Carranca - Based on the legends of the Myrtles Plantation

ST. FRANCISVILLE, LOUISIANA, 1796   Bradford, a middle-aged man, is in the room. (David Bradford was a successful lawyer and deputy attorney-general for Washington County, Pennsylvania in the late 18th century. He was infamous for his association with the Whiskey Rebellion. and his fictionalized escape to the Spanish-owned territory of West Florida, modern-day Louisiana. He was later pardoned by President John Adams for his actions.)   There is a knock on the door, it frightens. Bradford says: "Can not you, again?" "It's us Bradford." Bradford calms down and opens the door. The two men come in. Three men in period clothes are in the living room. "What's it? You look scared, did you see any ghost?" Bradford chuckles softly. "Nothing, foolishness, to what do I owe the honor of the visit?" "Has your sentence left? Do you want to listen? Written by President John Adams himself." "Is there another way? I have to listen." "It's long, but I'll read it to you." Man 1, with a large paper, begins to read. "To all persons to whom these presents shall come, Greetings. Whereas David Bradford, late of the county of Washington in the State of Pennsylvania, attorney at law, has in his petition declared his contrition, and sincere repentance of all his errors and misdeeds in relation to the late insurrection in the western parts of the State aforesaid, committed or done against the United States of America, and has implored a pardon for the same, and whereas the sufferings of the said David Bradford an exile in a foreign land, and separated from his wife, his children and his former friends, during the space of more than four years, have already been great, and whereas the restoration of peace, order, and submission to the laws in the said Western parts of the said State render it necessary to make examples of those who may have been criminal, the principal and of heinous punishment being the reformation of offenders and the prevention of crimes in others, for these and other good cause, I—John Adams, President of the United States of America, have granted, and by these presents do grant unto the said David Bradford a full, free, absolute and entire pardon for all treasons, suspicions of treason, felony, misdemeanors and other crimes and offences by him committed or done against the United States, in relation to the Insurrection aforesaid hereby remitting and releasing all pains, and penalties by him incurred by reason of the promises. In Testimony whereof. I have hereto set my hand and caused the Seal of the United States to be affixed this ninth day of March, in the year of our Lord one thou. and seven hundred and ninety-nine, and in the Twenty-third year of the Independence of the said 'United States'. John Adams, By the President, Timothy Pickering, Secretary of State." "And so Bradford, this statement is explicit, you have been forgiven." Bradford is sitting, listening quietly. Two men are with him. "Truth. The rebellion we started failed." "You can not say that! We fight against a unfair taxation. We started a uprising against the British precisely because of high taxes and now the American revolutionaries have taxed the country's distillers to pay their war debts.” "Yes, they call our rebellion‘Whiskey Rebellion'." "You cannot surrender." "Of course I can." Bradford gets up. "We lost, a good general knows when the defeat is imminent." "You cannot say such a thing, it's treason!" "No my friends. I fought with you for a cause that I thought was right. But it was bullshit. Throughout Pennsylvania protesters used violence and intimidation to prevent federal authorities from collecting the tax. I have always been against violence." "Yes, and what did the great President George Washington do? He sent soldiers to destroy us." "Washington is an honorable man. I have no complaints from him." "Washington itself was at the head of an army to c***k down on the insurgency, with 13,000 militiamen provided by the governors of Virginia, Maryland, New Jersey, and here in Pennsylvania." "Yes, but all the rebels went home before the army arrived and there was no confrontation. About 20 men were arrested, but all were later acquitted or forgiven. He did not resort to tyranny." "You are defending him. I cannot believe you said that. Well you can be sure, I assure you that I'm going to take my g*n and I'll fight to the end." "End of what? It's already the end. You have revolutionaries dreams, as if it were beautiful to make revolutions. Look at this house here. It was built on an Indian cemetery. Did we have that right? No. But now it's over, what can I do?" "Whiskey is a popular drink, and farmers often supplement their incomes by operating small stills. Farmers living west of the Appalachian Mountains distill their excess grain into whiskey, which is easier and more profitable to transport on the mountains than heavier grains. A whiskey tax makes Western farmers less competitive with grain farmers in the East. In addition, money is always lacking at the border, so whiskey often serves as a medium of exchange. For the poorest people who are paid in whiskey, the tax is essentially an income tax that the wealthiest Orientals do not pay. It's fair?" Bradford says: "Life is not fair. But these taxes are difficult to collect. Many residents of the western border filed a petition against the passage of the tax on the consumption of whiskey. When that failed, some people from western Pennsylvania organized extralegal conventions to uphold repeal of the law. Appeals to nonviolent resistance were unsuccessful. I agreed. I participated actively with you, but it's over, we have nothing else to do. I asked for violent resistance. I went against it, but I asked for violence. But the uprising was out of control. The crowd, which I gathered, consisted mostly of poor people who had no land, and most of them had no whiskey stills. The furor over whiskey consumption triggered anger over other economic complaints. By this time, victims of violence were often wealthy owners who had no connection with the whiskey tax. Some of the more radical protesters wanted to march on Pittsburgh, which they called "Sodom," loot the houses of the rich and then burn the city to the ground. Some even spoke of declaring independence from the United States and joining Spain or Britain. No, my friends, I'm out." "You're a traitor! You abandoned us." "Think of me whatever you want." The two men leave. Bradford back to a small box, opens it and pulls out a bottle of whiskey, picks up a glass and start drinking, when suddenly something comes screaming near him. "AAAHHHH !!!!"   Bradford drops the glass, falls on a small wooden table that breaks. He gets up quickly, gets scared and looks around. Look forward, back and forth again and ... the entity stares at him. An indigenous woman.   "You again? Why you torments me." He hears a sideways noise, turns to see, but has nothing. He looks forward and the entity disappears. "What do you want?" Bradford runs to a box, picks up a wooden cross and points to nothing. "THAT SYMBOL DOES NOT AFFECT ME!" "What do you want?" "THAT'S MY HOME!" "Yours? Why? Why was this house built over an Indian graveyard? You are a lost spirit!"     Suddenly, shots coming from outside, begin to destroy the place. He lies down, protects himself. Glasses are broken, a large hail of bullets occurs. Bradford goes outside the house and we see the two men, who talked to him before, shooting and running away.   Braford says:   "A good general knows when it's time to back off." Wants to know? I'm going to sell this house and go away. Let this entity scare another."   ST. FRANCISVILLE, LOUISIANA, CURRENT DAYS        The smell of coffee filled the entire room. Angela woke up with the smell. It was 7 A.M. and it was cold outside. But she was warm in her bed, wrapped in blankets.  At her side, her brother and sister still slept. An eleven years old girl and an eight years old boy. Angela was 15 years old. She stayed in bed, feeling the aroma of coffee coming from the kitchen. Their house was small, wooden, low ceiling, with the roof just above. Soon came a male voice from the kitchen. “Angela, wake up, it's time.”      It was Mr. Wagner. Farmer, tall and strong, short brown hair, a descendant of Germans who had come to the region more than 100 years before. He lived in United States, which has a strong German community. Mr. Wagner's ancestors came from Germany and he was proud of his Germanic origins. In his room, there was a German flag, although small, on a small table next to his bed and he even spoke a little bit of the language. But despite his pride, Mr. Wagner belonged to a lower class of German immigration to United States. He was a farmer with little education. Their house was small, wooden, with only a few rooms. There was no lining in the ceiling. The roof was visible from inside. It was wavy and thin. He and his family had moved into this house only a few days before. It was him, his wife, who was also a descendant of Germans, and their three children. “Angela, you mother finished brewing the coffee. We have cake today, just the way you like it.”      Angela heard the call. She was a short girl, thin, brown hair and very different from the stereotype of the typical German (blonde and tall). She got up, went to the closet and pulled out a black sweater. The closet was shared between her and her brother and sister. She tried putting on the sweater, but realized that it belonged to her younger sister. “Damn, it doesn't fit. It's not mine.”      She searched around until she found her sweater, same style and also black, and dressed it. She was wearing pants, white socks to protect from the cold at night and long-sleeved shirt. She went back to the bed, careful not to wake the others and put her shoes on. Then, she went into the kitchen. Still with a sleepy face, she sat down at the table where her father was drinking coffee. “Where's the cake?” She asked. “Right here,” pointed, her father. “You’re so sleepy that you didn't even notice.”      It was a carrot cake, no frosting. She picked up a piece and began eating. “Still with the idea that you don't want to learn German?” he asked her. “That language is too hard. Why can't I learn something more universal? Learning German won’t do me any good.” “My daughter, you have to stop this. German it’s a strong language, a noble one.” “I know you like it, father. I tried to keep up but it's very complicated and I don't see any usefulness in learning something that I won't use all that much. What for? We're in a small town of 5,000 inhabitants, hundreds of kilometers from any major city. Learning German will only serve me for bragging rights.” “I even bought you those correspondence lessons. It was a sacrifice for us. You stay home all day, taking cake of your siblings while your mother and I go to work. They're bigger now. They don't give you much trouble. Besides, there's no school around here. So, apply yourself, you have the time.” “I know dad. But does it have to be German? I don't even know where Germany is, they will never accept me there. We are in United Sates, far from anywhere in the world. I don't see why I have to learn it.” “I bought the lessons for you and it was expensive. I already bought it, now you have to learn it.” “You did this without telling me, you didn’t even ask me if I wanted to. If you like the language so much why don't you learn it?” “I know a little, and you don't know anything. You’ll learn it all.” “But why me?” “This is not a discussion, just do it.”      Her mother was quietly listening while tidying up the stove. She also disagreed with her husband’s insistence to force her daughter to learn the language of immigrants. She had already adapted to United States, although she had a German name: Valquiria. She was a simple woman, of little education, short and chubby, long dark blonde hair, more dark than blonde, but still considered blonde. She serves the cake to Angela, who was too sleepy to eat. Angela eats breakfast, as does her dad, when... TAF. “What was that?” asks Angela. “I don't know,” replies her father. “Something fell on the roof.”      Another sound: TAF. “Again,” says Angela.      She finds it very strange, her father too, but her mother doesn’t pay much attention to it. When... TAF.      Mr. Wagner gets up and goes outside, followed by Angela. It was morning, it was cold, and a little cloudy. The house was not very high, Mr. Wagner watches the top. “Looks like rocks,” he says, examining the roof. “Yes, rocks.” says Mr. Wagner, grabbing a stone. It looks big even in his big hands, he can barely hold it. The roof is thin. “It is so strange that it didn’t break the tiles,” says Angela. “Stones don’t just fly like that,” says Mr. Wagner. When: TAF. The noise comes from the other side of the house. Mr. Wagner runs to the other side, followed by Angela. When they get there, nothing. Mr. Wagner looks up, at the roof, and sees another stone up there. He tells Angela: “Weird, it just falls, but it doesn’t roll down, it just falls straight down.” All of a sudden... TAF. The noise comes from right next to where they were. They run over to see what it was. “I can see it, another stone, higher up,” says Mr. Wagner. “Is someone throwing it?” asks Angela. “Maybe someone is messing with us,” says Mr. Wagner, who goes to the back of the house. There is a small pine forest and in front of it, a small road. Mr. Wagner goes into the woods. “Who's there?” He asks. Angela stays behind, in the middle of the road. But he doesn't see anything. They return to the front of the house. Valquiria is at the door. “What was that noise?” She asks. “Some rocks falling on the roof. I thought it was someone throwing them from the woods in the back, but no one was there.” “But I heard it just now,” says Valquiria. “When?” asks Mr. Wagner. “Right now,” says Valquiria. “Like one minute ago, I guess.”      Mr. Wagner estranges the situation. He was at the woods. The stones didn't come from there. He looked up and saw it, perfectly still, as big as the other. But he didn't care anymore, he was late for work, in the farm. Valquiria was also late for work. “We have to go, it's probably nothing. It must be just rocks falling from the sky, this fog is very dense.” “But fog can’t carry stones,” says Angela. “I’ll check it out, later,” says Mr. Wagner. Angela stays outside, at the door. She moves away a little and try to see the over the house. Mr. Wagner and Valquiria go on their way and follow the road. They’re walking, work is nearby. “Take care of your brother and sister, Angela. And study German,” says Mr. Wagner. “Alright, dad,” answers Angela, with a bleak voice.      She watches as her parents move away from the house and as they disappear from her sight, she goes back inside, closing the door. She sits back on the table, this time there was no food, Valquiria had taken everything out. She went to the living room and opened a drawer of the bookshelf, taking out the correspondence lessons to study. She places it on the table, goes to her room and sees her brother and sister sleeping. She doesn't want to wake them. Coffee and cake are in the kitchen counter. “When they wake up, I’ll set the table again,” she says as she begins her lessons.      Angela studied for hours, but her little desire in learning it didn't help her progress. She wanted to find a reason to learn German, to do what her father wanted so much for her. “I’ll do it for my father. He wants me to learn it so I'm going to,” she says to herself. She carried on her studies until she felt wind coming from her room, a draft. “Is the bedroom window open? Did the kids wake up?” She said.      She got up and went to the bedroom, but the children were still asleep and the window was closed. Still, the wind was stronger. “It must be coming from cracks in the house,” She said.      She returned to the table, picked up a headset and put it in to continue the lessons, but all of a sudden, she hears a ringing, so strong that she quickly took out the headset. “Interference?” She said.      She grabbed the headset again, when she heard a voice, hoarse but strong, saying: “NO, THAT'S NOT INTERFERENCE. OR IS IT?” “Who said that,” asked Angela. “IT'S THE SOUND OF YOUR LOITERING. YOU DON'T WANT TO LEARN BECAUSE YOU’RE A b***h, BITCH.”      Angela is scared, searching for the voice, she finds her little sister, eleven years old, on the door of the bedroom, just looking at her. “Did it wake you up?”      She did not answer. “Did you hear the voice?”      Her sister still didn’t answer, she was leaning on the door with the left arm, staring at her, not even blinking. “What is it?” asks Angela.      Her sister yells, “AAAAAHHHHH” and advances on her, running. Angela was sitting, she was knocked down, the table turned and everything fell as the two sisters fought on the floor. “Are you crazy?” said Angela to her sister.      But her sister still wouldn’t answer, she just wanted to hit her. Angela, however, was stronger and was able to hold her sister down, forcing her to get up. Her sister breaks out, and is able to get a punch through and Angela falls back. Her sister, takes one of the wooden chairs and hits her several times, blood comes out of Angela’s arms. “Stop, you’re breaking my arms!”      She is panicking when... “It was a dream,” said Angela. She was sitting. She had slept with her head on the table. She got up, went to the bedroom to check on her brother and sister, they were sleeping. She came close to her sister and called her: “Wal, are you sleeping?”      Walquiria was the name of her sister. She had their mother's name, only with a W instead of a V. Her sister moved around a little, babbled a groan, but kept sleeping. Angela went to check her brother. Fagner was his name, almost the same as their father’s, but with the F in place of the W. He also moved around a little, babbled a few words and kept sleeping. She went to the window, it was closed, she opened it and looked outside. It was cloudy, still very cold weather. She closed the window, but not all the way. She remembered the stones, that fell on the roof, left the room and went to the front door. She walked away from the house, trying to see over it, but she noticed the stones were gone. “That’s strange, it was right there. Did it roll down? Or am I looking at the wrong spot? Oh well, I'm going back to my lessons.”      Angela went back into the house and got back to trying to learn the German language. Nothing else happened. She spent the entire afternoon learning. It was already 6 P.M. when her parents arrived. Mr. Wagner walks in on his daughter studying. “That’s very good, my daughter. That's the way it should be.” “But it's my school’s break,” says Angela. “I shouldn't be studying like this.” “My daughter, studies shouldn’t stop just because of a school’s break. Besides, when you go back, you will be speaking German and you can impress your friends. Make it an extra motivator.”      Angela was excited with the idea of learning it to impress her friends, but her parents were home and she had studied a lot so, she got the lessons’ books and audios put it back in the bookshelf’s drawer. “Where are your brother and sister?” asked Valquiria to Angela. “They're asleep,” said Angela.      Mr. Wagner heard the conversation and was just as surprised as Valquiria that the kids were sleeping all day. “That’s not normal,” said Valquiria to Mr. Wagner.      They entered the bedroom. There was some light coming from the c***k Angela left in the window. Valquiria tries to wake the little girl up, she moves, mumbling something, but won't wake up. Watched by Mr. Wagner, she tries to wake up the boy who also moves, babbles some moan, but won't wake up. Mr. Wagner thinks the two kids are lazy and shakes the two, fiercely, but they still don’t wake up. He takes off both of their blankets, but they keep on sleeping. Mr. Wagner shakes the boy. “Wake up!!”      Still nothing. They begin to worry, estranging the situation. They call for Angela. “Angela, come here,” says Mr. Wagner.      Angela goes into the bedroom. “Did they get up during the afternoon?” asks Mr. Wagner. “No dad, they stayed that way the entire day. I tried to wake them up, but they didn't.” “Throw water at them,” says Mr. Wagner to Valquiria.      She thinks that’s a radical measure and doesn’t like it, but, concerned, agrees. She goes into the kitchen, grabs a common pot, fills it with water from the sink, cold water. She goes back to the bedroom and throws a little water at the girl, hitting her face. The girl moves, but still won't wake up. She does the same thing with the boy, and gets the same reaction. They just moved around and kept sleeping. “Oh, my God, something happened,” says Mr. Wagner. “He remembered the rocks, falling on the roof.” “Angela, did any more rocks fall after we left?” “No, dad. I went outside to check it out and they are gone.” “Gone? Who took it?”      Mr. Wagner goes outside, trying to look at the top of the roof and sees for himself, the rocks are actually gone. He comes back, scared. “Do we call a doctor?” says Mr. Wagner to Valquiria. “It’s hard to get a doctor to come all this way, but there's a friend of mine who's a nurse. I’ll call her,” says Valquiria.      She leaves the house and walks for a while, there were other houses nearby, scattered, the area was sparsely populated. She arrives at the house she was looking for. The house had no bell of any kind, she claps and Misses Maria walks out, she’s an older woman, around her 50s, experienced nurse, she also handled home births. What distinguished her from Mr. Wagner’s family is that she was indigenous, a cultured indian. Her husband, named Acauã, a common indian name in the Apache's, was next to her. Just like Mr. Wagner, Acauã also was proud of his origins and still held much of its indigenous culture. “What happened, Valquiria?” She asks. “My young children don’t want to wake up, I'm scared.” “That’s strange, did you try to wake them up?” asked Maria. “Yes, but it didn’t work. I even threw cold water at them, they moved in bed, said something, a moan. But they don't wake up.”