The Beast of Walden

"O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done" - Walt Whitman

The cabin in the woods had been abandoned for years, but one night, a candle burned in the window, but not for long. For a short period during the depths of winter in the year 1865, Walden Pond laid dormant to its usual visitors after reports emerged of numerous night-time sightings of a mystical figure appearing amidst the foggy waters. As the sensation grew more mysterious and frightening, the curious few who braved the legends in search of such a creature in the woods all claimed to have survived to tell the story. Though in fact, they had all scurried off at any faint sound that emerged from the waters, never once seeing upfront the horror of this legend. However, what they sensed in the woods was enough for the rumors to spread through nearby towns, particularly amongst the resident kids, inducing them to nightmares of the so-called Beast of Walden that lingered in their imagination.

The name somehow stuck for the supposed creature that was sighted in the middle of those long cold nights mainly by the downtrodden who sought respite from the conventions in which they came. The truth was their imagination got the best of them. By then, legend caught on and Sheriff Jenkins declared Walden Pond closed off until the matter had been resolved. Those who basked in its majestic and healing surroundings considered it cruel that the commotion would limit their freedom to seek a resolve from daily living. Though since none were brave enough to resolve the matter themselves, the Sheriff took it upon himself to investigate. Having not come across anything unusual in his search during the day, he deduced that whatever the creature was, it had to have been nocturnal in nature. Which led him to that night, the night he stumbled across something most disturbing.

Illuminated by a distant fire flickering, figures in white sheets hovering by a flame caught the eyes of the Sheriff, who even contemplated ghosts. But this was no ordinary flame and nor were there any ghosts. That's when he finally put it together as he stumbled out to the firepit and spooked them. But just as he did, a loud bang let out across the pond, flooring the Sheriff and disturbing the leaves all around him and also on the spot that stood, Clément, crouched a few yards away watching in shock. Never once did Clément waver in his squatting stance not even when the horror unfolded. But then it unnerved him when those figures turned their attention to where he stood and the leaves around him started to rustle and then crumble as he leaped up running without even looking back.

What had Clément witnessed? What were they doing there? Why would men kill other men who shared the same colour skin? That's not something Clément would have known about. You see, Clément had been on the run his whole life to the point he felt he was destined to. At that moment, he recalls the countless times he covered such ground in panic, with heaving footsteps on uneven grounds that were either muddy, wet, or steep that pushed him to his limits. Somehow it all felt like a test and for Clément, though he was passing, his escapes always came at a cost.

Trudging through dense foliage once again, guided only by moonlight, Clément's steps quietened for the first time just for a brief while to go undetected. But it could not last. Then he ran faster than he had ever before, for he needed to. Hitherto, he always felt his life had been a dream, for why had it mainly consisted of running and being shot at. His being sensed from a young age that there had to be more to life than just running. But you see running is what he equated with freedom. Escape for him was as normal as being held, prisoner. In between the time of his escapes and his imprisonment, Clément came to the realization, that people who looked like him were imprisoned or kept against their will, while those who enslaved his kind with different colored skin regarded it as normal too. Hence why no one he ever knew or anybody who saw it happening, spoke up. Though of course at a young age, Clément could not truly understand the nature of the silence. Only now does he realize it was all an act, some sort of appeasement from those involved or who stood idly by as it happened - but that bothered him no less.

However, the very act in question was not in vain, it was a way of survival. Clément could never really put a word to what he was feeling, for he was constantly on the move in a whirlwind state of reprieve and exhaustion. So, when he sat by the waters of Walden Pond for the first time after finding freedom, he would lose himself in the ripples of the water as a reminder of the calmness he desperately needed but also the one he instilled in himself during his tribulations. You see he had no trouble by his own accord. His vicissitude was centuries in the making, a result of his ancestors being pulled from their homes in shackles. It angered him so that his only way of calming himself was to remind himself of the journey of his kin and now that of himself as he found refuge away from his troubled life. But it was to be disturbed again this night for he was being chased by figures in white sheets. Perhaps, for the first time in his life, he must have prayed to a heavenly body in the sky to wish the figures stopped chasing him and they did, when Clément dived into the waters and found cover amidst the fog. This was something he may have been accustomed to, submerging in the freezing waters whenever strange visitors in the area spooked him or rather a necessity every time his legs gave out from running. For Clément was not born to run, at least not fated. He simply had no choice in the matter, he was running to stay alive.

The next day when Sheriff Jenkins failed to return, his beloved townsfolk mustered up some courage and marched through the woods, during the brightest hour of the day brandishing their rifles on their hunt for the beast that took their sheriff. It was open season. Once again, Clément was on the run, for he knew in his heart that no one would ever believe figures in white sheets had been responsible for the death of the sheriff. But Clément was tired of running, Walden Pond had become his haven, just like many others before him, Zilpah White, for one who found her sanctuary here and survived through her own form of self-reliance, even precipitating and influencing Walden Pond's favorite son, who of course had a choice in the matter of his lodgings. On the other hand, Clément had no choice but to leave his sanctuary as the mob marched in his direction. As much as he valued his haven, it all came rushing back, the reasonings that convinced Clément to soldier on. He was grateful for this momentary reprieve as he looked to the waters for a final time, or so he thought as he recited a Psalm that gave him great comfort.

"He makes me lie down in green pastures. He leads me beside the still waters."

Clément recalls seeing a face resembling his, reciting the very same passage. It occurred whenever he looked into the still waters and would see glistening eyes follow alongside his, which was loving and firm. This is all Clément would remember of his father. Whenever he had space to feel safe he would recall on the man who helped give him strength and the wisdom from the good book, something Clément had blanketed out with great reason. As he contemplated further, Clément was of the reasoning that perhaps God had led him to the right path. Though what did he gain from all this other than suffering? Though he was grateful so that he may live on he was, however, a victim of his past and his pain through the action of others inflicted on his ancestors, which was ingrained in his being. Carrying all that trauma had already been too much to bear, now having to leave his place of solitude was made harder for Clément who only just found the peace he had been longing for his whole life.

The only other time he felt this peace or even freedom, he recalls was when he and his parents and many alike were guided to safety for a brief while by a godly woman. With all the peace and security, he had at Walden Pond, he remembered more and more about her. They called her the Moses of her people. Clément became a believer from that point on and his faith never once wavered. Not even when his father's body fell beside him, and he and his mother were led away once again. As a result, Clément grew to be frightened of loud banging sounds such as the one that took his father away from him, especially where smoke residue revealed itself not far from the face of a man he would come to know and call, Master.

Left with only his mother, the pair were subjected to unimaginable things. Clément believes he may as well have been born at the Masters' farm, for any memory outside his confinement brought false hope to a never-ending predicament. Soon, the young Clément, perhaps through his body's own defense mechanism, shut out any memory of his father, or any previous escapes they made. It was only he and his mother now. Now the only person he had left in this world, was perishing before him by a cruel man nonetheless, one that kept them pent up and caged like hens in a roost. Though Lucy was treated like an animal, far less sophisticated was the human who treated her and her child like one. Still, she made no sound or pleas. Not even when she was made to scrub floors until her knuckles bled. For as long as Clément can remember, the Master put them to work in dastardly conditions that were almost unspeakable. Worse, was how he would cast words from the good book while he tormented them.

"You are my sheep, Clément, thy rod, and thy staff," the Master opined, as he beat him senselessly and twisted passages to suit and justify the predicament. Lucy, however, stayed calm not because she wanted to but out of necessity, for she too was a woman of God, and it gave her comfort, no matter how dire the circumstances. However, Clément was dumbfounded by his mother's behavior. He always pleaded for his mother to take a stand, for he understood injustice, as a living embodiment of it and because he also understood hypocrisy. He had wondered why the Master himself paid little attention during sermons but donated handsomely to church. For, the Master was not a god-fearing man, if he had been, he may have led a righteous life. But here was a man who had shed tears and admiration for Jesus's righteousness and his sacrifice. Even mentions of Pontius Pilate and his predicament animated him more than anything, almost as if the Master's sense of supposed mercy made him closer to god. Like a preacher, the Master quoted the bible religiously with selective passages, filling himself with delusions that he could grant the burden of mercy within his fated hands.

As time went on, Clément dreamed of his father's return only to be reminded that he met his demise at the Master's very hands. From thereon, Clément had a tendency for anger. But it was his dear mother who imparted to him an important attribute, to stay calm in the face of adversity and more importantly, to stay pure in this world, that one must have mercy even for their captors - this was the truest test of one's character and morality she attested. Hence the reason she named her son accordingly. Nothing was more important to her than mercy, just like the Lord had done so for his children.

Clément clung to those words for as long as he could remember and as years went by he drew on his faith and lived with hope especially in the year 1863 when times were changing or so he thought. As he waited for the call, a signal for his emancipation, it surely came but it made no difference and it was already too late. On that fateful day, the Master made such a commotion as he tore his whole quarters apart. Clément inched closer to see that a newspaper article by his feet was the catalyst. Clément could only make out a few words.

"You don't even know how to read boy," the Master said as he lashed new lesions onto Clément's back. Though hardened, the pain was intolerable for Clément. Still, he kept staring at the headline.

"Slaves…Henceforward shall be free," he read and gradually comprehended. Now, Clément thought of an end in sight. But it only got worse from there.

"Please Sir, President Lincoln said, Sir," Lucy demanded with cautiousness to not offend the Master. The Master continued whipping Clément again and again until Lucy shielded her boy and took the beating.

"That's Master to you," he dully corrected. For the first time, the Master seemed remorseful, perhaps not out of care but recalling his mother had once done the same to protect him from his monstrous father. That's when he began to refrain. Nevertheless, the damage was done.

Clément with all his might wanted desperately to maintain his faith. But then his mother succumbed to her injuries and he lost all hope. For there were no conductors or brethren to help him this time. As years went by when slaves all around were freed or at least some from his account, Clément was one of many still detained unlawfully. He found himself frozen, in time and in place. But after all the years, he rarely made a fuss about his disposition, for he also equated his attempted escapes coming at the loss of someone he loved. Then the war was won and he came to realize he had nothing or no one left to lose. Clément believing in his rights sought his escape.

As tragic as it was, Clément was not surprised when the supposedly good Samaritan who approached him turned him over to the Master. It was safe to say Clément's hopes wavered. But, then he saw the papers of President Lincoln the Master paraded around. Clément was unsuspecting. After all President Lincoln declared it an official amendment. But the Master lived in a world separate from the realm of goodness or justice, where the word of law had no effect.

"Surely was Tyrannus, wasn't he? Disrupting your Masters' God-given right," he shouted. That's when Clément snapped and held fate in his hands. For the Master's words did not disarm Clément and neither did he hesitate to give the Master his own piece of medicine when the tables turned. For this was not a man, Clément thought, rather he was truly a beast.

Escape was something seemingly transient for Clément. Even more now as he charges through the woods, evading a mob who suspect he is the beast terrorizing Walden Pond. Clément thought it to be over when he miraculously escaped the clutch of the Master but now he finds himself having to leave the only freedom he ever had. Worse, Clément was finally surrounded with no fog to provide any cover. Then a shot rang out, and Clément froze.

"You'll never be free, boy," said the figure in white sheets with the very exact voice Clément tried to forget. And then it continued;

"I'll own you until the day you die," the figure said as it removed its white hood.

"I will not serve you or another. I will not be burdened again by a yoke of slavery, you hear me?!" Clément said turning to his former Master, who for the first time saw Clément with no fear in his eyes. Flummoxed, the Master charged forward aiming the rifle at Clément. And that's when it hit the Master... as he felt the full force of the steel jaws snapping upon his legs.

The Master seemingly yelped as he clutched at the bear trap with realization. Clément stared at his tormentor being tormented, relieved that something greater than him was to decide their fates. Here was a man who deserved clemency himself yet as he watched his former master slowly succumb to the shock, Clément even thought about ending the torment. Then he thought of his mother, his father, and his people. And so, he did not act. He just witnessed. The only mercy Clément could grant for the Master was a passage from the good book.

"For one who has died has been free from sin," Clément said, not with satisfaction but because it was all he had left in him.

Still, Clément was on the run and kept moving until he was stopped in his tracks once again. But for the first time, he had hope, even as a wandering child stumbled near him and saw the hideous scars on Clément's face and miraculously was not alarmed. Rather, the child knew what it meant when a man with Clément's color of skin had such markings on his body. He just smiled at Clément, realizing that the Beast of Walden was in fact no beast. He was merely a young man, barely surviving. The true beast lay in white sheets, that much the boy knew as he pointed Clément to safe passage, perhaps something he had done before for someone like Clément. And so, the purported Beast of Walden had been set free and as for Clément, his fearful trip was done, for now.