NOVELLA
The Trial Of Summary James — Chapter One
A great African nation has risen in North America. But something is… wrong. Chapter 1 of 20 in the novella.
Chapter One
This is what I see.
Summary James, an attorney for the Navasota Episcopal Congregation from Nzâmbi City, towering over a much shorter man, Sonoma Williams, the Tribune of the Congregation of the Texas Light in Houston. The two men are like two birds squawking for dominance in a cage painted by a four-sided mural lifted from the plains of Comancheria — a mural that looks alive with clouds of sediment kicked up by Comancheria warriors, one warrior leading the others in a dusty chase to the room’s door.
Williams is grieving painfully over the death of Tomas Kibende, Texas Light’s charismatic leader and his immediate predecessor, a great orator, a great tribune in so many ways, but not great, perhaps, in the ways of finance, which is why this boisterous discussion has quickly devolved into a shouting match.
James is trying to reassure Williams that Navasota’s interest in expansion into Campeche is motivated by good intent. But the grieving Williams is having none of it and is convinced that James will be able to win Synod approval of Navasota’s takeover of the Texas Light Congregation through the sheer force of money.
Williams is facing off squarely with James, who could easily fit two copies of almost any man, including Williams, inside his hulking body. If Williams has any fear, he seems constitutionally unable to show it. He is a wide man, but round, clearly no fighter. The forehead of his shiningly dark brown bald head furrows into multiple layers as he glares up at James, who says, “I resent your implications about our intent, Mr. Williams. You imply that we are taking advantage of Mr. Kibende’s death by seeking to take advantage of your congregation’s temporary financial weakness so that we can increase our power. You are fundamentally wrong about our motives.”
“Ah, the sublime ministerial intent that leaders of congregations such as yours so easily fall back on. I’m sure Joshua Brand is applauding your congregation somewhere for sending in some muscle to demand our capitulation.”
James shakes his head. “Perhaps we should loan your offices a few of our accountants to square away your finances and prevent hoodlums such as myself from showing at your doorstep.”
The insult is caught and returned, “Why bother, when they can send a brute to demand our capitulation?”
A woman in a bright festive headdress pops her head in. “Is everything okay here?” she smiles warily. “I need to be off.” Both men nod, and she returns the gesture as she leaves.
James returns to the debate, but the woman’s presence seemed to suck the violence out of the room, as the presence of congregational women often does. “My physical size has nothing to do with their proposal, Mr. Williams. But you’ll find that my legal skills substantially outweigh my physical presence if it comes to a courtroom brawl.”
Williams sighs and sits down. “I’m tired, Mr. James. Tired. Tired of congregational politics. And my unfortunate reference to Joshua Brand completes my exhaustion.”
“I come here seeking peace, Mr. Williams. We would not be seeking to merge with your congregation if we didn’t have immense respect for you.”
Williams sighs. “It is your timing we struggle with.”
“Fair enough,” says James. “Perhaps we should let a cooling-off period transpire. Would you be willing to agree not to enter discussions with another congregation if you find that your finances are as shaky as our people believe they are?”
Williams nods apprehensively. “Brand’s scorched earth policy of sucking up congregations like a frantic anteater does us no good when it comes to trusting the motives of congregations bent on acquisition. It is hard to have trust during these dark days.”
James looks down at the man in the chair, who seems suddenly smaller, and nods in agreement. Joshua Brand’s African Methodist Episcopal Congregation had acquired nearly every major congregation on the East Coast, to the point where it could match the combined financial resources of several European nations. The general consensus was that it was only a matter of time, and not a long time, before Brand would be the next Ecclesiastical Tribune of the Synod, something that did not sit well with anybody who cared about the threat of authoritarianism.
“These times try us all,” says James. “If your congregation is anywhere east of Comancheria, it seems you must ready the bastions.”
“Perhaps we have more in common than not,” Williams says, his conciliatory tone growing. “A cooling-off period, then. You have my word that we will not enter any acquisition discussions with another congregation.” William’s throat parcels out a throaty chuckle. “After all, there is Brand to consider. He could acquire us both with spare change from his congregation’s gumball business.”
“Not to put too fine a point on it, but that is why we must limit our cooling-off period. The man moves swiftly. Just this morning my phone alerted me to the fact that the AME has made a bid for one of the Seminole Caribbean Protestant congregations.”
“Nothing frightens that man,” Williams laughs. “Not even voodoo.” Williams sticks his hand out and James shakes it. “Give us a week to mull things over,” Williams proposes.
Williams stands up, still clasping the hand as James says, “I think we can work with that.”
My visions don’t necessarily appear in chronological order. They enter my existence randomly with no regard to a timeline. Sometimes I must piece together clues to build the full thread. My next vision is considerably bleaker.
The woman in the headdress, a tall, striking woman of deep black skin with a First Settler’s given name, one I’m reluctantly going to admit I cannot easily pronounce, returns later, how much later, I’m not sure. She has apparently forgotten her phone. When she walks up to her computer, she sees Sonoma Williams’s door ajar but hears nothing, so she decides to investigate for no real reason other than sensing a disturbance within the utter silence of the office building.
She peers inside Williams’s office where she notices a pair of feet wrapped in tan canvas moccasins loosely laced with dark brown cowhide strings. Both feet are pointing straight up. There are no socks on the legs, which are covered in sharp blue and red striped African silk pants smothered with an Ashanti ornamental design. It can only be Sonoma Williams. She gasps, gingerly approaches the body, and stutters into her smartphone.
But then I see more. The visions come in stealthy waves that emerge from one another like collections of ghosts. This time I see a tall, thick man wearing a squared off afro and a simple black short sleeve shirt that is as tight on him as the skin on a plum. He is pummeling Sonoma Williams with a baseball bat etched with an oversized burnt Joshua Gibson signature that seems to punctuate itself into my vision with exaggerated importance. The man’s thin lips seem to be smiling as one side of them stretches clandestinely into a finely drawn dimple on the right side of his cheek. He appears to finish, but then, as he turns to walk away, he spins around to deliver one more blow, that smile growing as he does so, as if he enjoys it like an artfully mastered sport.
End of Chapter One
You can purchase the full novella for 99 cents here:
Table of Contents (links will appear as additional chapters are published daily on Medium):
Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12 Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16 Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19 Chapter 20
NOTES
This short novella was unplanned. I wrote it under my legal name way back in 2021. Side note: The pen name Charles Bastille originated after the publisher of MagicLand convinced me my name would not be SEO-friendly — I’m no longer convinced that matters and haven’t decided yet if I should publish additional works under the Bastille pen name.
The novella takes place in an alternative North America that celebrates diversity, avoided genocide, and corrected the mistakes of slavery as a side-effect of a failed Revolutionary War. As such, although no human endeavor can avoid tragic error, it takes place on a much less dystopian continent than our current experience.
The world represented here is much larger than can be conveyed in such a short book. This world is more fully represented in a trilogy called Restive Souls, which begins in the late 18th century. It is still in final edits.
But the main character of this novella, Longman Jones, told me he wasn’t willing to wait for me to finish that novel. Maybe that is in part because he makes no appearance at all in the larger work.
But he is a restive soul, and he needed to get out of my head. So I took a couple weeks off from the main novel way back in 2021, and wrote this, in hopes he’d shut up. I never really promoted it, but I’m starting to now a bit.
If you enjoy this novella, please let your friends know that for 99 cents they can spend a couple hours with Longman in a more egalitarian world than what they may be used to. It will make him very happy if you do.
For updates on the Restive Souls series, visit https://medium.com/restive-souls. Or subscribe to my newsletter fiction here (takes you to a site off the Medium platform).
Consider this short novella a teaser for the broader work. And if enough people like it, I suspect Longman Jones will also make another appearance or three.
Thanks for reading!
This story was written by a human, not by AI or Grammarly GO (More Info).
Copyright © 2020–2023 Charles White
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Charles White; cover image licensed from Adobe Stock
Published in the United States of America
