by L. A. Kelley
“Reasonable for you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she said between gritted teeth.
“I don’t know,” I hollered, not sure who or what I was angry with, “but it means something.”
“Enough,” ordered Odile. “We’re all tired. Clovis, we must keep moving. Not much daylight remains.”
He struggled to his feet and took a staggering step forward. “I can make it.”
Amelie marked his wan face and stuffed the knife in the sheath. “No, you can’t. Lean on me.” She slipped his arm over her shoulder. “No arguments.”
“I make it a point never to argue with a mademoiselle prepared for combat.” He poked me in the ribs. “Good advice, boy.”
I sighed and slipped his other arm around my shoulder. With Odile leading the way, we stumbled along half-dragging/half-carrying the shaman.
The bayou held no sign of Mrs. Hart. My worry grew as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Amelie and I were at the ends of our strength. Could we help Mrs. Hart if she was in jeopardy? Just then, a familiar arf sounded behind a clump of bushes.
“Mrs. Hart,” I called out in relief. “Over here.”
The foliage rustled and a sandy brown terrier emerged. On her heels were Renny and Chris. They quickly traded places with Amelie and me.
“Am I glad to see you,” I said, relieved to be free of Clovis’ weight.
“Same here, mon ami,” said Renny. “I thought we’d have a long walk through the bayou, but Lucy was at the pier when we arrived. She led us to you.”
Amelie couldn’t hide her relief. “We’re not far?”
Chris motioned ahead. Barely visible through the trees was a narrow well-worn path.
Andre Savoy waited at the dock with a grease-stained paper bag. “I see y’all got his royal frogness,” he grunted. “I reckon now the rest of my okra be safe.” He handed Odile the bag. Although hungry, the rancid oily smell made my stomach turn flip-flops.
“Chris said you couldn’t stay for supper,” Andre continued, “but I fried a mess of beignets. Are you sure I can’t convince y’all to stay? I made me some rabbit stew two…three days ago. If I throw in more hot peppers, the meat will freshen right up.”
Odile thanked him, but insisted firmly we must go. Chris and Renny loaded Clovis onto the Sweet Marie. They made a resting place for him in the stern with the bedrolls and a canvas tarp over his head to keep off the coming rain. He collapsed with a grateful sigh and promptly closed his eyes. Chris started the engine. As soon as we were out of sight of Andre’s cabin, Odile promptly shook the contents of the greasy paper sack overboard. The beignets plopped like lead sinkers into the water, plunging directly to the bottom.
She wrinkled her nose. “The only thing they good for is gator bait.”
“A gator is pickier than that,” called Chris from behind the wheel.
Hunting and fishing had been good. Chris sold his catch and then returned home for provisions before setting out for us. Odile dispensed long crusty loaves of bread packed with ham and a spicy relish. As the first raindrops hit, we crowded into the cramped wheelhouse to eat. She brought Clovis a sandwich which he accepted with gratitude.
The meal lasted as long as the rain. Once the sky cleared, the others piled outside to enjoy the breeze. Chris volunteered another lesson in steering the boat. Eagerly, I gripped the wheel and piloted Sweet Marie down the channel. Chris gave subtle corrections and encouraged me to get a feel for the current.
“The bayou is a living thing, Peter, with moods and rhythms. If you learn to read them, the water will carry you as gently as a mother carries her child.”
Under Chris’ patient guidance the wildness of the swamp grew less threatening. He pointed to landmarks we passed yesterday. When I recognized a gnarled cypress tree, he clapped me on the shoulder and shouted, “Bon! You are learning, Peter. Soon, traveling the bayou will be no different than visiting an old friend.”
Food and rest improved everyone’s mood. Amelie admitted she no longer feared imminent drowning when I took the wheel, which for her was a compliment. When we arrived at the Benoit’s, Chris let me pull to the dock. I gritted my teeth and flushed in embarrassment as the boat scraped against the pilings.
“Sorry.”
“One little bump—not bad for a first time,” he assured me.
The door of the house whipped opened and a cascade of Benoit’s tumbled out with Esther and T. Chris in the rear. Chris greeted his family while I got caught in Esther’s viselike grip. She clung like a burr, her words colliding into each other.
“I missed you, Peter, and Amelie and Odile and Mrs. Hart, of course. T. Chris and I caught lots of fish. I helped Marie cook them, but there aren’t any left. You don’t smell very good. You need a bath.”
I peeled her off. “Hi, Esther. Good to see you, too.” Amelie and Renny each gave her a hug. When Esther bent over to greet Mrs. Hart, the dog licked her nose.
Esther giggled. “That tickles.” She then straightened up and demanded, “Where’s the crazy man?”
“Esther,” I whispered, embarrassed. “Don’t be rude.”
“Nonsense,” Clovis said. “She’s simply honest.”
He hung back while the rest of us greeted each other, but now climbed cautiously off the Sweet Marie onto the dock. Rest and food returned color to his cheeks. He strode up to Esther. “Fortunately, my dear, although my brain may be a bit scrambled, I have nothing wrong with my hearing.” He considered the little blind girl. “So, you are the see-er.”
“Uh-huh,” she chirped. “You don’t sound crazy. Are you?”
“Not as much, thanks to young Mr. Whistler and his lies.”
“Yup, they’re mighty powerful. They saved my bacon, for sure. Are you going to help us with the conjuror?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Okie dokie.” Esther grabbed his hand. “You best come to the house. We have lots to talk about.” Bemused, Clovis allowed himself to be dragged away.
“Nothing instills more confidence in a plan’s success,” quipped Renny, “than watching the blind lead the insane.”
Marie scrounged more old clothes for Clovis. The worn overalls were too short for his lanky frame, but a definite improvement over the gunny sack. After we all squeezed around the kitchen table, Amelie asked, “What’s our first step?”
“We must determine the procedure to open the door,” said Odile. “Clovis, do you remember the incantation?”
“Unfortunately,” he said wryly, “some magic is impossible to forget.”
“Hang on,” I said. “I’d like to know how to keep from going nuts once inside. Not to mention, how to kill Feu De L’enfer.” I turned to Odile. “I don’t suppose a rifle shot—”
She folded her arms. “No guns.”
“Guns are useless in the Lower Worlds,” said Clovis. “They are earthbound weapons. You need something with a supernatural kick. What are you good at?”
“Pardon?”
“What did they teach you at school? Sword fighting? Axe throwing? Bullwhip?”
“Mostly how to diagram a sentence and the times tables to twelve.”
Clovis was aghast. Renny noted sympathetically, “They have funny ways up North.”
“Differences in teaching philosophies are no excuse for an appalling lack of education.” Clovis shook his head in disgust. “No wonder so many travelers on the dark road originate from New York City.”
“Let’s get back to the weapon,” I urged. “What do I use to kill the demon?”
Clovis blinked in surprise. “Why the choice is entirely yours. The only sure way to destroy a demon is to create a mystical object to attack the weak point.”
That was good news. “The demon has a weak point?” I said.
“Of course, nothing is indestructible. Feu De L’enfer’s vulnerability is the flaming eyes. Annihilate them and the creature is doomed.”
“Flaming eyes? Like Pike?” I shivered, recalling the horrific fire at his command. “How the heck do I
do that?”
“Well, I’m sure I don’t know. You must magic a weapon into existence after entering the creature’s domain. Of course, you should create something familiar, but since you haven’t had martial training I’m stumped where to begin.”
“What did you use?” asked Amelie.
“An epee.” Clovis answered smoothly. “I’m quite competent with the blade.”
“So, what happened?” I said. “How come your weapon didn’t work?”
His shoulders slumped. “I wasn’t strong enough to hold the spell. The flames from the eyes were blistering. The epee melted from my hand. The heat was so intense, like being drawn into the sun. I couldn’t concentrate long enough to create another.”
Clovis shuddered. “Feu De L’enfer isn’t the lone horror behind the door. Once you lose your focus in the Lower Worlds, the demon has every advantage. The hellish realm is nothing but a whirling maelstrom shrieking inside your head, ripping thoughts apart, and destroying your sanity. I lost control. Fear overpowered me. My mind slipped away.” He hung his head. “The single option left was to run.”
Odile patted his hand. “It’s a wonder you escaped.”
“Pure luck. Your sense of direction is all twisted about. I created a spell to track my steps, but the energies pummeling me were so great I could barely hold my thoughts together. I stumbled upon the exit in the nick of time. Feu De L’enfer was right behind me, but I slammed the door in its face.” He shrunk from the memory. “The last thing I recall clearly is the unearthly howling from the other side. The spell broke. The door vanished. Everything afterwards is a bit foggy.”
“He means a bit froggy,” Amelie muttered under her breath.
I blew out my cheeks in disgust. “Great. Flaming eyeballs…what kind of weapon can fight those? It’s hopeless.”
Esther tugged impatiently on my sleeve. “You can out-think the demon, Peter. Like you did in the cabin when you freed Clovis.”
“How did you know?” I asked, startled, and then realized the obvious answer. “Esther, you were peeking!”
She at least had the decency to put on a show of guilt. “I’m sorry.”
“No, you’re not. You’re just sorry to get caught.”
All pretenses disappeared. “I worried about you, so peeked for a few seconds and, anyway, I’m right.”
Clovis studied Esther with intense interest. “My cabin is quite a distance, young lady. Can you see as far with others?”
“I don’t know. I’m not exactly supposed to without permission.”
“Which doesn’t seem to stop you,” I griped.
“I said I was sorry.”
Odile rubbed her chin in thought. “What Peter needs now is practice. He does not yet have the ability to face the demon on his own. Clovis will teach him. Meanwhile, I will concoct a potion to protect against the madness, but such a complicated elixir will take time to devise and requires special ingredients. Marie and Amelie can help.”
Everyone was agreeable, but I said nothing. Odile and Clovis immediately huddled together deep in arcane discussion. The younger Benoit’s grew bored and dragged Esther away to play. I wandered outside and sat on the porch swing. My thoughts drifted as I listened to the sounds of the bayou.
Amelie sat beside me. “You didn’t speak out in there about the plan.”
“What plan?” I shot back. “Find the demon...somehow. Whip up something to kill the demon…somehow. Kill the demon…somehow. Swell. Terrific. What’s not to love?”
Amelie kicked at the floor and set the rocker off into a gentle glide. “When I was seven my father took us on a trip to San Francisco. One night we went to the theater. The huge lobby had walls decorated in gold leaf and red velvet brocade. Suspended from the ceiling were massive crystal chandeliers. Everyone dressed in their finest clothes. The women wore diamond tiaras and strands of pearls, the men in tuxedos. The evening was my first grown-up event. Like entering another world, I didn’t know what to expect.”
“Going to the Lower Worlds,” I grumped, “is a little different from dinner and a show.”
Amelie ignored me and continued. “The bill had several acts, but everyone came to see the main headliner.” She chuckled. “He was a world famous entertainer whose name completely escapes me. The sole performer I recall is a juggler. The spotlight hit center stage illuminating a man and his female assistant. The orchestra began to play slowly. She tossed the man three balls. He caught them and juggled. Three balls—nothing special, you see. She threw him another and another. The music went faster and faster. Soon the juggler had ten balls in the air whizzing around so quickly I was certain they flew.”
Excitement laced her voice. “Next, he juggled breakable objects; plates, bottles, glassware. The tempo increased. I dug my fingernails into the armrest. Surely, he’ll miss, but the juggler didn’t drop a single thing. For the finale, the assistant arranged razor sharp items on a table, everything from a tiny stiletto to a lumberman’s axe. She called to the audience to choose. People yelled, ‘Hacksaw! Butcher knife!’ The woman tossed each one in turn. The music blared. The audience screamed. The noise was so loud I barely heard myself think, but nothing distracted the juggler. He instantly compensated for the difference in weight and balance of each item until everything spun around in the air at the same time.”
I yawned and stretched. “I suppose you have a point to the story. Don’t tell me, let me guess. There’s no business like show business?”
Amelie brushed off the sarcasm. “The juggler didn’t know what came next, but the order of the blades didn’t matter. His instincts and skill allowed him to adjust his approach each time.”
“You can’t seriously draw a comparison between a stage act and fighting a demon.”
“On the surface—no, but the same abilities serve a purpose in both. No one told you how to free Clovis. You had the gift and instinct guided you in the right direction. Like the juggler, you found the rhythm to keep all the balls in the air, so to speak. You’ll find the rhythm again when you confront Feu De L’enfer.”
“Thanks.” Warmth rushed through me at the knowledge Amelie had faith in my abilities. I wanted to tell her how much her confidence meant, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead I said, “Have I mentioned today you’re nuts?”
Amused, Amelie flounced from her seat. “Not yet. Good night, Peter. Best turn in. Clovis aims to get an early start.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The New Rules
Amelie was right. The sun barely peeked over the horizon before Clovis shook me awake. “Come along, boy. We’ve much to do. No time to lie in bed.”
“Breakfast?” I mumbled.
He handed me a steaming mug of café au lait. “Work now. Eat later.”
I took a sip. “Okay, but that sounds very un-Cajun. Odile would object.”
“Odile is busy with Marie gathering the items needed to brew the potion. Amelie went along to help.” His eyes twinkled. “The young lady was very concerned for your safety. I assured her you’d return with most body parts intact.”
I quickly changed the subject. “What exactly are they collecting?”
“Marie has an extensive garden and will assemble the herbs and plant life. What she doesn’t grow, she’ll harvest from the swamp. Odile will compile specialty items.”
“Specialty items?”
“Yes, you know, blood from a she-gator, testicle hair from a wild boar—that sort of thing.”
“Sorry I asked.” I drained the cup, relieved Odile had corralled Amelie into chasing down disgusting animal parts instead of me.
Clovis led us past Marie’s garden, insisting we needed a quiet place free of distractions. He wasn’t much for conversation, but acted heaps better; alert, focused, and appearing at least a dozen years younger. Nothing in his gait was feeble or shambling. The shaman strode with ginger in his step not there yesterday. I bombarded him with questions about the training, but he wouldn’t give.
We arrived at a small clearing out
of earshot of the cabin. Clovis perched on an old cypress stump and directed me to stand in the center. “Tell me, Peter, what do you know of lying?”
“I cracked the rules,” I said smugly.
“Which are?”
“Practice.”
“Naturally.”
“Details are important.”
“No question.”
“So is believability. The lie has to make sense.”
Clovis leaned forward, hands on his knees. “For whom?”
“For the audience, of course. The lie has to sound real in order for them to buy it.”
“So you can’t threaten someone with being stomped to death by a pink elephant, because everyone knows pink elephants don’t exist.”
“Exactly.” Clovis’ eyes grew distant. His breathing slowed and became shallow. I cleared my throat. “Uh, Clovis, are you okay?”
The shaman didn’t answer. With half-closed eyes he mumbled to himself, swaying to and fro. For a moment I thought he was going to be sick and debated running to the house for help. Suddenly, his eyes flew open.
“Look behind you.”
“What? I don’t—” A trumpeting bellow echoed through the bayou and rocketed me a foot into the air. I whipped around—and came face to trunk with a giant pink elephant. “I…I…I…” Nothing much else came out.
“Go ahead, touch him,” Clovis urged with a self-satisfied expression. “The lie holds together quite nicely.”
Cautiously, I prodded with a finger. The hide was wrinkly and tough and except for the bubble gum color exactly like an elephant. The creature swatted me playfully with the trunk. The effect was like being hammered with a two-by-four. I was knocked halfway across the clearing.
Clovis shook his finger at the elephant. “That will be enough of that. Be nice.” The elephant rumbled an accord, pulled up a swath of grass with its truck, and stuffed the entire wad in its maw.
I scrambled to my feet and faced the shaman with stunned disbelief. “How did you...what did you…huh?”
Clovis smiled, obviously pleased with himself. “That, my dear boy, is an example of what happens when a lie becomes a spell.”
“But the elephant is real, not an illusion like the wall. It is real, isn’t it? I’m not going nuts, am I?”