Blue Dreamer: Paradigm Shift

Epilogue

About The Author

Farren B. Ifield was born in Sydney, Australia, and spent most of his childhood living on a horse stud in Queensland by Mount Walker, an extinct volcano, which his childhood imaginings decided was the petrified stump of a giant felled tree and that the petrified logs found far and wide were in fact fallen branches long since transformed into colorful stone. Despite challenging circumstances, his imagination rarely stood still and, having access to thousands of open acres, he enjoyed the exploration of nature, a diverse array of animal friends and writing poetry and short stories about all his adventures.

As with drawing, sculpting, photography, and cinematography, creative writing has always been of great interest and after much wandering, he is now living in Sydney again, for a time anyhow, following as many creative aspirations as possible. With all his heart, he hopes that you enjoy his first published story as much as he enjoyed writing it.

About the Book

Throughout childhood, in a realm built with slavery, upper-class privileges felt more like shackles of hypocrisy to Madeleine. With a special talent for ostracizing herself from social circles for speaking out publicly against injustice, most of her days were spent alone, writing controversial articles for brave journals and, together with being unmarried in her twenties in such expectant times, the future sought to leave her feeling misunderstood, alone, and powerless to encourage change. That is, until the day she happened upon a slave in a cage and did something desperate which would lead to a future she could never have imagined, not in the wildest of her ominous dreams.

Dedication

For Abigail and Monte, without whom…

Copyright Information

Copyright © Farren B. Ifield (2019)

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, write to the publisher.

Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.

Ordering Information:

Quantity sales: special discounts are available on quantity purchases by corporations, associations, and others. For details, contact the publisher at the address below.

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication data

Farren B. Ifield

Blue Dreamer: Paradigm Shift

ISBN 9781643781310 (Paperback)

ISBN 9781643781327 (Hardback)

ISBN 9781643781334 (Kindle e-book)

ISBN 9781645366973 (ePub e-book)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019935770

The main category of the book — Fiction / Action & Adventure

www.austinmacauley.com/us

First Published (2019)

Austin Macauley Publishers LLC

40 Wall Street, 28th Floor

New York, NY 10005

USA

mail-usa@austinmacauley.com

+1 (646) 5125767

Acknowledgement

Very special thanks to Austin Macauley Publishers, to all your inspirational, supportive, and patient staff who made the publishing of this book a wonderful experience. Throughout this journey, I’ve been surprised at every turn by how great you all are to work with, so kind and courteous, I’ve been blessed for certain. Most importantly, thank you for this opportunity.

To Heidi M.M., for the rarest of truth and integrity, thank you. Never will it be forgotten.

To Frank, always the entertainer, thank you for the laughter in times of great challenge, for reminding me of my true nature.

To dear Dee, always in my heart. Dreaming of the earliest of days, I dreamt they instead found Emerald Beach again…

Sharon, like your mother, Jan, you become a light in anyone’s life, as she was and you are in mine. Thank you kindred spirit for your support.

Lastly, a very special thank you to you, the one holding this book now, taking the time to read it. You may not know me but I write for you and I hope: it kept you good company on the train; succeeded in its hope to entertain; made you late, somehow, again and again; or distracted you from lunch now and then; I hope it got sandy with you at the beach; drew upon hope when hope felt out of reach; complimented relentless days of rain; threw potential times of boredom away; I hope it encourages writers to write; brings laughter for those on a day they cry; brings tears for all those blissfully denied; and a sigh at The End when it arrives; I hope it grows old long before its time; full of scuffs and scars, like your heart and mine.

Chapter One

An Innocent, Deadly Quest

There are those who are not satisfied with simply lying down after witnessing first-hand such unbridled horror inflicted upon the ones they love, on all their people, on all they know, and if they were not warriors before this, then the insatiable want for restitution will forever make them so. (Excerpt: The Guardians of The Falls – Julian Bartholomew Winters.)

***

Madeleine quickened her pace and stepped off the cobblestones just as the slave wagon passed. She had miscalculated its speed and the rigid heels of her long boots, together with a dress most unsuitable for rapid movement, almost brought her down on the slippery street, still rain-soaked from a midnight downpour. Her boots scraped heavily as she regained balance yet steely hoof beats easily drowned out the noise so none of the townsfolk seemed to notice her near-catastrophe in the haste of their morning. No harm done. While imagining what terrible state her white floral dress might be in if she had fallen, she caught her breath and flicked a handful of mischievous long, red locks back over her shoulder.

The wagon rolled past, filled to the brim with innumerable faces wedged between long steel bars. Dark skin contrasted against thick, grey dust and their blood-soaked knuckles gripped anything to counteract the bone-rattling ride born of solid timber wheels. Vacant eyes, hollow hearts and tear trails on filthy cheeks dominated this vision for Madeleine. Looking down along the meticulously stitched pleats of her pristine dress, she thought again about her near fall and felt a sudden wave of shame and foolishness.

A raised voice snapped her thoughts away from self-deprecation. Scratching, it was, and all too familiar. It echoed in from down the street, from a produce store, Madeleine’s destination. Annabel, daughter to the local farming tycoon Victor Brighten, stood outside the store with two of her family’s slaves at her side; twin girls, Akachi and Jojo, laboring under boxes of material. Madeleine had seen them many times over the years and guessed their age to be near Annabel’s though their dispositions were not at all the same. They stood meekly with downturned eyes as Annabel, with an authority and viciousness misrepresenting her seventeen years, cussed at Kevin O’Brien, the storeowner, who spoke to her with reserved defiance.

You know the rules, Miss Brighten, he reminded her, tentatively. No blacks in the store. I made an exception this time because…well, you were scaring customers away, quite frankly, with your rantin’ and ravin’ early on, but there ain’t no next time, ya hear?

Annabel’s eyes narrowed. Her crystal blue stare sliced through the remnants of Kevin’s resolve before she spoke again. The grip on her walking stick tightened and the thin, dark steel bands along its length creaked under her leather gloves. Somehow, her black jodhpurs, white long-sleeved shirt and closely fitted black jacket with bright silver buttons gave a kind of fierceness to her presence, yet in contrast, her white-blonde ponytail made of gathered braids gave a sharpness and an exactness to her every movement. All knew her to be cold, calculating and relentless. Rarely did anyone confront her, with the added fear of her father’s notoriety and power, and if they ever dared, they usually lived to regret their decision to oppose her.

Madeleine endured to be the exception. She felt she had nothing to lose really and spoke openly in opposition to the enslavement of all people in the lands surrounding Black Sand Valley and Mount Illusion. Although privileged herself, being of the upper middle-class, empathy had always filled her blood and privileges felt more like shackles of hypocrisy, weighing down her potential to truly feel good and joyful about her existence. This imbalance left her somewhere in the middle, where she must exist amongst those who accept the makeup of society while she remained opposed to it; opposed to the very core of her being. Most of her days were spent frustrated; that nobody listened nor cared, so long as they felt safe themselves. As a consequence, her history is filled with many heated conversations with Annabel and her father in the streets of Black Sand Valley, and with many other farmers and slave traders alike. Although all of her efforts seemed to bring little more than despair, and further ostracism for herself, she still spoke out, for truth would allow her nothing more.

Ranting and raving, you say, Annabel repeated, with an eerie calmness. Her head tilted slightly and she paused just long enough for her glare to insinuate that Kevin had just crossed the line and he swallowed most vividly. She continued then, each word biting, increasing in volume, and too rapid for the man to add a single word of his own. How are the dressmakers supposed to choose the right materials to use from shelves and shelves of it if they can’t go into the store and look at it for themselves? She threw her arms in the air. I don’t know how many times I’ve said this already. I guess you’d prefer it if my family and everyone we know took our business elsewhere rather than for you to use simple logic and to accommodate regular customers. Your rules are idiotic. No slaves in the store, why? She nudged Jojo. They may be stupid, like this one here, but they’re not diseased and they’re not about to steal anything while they’re standing right next to their master. Goodbye.

Now wait, Miss Brighten, Kevin stuttered. There’s no need to –

Too late. Annabel was resigned. You’ve already wasted too much of my time today. I’m done talking to you.

As Madeleine approached the store, Annabel nudged Akachi and Jojo toward the stairs and Jojo nearly dropped a box on the way down. Be careful, you idiot! Annabel snapped at her. If you drop that, I’ll make you eat it. A faint grin appeared on Akachi’s face and she didn’t hide it well enough. The fullness of her lips gave it away easily and for just one moment, her large, dark brown eyes held a splash of joy.

Was that funny, was it? Annabel threatened, raising her stick just enough for Akachi’s imagination to work overtime and Akachi cowered. A taste of my stick might wipe that grin off your face. Move it!

That’s so unfair, Madeleine said in passing, bravely.

Annabel halted and turned to scowl at her. What did you say?

Madeleine stopped and raised a hand to gesture toward Jojo, who flinched and pulled away. Why are you frightened? I’m not going to… she failed to explain herself.

Annabel scoffed, What can I say? They’re well trained.

This upset Madeleine greatly; she was lost for words for some time. That’s…horrible, is all she could manage at first. You pushed her and then accused her of being clumsy. Very politely, she insinuated cruel trickery.

Minding other people’s business as usual, Madeleine? It’s not my fault she can’t walk and carry something at the same time, Annabel ridiculed, enjoying her own idea of humor. Why don’t you go polish your fingernails or something and stop bothering hard working, law-abiding citizens?

Law abiding? You – Madeleine was quickly silenced by the appearance of Victor Brighton. His sudden presence startled her but she did well to hide it.

Morning, Madeleine, Victor said, tipping his dark green Tyrolean hat politely and his steel blue eyes escaped Madeleine’s view momentarily. A crow’s wing feather, wedged behind the thin rope band in his hat, stole her attention. It fluttered slightly against the cool, early spring breeze and glinted blue-black in the light. As Victor lifted his head again, his eyes narrowed slightly and met with Madeleine’s judgmental gaze.

Victor, Madeleine replied, raising her chin a little.

Are you two going at it tooth and nail again? Surprise, surprise, Victor said with indifference. You should both be getting paid for entertaining the locals.

Not funny and we’re done talking. Annabel’s voice held the same disdain.

Good. We need to get going. Goodbye, Madeleine. Victor tipped his hat again and, as he turned, the tail of his long dry-coat flipped up and spun with him, almost echoing his movement. His walking stick, which he didn’t seem to need for walking, swung loosely in his hand, in rhythm with his stride. It was made of a dark teak and had long, thin steel bands along its length, much like the bands on Annabel’s walking stick. The only differences were that Victor’s was straight, narrower and also curved over at the top into a handle. It was the first time Madeleine had noticed that, although they had many differences, both were too similar in design not to have been made by the same person and for a fleeting moment she wondered at their origin.

Off to buy some more humans? daringly, she called after them.

Victor paused with a slight smile and turned his head. Yes, actually. We have at least a dozen more crops to seed and a factory in need of more workers now that spring is here.

Slaves, you mean, Madeleine corrected.

If you must, Victor said cuttingly, adding, you know Madeleine, I’ve seen your mother buying from Harry’s, who buys his vegetables, and many other products, from us.

"I didn’t know that…and I didn’t ask you to use slaves," she demanded.

Annabel jumped at the chance to add something. But you do, every time you take a mouthful, she said succinctly. Let’s go. Move it, you two, she grumbled, nudging Jojo and Akachi forward again. They both sneaked a thin smile toward Madeleine as they hurried forward.

Due to the brick wall of hypocrisy they laid before her, Madeleine could do little more than to watch them walk away. There was no time to return the sisters’ smiles, let alone time and opportunity to talk to them. She could only watch their long un-brushed hair sway away, with strands made messier by faded dresses and bare feet.

A familiar heat rose from within, a heat so frustrating that Madeleine dared not open her mouth for the scream that may have escaped unwittingly and besides, a wave of despair usually drowned out anger derived from such altercations very quickly anyhow.

Turning to the store, she noticed all eyes suddenly turn away as she faced them, then scatter like parasitical drama-mongers. Kevin said good morning but she could only muster a fake, thin smile before taking up a loaf of bread and dropping some gold coins into his hand.

On her way back up the hill toward home, Madeleine’s mind was not fixed on a single thought but awash rather, with excerpts of past conversations with all kinds of personalities regarding the devastation of the enslaved people. As it often happened when alone again, she suddenly became overwhelmed by what always seemed to be a pointless undertaking. Her heart emptied and she floated on, as people and carts passed her by, wishing that her dreams could turn to realities and then feeling childish for having such simplistic thoughts.

All the surrounding noise added a shovel-load of anguish to Madeleine’s mix of emotions. Chains and shackles clinked and rattled their way down the hill. Heavy footsteps under yokes met with stunning whip cracks, abusive words and angry tones. Madeleine cringed and hurried to find a path through the deprivation. As usual, she left the main road and walked straight up along the edge of the valley, to the top of the hill, where she paused to note the grayness of the day. Sunshine would normally strike her face at the hilltop at this time of the morning but instead, a wind, belonging more to mid-winter than to early spring, bit savagely at her neck and she pulled her cardigan together across her chest wishing she had remembered to bring a scarf.

All the green hills right down to the valley floor, and as far as one could see to the north-east where Black Sand River met with Crystal Lake, were hidden by a thick blanket of undulating mist. The view that Madeleine adored so well was all just gray-on-gray today. It could have been a beautiful scene also, a spectacular scene in fact, with layers of silky white sheets sinking slowly into the green earth, revealing first the tree tops and eagles and hawks returning with the first fish of the day for their newborns, who in turn sent piercing screeches of approval echoing throughout the valley.

Yet Madeleine saw only the colors of coldness and emptiness, heard only the distant clanking of chains and felt a longing for the summer, a longing for hope. Distracted by shadowed thoughts, she didn’t see an eagle emerge from below the mist and ascend ever so slowly upward to the top of a pine tree, clutching a fish of momentous size within its talons. Each beat of its giant wings was slow and heavy but perfect and precise as it conquered the weight of its catch and rested at last in its nest to gorge with its young.

Madeleine’s eyes saw nothing but the stark visions in her mind, of subjugated people and mindless undertakings, all before a gray sky.

She turned away quickly, as if avoiding the crack of a whip descending upon her, and doubled her previous pace. Time eluded her regularly, especially in moments of reflection, and she had no idea how much time had passed since she left home to purchase bread for breakfast.

***

Neema stood waiting at the open door. The bread still needed to be sliced and toasted for the family and the rest of breakfast was already on the table. Madeleine lifted her dress a few inches to hurry up the stairs and, even with her face downturned, Neema recognized her expression all too well. It was the same one belonging to a seven-year-old Madeleine who had just eaten a chunk out of a fresh apple pie Neema just made, and right before dinner time. To save them both from punishment, Neema had covered the pie with extra cream to hide the hole Madeleine made and minimized accusations to the ‘extraordinary overuse of cream’. Twenty years later that same guilty face, blaming daydreams, is the same face rushing up the stairs on this day.

Habitually, when harried, Neema unnecessarily adjusted her scarf and apron, or the pins in the curls of her unruly thick charcoal hair, or anything for that matter that might absorb obsessive-compulsive urges. This morning the vessel happened to be her faded teal scarf, which was now a light green with white patches. She removed it and retied it again, exactly as it was before, faster than Madeleine traversed the stairs.

Neema, I’m so sorry. I… she stuttered when reaching the top.

M-hmmm, Neema sounded; only her deep melodic tone was needed. She waited for the excuse from Madeleine, which she knew would never appease anyone.

Was I a long time? Madeleine cringed, portending bad moods.

Neema just shook her head slightly, and while contempt appeared in her one raised eyebrow, a glint of knowing and adoration appeared in her rusty brown eyes.

Is that Madeleine? the voice of Madeleine’s mother Helen drifted down the hall.

Yes ma’am, Neema called, as they approached the sunroom near the entrance at the east-end of the house. Neema continued to the kitchen and Madeleine paused to collect herself for a moment before joining her parents.

Despite the open curtains, with the sky covered over, the sunroom was dim at best. Steam rose high above a teapot at the center of a large, rectangular hardwood table where Helen and Nathaniel Fox sat, at either end, in front of half-eaten breakfasts. The room was quiet but for the crackling of a fireplace in one corner and the triple plinking of Nathaniel’s teaspoon on porcelain.

A large newspaper covered Nathaniel’s face while Helen, dressed ready for a picnic luncheon in a floral dress and fur lined coat, sent a glare Madeleine’s way as she entered the room. Her auburn hair, drawn tightly into a bun on the crown of her head, flaunted a spring daisy.

I’m sorry, Madeleine offered as she took a seat. I bumped into the Brightens at the store and then –

You’re not accosting the locals again, are you? Nathaniel insinuated, tipping his newspaper slightly so as to look around it and to send his own glare Madeleine’s way. His thin, freshly curled moustache, wet with oily wax, complimented his shiny black medium-length hair also slicked away from his face with an oily rendering.

I don’t accost people, father, Madeleine contended. I merely speak of things nobody wants to talk about.

I hear differently, and I hear it far too regularly, I might add, Nathaniel said abruptly. I won’t have our family’s reputation soured, and my work at the bank jeopardized for that matter, because of your overzealous charity work. Harassing good people, for what? Building a glorious town out of the dust. You should be happy to live here, and with all you have, but nothing is ever good enough for you.

Neema entered the room sheepishly with a small basket of half-toasted bread and went about placing a slice on each side-plate.

It’s not like that, I – Madeleine started.

You know, Helen interrupted, I keep praying for the day that you come home with a story of meeting a suitable young man and not some story about –

Not this again, Madeleine sighed and rolled her eyes.

Madeleine, think of your age, Helen continued, regardless. For goodness sake, have you thought about –?

No I haven’t thought about it, mother. Madeleine slammed the door on that discussion, again.

After a heavy sigh and a raised eyebrow, Helen went back to reading a local journal after Nathaniel shot a knowing look toward her over the top of his paper, an expression denoting years of exasperation. As he lifted the paper again, an artist’s sketch on the back page caught Madeleine’s eye. It was the rough drawing of a native woman highlighting a diamond-shaped symbol inked into the upper part of her left cheekbone. Annabel squinted to read the relative article to herself.

The last of savage natives of all the Black Sand River regions were finally located last week hiding in three separate nooks tucked far away in the forests north of Crystal Lake, where they had successfully hidden illegally for over ten years. It is reported that two young betrothed members of two different families inadvertently exposed their secret hideaways when they risked all to meet in secret. It is believed that the rebel they call their high Queen, Queen Lesedi (illustrated above), her three daughters and all subsequent figures of notoriety were amongst those captured. Colonel Graham Wilcox is quoted in saying: ‘Their capture has finally secured the safety of all residents throughout the valleys and the manpower they will add to our spinning wheel of progress will only serve to boost the growth and development of this fine land of ours.’

Madeleine looked up to Neema, who of course didn’t know what Madeleine had just read and was busy refilling Helen’s teacup anyway. Neema wasn’t related to any of the people depicted in the paper yet she, along with her family and her missing husband, were all once-upon-a-time protected by these families as were all the people, though she lived in an adjacent region of the valley. Indigenous people from all origins had united long ago to build strength against imminent oppression, despite slightly varying belief systems, and succeeded for a very long time in uniting peacefully for the protection of all.

Neema’s people were among the first ever found and brought to work as slaves in order to build the township of Black Sand Valley and its railways and roadways to connect with other parts of the southern valleys. Slaves worked the granite mines, panned for gold under ball-and-chain, broke rocks for roads, charred themselves in smelting factories, ploughed fields with red-lined backs and the fortunate ones like Neema, who could only be so described with hypocrisy, were brought into homes to manage all the chores that the middle and upper class families didn’t want to think about.

Madeleine had done her research and knew the history of the surrounding lands and of its indigenous people who had lived there unobstructed for a great many generations. She adored their ways, their peaceful beliefs and, in understanding some of their customs and cultures, she became innately aware of the absolute devastation they were experiencing at this time and also aware of the loss which the white people were suffering by way of ancient wisdom being ignored, suppressed and lost. She understood that the capture of their Queen and Princesses would be another massive blow, perhaps large enough to eradicate the last of their hopes altogether. The weight of this dilemma, combined with the morning’s back-to-back altercations, became a challenging burden and, although she did well to hide tears in the most part, a sniff gave away her grief.

Good God, is she crying? Nathaniel scoffed. What –

She? Madeleine interrupted, wiping off a runaway tear. I’m sitting right here! Standing abruptly, she turned to Neema. Sorry Neema, I’m not hungry. After throwing her serviette on the table, she left the room swiftly.

Helen and Nathaniel looked to one another with matching, loathing frowns momentarily then returned to their papers.

***

In the eyes of the modest, Madeleine’s bedroom on the second floor might appear gigantic. Tall bay windows with oaken sashes gave view to the north where the valley ended at Mount Illusion, an apparent semi-active volcano. She sat on the end of her king-sized bed resting her head against the carved timber bedpost with limp hands in her lap.

Staring at the faded ribbons tied around the post, she was reminded of a time in her life when she was completely unaware of cruelty and atrocity and simply played at the river or in the meadows all day without a care in the world. Returning to her childhood wasn’t the scenario she longed for at this time, but rather to return to a time when she could wake in the morning with joy in her heart.

A gentle knock at the door sounded. She took a deep breath. Come in, Neema. Madeleine knew it would be her. It was sure that neither parent would come to check on her. They rarely did so when she was a child so to