“That’s more like it,” he murmured hoarsely. “Yeah, you’re gonna enjoy it as much as I am. This body-a yours was made for lovin’.”
He curled one strong arm around my waist and leaned forward, forcing me to lean backward. I yielded, lowering my eyelids and letting a soft moan escape from my parted lips. Clem chuckled again, prepared to plunder as I tightened my calf muscles and drew my leg back. I brought my knee up suddenly, violently, with all the force I could muster, and he let out a howl of anguish as it made contact. He released me abruptly, staggered backward, and as he did I raked my nails viciously across his cheek, drawing blood. Clem howled again, his eyes wide with disbelief.
I was stunned by the enormity of what I had done, so stunned I was unable to move. I leaned against the counter with my bosom heaving, my legs curiously weak and watery. I stared at him with horror. His face was ashen, stamped with pain, four bright red streaks dripping across his right cheek. He weaved to and fro on wobbly knees, doubling over and groaning. I knew I must flee immediately, but there didn’t seem to be a bone in my body. I was as weak as an infant, breathing in short, shallow gasps. Temporarily immobilized by shock, I could only listen to the pounding of my own heart and pray for the strength to run before it was too late.
“You—you—” he cried hoarsely. “I—”
Clem cut himself short and stood up straight, still in terrible pain but beginning to recover. I tried to move. My knees threatened to fold under me. The color slowly returned to his face. His blue-black eyes glared at me with venomous intent.
“You little bitch! I’m gonna show you. I’m gonna take you right here on th’ kitchen floor. I’m gonna have you mornin’, noon an’ night till I’ve had my fill-a you, and when I get tired-a you I’m gonna turn you over to the boys and let them have a go at you. You’re gonna pay—you’re gonna pay dearly—”
He started toward me again and I was still immobile and in the middle of a nightmare, and in the nightmare I flung my arm back and my hand hit something hard and I winced and my fingers instinctively curled around cold iron which I vaguely realized was the handle of the skillet I had set aside earlier. Clem grabbed for me, and I gripped the handle tightly and lifted my arm and slammed the skillet against the side of his head with such force that my wrist seemed to snap. There was a hideous crunching sound and his eyes and his mouth flew open and for perhaps one full second he stared at me with stunned incredulity and then his eyes rolled upward and his knees gave way and he folded, hitting the floor hard with his kneecaps, then flopping forward with his arms outslung. His fingertips slapped against my bare foot.
My God, I thought, I’ve killed him. I’ve killed him, and I don’t feel a thing. I don’t care. He sprawled there limply at my feet like some gigantic rag doll, absolutely still, the hair on the side of his head damp with blood, blood drip-drip-dripping onto the floor and making a tiny red pool. I caught my breath, dizzy for a moment, and then I cautiously examined his body. Yes, he was still breathing. Barely. He wasn’t dead yet, but he could die at any minute. I straightened up and backed away from him, horrified now. He might die, and the authorities would … and when the boys came back this afternoon they … I had to get away. Now. This minute.
I stepped into the hall, feeling dizzy again, feeling disoriented, and I paused there in the dim shadows for a moment, trying to think clearly. There was nothing to take with me, for I had nothing to take, no shoes, no clothes, no possessions. Where would I go? Mama Lou, I thought, Mama Lou will let me hide at her place, she’ll help me get away, but … no, that would be the first place they would look for me. I couldn’t go to town. I … I had to hurry, hurry, the boys could come tromping back at any time. I took another deep breath, acutely aware of that body sprawling on the floor in the kitchen, blood dripping onto the floor, and blind panic rose, almost overcoming me. I mustn’t let it. I must stay calm. I must flee.
I rushed outside, the sunshine blindingly bright after the dimness of the hall. It splattered all around me in vivid yellow rays, and a bird was singing in a tree nearby. Everything was so peaceful, so normal, and inside the house Clem was … He could be dying. He could be dead already. Still disoriented and shaken to the core, I looked around me as though for an answer to my dilemma, and I felt terribly exposed. First they would clap me into jail, and then they’d hang me. The panic swept over me then, and I ran past the barn and the chicken coop and the pigsty, heading toward the moss-hung cypresses surrounding the property. In moments I felt the soft, ghostly gray tendrils brushing my face and arms, and I plunged ahead, running as fast as I could.
The swamp seemed to welcome me, and the farther I penetrated into the fetid green and gray world, the safer I felt. I kept running until I felt sure my lungs would burst, and then, panting, I slackened my pace only a little, moving deeper and deeper into the swamp, circling streams, wading across tiny rivulets and carefully avoiding the bogs. Mossy gray trunks surrounded me, huge roots exposed, tangled over the ground like great gnarled fingers. Spanish moss and vines dangled from the limbs overhead, some of the vines festooned with glossy purple and mauve blossoms. It was hot, hot, my dress plastered to my body, my face and arms glistening with perspiration, my hair damp, spilling to my shoulders in heavy waves as I forged on.
An hour passed, two, and finally I had to stop, I had to rest. I brushed damp waves from my cheeks and sat down on a log, breathing heavily, exhausted, still shaken by what had happened, what I had done. I couldn’t rest long. I had to keep going. Jake and Randy might already have come home and found the body, might already have notified the authorities of my crime. Sometimes they turned the bloodhounds loose to track you down, and the bloodhounds often tore their prey to pieces before they could be stopped. I turned my head, listening intently, almost believing I could hear the bloodhounds’ vicious bark. It was only a bird calling in the distance but, nevertheless, I was as frightened as I had ever been in my life. Pale with fear, I huddled there on the fallen log, trying my best to let common sense prevail.
I had hit Clem very, very hard with the skillet, true, but he had a very thick skull and he probably wasn’t dead at all, despite the blood dripping onto the floor. He had been breathing when I fled. And Jake and Randy were usually gone all day when fishing with the Andersons. Sometimes they left their catch at the Andersons’ shanty and sauntered into town to find a girl willing to take on all four of them for the price of a shiny hair ribbon or a pair of stockings. Most likely the boys wouldn’t get back home till after sunset, if then. Common sense told me this, but fear prevailed. They could easily come home early today. The men could already be unleashing the bloodhounds, making them sniff one of my old handkerchiefs to pick up the scent.
I stood up. My lungs still hurt, and every bone in my body seemed to be aching. My wrist was sore from swinging the heavy skillet. My ragged pink skirt had caught on a thorn when I was running, and there was a bad tear, revealing the shabby petticoat beneath. Dirty, sweaty, bruised, I felt utterly defenseless. What was I going to do? Where was I going to go? I couldn’t just wander around the swamps, waiting for them to catch me. I had to have a plan. I had to have a destination. New Orleans, I thought. Somehow I would get to New Orleans, and somehow I would find out who Ma’s folks were and go to them. I had no idea where New Orleans was—it might be hundreds of miles away for all I knew—but someone would know where it was located and tell me how to get there.
Mama Lou had told me I had strength. Ma had, too. Some of that strength came to my aid now. I felt a steely resolve replacing the panic. I wasn’t going to let them catch me. I wasn’t going to give in, give up, let life defeat me. I was going to make something of myself. I was young and strong and healthy, and I could read and write, at least a little. I could work from dawn to dusk without complaining, had done so most of my life. Maybe I could get some kind of job, maybe as a cook or maid. I would do anything I had to do to get away from the swamps and the desolate life I had known here. Somehow I would earn enough money to get me to Ne
w Orleans, and then … I squared my shoulders, resolve strengthening inside.
Familiar with the swamp since early childhood, I had a keen sense of direction. West of the swamp, some thirty-five miles away, there was a town, I knew. I didn’t know what it was called, had certainly never seen it myself, but I knew it was there, a proper town, situated on the river, with shops and houses and a busy waterfront. Clem had gone there once several years ago. I remembered him talking about it, complaining bitterly because he had to pay a whole dollar to spend the night at the waterfront inn. If I went west, I was bound to reach the town eventually, I reasoned, and maybe there I could find work and get some information about New Orleans.
Stepping over the log, moving around a gnarled gray cypress draped with spooky moss, I headed west, moving with a purpose now, moving with hope. It would take me hours and hours to walk thirty-five miles. I wouldn’t even be able to reach town before nightfall, I realized, and the thought of spending a night in the swamp wasn’t at all cheering, but I would think about that later. Now I must make as good time as possible, get as many miles as possible between me and the farm. After a while familiar sights vanished and I was in a part of the swamp I had never seen before. I moved quickly but cautiously, avoiding the bogs, keeping my eye out for snakes and alligators, surrounded by the constant buzz of insects and a chorus of bird calls that echoed eerily among the treetops.
I wasn’t afraid. Not a bit. I told myself that over and over again. I wasn’t afraid and I wasn’t lost, either. I was moving west and I was certain to reach the river eventually, and the town was on the other side of the river. There were far more streams and ponds in this part of the swamp, water everywhere, it seemed, trees as thick as ever, gray trunks coated with moss and lichen, limbs forming an impenetrable canopy overhead. The ground was damp and spongy beneath my bare feet. Once I stepped on a mossy rock and tumbled into a stream that was much deeper than I had judged it to be. An alligator sleeping on the bank opened its jaws and hissed nastily, slithering into the water. I climbed out quickly and, wet all over, moved down the bank until I found a spot narrow enough to leap across. Weak rays of sunlight wavered through the treetops, only intensifying the gloom as I moved on, and it seemed to me that the light was growing dimmer.
It must be nearing five o’clock, I thought, wading across another stream and brushing aside strands of moss. It would be dark before long. I had never been in the swamp at night—that was when the spooks and zombies prowled, when the wild creatures came out. Stuff and nonsense. I didn’t for a minute believe in spooks and zombies, and any wild creature I might encounter would be every bit as scared of me as I was of it. There was nothing to be worried about, I assured myself. I would find a dry, secure place and curl up and go to sleep and continue on my way at dawn. I kept reassuring myself, but apprehension grew nevertheless. I was all alone and, yes, I was frightened, and I wanted to sit down and cry like a baby.
I was hungry, too, ravenously hungry. I hadn’t paid any attention to it before, had staunchly ignored it, but the emptiness inside was now like an urgent demand, intensified by the roiling and rumbling I couldn’t control. I’d been hungry before, but never like this. When was the last time I had eaten? Yesterday morning? Yes, I’d had a piece of cornbread then. One piece. Without butter. I’d had no appetite at all since Ma died, had eaten very little, but now I felt that if I didn’t have something soon, I would actually pass out. Pay no attention to it, Dana, I scolded myself. Don’t think about food. Keep on moving.
I kept on moving, and the light grew dimmer and dimmer and the air seemed to be tinted with mauve. Hazy blue-black shadows were gathering, and spiraling tendrils of mist were beginning to rise from the water, looking just like wraiths, looking spooky as could be. Soon I was going to have to find a spot to spend the night. Someplace dry. Someplace secure. Maybe up ahead there would be a clearing or something, I told myself. The ground was too wet here, like mud, and there were sure to be more alligators about with all the water. Shadows thickened, making dark nests, and the mauve air was deepening to purple. Night was falling, falling fast, and then, abruptly, it was upon me. I stopped, panic beginning to set in again.
You can only be strong for so long. I looked around me at the dark nests of shadow, the black shapes of trees, silvered only slightly by wavery rays of moonlight. Water gurgled, sounding sinister now, and the mists still swirled, more ghostly than ever in the darkness. I was afraid to move on and afraid to stay where I was. Every drop of courage I had mustered earlier on deserted me now. I was only seventeen years old and my Ma had died and I had no one and I wanted to die, too. I listened to the night noises and folded my arms around my waist, trembling, and it was then that I saw a light flickering in the distance. At first I thought it was a firefly, but fireflies weren’t stationary, were yellow-gold, not orange. A campfire, I thought. Someone was camping out here in the middle of the swamp.
I hesitated only a moment and then moved slowly toward the light, taking each step cautiously. I stumbled on a tree root and almost fell, knocking my shoulder against a tree trunk. Moonlight faintly silvered a small stream, and I waded across it carefully, passed under more trees, trying my best to avoid the tangle of exposed roots. The light seemed as far away as ever, a glowing orange shadow at the end of a long black tunnel, but gradually it grew brighter. Yes, it was a campfire. I could see the flames leaping merrily, casting yellow-orange patterns in the darkness. Someone was moving about in the small clearing, a man, I saw, although I was still too far away to make out any details. I crept forward, extra cautious now, for I didn’t want to alert him of my presence. It seemed to take me forever to reach the edge of the clearing. Stationing myself behind a tree, shielded by its thick gray trunk, I leaned my head to the left and peeked through a tangle of shrubbery.
The fire wasn’t nearly as big as I had thought it was, and it had burned down considerably now, a few logs glowing bright orange inside a small circle of rocks. A coffeepot was setting on one of the rocks, steam wafting out of the spout and filling the air with a delicious aroma, and over the fire on an improvised spit some kind of fowl was turning a rich golden brown. Drops of grease splattered on the logs, making tiny tongues of red-gold flame shoot up. Near the fire was a thick bedroll of blankets, beside it three lumpy-looking bags made of some kind of heavy cloth. A curious tepee-shaped object made of wooden sticks stood a few feet away, a half-finished painting leaning on a narrow wooden ledge midway up the tepee. Funny contraption to set a painting on, I thought, and who’d want to look at a painting that wasn’t finished? But I gave it only a moment’s attention. I was much more interested in that fowl roasting over the fire. I could smell the meat cooking and, hungry as I was, it almost drove me out of my mind.
The man I had seen earlier was nowhere in sight. He had left the clearing for some reason or other. I quickly moved around the tree and parted the shrubbery, stepping into the clearing. The fowl wasn’t fully cooked yet, and there was no way I could get it off the spit without burning my hand. Almost reeling from hunger, I hurried over to the heavy cloth bags. Maybe they would contain some other kind of food, beef jerky or cheese or even an apple. Kneeling on the blankets, I opened the first bag and pulled out an enormous leather folder full of watercolor paintings of flowers and plants. There was a box of watercolors, too, paintbrushes, a lot of other things, nothing to eat. Opening the second bag, I discovered a pair of boots, a mirror, shaving equipment, several neatly folded garments. The breeches were of the finest material, and the shirts were exquisite, soft and silky and as light as air, like woven cobweb, I thought. I was examining one of them when I heard a footstep behind me and an ominous metallic click. I froze.
“Make one move,” a lazy voice warned, “and I’ll blow your head off.”
My blood literally seemed to have turned to ice, and I was indeed frozen. I couldn’t have moved if I had wanted to. I was kneeling there on the pile of blankets, the soft, exquisite shirt still in my hands. My fingers were numb. The silk s
pilled from my hands, the shirt floating to the ground like an airy wisp. He was there, behind me. I could feel his presence, and I could feel the pistol, too, aimed at a point just between my shoulder blades. Was he going to pull the trigger? Was I going to die? Several moments passed, and my knees and the muscles of my legs began to ache. I couldn’t maintain this position much longer. I tried to swallow. My throat was dry. A log in the fire broke in two, making a loud crackling noise, and I let out a little cry, expecting a bullet to smash into my spine.
“Looks like I’ve caught a thief red-handed,” the man drawled.
“I—I wudn’t—” My voice cracked.
“All right,” he said. “Stand up.”
I gnawed my lower lip and got slowly to my feet. My legs were trembling so badly I could hardly stand, and my heart was palpitating madly. I didn’t dare turn around, not without his permission, and I stared at the trees a few yards away from me. The flickering orange glow of the logs made shadows leap over the ground like frenzied demons. I could still feel the pistol pointing at my back. He might as well shoot me, I thought. The smell of the roasting fowl was sheer torture. If I didn’t have something to eat, I was going to die anyway. At that moment my stomach gave a terrific rumble so loud it startled even me.
“What was that?” he asked sharply.
“My—my stomach.”
“Turn around,” he ordered. “Very, very slowly.”
Trembling, I obeyed.
Chapter Four.
THE FIRST THING I SAW was the barrel of the pistol, long and sleek, the small black hole at its end pointed at my heart now, ready to send a bullet tearing through flesh and bone. I stared at it with horrified fascination. An elegant hand gripped the pistol, one long finger curled tightly around the trigger. I was still trembling, gnawing my lower lip, and tears spilled over my lashes. After a moment I raised my eyes and looked at my captor’s face, and I let out a gasp. He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Beautiful probably wasn’t the right word, but to me he was like a vision from another world.
They Call Her Dana Page 6