“You’ve got to eat to keep your strength up, yes.”
“Maybe just a little bit.”
Chantel set the bowl down and helped her mother sit up. Her mother’s bones felt as fragile as those of a bird, and there was practically no flesh on them. The doctors had said that it was “the wasting disease” and they could do nothing for her. In the last two months it had seemed that the life was draining out of her moment by moment.
Chantel fed her mother, but she could eat only a few spoonfuls of the broth. Wearily she then said, “I can’t eat no more, me.”
“Maybe you eat some later.”
“Chantel, sit down. There is something I must say.”
Chantel put the tray aside and drew a chair close to the bed. “What is it, Mere?”
Her mother reached out and took her hand. “The good God has told me that it’s time for me to go.”
“No, Mere, you mustn’t say that!”
“It is the good God who has told me this in my spirit. You must not grieve for me. I’ll be glad to go home, I’m so tired and I hurt so bad.”
“Maybe you get better.”
“No, Chantel, you know I won’t, and I’m ready. I want you to listen carefully.”
“Yes, Mere, what is it?”
“I’ve been praying for you to find the Lord Jesus, and you will. But when I’m gone, you must leave this place. You must go to my sister Lorraine in Mississippi.”
Chantel didn’t question her mother, for she knew that her mother was aware of Bragg’s evil ways, and this was her attempt to protect her. “It will be safe for you there. Promise me, cherie!”
“I promise,” Chantel said, “but my heart is breaking for you.”
Her mother pressed her hand. “God has appointed us a time to go, and it will be good for me. Now I pray that God will watch over you.” She bowed her head and began to pray.
As she did, Chantel felt the tears begin to run down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and after her mother ended her prayer, she said, “It will be well, ma mere. God will take good care of me.”
Chantel left the room, carrying the tray, her heart as heavy as it had ever been. She knew that her mother couldn’t live long. She also knew that as soon as she was gone, Bragg would be after her, and there was not a soul in the world who could help.
Chantel had helped her father make the boat called a pirogue before he died. She remembered as she pushed it out into the dark waters of the bayou how they had worked on it together. He hadn’t lived long after this, but he’d taught Chantel how to get through the waters of the bayou and the swamp in the frail craft.
Taking up a pole, she pushed off from the shore, and the pirogue seemed to glide across the water. The smell of humus was thick in her nostrils. She glanced up as a flight of brown pelicans in a V formation made their way across the sky. The sun was as yellow as an egg yolk. Despite the heaviness of her heart, Chantel admired the beautiful wild orchids that carpeted the still waters. Then she made her way through large pools, green with lily pads that clustered along the bayou’s banks. They were bursting with flowers. She quickly went into the heart of the bayou, where she watched a flight of egrets, then a blue heron lifting its spindly legs carefully, its needlelike beak darting down on a fish. He tossed the fish up in the air, caught it, and swallowed it. Chantel smiled as it went down his long thin neck. “You have a good breakfast, you,” she said.
The air was moist and cool, but it wouldn’t remain so long. She reached the enormous cypress, where she had tied one end of a trotline. She started to pull up the line, and she felt it trembling. “I got me a big fish,” she said with satisfaction. Even as she spoke, a flash of white caught the corner of her eye. She whirled around quickly and saw a cottonmouth that was thicker than her leg. The white in the mouth was exposed, giving it the name. She smelled the stench that these snakes give off, and it made her shudder. Quickly, Chantel reached down and picked up the shotgun. In one smooth motion, she loaded it and pulled one of the triggers. It tore the monster’s head off, and Chantel nodded with satisfaction. “You ain’t gonna bite nobody no more, you!”
She looked around to be sure that there were no alligators. She saw none, so she began to run the trot line. She pulled up the line, and on the third baited hook, she found a large catfish that weighed over six pounds she assumed. Carefully she pulled it off, avoiding the spines, which were poison. When it was free, she kept her thumb in its mouth, holding it carefully. She picked up a pair of clippers and clipped off the spines, then tossed the fish into a sack that she had brought.
Picking up the line, she continued to check for more fish. Many of the baits had been lost, but finally the line resisted her. “I got me something down there,” she said. She tugged at the main line, and finally the head of a huge snapping turtle appeared. He’d swallowed the bait and was now snapping at her and hissing. “You go on and hiss, old turtle. You’re gonna make a nice soup, I tell you.” She heaved the turtle into the boat, and with the hatchet she always carried, she chopped off its head. The mouth kept snapping as it lay in the boat. She picked it up with her thumb and forefinger and threw it into the swamp. “I gonna eat you tonight, me.”
She continued until she’d run the trotline; then she reversed the boat and headed back. As she reached the shore, she saw Ansel Vernier, a good friend. “Ansel, I got plenty of fish. I give you some.”
Ansel helped her pull the pirogue to the bank. She pulled a large catfish out and handed it to him. He spoke in French saying, “Thank you, Chantel. You have good luck today.”
“See this big turtle? He’ll make a good soup. Come over tomorrow. I give you some of it.”
“Maybe I will.”
Ansel was a small dark man with a mouth as big as the catfish he held in his hand. He now said, “How is your good mother?”
“Not good at all, Ansel, very weak.”
“I will pray for her and light a candle when I go to church.” He shot an unhappy glance toward the house then turned to her. “Is Rufus at home?”
“No, he’s gone to get drunk in town. I wish he’d just stay there.”
Ansel nodded. He knew that Bragg was an evil man, and he feared for Chantel. “What will you do when your mother goes to God?”
“I will stay here, me. This was ma pere’s place.”
Ansel was troubled. “Thanks for the fish. Let me know if you have trouble, little one.”
Two days passed and Chantel knew that her mother couldn’t live much longer. She had no family, but the Cajuns who lived close in the bayou came by. They tried to comfort her, and they brought food, which her mother was too sick to eat. Chantel was just too grieved.
Eventually Bragg came home drunk. As he entered the house, he grabbed at Chantel.
She whipped her knife out of the sheath.
“That’s all right, Chantel. I’ll have you soon.”
“You’ll never have me!”
“Yes I will. You’ll see.”
That night Chantel sat up with her mother, who was in a terminal sleep. Her breathing was barely discernible. She finally woke up sometime in the early hours. “I go to meet—Him. May the good God take care of you.”
Her mother didn’t move again, and Chantel was unable to tell the moment when she left this life. She folded her mother’s hands across her breast as the hot tears rolled down her cheeks.
She was only fifteen, and she was more alone in the world than any fifteen-year-old ever should be. She knew that she would have to leave, but she knew that no matter what Rufus Bragg did, she had to see her beloved mere buried like the Christian woman that she had been.
Chantel was surprised at how many people came to the funeral. The priest was there, and the neighbors, young and old. Most of them had known Chantel’s mother for many years. They all came by, some of them embracing her, all of them expressing their grief.
Ansel came by and took her hands and kissed them. “Why you not come and stay with me and my family? You be safe there, cherie.”<
br />
“I’ll be all right, me,” she said dully.
Chantel noticed that none of them said much to Bragg. He seemed to expect it. His eyes rested on her often. Every time she caught him looking at her, fear grasped her.
Father Billaud was one of the last to leave. “What will you do now, Chantel?”
“I will stay here. This was ma mere’s house, ma pere’s house.”
The priest was obviously upset by this. “It may not be the best thing for you.”
Chantel shrugged.
“Do you have no other relatives?”
“My mother has a sister who’s in Mississippi. Maybe I go there.”
“I think that would be the best. Come to me if you need help, child.”
“Yes, Father.”
As Billaud turned and left, Chantel followed him out. They saw Bragg outside waiting, it seemed, for Father Billaud to leave.
He was a small man, this priest, and there was a light of anger in his eyes. “I will warn you, Rufus Bragg, that if anything happens to that girl, you’ll pay for it.”
“You would make me pay, priest?” Bragg was laughing at him. “Nothing will happen to her. After all, I’m her family.”
“You’re an evil man, Bragg. You mind what I say. I will have the law on you.”
“There ain’t no law in the bayou. Now get off my land, priest!”
Father Billaud had no choice. He turned and walked away. Chantel heard Bragg laughing at him as he left.
Four days after the funeral, Chantel was alone in the house. Rufus had gone out again to get drunk. She had been afraid, and she fastened her door with a bar that she used each night. She also kept her shotgun and knife beside her. She didn’t see Bragg that day, but still she lay awake for a long time. Finally, she drifted off to sleep.
She awoke to the sound of a crash and saw the door, battered and hanging on its hinges. Bragg came in, his eyes red with drink and lust written on his face. “I’m gonna have you, girl, just like I said.”
“You leave me alone!”
“No, I won’t. Not ever.” He reached out and grabbed her. Chantel ran to the door. He was drunk and clumsy, but fast for a big man. He grabbed at her gown, which tore off one shoulder. He laughed. “You ain’t gonna have no place to run, you!”
Chantel dodged as he made another grab for her. She ran to the fireplace and grabbed the iron poker. Moving faster than she ever knew she could, she turned, swung with all her strength, and hit him in his head.
He staggered back and put both hands to his forehead. Then he held them up in front of his eyes, and they ran with blood. “I’ll get you for this, Chantel!” he growled. He moved toward her again, reaching out to grab the poker.
But Chantel took a quick step back, then hit him again, a solid blow.
This time his eyes rolled up. He went to his knees and fell forward.
Chantel could hardly breathe. “I have killed him,” she whispered. She then saw that he was breathing.
She ran back to her room and dressed quickly. Earlier that day, she’d already decided to leave, for she knew this would come sooner or later. She grabbed the sack filled with her mother’s jewelry that she’d kept hidden from Bragg. She had the money from her father that they’d never told Bragg about. She left the room and went into her mother’s room. She took the fine pistol that was her father’s and the Bible that was her mother’s. She went into the kitchen and began stuffing bacon, flour, and coffee into a bag. She then she added a frying pan, a saucepan, and a coffeepot.
She went back into the front parlor to see if Bragg was still breathing. She saw that he was, so she ran back to her room in a hurry. She grabbed two blankets and the sawed-off shotgun and went outside. She wrapped everything in two blanket rolls. She grabbed some grain for the horse, Rosie. She saddled Rosie, put the blanket rolls on, and then mounted the mare. “Go, Rosie,” she said and kicked with her heels. The big horse moved ahead at a trot. She wasn’t a fast horse, but she was a strong one and had stamina.
Chantel didn’t look back at the house, but she stopped by the small graveyard where her father and now her mother lay. She bowed her head and tried to pray. All she could think to say was, “I’ll be fine, ma mere. The good God will take care of me.”
As she left their land she was thinking, Bragg will come after me. I must leave the bayou. With one last look behind her at the house and the dark waters just beyond, Chantel rode away from the only life she’d ever known.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Chantel kept Rosie at a steady pace all night long, pausing only once to let her rest. Finally she stopped and wrapped herself in a blanket, and despite her fear of Rufus Bragg finding her, she fell asleep. Dreams came to her, and she woke once to find herself whimpering, drawn up in as small a space as she could.
The sun finally touched her face and awakened her. She rose quickly, her eyes going to Rosie, whom she’d tied out in a patch of grass that bordered the swamp. Rosie was still dozing.
Quickly Chantel gathered enough sticks to make a nice, hot cooking fire. She filled a pan with water, then spooned in the coffee and balanced the pot on two stones. As soon as the coffee was bubbling and wafting a delicious smell to her nostrils, she broke out the pan and fried up some bacon. When the grease had melted, she poured it out then tossed two slices of bread in to let them toast. She ate nervously, and from time to time she glanced back to the south, wondering if Rufus had gained consciousness and was already after her.
When she finished, she cleaned up the pots and utensils, packed them, and then fed Rosie some grain and watered her. After Rosie was finished, she saddled her and put the blanket rolls in place, tying them down with strips of rawhide. Mounting up, she said with a confidence she did not feel, “Come on, Rosie. We got places to go.”
Rosie seemed tireless as Chantel rode all day, only pausing once to rest. She was still in bayou country. The air smelled of the soaked earth. Once, far away, she saw a blue heron rising from the reeds and knew that it must surely be the bayou’s edge.
She knew roughly where her aunt Lorraine lived. She’d been there once on a visit when she was only seven years old. She had made so few trips in her life that it was burned in her memory.
She rode until sunset and slept lightly. At dawn she rose, and she and Rosie continued on their lonely journey.
Chantel slept well that night. Already the hard riding and even the solitude seemed to be making her feel more peaceful and less afraid.
The next day she came to a crossroads that she remembered. More by shrewd instinct than remembrance, she took the right-hand road, due east. There were a few travelers on the road, but they were the first people she had seen since she’d left her home days before.
Eventually around midday, she came to the small town—really just a settlement of a dozen houses, a general store, and a blacksmith’s shop. She remembered it distinctly and guided Rosie to the house where her aunt Lorraine lived. She saw that the huge walnut tree was still out in the yard behind the house. She remembered her mother gathering walnuts and breaking them with a hammer.
Dismounting in front of the house, she tied Rosie to a small tree. Then she went up to the door and knocked. No one came, and she grew discouraged.
She was about to go around the house to see if perhaps they may have outbuildings when suddenly the door opened and an elderly woman stood before her. “What you do here?” she demanded.
“I’m looking for my aunt. Her name is Lorraine Calvert.”
“She no live here no more.” She peered suspiciously at Chantel. “This is my place now, me.”
“Where did she go?”
“She find a man, and they move away. Someone say they go up north to find work. Go away now. This is my house.”
A bleak depression settled over Chantel. She was barely able to mutter a slight thank-you to the lady. She went back and mounted Rosie. She turned her head almost instinctively to the west to make sure Bragg wasn’t there. Not knowing what else to do, she r
ode east the rest of the day, keeping a steady pace.
She stopped at an inviting little clearing by the side of a small river. Chantel filled her canteen with fresh water then let Rosie drink and graze a little as Chantel rested in the cool shade. But still Chantel felt closed in, and in spite of herself, pictures rose up in her mind of Rufus Bragg coming around the bend of the road at any moment.
They rode on. It seemed like a long, dreary day.
Finally the sun dropped beneath the horizon and darkness overtook them. Along with the darkness a fear closed in on Chantel Fortier. As she made her camp and cooked her evening meal, she felt more alone than she’d ever felt in her life. In some way, she felt more desolate than she had when her mother had died. She supposed that even then some hope for her aunt Lorraine had comforted her. But now that faint shred of hope was gone.
She lay down and put her hands behind her head, remaining wakeful and worried. After a time, she began to pray aloud, for it seemed to give her some comfort. “God, do You know I got nowhere to go? I got no people and nobody to look after me except You. I’ve lost ma mere, and now You are all that I have. Help me to find a place, me. Please, keep me safe from all harm.”
She began to think. I better keep going northeast. I’d do better in a big town. Maybe I could find some work, me. I can cook and sew and read and write and take care of horses. I can fish and hunt. Maybe I find someone to help me…someone to be with, to be friends with. Maybe I’ll even find a home…
Chantel had thought that she was too burdened and worried to sleep, but she was very young. She pulled her blanket closer around her and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.
The sun was high in the sky. Chantel had ridden steadily northeast after rising at dawn. She began to pass more travelers and realized she was coming to a settlement. She thought about cutting across the country to bypass it, but she did need more supplies.
It was a small but busy little town, with several houses, several shacks, and even a hotel. Businesses lined the main dirt road through the settlement: a tailor’s, blacksmith, livery, mercantile, and two saloons. The biggest and finest of these had a sign: LAUREL GENERAL STORE.
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