Free Tea and Tomahawks by Leanore Elliott, Dahlia DeWinters

to go to bed.” She tossed her light wrap on a kitchen chair and marched up the stairs, averting her gaze when she reached the spot where she’d found her Grandmother.
    Upon reaching the bed, she slid between the sheets without undressing, and closed her eyes, praying to get away from this nightmare.
     
    ~* * * *~
     
    Richard roamed through the rooms of the old house. Most of the rooms were stuffed to the gills with ancient furniture, knick knacks and piles of dusty linens. He gulped at the smoky liquid and grimaced. The old lady’s lawyer was as almost as aged as she had been. His hands had trembled when he paged through the will and took his time about coming to the point.
    Lise Jackson had been a smart old woman. Annie wouldn’t get her hands on any money or be able to take ownership of the house for three years.
    He wandered into the dining room.
    Three years. He ground his teeth together and finished the glass of liquor while reaching for the bottle again. With an unsteady hand, he poured two inches of the amber liquid in the glass, slopping some of it on the mahogany surface of the dining table. He banged the bottle on the table, not caring about how much noise he made. Annie was upstairs asleep after having taking two sleeping pills at his urging. The last thing he needed to hear was her monotonous weeping. The sound of it made him want to shake her, especially with the most recent news.
    How in the hell was he going to put up with that miserable woman?
    The rage at the unfairness of it all—he worked for that money after all—bubbled below the surface of his skin, adding to the already oppressive humid heat. Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he stalked down the narrow hallway to the parlor, which he figured was the best place for him to find something of value. If he could find just one thing he could sell, it might help him settle in for the three-year wait.
    Flopping down on the dusty sofa, he took another swallow of his drink and set the heavy crystal glass down on the end table. He propped his feet on the silk chaise and for a brief second, pondered how much he could get for the marble mantle before focusing his attention on the painting above it.
    The more he stared at the painting, the more enraged he became. “Revisionist history,” he mumbled to himself, feeling for the comfort of his glass. “Trying to make something out of nothing.” The liquor did nothing to quench the anger still roiling within him, and he threw the glass to the floor in an impotent rage. The glass bounced harmlessly on the thick rug, which made him angrier. “Goddamn bitch,” he grumbled. His head throbbed from the alcohol.
    The air seemed heavier, and there was a faint humming in his ears. He waved at a mosquito buzzing past his face. Did he leave the back door open? Closing his eyes, Richard slumped and put his hand to his forehead.
    An odor of rich, heavy vegetation wafted past, and he vaguely wondered if it were going to rain. The sound of branches rustling made him open his eyes.
    There was nothing but darkness, and the cloying smell of pungent, fertile soil was stronger now. Thinking the lights had gone out, he shot to his feet and hit his head on a branch.
    Was he that drunk that he had somehow wandered outside?
    Richard took a deep breath. He felt different—older and more experienced as if he had years of traveling, buying and selling under his belt. He had a mission to accomplish now.
    Two men came up behind him, their breaths heavy in the swampy air. “We caught wind of a settlement of them about a mile in.”
    Richard touched the knife on his belt, easing into his newfound persona. Annie, no, Matilda had run, and he was going to catch her, just like he’d caught her before.
    “Let’s go,” he said, slapping at the always-present mosquitoes, “We’ve got some slaves to round up.”
     
     
    ~* * * *~
     
    The Village Realm
    “Mattie, wake up.”
    It was happening all over again. The shouts of the white