The Unpublished Fiction Series highlights outstanding, well-performing fiction manuscripts on The Black List.
You can explore our Unpublished Fiction Series archive here — we’ve shared excerpts of manuscripts in many genres, so there is something for every reader.
Our hope is to raise visibility for book industry agents and editors looking for the next project to consider for representation or acquisition.
Enjoy the excerpt and read the full manuscript for WHAT YOU DO NOT SEE on blcklst.com.
Epigraph
“We desire to bequeath two things to our children; the first is roots; the other, wings.”
— African proverb
Historical Note
The first permanent African settlers arrived in Jamestown Virginia in 1619. Jamestown was struggling. Just a decade earlier, the colonists had resorted to cannibalism to avoid starvation. Now, they were experimenting with tobacco.
Slavery did not exist.
Instead, planters imported impoverished Englishmen, who labored under brutal circumstances for four years in exchange for food and the prospect of land when their term was done. While the status of the African arrivals was uncertain and varied greatly from person to person, restrictive legislation did not begin until the 1640’s. Slavery as a system would not be fully implemented in Virginia until 1705.
How different things could have been.
Shh!
Do you hear that sound? The whisper on the wind that seeps into your dreams?
I am speaking to you. I have always spoken to you.
Do not assume you know what is to come. For until the lion tells the story, the hunter will always be the hero.
This is a tale of a lion.
But if you want to know the end, you must start at the beginning.
Open your ears and you will understand the language of spirits.
MARGARIDA — Chapter 1
ON THE BANKS OF THE KWANZA
KINGDOM OF NDONGO
MARCH 1619
The hyena paced around the baobab tree, hollow eyes fixed on the branch where Kanene perched, her toes just out of reach. Its spotted fur was matted and its jaws snapped with oversized teeth. Though the lush leaves blocked her view of the tangled bush, she knew that there were more.
Hyenas did not hunt alone.
Kanene was eleven, strong enough to carry three gourds of fresh water, one in each hand and the third balanced on her head. But she was no match for a hyena. They could overtake a lion, darting in to tear at the soft skin of the underbelly or to pull between the hindquarters with teeth sharp as thorns. The teeth of a hyena could crush even the bones of a wildebeest.
That was why Tata and the other fathers in the Kingdom of Ndongo coated their arrows with a powder made from stinging beetles and carried them to the pastures when the cattle were grazing.
But there were no men with poisoned arrows here to protect her. She was alone except for her six-year-old sister who’d snuck out and wandered to the banks of the Kwanza River in search of turtles.
“Mama!” Eriza sobbed.
“Hold tight, Eriza. Don’t be scared. It can’t climb.” Her voice cracked. They were safe, now, high up in this tree. But already the shadows were growing longer, the winds picking up. Within an hour, the sun would set. With dark would come leopards, and cheetahs who could climb. Even the occasional lion lulled by tall grasses and fragrant breezes, searching for gazelles.
That was why at dusk, Mama and the other mothers hurried with their baskets from the cassava fields surrounding the town of Massangano. That was why the sentries closed the main gate behind them and wound many strips of dried gazelle hide to secure it.
It was why they did not go to the Kwanza, when the sun was descending, in search of turtles.
She drew a breath, puffed it out. “Let’s just wait here until it goes away and then we’ll go right home?”
Kanene was still trembling. The hyena had lunged as she scrambled into the tree, its teeth so close she’d felt its spittle. Even now, it circled the base of the tree as if unwilling to accept she was out of reach.
It could do so for hours.
“I wanna go home,” Eriza whined. “I want to go to your church party.”
The Jesuits who came before Tata was born brought many strange things. Tales of angels in flowing white dresses, a kingdom ten times bigger than Ndongo and a king so powerful even Tata listened to him, and he’d never ever even seen him. Tonight was the party for her and her friends where they could pick a new name from a saint and be a new person.
But the stupid hyena showed no sign of leaving.
Why wasn’t there a monkey when you needed one? Something to tempt it away. Otherwise, they’d be in the tree all night.
“Something’s coming.” Eriza pointed towards the Kwanza.
Eriza was always hearing things. Gnats whispering. Spirits talking. Even Nana saying things when she lived so far away.
Maybe it was because her ears were the color of a dried maize husk, just like her hair and the rest of her body when everyone else was the color of the richest soil. Nana said hearing things was proof Eriza was blessed, despite her coloring. Others believed capturing her would redirect good fortunes their way. Traders from the eastern kingdoms were convinced drinking blood from her heart would make them powerful.
Eriza had to be kept safe from men like that.
“Do you hear it?” Eriza asked.
There was something.
Words?
Mean words.
Words said the wrong way, like the traders from foreign lands sounded when they tried to speak Kimbundu. Words coming from the edge of the river, as if whoever it was, was skirting the path to remain unseen.
Kanene scrambled higher, straddling a branch next to Eriza where the leaves were thicker. No matter who was coming and what they wanted, Eriza needed her close by. She pointed to her upper lip.
“Shh!”
Below, the hyena slunk under a tree.
Two strangers emerged from the bush. A man with heavy muscles. And a skinny boy, one eye swollen shut, who was maybe 13.
The man had the face of a demon, cheeks streaked with white clay, hair studded with brambles. His teeth were filed sharp, pointy like a crocodile’s. At his waist, a half-dozen bloody knives and a fancy sheepskin.
Read the full manuscript for WHAT YOU DO NOT SEE, only on blcklst.com.
Jane Howard-Martin work focuses on untold stories of African Americans triumphing over extraordinary odds. She’s a founding member of Write Sisters Write, a Los Angeles based writing group that counts among its alums Pamela Samuels (Anybody's Daughter, In Firm Pursuit, etc) and Nefertiti Austin (Motherhood so White). She’s a retired employment lawyer living her best expat life.
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