioning the slaves and the mourning widow of the mayor gave weight to their theory. She had to be guilty - as no one had seen her since the night of the killings.

Besides all of that, she’d shed her bloody gown and chemise, leaving them in the room with the dead men. Moving quickly, her soiled clothing had been taken to the dogs to sniff and off they’d gone to hunt her down, only to be killed as well.

Broc stood in their midst listening to them label her a demon, a witch, an evil spirit – dangerous to them all. At first, they’d been unwilling to give up the hunt and had tried to gather a larger party to run her down.

That proved useless - all they met were doors slammed in their faces - folks had heard and wanted no part of it. No one was willing to sacrifice their dogs. They weren’t used to tracking someone who would willingly kill them as well their dogs.

It was one thing to chase down frightened, running slaves too scared to fight back – but something else entirely to go after one who fought back, killed back.

They wanted no part.

None of them saw her as a woman, they saw her as a witch – a wicked spirit with powers they couldn’t match. The only thing that those town people knew was that they had three dead men, four dead dogs and one missing negro slave. What would she do to them if they were to trap her? Considering her rapidly growing reputation, none of them were willing.

They hired the bounty hunter – Broc Wolf.

“How can any o’you be certain this the act of one woman, killin’ three men?” He asked. His disbelief was clear, “Four dead dogs, one woman?” It was hard for him to believe such a tale.

“This not no ordinary woman! She a demon, a witch, as wicked a spirit they come! She’ah kill us all if we dare hunt her in them woods, that’s where she is!” One of the men declared.

“You should’ah seen what she do to them men, the mayor, my God!” One of the men cried out horrified. 

“You should’ah seen what she do to my dogs! I love them dogs…” the owner added, and began weeping, “They ain’t have a chance. Them dogs been tracking runaways for a spell, best in these parts, not once ever I have this happen to’em.” He slobbered, wiping his eyes and nose with his stained handkerchief, “No, she no ord’nary slave that one – she a demon!”

“I seen’er I have! Don’t see many’uv’em wit’ eyes s’green! She pierce you right through wit’ them eyes, bet she see in the dark – bet she seen them dogs comin’, pounce on’em, slit’em like she do the mayor. Wud’nah surprise me none if she hungry, she eat’em!” His eyes bulged arousing fear into those standing by, causing a few to cross themselves. They were afraid, most all gulping and sweating, dreading the idea of her still alive out there somewhere.

The men’s words and fears worked on all but Broc.

“How long she been missing?” He asked.

“Two days now since the murders.” Another spoke up.

“She’ll be long gone by now.” Broc thought out loud.

“She got to be tracked down,” One exclaimed, afraid, “… we want her dead! We aim to pay you to get the job done - that your job ain’t it?”

“I haven’t said that I’d take the job, not yet. I’m having a hard time believin’ a lone negro-…”

“I’m telling you, if you would listen - she different from the others! You ain’t see her, I seen’er! Somethin’ ‘bout’er bring chills t’ya! Mayor’s widow say she had a feeling about her too, the way she would look at you, hateful, mean – like she could sooner set you afire as look at you.”

“I’ll bring her in alive for the right price.”

“No!” They all shouted in sync with one carrying on to explain, “We – we just as soon you bring her in dead, her head. Don’t want her alive in this town, no sir – not that one. Bring her back dead. We pay you half now, you get the other half when you deliver her head.”

“Dead? I don’t kill women.”

“Alive she might break free! Seek revenge an’ kill’us all!” Someone blubbered.

Broc’s green eyes narrowed while peering at the man who had spoken. They were frightened men, they could barely conceal it. The one perspiring with terror, having the bounty hunter’s knowing eyes pierce him through, turned red. He then glanced at the others standing in attendance.

“Revenge? Why would she be seekin’ revenge if she done the wrong? If she the wicked?” He asked.

In response - just more gulping silence, sweating and heavy fearful breathing. Their fear was so intense it stunk up the air he needed to breathe. Their silence said more than any speaking up would say.

Finally, he asked, “How much you paying?”

“Five hundred… two fifty now, the other with the return of her head.”

He stood, mentally going over all that he’d heard. This was what he had always done while searching for his father, who he had yet to find. He needed the pay, he wasn’t flat broke, but he wasn’t far from it. Silver and gold were the valuable metals coined to a weight that summed up a man’s worth – a man’s power. Tracking a Negro woman through the woods wasn’t something he ever figured on doing, nor killing one - but work, was work and gold or silver was the pay.

“Well? You do it?”

“What she look like, other than a Negro?”

They all turned to Ernest, who’d seen her – to describe her for him.

“Her name’s Asiza - she got skin the color of walnut, got long dark hair, silky, wavy - curly kind and green eyes that glow clean out her head. Real green ‘round the rim, going greyish gold toward the middle. Top of her head reach your chest – she a fancy, real easy on the eyes. Don’t let that fool you though, she dangerous and wicked as they come. Mayor said this one, got Indian in her – some kind’ah African too.”  

Broc nodded, “My pay?” He asked, “I don’t take copper, nor bank notes.”

They shuffled about, clearing the way for the banker’s oldest son to step forward and place the bag of gold coins in his hand stating right away, “This gold, eagle back – good everywhere.”

Broc took the bag of coins, his mind working.

“How long you think, before you find her?” The banker's son asked.

“Can’nah say, it’s been two days, doubt she’ah be hanging around for the likes of you to find her. Where’s she from? There’s a chance she might try an’ find her way back to family.”

“She a Clover Grove fancy – plantation in Virginia that deals’em. Mayor spoke often of gettin’em from there. A Gareth somebody own all there.”

Broc stored that in his mental registry.

The men continued, one speaking for all, “You go there, you meet that Gareth, you tell him what one of his so called fancies do, you tell him what happen! Tell him them Africans and Indians don't mix... they dangerous – deadly!”

Broc tossed the bag of coins into the air and caught it, testing the weight. He looked at the men standing and staring at him, all of them frightened… of a little fancy slave girl. “Draw a map to where the dogs were killed. I’ah be back for it after I take care of some other business in town. As for the other half of my pay – won’t be long in returning for that.” Concluding his business with them for now, the tall, buckskin clad bounty hunter turned and left the town hall.

Down the steps, he made his way across the muddy furrowed roadway until he was stepping onto the board walk, placing his wide brim hat on his head.

Gathering his thoughts, he was already mentally mapping his journey - giving those that surrounded him little attention.

He would need some supplies before he headed out the next morning. As for this job he’d taken on - he saw only one problem with it – that was, killing a woman.

Never had his hands touched a woman in violence, it wasn’t something he thought he’d be required to do. All else aside, he needed the money and she was a killer… so they said. They wanted her dead – not alive – meaning she would have to die by his hands.

They wanted her beheaded.

Broc carried on, but already he was beginning to doubt his judgment, his ability to carry this particular job through to the end. Reflecting back, he’d killed before - in self-defense. It was a harsh reality of life, and in his profession – it was a natural state of affairs that someone would be killed - but they were always men. There was an additional – she was a slave.   

He was the descendant of a runaway slave. 

She was also of the tribes – just as he was.

This would not be easy. Mainly because in his mind and thinking, they were of a kind. No matter that she was African and Indian, and he was Irish and Indian – they were from the same stock of life – where wrong had been done to them. With each thought, his uneasiness grew. It felt strangely sinful to be chasing someone who was on the run for the same reason his Irish grandfather and others like him, had run.

Broc knew that his only good fortune, was that he’d turned out looking white from his Irish ancestry – and nowadays, the Irish had been freed. They’d been coaxed into becoming keepers of the chains … that and that alone, made the difference in them. As he carried on, he tried not to think about the political ramifications of what had been done to divide a people who had at one time been … as one.

The African, the Indian… the Irish. Back then, skin color had had nothing to do with it. That only changed because it helped the English
leaders
keep them all under control. He knew that his grandfather made sure that all of his children and grandchildren would know that and he would not let them forget it.

Broc began to wonder, what was he doing?

Already, the surface of his skin felt icky – strange – as if he were about to betray one of his own kind – and a woman at that. Last stop that he made after gathering supplies was to speak with the undertaker.