This is a fictional story I wrote for a club contest. I didn't win so I thought I'd post it to get your comments to improve it.
Chained to the Old Oak Tree
It’s been years since I visited Grandpa’s farm. Nothing much ever changes there, in southern Missouri, so it’s likely still the same. An oak tree stood on the back of the property, down by the river. It seemed to touch the clouds. The trunk so big it took three of us with stretched out arms to reach around the base, just barely touching our fingertips. The branches were muscular looking, like biceps of a bodybuilder. Initials were carved on many of the branches and the trunk, which was the most interesting thing about the tree. An old rusty chain was wrapped around the trunk with a keyed padlock. Not a new padlock but one you might find in an antique shop with the kind of lock that used a skeleton key.
I often asked Gramps about the chain, hoping to hear an exciting tale, which I did, but he told me a different story every time. The first thing I did when we arrived for a visit was rush down to the oak tree looking for clues about the chain and the purpose it served -- an intriguing mystery that would ultimately lead me to a hidden passion.
When I turned eleven, I received a camera for my birthday. I took many pictures of the Oak tree, the carvings, the chain and the padlock from different angles to study later. My curious mind wasn’t happy with unanswered questions or unfinished puzzles. The chain had a history, dark and disturbing tales involving slaves, Indians, and criminals; all believable but none verified. My imagination was untethered trying to fill in the holes of this mystery.
The stories I heard, and local newspaper articles I read, spoke of slaves and Indians. Shackled to this gigantic tree after working sixteen hours in the field. There were no beds and minimal food. The chain was woven through the shackles securing their feet to the tree. They could lie on the hard ground or sit up facing the tree. The tree had carvings about two feet high that circled around the trunk. Slaves carved their lives into the mighty oak, maybe to pass the time or a journal of their pain? These weren’t the typical carvings of sweethearts one might expect, but etched into the tree were stick figures hauling logs, working in the fields. There were many carvings, some too deteriorated to recognize and others too disturbing for comprehension by an eleven-year-old. Those carvings showed beatings and whippings of slaves and Indians. The oak tree was a memoir of times past, times never to be forgotten, never to be relived.
***
One Full Hand was his name, more a description than a name, but that's what they called him. Branded as a criminal, he worked in the field, by himself with a guard to watch over him. "Mean as they come" the term law-abiding folks used. His right hand was missing, no one knew why and too afraid to ask. One Full Hand didn't speak. Either he couldn't, or he chose not to, he only grunted. After the workday ended, they shackled his hand to his leg, laid him face down, then chained him to the old oak. It took three guards. When bound to the tree, he was alone. His captors didn't believe in compassion; they didn't want to clean up the bloody mess he would create.
An American Indian, One Full Hand grew up in the Osage tribe. His birth name, Achak, meant spirit. When he reached the age of reason, he was given the tribal name Spirit Painter because of his talent. He painted animal skins, headdresses, jewelry, pottery, and carvings. The tribe honored and recognized Achak for his ability. He traveled to big cities selling his paintings and promoting his tribe.
Times were good, too good. Accused of a crime, he didn't commit against a woman, just a young girl. He wasn't guilty, but . . . an Indian. No one believed him to be innocent. He was found guilty on the charge of molesting a woman. Without representation, he had no chance. Sentencing was different in those days. There were options other than jail. The punishment for Spirit Painter was cutting off the offending hand, his painting hand.
Many didn’t live through the trauma of losing a hand, he did. For him, his life was over. His talent had been taken with his hand. He grew bitter and mean. Times got bad, very bad. Trouble followed him wherever he traveled. Drunken bar fights and nights in jail, then finally he found himself chained to a tree. He was Spirit Painter no longer; people called him One Full Hand.
He worked the fields and spoke to no one. Angry at life he wanted nothing to do with people. He noticed the carvings on the tree, they showed the life of a slave, and he knew they suffered as much as he.
One morning when the sun was high in the sky, the guards were few and very distracted. An opportunity to escape presented itself. No words were needed between One Full Hand and the slaves. Their instincts took over. Shovels and picks wielded by the captives, shots fired by the guards, with many injuries, but the guards succumbed.
Their lives were different, the Indian and slaves, but also the same in many ways. Now they were free with a dark memory to share. They went their separate ways to start a new life. The canvas was Spirit Painters medium; painting was his talent, part of his past, but not his future. One Full Hand needed a new passion to drive his life forward. Paper became his medium. He wrote stories about his past to heal his emotional wounds. The more he wrote, the more passionate he became about exposing his struggles. Writing had become his new passion, and people took notice. It didn't make him wealthy, but he made a living, supported by his people. Most important was the impact he had by exposing the truth. He no longer was called One Full Hand. His name was now Spirit Writer, how fitting. He wrote about life's tragedies and dreams, until the day he died. On his tombstone, a small inscription read, “Spirit Writer recorded his life and dreams, enlightening the world.”
***
The tree never released all the chained mysteries from the past, but I discovered a remarkable thing chained to the tree—my curiosity. Putting words to paper can be powerful and liberating.
