The Mandrakes, Volume II: One Clear Day

The Mandrakes

Volume II: One Clear Day

By Zachariah Jack

Copyright 2017 Zachariah Jack

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2017 by Zachariah Jack

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The Mandrakes, Volume II

One Clear Day

Rome, Georgia. USA. The center of the universe for Calumet Alfrederic Broadhearst. Not to be confused with the Eternal city or the steppes of western Asia, the home place nestled into a bend of the meandering Coosa River. The stately manse provided haven, safety, benevolence, family… grounding. All in the poignant setting of a former cotton plantation supported by slave labor.

Innately aware of natural talents and fortes, to which he gravitates, Cal presses forward in unassuming, self-deprecating fashion. The favor of the gods and exceptional role models along with the blessing of excellent genes prove to be an exceedingly suitable combination for carving a mark in the world. As well as grasping the most from life. He comes to grips with obstacles, problems and aberrations in a more adult manner than most adults. Clear knowledge that his future holds one other in reserve with whom to share the path he travels provides emotional sustenance in good times and bad.

The most difficult aspect is harnessing the slippery trait named patience through the frustratingly long wait for their appearance.

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Forward, The Mandrakes, Volume II: One Clear Day

The Mandrakes, Volume II: One Clear Day

1992

July, 1997

April, 2000

March, 2004

January, 2006

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Biography

The Mandrakes

Volume II: One Clear Day

1992

Mammay. What’s a piccaninni? Cal Al wanted to know.

The ten-year-old fixed a gaze on the elegantly slim neck as he asked, knowing truth of the matter would arise from that spot. Sure enough, at the same moment of the boy’s last word, silky cocoa skin took on a tautness previously absent. Muscles beneath ribbed themselves in cords of sinewed potency though energy driving the display remained deliberately tamed.

No word had been spoken, yet the reaction informed Cal Al that the matter was, as he supposed, profound. The peculiar word was unknown to him; insight needed for meaning. He quietly awaited words to fill blanks in the question.

Cassandra Casseiopia Broadhearst continued measured peeling of carrots in preparation for dinner to come as her backside body language held son in check. While an already tall, slim youth remained still and mute, he inwardly summoned up basis for the query…

…An hour before, Cal hopped the gate outside the Roosevelt-era red brick schoolhouse across the Coosa River from his family home. The dull thud his cross-trainers made hitting ground muddled the word he heard from behind, Piccaninni!

Unsure if he had understood the alien term, he glanced over a shoulder. Ansley Hightower stood watching him from a few feet distant, just behind the bush bordering the gate and therefore out of sight. Huh? came Cal Al’s request for clarification. He viewed the grimace marring a big seventh grader’s pale features, thinking hot afternoon sun must be dazzling the older boy’s eyes.

It wasn’t. I said, ‘piccaninni’, ya dumb darkie, cain’t ya hear? The grimace intensified up to a full scowl as thin lips spat the next words. Lemme guess: ya don’ be speakin’ Anglish. ‘Huh’s the onliest word ya know how to say, I’m a’bettin.

Slow to rile, Cal Al nonetheless warmed at the low-rent vernacular; a little more by inclusion in a category of ignorance. He didn’t know this boy, having only laid eyes on him before now when passing in the hallway a few times. Why the animosity? The fifth-grader tried defraying rising tension with a quick smile so commonly disarming to most. No, I’m quite able to express myself. What might you be meaning was more my point. I couldn’t quite make it out. Cal’s diction was flawless. His truthfulness, a little less so. He had actually caught the new word; his footfall had only stepped on it a mite.

Dumb as a stump, fo’ sho’…what a idiot. Can’t hear and dudn’t unnerstan’ nuttin’. Just like all ya’ll. The vituperation hit another nerve but Cal attempted placation yet again, invoking his parents’ exemplary behavior and gentile manners as example. He was taught to respect elders and avoid violence. The fact that a lanky grade-schooler stood taller than the rest of his class still left him smaller by inches and tens-of-pounds in comparison to this blusterer, although the factor had not registered with the younger boy.

I’m not dumb. I speak just fine. But never have heard that word, now, that is sure. Were you asking or telling something, sir? Adding the term of respect, same way he’d heard Father intone with others.

Without further reply the blowhard suddenly rushed Cal, stooping to grab a handful of dusty sand then raising up in a fluid motion, slinging the decoy toward Cal’s face. An opposite fist followed in roundhouse arc with coldcock intent.

Even at ten-years-old Cal was not fooled by a basic boxing tactic. He dodged the dirty shower, then easily blocked a curving wind-up blow with his forearm. The quick fist of his left arm darted reflexively at the bully’s face, forcefully popping an exposed eye. The smack resounded around the almost empty school yard. A high-pitched yelp followed, bluster now replaced by a short blub on the way to sandy red dirt just sampled.

The fledgling self-defender assumed raised fists, leg-crouched position awaiting the next move. He quivered a little as adrenaline release hit. This was a first. In another second, seeing the bigger boy struggle, the youngster retracted fists and reached down to offer a hand up to the white boy.

Stupid scum-bucket, the chubby ground rider chirped. He fumbled up, slapping away the proffered hand in the effort. Stumbling to his feet, Ansley bulled off down the cross street, palming a fast-bruising eye. Cal Al listened at a gradually diminishing spit of epithets as would-be bully distanced. Then brushed himself off and turned toward the river bridge to home…

…The memory receded as Mammay’s soft voice broke in on the pregnant pause, Child, wherever did you come upon the word…at school? Cal related the episode just endured, with no little bit of trepidation in telling of the punch, knowing his mother’s penchant for diplomacy. And he then…waited.

Still viewing the back of her head, no eyes to gauge, no lips to study, only the neck to judge what ground he might stand on just then, the boy was not fearful; only subdued. Calumet Junior, my handsome and intelligent son. The word derives from an amalgamated contraction of terms through four centuries. Different meanings through varying times. Sometimes good, sometimes bad. Spelled one way one decade, another way the next. Her elegant southern lilt elucidated more than Miriam Webster’s sound bite. The explanation was used as a lesson on more than one level, employing vocabulary meant to challenge her children’s curiosity. It worked well. Her son would be soon researching at least one word she had utilized.

In this day, my son, it is still cited, though rarely, as an epithetical term. A demeaning method exercised by weak-minded people to evince superiority as a brace against inner inferiority.

In the language of Cameroon, from where our ancestors were stolen and enslaved, a precursor term once designated a Prince of the Hinterlands. And this, my son, is to what you must hearken whenever the word is uttered. Because your father has determined our own lineage arises from those same Hinterlands. You, my son, are born of the blood of Princes. And you must grow into a man able to fill the size of those shoes. With great gifts come great responsibility. Never, ever forget these tidings. She turned resolutely as she spoke those final five words, both eyes coming to laser focus on the ten-year-old son raptly alert to this delineation. Goosebumps pervaded him inside and out.

When you have mulled the concept, your father and I will clarify any paradoxes raised. Now, off with you to change that filthy shirt. Find your brothers and mind that you finish homework before chores. Then play. My young prince. Fondness smiled in a perfusion of palpable affection. Calumet Alfrederic Broadhearst, Junior, hugged her tightly before hightailing it up the staircase.

The doorbell sounded at two minutes till dawn the following morning.

A yesteryear mechanism, the chime had been installed in the Civil War era. Having fallen into disrepair a hundred years before, the device had apparently been forgotten over ensuing time. Professor Calumet Broadhearst, Senior, had discovered the ancient extravagance while refurbishing the home in the first year after Cassandra and he acquired the old dilapidated estate.

Calumet’s position at the local university as a Professor of Biochemistry was a milestone in newlywed lives eleven years before. The man meant to establish a home as complement to the station he had attained. Only by merit of an obliging friendship between a Rome City Clerk and the Broadhearst couple had the purchase been consummated. Sale of property in early 1980’s between races was not common.

The clerk had smoothed transaction between a young couple of color and last remaining member of an old plantation family who had moved out amid losing the home place due to unpaid taxes and penalties. An old, destitute owner never knew of the buyer, only that the sale relieved her financial worries in age of dotage to which she had awakened one day. Assisted living was much preferred, and resultantly affordable, at this late stage in life.

History behind the ancient three story edifice on banks of a meandering Coosa River proved obscure, yet enough data remained in county archives to establish facts that the manse and outbuildings had housed only one family through many generations. Along with their slaves.

Several years, precious funds and much sweat equity had been expended but finally lustre of the antebellum mansion with iconic Corinthian columns adorning a spacious loggia had been reasserted. Every effort had been effected in discovering details and accoutrements crafting the grand house at its conception. Likewise, a contrasting exertion had been exhausted for uncovering history of it. Methodically, purposefully and quietly, all evidence of the macabre evil staining its fabric as a harbor for involuntary servitude was erased.

The outbuildings had been razed and ground plowed deeply under where slaves and livestock had once ‘stabled’. Established century oaks were adorned