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Zusatztext "Sharon Ewell Foster is a beautiful fresh voice in today’s world of fiction. Her compelling stories draw us to a place where we somehow feel we belong! a place we want to visit again and again and again." Informationen zum Autor Sharon Ewell Foster is a critically acclaimed, award-winning author, speaker, and teacher. She is the author of Passing by Samaria , the first successful work of Christian fiction by an African American author, and The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part One: The Witnesses , which won the 2012 Shaara Prize for Civil War Fiction. Sharon is a Christy Award-winning author whose books have earned her a loyal following that crosses market, gender, and racial boundaries. She regularly receives starred book reviews and is also winner of the Gold Pen Award, Best of Borders, and several reviewers’ choice awards. Klappentext The destinies of a young white man! a young African-American woman! and a rebel called by God to massacre collide in this novel by the author of "Passing by Samaria!" the first successful work of Christian fiction by an African-American author. The Resurrection of Nat Turner, Part 2 Chapter 1 Cross Keys Area, outside Jerusalem, Virginia Christmas 1830 Nat Turner felt in his pocket to be certain the gunpowder mixture was still dry. He knew exactly the time and place he would use it. He had been planning for months. He was on his way to meet the others. It had been a cruel winter. Snow in Virginia was most often one or two fingers deep or none at all, but this winter it had been heavy and so cold that the top of it was frozen. When he stepped, for an instant he stood above it. Then, shoeless, he was calf-deep again in the icy powder. At first cold pain shot up his knee and through his body with each step he took. Soon his feet were frozen and he numbly made his way past isolated farms and houses where he smelled the aroma of meat roasting outside. But he could not breathe deeply; the frozen air stung his lips, the membranes of his nose, ached his teeth. The snow had snapped the brittle backs of withered corn plants. It covered the roads like a thick blanket so he barely recognized the fences and places he knew. The trees were his guide. The trees were in the beginning and they had witnessed it all. They had seen husbands and sons dragged from their homes, castrated men dripping from their branches. They had seen women torn from the breast of their families and raped underneath the moon and stars. They had seen them beaten, burned, starved, and mutilated. The trees had witnessed it all. Their arms had borne the weight of the tortured. He followed the trees, each one a signpost and a threat. Past sleeping apple trees—their feet and hair covered by the snow blanket—he ducked under leafless boughs and touched aged trunks covered with bark, rough even against his numb, bare hands. The trees were black and crooked against the snow’s stark white. In warmer times, their hands and arms gave fruit and all the while told stories of death, strange fruit dangling from their limbs. If the trees held the land’s memories, then his mother held his. “You are a man of two continents,” she had told him. “Your father is a man of America. They are the people of justice. An eye for an eye. At least that is what they say. But I am African. Ethiopians are children of mercy. It does not yet appear which will be strongest in you.” Ethiopian memories were rich, ancient, and deep. The images went back, his mother told him, before the ferengi, the foreigners, began to count time. His mother told him that her mother’s mother had told her that the Ethiopian highlands were waves, disobedient waves that had come crashing too far inland from the s...
