The Amber Stone
The Amber Stone
Dara Girard
Published by ILORI PRESS BOOKS LLC
Smashwords Edition
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Author.
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To my family of readers and friends.
Late 1700s
Martin Hamilton could feel the hard earth against his bare feet as he ran towards the cool, dark allure of the Caribbean Sea. Behind him he heard the sound of dogs, and the yellow glow of torches shone against the night sky. The rebellion was lost and there was no way to escape the island. He’d soon be captured and his life would finish at the end of a rope.
But he’d rather die by his own hands. If he could get to the water, that would be his victory.
“Not that way,” a voice said.
He halted, but when he looked around he saw nothing.
“Come,” the voice said, then he felt a hand on his arm.
He knew the rough grip of that hand. When he looked up, he could barely make out the dark features of his friend, BC. They’d once worked on the same sugar plantation, but Martin never knew his full name. He wondered if he’d even been given one.
BC turned sharply to the right and Martin followed him. He knew better than to ask questions, but when they reached the sea, his courage left him.
“I can’t swim,” he said, knowing there would be no escape for him.
BC smiled, his teeth white in the moonlight. “I can. Just hold your breath,” he said then dragged Martin into the water.
Martin held his breath until he thought he couldn’t hold it anymore. Soon he thought he’d see his mother again in the afterlife.
His mother. A woman who’d died with memories of Ireland—the land she’d never see again—on her lips. A servant since the age of six, she’d been bred by an African rebel and the master of the house. Her offspring had been scattered, but Martin had made his way back to her, their time together too brief.
He reached the surface, painfully gulping in the air he needed. Then his eyes adjusted to the dark, damp stillness around him and knew he was in a cave. He pulled himself out of the water.
“Continue down this tunnel,” BC told him in a hushed voice. “It will take you far, far from here. If they catch you, you were not there.”
Martin stiffened at the suggestion. He knew that he must never admit to being part of the rebellion if he wished to live. But he didn’t want to deny his rage; the deaths he’d witnessed.
“It’s a new battle you’ll fight,” BC said, as if reading his mind.
Martin nodded, understanding the meaning.
“Go,” his friend said, then pressed a smooth, round object in Martin’s hand before he disappeared into the water.
Middle 2000s
“I told you not to come back here.”
Teresa Clifton wasn’t surprised by the cold reception. The Wright Herb Shop was the last place she wanted to be. When she entered the store, what always bothered her the most was what was missing. She saw rows of jars and potted herbs and heard the light hum of mood music playing, sometimes a flute, sometimes a harp, but she didn’t smell anything. Not the faint fragrance of lavender or vanilla, or even fresh mint or wood. The lack of any fragrance made the atmosphere feel hollow—like a sham. Synthetic rather than genuine. But the atmosphere wasn’t the only thing wrong with the store. Helene Wright was the other.
The moment Teresa entered the shop, Helene had made her way over to her with the focus of a heat-seeking missile. She was a stocky woman who could never be thin, the curves of her body exuding a warmth she didn’t have. She and her husband, Dr. Thomas Wright, owned the store and had run it for years. She had a face as cute and cuddly as a teddy bear and a personality as prickly as thorns. Few saw past her bright smile to the iron behind it. Teresa had once fallen for her charm, but now knew better.
The Wright Herb Shop was located in Bedford, an upscale part of town perfectly situated in a place where people could easily afford the marked up prices and the advertised classes for yoga, aromatherapy, massage and acupuncture that hung on the wall. It was expertly designed to give a homey, earthy feel, the tones muted, with crystals near the window catching the thin winter light peeking through the grey clouds. She had helped with the design.
But despite the prime location, the rows of jars filled with fancy leaves and oils, the polished wooden floors and railing that led to the upper level, Teresa felt a lack of true care for its patrons. She hadn’t stepped inside the herb shop in years, but had come for one reason.
She looked at the bottle in her hand and held it up. “I’m worried about this company. Two months ago I suggested Marla Wessler at the nursing facility take valerian root to deal with her anxiety and insomnia. Instead she still hasn’t been able to sleep and developed a rash.”
Helene blinked, looking bored. “And you’re telling me this because—?”
“Another friend of hers at the home is taking garlic supplements, but also wasn’t seeing improvements until I showed her how to use garlic cloves in the kitchen. Her doctor has been amazed by her improvement.”
“Again, I fail to see—”
“I don’t think these supplements are real.”
Helene quickly looked around the room to make sure no one else had over heard them, then grabbed Teresa’s arm and shoved her towards the door. “Get out.”
“I think Valley Ray Supplements are fraudulent.”
She opened the front door. “Do I need to repeat myself?”
“Why are you using them instead of Marchant like you used to?”
“Because they are a popular local company and no one else has been complaining.”
“But—”
“Are you a doctor?”
Teresa gritted her teeth. “You know very well that—”
“You don’t want to mess with me, Teresa. That would be a mistake.”
“This isn’t about you. People could get hurt and—”
“You may have gotten away with fooling my aunt and most of the people here,” Helene smoothly interrupted as if Teresa hadn’t spoken. “But I know the truth,” Helene smiled. It was one of her signature expressions and she only used it when she wanted to offer a warning instead of a threat. The smile was simple—it emphasized the smoothness of her skin (‘due to our special line of creams,’ she liked to say without mentioning that she’d never had problems with her complexion), and the light in her eyes had enough mystery to make one nervous about her intentions. “Come back here again and I’ll make your life hell.” She removed imaginary fuzz from Teresa’s coat. “Think about that.”
“If you’re not careful, one of these bottles could make someone sick. And they could possibly die.”
“Yes, well you would be an authority on that, so I’ll keep it in mind.” She looked past Teresa at two clients coming to the door and smiled. “Excuse me, I have work to do. Some of us have to earn a living.”
Teresa gripped the bottle in her hand. Helene was right. She had no proof, only her suspicions and there hadn’t been other complaints. Perhaps Mrs. Wessler and her friend hadn’t been using it correctly, but something felt off. She didn’t know what. She left the shop feeling defeated.
The following morning she sat on a boulder, lost in her thoughts, as she stared out at the waters of Hollow Cove, glancing at the older couple several yards away who’d braved the winter chill to enjoy the view. She was about to turn away when she saw a man rise out of the water like a son of Poseidon, an immortal warrior ready for battle, with the arrogance of expected victory swirling around him like a cloak. His body—the color of cocoa butter with a dash of cinnamon—cut through the fingers of the wave like a seal, producing a series of little ripples. Teresa clutched the rock she sat on, her knuckles paled as she watched, mesmerized, wondering if her mind was deceiving her—creating hallucinations as a result of sleep deprivation and anger. She watched the man shake water from his ink black hair, which curled over his forehead like ivy, and wipe water from his beard. Water dripped from it, shining like diamonds in the cool morning sun.