Pamela Morsi

by The Love Charm

  "Don't give these little ones so much as a moment's worry," Orva told her. "There will be plenty to think about this night, I promise."

  Madame Landry cuddled the little ones close to her and kept them quiet and calm as she told them stories. It was a curious fact that the youngest of the community loved Orva and were drawn to her. Once they came to understand the ways of the traiteur and the voices and the notion of spirits and charms, a fearful distance was created that could never quite be bridged. For that reason, Madame Landry, always took the early opportunities to love and be close to the little ones of the parish.

  Orva had never had children of her own. She'd actually been married twice, but there had been no issue from either union. She did not regret that, nor was she saddened by it. Her life was filled with important tasks to be accomplished. It was uncertain if she could have been as effective as a treater if she had also been a mother. The nearest she had come to motherhood herself was being godmother to Armand.

  Vividly she remembered the small, sickly little baby that they had brought her. No one had believed that baby would live. Truthfully she hadn't believed it herself. But she had been determined. Why had God given her the treater's skills if He had not meant her to be able to save this special little life that had been placed in her arms?

  She had saved him and she had made him strong. And she had watched him grow into a wise and just man. She was proud of him. As proud as any true parent might be. And she loved him. She had every hope that his new life, his married life, would bring him much happiness. And what she did this night was as much for him as it was for Jean Baptiste and Felicite.

  It was full dark when they arrived at the little shack up high in the dark bayou. They almost missed the place. Tante Celeste had long since gone to bed and there was no light to spot the location.

  Jean Baptiste had seen it, fortunately, and with a little maneuvering and a lot of noise, they had managed to tie up the boat at the broken-down old dock.

  Tante Celeste came out of her house, shucked down to her smallclothes to see what was going on.

  "I couldn't be more surprised if tree frost turned into real silver," the old woman declared.

  "We've come to pass-a-time with you," Orva told her. "I brought these little children and the two of us will have to try to take care of them for a day or two."

  Tante Celeste ushered the sleepy children into the house as Jean Baptiste hastened off.

  "You go on home now," Orva said. "And soon as you get to the house you eat up that tart I made for you."

  He chuckled. "I hope you know what you're doing."

  "I mostly always do," she replied.

  "Maybe I should share a bite of it with my wife," he suggested.

  "No, don't do that," Orva cautioned.

  "Felicite's not been interested in laying close with me for some time," he confided quietly.

  Orva shook her head firmly. "Every bite of that tart is for you. Don't let that woman have even so much as a taste of the crust."

  Jean Baptiste nodded agreement.

  "Heaven will be taking charge of your wife's body this night, telling it exactly what to do. You'll not have to worry on that account," Orva said. "This charm is meant strictly for you."

  In the moonlight Orva couldn't plainly make out his face, but she sensed his embarrassment.

  "Madam," he whispered his reply. "I don't know what you've been thinking but my ... my body has never failed me in that way. I can always . . ."

  "Yes, yes, I'm sure you can," Orva conceded. "This treatment is not for curing impotence. I know full well that is not the problem. It's something entirely different. You just go on home to your wife, Jean Baptiste. Eat up every bite of that tart. And believe me, within a few minutes the way your body will be acting is going to be like nothing you've ever felt in your life."

  With a lighthearted chuckle and a shake of his head, Jean Baptiste stepped into his pirogue.

  "So it is your aim to make a memorable night for us," he said as he pushed off from the dock.

  Orva nodded and waved as she called out to him.

  "Young man, your whole life long I don't believe that you will ever forget it."

  As Jean Baptiste and the little pirogue headed downstream in the full dark of moonlight, Orva could hear the young man whistling.

  She almost felt like whistling herself.

  Chapter 17

  "Laron!" Helga stood in the pirogue calling out his name while they were still buffeted by the surf. She waved eagerly to him and she jumped from the skiff to the beach, heedless of the water.

  He stared for a long moment and then ran into her arms.

  "Helga! My love, my own sweet love."

  He gripped her against his chest almost desperately close to him and whispered her name over and over.

  She was crying with pent-up anxiety and relief.

  "Are you all right?" he asked. "Are the children all right? Has anything . . . anything happened?"

  "Only that I missed you," she answered. "Only that I missed you so much."

  Armand helped Aida onto the beach and together they pulled the skiff safely out of the tow. By unspoken agreement, the two successfully managed to keep their eyes on each other, affording Laron and Helga a brief moment of privacy.

  "How did you get here? Where are the children?"

  "We came after you," she told him. "The children are with your sister. Madame Landry said for her to care for them."

  "Madame Landry?"

  "I didn't know where else to go," Helga admitted. "I thought her the person most likely to know what to do."

  Laron nodded tacit agreement.

  "We left her place just this morning."

  "You came all this way today?"

  "We were headed for the German coast," Helga said.

  "In that worn-out old skiff?" Laron directed that question to Armand. "You would have never made it."

  "It was all we had," he answered.

  "Perhaps Madame Landry knew that we need only make it here," Aida suggested.

  "Mademoiselle Gaudet?" Laron noticed her for the first time. "What are you doing here?"

  "I . . ." She hesitated and then glanced over at Armand. The sight of him seemed to give her courage. "I am Mademoiselle Gaudet no longer," she said. "I am Madame Sonnier."

  Laron's jaw dropped open in disbelief and then he leaned over and heartily slapped Armand on the back.

  "Bon Dieu!" Laron exclaimed. "My friend, you never said a word."

  "There was no word to say," Armand admitted. "I asked her to wed me and she has."

  Laron took Aida's hand and leaned over to kiss her on the cheek. "Best wishes, Madame," he said.

  "Thank you," she replied, almost shy. "We ... we just decided recently."

  "It must have been very recently," he agreed. "So it was Armand who was the other man you loved."

  Aida blushed a vivid scarlet and did not reply.

  Laron turned to regard Armand once more. "And when were you wed?" he asked.

  Armand gave Aida a little guilty glance. "Today, this morning."

  "What?" Laron was genuinely shocked. "And this is how you choose to spend your wedding night?"

  "You are my friend." He gave a nod toward Aida. "Our friend. Madame Shotz needed to go in search of you. So of course we wanted to help."

  "Your people and your friends have been very kind to me," Helga said. "I would have come to you, come to find you, if I'd had to swim. Thankfully there was that little boat. Monsieur Sonnier made it fly over the water. For that I will always be grateful."

  Armand shrugged.

  Laron reached out and shook Armand's hand. "Thank you," he said simply. "I will always be grateful, too. If something happened to Helga, I . . ."

  His voice wavered and he could say no more.

  Silence settled upon them. In the western sky the sun was sinking into the water like a bright red ball. There was much to say, but much to do also.

  "We'd best make camp whil
e we can still see," Armand said, breaking through the spell of quiet thoughtfulness.

  "And I'm starving," Aida said.

  Her tone was so much the spoiled Aida that Armand thought he once knew that he couldn't help smiling at her.

  "When Madame Sonnier gets hungry," he declared with feigned gravity, "then food must be prepared."

  He was rewarded for his humor with a swift elbow

  in his ribs, but he only laughed and the others joined in.

  "I've got some crabs I was about to cook," Laron told them, his tone considerably lightened by their humor. "They aren't enough for four people, but I'm willing to share."

  "Madame Landry packed us dinner," Helga said. "With that and the crabs, we will surely eat well enough."

  "That's assuming the old woman provides a better meal than she does a boat," Armand said.

  For the next half-hour the four of them set to work, making camp, preparing food, joking and talking as if they were on a carefree picnic. Just below the surface of this happy laughter was the concern and anxiety that was as yet still unspoken.

  The wind off the water was blustery and cool. Laron and Armand built a wind break, half-burying the two poling sticks from their boats at an angle and crisscrossing the space between them with piles of driftwood and brush. It was not much of a shelter, but it kept the worst of the wind from them. And the area between it and the fire was most comfortably warm and toasty.

  Laron took the chance to privately thank him for helping Helga.

  "She is everything," he told Armand. "More precious to me than you can understand." He looked over at Armand and his gaze was questioning. "Or perhaps you do understand. Are you in love with Aida?"

  Armand shrugged. "Who would not love Aida?"

  Laron gave him an even look. "I did not," he answered simply.

  The two men stood together for a long moment. Armand finally gave him the response he sought.

  "I love her," he said. "I love her and I am very pleased to be married to her."

  Slowly Laron's stern expression warmed to a grin and he slapped his friend on the back.

  "Felicitations, mon ami," he said. "Congratulations on your marriage, my friend."

  Although Helga took charge of boiling the crabs, Aida used some oil and flour to mix up a hot roux. Once the crustaceans were cooked and cracked, Aida dribbled the tasty sauce over the meat.

  Armand had never thought of Aida as being much of a cook. But it made sense that a woman who knew and understood herbs might have talents that lay in that direction. He glanced at her from time to time, surprised by how at home she seemed in front of the primitive campfire.

  The food was either exceptionally good or the four of them were very hungry. They ate in complete silence except for the occasional wordless expression of appreciation. The spicy flavored crab had them licking their fingers. And the last of the tangy roux sauce was mopped up with Madame Landry's only slightly stale bread.

  "This is the best food I've eaten in a week," Laron declared.

  "Don't tell me that they did not feed you on the German coast," Helga said.

  He smiled warmly at her. "An old farmer's wife did make me some goose liver and dumplings, but it was not nearly so fine as your own."

  There was no tart in their basket, but Aida did find a handful of fresh blueberries and divvied them out.

  The taste was a sweet, pleasant reminder to Armand of the wonder of the morning. He had held Aida Gaudet in his arms, kissed and caressed her, and he could have possessed her. He had married her. He caught her eye momentarily and watched her blush. Aida Gaudet was blushing for him. The very idea of it had his heart pounding.

  Deliberately he pushed the delightful thought to the back of his mind. There was no time now for a flight of fancy. It was time to speak with Laron, to find out if what they suspected was true. And if it was, to dissuade him from his course of action.

  The night around them had turned dark and chill. The fire crackled brightly, the orange glow warming them and displaying their faces as they slowly sobered their thoughts and gazed at it introspectively.

  "You do know what Helga has been thinking," Armand began at last.

  Laron raised his eyes to his friend and then turned to regard the woman he loved.

  "He has gone to Texas," Laron said, answering the unasked question. "Years ago now. There is a price on his head. He won't be back. I know of settlements there, but I cannot know where he might be."

  "You mustn't go after him," Helga declared. "You must come home with me, Laron." The German woman's tone was firm. "I was wrong. I was very wrong, I see that now. The children love you and will come to understand. They will understand everything. I want you back."

  Laron looked down at her, his heart in his eyes, but he made no promises.

  "It is foolishness to kill him," she continued. "As I told you, I was wrong. I want you to come home with me."

  Laron looked at her a long time and then shook his head.

  "I cannot, Helga," he said. "I cannot live with you again as we have. You were not wrong. It was wrong. It was the wrong example for the children."

  "The children will learn to understand," she insisted.

  "To understand? To understand that the world is a cruel and evil place? To understand that for all their lives they must be outcasts to pay the price for their parents' happiness?" He shook his head determinedly. "We can live with our sin, Helga, because our love is stronger than it," he said. "But we cannot force them to live with it, too."

  Her eyes welled with unshed tears.

  "You saw it before I did," Laron told her. "We selfishly loved and thereby hurt the innocents who love us. We cannot change the past, but there is no future for us together."

  She paled as if he had struck her, but she nodded.

  "Then if we cannot, we cannot," she said. "But you must not do this thing. I cannot allow it. You must not search him down and kill him."

  "She's right," Armand told him. "No matter what we think of him, the law never sees killing as justified except in self-defense. And he would be the one with that right."

  "I do wish he were dead," Helga declared forcefully. "If he were dead, I would marry you in a moment. But you cannot kill him, Laron. If you did, you would not be the man that I love."

  Laron sighed heavily. "It wouldn't solve anything, would it?"

  It was a statement rather than a question.

  Helga's answer was a nod.

  "Maybe there is some other way?" Aida piped in. "Surely there is some other way for you two to be together."

  She looked at Armand hopefully. He stared back at her mutely. There were no words to be spoken. There was no way for them to be together, except illicitly. Still he searched his mind, his thoughts, his memory for some answer. Aida believed that he could find one.

  "You could divorce," Armand said finally. "The German church permits divorce and the law provides for it."

  "But our ways do not," Laron said. "If she were to divorce him, the people in Prairie l'Acadie would see her still as ineligible. Father Denis would never marry us."

  He reached out and took her hand, expressing the thoughts in his heart wordlessly.

  "Prairie l'Acadie is not the only place in the world," Armand said. "You could live elsewhere."

  "Perhaps . . ." Laron looked toward Helga hopefully.

  "But you could not leave your home," she said. "All of your family, all the people you love are there."

  "You and your children are the people that I love," he replied.

  Helga shook her head. "No," she declared. "I could never let you leave. It is beyond imagining. Your home is there. I have heard you tell the stories, the stories about your people. How they were torn from their homes and scattered to the four winds. They have made such sacrifices, paid such prices in blood and pain so that they could be together. You cannot throw that away. That is who you are."

  "She is right," Armand agreed. "If you went away it would be like . . . like death
for all of us."

  The faint glimmer of hope that had been fire in Laron's eyes sputtered and died out.

  "We must simply part," Helga said. "We must simply promise to keep away from each other. Try to go on with our lives as if we had never met."

  "I don't know how I will bear it," Laron said. "It is one thing to make a vow to keep my distance from you when I am sitting so near. It is another to keep that vow when you are out of my sight, less than an hour away."

  Helga nodded understanding. "It is misery to be so near and forever separated. It is I who should go away."

  Laron was stunned by her words. "But where could you go?" he asked.

  "To . . . to . . ." She hesitated thoughtfully. "I could go to this German coast. You did say that it was a nice place. If my husband is no longer there, I could go there and start a new life. The children would be welcomed and we could begin again."

  Laron considered her words.

  "I don't know if I could bear that any better," he admitted.

  Helga's expression showed agreement, but her voice was decisively firm. "It will be easier if I am not so near," she said. "And I do not mind going. The children will grow up among their own kind."

  Laron shrugged. "Truthfully they speak their French as well as their German."

  She smiled proudly.

  "What about your place?" Laron asked. "You've put so much work into it. Would you sell it?"

  "We've put so much work into it," she said with emphasis. "And I suppose I must just leave it. It belongs to my husband. I cannot sell it, or trade it, or truly even own it."

  Laron glanced toward Armand for verification; he nodded slightly. Only a real widow had rights over her husband's property.

  "If I go away," she said. "You will be able to forget me."

  "No Helga," he told her honestly. "I do not believe I could ever forget you."

  The lovers gazed into each other's eyes with sorrow and intensity that was almost palpable. Armand was nearly cut to the quick by the sight. He hastily rose to his feet, offering his hand to the woman beside him.