PART IX INTO THE DARKNESS #2
It stood at the top of five broad stone steps, looking out over the entire glen.
And positioned directly in the heart of the arched doorway, taking pride of place in it, indeed in the whole grove, was a tree—an actual, live tree—with two forked arms, a Christian cross carved into its middle, and two nooses hanging from its arms.
The Tree of Fear.
It was a massive thing, tall and sinister.
‘The ultimate lynching tree,’ I said softly.
The Tree of Fear, Cyrus had said, had been the LaSalle family’s actual tree.
As I looked at it—here, now, on the Kingman family’s land—I recalled from the various family trees I’d seen that the LaSalles had once intermarried with the Kingmans, so at some point, this land must have been LaSalle land.
The terrible thing was the centrepiece of this place, like the whipping post had been in the Florida mine.
Then suddenly I heard something truly odd for the circumstances: a piano playing classical music. Mozart’s Concerto No.15 in B flat.
It came from beyond the north side of the glen and I saw the glow of electric lights above the trees in that direction.
I also heard the murmur of human activity.
‘The rehearsal dinner,’ Audrey said, also looking in that direction. ‘The mansion must be pretty close.’
Then I heard something else—but closer, from my left—and I frowned.
Voices.
Singing voices that echoed faintly.
I strained to hear what they were singing.
‘What is that . . .?’ I whispered.
‘That’s a gospel song . . .’ Audrey said.
It was coming from the cavern behind the tree, from beyond the arched doorway.
I looked at Audrey.
Audrey looked at me.
‘What choice do we have?’ I said.
We dashed out of the treeline, sprinting across the glen by the light of the moon. We raced along a path that skirted the edge of the lake and mounted the stage.
We stood in the shadow of the high evil tree.
I peered into the blackness beyond the archway, still hearing the echoing voices of the disembodied singers. They sounded like a church choir.
I turned on my flashlight.
And we went in.
Grim stone stairs led steeply downward.
A long tunnel, more stairs.
Then a wide hall with rusty manacles on the walls.
More stairs at the far end, heading down . . .
. . . toward the singing.
There was no light at all: no electric bulbs, not even flaming torches.
The whole place had a dungeon-like quality to it.
And then we emerged into another huge hall-sized space -similar to the one we’d found in the Florida mine.
We stood atop a high staircase that led down into a large -natural cavern. A big rusty gate blocked off the staircase.
The singing stopped as soon as we entered.
Faces looked up at us from the floor far below, from pens and cages, their wide, frightened eyes lit by our flashlight beams.
The faces of people.
All Black.
All dressed in rags.
And not just adults. I saw children down there.
The Kingman family’s collection of slaves.
‘What . . . the actual fuck . . .’ Audrey breathed.
I couldn’t even form words.
My breath had been knocked out of me.
I tried to count the faces.
Thirty, forty, maybe fifty in total.
Men, women, children.
Young children.
Cyrus’s voice echoed in my mind: ‘Having a breeding slave gave an owner generations of newborn slaves.’
Fucking hell.
‘We have to free these people,’ Audrey whispered, her face set.
‘I know—’ I said.
‘We have to free them now.’
‘No,’ I said. ‘There’s a way to do it, but it’s not right now. We have to stick to my plan.’
‘We should at least talk to them, tell them we know about their situation—’
‘We can’t risk an uproar or panic,’ I said. ‘At least not yet. Right now, they aren’t able to see our faces. As far as they’re concerned, we’re just two guards holding flashlights checking on them. Quick, let’s move.’
We retraced our steps, headed back out into the night.
As we emerged from the high stone archway behind the forked tree on the stage, I checked my watch.
It was 8:30 p.m.
I figured the rehearsal dinner was—
Suddenly, voices.
A line of flashlights and flickering candles was coming from the direction of the mansion . . .
. . . and heading toward us.
‘Hurry, this way,’ I said.
Audrey and I hustled up the rocky hill above the arch.
We hid behind an outcropping of large rocks and bushes beneath the larger forest of pine trees on the slope and peered back down at the secluded glen.
A crowd of people entered the glen carrying flashlights and candles.
There were maybe forty of them. They all wore suits and gowns. In addition to the flashlights and candles, they carried wine glasses and champagne flutes.
To my surprise, they were laughing and chatting.
And I realised.
These were the attendees at the rehearsal dinner and they were having a marvellous time.
Tad Kingman Sr was there with his two sons, while the bride Misty Dearborn stood beside his wife, Clara Kingman.
Standing behind Mrs Kingman—dressed in a fitted suit for this occasion—was Mary Beth, her bodyguard.
Then I saw the man standing next to Mary Beth and I inhaled sharply.
It was the Hammer. Alive and well. He also wore a sleek suit tonight. I noticed two small bandages covering his left ear and temple.
I’d wondered if I’d truly hit him back at Gatorville. It’d been a wild shot and in all the rain and mayhem, I’d been desperate to get out of there fast. I must’ve just clipped his head and ear.
Mrs Clara Kingman stepped out in front of the chattering crowd and held up her hands.
‘Ladies! Gentlemen! It’s time for the cakewalk!’
I’d read about cakewalks once in a history book.
I never in all my life imagined I’d see one.
Today, people use the term cakewalk to describe something that’s easy to do.
‘Such-and-such is a cakewalk,’ we say.
This ignores what a cakewalk actually was back in the antebellum South.
Cakewalks were events where slaves were dressed up in their white owners’ clothing—top hats and suits for the males; gowns, shoes and bonnets for the women. The female slaves would also have their hair done and lipstick applied.
They would then parade down a stage for the entertainment and amusement of their owners, after which they were judged and the winner awarded a cake by the master of the plantation.
Often cakewalks were competitive events for the female -owners: the rich Southern wives would compete with each other in dressing up their slaves.
And suddenly I remembered that I’d heard about this cakewalk before.
Back when I’d met Mrs Clara Kingman the first time in Victorville. She’d been bantering with her soon-to-be daughter-in-law, Misty:
‘I’m gonna win the cakewalk this time, you hear, ma’am!’ Misty had said.
‘Not if I can help it!’ Clara Kingman had replied.
This time.
I felt ill as I realised they’d done this before.
The ghastly event played out before us.
As the crowd cheered and laughed, six white female guests took turns leading their dressed-up Black female slaves down the long stone stage on the lake.
Three men acted as judges: Tad Kingman Sr, Tad Jr, and a portly bald gentleman in his sixties who could only have been the father of the bride, Henry Dearborn.
They held up scorecards after each walker.
The fifth ‘contestant’ was led onto the stage by Misty, the bride.
‘This is my Regina!’ Misty announced.
Misty giggled and waved to her friends in the crowd as she guided a twenty-something Black woman down the long stone stage that extended out over the lake.
Regina wore a glittering maroon ballgown and red high-heeled shoes. She also wore heavy make-up and a platinum wig. She walked timidly, uncomfortably, her shoulders hunched. She did not want to be there.
At the end of the stage, Misty nudged her and the young woman twirled awkwardly.
The audience clapped vigorously, ignoring the young lady’s obvious discomfort.
The three judges held up scorecards: 10, 10, 10.
The crowd roared at that.
Then Clara Kingman led the sixth and last slave onto the stage: another young Black woman, also dressed to the nines.
‘This is my Celeste!’ Clara Kingman called.
The young woman did her walk down and up the stage and the crowd fell silent, awaiting the judges’ decision.
Three 10s again.
The response was satisfied cheers and claps: a tie was a very dignified result.
A crown of pink azaleas was handed to Clara and Misty to share.
It was all fun and games.
There would be no winners or losers here.
Misty Dearborn and Clara Kingman hugged like schoolgirls.
Clara Kingman said to the crowd, ‘As a wedding gift to the happy couple, Tad and I will give them Celeste!’
The crowd buzzed with approval.
Some clapped. Others hoisted their glasses and said, ‘Hear! Hear!’
A cake was brought out and handed to Misty and Mrs Kingman. After they were photographed with it, Mrs Kingman called, ‘Give the cake to our two winning girls, Regina and Celeste!’
Then the little side event was over and the crowd of guests ambled back through the trees toward the mansion, talking and chatting, laughing and clinking glasses.
I thought again: fucking hell.
Within minutes, the glen was empty, except for the six dolled-up slave women who remained on the stage underneath the tree surrounded by six security guards in designer suits.
Audrey and I watched, holding our breaths.
Gripping the gifted cake, the head guard barked: ‘All right, bitches! Show’s over! Get back in your fuckin’ cave and send out those dresses within three minutes or else we’ll come in there with whips! Now git! Git!’
The six slave women scurried through the massive arch, disappearing into the cave.
While they waited, the guards helped themselves to the cake.
Two minutes later, one of the slave women emerged with the dresses draped across her arms.
The head guard snatched them from her then threw the remnants of the cake at her, the icing and crumbs smacking against the poor woman’s chest.
The head guard stalked away, taking three of the other guards with him while leaving two to take up positions beside the arch.
The glen was silent once more.