The African Prophecy

Preface

The coast of Key West, Florida, April 30, 1860

On this day a United States steamer Mohawk, American vessel, anchored in the Key West harbor had in tow a bark name the Wildfire. On board were five hundred and ten nude native Africans. The Mohawk employed by the United States to search the common slave trade sea routes for illegal slave ships had captured the abandoned Wildfire which had come from the River Congo, off the northern coast of Cuba. The Wildfire had left the Congo River 36 days before her capture.
A pagan African woman had been selected from the bark to assist the nurse with the sick on board the Wildfire. She was of about 24 years of age. The white people who visited and assisted at the quarters where the Africans were being cared for, referred to the African woman as “The Princess” on account of her fine and perfect un-pierced skin and the deference paid to her by the Africans. She wore the whitest clean dress, calico frock and looked very distinguished. It was obvious to them that she did not belong to the Congo tribe. According to the personnel at the barracks, at sundown the Africans were put to bed for the night and a scene took place which amazed them, which is not understood and cannot be explained. The woman called, “The Princess“, stood up, slapped her hands together for silence then commenced a prayer, in a manner like the chanting of the Litany in Catholic churches, and every few seconds the voices of the Africans would repeat after her in response to her voice. This went on for several minutes. The scene looked and sounded like Christians praying. Yet, the white locals was sure none of these Africans had ever heard of Christ, or had learned Christian practices, or for that matter had any knowledge of God, as Creator. They even suspected that the religious exercise was not understood by the Africans at all, but, had been something they were trained to do on board the ship. And it was obvious who had orchestrated this great and unbelievable thing. But how had she done it? And more importantly, who was she- the woman they referred to as “The Princess“?



ATLANTA, GEORGIA
August 7, 1860
The afternoon Georgia sun was full and hot, its heat had seeped deep inside the wide gaping wounds that hung from the ripped flesh of her arms. Blood oozed viciously staining the place where it lay. “What’s my name?” the terrified young woman asked of no one, for no one was around…only the smells of her blood, the thick heat packed in the unpaved road under her nose, the stench of their sour breaths. Only the battered eyes tried to move. To catch the ray of the sun, peep at its sunshine…maybe, hope rested along the brilliant beams…like before…for even one last time... Instead, it burned, as the rest of her ragged body. Again, the beaten body pulled and tore at the hot dry dirt against the weakening strength, through the grimy grains that raged past the tears of the loose leaky flesh that absently fell behind.
Maybe, it had been eternity, but, somehow, over the haze of approaching delirium, past the blanketing darkness, the broken fingers touched the first step of the rickety wooden church- her home since the town banned her. “Gracious Father,” the swollen lips called over the crickets buried in the high weeds. With just enough pull, the nude fell inside the front door, snapping it off its hinges. “Save them,“ she cried tears for the first time since the beating as she reached for the altar where she once slept. She would pray for not her life, but, for the lives of the enraged men who hated her so. “Holy Eloquim,” her face kissed the worn and dusty altar floor. Here she would give her last prayer. Unable to stand a bit, she collapsed to the cold floor. On her back, she struggled against the thin moonlight that poured through the shabby roof. “God have mercy,” the starved lips begged hearing the heavy boots. As before. They must have come to find her and followed her bloody trail. It was suppose to be this way. She called again, “God have mercy!” Her head rocked side to side. “Forsake me not!” Boom! the boots of the first soldier hit the floor of the church. Burning blood tracked the thin linings of her throat, she tried to wrestle away its spill. Now, the hopeless brown eyes watched the cells of her own blood roll to lifelessness under her twitching mouth. “Let it be Your will that I travel, Lord. Not theirs.” Her voice was slightly above a whisper.
“Here. Here,” the soldier yelled standing over her head, “The bastard’s in here.” Metal clinks of military rifles, and chains clattered violently ripping and tearing at the passing bushes and tree leaves. The heavy clash of their boots against the earth chopped the night air. And within moments the small church filled with the white army men clad
in brown and blue uniform.
“It’s I you want,” she crooked from the floor where she lay. One of the soldiers now held her by her neck, her blood oozing between his large fingers. “Eloquim,“ she muffled through clamped lips as the next massive blow from the soldier’s hand struck rocked her head. “Eloquim,“ she called out again approaching the waiting darkness while slight jerks pulsated under the angry soldier’s hold, his face inches from hers, gliding moon glow illuminated the vicious snarl and iced-over eyes. The soldier shook the young woman violently then stopped…her body but a dangle under his forceful grip…her head a drip from life. One last time, a partly opened eye found her attackers face, his hot breath falling down her throat. “You kill the mother of your king,“ she gasped on thicker blood. The next blow she could not feel. All the pain was washing away. The chime of the wind howled in her ear before a peaceful smile spread across the whipped brown face. Warm light engulfed her, it pierced her soul. It was going to be okay. “Mercy, mercy,” she smiled and moaned from the floor where he threw her. There, her mind cooed, as she rocked her dying body from side to side. Death she desired, peace she longed for. Both will begin the sweet the journey. The bloody grin wouldn’t go away. “Don’t take it away,“ her vocal cords gargled. The soldier’s boot plunged her closer towards the light, it was silent there. “It’s okay,” she soothed. “Shhh, shhh,” she plead to the angry voices in the distance. “It’s okay,” she tried to calm again. “My, my,” she rocked heading for the light.
“Shut up!“ the angry soldier yelled before the butt of his rifle smashed at the side of her head.
“Yes,” she whispered, her nude rattled against the floor. “Let me go.” In a little while she will become silent forever.
“Shut up, shut up, shut up,” the soldier demanded with each blow into her head with the rifle butt.
Again, she was able to whisper, “I forgive you.” “Eloquim,” she beckoned with limp out reached arms. “Grace me,” she begged as the soldier’s hot urine wet her face and lips.
“I have graced you!” the soldier sneered.
“What have I done to you?” She wailed, teeth chattering uncontrollably. “Let me go back to the one who sent me.” Once more, she attempted to touch her killer, his face blind in her eyes.
Everything was black. Only the cold could be felt on her body…just the dead leaves cracking under her bare soles could now be heard along with the deafening jeers of her captives. Obediently, the woman snaked her naked and blood soaked body up the tree her killers has chosen for her to die on. Pained badly, she winced over the hard bark she was told to climb, the threaded noose already draped around her neck. One soldier was at her side. The blind eyes searched for his face. “This land has been cursed.“ The dead eyes tiredly rolled under the swollen lids. “But, first you will call him King.” The small body slumped forward caught by the tight rope looped from the above thick branch. “Hang her, hang her,“ voices slung and chanted in the Georgia air over again.
The woman’s body was lifted up the tree to the laughter and cheers of the men below. Their hops of joy roared throughout the wooded forest…the long rifles echoed as thunder bolts, and the muddy boots banged the earth as they looped and danced in wild celebration.
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“No, no, noooo,” the young boy screamed out on his knees gazing up at the lifeless hanging body in the tree. “Please, please,” the white knuckles tore at the stained blood under her his fingers. “Oh God!” he slapped the earth that held her blood. “Wwhhyyyy?” he begged to know before jumping to his feet to pull and rip apart the thick threaded rope that held his love.

ROME
August, 7, 1860
“Holiest One, May I come forward?” the guard stood stark at the Pope’s bedroom door.
“Yes,” the Pope said lacking emotion…staring past the window glass he couldn’t dare move from…or, was it that he wouldn’t? Only the small shift of his hips in his seat made a sound…it, too, was faint just as his heartbeats…as the praying nun below. The whispers he couldn’t hear anymore. Instead, he was forced to wait and watch for them. Just as he saw the messenger crossing the Square, in his dream, he watched the stark white bird on his bedroom’s windowsill, its beak moved soundlessly, telling him something from the other side of the pane, as now the hushed wind ruffled through the swinging branches below. His world had become mute. But, he knew that it was the silence that was keeping safe…from the eyeless faces that kept morning vigil at his bedside. They said they were there to bring him terror…by whom? He knew not. The hour? They said soon. God’s purpose for him had been fulfilled. The end? No doubt, tragic.
From underneath his robe at his side, he placed his right hand on his journal where he kept it hidden. Just now, he named it, The Truth. “What is it you must say?“ he finally asked. From below, the nun gazed up at him. Their eyes locked from afar. It was her. The fragile lungs let out a short gasp, he gripped the book at his side, there was more that needed to be written. Quickly, he read her moving lips, each word blazing across his face. Frantic for the passages that will record as his final entry, he delicately hurried the prophecy to memory. “Oh, God!“ he finally choked in a panicked whisper. “She’s dead, Holy One,” the voice behind him said. “You may go now,” he waved as his lips continued to mock the woman’s. Then it came!- Perfect Sound. It was the door behind him close…his life enter…angels now sang?-his face shot upwards- from the deep ceiling! The widening blue eyes chased the faceless singing voices. Oh, God…It was Mercy. He jumped to his feet and turned to face the presence that entered…Yes, it was her! A blank page in the journal lay exposed at his feet. He was to record there.
The song was beautiful, belted from every corner, poured up through every crevice. The Holy lyrics spoke of a young girl who loved to listen for God by the sea where she would sit day and night. From inside the swells of the waves that stretched and paced at her bare feet, He would speak to her. Right now, the Pope pretended he was that girl and shouted the awe-inspiring song straight from his heart...past the thin lips as his hot tears crossed down the crooked deep wrinkles. Oh, how he loved this song. His extended arms chased the angelic hidden voices, his body swayed in short tight circles. Then just as quickly as joy came, it left. Suddenly, the air thickened and became terribly void. It was the same torment that greeted him at wake. Stiffened trembles erupted over the pink skin. The room began moving backwards as the elderly man rocked shakily on his soft heels. His shocked stare cast hard over the hooded woman who now little by little pulled back its velvet tip. Slowly, she would answer him, her words would come, but, with sound. Then…
Pope Pius dropped to his knees before the eyeless woman and languished in the bottomless pit of raw agonizing sobs.