Shackles



  Shackles

  By Dianne J. Wilson

 

  Copyright 2013 Dianne J. Wilson

  Cover Design: WolfWorx

  “Then you will know the truth, and the Truth will set you free.”

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  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  - Table of Contents -

  Chapter 1 - Stirrings

  Chapter 2 - Dreams and Curiosity

  Chapter 3 - Awakening

  Chapter 4 - Movements

  Chapter 5 - Two Steps Forward

  Chapter 6 - A Princess, a King and the Saints

  Chapter 7 - Confession, Flattery and Unlocking

  Chapter 8 - A Quandary and an Answer

  Chapter 9 - Fathers and Parents

  Chapter 10 - Fleeing and Finding

  Chapter 11 - On the Run

  Chapter 12 - Strange Allies

  Chapter 13 - Crossed Paths

  Chapter 14 - Honesty and Sweat

  Chapter 15 - Moms and Visitors

  Chapter 16 - Digging and a Pizza

  Chapter 17 - The Boss and his Servant

  Chapter 18 - Close but not Enough

  Chapter 19 - Pursuit and Success

  Chapter 20 - Stone of Stumbling

  Chapter 21 - A Prophet and a Hundred Rand Note

  Chapter 22 - A Boat and a Log

  Chapter 23 - Memories and Meetings

  Chapter 24 - Of Daughters and Divine Meddling

  Chapter 25 - Abduction

  Chapter 26 - Desperation and Peace

  Chapter 27 - Homecoming and Hotel Rooms

  Chapter 28 - Hogsback

  Chapter 29 - Fear and Faith

  Chapter 30 - Freedom

  Chapter 31 - Fathers

  Chapter 32 - Truth

  Chapter 33 - An Old Song

  Chapter 34 - Beginnings and Endings

  About Dianne J. Wilson

  Connect with Dianne J. Wilson

 

  Chapter 1 – Stirrings

  Bathed in frosty moonlight, the farmhouse slumbered uneasily in the grip of African winter. Icy radiance found a gap in thick curtains and slipped through to caress the restless form of a sleeping woman. Finding no peace, her body curled fetal as her eyelids twitched at the onslaught of images—

  —she stood on a storm-swept cliff. Below, the sea hurled itself against ragged rocks. Above, lightning danced between clouds, illuminating a sullen sky. The precipice called to her, beckoning – daring her to take the step – the step that would end it all. Heart pounding, every fiber screaming for release, she desperately clung to sanity…

  Then the dream changed. Through the clouds bolted a shining figure. Defying rain and lightning, it spun straight toward her. Balanced on nothing but air, the creature unfolded itself. Hardly daring to breathe, she peered through trembling fingers at the dazzling being. Then, with tenderness beyond this world, the creature took hold of her hands. “Dear one, fear not me. Fear not the night. For you are one much loved.” The warmth of words and hands flowed over her, enfolding her in unshakeable peace. Locking his eyes with hers in grave intent, the creature spoke again, this time his voice quickened by urgency “Rebecca, you need to wake up now. Wake up and get out of the house. Run. NOW.”

  Shooting bolt upright, Rebecca gasped awake. All was blackness around her, lit only by the faintest sliver of moonlight through a gap in the curtains. Breath coming in short gasps; Rebecca tried to breathe, to swallow. Then she heard the familiar creak of the wooden floorboards outside her bedroom door. Eyes wide and heart pounding, she slid out of bed. The words from her dream thundered through her brain “—get out of the house. Run. NOW.”

  Moving quickly in a half-crouch, she crossed to the window. Second story with nothing to climb down. Just perfect. Swinging one leg over, she balanced for a moment, caught in indecision. By the sliver of moonlight she saw the door handle arch downward. “Oh God, help.” Not daring a second look, she half leapt half fell out of the window. Her pajama leg hooked briefly on the window catch. The soft material ripped, and she crashed down head first, landing on her right shoulder. Blinding pain shot through her body. Biting back a strangled scream, Rebecca forced herself upright. Her ragged breathing formed puffy clouds in the bitter July air. Fighting a wave of nausea, she pushed herself to her feet. Dimly aware of the creak of her bedroom door opening, the words echoed again “—run! NOW.” Casting one last fearful glance at the window above, Rebecca turned and ran.

  ***

  “You really should have been more careful setting your alarm, love. You know how unsafe it is to travel in this darkness. Your eyes aren’t what they used to be, you know. At our age, all one’s travelling should be done in daylight.”

  Pete Goodwood reached across and good-naturedly patted Doreen’s leg. “Yes, dear.” They’d had this self-same argument countless times in their 44 years of married life. So often, in fact, that Pete had long ago given up arguing. “Why don’t you try and get some sleep, love? It’s been a long day.” The tenderness in his tone took all the fight out of her.

  Doreen sighed and shook her head in the darkness. “And what if you also fall asleep?” It was her final attempt at having the last word.

  “In the fifteen odd years we’ve driven between Stutterheim and Randburg to see Marietjie, have I ever fallen asleep? Hmm?”

  With a small chuckle, Doreen conceded defeat. “I get the point, I’ll stop nagging.” Her warm hand settled on his, and he gave it a quick reassuring squeeze. With a smile he turned his attention back to the road. He loved driving through the country at night. The darkness blanketed everything in a thick cloak of mystery that tickled his imagination.

  The powerful headlight beams blazed ahead, cutting a pathway through inky blackness. The light threaded briefly through pockets of mist collecting in the dips and hollows lining the road. Winter had arrived with a vengeance.

  Settling back into the rhythm of long distance travel, Pete sang one of his favorite hymns softly to himself. Launching with great gusto into the chorus, Pete rounded a bend.

  His insides screamed watch out! His foot hit the brake pedal. The car veered sideways and slid with sickening certainty towards a frozen figure in the middle of the road. The person stood rooted – hypnotized. Desperately, Pete threw his full weight on the steering wheel and felt the vehicle jerk violently and swing the other way. Tires lost traction and the vehicle spun out of control. The screech of rubber on tar, a thud, a cut off scream. With a bone-jarring crash, the car connected with a tree.

  “Oh God, what have I done?” Hardly daring to breathe, Pete tried to open his door. It was badly buckled and pressed up hard against the broad trunk that had ended their spin.

  Neither of them spoke as they slid out of Doreen’s side, avoiding shards of shattered glass. Shaking and bruised, they approached the limp form.

  It was a woman, roughly in her mid-twenties. Long black hair lay fanned out across the gravel. Peace painted her features as one in a deep sleep. Blood poured from a jagged cut across her left temple, ravaging the peace. Pete’s hand slipped to her jaw line, as he searched for a sign of life. Dor
een checked the inside of her wrist.

  “She’s alive!” They had both found the faint pulse at the same moment.

  Pete closed his eyes and raised his face heavenward, “Thank you, Lord.”

  Working together, they tore off a strip of her ripped pyjamas and bound the wound. Doreen’s eyes were wide, her face pale. They were stuck along the most deserted stretch of road this side of Jamestown.

  “What are we going to do?” she asked him.

  Pete looked up at the naked hills surrounding them. Moonlight washed the landscape in cold light. Nothing stirred. They were surrounded by remote farmlands with no lights hinting at human habitation, no signs of life – not even a single animal.

  “We need to find her home. One of these roads must lead to a farmhouse. She must live around here. Let’s go knock on some doors. Once we’ve returned her to her family, we can leave knowing she’s in good hands.”

  Doreen was shaking her head before the words were even out his mouth. He saw by moonlight a familiar stubbornness set into her shoulders.

  “She’s injured. She needs to see a doctor.” Pete started to answer but she cut him off. “We could spend the rest of the night getting lost on these farm roads, or we could take her with us to the hospital in Queenstown. As it is, I hope that her condition is stable enough to make the journey on the smooth tar of the road. Imagine the damage we could do taking her up and down on those rutted dirt roads? Once we’re in Queenstown and she’s been seen to, then we can decide what to do next.”

  Pete looked around doubtfully, as if expecting someone to pop out of the trees that lined the road and lay claim to the girl.

  Seeing the look, Doreen broke in, “Oh, Pete. The Lord doesn’t speak to me so clearly often, but when He does I know that I must listen. He wants us to do this. I don’t know why, but I’m sure He will show us what we need to know.”

  Pete briefly searched his heart. There it was – like the faintest peal of a silvery bell on the edge of his consciousness, a delicately light impression that said yes. Cupping Doreen’s face in his hands, he tenderly kissed her forehead. “Okay, love. Let’s do this.”

  Aware that the young woman might have an injured spine, they said a brief prayer and shifted her inert body to the back seat. Using Doreen’s jacket for a blanket, they tucked her in. With another bone-jarring screech, Pete managed to maneuver the car off the tree trunk and reverse back onto the road. Traveling as fast as the damaged vehicle could manage, they headed toward Queenstown praying and crying out to God for His mercy and intervention.

  ***

  Watching their departure with eyes full of hate, the young man turned away and kicked the tree he’d been hiding behind. He cursed his ill found luck. With un-satiated passions coursing through his veins, he scowled at the taillights moving off into the distance. He spat on the ground and swore, “I will find you, Rebecca. I will find you.” Turning away from the road he stalked off into the moonlit night.

  ***

  Enshrouded in the deep blue waters, the skeleton of the ship lay half buried, hidden from casual glance. Jason felt the familiar thrill of excitement tingle in his belly. Each visit to the wreck seemed to heighten the rush. Clutching a crowbar in one hand, he deftly manoeuvred through a man-sized hole torn out of the side of the hull and into inky blackness.

  The faint light from his head lamp forced back a circle of murky darkness. Working from memory, he navigated his way through narrow corridors, past cabins and ever deeper into the heart of the ship. Driven by something more than curiosity, he was determined to find and uproot what he had stumbled on the previous day. He’d snagged a flipper under a loose floorboard. Trying to work it free, his fingers had found something cold and hard beneath the wood. Some sort of box?

  Shaking away the memories, Jason realized he’d gone wrong somewhere. My own fault for daydreaming. Focus, Halloway, focus. Retracing his path through the seaweed-infested tunnel, he peered through the gloom. Not too far back, Jason’s heartbeat doubled as he recognized the familiar cabin door on the right. It hung on one rusted hinge, swaying slightly in the shifting water current. Squeezing through the gap, he found the floorboard and went to work with the crowbar.

  Working weightless proved to be a problem. Getting the crowbar wedged in was easy enough, but as soon as he pushed down on it, he floated off in the opposite direction. Vile words paraded through his brain. Aware that each second of inaction was a second of wasted oxygen, Jason floundered in the dark. I should have thought this through. Me – of all people.

  His mental tongue-lashing was suddenly cut short by the calmest thought slicing sideways across his mind...

  “Look around you.”

  Too surprised to argue, Jason began carefully scanning the room. Much of what he saw could be found in any bedroom. This lot had not taken kindly to being underwater for so long. There was a half-rotten chair, with a half-rotten table to match. A small cupboard, a bed. Jason shrugged and shook his head. The only difference was that each item was securely bolted to the floor. It hit him like a slap to the face. Bolted to the floor—of course.

  The bed was closest to the offending board. Jason slipped his legs under the frame and reached for the crowbar. As he pushed down, his legs pushed against the metal frame of the bed – just the resistance he needed. The rotten board yielded to his attack and floated free. Reaching in, he yanked the metal object loose. It was a box, rusted but intact.

  Clutching his awkward prize in the crook of an arm, Jason headed for the surface, disrupting a school of tiny fish. Too exhilarated to notice, he left them swirling in his bubbles.

  Back onboard his rubber duck, Jason peeled off his wetsuit, ran fingers through his unruly black mop and sat down to examine the chest. It looked like an old-fashioned, rusty petty cash tin. Roughly the length of his forearm, narrower across the width and just longer than the depth of his palm. It was going to be tough to get inside without doing permanent damage to the tin and its contents. Stowing his find in a canvas bag, Jason caught sight of his cell phone. Two missed calls. Then he saw the time. Late for my lecture. Not bothering to listen to his voicemail – undoubtedly some over-conscientious student wondering where their lecturer was – Jason fired up the engine and aimed the duck shore-wards.

  Chapter 2 – Dreams and Curiosity

  Peering dubiously into the bubbling pot on the stove, Jason shuddered. Cooking was definitely outside of Shane’s area of expertise. Then again, a hunk like Shane probably wouldn’t be doing his own cooking for long anyway.

  “Hey, Halloway. How’d the lecture go?” Shane walked into the kitchen wearing the ridiculous checkered apron his girlfriend had bought him for their roof-wetting party.

  “Not great. A little like your cooking seems to be going here.” Jason chuckled as he caught the dishtowel that narrowly missed clipping his ear. “Your aim is rotten, my friend!”

  “Not half as rotten as the trash you keep dredging up from that wreck. I saw your latest sitting on the dining room table. You do realize that in two days our flat is going to reek of deceased sea creatures. The last time I checked – ladies are not turned on by that particular odour.” Shane shook his stew-caked wooden spoon under Jason’s nose for emphasis. “Your hobby is having a seriously negative effect on my social life.”

  Dodging flying stew speckles, Jason defended himself, “What can I say? I teach history. Old, dead things fascinate me.”

  Shane rolled his eyes and shook his head. They both laughed.

  Scratching his stubbly chin, Jason’s face twisted in a grimace. “Seriously though, I need your help opening the thing. I’ve got a hunch that there is something important inside.”

  “No sweat. Heck, if it means we can ditch the thing once we’ve seen inside, I’ll even cancel my date for tonight.”

  After dinner, the three roomies sat around the dining room table staring at the box. Tim, the redhead, had arrived earlier and had been recruited into ‘Operation Box Open,’ as Shane had dubbed
it. Where Shane was ruggedly tanned and good-looking, Tim was pale and downright ugly. His combination of allergies and acne didn’t do much for him by way of first impressions. In spite of this—or maybe because of it—his insides were solid gold and his brain lightning quick. Jason always reckoned rolling Shane and Tim into one chap, and losing the allergies and acne, would give you something very close to the perfect man.

  It was Tim’s brain and Shane’s brawn that got the lock open. Tim’s locksmith granddad had taught him the basics of the trade and given him a small set of lock-picking tools. Shane’s muscles had been useful in persuading the conscientious rust to give up. The box was now unlocked.

  And they sat and stared at it.

  Shane cracked first, “Get on with it, Halloway. Open it. Let’s see what’s inside. Probably all rotten anyway.”

  Jason rubbed dry palms together and let out the breath he’d been holding. The strangest sensation had come over him as he stared at the box. Deep in his gut he felt as if whatever waited for him inside would change the course of his future. This subconscious notion paralysed him completely.

  Then, sideways across his mind, full of love and laughter came the voice again, “Jason, open the box.”

  Jason glanced quickly at his friends. Both sat drumming fingers impatiently – mouths tightly shut. Puzzlement clouding his features, Jason spoke out loud, “Just like underwater. I’d forgotten about that.”

  Not following his thoughts, Tim commented with a sniff, “Things do tend to go rotten underwater. What’s your point? Actually, never mind your point – open the box. Or I’ll do it for you.”

  Shoving the odd voice— thought, he told himself —aside, Jason reached for the box, feeling strangely light and carefree.

  Some rusted bits broke off as he swung the lid back on its hinges. Reaching in, he pulled out a package, carefully vacuum-sealed in plastic. Somebody had gone to great lengths to protect the contents. Removing a piece of seaweed, Jason inserted the tip of his Swiss Army knife and sliced it open as if he were dissecting a mosquito.

  Two separate packages came free, both wrapped meticulously in brown paper. Taking the bulkier of the two, Jason began unwrapping fold after fold. Tim and Shane had picked up on the gravity of the moment and sat staring with bated breath.