This is Installment Nine of the novel Rose and Justice. It includes Chapters III.i, III.ii, and III.iii. It is 5,818 words long. As installments are posted, links for each will be added under the tab labeled “The Novel” at the top of this page. Enjoy!

III.i

            The Light Council was not elected.  It consisted of beings who had reached complete enlightenment and then returned to earth, not just for love, but for the ultimate love of all beings and the overwhelming desire to assist them in their journey toward the light.  When these beings returned to the Light world, they were automatically accepted as members of the council.  No announcement was made.  No one would come to them and inform them of their position.  It was just automatically known to all in that world, including the being newly admitted to the council.

These beings were never referred to by their last earth names, but rather by the Light title they naturally possessed.  Therefore, Jesus was referred to as Teacher, Mother Teresa was Mother, Gandhi was Mahatma, Buddha was Enlightened One, Martin Luther King, Jr. was Father, and Mohammed was the Prophet.  These six had in some way given their entire lives to elevating the consciousness of the world — some through human death, others through long human life dedicated to teaching the truth and justice of love.  Their word was not questioned in the light world since all knew their spiritual evolution to be so complete that they were incapable of making a wrong decision.  Thus, all of their decisions were unanimous and final.

Hal and Malcolm sat in the circle waiting for the council to complete their morning meditation.  There was no separation from the great six when one was called into their presence; you simply joined their circle around a large white bowl of glowing water.  There was no sense of sitting in judgment when one came to the Light Council.  Judgment was a human invention.  The Light Council needed only truth.

The Enlightened One opened his eyes first and mentally called the others out of their state of nothingness.  “Our guests have arrived.”

“Do you know why you are here?”  Mother asked gently.

“I have no idea.  I am sure there must be some mistake.”  Malcolm piped in.  He knew he would be going back, but he was determined to fight it to the end.  Hal just sat quietly knowing he would have to bear witness to Malcolm’s indiscretions.

Mother spoke gently, “Do not lie to me, my son.  You do know why you have been asked to meet with the council, and there is no good reason to resist the inevitable.”

“You have manipulated the destiny of another being,” Mahatma intoned.  “You have shown resistance to the way of the Light since your last incarnation ended.   You have insisted on remaining in a combative state even on the plane of no conflict. Therefore, you must return again to learn the lessons you have thus far refused to accept in your soul.”

“Please, no.  Give me one more chance.  I promise to love everyone, even if they treat me badly.”

“And in your very words you express the lesson you still have not learned,” Teacher said.  “No one treats you badly, Malcolm.  They simply reflect back to you what you impose on your own existence.  If you would be wise enough to take my advice, then I would suggest that you begin setting your intention now for an incarnation that will be filled with lessons so that you might just get to stay the next time you are fully realized on this plane.”

“Oh, Jesus,” Malcolm muttered.

“Yes?”  Teacher asked.

“Oh, uh, . . . nothing, Teacher.”

“And now for you, Hal,” Mother said.  “It is with some sorrow that we inform you that you, too, must return.”

“Begging your pardon, my Mother, but . . . what??”  Hal was stunned.   There were no secrets on the Light plane.  All knowledge was available to all beings if they simply asked for it.  He could have known he was destined to return if he had inquired of the Light, but it was a possibility so far removed from his thoughts that he hadn’t even considered it.

“You even more clearly manipulated the destiny of others.  Your evolution was so near completion that, frankly, we had you pegged for the council at some point in the future.”  Father spoke.  “But, regardless of your rather benign and certainly well-intentioned misuse of light principles, you would have chosen to return anyway.”

“I would have?”  Hal asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” said the Enlightened One.  “Your soul had already decided even if you were not yet consciously aware.  You were going back to help Juliet — yet another small bending of the rules.”

“Therefore,” Prophet interjected, “you will both be sent back to learn a great lesson from this particular event.  Hal, you will be returning to assist in the muddle you have helped to create for Romeo and Juliet.  And, of course, to learn.  Always to learn. You will see just what it is you have done to two lovers who so desperately want and deserve to find each other after so much time of searching.  You will see that a love destined to be fulfilled on the mortal plane has been given overwhelming obstacles because of the both of you.”

“Oh, my god, no,” Hal felt a greater pain than he had ever known in the Light world.  His pain had nothing to do with his return to the weight and restriction of a physical body.  No, it was based solely upon the way his desire to assist Juliet was going to cause her pain and trouble.  If the council spoke of hardships for her, than they were sure to come.  His heart was breaking for what he had done to Juliet.

Mother reached out her hand and placed it on the back of Hal’s neck.  She stroked his hair and spoke quietly.  “Already you feel the pain of being human.  You acted from a human place, Hal.  You acted from a human place and yet with spiritual wisdom and love.  You knew that the Light would bring all things to their natural and perfect conclusion, yet your love for Juliet was so strong that you felt you knew her needs better than the Light could know them.  Even love has consequences, my child.”

Teacher took Hal’s hand.  “You have a specific mission on this trip, Hal.  If Romeo and Juliet can fulfill their love on earth in spite of the incredible odds against them, then you will have completed it.”

“But, wouldn’t that be manipulating their destiny?”  Hal inquired.

“No.  You have a mandate from the Light.  You are going to provide balance to the predicament they will find themselves in.  If it had not been for your involvement on this plane, their job would have been much easier on the earth plane.  You must do everything you can to make that right.  And, Hal, it won’t be easy.”

“So, what’s my mission?”  Malcolm asked.

Mahatma answered for the council.  “Your mission is to learn to live in the Light.  Hal is going for Juliet and Romeo.  You are going for yourself.   You are going to the same place so that you can learn from Hal, if you choose, and also from Romeo and Juliet. You are going to learn that war in any form is in direct opposition to the Light and the most unloving of all behaviors.  Your war is within yourself, Malcolm.  Thus, you know of no other way to interact with others than through conflict.  War and Light cannot inhabit the same place.  Violence always happens in the dark.  And the Light is simply illuminated love.  To live in the Light, you must learn to love, not fight.  Be certain that you meditate as much as you can before you return so that you will be certain to truly learn that lesson this time, my friend.”

And this was how it came to be that Malcolm returned to the earth as the second son of Jared and Melinda Malone – Marshall Jared — and Hal returned to earth as the first child and daughter of Aaron and Mary Malone — Hannah Elizabeth.

III.ii

            Hannah Elizabeth Malone was three years old and learning to eat on her own.  It was a task replete with problems for the toddler.  For one thing, her mother had to get her to stop humming long enough to make the attempt.  Hannah was born with music in her soul and seemed to sing her first word rather than say it, the first “ma” a pitch-perfect G followed immediately by a second “ma” that slurred up to a C.  The only music available on the Malone compound came from the radio in Uncle Jared’s house, and Hannah would often be found changing the dial from conservative talk radio to a music station any time she could get into the main house undetected.  She had honed in on that device like a needle pointing to magnetic north almost as soon as she could walk.  She wasn’t choosy in her musical tastes — she would listen to rock or classical, country or pop, although Uncle Jared flew into a rage the one time he had caught her singing along with the latest R&B star to hit the airwaves.  Hannah could hear a song once and remember it word for word and beat for beat from then on.

Once, when Uncle Jared had allowed the children to go into town for the weekly supply trip, Hannah disappeared from the small pack.  Aaron and Jared took all the children back to the truck and left Clete, Jr. in charge while they began a sweep of downtown Brunswick looking for her.  They had searched several businesses on the Gloucester Street when they came across the small girl in Manley’s Music Store.  She was sitting at a piano, with every employee of the store gathered around her, and playing the melody line of Mozart’s Andante from Piano Concerto 21 in C flawlessly.

Jared had jerked her by the arm without a word.  The manager of the store followed him out, trying to reason with him the entire way.

“Is this your child?  She’s . . ., well, she’s a prodigy.  There’s no other word for it.  Please consider getting some lessons for her . . . or a piano.  I don’t even care if you buy it from me, just get this child a piano.  Talent like hers is one in a million.  Sir!  Please, sir.”  As Jared began walking down the sidewalk with a smiling Hannah in tow and her father, Aaron, walking three paces behind as if he had done something wrong, the store manager shouted after him, “She can come back anytime!  She can just sit in the store and play anytime she likes!”

Jared did not buy a piano.  Even if he had believed it was a worthwhile investment, he would never spend so much money on a worthless child like Hannah.  He inwardly blamed her blindness on Aaron’s weakness.  He believed that Hannah’s visual impairment was some kind of genetic reproach against his brother and his brother’s wife.  He was incapable of understanding that Hannah’s blindness was the very reason for her musical prowess and her ability to see things Jared would never see.

“Now, Hannah Elizabeth, settle down and focus on your plate.  Here, touch it.  Your pork chop is on the left side, the peas are on the top of the right side, and your mashed potatoes are at the bottom.”  Mary Malone struggled with her child for well over 30 minutes until she had the idea that would work.  She assigned each section of the plate a song.  From then on Hannah fed herself, humming between bites according to where she had retrieved that bite from the plate.

Mary struggled with opposing feelings where Hannah was concerned.  She loved her child more than she would have dreamed possible.  Even with her blindness, Hannah seemed perfect to her.  Yet she felt a sense of shame around the others, knowing they either pitied her or blamed her for her child’s seeming handicap.  Thus, Hannah grew up believing that love was something that must be hidden.   Yet, she felt it so purely that even with the lessons of her environment, she could hardly help but express love to those around her.  From the beginning, Hannah’s most prominent personality trait was a gentle kindness that endeared her to even the most closed hearts.  All except Jared, who refused to see any good in her at all and continued to believe that she was an indictment against her parents.  The only way it would have been worse would have been if she were a boy — a blind boy, all that wasted maleness.

Jared had at first refused to allow his sons to play with their cousin.  This had little to do with her blindness.  He simply believed that young boys should have no interest in girls until puberty at least.  But he couldn’t police everyone on the compound 24 hours a day and so Hannah spent quite a bit of time with Justice and Marsh.  Justice was four when Hannah was born and he watched over her like she was his little sister.  He was learning the ways of his father, yet adored his little cousin in a way he couldn’t begin to understand, yet alone explain.  Justice’s brother, Marsh, was exactly three days younger than Hannah, right down to the minute, and this was a source of constant irritation for the youngest Malone boy.  Whenever he was difficult to deal with, which was often, Hannah would remind him that she was the oldest and he should listen to her.  She never did this haughtily, but rather as a kind reminder.  His reply was often an echo of his father’s beliefs, “Well, I’m a boy, so you should listen to me.”

Justice learned his father’s ways and followed them because that was all he knew.  Jared allowed the boys very little exposure to life outside the compound, so they could hardly be held responsible for the rigid beliefs they inherited.  Had Jared known the true heart of Justice, he would have been very disappointed.  Justice did what was expected and said all the right things, but he felt no passion about life on the compound as his father did.  Mostly he felt that something must be happening beyond the fence that he was missing.  From the time he could walk, he was in constant search of a way to sneak away, if only for a little while.  As a very young boy, his escapes were limited to Saturdays in town with his father.  As he grew, his excursions would become increasingly more daring and more secretive.

Marsh, on the other hand, believed everything his father told him, held it like a precious gem, and produced it again, verbatim, at every opportunity.  He lived under the heavy shadow of being the second born in a family that followed the right of succession almost as religiously as the English monarchy.  His adoration of his father was a subconscious begging, a repressed plea for attention and love clouded by the belief that it was nothing more than a strict adherence to the chain of command.  Marsh needed love more than anything, but hid that need under an aggressiveness he thought his father would admire.  He detested Justice’s status as the heir apparent, yet held an unexplained attraction to his big brother.  There was a part of him that would have plotted Justice’s demise had it not been for the mysterious fact that Justice was the closest friend he had.  It was Justice who seemed to understand Marsh with an intuition that was almost psychic.  Marsh felt immense love for Justice, yet despised the firstborn Malone.  It was a paradox that would haunt him for years.

III.iii

           Hannah Elizabeth was missing.  It was two days after her 10th birthday and the day before Marsh’s.  She had been playing in the sandbox with Marsh when a rabbit had grabbed Marsh’s attention and he took off in chase, wishing he had the .22 rifle he knew he would get as a present tomorrow.

Every Malone boy got a toy gun at birth, a pellet gun at the age of five, and his first real gun, a .22 rifle, on his 10th birthday.  Once he had received his gift at the noon party, his father would spend a good hour teaching him how to handle, clean, load, unload, and, finally, shoot his gun.  Then father and son would go hunting until the sun went down.   On this excursion of male bonding, Jared would give his son the same talk his father had given him on his 10th birthday.   Over the course of the afternoon, he would explain how the younger Malone was now a young man and that he had been given a proud legacy which it was his duty to preserve and protect.  Marsh would be told how the government had stolen his family’s land and that the laws of society were designed to benefit Jews and mud people, not real Americans like the Malones.  And it would be explained how it was the mission of his young life to counteract to the best of his ability every attempt to bring down the superior white race.  Finally, he would be given the mantra of the Malone clan in an almost ceremonial procedure that included him kneeling before his father and repeating the words he already knew so well, but would say for the first time aloud tomorrow.  “I live and I would die for God, family, and race.”  Marsh couldn’t wait for this twisted Malone version of a bar mitzvah.

But, for now, he was in deep trouble.  He had not been directly told to keep an eye on Hannah, but it was always understood that she was less capable and therefore needed the protection of the boys.  That would have been understood in the compound even if she wasn’t blind.  She was a girl, and that was enough to determine her need for protection.

“Damn it, son.  You’re gonna’ be ten tomorrow and not even man enough to watch out for your cousin.  I don’t know if you’re ready for a rifle or not.”

“I am, papa.  I really am.  I was only gone for a sec.  She jes’ scooted out like a greased pig.  You know how she is, papa.”

“I know, boy,” Jared eased up on his son.  He was determined to find the little girl and protect all Malones, but Marsh was much more valuable to him, and he couldn’t quite find it in his heart to be too hard on the boy for losing a little blind girl.

Jared gathered the men on his front porch.  Mary Malone was close to hysterical with worry.  Aaron was worried, too, but never showed too much concern for Hannah in front of Jared.  He knew what his older brother thought of his imperfect daughter.  Jared had even hinted to Aaron several years back that he ought to consider having Hannah’s tubes tied when she got older, “so she won’t have more blind babies.”  Aaron inwardly refused and vowed to never do as his brother suggested, but he couldn’t quite defy Jared to his face.

The men, including Clete Camden, Jr, who was now 20 and considered a full-fledged man of the compound, and Justice, who was 14, set off to methodically sweep the 48-acre compound.   It stirred Marsh’s blood that he was not allowed to go along.  In 24 measly hours, he would have passed the first mark of Malone manhood and probably would have been one of the search party.  But, partly because of his current status as being officially still nine years old, and partly because he was held responsible for this crisis, he was left at the cabins with the women and the growing cadre of smaller children which had begun to populate the Malone village.

A thorough search of the 48 acres, including each of the 12 buildings, took the party of eight an hour.  This was a procedure they practiced routinely so they could determine any breach of security within a short time.  It was done quickly, but without any chance of an oversight.  Hannah had truly disappeared, a seemingly impossible task, and in a relatively short time — it had only been an hour and 25 minutes since her absence was discovered.  It would have been difficult for a sighted child of 10 to get on the other side of an almost impenetrable fence that was quite a distance from the circle of cabins in such a short period.  How Hannah had accomplished it was beyond Jared Malone’s comprehension.  The only other possibility was that she had waded into the marsh and drowned, an option they had each thought of but no one had yet voiced.

The men met back at Jared’s front porch within minutes of each other with the same report: no sign of her.  They fancied themselves all expert trackers, so this was an exasperating situation.  After they had discussed their options, or lack thereof, for almost 15 minutes, Justice finally spoke up in a quivering voice.  As the youngest, he was not expected to even voice an opinion.  His words now grabbed the others’ attention.

“I . . . I think I might have an idea.”

“What?  What did you say, boy?”  Jared asked in a rough manner.

Justice swallowed hard and spoke with a little more conviction.  “I said, I think I might have an idea.  About how Hannah might have gotten out, I mean.”

Jared’s eyes narrowed to slits.  He lived in constant suspicion of everyone and everything.  “Out with it, boy.”

Justice looked at the ground.  “There’s a spot.  In the fence.”  Justice gulped hard and labored on.  “It’s near the, . . . near the east watchtower.  You can get out if you know where it is.”

Jared Malone walked slowly to his son as the rest of the men held their collective breath.  They had all seen his temper and waited for the firestorm certain to land on the boy’s head.  But, Jared spoke with a quiet and controlled voice, almost a whisper.  “And how do you know about this ’spot’ in the fence?”

“ I . . . I just know, that’s all.”

Jared stared at the top of his son’s head for a long tense moment.  “Take me to the spot.”

“Yes, sir,” the reply was inaudible, but no one questioned Justice’s answer.

“The rest of you men get the four-wheelers and start searching outside the compound.  Two teams.  One leaves from the south gate and sweeps around to the east side.  The other head to the north side and sweep east.  Take the dogs and be sure to check the marsh.  We’ll meet up at the east wall by the watchtower.”

“S-s-sir?”

Jared turned around slowly.  “This had better be good, boy.”

“The spot.  It’s too small for you to get through.  You’d be stuck inside the fence, sir.”

Jared quickly calculated the amount of time it would take to enlarge the hole in the hard timbers fencing in the east side and considered the increased effort in patching up the hole.  He hesitated, then decided.  “I’ll go with the south team.  Justice, you go through your spot.”  He said the words “your spot” with such venom that Justice knew he was going to pay dearly for his secret once Hannah was found.

It was about half a mile from the east side of the Malone compound to the Atlantic Ocean.  The first stretch of land was a marsh little visited by any other than biologists and the most hardcore fishermen.  Once you crossed Ocean Road, the ground was more solid and a narrow residential community was all that separated you from the dunes spotted with wild sea oats and occasionally loggerhead turtle tracks.  The marsh was federal property and it was against the law for anyone to have a gun on this tract of land.  All the men knew this.  And all knew better than to ask about leaving their guns at home.  Jared cared little for the law and would probably shoot a federal agent before handing over his weapon.  But this particular marsh was rarely visited by anyone.  On the off chance that a St. Simons police cruiser was poking down Ocean Road, the men were quite capable of evading an officer’s eyes.  Jared had grown up as a regular marsh rat and had trained the men to be the same, such that they would be aware of any other human long before the other human was aware of them.

Justice paused at the small hole in the fence.  He didn’t use his secret passageway to freedom often — he mostly just felt better knowing it was there — but when he did, he always left his gun leaning against the fence inside the compound.  He didn’t relish getting into trouble and hated his gun besides.  He often wondered why his father measured manhood by an instrument of killing.  They shot wildlife for food and even while eating the deer or rabbit Justice could only think of how one-sided the fight for life had been.  He secretly believed that if his father were a real man, he’d catch the rabbit by hand and even the playing field a little.    But this time, Justice knew his father would ask about his gun once they met up outside, and he was already in for the tanning of his life.

Justice scooted the gun through, then flattened out on his belly to inch through the hole.  Within the year he would have had to enlarge it to keep up with his own growth, but he knew plans for that project were futile now.  The hole was almost directly underneath the east watchtower.  Jared had taught his son too well.  Justice knew that the men in the tower always looked out, away, beyond.  By making his escape 30 feet directly beneath them, they never saw a thing.

Justice didn’t really care for the marsh much.  It seemed so big once you were in it and he felt so alone here.  From the watchtower, there was a clear view of the grass and water, the high spots and low spots.  Justice could easily determine a trail to Ocean Road that would only include a little wading.  But, from the ground, the marsh stretched out like a wet grassy puzzle.  Once he had snuck out at night and about wet his pants at the sight of marsh grasses swaying in the moonlight.   What drew him to this place was a mixture of variations on the same theme.  He was away from his father.  He was on property that any other citizen could be on if he or she so chose.  He was able to look in the direction of Brunswick and Savannah and Atlanta and, though not seeing them, not see a wall either.  That one short wiggle on the ground brought him freedom.  His father talked a lot about freedom.  Justice always felt it ironic that his father was the barrier which kept that feeling of liberty so elusive, more so even than the fence.

On the few rare occasions when Justice had dared to use his secret door to freedom during the day, he usually stayed close by the fence, hating it and somehow needing it at the same time.  It was his prison and his shield of security.  Everything beyond it was unknown and a little scary.   Twice he had dared to venture as far as the shore.  Both times had been of equal magnitude.  The persistent waves and salty air were like the sound and taste of a kind of freedom with no borders at all.  He could just barely make out the northern tip of Jekyll Island on his right, but other than that there was only ocean, an ocean that seemed to go on forever.  He had paid enough attention when his mom gave him geography lessons to know that if he could see far enough and if his vision was subject to gravity then he would see the western coast of Africa.  But it was the idea of infinity that was real to him as he watched the sea meet nothing but sky in the distance.  He had been lucky enough to spot a school of porpoises on one of his two trips to the ocean.  He had seen them before in Postell Creek, the north border of their property.  They often swam up the tidal rivers, but seeing them in the ocean was different somehow.  They seemed to be playing as they leapt from the surf effortlessly and then slid back into the depths.  Justice had remembered feeling jealous of the way they so easily accepted their freedom.

The day Hannah disappeared was a beautiful day in early April and Justice wished that he was out on his own under other circumstances.  He couldn’t even enjoy his freedom today, proving it was his father and not the fence that kept him imprisoned.  This trip out of the compound was a sweet sorrow, a blessed excursion through the wetlands and a mournful goodbye.

Why had he told Hannah about the hole in the fence?  And how had she gotten to it so quickly?  He had known she would never tell, but now she had inadvertently caused the truth to come out.  He wouldn’t blame her for this; finding fault wouldn’t erase the tape of the past few hours.  He hadn’t really needed to tell his father about the fence.  The men would have begun a search outside the compound eventually anyway, and he knew his father wouldn’t stop until he had discovered just how she could escape the fence and marsh that held them all in so well.  He also knew that a secret his father uncovered would bring twice the fury as a secret he willingly told.

Justice moved through the marsh with his thoughts on his father, but his awareness on the water.  He needed to find Hannah.  It was the only possible way to reduce his punishment at this point.  And, besides, he loved his cousin dearly.  He was worried about what his father would do to him later.  But, he was much more worried about Hannah.  Finding a safe walkway through the marsh was difficult enough for him, a trained young man with all of his faculties.  He knew one thing about Hannah, however, that his father didn’t.  Blind though she was, she was also extremely savvy and capable.

Justice moved swiftly and methodically for twenty minutes.  He didn’t call out for Hannah.   He knew that if she was out here, he could find her.  He got to Ocean Road and wondered if it was possible that she could have gotten this far.  He crossed the street knowing that Hannah would not have known to listen for cars and the thought made him shudder.   A small park separated the houses on his left from those on his right.  To his right, in the middle of a development of rental cottages, was the old Coast Guard station.   The park was the route he had taken to the ocean on his other trips and the most direct, although he was uncertain just how directly Hannah would have traveled.  The land had changed when he crossed the road and the park was heavy with live-oaks, the Spanish moss draping off of them like it had rained on God’s canvas before the paint was dry.  He got momentarily detained by a copperhead in his path and wondered if Hannah was capable enough to avoid a poisonous snake she couldn’t see or hear.   But his concern about this ended quickly when he saw the back of her dress.  She was standing, the front half of her hidden by a large oak, and she appeared to be playing a hand-clapping game with an imaginary friend.   When Justice got within 20 feet of her, he propped his gun against a sego palm and called her name so she wouldn’t be frightened about someone approaching her.

“Hannah Elizabeth!  It’s Justice.”

“Justice!   I knew you’d come.”

“Hannah, what are you doing?  You’ve got the whole com –”

“This is my new friend, Rose.”

Justice stopped, stunned, speechless.  The first thing that struck him about Rose was the last thing Hannah could possibly have noticed.  She was black.  The second thing that struck him about Rose was that she was as beautiful as her name.  No, more beautiful.  By any name, she would have been as beautiful and perfect as a rose.  The third thing that struck him about Rose was that she carried a copy of Gone With The Wind under her arm.  It struck him as odd because it was the only novel his father had ever read.

“Hi.  I’m Rose.  You must be Justice.  Hannah has told me about you.”  Rose stuck her hand out to shake.

Justice closed his gaping mouth and looked at her hand.  It was slender and graceful.   He reached out slowly and took her hand in his.  Hers was the softest skin he had ever felt.

“Hannah didn’t tell me you were so quiet.”

“I, . . . uh, Hannah, we better go.  Everybody’s looking for you.  We’re both in a heap of trouble.”

“I just wanted to see the rest of the world, Justice.  You’re not mad at me, are ya’?”

“No, I’m not mad.  I don’t blame you a bit.  But, we really gotta’ scoot now.”

“It was nice to meet you, Justice.  I always hoped there would be justice somewhere in the world, and now I’ve found you.” Rose smiled.

Justice smiled quickly, then grabbed Hannah’s hand and led her away as she hollered her goodbyes to Rose.  Justice fought the incredible impulse to turn around.  He felt as if he had never seen beauty until today.

Rose watched the pair until they disappeared across the road and into the marsh, a strange place to be walking she thought.  The boy, Justice, somehow compelled her.  Was that a gun she saw him stoop to pick up?  He was just a boy of 14 or so, and she was 19, a sophomore at Spelman.   Yet, she felt an odd urge to call him back, to be in his presence again.  She felt almost embarrassed at her internal reaction to this boy, and a white boy at that.  Surely, she must have been reading too long in the sun.  Maybe it was her subconscious urging her to put down her book and interact with people, like her mother was always harping.  Whatever it was, it didn’t seem to leave for hours, and over the years she occasionally would think of the boy by the seashore.

© Deborah E. Moore – 2011

This is Installment Eight of the novel Rose and Justice. It includes Chapters II.xi and II.xii. It is 3,503 words long. As installments are posted, links for each will be added under the tab labeled “The Novel” at the top of this page. Enjoy!

II.xi

Rose Jackson sat in the low crook of the live-oak where she did all her best reading.  She was only five and yet was happiest alone with a good book.  Phillip had become concerned with her in the last year.  She had withdrawn.  She was not moody or depressed — she always had her ready smile for him every time he saw her — she had just moved inside herself, somewhere so deep that Phillip couldn’t reach it.  She was a child like no other he had ever known — no, she was a person like no other he had ever known.  He often felt that she was older than him.  She saw the world in a way he thought he could only dream of.  In one way, Phillip felt he was losing his daughter.  In another, he felt he could be closer to her than ever if he listened to her every word as Plato had listened to Socrates.

Rose was reading Keats.  Her five-year-old mind didn’t quite understand all he was trying to say, but something in her spirit was drawn to his rhythms and his words.  Her reading choices were always an interesting mix of Romantic poets and Nancy Drew.  She was as likely to bring Thomas Hardy home from the library as she was the Hardy Boys.  She had outgrown Dr. Seuss by three and now bounced between Charlotte’s Web and The Canterbury Tales with an ease that indicated an intelligence beyond her parents’ ability to recognize it.  Marabelle was half-convinced there had been a switch in the maternity ward.  The only thing she knew about Keats was that his first name was John.  And if you had asked Phillip if he knew Keats, he would probably look pensive, scratch his chin, and say, “Didn’t he play shortstop for the Dodgers?”  But Rose had asked for a library card for her fifth birthday.  Marabelle had been only shocked; Phillip was downright speechless.  He prodded her for other hints — the latest doll, an Easy-Bake oven — but she merely replied that she “would like a library card, please.”  Phillip and Marabelle had purchased a few toys and items of clothing, mostly to appease themselves, but Rose didn’t light up until her father handed her a library card in her own name.

Phillip took her to the library every Saturday morning before their weekly lunch together at a fast-food restaurant.  She would not read her newly checked-out books over lunch.  That would be rude and, even at five, Rose was anything but rude.  But she would take them in the restaurant and stroke the covers like they were made of silk while eating her hamburger.  Phillip knew that she couldn’t wait to get home and climb up in “her” tree with her latest literary acquisition, so he ate his burger quickly and drove her back to the house.  He would often sit in the den and watch her perched in the live-oak, wondering what else she was learning and how much he still didn’t know about her.

Rose concentrated on the page as she always did.  From the time she had learned to read, she had been able to focus completely on the words in front of her without even seeming to be aware of any distractions around her.  She was like a little adult in her ability to still herself — no, she was much better at it than most adults.  She almost seemed able to control what her brain acknowledged, not even processing that which she wished to ignore at the moment, yet allowing those things she needed to be aware of to enter her gray matter.  That was how she was able to read at a level of deep understanding and still hear her mother call her when supper was ready.

But as she sat in the tree on this particular Keats afternoon, she was startled by a sudden lack of concentration.  The words slowly became fuzzy.  At first, she was not even aware that she had drifted away from the poem.  Her eyes steadily raised until she was staring over the book at the Magnolia tree in the far corner of the yard.  She felt something, she couldn’t say what, but she knew that a subtle change had just come over her.  The poetry became unimportant in that instant.  Deep within her a stirring began, a movement in her soul that somehow told her that from this moment her life would be about something different than it had been about before.  She sensed a presence, a feeling that she wasn’t alone.  She had no idea what it all meant, but she just knew something had changed.  She knew that this something was elusive, but she also knew that she had to find what it was even if it took her whole life.

II.xii

Jared Malone sat on the top step of the wooden porch surrounding his cabin.  He stared at the gray Spanish moss that hung from the live oaks surrounding the cabin clearing, but didn’t really see it.  Instead he saw the ocean.  That mental image was the handiest for him if he wanted to avoid what was immediately around him.  If he had been paying conscious attention to the screaming coming from inside his house, he would have walked down the path to the tower almost a quarter mile away, climbed it, and actually seen the ocean.  But he had long ago learned to block out what he didn’t want to be aware of, and so the screams existed only on the dark and hazy fringes of his consciousness.  In his trance of imaginary water, he thought about surprisingly mundane things — checking the fence on the north side of the property, getting with Tom about the night watch schedule, what was needed on the weekly supply trip.  He did not think about his child being born.  Nor did he think about the agony that Melinda was enduring as she attempted to give birth without the benefit of drugs.   Betty Vale, acting as midwife, had given her two large shots of Jack Daniels.  It might as well have been water — at least then she wouldn’t be so damn thirsty.

Jared took a long swig from the half-empty bottle of Jack he held loosely in his right hand.  It was the same bottle the midwife had confiscated moments before for “medicinal purposes.”  The bottle he now held was the closest thing he had to a connection with his wife’s birthing experience.  It was the closest he wanted to get.  Jared held ideas in his mind that had nothing to do with the times in which he lived; they were direct descendents of the ideas held for Malones for at least five generations.  Like the land he owned outright since his father passed away the previous spring, Jared’s thought processes were his birthright, his inheritance, and the legacy he would pass on to his own son.  It was sure to be a boy.  Malones always had boys, and Jared was the manliest of the Malones.  Incorrectly assuming that the gender of his child was directly attributed to his own level of testosterone, Jared didn’t even consider the possibility of a girl.  As he took another swig of bourbon, his trance broke and he heard Melinda clearly for the first time.  He stood slowly and arched his back in a stretch then ambled away from the cabin down the tower path.  In his mind, having babies was as much women’s work as cleaning toilets, and he wanted nothing to do with it.  In fact, he now felt a little odd at having been that close to the process as long as he had.

The path to the tower was famous in the Malone family history.  It had been a deer path centuries before, then used by the Creek tribesmen who used to roam freely in Southern Georgia.  After that, the Spanish had traveled it until James Oglethorpe, the British general central to so much of Georgia’s history, had fought for and won the path and the Island with the help of British regulars and Scottish Highlanders from Darien.  After the Revolutionary War, great plantations sprung up on the island and planters on horseback used the path to travel between Kelvin Grove and New St. Clair.  There had never been any attempt made to drastically alter it.  Jared’s father had put boards across the low spot where marsh water tended to back up, but other than that the only changes to the path were created slowly through use.  This path was the oldest on the property and most well preserved.  Other paths had been carved out over the years and access roads had been cleared and graveled, but the tower path was almost sacred.  Jared would never allow it to be tampered with.

Every time Jared walked the path, at least twice a day, he thought of his father and his grandfather.  It was along this path that the adolescent Jared heard the stories of his family heritage, and it was on this path that he had followed his male ancestors, both living and dead, a million times to fish for mullet and kingfish in the tidal rivers and marshes that were the offspring of the Atlantic.  It was here that he had walked, .22 rifle over his shoulder, in search of the rabbit, squirrel and deer which would feed his family.  The west side of the compound was mostly salt marsh.  Along this part of the path, Jared had spent his life among herons and egrets, competing with them for shrimp and oysters.

His family had escaped the Scottish Clan Wars and come to the new world generations before.  His distant ancestor, a grandfather with about eight greats in front of the title, MacDonald Malone, had been a corporal with the Darien Highland Independent Company, the same Scotsmen who came to the aid of the British and helped drive out the Spanish at the Battle of Bloody Marsh.  MacDonald Malone returned to Darien and raised up good little Scotsmen for several generations.

Jared’s great-great-great grandfather, Marshall Malone, was a gambler of considerable talent.  During a high stakes poker game in Brunswick, he had won 250 acres of Kelvin Grove off an intoxicated James Postell.  The planter was not typically much of a drinker, preferring to collect seashells instead, and considered the rare inebriated gambling episode the greatest shame of his life.  But, he was a gentleman and determined to make good on the bet he could have easily covered with cash.  He promptly deeded to Marshall Malone the 250 most useless acres of his 1600-acre plantation, mostly salt marsh, almost uninhabitable.

With the stubbornness of a good Scotsman, Marshall carved out an existence on what few high spots he could find on the land.   He would be damned before he admitted he really hadn’t won much off the bet.   The great irony of the situation was that the land he had won included the site of the Battle of Bloody Marsh, the same conflict his earlier ancestor had fought in so bravely.  It was also the twist that would set the Malone family on a path of hatred and distrust.

Marshall Malone had been raised with the stories of how his family had owned fertile and abundant land in Scotland that had been stolen from them.  The legacy he received was a love of land second to no other love in his life, not even the half-Creek woman he had married.  Maris was a gentle woman who had the native appreciation of land, an appreciation that could not conceive of the concept of land ownership.  The land was not to be owned.  It was to be used, replenished, cherished, and protected.  Both of them loved the land, but from different ends of a spectrum.  Maris wished to give to it and receive from it.  Marshall wanted to possess it and guard it.  And this he taught to his son, who felt it deeper and taught it to his son, who felt it deeper and taught it to his son.  Jared’s father had just taken full possession of the land after the early and sudden death of Jared’s grandfather when the government condemned and purchased just over 200 acres of the Malone family property for an historical battle site park and protected wetland reserve.  They had been paid well, but no amount of money could ease the pain and anger that began to blossom like a cancer in the Malone family tree.

With the money from the federal government, Jared’s father built a twelve-foot wall around the remaining 48 acres in the areas where the marsh didn’t make it impossible.   And started buying guns.   Jared was the fifth generation of Malone men to occupy the 48 acres of loblolly pines, saw palmetto, live oaks, and salt marsh, land not really good for anything except owning.  Once a contractor had approached Jared about selling, but Jared had simply escorted the overdressed man off his property, ready to do so at the point of a gun if necessary.

By the time Jared was eighteen, he had inherited a burning hatred of the government and just about everyone and everything that did not conform to his view of the way the world should be.  He began to accumulate a small group of friends that more closely resembled a band of followers.  As each one joined Jared’s circle, a cabin was built on the property.  Melinda and the other wives came from the same pool of like-minded people and accepted completely the men’s total dominion over their lives, thoughts, and actions.  That was the only way it could have worked.

When Jared was 24, his father died the same kind of unexpected early death of his father before him.  By the time Jared turned 25, there were 10 people living on his compound.  Bob Vale and his wife, Betty, lived in the cabin closest to Jared’s.  In a clearing 200 yards away were two more cabins where the others lived — Jared’s brother, Aaron, and his wife, Mary; and Clete Camden, his wife, Cherise, and their four-year-old son, Clete, Jr..  Several storage buildings completed the small village, including what could only accurately be called an armory, where guns and ammunition were kept, inventoried, and regularly added to.

The men took turns hunting game, fishing the marshes and seining for shrimp, digging wells, maintaining the buildings, and standing guard against some imagined enemy.  The women sewed, cooked, cleaned, chopped wood, bore children, and attended to every personal need of the men.  They grew everything they ate, kept 4 – 5 cows at any given time for milk and meat, raised pigs and chickens, and managed to keep a six-month supply of meat in the smokehouse.  They lived in a prison of time, not progressing with the rest of the world and, in fact, completely resistant to anything that resembled a break with Malone tradition.

Once or twice a month, Jared and the other men would go into Brunswick and stock up on essentials they couldn’t grow — flour, sugar, corn meal.  They could have gotten everything they needed on the island, but Jared was paranoid about island residents knowing anything about him or his compound.  He insisted on going to Brunswick and feeling the comparative anonymity brought on by crossing the Frederica River.  The money for these few supplies always came from Jared’s pocket.  He never had a lot on him, but always enough, and no one questioned where this seemingly endless supply came from.    When each new member joined Jared’s little group, they added whatever money they had to the pot.   Beyond the supplies, the only expenditures were for guns, ammunition, and occasionally a johnboat or four-wheeler.  Jared was the undisputed leader and in control of all assets and decisions.  By 27, as he waited for his first child to be born, Jared was the master of a small empire of unknown worth.

He reached the end of the path and climbed the wooden ladder to the platform 25 feet in the air.  His brother, Aaron, was standing watch.  Aaron had his back to the ladder, automatic rifle over his shoulder and a pistol in his holster, as Jared climbed as silently as a cat onto the platform.  He came up right behind Aaron, stood almost breathing on his neck for a long moment, then grabbed Aaron’s left arm and wrenched it behind his back while reaching around to pin his right arm to his chest, all in about a half second.

“What the fuck?”  Aaron struggled, then turned as Jared released his grip.  “Goddamn it, Jared.  You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m kinda’ worried about you, little brother, lettin’ somebody sneak up on you like that.  It may not always be your brother doin’ the sneakin’.  You’d do well to remember that.”

Aaron rubbed his arm and nodded his agreement.  Jared was rarely disputed.  He had the natural air of command that all leaders possess, but his 6’5” frame and 240 pounds didn’t hurt either.

“I didn’t mean to cuss you, Jared.”  Aaron always seemed to be apologizing for what Jared did to him.

“Forget it.  What are you seein’ out there today?”  Jared grabbed the binoculars and focused on the ocean.  The tower sat on the extreme east side of the property.  You would have had to cross a salt marsh, Ocean Road, and a small residential area before reaching East Beach and the Atlantic, but from the tower there was a clear view of the ocean.

“Not much.  Coast Guard cruiser’s been by three times.  Wonder what they’re up to?”

“Probably lookin’ for people exercisin’ their constitutional rights so they can arrest them.”  Jared was not making a joke.  He said this with the seriousness of conviction.

Aaron was quiet while Jared scanned the water and then broke the silence with the news he had heard in town.  “There was a girl in Brunswick got raped by a nigger last night.”

Jared slowly put down the binoculars and stared at the sea with a gaze of steel.  It was his firm belief that the complete degradation of the south had begun when the Emancipation Proclamation went into effect.  The government was his prime target mostly because it seemed so willing to aid and abet, in his mind, the rise of inferior races, like the Blacks and the Jews.  Whether he heard of a black person rising in society or confirming what he was convinced was their true character, his blood would boil with five generations of anger.  “Where’d you hear this?”

“I saw Jack McCafferty at the post office when I went to get the mail this mornin’.  He told me about it.”

“They know which nigger it was?”

“Nah.  The girl just said he was black.  You know they all fucking look the same.  Especially at night.”

“Goddamn it!  This whole damn country is being run over by a bunch of mud people who don’t even belong here.  This is our land, god damn it, and I’ll be damned if I let them rape our women, take our land, and then live off our tax money.”  Jared paused to breathe heavily in anger for a moment then spoke again.  He didn’t normally get involved in anything that took place outside the compound, but prided his own willingness to engage in vigilante justice when he felt it was required.   “You get a message to Jim McCafferty.  You tell him to let us know anything he knows about this and we’ll take care of it.”

“I’ll do it today, Jared.”

Jared turned to leave.  As he stepped on the first rung of the ladder, Aaron asked, as an afterthought, “How’s everything going with Melinda and the baby?”

“She was havin’ him when I came here.  I guess I’ll head back and see if she’s done.”

By the time Jared returned to the cabin, such a rage had stirred in him that at first he almost didn’t notice the way the screams from the cabin had changed.  Instead of Melinda’s clawing, desperate yelps, there was a weak and piercing cry of arrival.  Jared entered the cabin and walked into the back room without knocking and with the same assumption with which he entered any space.  The midwife was cleaning up blood and mucus.  Melinda sat up on the bed trying to get her newborn to nurse for the first time.  She looked like she had been beaten.

Jared walked to the edge of the bed and peered over into the bundle in Melinda’s arms.  “Boy?”

Melinda smiled.  “It’s a boy.  This is your son, Jared.”  She almost said the name she had picked out, Marshall Jared Malone, but something stopped her.

Jared nodded, then turned and walked away.  At the door, he turned back just long enough to say, “His name is Justice.”

© Deborah E. Moore – 2011