Book Review
of Dark Genesis sponsored by Enchanted Book Tours
Title: Dark
Genesis
Author: A. D.
Koboah
Genre:
Paranormal Romance
Format: eBook
Book Blurb
Life for a
female slave is one of hardship and unspeakable sorrow, something Luna knows
only too well. But not even she could have foreseen the terror that would
befall her one sultry Mississippi evening in the summer of 1807. On her way back from a visit to see the African woman, a witch who has the herbs Luna needs to rid her of her abusive master’s child, she attracts the attention of a deadly being that lusts for blood. Forcibly removed from everything she knows by this tormented otherworldly creature, she is sure she will be dead by sunrise.
Dark Genesis is a love story set against the savage world of slavery in which a young woman who has been dehumanized by its horrors finds the courage to love, and in doing so, reclaims her humanity.
Author Bio
A.D. Koboah was born in London and completed an English Literature degree in 2000. Her first novel, Dark Genesis, was inspired by the concept of dehumanisation and the impact it can have on the psyche. She is currently working on a screenplay and will begin the sequel to Dark Genesis shortly.
Links
Website: http://www.adkoboah.co.uk/
Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Dark-Genesis-Darkling-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B007NI8GUS/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1337086773&sr=8-1
Amazon.co.uk: http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dark-Genesis-Darkling-Trilogy-ebook/dp/B007NI8GUS/ref=sr_1_7?s=books&ie=UTF8&qid=1332433043&sr=1-7
Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/books/view/141566
Goodreads: http://www.goodreads.com/author/show/5807160.A_D_Koboah
Book Excerpt
My name is Luna and my tale begins on a dry summer evening in
1807.
I was walking quickly along a dusty country road, my shoes
stirring up a small cloud of dust that turned the hem of my faded violet dress
a muddy brown. The trail of dust I left in my wake soon settled. But the
pressing need that had me make this two-hour journey in beaten shoes and a broken
spirit, in the midst of a particularly merciless Mississippi summer, would not
be settled as easily. Wiping the sweat from my brow and waving away the flying
insects that droned lazily near my face, I wished for some respite from the
relentless heat but found none. Although the sun hung low in the topaz blue
sky, it felt as if I were walking through warm soup and it was likely to stay
like this long after the sun went down.
I would have found some relief from the pitiless sun if I had
chosen to walk through the woods that rose up on either side of the road like a
green and brown wall. But green woody spaces such as those have been a deep
source of fear for me since I was a child and I imagined that they would
continue to be so long past what I guessed was my twenty-second or twenty-third
year on this earth. So I clutched my lantern and small cloth bundle and walked
on in the heat, listening to the birdcalls punctuate the otherwise still air.
I was lucky to be able to make this journey during the summer months
as the previous two trips had been made in the dead of winter when night
gathered up the day long before I could finish serving the family’s supper and
slip away, leaving the other house slaves to do my share of work and conceal my
absence. That small mercy meant that I didn’t have to walk alone in the dark,
afraid to light my lamp in case the solitary glow brought unwanted attention my
way, or have to dive into the trees every time the sound of a horse’s hooves
disturbed the sweet melody of the crickets. It also meant that when I turned
the corner and saw the woodland give way to cotton fields, marking the
beginning of the Marshall plantation, there was still roughly two hours of
daylight left, which meant I would be able to finish my business and be back
before dark, hopefully before I was missed by my hawk-eyed mistress.
I stopped for a second to gaze at the rows of cotton up ahead. I
have always thought that there was something heavenly about cotton fields,
which looked like row upon row of fleecy white clouds caught up in brown nets.
But I’m sure that the brown-skinned figures bent double between those rows
would have disagreed. For them, there was nothing even remotely celestial about
the cotton fields in which they had been toiling since sunrise. And they were
likely to still be working in them when the sun set. Even from this distance I
could see that most of them were wretchedly thin, their few flimsy items of
clothing in tatters. And although I wasn’t close enough to see their faces, I
was sure that they all wore uniform expressions of misery and fatigue.
I left that unhappy sight and ducked into the trees on my left, a
necessary shortcut to the slave quarters. Although many slaves have used this
shortcut on their way to see the African woman, I’m sure I’m the only one who
ran all the way through the trees looking back over my shoulder even though I
knew I wasn’t being followed. Only when I saw a flash of white through the
trees did I slow down so my breathing could return to normal by the time I exited
the screen of trees.
The slave quarters were little white cabins made of wood, which
lay in two long rows some distance from the Master’s mansion. Only a few
children were around at this hour, some of whom recognised me and stopped what
they were doing to stare with a quiet reverence that made me uncomfortable. It
was the same reverence I had received from the grownups the last two times I
had come here under the cover of darkness and they had not only stopped what
they were doing to watch me pass by, but nodded or offered some sort of
greeting, which I returned before hurrying on by. I didn’t have to endure that
kind of scrutiny today, but I still hurried down to the lone cabin at the back
of the clearing, which was nestled under the shadow of the trees some distance
away from the rest of the slave quarters.
Many slaves came to visit Mama Akosua for her medicines, and her
skills were known far and wide. It was also rumoured that she dealt in more
than just herbs and was actually a witch. Whether that was true or not, she was
feared by many, even some of the whites, and few dared incur her wrath.
As I got nearer to the cabin, I saw that the door had been left
open and a light was burning inside even though the sun had yet to go down. I
approached gingerly. Already feeling the unease that always possessed me in the
presence of the African woman, I walked up to the door, and stopped.
“Mama Akosua.”
There was a short spell of silence and then her voice floated out
to me.
“I have been expecting you.” The voice was low and dry like the
sound of rustling leaves.
She probably said that every time someone came to her door, no
doubt to help foster the belief that she was a powerful all-seeing, all-knowing
witch. But the words still sent icy fingers trailing down my spine and I
swallowed before taking her words as permission to enter.
The cabin, which consisted of only one room, was rich with the
slightly bitter, but not unpleasant, smell of dried herbs. Most of the room was
taken up by a long wooden table, which held bottles, bowls and an assortment of
other instruments that were used to prepare her concoctions. Every wall in the
room was lined with shelves holding bottles, jars and baskets of fresh and
dried herbs. The only evidence that someone lived in the cabin was the pallet
in the corner. This was the most furniture I had seen in any slave cabin, but
as her Master profited from the sale of her herbs, it was in his interest to
make sure she had everything she needed. There was another smaller table in the
centre of the room and that is where she sat, peering at me by the light of an
oil lamp.
She was a small lithe woman with delicate features like mine. Her
head was cleanly shaven and she would have been considered beautiful were it
not for the scars, rows of lines about an inch long, marking her forehead and
cheeks. It was rumoured that those scars had been self-inflicted when she was
first brought to America as a slave. Some people whispered that she had done it
to honour the customs of her people, others, that the journey, the horrors of
the middle passage, had driven her to scar her face in madness and despair.
Although I would never dare to ask her, I didn’t believe she had been driven
insane. The shrewd dark eyes that met mine belonged to a strong, sharp mind and
I doubted that anything could, or ever would, be able to break it.
“Evening, Mama Akosua,” I said as I walked into the circle of
light.
There was still daylight outside but it didn’t seem to reach the
small window in Mama Akosua’s cabin and so it was always dark in here no matter
what the time of day.
She gestured to the chair opposite hers, her eyes never leaving my
face. I moved to the chair and when I sat down, she pushed a small cup toward
me.
“Drink,” she said.
I picked up the cup and sipped the cool concoction, which tasted
vaguely of mint leaves. Whatever it was, it seemed to have an immediate effect
because I no longer felt as hot and the fatigue, which had been pulling on me
like lead weights, seemed to evaporate.
Feeling slightly better, I was able to meet the force of her gaze
fully. She seemed to have aged a great deal since I last saw her, nearly four
years ago. The lines around her eyes and the ones running from her nose to the
corners of her mouth had deepened and although she was not yet forty years old,
she looked much older.
She studied me for a few moments and a soft sigh escaped her when
she finally shifted her gaze away from my face.
“It is as I feared,” she said and stood up, wincing from the small
movement.
“You hurt?”
“It is a small price to pay,” she mumbled, more to herself it
seemed.
She reached into a basket on one of the shelves and pulled out a
small black cloth bundle. Moving back to the table she placed the bundle before
her and when she sat down again she closed her eyes for a few seconds. She was
clearly in a lot of pain.
“I have prepared what you need,” she said pulling open the cloth
bundle to reveal six paper sachets of herbs.
There was no need for her to ask me why I was here. I would only
risk making this dangerous journey for one reason.
“Take this tonight.” She pointed to the larger of the bundles.
“The rest is to be taken for five nights after, to stop the bleeding.”
She tied up the bundle and pushed it across the table toward me.
“Thank you, Mama Akosua.”
“Is it the son this time?”
I looked up and met her intimidating gaze, but on this occasion, I
couldn’t hold it. She knew how much these things shamed me yet it didn’t stop
her from asking about them. When I answered, my voice was barely a whisper.
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“He... he be at my cabin near about three times a week now since
Easter.”
“He is worse than his father, no?” It wasn’t a question; it was a
statement.
“Yes.”
I fought back tears as an image came to me from a few weeks
before. I was standing in my tiny cabin and Master John was behind me gazing at
our reflections in a small handheld mirror. I don’t know if making me look at
myself was one of the many ways he had of tormenting me or if he really was
oblivious to the fact that I despised my face. Either way, he would make me
stare at my piercing dark brown eyes framed by long sooty eyelashes, deep
mahogany skin, small delicate features and large sensuous lips. My springy,
unruly hair was pulled away from my face, something he insisted on, as my hair
was the one thing a man like him could find no beauty in. It was always the
same ordeal with the mirror whenever he came to my cabin. And I honestly don’t
know which face I hated more, that of the blond-haired, blue-eyed man I had
come to despise even more than his old, decrepit father, or my own. The face he
was enamoured with. He eventually pulled the mirror out of my hand, and placing
it on the bed, held his arms out.
“Dance with me,” he had said in a soft, silky voice.
I remained where I was, my face a blank mask but rage no doubt
burning behind my eyes. I may not have had a say over his nocturnal visits, but
I would not play these little games or pretend that I wanted him in my wretched
little cabin.
Fast, so fast that I didn’t have time to protect myself, he raised
his hand and slapped me, sending me crashing to the floor. Pain bloomed along
my temple and the left side of my face. I had also bitten my lip when I hit my
head. His foot came down on my neck and I felt the dirt on the sole of his boot
rubbing into my skin as he pressed down, cutting off my air supply. I struggled
in vain to breathe and was close to losing consciousness when he slowly removed
his foot and hauled me back onto my feet as if he were picking up a sack of
potatoes. Then he held out his arms again, that smile, which never seemed to
leave his face, swimming before my eyes as I struggled to clear my vision.
I was bristling with anger and yet fear won out because he could
do anything he wanted to me and there was nothing I would be able to do to stop
him. No one I could go to for protection. I had been born and bred purely for
men like him, not only to do with as they pleased, but to increase their riches
by breeding more slaves for them to own.
“Dance with me,” he said again.
Tasting blood in my mouth, I did as I was ordered to do.
“Massa Henry used to please hisself and leave,” I told Mama
Akosua. “But Massa John... he like to play.”
I sensed rather than saw her rage.
I had led a relatively painless existence, for a slave, up until
around the age of eight or nine when Master Henry had sent me on an errand to
one of the neighbouring farms, an errand which would take me through the woods.
I had run eagerly out of the house, hardly believing the good fortune that
meant I could spend most of the morning walking through the woods instead of
working. And it was the perfect day for a long walk, a beautiful spring day.
The air was crisp and cool and the sun filtering through the fresh green leaves
created patches of golden haze for me to walk through. I skipped along carefree
and untouched at that time by the burdens of a female slave, deviating from my
path only once to chase a squirrel, losing it moments later when it darted up a
tree and out of sight.
It wasn’t long before I came to a stream winding its way through
the trees directly in my path and saw Master Henry on his horse. I froze
straight away but wasn’t immediately frightened as it seemed his face lit up
with the kind of excitement you would expect to see on the face of a man on a
long quest for buried treasure at the moment he finally finds it.
“Massa Henry!” I cried, dropping the parcel he had given me to
deliver. I stooped to pick it up and when I straightened, he had already
dismounted and was walking quickly toward me.
Master Henry, who was in his fifties, was tall and thin, had brown
hair that was peppered with grey, a beak of a nose and thin, pink lips. I felt
immediately uneasy about being on my own with him so far from the house,
especially since it seemed as if he had gone to the trouble of saddling up his
horse and riding out of the plantation with the sole intention of overtaking
me.
But I tried to allay my fears by telling myself that he had never
actually given me reason to fear him. The only unnerving thing about him was
that he had a habit of turning up wherever I was working and would watch me
intently for far too long as if he were looking to find fault with my work. He
had never actually reprimanded me for anything, but something about his manner,
his long wrinkled neck, bony elbows and knees, reminded me of a vulture waiting
patiently. Mary, the cook, seemed uneasy about his apparent interest in my
work. Perhaps she was worried that if he found fault with anything I did it
would be blamed on her. So whenever Master Henry was at home she was always
beside me, helping me with my chores even though I was more than capable of
doing them on my own, a light sheen of anger marking her every action, the
quick furtive glances she cast in Master Henry’s direction always fearful.
Sometimes she would find an excuse to call me away if Master Henry made his way
into whatever room I was in. I noticed that the other house slaves did the
same.
I was too young at that time to know why his greedy eyes had
become my shadow or why he showed such an overt interest in everything I did. I
was also too young to understand the acid rage I saw in his young wife Mistress
Emily’s eyes whenever she saw him watching me, or why she had tried on more
than one occasion to send me to work in the fields. And the other slaves
obviously thought it was kinder not to explain it to me.
So when I saw him waiting for me that day, I knew I was in a lot
of trouble but I didn’t know what I had done.
When he got to me I saw a feverish light in his eyes as they moved
over my tiny body. It was as if he couldn’t see or hear anything but me. Then
his hand shot out abruptly and he pushed me to the ground. When he began to wrestle
with his belt I tried to crawl away, knowing now that something awful was about
to happen. But he was already on top of me, ripping my dress off whilst he
moaned and reached for my chest to paw at what had not yet begun to form there.
The pain had been horrific and my screams seemed to heighten his pleasure as he
rode me as if I were the stallion he had obviously ridden furiously in order to
catch me here alone in the woods. I lost consciousness at some point, and when
I came to it was to the sight of him pulling up his trousers. He had mounted
his horse and then turned to look at me with what I now know to be lust and it
was clear that he was considering getting off his horse to repeat what he had
done. Thankfully he gently urged his horse on through the trees to make his way
back to the road.
Once he was gone I rolled onto my side and sobbed. I didn’t fully
understand what had happened, but I knew it was something to be ashamed of and
that I couldn’t go back to the house and face Mary. There was a faintly
metallic smell mingling with that of the cold dry earth and I realised that it
was the smell of my own blood, which was seeping through my legs. I tried to
cover myself but my dress was torn in two so I wrapped my arms around what was
left of the garment and lay there crying.
After a while, when the sun had reached the highest point in the
sky, the sound of a twig snapping under the weight of a person’s foot told me I
was no longer alone.
I sat up with a start to see one of the slaves, Jupiter, standing
about three metres away from me. He was a tall, handsome African of around
eighteen years old and had coal black skin and big beautiful brown eyes.
Book Review:
Luna is a slave who is repeatedly
sexually abused by her Master and then his son when he becomes the Master. Her mother is sold away from her when she is
a very young child and she has no-one else.
She finds her only solace in a ruined chapel on the grounds of the
plantation, but even that is no longer safe.
This story is truly intense. It is told from the view of a young woman who
finds a journal telling the life’s story of an ancestor of hers, Luna. Through her we feel terror, horror, humor,
romance, sex, safety, loss, joy, and sorrow.
Each page brings new enticing information to keep pulling you into the
story.
Well written, this story is not for the faint of heart or for
children. This story has scenes of rape,
murder, demons, beating, the worst of slavery, and the best in humanity. It will make you angry, happy, sad, and get
your adrenalin pulsing. I would not read
it in the dark……. Unless you are very brave.
I give this story 4 out of 5 clouds, and a strong parental (adult only)
warning due to the violence.
This
product or book may have been distributed for review; this in no way affects my
opinions or reviews.
