Rain fell from a gray sky the next morning, causing a scramble to cover the book wagons. Travel was wet and miserable despite the rain gear. By early afternoon, the rain had let up, but as the convoy began passing tall buildings, several horse-mounted soldiers crossed the green strip between the lanes and headed right for them. Pettibone and the other teamsters started to grab bows, spears and clubs, but Poppa rode forward and raised a hand. After short discussion with the lead horseman, Poppa rode back.
“That’s the Lafayette Escadrille, the local militia,” he said. “The Acadia Parish governor sent them to accompany us through Lafayette.”
Petra watched as the horsemen took up escort positions along the convoy. They wore green and silver under their chain-mail and plate-armor coats. Their domed helmets had nose and cheek guards, which served to hide most of their faces, but Petra saw an occasional beard or strong chin and broad nose. Their shields were emblazoned with a man’s head wearing a bonnet of long, flowing feathers. A flag carried by a man galloping by carried the same image.
“They say they used to fly, the Escadrille,” Pettibone said. “Long time ago, across the ocean. Their forebears flew and fought in the air.”
“But people don’t fly,” Liam said.
Pettibone shrugged. “They say they did. I’m not arguing wit’ these guys.”
After about two hours, the convoy left I-10 and traveled down a narrow road until they came to another large road that went underneath the big double-road. The wagons gathered around one another on the flat concrete surface. Someone had painted a giant fleur-de-lis and the words University of Louisiana on an angled concrete wall below I-10. Soon the road was crammed with wagons, protesting oxen, horses and convoy workers grumbling as they ran around with brooms and bags collecting what the animals left behind. Petra and Liam jumped out of the wagon and dodged oxen, wagons, horses and people to where their father stood next to his horse.
“This is where we split,” he was saying. “The Lafayette wagons will take this road to the town’s commercial center accompanied by most of the Escadrille. Dillon, we’ll only need a few Rangers for that group, leave the rest with the main convoy. A detachment of Escadrille will go with you to help navigate through the town. Yates, you’re in charge of the main group because I’m going into the town. All right? Then let’s move.”
Petra ran up to Poppa as he pulled out his water bottle. “Do you have to go, Poppa?”
“Yes, honey, I do. It’s business. Your mother’s going with you, though. I won’t be long.” He kneeled, gave her a hug. “Be good for me, eh?” He eyed her for a moment, then stood. “Liam—”
“I know my duty, sir.”
“I was going to say, take care, son.”
Liam nodded. “Come on, Pest-a.”
As they reached the wagon, the sun appeared. Pettibone shed his rain cloak as they climbed aboard.
“On the road again,” Pettibone said as he snapped the reins. “I heard that somewhere, but I don’ remember where.”
Petra checked the bundle under the seat, then sat between the two. The convoy again climbed a narrow, angled road, then joined I-10 again. When Yates started to pass on his tall horse, Pettibone waved.
“Goin’ the long way round, ha?” Pettibone said as the taciturn Convoy Second pulled up alongside. “I don’ think this is much faster than Old 90.”
“Safer,” Yates said. “This convoy is too tempting for bandits and other sleazebags. Plus, on Old 90, we’d be stopped every five miles to pay ‘hood tolls.’”
“That’ll happen on the Evangeline.”
“Not so bad now, they say.”
“Hah. We’ll see.”
“Indeed.” Yates spurred his horse and headed to the front of the convoy.
“What’s the Evangeline?” Petra said.
“A road named for the town it ends in, I think. It’s still Old 90, where it takes a bend south, actually. See, there? The old signs are tellin’ us where to go.”
The signs were mounted on a framework that stretched across their side of the road. EXIT SOUTH, U.S. 90, read the one that pointed to the narrow road the convoy was taking. It curved around in a long loop, then merged into another big road, this one with three lanes instead of two. Almost immediately, they ran into the first checkpoint, but the convoy didn’t even stop.
As they passed through the gate in the wall that stretched across the road, a fat man in an ill-fitting brown shirt waved. Wagons made up most of the traffic, but the inside lane was reserved for single-horseback riders, many of whom were youths, even girls her own age. Petra envied their high spirits as they passed laughing and shouting in their bright clothing, but they were also accompanied by dour-faced men carrying swords and wearing armor.
Buildings tall and low crowded the roadsides. Most of the taller ones had blank fronts with empty window openings, but one or two sported signs proclaiming themselves as hotels. Several of the smaller buildings were covered in symbols and odd words. Petra could read French, but many didn’t make sense and some of the drawings looked scary. This wild artistry was often accompanied by snatches of music when the traffic noise abated, a mix of what she’d heard back at the old settlement but others that scraped her nerves.
They passed a huge sign way up on a pole that proclaimed JESUS IS LORD!
Crosses, fish, birds and flowers were painted on the pole and a large metal cross stuck out from the side. A church with stained-glass windows and a cross at the top of a tall steeple stood behind the sign.
Farther down the road, another sign rose out of the tangle of buildings, but this one said SATAN IS TRUE LORD!
Snakes, skulls and faces with horns adorned the pole. It stood behind a long, high fence, with the words BELIEVE IN BAAL and LET LUCIFER LIGHT YOUR WAY painted in large letters surrounded by deformed animals, odd-shaped moons and planets. Naked men and women cavorted through the scenes.
Pettibone crossed himself, mumbled a prayer. “You childs don’t look, that’s blasphemous! Turn your heads away! Damn, I wish the gummint would get rid of this place!”
Once past the wall and signs, though, the roadside buildings, while still garishly painted, took on a more normal look. Things didn’t go so well at the next checkpoint. As Yates and the Escadrille haggled with the ’hood’s militia, a general rest was declared to water—and clean up behind—the oxen. Momma rode up and she, Petra and Liam bought some water and fruit at a roadside stand. By the time the convoy was finally allowed to pass, the sun was low in the sky and the long twilight of summer in full swing as they arrived at the Beaver Field campgrounds.
A shallow lake filled the center of the field, and a river of brown water curved three-quarters of the way around. The layout prevented formation of complete defensive circles, so the book wagons were parked along the riverbank. Yates told Pettibone he wasn’t real happy with that, and Pettibone said he didn’t like to see the Escadrille departing.
Fires were lit in the pits, but dinner was dried food again because of the late hour. Petra and Liam bedded down with several Raiders in a shelter tent, but Momma was on first watch. It took a while before Petra fell asleep, and her dreams were plagued by crawling and oozing things, like those she’d seen on the walls.
A shout in one of those dreams jolted her awake where she found the shouting was real. “Alarm, Rangers!” She crawled over next to Liam. Shadowy figures ran back and forth in the dim dawn light. Petra ducked as unseen arrows whistled through the air. Oxen bellowed, horses galloped by and men shouted and waved swords and spears. Petra gasped as someone grabbed her shoulder.
“Easy, it’s me, Annie. Marian sent me to check on you guys.”
“What’s happening?” Liam said.
“A raid we were told wasn’t going to happen.”
Annie wasn’t as tall as Momma but she packed power in her broad shoulders and compact frame. “Good thing we not believe
that, right? Stay put, this is a defensive position.” She hurried off in that odd lumbering gate of hers.
“Stay here.”
“Liam—”
“I’m just going up there. You’re safe here.”
“Stay here, stay here, that’s all everyone says.” The noise and the occasional arrow dampened any desire to follow. It was like back home when raiders attacked; she would crouch somewhere and wait. Then she heard what sounded like a sick ox bellowing. Someone cursed, but someone else cheered.
“It’s the horn of Ezra’s guard! This’ll clear those bastards out!”
The bellow sounded again much louder. Petra pushed herself up in time to see three horses gallop by with riders waving swords. She scooted along the canvas until she saw Liam, and crawled to his side.
“Good guys or bad guys?” she said.
“Good, lots,” Liam said, once again sheathing his sword.
More horse riders appeared but slowed their mounts to a walk. Petra could make out more of the details in the morning light, mostly three wagons across the way from them. She looked toward her left and saw what looked like wheels sticking up. She stood up, trying to see better.
“Oh, no!” Petra dashed away.
“Petra!” Liam shouted, but she ignored him. She jumped over the tongue and ran around the wagon’s front but froze when she saw someone tossing books aside.
“Well, what’s this, a little pig to gut, eh?” The face that turned toward her was covered in a white mask with dark eyes and a rictus grin. His dark clothing made it hard to tell what he was wearing. He dashed forward and grabbed Petra, who screamed and kicked.
“Shut up y’little b—uh!”
Someone plowed into the man, making him stumble and drop her. The attacker whirled around, stopped with sword point forward. Liam looked very slender and small against the masked man’s bulk.
“Ha! Another little worm, this one with a toothpick.” The man whipped a shield around from his back and grabbed a heavy club. “You first, then.”
He swung hard with the club; Liam tried to parry it but his sword was knocked aside and he barely held on to it. The man swung back in an awkward backstroke, but Liam ducked, then managed to return to a proper stance. His gaze didn’t waver but his sword shook slightly.
“Hot shit, you think, eh, worm?” The man feinted, then hit Liam squarely with his shield. Liam staggered. “Little boys shouldn’t—”
Liam screamed and lunged, putting all his momentum behind his sword. The point hit the man’s groin just inside the right leg. It must have penetrated because the man grunted and jerked to a stop. He reared back with the club, but Liam twisted the sword, then turned his body and pulled so the blade sliced across and ripped out with a gout of blood. The man screamed, dropped both club and shield, and clutched the wound. The blood flowed down his leg. He staggered back, tripped and fell backward and rolled down into the sluggish river. He splashed at the edge as red spread into the brown of the water. His struggles gradually lessened until they stopped. Only his legs showed on the shore.
Liam stood breathing hard, sword shaking in his hand.
He crouched, wiped the blade in the grass. “Come on, Petra.”
Petra turned back and climbed into the wagon.
“Now, damn it!”
“Wait!” She grabbed the bundle just as Liam yanked her away. She barely managed to hang on to it.
His grip was hard as he hauled her back to the Rangers’ tent. “Stay here.”
“Where are you going?”
“To check—find—never mind.”
“Liam!” Petra yelled but he turned and left in rapid strides. She clutched the bundle to her chest, stood frozen, suddenly fearful and alone, until a familiar shout pierced through.
“Petra Marigold Landreaux! What do you mean running off? Practically in the middle of a battle, Annie tells me.”
Momma, eyes ablaze, stood above Petra, hand on hips. “What were you thinking?”
“I had to save Grandpa’s gift!” she shouted. “There was a guy—”
“You could’ve been killed, child! That was irresponsible—”
“I had to save Grandpa’s gift! It’s special!” She tried to glare back at Momma but tears made it all go fuzzy. “Poppa helped me find it. I had to save it, Momma, I had to. Liam got to give Grandpa a birthday gift! I want to give him one, too, Momma, I had to save it!” Petra’s words dissolved into a long series of sobs.
“Oh, child, child, child,” Momma said in a gentle tone as she kneeled and wrapped her arms around her. “My petite fleur, no book on this planet, not one, is worth your life. Grandpa would be devastated if he knew—if he lost you. There are more books, many more, we could find another just as nice. But there is only one of you.”
She wiped the tears from Petra’s face. “You have to be careful out here, petite fleur. There is so much danger—” She stopped, looked at Petra a moment. “You definitely are your father’s daughter. Now. You got your bundle?”
She picked it up from where she’d dropped it. “Y-yes.”
“Good.” Mother gave her another hug, stood, took Petra’s hand.
“Momma, Liam killed a man.”
Her mother’s steps faltered. “I will find him.”
They walked a bit farther, then Momma yelled, “Mycroft!”
A horse came to a sudden halt and the rider leaped off and ran toward them. Petra quailed, expecting another lecture, but the tall figure scooped her up.
“Oh, baby. Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, Poppa, I’m fine.” She fought more tears as he pressed her to his hard jacket.
“I have to find Liam,” Momma said.
“Annie said she saw him at the water station, white as a ghost. Take my horse.”
“Right. You two behave yourselves.” She mounted and rode off.
“I think the mess tent is in operation.” There they got plates of scrambled eggs and sausage; Petra was hungry enough to clean hers. A messenger came by and he and Poppa had a quiet conversation.
“Just a local band of bandits, looks like,” Poppa said after the man left. “We’d gotten word of the plans and came as quickly as we could. Fortunately Ezra sent help.” They left the tent and walked to the overturned book wagons.
“Th-that guy in a mask was going through the books,” Petra said.
“I don’t think he was after dictionaries and atlases.”
Petra walked over to the riverbank, pointed. The red had disappeared, but a pair of legs still stuck out of the water.
“Come away, honey,” Poppa said.
“What will we do now?”
“Once everything is secure and the wounded are taken care of, Ezra’s having a party. And, by God, we need one.”
Petra put on her one dress. Not like the frilly ones from the catalog, but one that fell below her knees and with long sleeves. Mother despaired because it came out of the luggage wrinkled, but Petra didn’t care.
Musicians played on a stage and when she danced with Poppa, she loved the way the dress swirled around her legs. There were barbecued pork ribs, chops and chicken; jambalaya, potatoes—both white and sweet—fresh collard greens, beans and corn bread. After dark, Petra joined Poppa, Momma, Liam, Ezra and his petite wife, Adele, sitting in a circle near the fire. Everyone was relaxed, even if there were weapons on belts and bows and quivers within quick reach.
“When the Reckoning came, some folks thought they could enslave the blacks again.” Ezra was a huge man, tall and deep-chested, with a high forehead and wide shoulders. His voice was deep and rumbled in his chest. “But the blacks had tasted freedom for too long. And they had learned history, and they had learned to fight, so it wasn’t so easy. So here I am, a black man, descendant of slaves, owning a huge plantation where there once was a country club and an airport. I named it Jus
tice Oaks because it’s just that I should be in this position. But I don’t own slaves. Everyone who works for me, I pay them well with what is valuable.”
“Must’ve taken a lot of hard work,” Poppa said.
“Three generations, going on four. All carefully recorded. My great-grandpappy was a kid when the Reckoning came, and he wrote it all down. Wasn’t much of a warrior by all accounts, but he was a good . . . what d’you call it?”
“Scholar,” said Adele.
“Scholar. Wrote it all down, then my great-uncle took over, then my pappy, now my son. Complete family history of the After times with a bit of Before.”
“The library at Athena would love to have that history in its files—”
Ezra shook his head. “Those journals do not leave this land.”
“No, no, they’ll send scribes here to copy them, word for word, just as they’re written.”
“Well, I don’t—”
“We would be honored to have our story in the library,” Adele said.
“We would?”
“Ezra, people will read about the Hawks family, our struggles, our deeds, our triumphs, all in our own words. Our family history will inspire future folk.”
“Well, then,” Ezra said, gazing at his wife, “I guess you’d better tell your librarians to send their scribes, Mycroft.”
* * *
The next morning Poppa, Petra and Pettibone were removing books from the book wagon with the broken axles when Yates and four convoy masters rode up. Poppa barely glanced at them.
“Yates, bring wagon fourteen, please, there’s room around the bottle gourds and clay vessels, we should be able to cram most of these around—”
“Sir, delay could mean we’ll miss the salt train at New Iberia.”
Poppa looked at his Second. “We’re slightly ahead of schedule, Yates, plus I think McIlhenny will be willing to wait a day or two.”
“Sir, I—this stuff just isn’t worth the trouble.”
“I see.” Poppa looked down at the book he was holding. “A Brief History of Time by Stephen Hawking.” He held it up. “You think this is junk, right, Yates?”
Tales of Downfall and Rebirth Page 29