Five Days of Darkness

by Greg Hall

  Henri’s heart sank. Maybe it was too late to help Sarah Jane.

  13

  Modeste watched in horror as Henri felt Sarah Jane felt for a pulse.

  “It’s there, but it’s weak,” Henri stammered.

  Modeste broke into action. She placed her cane against the wall next to Sarah Jane. She unraveled a white satin sheet, revealing a spread of silverbell, phlox, and yucca that she had collected earlier. That was Modeste’s favorite part of healing, collecting the pieces. It was her time spent in nature, being one with every piece of the healing puzzle. Unfortunately, the items were supposed to be dried, but Modeste had no time. She had to work with what she had.

  She could feel Henri’s eyes burning into her from behind. Tim was lingering in the background, pacing back and forth.

  “What are you going to do with that?” Henri asked.

  “Try to save her.”

  Modeste reached toward her neck and lifted a necklace, and pulled it out from her blouse, revealing a long flint stick on the end. She pulled it apart, so the striker on the other end was visible. She struck the pieces together a few times until a spark kicked onto the yucca. It didn’t catch fire, but the leaves glowed orange, and a small trail of smoke raced to the ceiling.

  Modeste began a prayer under her breath. Henri hesitantly moved forward, trying to listen to her words. Modeste lifted the yucca and rested it on Sarah Jane, still smoking.

  “Is that safe?” Henri asked.

  “Let her work,” Tim said from behind.

  Modeste ignored both of them. She continued her prayer. She took the phlox and did the same as she had done with the yucca. She laid the phlox in between Sarah Jane’s legs. She performed the same with the silverbell and placed it at Sarah Jane’s head.

  Modeste rose and took her cane. She watched Sarah Jane and waited, hoped, for some sort of movement.

  “What happens now?” Henri asked.

  “We wait.”

  The trio stood on the front porch staring off into the distance. None of them wanted to break the silence that fell upon them.

  It had been a long time since Modeste had performed such a ritual. And it was an equal amount of time since she tried to reach the Conjurer. He had failed her twice before, and the failings had broken her trust. If Tiara was still here or Modeste didn’t have to walk with a cane, her faith would be intact.

  A train horn blew out in the distance causing all three to almost jump out of their clothing. It also brought a stark reminder of what they were doing and how Modeste knew they had to be on their way.

  “What are we going to do with her?” Modeste asked.

  “How long until you know if your spell worked?”

  “It’s not a spell,” Modeste said, angrily. “I contacted the Conjurer,” she added, then became despondant, “I hope He was listening.”

  “The train will be here any minute,” Henri said.

  “She’s too weak to travel. She needs to rest.”

  “One of us has to stay behind.”

  “You go. Betsy said, this was your journey. Maybe this is where mine ends.”

  “No. We need to go together.”

  Modeste was taken back by Henri’s sudden defiance. Just two days earlier, he didn’t even want her around, and now it appeared as though he didn’t want to continue on his own.

  “I can take care of her until the physician is back.” Tim cut in. “I mean, you could tell me what I have to do.”

  Modeste didn’t want to leave the responsibilities for Sarah Jane’s survival in this stranger’s hands. In all honesty, she thought, she wasn’t ready for the responsibility either. If she were to die while Modeste was here, she would surely be to blame. Henri couldn’t stay behind because his purpose was to stop the bloodsucker.

  “It might be our only option,” Henri said as if reading Modeste’s mind.

  Modeste nodded toward him.

  “I’ll show you what you have to do,” Modeste said, guiding Tim back to the house.

  Henri and Modeste sat across from each other in the last car of the train. She watched as Henri had his head against the window with his eyes closed. She wasn’t sure he was asleep, but after the amount of energy he expended digging and refilling the graves, she knew he must be exhausted.

  In all her years, she had never seen a white person so passionate about making sure a black family received a proper burial. Maybe it had something to do with the story he told. But for Modeste, stories like those were commonplace. She remembered Armand. His mother sought her out and wanted Modeste to take the pain away that she felt in her heart. She told Modeste no matter what she did, she felt Armand in her heart, clawing to get out—through the walls. The pain had become unbearable, and she either wanted Modeste to take the pain away with a herb or physically remove the pain.

  Modeste provided her with the former. She gave the poor mother a herbal sedative that would help her sleep. It was all she could do.

  Modeste knew the mother’s pain. A stealing of time she wished she could have back herself. It was the only way Modeste could describe it to herself. She spent every possible moment with her daughter, but the moment Tiara went missing, Modeste knew it was never enough.

  She felt Tiara tearing at her heart every day. She saw her wherever she looked. Simple things reminded her of Tiara. The scent of azaleas blooming in spring, the sweet smell of honeysuckle. It was a scent that permeated. Tiara’s skin whenever she picked the flowers.

  Modeste thought she caught a glimpse of Tiara in the reflection of the window. She spun her head around to the entryway of the train car, but it was empty. Whenever Tiara entered her mind, Modeste caught glimpses of her. Sometimes, after a glimpse, she could smell honeysuckle in the air.

  It was just after midnight, and at this time of night, most ordinary people slept. Not Modeste. Once nightfall was upon her, she woke up. The time was spent on introspection. Although lately, that introspection was not productive. She worried more and more that she would lose the ability to walk. Her injuries were bad enough that most didn’t take her seriously as a healer. She couldn’t heal her own body. Why would anyone take a cripple seriously? She repeated that slur over and oever again in her head. She wished she could be a typical person. Someone who didn’t have to walk with a cane. Someone who didn’t have to rely on a small piece of wood.

  Henri’s voice had startled her. She didn’t hear what he said, it was just muffled words. Modeste wasn’t sure if he was awake or just talking in his sleep. She gave it a few minutes until she saw him blink.

  He was looking at her, expecting a response.

  “Of course,” Modeste said, not sure of what was said, but felt that was the safest response.

  She watched the man she had spent more time with than anyone in the last few months lift himself into a more upright position. Modeste watched as he stretched his neck and heard a crack come from the left side. From his expression, Modeste could tell he was just as surprised to hear the pop.

  “I hope you don’t take this the wrong way, but you don’t strike me as one who would believe in God.” Henri continued.

  “My God is a little different. My God, the conjurer, uses energy to heal,” Modeste replied.

  Ever since Marie Laveau took in a young Modeste, she believed in God, the conjurer. Marie taught her that the only way one could heal, emotionally and physically, was to connect with God through their spirituality directly. It may not have been the same God Henri believed in, but the genderless creator that Modeste has placed her faith in shared similarities with Henri’s Christian God. Most of these similarities came from the fact that slavery forced the black population to adapt and form to their religion. The Conjurer remained, and Modeste’s faith in Him, up until ten years ago, had remained strong.

  “I just assumed, I guess. I don’t know much about what you do. You believe in some, well, different things.”

  “We do. I believe in God, who can use death’s energy to save the living. Your God is vengeful
.”

  “You said you believed in God,” Henri said with a confused tone.

  “A God who wants us to thrive, in this world. My God is the creator and the Conjurer.”

  “Do you believe that everything is God’s plan?” Henri asked. It came across as genuine and inquisitive, Modeste thought.

  Modeste had thought about this almost every day since Tiara went missing. Modeste had had a close relationship with God, but after that moment, her faith began to waver. For years, she thought everything happened for a reason, and if it happened, it was God’s will.

  It made no sense to her. Tiara was only ten years old when she disappeared. And no matter how much Modeste searched or spoke with her God, no answer ever came.

  So Modeste’s conjurer never led anyone down a path, instead, He listened to the ones in need. Modeste’s God gave her a light to pass on. It was never much about the chosen path, but what was waiting at the end. If this were where the bloodsucker would die, she would be there to make sure it was gone forever.

  “Sometimes it's easier to believe that there is a plan.” Modeste replied, knowing that was the answer Henri was hoping for. “Sometimes it’s hard to believe God would plan such heartbreak or misery.”

  “I can understand that,” Henri said, revealing a slight smile.

  Modeste smiled back. A strange sense of comfort was building between them. Modeste knew she wouldn’t be able to make this journey without him. No one in the white community would acknowledge her in most of these towns, and she would have never received accurate information from anyone.

  “You’re worried about what we’re doing,” Modeste speculated.

  “I’m worried about where we’re heading. I’m worried about the girl we left behind. I’m worried about how Betsy will survive without her family. I mean, I still don’t know what I’m doing here. We’re heading to Bunkie, only because it’s the next town after Morrow. We don’t know that the killer is there. What if he went right to Alexandria? We don’t know where to start.”

  Modest took a moment to respond. It was strange to hear Henri be so vulnerable. This entire trip, Henri had been on attack, criticizing her and her beliefs. This moment of humility was a welcomed change.

  “God gives us challenges. We knew this wasn’t going to be easy,”

  “Right,” Henri said. Her response didn’t seem to relieve any of his stress. “Have you seen anything like this killer before?” Henri asked, ruining their moment and springing them back to their burdens.

  “Once. It was a long time ago,” Modeste said.

  She pondered for a moment as to whether to tell Henri about Tiara. She had never told anyone before. She held the story close to her chest and was not ready to share her tragedy with someone who questioned her integrity. She held hope that one day she would find her daughter. That Tiara was still alive and well, and that one day, they would be reunited. It had been ten years, and every day, that hope diminished a little more. She felt that if she told the story aloud, there would be no hope of finding her.

  “You keep calling it a bloodsucker,” Henri said, then paused for a moment before leading to the next question, “If it is what you think it is, how do you kill one?”

  Modeste wondered if Henri was starting to believe or seeking to find faults in her beliefs. .

  “There are many theories. Some say sunlight will kill them. But I don’t believe that. Some say that the sign of the cross or holy water can ward them off. Not sure I believe that either,” Modeste hesitated because Tiara’s room had several crosses and one she wore around her neck. “But the one true way to stop one is with a stake through the heart.”

  “Oh. A stake through the heart. That’s… permanent. And why sunlight?”

  “Because most of these theories come from some sort of quasi-religious ideal. The cross and holy water stem from Judeo-Christianity, and the sun came from pagan beliefs. I don’t think bloodsuckers care for either.”

  Modeste could tell it wasn’t the answer he wanted to hear. She watched him slump back into his seat. The smile that was on his face dissipated.

  She had thought about it more than a few times during their travels. How could either one of them get close enough to drive a stake through the bloodsucker’s heart? Henri wasn’t getting any younger, and with Modeste’s cane, she could not be quiet or quick.

  “A stake through the heart,” Henri repeated. “Like a wooden stake?”

  “The only way. At least the only sure way to do it,” Modeste responded. “You could also cut their head off. That might work.”

  “No, thank you.” Henri shuttered.

  The sun began to rise over the treeline. They both watched as the orange glow took away the darkness. Modeste closed her eyes, and for a moment, she swore she could feel the warmth of the sun on her face.

  “Bunkie is a large place?” Modeste asked.

  “Over fifteen hundred people,” Henri stated.

  “Where do we start looking for it?”

  “We need to find someone who knows, or at least recognizes if people are new to the town. The train only passes through once a day, so there can’t be too many people.”

  With the sun on their faces, their troubles faded into the background, and it was euphoric, giving her eyes a rest. There was a gnawing in her stomach that took over her thoughts. They had packed a few snacks, but they needed to stop and get some home cooked food. Her thoughts were filled with all the things she wanted to eat. Suddenly, she recognized that must be how the bloodsucker felt most of the time. It was why he was hunting victims in every town, simply to vanquish their hunger.

  A silence fell between the pair, and for the first time on the trip, they both fell asleep. Modeste finally felt comfortable enough to rest. She had vivid dreams of Tiara. Her smiling daughter waved to her, always seeming to be just out of reach. As Modeste extended her hand, only a few inches from her, the train horn blew out, jolting her from her dreams.

  They had arrived in Bunkie.

  14

  As they stood on the platform, Modeste realized that this town, much like Melville, Maringouin, and Morrow, was no different.

  Sure, there were significantly more people than the previous towns, the way people looked her over was the same. And just like every town, she made sure to remain close to Henri.

  It was an anxiety that never left her side. She always felt that the eyes were on her, even if they weren’t. It was why she liked Morrow. It was, up until a few weeks earlier, a haven for her kind. Sure, everyone was staring at her, but they left her alone. Which, in her opinion, was enough. It was an impression that Henri had created. He brought the community together, and most of the black community felt like things were improving. But here, she didn’t have a connection.

  She was alone.

  She could tell that Henri appeared to be nervous too. He knew exactly where to go in the last two towns, but here, he was out of his element. Modeste watched as Henri’s eyes locked on a building only forty feet ahead.

  It wasn’t an establishment Modeste would generally seek out, but she could almost see Henri salivating.

  She didn’t even try to stop him. She watched him walk directly to the front door and disappear inside the bar.

  Henri stepped into the bar and paused. He could smell the pungent aroma of whiskey. Like Pavlov’s dog, Henri began to lick his lips unconsciously. It wasn’t until then that he realized his lips were so dry.

  A few patrons were already drowning their sorrows. Looking for answers at the bottom of a glass, but never finding any. A bartender stood behind the bar. He was pouring another drink for a lone male in front of him. Neither the bartender nor the drunk patrons spoke to each other. He simply filled the glass then pushed it over to the man who accepted it without words.

  It was an odd feeling for Henri to be standing there. He had never stepped foot in a tavern before. He dealt with many who had, and he never wanted to mingle with the same crowd he was choosing to guide. He approached the bar wit
h caution. He found the farthest stool away from the other patrons and finally sat down. He kept his hands clasped together in hopes to prevent the shake. His eyes pointed at the mahogany top in front of him. Visible dried stains from previous unkempt patrons remained on the bar—remnants of memories left behind by people who probably had none of their own.

  “What can I get for you?” the bartender asked, startling Henri.

  “I’m just here for information,” Henri said. He wondered why his voice was so quiet. He’d been nervous before but never unable to speak. His voice was soft and came out like a squeaking mouse.

  “I don’t have information in a bottle,” the bartender snapped back.

  “Just some water then.”

  “Drink.”

  “Water,” Henri said, not understanding the path of the conversation.

  “Drink,” the bartender repeated, as he lifted a bottle of whiskey from a shelf behind the bar.

  “Whiskey,” Henri finally said.

  The bartender removed a smudged glass and poured a dram. He slid the glass in front of Henri.

  Henri stared at the bronze liquid in the glass. The sharp aroma stung his nostrils. Just staring at it, he could feel the burn in his chest. The burn in his chest, it was something lingering in his mind. .

  After leaving Melville, with all the stress, Henri thought about the intense burn of bourbon. The thought had consumed him ever since stepping onto the platform and seeing the pub.

  Henri shook off the sensation and peered through the window to Modeste, who agreed to wait outside the tavern. He noticed a young boy standing a few feet away, and it appeared as though they were having a conversation. They seemed to be enjoying each other’s company, which brought a smile to Henri’s face.

  It reminded him of why he was here. The boy reminded him of Eli. They were about the same age and size. Both were just trying to get by.

  “I need information,” Henri called out. Newfound confidence in his words.