Arms of Freedom by Kathleen Neely

 

Arms of Freedom

With each page of the age-old journals, Annie discovers all that unites her with a woman who once lived in her farmhouse. One lived with wealth and one with poverty, but both knew captivity. Both longed to be free. 

Miriam yearns to escape her life as a super model. She drops the pseudonym and uses the name she gave up years ago—Annie Gentry. Then she alters her appearance and moves to rural South Carolina to care for her grandmother. Can she live a simple life without recognition? Can she hide a net worth valued in the millions? Love is nowhere in her plans until she meets a man who wants nothing more than Annie Gentry and the simple life he lives.

Charlotte lived in the same farmhouse in the tumultuous 1860’s. The Civil War was over, but for a bi-racial girl, freedom remained elusive. She coveted a life where she wouldn’t bring shame to her family. A life where she could make a difference. As she experiences hope, will it be wrested from her?

The journals stop abruptly with a climactic event, leaving Annie to search for information. What happened to Charlotte? Did her life make a difference?  Did she ever find freedom?

 

https://www.amazon.com/Arms-Freedom-Kathleen-Neely-ebook/dp/B09FKKTWCX

 

From the Author:

Arms of Freedom was birthed during a time of racial tension in our nation; a time when social injustice and protests were forefront in the news. Many publishers safely avoided manuscripts with any mention of racial issues—perhaps a wise decision from a business perspective.

However, failure to look at our past denies us the opportunity to learn from history. Our fear of offending can push major historical offenses into a dark closet. I chose to illuminate those offenses by launching this book. Following the Civil War, the period of twelve years known as Reconstruction was perhaps the most brutal period of racial terrorism. The contents may be hard to read. I confess that I often wrote through tears.

In the end, I hope your takeaway is this: Regardless of race and ethnicity, all people are created in the image of God, a one-of-a-kind miracle, loved by Him, and created for a purpose. We are called to unity, to be perfectly one (John 17:23). May we join together in raising our arms of freedom to the Savior who released us from the captivity of sin.

So if the Son sets you free, you will be free indeed. -- John 8:36 NIV

 

 

Arms of Freedom is a dual timeline novel, including both contemporary and historical periods. I have included an excerpt from each.  

ANNIE:

The key turned in the lock, but the attic door still required a strong arm to open it. Years of dried paint scraped the door jamb. The bottom rebelled against the threshold, clearly in need of a carpenter to sand it down or re-align it. She propped it open, hit the light switch and immediately met years of stagnant air. A musty smell caught in her throat activating a gag reflex. She coughed, then hoisted the cardboard boxes to shield her nose and mouth. As the still air began to dance in its new freedom, the disturbed dust mites floated in dull light beams. She’d have to deal with this sometime. She’d take the boxes and drop them upstairs. The attic needed a good airing out before she could look around. With the boxes held high in her arms, Annie climbed the steep wooden stairs.

The dim light cast shadows, enough to know that the room wasn’t empty. Annie plopped the boxes down and felt along the wall for another light. Instead, she found a string dangling from a single bulb mounted on the ceiling. She tugged the string and the room came to life revealing a lightly-cluttered attic. Sheets covered surfaces in their attempt to protect them from years of dust. Her initial inclination was to leave this for another day. Or another year. Low priority with all she had to do.

Yet something compelled her to stay. A few boxes and a storage chest. You would expect those in an attic. But a large section of the room held an air of familiarity. Children’s furniture had been stacked against one wall. A wooden table, four chairs, two turned upside down to nest on the other two, and a bookshelf. A carpet, about six-foot square, spread out on the floor in front of the furniture. Why was everything so familiar? She had only visited here twice when she was around five years old. And she was certain she’d never been in the attic. Eleanor would not have allowed it.

Annie opened an old chest that sat on the carpet. She lifted the dusty lid and saw the toys, mostly wood and metal. A toy tea set, a sorry looking stuffed teddy bear, and wooden building blocks with faded alphabet letters. A smaller chest sat beside it. She picked up a yo-yo, the string discolored and stiff, marbles in a cardboard box, a metal spinning top, void of color. These were definitely old, perhaps antiques. She lowered the lid, puzzling over this discovery. Another box held two items, both wrapped in cloth. She lifted one and removed the flannel to discover a baby doll. An image formed in her mind. She had seen this doll. She was certain of it. She could see a vision of the doll sitting on one of the wooden chairs. She knew she’d find another when she unwrapped the other flannel—one with red, curly hair.

As she unpacked the second doll, it all came back to her. A picture. She’d seen the items in a painting at Nana’s home, the home she had in Pittsburgh before she moved to Roswell House Assisted Living. The painting mirrored Andrew Wyeth’s style of down-home realism with rustic details. The table and chairs on the same carpet where Annie stood today, the tea set in the center, and two dolls seated with teacups before them. The gritty window in the background of the picture with its yellow-gold curtains matched the window a few feet away. The gold had faded to a drab shade and held years of dust, but it was the same curtain. The same window. That meant a child’s play area had been in this attic. Why would anyone set up a playroom in an attic? Or perhaps this space served as an artist studio, the dolls and tea set staged for a picture. But another thought marched to her brain. Her grandmother’s words. Those walls hold secrets.

Annie turned and pulled the string, extinguishing the upstairs light, then made her way back down the steps to the other light switch. She shoved the scraping door closed, still baffled about the set up. Who had painted the picture that hung in her grandmother’s kitchen? The locked door and separated key indicated that renters had no access. Had her grandmother locked this area away when she left over two decades ago?

 

 

CHARLOTTE

My tiptoe was quiet, but the attic door wasn’t. Mr. Pearson came after me, leaping two steps at a time. He grabbed my arm and tugged till I thought he’d break my bone. He held my arm and dragged me until he could reach the switch hanging from a hook in his bedroom. He dragged me back to my sleeping room and threw me up against the bed so I was leaning over it on my stomach. I felt him toss my dress up over my waist and rip my pantalets from my hips.

“Wench!” A voice of raw fury spit out the word.

I heard the crack of the switch before the sting came. One. Two. Three. Four. Five. Two more than he usually did. They hit my bare behind and my back, half covered with the dress thrown askew, and half bare skin. I yelped in pain and that brought a sneering laugh.

“That’ll teach you to eavesdrop on me.” He yanked me off of the bed. “Get upstairs before I whip you again.”

It hurt to climb the steps. I started slowly, holding the handrail so I didn’t tumble backward. My undergarments were still pulled down from my waist. I grasped them with my free hand but couldn’t pull them up. It stung too badly. I inched my way forward, one hand on the rail, the other holding my pantalets so they wouldn’t trip me.

When I reached the top, I went straight to the cot, laying on my stomach.

I heard Ma come home and wanted to cry out to her. I needed her to hold me. To put salve on my wounds. But she saw him first. He was in their bedroom so I heard his booming voice.

“You’re going to find out anyhow, so I might as well tell you now. I beat the wench.”

“Oh, James.” Ma’s voice was ripe with dismay.

“She disobeyed and she eavesdropped. The sheriff was downstairs and she made no attempt to hide. I told you, woman, she pulls a stunt like that again, you won’t stop me from getting rid of her.”

Ma was by my side in minutes. She brought the salve with her.

“Baby, I’m so sorry.”

“I tried, Ma, but there wasn’t time. The knock came on the door and I stepped into the hall, but he was already in the house. I feared he’d hear me, so I went back into my sleeping room. I was quiet as I could be.” The words all came out tucked in my sobs.

“I know, baby. I know.” She handed me her handkerchief. “Now hush while I treat these cuts.”

She carefully worked on each of the five stripes of raw flesh. When she finished, she pulled my undergarments up, but I cried out with the pain when the elastic hit my waist. She pulled them down and eased my legs out of them. Then she lowered the skirt of my frock to cover my shame.

“Ma, what’s the Klan?”

Time seemed to stop as I waited for an answer. Then she said, “Nothing for little girls to worry about.” But I had brushed up against her fear. I could smell it in the air. 

About the Author:

Kathleen Neely is a retired elementary principal, and enjoys time with family, visiting her two grandsons, traveling, and reading.

She is the author of The Street Singer, Beauty for Ashes, The Least of These, Arms of Freedom, and In Search of True North. Kathleen won second place in a short story contest through ACFW-VA for her short story “The Missing Piece” and an honorable mention for her story “The Dance”. Both were published in a Christmas anthology. Her novel, The Least of These, was awarded first place in the 2015 Fresh Voices contest through Almost an Author. She has numerous devotions published through Christian Devotions.

 

Kathleen continues to speak to students about writing and publication processes. She is a member of American Christian Fiction Writers.

 

Website – www.KathleenNeely.com

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