Tidsby by Mista Midas

CHAPTER 1

       Ms. Antoinette had the old cast-iron oven ablaze; hungry flames ravenously devouring the two pieces of cherry-wood logs laying defenseless as the fire, not only chewed like cancer but also produced a pleasant-flavored heat that worth us to the marrow.
       All of us were now dry and warm. Mr. Prescott was sitting comfortably in his winged chair, sipping hot coffee. Ms. Antoinette; at the helm of the kitchen, firing off orders like a pirate-ship caption, Annabelle; darting about, mopping and making sure everyone had either coffee or hot tea in their mugs, and my grandfather; sitting on a state—one Ms. Antoinette had ordered me to drag from the living room and placed in the kitchen—flanked by his two daughters, who sat quietly, sipping mint-leaf tea with happiness I've never seen before or know existed radiating from their face. 
       I've heard so many tales of the man; epic tales of a towering giant the biggest man to ever walk the face of the earth; mighty like Nimrod the son of Cush. Single-handedly slaying over fifty men—white and black—all of who were around with a mixture of the following: pistols, rifles, swords, machete, knives, whips, and even bloodhounds.
       As a boy, I would strut confidently with my chest proudly poking out when I was around the other boys because I was rumored to be the grandson of a legend. Even though I had never seen him, the stories of his bravery—which made him a man of renown—had carved images of what I believed—based on a mixture of what I had heard, and my images of what I believed—based on a mixture of what I had heard, and my imagination—this man would look like. In my mind's eye, he was a great king, a mighty warlord, wielding a pair of massive brand swords made of the, purest gold found on earth a pair of dagger—one made from the filed tooth of a hippopotamus, the other from the carved horn of a monstrous rhinoceros, both of which he had killed barehanded—strapped to his waist. Every article of clothing he wore was made from the hide of something he had killed. He was a creature perfected by God himself.
       Now, as I prep periodically at him, I realized that physically, he did not measure up to what I had believed him to be, but standing here, only a couple of feet away, basking in his presence, though me—a bog man physically—a lifelong lesson:  Never to judge a man by his appearance.
       We all stole subtle glances, starting every chance we get at his awe-inspired presence. Like a seasoned magician, his presence held everyone captive in a hypnotic lure. He had been lost in legends, kept alive in stories that were slowly fading to folk lures. Like the wandering winds, no one knows where he had gone, or from whence he had come. He had been gone for decades, leaving a bloody carnage in his wake. The story was that he had fled Mr. Roberts plantation after killing four: three whites, including Mr. Roberts and one black; a zealous slave who must have thought that if he could subdue the rebellious warrior, master would promote him to be the head nigga in charge.
       Overwhelmed by his adversaries, he fled, taking his two young daughters, and leaving the body of his wife; vowing to live today to fight tomorrow.
       After leaving his daughters in the care of Mr. Prescott, he had vanished into the night, and faded into the legends; becoming tales told by a drunken slave, sipping moonshine around warm fires; bedtime stories told to children with adventurous spirits; and the desires of women both black and white who would whisper when their husbands were not around, wishing their men could be like they are the stories spoke of; a man from which the comfort, protection, and emotional stability all women yarns for, flow like a rebellious river.
       For a moment I gazed at him without him noticing. I realized that he looked tired; mentally and physically as if the tears had beaten him mercilessly. I stared, unable to control myself.  As if he felt my eyes buzzing around him like an annoying mosquito, he glanced up at me. I quickly glanced away. Every now-and-then he would challenge my curious gaze with a firm; penetrative stare.  I would quickly divert my eyes.
       I tried to estimate his age, doing some mental evaluation. If my mother was thirteen when he had left her and my aunt with Mr. Prescott, seventeen when I was born, and I'm nineteen now, that means he had been gone twenty-three years. Add to that, let's say; his age to be around thirty-three when he had left, that would make him about fifty-six years old. But physically this man did not look fifty-six.  However, his dark, almond-shaped eyes revealed a man who seemed to have lived hundreds of long, hard years.
       It suddenly dawned that I had been hearing his voice as he spoke to Mr. Prescott, but I was so caught up in his hypnotic presence, I couldn't recall a word he had said. I absently shook my head slowly, trying to clear my mind and focus on what was going on around me.
       ". . . I search, but I couldn't find it, Vincent. . ." my grandmother said frustrated. He shook his head angrily. "I have to go back—"  
       "Solomon," my grandfather corrected him."
       "Yes, Sorry. I meant Solomon," Mr. Prescott continued. "Tomorrow when the storm blows over, I'll accompany you, and we can search for the place where you had buried her."
       "Thank you, Vincent."
       Mr. Prescott smiled.
       My grandfather—I mean Tidsby, Solomon, or whatever his name was—gazed from one daughter to the other. He nodded proudly, approving what the two young girls he had left decades ago had grown to be. He slowly reached for their hands; holding one daughter’s with his right hand, and the other with his left.
       "I promised you two that I would return one day," he said softly, so soft, it was a borderline whisper. "I'm sorry it took me so long to return, my angels."
       "I missed you so much, papa . . ." my aunt tremor and began to cry softly. 
       "After a few months had past and you didn't come back, I thought you were dead," my mother, the older of the two, added.
       "I thought the same, Solomon," Mr. Prescott concurred. "For years I searched for any news of you but heard nothing. About fifteen years after you had left, I too gave up hope of ever seeing you again."
       "Sorry it took so long," my grandfather apologized. "But I had to outrun, and outlive my pursuers. Every time I thought this nightmare was over, I would awake to see that it wasn't. My past was like the rising sun, continually chasing the Western Horizon;  It was a guaranteed haunting daily. For years I lived the life of a paranoiac wandering like a vagabond, sleeping with one eye open; perpetually looking over my shoulder, trusting no one; afraid that at any moment someone will tell, 'look, it's him!' "
       My grandfather took a deep breath. He glanced over at me, and to my surprise, he flashed me a smile. I tried to return a smile, but I was too tired, instead, I yawned.
       I was too exhausted to stand any longer.  I leaned against the wall and slumped to the floor.  I forced myself to stay awake as my grandfather spoke.
       ". . . Not having a choice, I kept moving; stopping only when it was deemed necessary. After years of wondering; outrunning and outliving those who seek my life, I grew tired. I wanted to fulfill my promise to my daughters before it was too late, so I stopped running, turned around and headed back.  I would fight my shadows face-forward. . . ."