The Rules for Lying

by L. A. Kelley

  The old woman clutched at her blouse. “I knew something dreadful had happened, but this…”

  T. Chris piped up. “Mamere read the bones last night and saw death coming.”

  “Read the bones?” I said.

  Odile’s head shot around and her hawk-like gaze raked over Esther, Mrs. Hart and me. In that instant I felt like a sack of flour that had been weighed and measured. I shifted uncomfortably under the intense scrutiny, instinctively aware lying to Odile was never going to be an option.

  Amelie made introductions. “They are friends of ours, Odile. They need your help.” She clutched her arm. “We need your help.”

  “Mrs. Hart’s a dog and I have a conjurer on my tail,” Esther chirped before I could shush her.

  “Do you now?” Odile squatted beside Mrs. Hart. She cocked her head, listening, the way Esther did when Mrs. Hart spoke to her. Every now and then the old woman nodded as if in agreement, occasionally voicing oui or non. Finally, she stood. “Tell me the story from the beginning.”

  “Talking can be done over supper,” said Marie. “Everyone come inside. Y’all must be half-starved.”

  She was right. I wondered happily if Marie Benoit could hold a candle to Ruby in the kitchen. Renny took Odile’s arm and escorted her. As they passed I got a better look at the necklace she wore and almost wished I hadn’t. The funny pointed beads were actually long sharp teeth.

  Marie bustled around the stove as her husband set extra plates. Something delicious sizzled on the burner in a big black cast iron pan. The two older children carried dishes to the table. They set a place automatically for Mrs. Hart, as if having an enchanted dog-woman as a guest for dinner was an everyday occurrence. In an instant a platter of fried meat, a pan of cornbread and large pots of fluffy rice and peppery spiced greens appeared. We took our seats and dug in. After the first bite I realized Ruby would have a run for her money.

  “The chicken is great.”

  Amelie snickered. “I don’t think we’re eating chicken.”

  Christophe shot me a wicked grin. “The meat is gator. Better him in you, son, than you in him.”

  I found no fault with his logic, so I speared another piece. In between mouthfuls we told our story. Odile listened intently asking no questions. I did most of the talking since Esther had a tendency to ramble and Mrs. Hart’s handicap was obvious. Although the few times she punctuated a comment of mine by a yip, I had the oddest sensation Odile didn’t need Esther to translate.

  By the time everyone swallowed the last mouthful Odile leaned back in the chair and pronounced, “He’s a powerful conjurer, all right. Pike had training in the black road, for sure.”

  “What does he want with me?” asked Esther nervously.

  “He obviously desires an arcane door to be opened, but which door and what is behind I cannot say at the moment. I will need to consult the bones.”

  There were those bones again. Before I could ask about them, Renny handed over Delphine’s recipe book. As the Benoit children cleared the table and washed the dishes, Odile ran a fingertip along each line of print. Every now and then she stopped and muttered to herself. By the time she finished, her face had twisted in a scowl.

  “When Jean-Baptiste wrote to tell me he would marry again, I was happy. I knew how much he missed your sainted mother. I was unable to attend the wedding. For that, I will not forgive myself. Had I met this woman ahead of time, I could have prevented his death.” Odile tapped the book. “For surely as I sit here, Jean-Baptiste Marchand was murdered.”

  The pain in Amelie’s eyes turned to bloodlust. “I knew it. I knew something was wrong.” She half rose from her seat. “I’ll kill her.”

  Odile yanked her down. “Delphine is not to be taken lightly. She is dangerous.”

  Amelie scowled. “As am I.”

  “She’s also well-armed and guarded. You can’t fight her alone.”

  “She’s not alone,” said Renny with a glower. “He was my father, too. Amelie and I both deserve revenge.”

  “Fah! Revenge is for halfwits. Questing for blood will get you both killed. What you want is justice for Jean-Baptiste which takes time and planning.”

  I picked up the book and leafed through the pages. “What are they?”

  “Recipes for death and worse. The book contains directions to create untraceable poisons, any of which could have been used on Jean-Baptiste, along with concoctions for other dark purposes, such as controlling someone’s will or causing madness.”

  Amelie gasped. “Could she do that?”

  “I believe she already did.” Odile reached over and clasped her hand. “Jean-Baptiste fell in love very quickly, did he not?”

  Renny’s eyes blazed. “She entrapped my father and then murdered him. You can’t deny my revenge, Odile.”

  Marie placed a comforting arm on his shoulder. “Listen to my mother-in-law. She has faced evil before and knows about these things. When the time comes, we will help you bring Delphine to justice. Such an action cannot be done alone.”

  Mrs. Hart reached over to paw at Renny’s wrist. “She says you and Amelie are not alone,” said Esther. “She and Peter and me are gonna help, too. She says she knows about revenge and a sound plan takes time. She doesn’t want either of you to go to prison.” I added my enthusiastic agreement. The emotional storm ebbed from Renny’s face replaced by gratitude.

  “Bon,” declared Odile. “Delphine can wait. She will not leave New Orleans. Undoubtedly, the hunt will continue for Amelie.”

  “If she happens to send her men this way…” Mr. Purdy shrugged. “They will not find help in the bayou.”

  Odile agreed. “Our first concern, then, is to prepare for when the conjurer comes for Esther.”

  “What do you mean, when?” I protested. “Pike is nowhere near here.”

  “A conjurer does not stop. He needs Esther for some task he cannot accomplish himself. He will keep hunting for her. How fortunate you brought Esther here. She will be safe while I determine what Pike is after. Meanwhile the hour is late. I will return to my cabin and think on what to do for Mrs. Hart.”

  Everyone took the cue to rise. Esther, Mrs. Hart, and I would stay with Odile. Renny and Amelie would bunk in the main house. Mr. Purdy, meanwhile, headed to his boat. Traveling at night through the swamp held no concern for him.

  Odile’s home sat a hundred yards down a well-trod path. The cabin had three rooms; bedroom, kitchen, and living area, but was as neat as a pin. A large screened-in porch overlooked the water. Mrs. Hart and Esther would share Odile’s room. She offered the couch, but I spied a hammock and requested to sleep on the porch instead.

  She raised an eyebrow. “What of the sounds of the bayou? They will not keep you awake at night?”

  Until she spoke, I had forgotten about all the noise. Now when the funny chorus of croaks and whistles filtered in, the tune held more comfort than fear. “No,” I admitted with surprise. “I kinda like it.”

  The old woman voiced her approval. “Bon. The bayou accepted you.”

  I cast a suspicious eye at the water, thinking of the gator. “Is that good?”

  “Mai oui,” she gasped. “Of course it is good. The bayou does not open arms to all newcomers.” Odile’s eyes narrowed. The intense regard was nerve-racking. “Lying is a useful skill, otherwise Esther and Mrs. Hart would surely be dead. But lying should not define you. Peter Whistler has more to offer the world than that. Perhaps the bayou can help you discover your true reason for being.” With that, she said good night.

  I stripped to my underwear, wrapped myself in an old quilt of Odile’s, and climbed into the hammock. Swaying gently, I closed my eyes, and let the tension flow to the murky water.

  Odile’s words echoed unbidden in my ear. The bayou can help discover my purpose. I snorted. Backwater hogwash. I knew Peter Whistler; orphan boy, ward of the state, no ties to bind him. Though for a loner, I had collected more people than fleas on a junkyard dog. A few weeks ago life had been so simple and un
complicated. I heaved a regretful sigh.

  Did you really prefer that life? Don’t you like being part of something?

  “Shut it,” I grumbled to myself and then pulled the quilt over my head and surrendered to sleep.

  ****

  “Get up.” A finger jabbed me sharply in the ribs. Startled, I jerked awake, forgetting my position. The hammock pitched wildly and sent me tumbling to the floor. Amused green eyes peered into mine. “You sleep like the dead.”

  I glared at Amelie. “Give a guy some warning next time.”

  “I called you several times. All you did was snore.”

  I suddenly remembered I was in my underwear. In a huff I wrapped the quilt around me. “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” Amelie perched next to a pile of clothes. She wore an old shirt and cut-off jeans with her hair in pigtails. She wasn’t much like the proper young society girl of yesterday, especially since I couldn’t help but notice the knife sheath now attached to her belt. “Marie sent over outfits more suitable here than one of Renny’s old suits. Hurry and get dressed. Odile has breakfast waiting.”

  “Can I have some privacy?” I snapped.

  “Mon Dieu, you are particular.” She flounced off the porch.

  I threw on the clothing. Amelie and Esther ate at the kitchen table with T. Chris and Renny. Esther wore a shirt and pants that had probably once belonged to the boy. Her sharp ears didn’t miss a beat.

  “Have some eggs, Peter. I helped T. Chris gather them this morning.”

  “You two rassle a gator?” I teased, taking a seat.

  “They’re not gator eggs.” Esther corrected me very seriously. “They’re chicken. Odile has a coop.” She proceeded to give me an exact description of each and every hen with so much detail I knew the boy had allowed her to use his eyes.

  “That was nice of you to take her, T. Chris.” His response was a shy smile—not that a person could get much more than a word in during Esther’s chatter. When she finally paused for breath, I asked something bugging me since yesterday. “What’s the T. stand for?”

  “The word is short for petit, which means small,” answered his grandmother. “His father is Chris so he is Petit Chris, the Cajun way of saying junior.”

  Mrs. Hart nosed open the creaking screen door. She scampered over to join us, toenails clicking against the floor boards. “She went outside to poop,” Esther whispered loudly, “but she doesn’t like people to know.” T. Chris hid his mouth in a napkin and tried not to laugh. Mrs. Hart hopped onto a kitchen chair and pretended not to notice.

  As soon as we finished eating I mentioned Mrs. Hart. “Can you help her?”

  Odile motioned to a bookcase crammed with worn leather volumes. “I have gone through my references. Placing a human soul into an animal requires very powerful magic. The spell is difficult to reverse, but can be done.” A troubled expression crossed her face. “The problem is we no longer have a body for her to inhabit.”

  The truth hit me like a bombshell. How could I have been so stupid? The thought never occurred to me Mrs. Hart’s body was destroyed in the fire at the carriage house. We had no way to bring her back. Mrs. Hart eyed me calmly as if to say, Don’t worry about me, Peter. I knew at that moment she had realized the truth all along, but kept it to herself. It figured. She never complained about things she couldn’t change.

  Esther buried her face in the little dog’s fur. “She’s stuck forever in Honey Bun? Peter, it’s not fair.”

  Cold dark anger gripped me. Mrs. Hart stayed right by our side, putting herself in harm’s way to protect us. She fought for Renny and Amelie, too. She was no longer simply the proprietress of Little Angels Home for Orphan Boys. She was my friend. “Mrs. Hart deserves better,” I cried out. “She shouldn’t be punished.”

  Mrs. Hart turned away as if in embarrassment.

  “Do not despair, little one.” Renny patted Esther gently on the head. “Odile will not give up.”

  The shaman vigorously agreed. “Quite right. There are other options. However, they require more than a little thought and planning and cannot be accomplished quite yet. For now we will leave the problem of Mrs. Hart.” She raised her hand to stifle my protest. “I will not forsake her, but she does not suffer. Our imperative is to determine Pike’s intentions.”

  Mrs. Hart gave an affirmative yip and Esther translated. “She agrees with Odile. Pike is the biggest problem and hers can wait.” Esther paused and then frowned as if unsure how to proceed. “You do?...I don’t know…Are you sure it’s polite?” Obviously she and Mrs. Hart were in deep discussion over a fine point of etiquette. “Okay, I’ll tell them…she says we’re all fighting on the same side and everyone should call her Lucy.”

  Renny’s eyes sparkled. “My pleasure, Lucy.”

  “Mine, too,” said Amelie.

  The name felt wrong in my mouth. “I don’t know if I can get used to Lucy. She’s been Mrs. Hart all my life.”

  Esther shook her head doubtfully. “It just doesn’t sound right.”

  Odile chuckled. “I am also happy to be on a first name basis with you, Lucy. For now you’ll have to be content with that.” Odile retrieved paper and pencil from a desk in the corner. “Bon. Since we are now soldiers in the same army, the first thing to determine is the plans of the enemy.” She handed the writing implements to me. “Draw the symbol on the door from the night in the carriage house.”

  I sketched the little flame as best I could and handed the sheet to Odile. She traced her fingertip over the lines. Her upper lip curled and she uttered a string of French words that sure didn’t sound flattering.

  T. Chris peered curiously over her shoulder. “What do the squiggles mean, Mamere?”

  The old woman shook her head. “I do not know, yet, but, the conjurer is using very dark magic. I will throw the bones to read what lies beyond. T. Chris, fetch my bag.”

  The boy bounded across the kitchen to a makeshift workbench pushed against one wall. Set above were long wooden shelves filled with mason jars packed with assorted plant life. T. Chris returned with a drawstring bag made of gator hide. Odile shook the contents into her hand.

  I leaned in to get a better look and gulped. “Are those real bones?”

  “Mai oui.” Her eyebrows raised in disbelief at the question. “What else would I use?” She pointed to each one. “The knuckle of a gator…the thighbone of an ibis…the rib from a rattlesnake…the spine of a catfish…the femur from a fox…and Cousin Henri’s pinky.”

  My face paled. T. Chris giggled. “You told a good one, Mamere.”

  Odile jabbed me playfully in the ribs. “My mistake…tail bone from a wild boar—not Cousin Henri. His finger must be in the other bag.” Odile was a real card. She gathered the objects in two hands and then held them to her forehead, closed her eyes, and murmured in soft lilting French.

  “What’s she saying?” I whispered to Amelie.

  “The chant is a request for guidance,” she murmured, “from the spirit of the bayou.”

  “The who?”

  “Odile’s people have a deep kinship to the land,” Renny explained quietly. “They see the swamp as a living essence, like a relative. The bones are from creatures living within the boundaries. She uses them to form a connection to the spirits.”

  “How can swamp spirits know about Pike in New Jersey?”

  “The spirit worlds are all connected,” Odile snapped. “Hush! You make too much noise. Spirits are easily distracted.”

  She started her chant again while we waited in silence. After five minutes or so I leaned over and whispered to Amelie. “I guess the spirit line is busy.”

  Without dropping a phrase, Odile kicked me in the shins. Amelie pursed her lips to keep from snickering. All at once, the shaman stiffened and flung the bones from her hands. The swamp spirits had finally returned her call.

  The bleached white cluster of objects landed with a clatter in the center of the wooden table. Odile leaned on her knuckles staring fiercely at th
e pattern. Her lips twisted in displeasure as if she tasted something unpleasant. I could make no sense of the random jumble. Neither could Amelie who shrugged. Renny appeared equally confused. T. Chris, on the other hand, must have inherited some of his grandmother’s mojo, because he shivered despite the heat.

  Abruptly she leaned forward, catching us all in a sweeping glance. Ominous foreboding churned my stomach acid. Something was coming. Something bad.

  “What do you see?” I prodded.

  Odile took a deep breath. “The conjurer is attempting to open a doorway into the Lower Worlds.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Feu De L’enfer

  “Y-You mean like hell?” I stared at her dumfounded. “Can he do that?”

  “Unfortunately, yes,” she proclaimed bitterly. “He has allied with a powerful demon for such a purpose.”

  “Who? Why?”

  “The demon is Feu De L’enfer. The name means hellfire. Such creatures are not natural to Earth, but confined to their own accursed dimension in the Lower Worlds, a stinking void of eternal nothingness. Demons and monsters are trapped inside, where their powers are useless to harm us. They work the dark magic solely by forging a mystical connection through a human such as Pike. The conjurer made a deal to release the demon into our world in exchange for powers. He is a fool.” Odile spat out the words. “Pike believes he is immune to the beast’s appetite for death, but once setting foot in this plane of existence Feu De L’enfer will be omnipotent. The demon will feed on the flesh of the innocent to forge a kingdom on Earth.”

  “What does this have to do with Esther?” I demanded. “Why does he need her to open the door?”

  “Esther is a seer.”

  “A seer?” Amelia was taken aback. “You mean a prophet?”

  I gawked at Esther. “How come you never said you can predict the future?”

  Esther stuck out her lip. “Because I can’t, dodo head. If I could, would I be sitting here wondering about Pike’s plans?”

  I bristled. “I’m not a dodo head and I wasn’t the one who said you were a seer.”

  “Not seer,” Odile snapped. “I said see-er. Esther sees. It is a special gift. A see-er who sets foot on a path, always sees the way back. Despite her blindness, Esther can never get lost. She is one of the few who can walk through the door.”