The Soul’s Famine

Mary Olamuk begins her life in the trying times of South Africa's Apartheid. Having little, her family is taken in by a successful businessman. Mr. Hemingston becomes her surrogate father. She takes it upon herself to follow the teachings of the Hemingstons and her idolized brother until the innocence of youth is torn from her hands.She loses much in her lifetime, but still she continues to strive for her dream of becoming a doctor--a healer to those in need regardless of color or class. All was on track, but fate often places us on another road.Her life is taken from her, yet death does not keep her. Years pass, the world changes, and the youth slumbers. She is risen from her rest to the life of a developing Horseman. Angels, demons, and false priests will all play a role in the metamorphosis of Mary, the sister of Conquest and War . She will find her place in the world as the bringer of pestilence and plagues. She must adventure down the path the universe has set for her for her grand becoming. Famine will ride.

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The Soul's FamineBy A.T. HaesslyAuthorHouseCopyright © 2017 A.T. HaesslyAll rights reserved.ISBN: 978-1-5246-5839-7CHAPTER 1My story is one that is unique to the Horsemen (at least to those before me). I did not transform at the loss of a loved one. I did not become what I am today by making a deal. I did not lose my mind — though darkness had found its way into me. I was forced into this position; this curse that has become my blessing.I will not say I have always felt lucky for having this bestowed upon me. I have hated the Creator. I have hated those that follow the words of the Great Powers. I have killed for no more reason than vengeance and pleasure, but this is not me any longer. Let us begin my story.Born in South Africa, my mother raised my older brother and me by herself; my father was killed shortly after my birth by foreigners. I was named after a woman of days long gone because my mother believed it to be beautiful. Mary, the name she always found so pretty.But the time we lived in was harsh; our people had become subject to the rules of a foreign land. In 1953 my mother was "allowed" to move us into the township of Soweto. All of this happened because the men with light skin decided we were less; that we were barely humans. They called the segregation and its laws the "Apartheid"; though it should have been named appropriately — "Discrimination and Hatred."This discrimination would destroy many of my people, but I must say not all of these white men were evil. A man, Tucker Hemingston, would one day see my mother and her two children at the market trying to scrounge up enough food for the three of us. A larger man with white hair and a friendly smile; a bear of a man. He was not one to tell us we were less because of darker skin. To him, it was only the substance of one's character that spoke of their worth.He offered my mother a job taking care of his home while I was still three years old; his home near the edge of Soweto closest to the center of Johannesburg. How could my mother refuse? A white man, in a time of ignorance and hate, took in families and paid them well for simple jobs; even offering smaller houses beside his own as shelter for those who would work for him.I remember little of those days or the reason we caught his eye, but I will never forget what he'd done for us.He took good care of us.My brother and I were allowed to play as we wished. Dubula kept me busy for hours while our mother handled her duties. We would run through the fields and toss simple balls to one another. He was my best friend, and what better ways to spend your time than with someone you love?Mother would clean Mrs. Hemingston's clothes with a smile while sharing pleasant conversation with the lady of the house. A few other families were also under Mr. Hemingston's employment and care. He was a kind man.Dubula was ten when we moved into the care of the Hemingstons. It seemed a society all its own. Years would go by like this. The world of hatred and discrimination would fade from my young eyes. Mr. Hemingston said that all the children of the families he cared for should attend school, and so my brother and I would walk with the others to our classes each day with smiles on our faces. The small building gave me hope.The teacher was an African woman who said she had learned many things from the men and women from other countries, and we would in turn learn each of those topics and courses as we grew. Dubula was so much smarter than I was. Even though he had never truly been schooled he was given special books by our teacher because he would finish his work so fast. What she never knew was he finished all his work while helping me finish mine as well. I loved him. Ever friend and family member was treasured. I adored the Hemingstons for giving us such a life.I learned of the world both in class and at home; though the majority that stuck with me was the knowledge I gained within the walls of the Hemingstons' home. Mr. Hemingston would always be home. He said his foundry could run well enough without him being there (often smoother without his meddling, he'd say). He loved to play with the children and talk with them. "I so enjoy seeing the light of realization in their eyes," I heard him say to my mother once.As I grew, my family took to the ideals of Mr. Hemingston. He had a voice of a lion; and the heart of one to boot. He spoke of a God that watched us from high above. He spoke of a son that was given life amongst humans, and he would later give his life that we would be saved in the life to come. I always liked his fables, but Dubula and my mother would take these teachings to heart. At the age of ten, I did not truly understand these concepts.Dubula loved to discuss such ideas and religion with Mr. Hemingston. Mr. Hemingston saw promise in my brother, even at the age of seventeen, that he offered him a job managing his foundry. Dubula accepted promptly and anxiously, but first he had to attend two years of special schooling at a local college for white students.Dubula would continue smiling as he would leave for the bus stop early in the morning each day. I would walk with the other children to my classes, but I missed him. My brother was the foremost reason I did so well in school. He would always help me out when he returned from his own schooling, and for that I was thankful; though the teacher realized that all of those answers I had given in class when called upon had truly come from my brother's mouth.The world I had grown in had changed from suffering universe to a plentiful garden. I was happy in my ignorance. I had a family, food, shelter, clothes, friends, schooling, fresh water, and a chance at life. But this world was shattered one day when Dubula came home with an unusual smile. A smile that still shined, but a shine that reflected red as blood flooded his mouth and swollen eyes blocked his vision.I sat in the room where my mother and the Hemingstons took care of my brother. Mr. Hemingston even called the local doctor to come and treat Dubula, but when the doctor came and saw my brother he turned to the master of the house and pulled him aside. They walked away from the group that tried to take care of Dubula; though he said he was alright.How he smiled as the blood flowed from his puckered lips.Mr. Hemingston told everyone to hold on a moment while he spoke with the doctor. He walked by where I stood near the door and nodded to me with frustration in his eyes. I had always seen him as a white giant with a loving nature, but at this moment I saw anger I had never known. He marched with shoulders back and jaw locked. His hand brushed through my hair as he tried to comfort me, but I felt the rage that trembled his sure fingers.Through the cracked door I heard why anger existed within such a peaceful man. "I can't treat him.""What do you mean you can't treat him? You're a doctor, aren't you? Or did you mean to say you can't treat a black man? If that's the case, then you aren't a very good doctor." Mr. Hemingston was poking the doctor's chest with each of those last words.The doctor nervously laughed at this, "I simply don't believe I should be the one to treat him. I have many other," He looked away from the fiery eyes of Mr. Hemingston, "patients that I need to keep business with.""I hope you do not regret this decision, doctor; a term which I use very loosely." Mr. Hemingston walked toward the door where I stood. I quickly ducked back against the wall as though I had not been eavesdropping. Mr. Hemingston turned for a final insult, "I will make sure that these children here take that position away from you and every other fool in this country. Now get the hell out of my house, you lowly son of a bitch." The doctor quickly darted for the door at those last threats of Mr. Hemingston."What's the matter?" I couldn't pretend I had not heard this; pretend that I had not just heard my brother was being denied treatment for no other reason than his skin color.Mr. Hemingston froze at hearing my voice in the doorway. I heard a cough to clear a swelling throat and a large arm run over the face that was not looking toward me. When he turned around to answer me his eyes had lost all of the anger, but even more passion was present within."What do you want to do when you grow up?""What do I want to do?" I looked through the door and saw the bloody cloths that had been used to clean my brother's wounds. No one would come to his aid that had the knowledge of how to truly treat him. No one would help the man who'd helped me most of my life. I knew then what I wanted to do, "I want to be a doctor that helps everyone."A powerful laugh boomed from the large man that was Mr. Hemingston, "A doctor you say? Interesting." He knelt down to look me straight in the eyes, "You will help everyone? Make sure those who deserve help are given it? You will do what is right for this world?" I nodded quickly, "Then I will make sure a doctor is what you become.""Am I smart enough to do that?" I remember being worried that I'd fail without my brother in the room with me.A light chuckle sounded out in the hallway, "You are a smart young girl, Mary." He smiled and moved a hand to cover his left breast, "Only those who think without their heart and mind are stupid. Do you think you're stupid?"I shook my head, "I just think my heart is stronger than my brain."He laughed and threw those large arms around me to lift me up into the air for a bear hug. I giggled along with him as he carried me into the next room where the families still were trying to treat my brother. Dubula smiled at me and waved off any more help; saying it will be better in the morning.All was fine from then on; at least for a while. Dubula would go back to school and finish out his two years. He would go on to manage parts of the foundry under Mr. Hemingston's leadership. I was thirteen when my brother took that position at the foundry; two years of schooling and a few months of learning the basics of the company. Mr. Hemingston threw a party for Dubula on earning his place in the company. Many of the workers were there, but the majority didn't seem as happy as the rest of us.Near the end of the party Mr. Hemingston made an announcement, "Th is man here, Dubula." He pointed to my brother who smiled back with appreciation, "I am thankful for all you have done and all of the effort you have given to succeed; getting you to where you are today." He looked out over the workers and families at the party, "I want to announce that since I have no children of my own," He looked down to his wife and rubbed her shoulder. She looked up with a smile and brushed his hand with her own. She returned a nod, "I want to announce that in the event of my retirement or inability to continue running the company," Mr Hemingston walked closer to my brother and pulled from his pocket a silvery chain with a shining cross at the end, "Dubula will become the new head of Hemingston Metals."The crowd cheered and yelled as friends congratulated and clapped for my brother as he thanked Mr. Hemingston and put the cross around his neck. What a great day for him.I remember that smile — that same lively grin. His friendly and bright disposition shined at the center of that party. Even with the unpleasant scars marking his lips and the left side of his face, that smiles out sparkled even the silver about his neck.But not all were happy at hearing this.Wouldn't it be expected that you should hear a tale that ends happily, yet this is only the beginning. It would be a shame if there wasn't development, or at the very least some sort of existential, rhetorical point to be made. Th is story has not reached its peak, but instead it had found its beginning.Hatred takes over, and we see the innocent and hardworking driven down into the same pits of slag to wallow with the common animals that dare call themselves human. Instead of following suit, these beasts will tear us down. All that humanity has accomplished and all that we have become can be washed away against the tides of time; all it takes is the hands and voices of the weak minded and spirited to demand that their twisted sense of justice be followed absolute.A year, one month, two weeks, and three days had gone by since that announcement. I was fourteen as that cross of silver fell into my hands. I was fourteen when the smile I had known all my life, a smile that brightened my life, was gone from the world. I watched in the rain as a wooden casket was lowered into the ground labeled with a stone that possessed my brother's name.I held back my tears so that my mother could release hers. My hands were gently placed on her back to comfort her, but tears fell harder than the rain that day to soak that casket as it was placed into its final resting place. Mr. Hemingston had an angel statue carved for the tombstone; an angel that stood about his height. Th is angel prayed with her eyes facing the sky above my brother; a prayer that would do nothing. I took the cross in my hand and threw it into the hole. What good had it done? What good had those years of belief and discussion done? In the end, my brother had died at the hands of those unprosecuted workers that couldn't handle a black man above them. Th is world was full of hatred; and I was now part of it.This veil had been violently removed from my eyes. The world was filled with cruelties that I had only been part of before my mind could fathom the importance of other's actions. All because things we can't control ... all because of stupidity we see our entire race hindered.The rain would continue to fall for the rest of that day. When everyone else was gone I still stood over the filled hole that held my brother — kept me from being close to my only real friend in life."Dubula," I choked on the words as the rain covered my tears, "What do I do now?" I turned around to that angel above him. She looked so sad. "What do I do? He trusted you. What do I do?" I waited for an answer that never came in my human life. The angel just kept her eyes toward the sky, "Answer me damn it!" I kicked at the stone and pounded my fist against its mass. No words came from above or the angel that stood before me. "What do I do, brother?"I rested my head against the stone and sobbed. The Earth had claimed my brother and left me to suffer. The rain did not soothe or comfort me, but when I opened my eyes I saw the engraving at the angel's feet; beneath crimson flowers placed in his memory. "Follow your heart and smile always." Below that was his name, but reading it only sent me into a further rage and depression. I fell to the ground and cried where my brother rested, my world shattered.CHAPTER 2Mr. Hemingston died shortly after my brother had at the hands of a local gang of black men; proof no side was safe in the endless war of ignorance.After word got out that many white men had killed a successful black man and received no punishment there was a sudden increase of violent groups in the area. Mr. Hemingston would be shot on his way to the foundry one morning, but as the doctor treated his injuries he asked for me. He and his wife would be waiting for me on his deathbed.I remember his question, "Do you still wish to be a doctor?"He had a cross around his neck, and I had never noticed it until that moment he laid in his bed awaiting the reaper, "I do."A smile like that of my brother came to him, "My wife will continue to make sure you are schooled. Promise me you will follow that dream; follow your heart."I began to cry. This wasn't fair. The two strongest figures in my life were gone. His last words were telling me to follow my heart. To do what was right. That damn cross around his neck. Tears fell from my eyes as his wife sobbed over his body. I stayed with her that whole day and made sure she would be alright, and for the years that followed she would take care of me and my mother. The other families moved on, but my mother and I stayed with Mrs. Hemingston and helped her with the home. At her gracious offer, I continued schooling to fulfill my promise to become a doctor and treat those who needed it ... who deserved it.It was a new world, one that had developed within the entirety of Johannesburg. Violence had increased, gangs ran rampant as slums enlarged in population and territory. I walked through major streets to and from my special classes even though it took longer than the back roads because those streets would surely be dangerous — even more so at night. (Continues...)Excerpted from The Soul's Famine by A.T. Haessly. Copyright © 2017 A.T. Haessly. Excerpted by permission of AuthorHouse. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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