The Railroad's Guardian
The Myths of Roscoe Kelly | Chapter IV - The Severing Blade | Story 6
CURATOR’S NOTE:
The next Myth is pieced together from one of Elias Arceneaux’s recovered journal entries, dated late 1858. It describes the immediate aftermath of The Drowning of Dissent:
When I caught up with the Wyrdling, Thorne and Wilde were already long gone. Roscoe was just sitting there, holding the body of Penhaligon as if his tears might somehow bring the man back to life.
I don’t know. Maybe the night just has my nerves raw and my mind racing, but I swear I could feel just a little bit of what that spirit carries. The heartbreak was pure agony.
‘Come on, son,’ I said to him. He felt frail as I helped him up. ‘Let’s get you home. We still got work to do. We’ll make sure his death was not in vain.’ (Arcaneaux, 1858).
The panther’s pads thrummed against the soggy soil as she raced toward the shouts. “Elara . . . have to get . . . the one who holds the lantern . . . protect . . .” She could barely hear Roscoe’s voice in her head over the screaming electric buzz of the swamp.
She focused her spiritual energy and fired a sharp mental image to explain her detour: A family of escaped slaves, cornered. Hounds braying. Gruff voices promising atrocity. “This is where she will be. This is where I’ll find her,” she projected, hoping the signal would carry through the hum.
Roscoe’s fingers scraped the guitar strings as Lani’s reply struggled across their psychic bond. His magic was still weak from the spiritual wound, but that could not explain why his link with Lani crawled with static like a swarm of insects had infested the line. The buzz felt external.
The slavers’ shouts came through clearly. “You! Over there! When they flush! Grab the woman! The boss wants her for his collection.” A chill ran through Roscoe’s mortal body as he resisted the retch of nausea. He could not decipher Lani’s words over the roar of cruelty, but he knew this is where Elara will be.
“Find her. Protect her. Protect them,” he cast into the void, hoping his message would make it through but knowing Lani wouldn’t need the instruction.
Lani calmed her racing heart and softened her breath as her desperate race became a discreet stalk. She had flanked the slavers at the edge of the glade. The family huddled, haggard, their trembling bodies clutching to one another. They were waiting for the worst. Mama Elara stood on the stump of a fallen oak tree, her right hand holding high a bronze lantern, lighting the climbing mists with a warm and comforting orange glow.
The slavers stopped abruptly at the edge of the light.
The Captain stepped gingerly forward. First his left foot. Then his right. He took two more steps and smirked at Elara. “Myths and superstitions. Myths and superstitions. You ain’t got no magic. Just another nig-“
“You watch your tongue, Peter Wells. I don’t think your momma would approve of such language.” Elara squinted in thought, still holding her left hand forward, pinching the air with her fingers. “Actually, I knew your momma. She probably would have.” She released her fingers with a flourish. Peter Wells retreated back to the shadows, gasping for breath.
Shouts erupted from the darkness. “Witch!” “Hellspawn!” “Damned woman!”
Wells snarled. “Loose the dogs!”
Elara smiled into the trees and sang, “Baby, let the games begin.” It wasn’t a request; it was permission.
>SYSTEM VERIFICATION RUNNING – EXTERNAL OBSERVATION DETECTED – COMMUNICATION SIGNAL INITIALIZING – COMMUNICATION OPEN:
Aren’t you quite the voyeur. Sitting on the sidelines, always watching, never doing. Never accomplishing. What now. Will you play your guitar. Try to soothe hurt feelings by changing nothing. You are so inefficient.
>COMMUNICATION CLOSED<
Lani charged from the tree line, an orange blur through the blue mist. She hit the lead dog with a fury that drove the air from its chest as they rolled across the swamp floor, both tumbling from the impact. Lani landed on her feet, a furious roar erupting from her throat. Do not make me, brother . . . I will kill to defend. The lead dog sank his head and tail. The pack retreated into the mists.
“Leave them!” Wells shouted. “Shoot the cat!”
The men’s screams filled the air, followed by a series of quick splashes. The red-hot metal of the guns boiled the damp swamp floor. Elara, her hazel eyes burning gold in the glow of her lantern, her left hand dancing in the air, smiled. “No sir. That cat’s under Mama’s protection, now.”
The men’s courage broke. They followed the dogs. Wells’s cries were the last to fade into the symphony of the swamp. “Wait! You cowards! Come back! Thorne will have our heads. . . .”
Mama opened her arms to the family, bathing them in the full glow of her light. “Shhh, children. You’re safe for now. Just follow the light. Mama’s got you.”
Roscoe tried again to find Lani in the ether. The connection had been lost when that strange voice invaded his mind. He reached out again. The Hum was overpowering.
REFERENCES:
Arcaneaux, Elias. Personal Journal Entry (1858).
**This is a RoscoeKelly.com narrative blending myth, history & fictional sources. Learn more about our creative process here on the about tab or at RoscoeKelly.com.