Five Days of Darkness

by Greg Hall

And that made everything worse.

  7

  They arrived in Maringouin late in the afternoon.

  As the pair walked through the town, again, all eyes were on Modeste. They were the only passengers to exit the train when it had stopped, and when Modeste stepped onto the platform, the town folks noticed. Henri wasn’t aware right away, but when he turned to Modeste to see her eyes aimed at the ground, avoiding the gawking onlookers. For a moment, he realized that she must get this reaction wherever she goes.

  While in the brotherhood, Henri had heard of Marie Laveau and the things that she had done. Fellow priests used to condemn her acts as dark magic. Some even claimed her healing power was taken from Lucifer himself. Henri was still in his early twenties at the time and far more active than his fellow brothers, so he went to individuals who had dealt with Marie and listened to first-hand accounts of their ordeal. Every single client of Marie’s had nothing but nice things to say about her. For most, she had saved a member of their family.

  It went against everything Henri ever believed. These ideas went against everything he had been taught. There must have been some kind of dark underlying cause to her healing ability. As time went on, Henri became more and more detached from his original acceptance of listening to her clients. He began to listen to his brothers and let what they had to say influence his opinions of others’ beliefs. The more time he spent with the brotherhood, the more their views and opinions rubbed off on him.

  And as he looked over Modeste, he thought about the reason he disliked her. Everything about her was against everything he ever learned, ever preached, went against everything that made her.

  “They’re all staring at you,” Henri said.

  “Makes sense. They know me here.”

  “In a good way, right?” Henri asked, but Modeste didn’t respond. She kept walking with her head down. Her silence answered his question. Henri’s eyes bounced back and forth from the looming crowd to his travel partner. “If you have a past here, it would have been nice knowing before arriving.”

  “So what? You could fix it? You could change their minds about who I am.”

  “No. Course not. It just would have been nice knowing what, and who, I’m doing with.”

  “And what would that change? There would still be judgment. They would still be intolerant to who I am.”

  “Can you please just tell me what happened?”

  “I was brought here to help the mayor’s wife. She was quite ill.”

  “And did you save her?”

  “She got better, yes.”

  “Then what is the issue?”

  “I accidentally poisoned the mayor’s dog.”

  “You have a lot of nerve coming back here,” a voice called out before Henri had a chance to respond.

  The man was standing a few feet from Modeste, and between the linen he wore and his angry demeanor towards Modeste, Henri gathered this man was the Mayor of Maringouin.

  “We mean no harm. We have a few questions to ask,” Henri cut in, hoping to take some of the attention off of Modeste.

  Modeste, on the other hand, continued to stare right back at the mayor. She was timid before, but now, Modeste held a bold confidence he had yet to witness.

  “There are no answers here,” the mayor responded. He wasn’t backing down, and Henri racked his brain, searching for a way to enter the town. .

  Henri’s eyes scanned the crowd and landed on a familiar sight. His old friend, Lincoln, who was strolling away from the gawkers.

  “I need to speak with Father Lincoln. He’s an old friend, and I promise after we do that, we both will be on your way.”

  The mayor finally broke from Modeste’s stare and glanced at Henri. His eyes stopped on Henri’s clerical collar. The sight seemed to soften the mayor for a moment.

  “You’re here in the name of Saint Landry?”

  “Yes. Of course,” Henri said, as he filled with guilt for lying. It took only a moment for him to justify his actions. If Modeste spoke the truth and there have been similar murders here, the parishes would need to work together to stop the killer.

  “Fine. Be quick,” the mayor said, stepping out of their way. His eyes shifted back to glaring at Modeste.

  When they were out of earshot, Henri leaned over to her, “how do you accidentally poison a dog?”

  “Before I left, he asked me to help his dog. I mean, I’ve only ever healed humans. It’s what I was trained to do. And that night only proved it more.”

  The only difference between Apostle’s Den and Holy Trinity was the greenery planted on the outside. Apostle’s Den used limelight hydrangeas on the outside of their parish. Henri felt like a purist with his native purple prairie phlox nestled along the staircase of Holy Trinity. He had asked Betsy to take care of them before leaving. She would be living there while he was away, and he hoped the small chore might help bring her peace.

  Henri took the first few steps toward the door when a heavyset man yelled from a distance.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” The bellowing voice seemed to shake the ground around Henri.

  Although Henri was already four steps up the church stairs when he turned, the man was staring eye to eye with him. Henri wasn’t a pugilist, and watching the man seem to grow as he approached evoked his fight or flight response. By nature, he relied heavily on the latter. The three steps in height difference would be enough to frighten anyone.

  “I was just going in there,” Henri said as he pointed back toward Apostle’s Den.

  “Not you,” the man said.

  Henri realized the man’s eyes were narrowed on Modeste. She waited on the first step, her head pointing toward the ground. Henri could tell she knew the stranger was talking to her.

  “She’s with me,” Henri said.

  “I don’t care who she’s with. She ain’t going in there.”

  Modeste hobbled down the step, still keeping her head down. She did all she could to not look at the man. She stood like a statue beside the staircase with her back toward him.

  “I’ll stay here,” Modeste said, but Henri remained where he was. “It’s okay. Go.”

  “Okay. Stay right there.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere.”

  Henri entered Apostle’s Den and was immediately confronted by his old friend, Father Lincoln Crowe. The pastors had practiced together in New Orleans, but it had been several years since they had seen each other. Henri thought Lincoln appeared older, then realized Lincoln probably thought the same about him.

  Lincoln was part of the majority of priests who heavily criticized healers, herbalists like Marie Laveau, and although he was not the most vocal about the use of dark arts, he made it known he thought it was blasphemy.

  “When was the last time you left Melville, Henri?” Lincoln asked. His light dusting of gray hair was coated in sweat. He was a few inches taller than Henri and quite a bit leaner. His right hand shook gently, and Henri wondered if it was nerves or just the effects of aging.

  “It’s been a few years,” Henri replied.

  Both men embraced in a hug. It was awkward and held onto for far too long. It was as though neither wanted the hug, and neither knew when to end it.

  “And how have you been?”

  “I’ve been well, thank you. Apostle’s Den looks great,” Henri said.

  “Thank you. I think both our buildings are the same.” A sly smile formed on Lincoln’s lips. “One major difference exists between our two parishes.”

  “And what’s that?”The smile on Lincoln’s face disappeared and was replaced with one of concern. “Why did you open your doors to the negroes?”

  “Lincoln. Every person deserves to have a place of worship..”

  “Even in New Orleans, you had a soft heart for them. Things work differently out this way. Beyond the city border, we don’t have to pretend to like them.”

  “I did not come here to discuss our differences.”

  “Then, why did you come?” Linco
ln asked as he sat on the edge of a pew.

  “I wanted to ask about what happened here a few weeks back.”

  “Here? Nothing happened here a few weeks ago. Not to my knowledge.”

  “So there weren’t any murders?” Henri asked as he watched the arrogance on Lincoln’s face morph into anger. His eyes narrowed, and his lip curled into a scowl. Lincoln unexpectedly perked back up.

  “It was a sad day,” Lincoln said simply, as if he was just saying words.

  “How many victims were there?”

  “Two. They were a couple.”

  “Did the Sheriff come?”

  “No. No one did. We didn’t call anyone. Who would take a call like that?” Lincoln said, rising from his seat. He started to pace back and forth. “Why are you here asking questions? How did you even know it happened?”

  “Because the same thing happened in Morrow,” Henri said.

  Modeste waited patiently in the same spot. She had not moved a muscle. She couldn’t see him, but she knew the large man was close by, keeping an eye on her. She was worried standing by herself, but she would be in far more trouble had she taken a step anywhere else. The fear was common for someone like her. If it wasn’t because of her skin color in the smaller towns, it was her reputation, rumors of witchcraft. She got used to the feeling over time and always made sure not to show that it impacted. For the most part, folks were harmless, but some lack the ability to control their emotions. Some were so disturbed by her work that they became unhinged.

  She could feel another set of eyes watching her, not just the eyes of the large man. She felt a kind stare, not pity—sympathy. Modeste tilted her head slightly and caught the eyes of a pale, young girl. Modeste smiled, but when the girl realized Modeste was staring and smiling back, she quickly went back to sweeping the front porch.

  Modeste continued to watch her. The girl’s eyes kept bouncing around, inquisitive, but nervous. Every few seconds, her eyes lingered too long, and Modeste would meet her gaze.

  The young girl’s auburn hair was covered bv a sun hat. The girl’s movements were choppy and staggered. After every few sweeps, the girl would take a break, appearing tired and overworked. Modeste thought she looked frail and wondered if maybe the girl was ill. If it weren’t for her past in Maringouin, and the man watching her, she would have gone to speak with the girl.

  Modeste raised her right hand and gave a slight wave, but the girl embarrassingly hurried away and disappeared inside.

  “What do you plan on doing?” Lincoln asked.

  “Right now, we’re just trying to find a pattern with the killings. Start there, then maybe we can put a stop to it.”

  “Just you and that negro?”

  “She has information that can help,” Henri said.

  “Because she’s a witch doctor…”

  “Is there anyone in Maringouin who can talk to us?” Henri asked, trying to change the subject. He knew that that traveling with Modeste was going to be a common topic of conversation, and the less he had to hear people question their motives, the better.

  “Why did you leave New Orleans?” Lincoln asked, changing the subject.

  Henri found the question to be odd. A strange segway into a new topic of conversation. He didn’t come here to have a heart to heart with Lincoln. Henri didn’t want to have a conversation with him at all. If there was someone else willing to speak about the murders, Henri would walk out of the church and never look back.

  “Just tell me if there is someone else I can speak with.”

  “Was it the boy? It was, wasn’t it?” Lincoln said, not leaving the subject alone. “People die all the time, Henri; why did that one bother you so much?”

  “Because he asked us for help!” Henri cried, finally releasing some of the pent-up rage that had been stored inside him until now. “And we did nothing.”

  “There was nothing we could have done.”

  “We didn’t even try.”

  After a long pause, Lincoln finally broke the lingering silence. “Sarah Jane.”

  “What?”

  “The girl saw the man.”

  “The killer?” Henri asked. He appreciated the gesture by Lincoln.

  “Sarah Jane. Reprehensible child,” Lincoln said. His face scrunched in a distasteful scowl.

  “Is she here?”

  “I don’t know. She hasn’t been allowed in the Apostle's Den since the day of the murders.”

  “Why not?”

  “She was running around with the black boy. Jacob,” Lincoln said. “I know you have a soft spot for them negros, but here in Maringouin, behavior like that deserves condemnation.”

  “I must speak to her”

  “Of course, you want to speak to her. You’re traveling around with the witch doctor; now you want to talk to the girl who was playing around with the black boy. I don’t understand you.”

  “Times are changing, Lincoln. We need to change too.”

  The statement made Lincoln visibly uncomfortable. He shifted his weight back and forth as if his muscles needed a break from the hard wood pew. “I disagree, Henri. I think some things should stay the same.”

  “Change can be good,” was all Henri could say back.

  8

  Henri sat defeated on the platform bench.

  Besides Lincoln sharing Sarah Jane’s name, Henri couldn’t get any more help from anyone. As he approached people, they would either close their doors, shutters, or simply ignore that he was even talking to them. Henri managed to ask a few people about Sarah Jane, but once they heard her name, they pretended to look right through him.

  Modeste stood in front of a map hanging on a post. The future rail line route was highlighted to California. It showed where the tracks began and all the stops it made. A black star remained on Maringouin. She ran her finger down the line and stopped on the line before New Orleans. The track began right in the heart of the city.

  “He didn’t start here.”

  “What was that?” Henri replied, not listening. He was spending the moment inside his head, questioning their mission. He asked himself why he bothered, and if God wanted him to go on this missing, what was the purpose?

  “It started in New Orleans. We’re only noticing now because of the smaller population.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “It bothered me as to why it started here. Maringouin, Melville, and Morrow are all too similar. Why would he start here?”

  Henri finally stood and made his way to observe the map. He followed Modeste’s finger until it stopped in New Orleans.

  “So what are you suggesting?”

  “It’s making its way down the line.”

  “Where does this line end?”

  Modeste ran her finger in the opposite direction until it reached a large city icon — Alexandria.

  “It’s just having fun until he gets here,” Modeste said, as she turned toward Henri. “Then we might lose it forever.”

  Henri felt the impact of her words, but he was also filled with the sensation of being watched. When he looked at Modeste, she was already looking around, she clearly sensed the same feeling.

  “Come. We don’t bite,” Modeste said, loud enough for the watcher to hear.

  Henri followed Modeste’s line of sight and locked eyes with a timid girl. He wondered why the girl was watching them, but then he was struck with an idea.

  “Sarah Jane?” Henri asked.

  Hearing her name caused Sarah Jane to become visibly anxious. Her eyes bounced back and forth, and Henri thought she might take off in the opposite direction. She kept her eyes low and away from the pair. Every few seconds, she looked back over her shoulder; Henri assumed it was to see if her parents were watching. Sarah Jane nodded but took a step back.

  “It’s okay. We’re here to help,” Henri said. He grabbed at his clerical collar, hoping the sight of it would help ease her mind. It hadn’t crossed his mind that after being removed from her church, maybe this action wasn’t the best.

/>   “Sarah!” a voice angrily called out from somewhere in the distance.

  The booming voice caused Sarah to startle.Without a response to Modeste or Henri, Sarah took off frantically toward the sound of the voice.

  Henri stepped off the platform and watched as she disappeared into a house. Henri took a few steps, but Modeste’s voice called out from behind.

  “She don’t wanna talk.”

  “If we don’t talk to her, this trip was a waste,” Henri said dryly, as he continued.

  When he reached the wraparound deck, he began to doubt himself. Modeste was right. No one here wanted to help. His mind became inundated with snowballing thoughts. No matter where they went, they would all look at Modeste the same. She stood out like a wolf among sheep. Maybe people in the city were more accepting of witches like Modeste, but it was impossible to travel inconspicuously in small towns.

  The door opened brazenly, sending Henri back a step. The same man who confronted Modeste at the church about not being welcome stood in front of Henri. The male took two steps out onto the porch, and the boards beneath his feet cried out with each step. Henri had to stretch his neck to look up to the man.

  “I was … I was wondering if we could talk.” Henri said as he took a breath. He was used to standing in front of a crowd and giving a sermon, but that was nothing compared to this moment.

  “You got something to say?”

  “I would like to speak to your daughter,” Henri finally muttered.

  “My daughter? What do you want with my daughter?” the giant said as he took a step towards Henri. The big man knew it wouldn’t take much to instill fear into the little man on the porch.

  “It’s about what she witnessed. Father Crowe told me she was there the night of the murders.”

  “She doesn’t want to talk to anyone,” the man said, then added, “Best you get on your way before I take you out of this town myself.”

  Henri nodded, defeated. He turned back toward Modeste, who was still watching from the road. She stood like a statue, almost as if she didn’t move, the man wouldn’t see her.

  “Wait,” the man said.