Orenda Eternal Vendetta Prologue 3 December, 1860

-December, 1860

Walter Schoenbrunn kicked his booted heels into the side of his prize Tennessee Walker, urging it into the thick underbrush bordering the immensity of Holly Shelter Swamp. The horse nickered in irritation, but moved ahead. Walter wanted to catch the run-away slave before he could get far into the watery morass.

Schoenbrunn’s plantation had not fared well the past two seasons, and now, with talk of war with the North buzzing everywhere, he could ill afford to lose the sixteen hundred dollars he had invested in the slave. He did not understand the slave's desire to escape. Walter had a reputation for treating his slaves extremely well. Some said, too well.

He had gotten the money to purchase Maple Hill Plantation ten years ago by selling off his family's holdings in southern Ohio, in and around the German Utopian commune of Zoar village. His grandfather had been one of the founders of the idealistic community, but Walter had not held the philosophy of his forefathers. Shortly after his father's death, Walter sold to outsiders, and left the state. He had found what he was looking for in the southeastern corner of North Carolina. It was good tobacco land, running for miles along the northern edge of Holly Shelter swamp, and Walter had made it profitable. The political upheavals and bad weather of the past two seasons, however, had pushed him deeply into debt, and if things didn't improve, he would have to sell the plantation. Walter did not intend to give it up easily.

Schoenbrunn did not particularly like the concept of slavery, but he had little choice. Although new machinery was quickly making the keeping of slaves too costly, he simply could not, as yet, afford the equipment necessary to replace them. He intended to phase them out slowly as he was able to acquire the new equipment, but for the present, he desperately needed their labor.

Walter had been tracking the run-away since dawn. The black was certainly no woodsman, for the tracks had been childishly simple to follow. Now, with the sun lowering in the West, he had followed the set of bare-footed prints to the edge of the swamp. Walter figured that the black would not enter the wet lands unless he absolutely had to; would try instead to stay to the underbrush surrounding the swamp in hopes of circumnavigating the snake infested morass.

Ahead, screened by dense growth, Walter saw something large moving, and edged his horse a bit closer.

"Toby!" He called. "Toby, come on out of there now. Let's go home." His voice held the hard edge of one used to command, yet the words he used were soft, sympathetic to the black who must be exhausted. It was more the call of a father to an errant son than a master to a slave.

The movement in the underbrush ceased, and Walter imagined the terrified black, eyes round and white with fear, lying prone in the mud.

"Toby, come out now, and I'll not whip you for running off." Walter called again, and moved the horse closer to the sighting. The big gelding seemed unwilling to approach the thick underbrush, but Walter firmly urged him on.

"Toby, this is your last warning! Come out now or I'll have to come in and haul you out!" Walter let a little of the anger he was feeling show in his voice.

The horse shied, and tried to turn away from the brambles. Walter lifted his crop, and smacked the horse smartly on the rump. Instead of settling down, however, the horse became more nervous, and began to prance, lifting its forelegs high, and shaking its head. The long hair of its mane swished across Walter’s face. Disgustedly, he dismounted, and looped the reins lightly around the upper branches of a briar bush.

"Toby, I'm coming in to get you. If you don't want to get hurt, you best come out right now!" Walter checked the cylinder of his revolver, making certain that it was fully loaded. He did not really fear the black, for attacks by blacks on their white masters were rare. They were not, however, unknown, and Walter was not a man to take unnecessary chances. Pushing the tails of his long coat back, he replaced the sidearm in its holster.

Schoenbrunn did not relish wading into the thorny wall of brambles, and he grew angrier when it became apparent that the black was not going to come out peacefully. He pulled his sidearm from the holster and fired a shot into the air, in hopes of frightening the slave into surrendering. The loud report was answered by silence. Walter resignedly holstered the weapon again, and angrily forced his way into the brambles.

The shadows cast by tall Cypress trees were lengthening, and the frogs and insects of the swamp had begun their cacophonous evening song as Walter doggedly pushed through the thicket. Perhaps if he had not gotten so angry, he would have paid more attention to the antics of his normally well behaved horse, which he had sent all the way to Tennessee for. Hearing the horse neighing loudly, Walter looked back over his shoulder in time to see the horse jerk free of the bush to which it was tied. The big gelding reared as if in panic, and galloped off in the direction of the main house, eight miles to the north.

"Damn you, Toby! You're going to pay for that!" Walter shouted, irate at the prospect of having to walk back to the plantation. A look of grim determination set upon his mouth, and he bent low, keeping his right arm extended in front of him to keep brambles from snapping into his face. He thought he saw Toby crawling deeper into the swamp. He raised and cocked the pistol.

"Stop right there, Toby, or I swear I'll shoot you dead!" He yelled.

The movement in the undergrowth ceased, and Walter began cautiously sidling toward the area. Just beyond where the movement had occurred, stood an immense Cypress, its trunk submerged in the watery muck. When Walter reached the area, the black was not in sight. He guessed that the slave had edged around to the opposite side of the large tree, and was cringing there.

"I'm going to give you five seconds, Toby, then I'm going to step around this tree and blow your black heart all over this swamp," Walter threatened. He was not sure if he meant the threat or not; he had never killed anyone before, but his anger was steadily mounting.

After a few second's pause, there were three distinct splashing sounds from the other side of the Cypress. Walter readied himself for the appearance of the black man. Nothing appeared, and it soon occurred to Walter that Toby could be putting distance between them, using the large tree trunk for cover.

Cursing loudly, Walter stepped into the water, and lurched through the sucking muck around the base of the tree. His eyes were searching beyond the tree, concentrating for a glimpse of the fleeing black. Too late, he saw the hand slashing down at his outstretched arm. The gun disappeared into the muddy water, making the same ‘plopping' sound that a turtle or a frog makes when jumping off a log.

Before Walter could react, his head was slammed violently against the rough bark of the Cypress. Dizzily, he fell sideways into the water, turning onto his back as he fell. Muddy water washing over his face revived him, and he thrashed upward, thrusting his face above the surface.

"Tob..." His voice trailed off, for it was not the slave he had been tracking. The creature leaping onto Walter’s chest was directly out of one of his grandfather's horror stories, or hell. Walter wasn't sure which. Exactly what this thing was, he did not know, for it seemed an amalgamation. It had claws and fur, fingers and skin.

The arm, which was furred and ended in a formidable set of claws, pinned Walter's right shoulder under the water, while the fingers of the other arm closed over his left shoulder. The beast, now straddling Walter’s chest, began forcing his upper torso under the slimy, shallow water. Walter strained upward with his neck, extending it forward to the limit. It was no use. Slowly, inexorably, his face was forced beneath the murky liquid. He kicked and thrashed, but could not dislodge the beast.

Soon, his lungs could hold out no longer, and expelled the air trapped in them in great, burbling bubbles. Walter could see them roiling the surface just above his bulging eyes. Then, his conscious mind screaming a warning, the unreasoning part of his brain that controlled his breathing forced open his mouth, and he began greedily sucking water into his lungs.

Walter knew that he was going to die, and his fleeing mind cursed the fates that had deprived him of the future he had planned. Most of all he regretted that he had not found time to marry and father an heir; for he was the last Schoenbrunn alive.

He screamed out his frustration, but the muddy water passing over his larynx produced no sound at all. He died silently. The algae and moss of the swamp settled into his nostrils and gaping mouth, quickly moving to take advantage of this new food source.