The Quiet Rebellion

The strings on the banjo vibrated with their slow, silent call.

The room twirled and stomping boots shook the floor, but Jack sat still on his place of honor, watching. The clan's eyes were alive with joy, their faces awash with merriment. Some wore beaming smiles, while others mouthed open secrets about him, the only killer in the room.

There was no turning back now. The load would not return to the shell.

The clan would bandy words back and forth about their good fortune and how he had to be the one foretold, but they did not understand. Baldwin's own would come, and none of them would survive like this.

Tea parties. Socials.

Baldwin ruined them all, with his guns and rough chains. None were alive now that lived before they came. None of the clan even remembered freedom.

Killing Baldwin was easy. Any of them could have done it.

The man before him halted in place, and then stepped to the side. Jack's eyes darted about the room. They were all staring at him. The strings on the banjo were still.

In front of him, the room reformed into two rows from where he sat up to the most glorious vision he had ever seen--Marianne Greenbush. Her white dress was a wide hoop skirt with ruffles that hid her shoes from sight. Through some dressmaking magic, her waist was extra narrow. A wide lace collar hid most of her chest, hinting at the ample bosom that had to be straining at such fabric. Short sleeves revealed thin arms that trailed to white lace gloves. His nose brought him a faint, tantalizing scent that he only smelled when Marianne was near. It was like the lilac bushes Baldwin's people planted, the only pleasant odor they brought with them.

He loved it.

The sight of her flushed blood to his cheeks, as it always had. Her hair cascaded down in long curls along the sides of her face. He longed to caress that angelic vision. He knew her skin was soft and smooth like all the women wanted theirs to be, but never was. Hard work and hard life prevented it, but not so for Marianne. Baldwin favored her, kept her from toil so that she could become the woman he wanted.

Baldwin! The thought of him welled up rage inside Jack. Missionary to the New South. That was how he and his kind presented themselves. They pretended they were going to help the clan--rebuild the valley after the war, and start a new future. Instead, they took everything and called it their own.

Jack glanced around the room at every soul dressed in "Northern" style. Trousers, cutaway coats, and tall collars were everywhere. They powdered themselves with foul-smelling concoctions and smoked pipes filled with the new tobacco. The stench of it turned his stomach. Baldwin forbade them all the clothes of their homeland, the long robes and bright colors. He gave them new names, new homes, new work, and all of it was just to make him rich.

A hand touched Jack's knee. It was Harry.

Harry and Jack had a secret language since they were boys, one of movements.

"She speak you," Harry gestured.

Marianne stood before him, and without his mind even willing it, he found himself on his feet.

"Jack," she related through Harry, "Owe debt, you. Saved life. Pay how, you?"

Jack answered.

He saw Harry struggle to reply, since there would be no English word for it. Finally, Harry seemed to use the old way, the old word, since shock and outrage swept the room.

Marianne flushed, and fanned herself. Men appeared to grumble and women fled the room.

"Wrong you," Harry translated. "Not permissible. Monstrous."

A man handed her the Book of Ways and she held it out in front of her.

"People Baldwin's teach better us."

Jack turned to Harry. "She promised me before born. Baldwin try mate her. Bad. Bad all."

Marianne stared at the words on the book: Colonization and Reconstruction of Worlds in the Image of the Old South: An Experiment in Primitive Civilization Management, by Dr. H. B. Baldwin, et al.

Her watering, green on green eyes narrowed to slits, and she looked back up to him. Her long, forked tongue tasted the air, and she leapt, taking him to the floor.

Even as her long fangs dug deep into his flesh, he smiled. After she devoured his koa every one of her eggs would carry his gift of silence, and none of them would ever hear the nonsense of the Earthers.

He hoped their children would have her eyes.

Find more by N.J. Kailhofer in the Author Index.

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