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  The Soul Survivors Series

  Boxed Set

  by

  Vella Munn

  Award-winning Author

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-940-5

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  Please Note

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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  The Soul Survivors Series Boxed Set: Copyright © 2017 by Vella Munn All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Seminole Song: Copyright © 2015 by Vella Munn All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Spirit of the Eagle: Copyright © 2015 by Vella Munn All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Wind Warrior: Copyright © 2015 by Vella Munn All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Table of Contents

  Seminole Song

  Spirit of the Eagle

  Wind Warrior

  Seminole Song

  The Soul Survivors Series

  Book One

  by

  Vella Munn

  Award-winning Author

  SEMINOLE SONG

  Reviews & Accolades

  "Munn brings into sharp relief the hesitant attempt of slaves and Indians to bridge vastly different cultures and experiences in order to find love and freedom."

  ~Publishers Weekly

  "An entertaining, fast-moving, fascinating, and well-researched work of historical fiction."

  ~Affaire de Coeur

  Dedication

  To Dick, always.

  And to Dale and Mary Ann, who must assume responsibility for my love affair with the Everglades. Long live the Mucky Duck and blackened redfish.

  Acknowledgements

  The writing of a book is a multifaceted adventure, part creative ramblings, part research and documentation. Seminole Song would have remained whirling about in my mind if not for what I gleaned from The Florida University System, the Seminole tribe of Florida, the Smithsonian, the Bureau of Indian Affairs, the Florida Historic Society, and the Florida State Archives in Tallahassee, all of which contributed to my understanding of that time and place in history.

  My debt goes far beyond official sources. First and most essential, I am grateful to the spirit of the Seminoles who made and still make the Everglades their home. My understanding of the lives of slaves came, not from official history sources, but oral narratives. Linda Brent, thank you. The writings of zoologist Archie Carr did more than ground me in the Everglades ecosystem; he brought the land to life. Finally, thanks to the park ranger who took me deep into the Everglades and answered my endless questions. What an incredible day that was!

  Chapter 1

  Hate fierce as a hurricane whipped through the Seminole war chief. If he had been closer, he would have thrust his knife deep into the plantation owner and watched the man's lifeblood spill onto the ground. But Reddin Croon was too far away. Safe and powerful and cruel. Besides, as a war chief, a tastanagee, Panther had come to this enemy place to free his honton, his friend, not to murder.

  But if the chance came—

  On his belly his nearly naked body vulnerable to the creatures that made the earth their home, Panther took in the newly erected masters house set several feet off the ground, the tiny one-room slave cabins, a horse pen, two barns. The plantation, hacked out of Piahokee—the Everglades—looked like an infected rattlesnake bite surrounded by healthy flesh. Panther's hatred of it burned almost as fiercely as what he felt for the white man.

  Gaitor, big and strong, dark as night, had been run down and brought here by slave catchers. If it had been someone else, Panther might have left him to his fate, not because he didn't care but because his own life was at risk here and those who belonged to the Egret clan depended on his leadership for survival. But he couldn't turn his back on his friend. Gaitor had taught him the newcomers' language, shown him how to use the musket he'd taken from a dead soldier. Most of all, Gaitor had learned to walk in Seminole footsteps and howl like a black wolf to frighten the soldiers; he'd become a warrior.

  Panther inched forward, stopping now with his chin resting on a knobby palmetto root, oblivious to winter's cold. Slaves, looking like baby alligators swarming over a floating log, labored in a nearby sugarcane field. A man on horseback rode among them, a whip clutched in his free hand. The air smelled of rot and swamp gases and hid from him the stench of the white land and flesh owner. Even as he measured the dangerous distance between himself and the wooden buildings, he again imagined his knife burying itself in Reddin Croons belly. To be able to do that—

  The sight of a stoop-shouldered Negro woman limping toward a shed caught his attention. She carried a pan from which water splashed with every slow and awkward step. When the plantation owner called to her, she stopped, head down. Croon yelled something, but from this distance, Panther couldn't make out the words, just the woman's reaction. Despite her loose blouse and billowing skirt, he could tell her body had tensed. Still, when Croon came closer, she didn't cringe. Instead, her head bobbing like a windblown leaf, she listened to what he was saying, said something in return. Finally, she turned her back on her master and started toward the shed again.

  Croon, one hand wrapped tightly around a short switch, watched as she knelt and slid the pan in the small space between the bottom of the door and the ground. She tilted her head to the side as if listening to something coming from the shed. Her lips moved, moved again. When Croon yelled at her, she staggered to her feet and hobbled away.

  A spider, nearly as large as his hand, crawled up and over Panther's thigh. He waited for it to disappear in the spongey undergrowth, then, snakelike, slid over the palmetto root. He listened to his spirit as it argued with him to wait until the safety of nightfall. But by then it might be too late for his friend.

  In addition to the gray chill that pressed down around him, there were enough shadows between him and the hut that he could reach it without fully exposing himself. That's why he'd worn nothing except a breechclout, so his body would fade into the surroundings.

  Slowly, grateful for the strength in him, he stood and darted behind yet another palmetto. His heart drummed furiously; he clamped his teeth together and willed it to quiet. If Gaitor was chained, he would have to find another way to free him, but if he'd only been thrown into the locked hut, Panther might be able to dig under the door with his knife until he'd made enough room that Gaitor could wriggle out.

  And if there was no other way, he'd ask his friend if he wanted him to end things now—before Croon
got to him.

  The water-carrying woman was gone and Croon was walking toward the sugarcane field. Except for a sleeping dog, nothing living stood between him and Gaitor's prison-place. After closing half the distance between him and the dog, Panther sank to his knees. He pressed his lips tightly together and sucked in air, making the sharp, high-pitched squeaks of a baby alligator in distress. The dog's head shot up. Then, the loose flesh around his neck moving tide-like, he clambered to his feet and slunk toward Panther. Panther held his breath, his body motionless and taut as he continued the harsh sound. Matching the animal's pace, he slowly lifted the arm that held his knife and tightened his grip.

  As he lunged for the dog's throat, he sent up a silent prayer to Breath Giver asking for forgiveness. The dog jerked violently backward, wrenching the knife out of his throat, but it was too late. As if the muscles had been stripped from his legs, the dog sank gracefully into a heap. He ducked his head; his tongue shot out as if trying to stem the blood. Then he spasmed and died.

  Breath Giver, take this one to live among all animal spirits. Understand that I put the life of a man before that of a dog, that I could think of no other way. Panther spirit, guide me now.

  After running his hand over the dog's side, Panther slipped around the animal and again studied the distance between him and the hut with its locked door. He wished he'd brought his leather bag of sacred medicine, his musket, powder horn, and bullet pouch, but those things would only slow him when he needed to move as silently as a water moccasin.

  Shadows from the palmetto wall that surrounded the plantation reached out to caress the hut, seeming to protect it from harm, but if Croon decided to return to his captive or the water-bearing woman came back out again—

  No! This was not warrior thought, not tastanagee thought!

  "Gaitor." Panthers whisper wafted out from him with no more strength than that of a newborn bird. Leaves skittered and danced with the increasing wind, but nothing else moved. "Gaitor?"

  "Panther?"

  For a moment, Panther couldn't move. He'd been looking for his friend for two days and a long sleepless night and although he'd been certain he'd been tracking those who'd captured the former slave, there'd been times when he wondered if his spirit was strong enough to bring them face-to-face again.

  "You are well?"

  "Nuthin's broke. What iffen they sees you? You gots to go! It ain't—"

  "You speak too much, lowly clamdigger. Did they chain you?"

  "My hands. To a post. But the chains, they weren't tight 'nough."

  Panther understood. By compressing his fingers as tightly together as possible, Gaitor had managed to free himself. He might have torn his flesh, maybe even have broken bones in the effort, but a man who has once felt chains around his neck and then tastes freedom doesn't easily turn his back on that freedom. "The door?"

  "I tried; it's solid. Someon' juss give me water, my first. I beens tryin' to dig out usin' the pan."

  Panther grunted, then froze, his senses suddenly as alive as if he'd been touched by lightning. From where he crouched, he couldn't see any sign of danger, but he wouldn't have survived twenty winters if he hadn't taken to heart his spirit's instincts. He was panther; he lived panther. Trusting Gaitor not to break the silence, he breathed in a deep lungful of air and tested it for messages. Damp, heavy. Different somehow. The hut stood between him and the main house and blocked too much of the sugarcane field. If Croon—

  "Leave. Run!"

  Sharp pricks of warning slid down his spine. His muscles screamed with the need for action. Leave! Run! But he couldn't.

  Calling on legs that had taken him through a chilled swamp, over hammocks, even across a small savanna since he'd last slept, he stood. Still nothing. He stepped back and to the side. He could see all of the house now. Despite its newness, it seemed to droop like sawgrass during the dry season, too big and gray and weary for its lush surroundings.

  Someone was standing on the porch, a slight, female figure. Although she was so far away that he couldn't tell anything more than that about her, he felt her eyes lock with his. Then with a movement as graceful as a floating butterfly, she nodded in the direction of the cane field.

  Acting on instinct, Panther bent and slid his knife under the door. "Use it!" he hissed.

  "What—"

  He didn't wait. Running with his first step, he bolted toward the trees. As he did, he glanced over his shoulder, not toward the warning woman but at the mass of sugarcane. There was no sign of the plantation owner. What had she—A flash of light at the edge of the field registered as a musket, but before his brain could acknowledge the awful truth, a roar like that of a bull alligator split the stormy day. He heard the sound; felt something slam into the side of his head; felt his legs crumple.

  Heard Gaitor bellow and then nothing.

  * * *

  Panther woke with a weak sun touching his left shoulder and back. His belly felt as if he'd had too much of the black drink administered by shamans for purification, and he wondered if he was going to vomit. After taking several deep breaths, he managed to subdue the worst of his stomach's rolling, but the heavy air did nothing to quiet the drums beating inside his head. He tried to lift his hand to his temple; that was when he realized his arms had been lashed behind him.

  He struggled to straighten his legs, but they'd been tied together and then pulled up and behind him so that his wrists and ankles were held tightly together. His mouth felt dry and swollen. Panic—no! Forcing his thoughts off himself, he arched up from the ground so he could use both his ears.

  Insects buzzed. Somewhere an ax was being driven into wood, the thunk-thunk slamming into his throbbing skull. Pain told him he was alive. Lowering his head, he rested until he was able to open his eyes without feeling as if a spear had been driven into his forehead.

  By turning slightly, he saw that purple-black clouds were building on the horizon. Already the wind was causing the dark green palmetto leaves to shimmy. Once the storm hit, he would be praying that a downpour didn't saturate the ground and drown him in mud.

  The question of why he'd been tied like a pig ready for slaughter lasted only briefly; he knew the answer.

  He'd been shot and knocked unconscious. The blood clotted in his scalp and down the side of his neck told him that. Someone had secured him and left him here because that person—it had to be Lieutenant Reddin Croon—wasn't done with him. Maybe he would be turned over to the bluecoats, who would torture him until he either died or told them where the small, scattered Seminole clans lived. And maybe Croon recognized him, would exact his own punishment.

  A cry built in his throat, a wolf howl he'd used to terrify the soldier-boys who'd been chasing his people ever since warriors attacked the troops heading for Fort King and those already in it. But if he howled, his skull might explode.

  Osceola, Tastanagee Thloko, Great Warrior of the Seminole, had raged like a wild beast when Indian agent Wiley Thompson seized him and placed him in chains; Osceola had avenged his humiliation by killing Thompson at Fort King. Panther's time for revenge would come, if he lived.

  He'd been left where he'd fallen. He wanted to let his friend know he was alive, but several slaves were close enough that they might overhear, and even if he spoke to Gaitor in Seminole, one of them might understand and relay what he'd heard to his master.

  The great storm cloud slid up into the sky and blocked out the sun. The air smelled wet and expectant, energy existing separate from and as powerful as the wind. Trees bent and fought like speared fish that don't yet know they've been killed. He heard the sound of running feet and guessed the slaves were trying to reach their cabins before the downpour began. Several ran past him, and when they stared down at him, he stared back.

  It began to rain, heavy drops the size of the tip of his thumb slamming into his naked body, chilling him. He'd been tied with leather. Once they were soaked, the bonds would stretch, but maybe not enough to allow him to free himself. When water ran
off his back in tiny streams, he began testing the loops around his wrists, but the leather clung to his flesh like a constricting snake. The storm wouldn't last. Before nightfall, the clouds would return to their hiding place in the heavens, the sun would pull the moisture out of the earth, and the leather would dry and shrink.

  The ground under him turned to slick mud. Maybe—The hadjo, crazy thought, nearly made him laugh; if he could flatten himself, he could slide under the door that kept Gaitor prisoner. His friend would cut him free. While the slaves and their owner waited out the storm, the two of them would run into the swamp and freedom.

  Freedom. The taste, the smell, the need of it drove deep into him until he truly believed he had become hadjo. Would they keep him here like this until his arms and legs withered and became useless? He would die before he told any of the hated bluecoats where his people were, before letting Croon believe he feared the flesh-owner's power. But he wanted his death to be quick, a warrior seeking a warrior's end.

  This helplessness was worse than dying.

  He turned and opened his mouth, pulling water into his throat. His shoulders ached from the strain of being wrenched behind him, and there was a spreading numbness in his wrists. The rain continued to pound down around him, the sound all-consuming. He thought not of Gaitor and the sense of urgency that had brought him here, but of his clan, Osceola, the night that life had left his father's body. He wanted, needed to be back in the wilderness, needed to be a child again hunting and fishing at his father's side.

  Thunder rolled, the sound alone enough to make the earth shudder. It was followed almost immediately by a great, branching tree of lightning that seared the purple clouds. He watched, fascinated despite himself, as it arched and re-arched through the sky. No matter that thunder and lightning were part of his life, he would always be in awe of Storm God's power. Another thunderclap surged after the first, potent and alive. He already felt as if he'd been thrown into the sea; now the downpour became even heavier as if urged on by thunder and lightning. Once again the sky lit up. Shafts of light pulsed and danced, momentarily turning the dark clouds gold.