The Witch and the Bastard.
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1859, Baton Rouge, Louisiana.
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It was the coldest winter Louisiana had seen in decades. A dozen slaves and a few local whites were hunched down to pick the turnips and onions from beneath the land. They were hoping to save the last of the farmer's harvest but their fingers were becoming numb from digging into the frozen soil.
Columbus Powers rarely visited this part of his plantation. His overseers kept him informed on any suspicious activity and his accountant informed him of his losses and profits from the fertile ground acres away from his home.
Despite his luck in recent years, this year was a failure. All of Baton Rouge had taken a hit from the ice, freezing the fields and under-ripe crops.
Columbus could see his breath in the chill morning air. Still, he blew a huff at what he knew would be a task in vain to save his harvest. He steered his steed toward the left and nudged his head for his eldest son, Ollie to do the same.
Ollie Powers was distracted. He was nineteen and couldn't care less about his Pa's dying crop. His immature sights were steadily positioned on a petite brown-skin slave, whom he knew well enough to call by name.
Her name was Mary and she was wise in her era. She had labored, free of charge, at the hands of his father for years. Ollie had known her his entire life as a woman, even though the small lady still appeared youthful as if she had just come of age.
Mary drifted her brown eyes up toward him. Despite her cold numb cheeks, she gave a wide smile and dared to wave at him.
Caught up in his bubble of lust, Ollie averted his eyes and pulled the reins on to follow his father up the path. He glanced back to find Mary had yet to return to work, instead she was walking toward him.
Ollie's head shook in protest as her walk turned into a jog. He had a fear of what would happen if someone caught her idle in such a drastic endeavor. His father was adamant and wanted this chore done immediately, yet her sprint toward him seemed just as headstrong. He caught a whiff of her lavender scent as she approached his horse.
"Ollie, I love you," she boldly confessed out of breath from her jaunt, "I've always loved you, Ollie."
"You do?"
"Yes, you're my sweetie pie." Her smile widened and his heart soared.
With her confession, Ollie forgot it all; his father's watchful eye, the curious glances from the other slaves, and even the poor whites who condemned their interaction. Grinning, he hurried from the saddle and wrapped his arms around her. Her small body felt like a warm cup of stew for his soul and he buried his face into the crook of her neck to get another smell of her feminine air.
"I love you too, Mary," he confided as his vision blurred, turning dark around him.
"Ollie!" He heard a shrill call and shook his head, not wanting to let her go.
"Ollie! Wake up! Get out of this bed, right this minute!" Charlotte roared with a whack across his back, "Wake up, you bastard!"
Swerving around, Ollie sat up straight and opened his eyes, realizing it was all a dream. His stepmother stood with a straw broomstick. Her next swing came down on his leg and he kicked away from her.
"Get up! Get up now!"
Wiping his eyes, he shook the fog from his head, "I'm up, woman," he grunted.
"Mind your manners, boy," she snapped and hit his thigh with the thin straw, "Mr. Powers left me in charge and I charged you to go chop that firewood and bring it in last night."
"I brought it in before dinner, Ma," he groaned.
"You lying bastard!" Charlotte screamed, "There ain't a log in this house and your brothers are freezing their tails off while you lay up like a lazy buffoon."
Her rage over her husband's first son made her go on a tangent. Tightly holding the household weapon in both palms, she popped and swatted the straw bristles across his back, shouting insults that he merely chuckled at.
Ollie casually walked out of the room, and down the staircase, annoyed by her morning antics. He knew his stepmother hated him. When he was younger it had broken his heart to be fed half the amount as her real children. Back then, he had wept from her beatings and cried to his father who told him to grow the hell up and be a man.
Now that he was grown, he stood three inches over six feet, towering over his five-foot stepmother as if she were nothing. Despite their differences in size and his want to grab that broom and beat her, he played along with her frolics.
"Ow!" Ollie shrugged his shoulders, hiding a laugh.
"Get those shoes on and go get that firewood before I take a shovel to you!"
"You think you're doing something with that broom, you old hag?" This is what he wished to say, but Ollie respected his father far too much to be rude.
Columbus Powers had raised him with manners while his wife, Charlotte Powers had raised him to withstand punishment.
"I've gotta piss, Ma," Ollie explained, closing the door of the outhouse as she swatted the broomstick across the sturdy wood.
"Hurry it up!" She shouted, "Empty your little pecker and take yourself straight to that lumber pile."
Charlotte was tired from her daily berating and huffed onto the porch. She swiped at her brown bangs and tapped her foot, keeping a careful watch of the outhouse door.
A 20-year-old slave woman named Reba cautiously approached. It was cold out and her fingers trembled, carrying a cup toward her mistress. She was new to the house and wondered if Charlotte's wrath would spread to her if she did not comfort the bitter woman.
"Miss Charlotte. Would you like your coffee beans now, ma'am?" Reba suggested, holding up a hot mug, "It's got two lumps of sugar just like you like."
"No," Charlotte frowned, "A hot brew will only anger me more. That boy better hurry and piss. It's cold as ice in that house," she mumbled
Reba was mildly puzzled. She had been in the kitchen fixing breakfast and didn't find the place too cold. Neither did Charlotte's two sons who were sound asleep, warm in their beds.
But it was a Tuesday and Charlotte had to punish her stepson for something. She had got on his case yesterday about the mail post. Ollie had been out doing chores and missed the post by an hour.
In Charlotte's twisted mind, anyone could have walked up and stolen that one letter had Ollie taken another minute to fetch it. So she beat him properly for his delay. He had taken her punishment, holding in laughter. His slight smirk at her lashes encouraged her to hit harder. Her shoulder still held an ache from her wrath of yesterday, but she awoke this morning in the same bitter condition.
Ollie retreated from the outhouse and pulled up his britches. He needed a warm meal before his chores and jumped onto the porch, headed into the house to fight the chill coating his limbs.
"No. I said, go, chop that wood, boy."
"But, Ma, it's freezin' out here"
"Now," she pointed toward the woods in front of their homestead, "You are going to learn to mind me while your father's away."
With slumped shoulders, he sighed, "Yes, ma'am."
Instead of going to the woods to the lumber pile a few yards off, Ollie kept walking until he reached the slave quarters.
