The Willows

by Mathew Sperle

Jervis felt a twinge of guilt, momentary recognizing that they’ve meant to do here crossed over the line of human decency. But his anger did not stop him.

  “Do it,” he said to Lance, nodding at the torch in his hand. “Burn the damn place and be done with it.”

  ***

  Gwen left the room where her father’s body lay, feeling more wary than she could ever imagine. Throughout the night, she and Edith had made the necessary arrangements for his burial, but with the sun now rising, Gwen kept thinking about getting back to poor Jude and Patrick, alone in the swamp. They must be wondering what had happened.

  Daddy, she thought with a catch in her throat. It was still hard to believe he was actually gone.

  She thought of the letter she carried. It had made her cry, reading the words he’d been unable to say to her face. All these years, father and held his emotions inside him, trapped any lonely, bitter shell. If only he could have told her that he no longer blame her for mother’s death while he was still alive. If only she known his anger was directed at himself.

  He and mother had argue that night, too, it he’d written he’d been riding in from town as Gwen stormed off. Drinking and belligerent, he accused Amanda of overzealousness and blocking Gwen’s marriage. Angrily, she flung back at him saying she wanted to spare her daughter from making her mistake. No sense in them both marrying the wrong man.

  He had order her out of the house, and was the last time he had seen her. Every day since had been a living hell of guilt and regret, daddy had told her in his letter, his drinking and disregard for the Willows became a self-inflicting punishment. It wasn’t until Gwen returned from Boston, looking at him with a face so like her mother’s, that he felt a purpose. Seeing at last a way to redeem himself, by keeping her mom owners wish and preventing her from marrying a Lance.

  Amanda had been right, he’d written. Lance was like himself, vain and self-absorbed and drinking. His Gwen needed a strong man, one who gaze into her eyes and solve all her problems. It had taken but one glance, the day of the tournament, to know that Michael was that man.

  Having little to leave her but his own mistakes and his faith in her ability to learn from them, daddy had advised her to get far away from Lance and never trust her uncle. The man had fortified all rights to family comfort long ago, he’d added cryptically, though that was a matter he meant to settle with his brother himself.

  As for his little girl, he wanted Gwen to know that he loved her and always would. Don’t end up like me, he finished off, never let pride stand in the way of your happiness. Don’t clutter your life with things that truly don’t matter. Go to Michael and build a future together.

  Thinking of his words, Gwen saw how close she come to repeating her father’s mistake. In his own way, Michael had been asking for reassurance, a commitment, but she’d been so preoccupied with getting him what she thought he wanted, she hadn’t heard his plea. All she’d ever wanted was her father to was just once say he loved her; maybe that was all Michael had wanted from her.

  Why had she never said the words? Did she think that by not saying them, by hiding in a hoarding them, she could protect herself from her? Look at all the good times father had lost, being miserably with his emotions. If she didn’t want to end up like him, she must go to Michael. At this moment, nothing mattered more than telling him how she felt.

  Making plans in her head, she hurried to the stairs together the boys from her room, only to have the front door burst open behind her. She spun to find her uncle, Lance, and a dirty, desperate looking man. The trio we into the hallway, hopelessly drunk.

  They sobered somewhat when they saw her. “Gwen, honey, you look like you’ve just seen a ghost.” Uncle said, recovering first. “Whatever can have you up and dress so early? Why, you look like an apparition yourself.” He turned to his comrades, receiving the chuckles he expected.

  “It’s father. He passed away in the night.”

  “No!” Jervis grab her by the shoulder, but it wasn’t grief that had him shaking her. “He can’t be dead yet. I’ve worked too hard for it all…”

  Whether it was her wide eyes that halted him, or his own his sense of decency making a bad appearance, he let the words trail off, even as his hands dropped. “When?”

  “Around midnight. We looked for you, Edith and I, and we couldn’t find you, we sent for Mr. Tillman instead.”

  “Tillman’s here?”

  Gwen pointed down the hallway. “He is going over papers in father’s study.”

  Uncle marched off, sparing no word of condolence, nor even her grant. In contrast, Lance couldn’t wait to console her. “My poor darling, how awful this must be for you,” he said, reaching out for her.

  She put up her hands to keep them at a distance, making for a rather awkward hug. When he would tighten it, she pushed him away. “You smell like alcohol and smoke.”

  Broke away then, exchanging the Lance with other man. “We, have been out burning cane. My friend here has a place up river.”

  She looked at his friend. His ragged close it on black hair made a hard to believe he don’t anything, much less a plantation. “Burning cane? Isn’t it a bit early in the season?” She asked.

  “It has been chillier up River. I feared an early frost.” Lance said at the other man, then turned to Gwen. “All that matters, Gwen darling, I’m here for you now, and here to stay always.”

  His use of the word annoyed her. Michael was right, it was a tall order, a promise that should never have tossed out casually.

  “Are you here for me? Or the Willows?” She asked.

  He stared at her, momentarily confused. “Why are you being so difficult? I love you, darling’”

  “Lance, we have been through this. I am told you, I am married.”

  He looked back, exchanging another smile with the stranger. “And I told you, the man used you, honey. When he found there was no money to get out of you, he took off without looking back. You got no proof you were married. No license. Heck, you’ve got nothing to stop the whispers. Nothing except me.”

  He looked so smug and sure of himself, Gwen might have given in a few short weeks ago, but Michael, the children, and even her father had helped her learn to take charge of her life, make her own decisions, right or wrong. She turned to go.

  You reached out for her, “don’t you dare walk away. We belong together, you and I.”

  She ignored him, climbing the stairs to the boys.

  “You can’t walk away from me. Did you think your men folk would ever let you live in a crappy cabin? Mark my words, you will be sorry-“

  She heard her uncle returned to warn Lance to be quiet, but Gwen didn’t spare then make the Lance. She closed the chapter in her life, and was anxious to get on with the next one

  Her anxiety deep in when she reached her room and found it empty. Standing in the hallway, wondering where to look for the boys, or worries about Jude and Patrick escalated.

  “Gwen.”

  Hearing aid his to her right, she checked the curtains. To her elite, she found the three boys. “What are you doing?”

  Peter put a finger to his lips, then whispered. “Is he gone? That Lance?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “Were scared Gwen,” Paul explained. “He said he was your friend, but what is he doing with our father?”

  The man with her uncle and Lance, the one who made her feel uneasy, was Jacques Morteau?

  “I am scared, Gwen,” Christopher cried. “I told that Lance how to find the cabin.”

  Realization slammed into her-Lance talking to the boys, the smell of smoke on his close, his threats that she’d soon be sorry

  “My God!” She cried, not holding back her voice. “We’ve got to get back to the swamp.”

  Down the stairs, the stranger looked at Gwen.

  “Lance, we need to talk.”

  “It’s in your best interest. If you want that woman.”

  “Gwen?”

  “Yes. She’s gone. Take
n my boys. You better get Jervis and come quick, if you don’t want them to get away for good.”

  ***

  Michael placed the last of the bags on the levee, praying it would hold back the river, at least until the next rain.

  Inhaling deeply, he noticed the scent of smoke in the air. “Hey, Casper,” he called to the servant. “Do you smell something burning?”

  “Been smelling it all night. Lucas, he sought it comes down from the Bayou.”

  Michael tried to deny his uneasiness, but the more he told himself he was crazy, too ignore his fears and go on with his work, the more his anxiety mushroom. If he were wrong in his worries, he’d have wasted hours, but if he is he were right…

  This was his family, dammit. Harvest or not, he had to get back to the cabin.

  ***

  Smelling smoke as the polled closer, Gwen increasingly ill. Please be all right, she prayed, picturing Jude and Patrick huddled in their beds, waking to a fire the cutting control.

  She took the pole from Peter, determined to make the bow go faster. She used every ounce of energy she owned, but each inch past grew longer, and with each foot, the scent grew stronger until the burnt remains showed in their view.

  “Patrick!” He cried out, jumping from the boat to run up to the bank. “Jude, oh dear God, where are you?”

  There was no answer, the rubble lay silent. The boys followed more slowly, the horror in their eyes showing her shock as they gasped at the remains.

  Looking through the remains Gwen saw the locket, alone and abandon on the ground. Syncing to her knees, she continued to stare, unable to touch it as the memories overwhelmed her. “Damn you, Lance, where was the need for this?” She cursed him in tears. “They were innocent children.”

  As if in answer, she heard his voice, approaching from down the Bayou. His voice was raised in arguments with another.

  “its father” the boy said in unison.

  Scrambling up, she gather them close. Not about to let Lance finish what he is started, she searched around them. “Boys, quick, where can we hide?”

  “The fortress.”

  ***

  Jervis watch Lance jump from the boat to go scurrying after Gwen, Morteau and the men he brought from the tavern trailing at his heels. Tired, Jervis wondered why he’d come along, other than the fact they can no longer bear to be in his brother’s house. Damn that John, even in death, his brother had managed to get the best of him

  Five minutes with the lawyer had taught Jervis that he would get nothing out of John’s will. All he’d been left was with Amanda’s glove, with the warning that Tillman had a letter for the local authorities should Jervis fail to leave the Willows forever.

  Had John known all along what happened to his wife? Or had he just let Jervis run things merely to give him the rope which to hang himself on? John had to be watching carefully to have found that glove.

  Looking at the nearly full bottle of medicine he had taken from his brother’s bedside, Jervis wondered if any of it mattered now. Whatever he did, the fact remained; he was now completely ruined.

  Sighing, he went to a log on the far bank, where Lance and his friends couldn’t see him. He didn’t know how much of the medicine it would take to kill a man, but he aimed to find out.

  He uncorked the bottle and raise it to his lips, it had a bitter taste, so he reached in his pocket for his flask of bourbon. Taking in alternating gulps, he cursed everyone who had brought him to this. It was his nieces fault. Willful, stubborn Gwen. Blame Lance, too, for not being man enough to control her. Then there were his parents, who never saw pass their first son to care for the second son. And don’t forget his marriage, his one chance to be king in his castle. Did he have a son? No, his child was a timid mouse, and his pitiful wife never had measured up to Amanda.

  Beautiful, desirable Amanda McCloud. Cursing her next, he knew a good deal of the blame for this current problems. She had broken his heart, marrying his brother, yet even so, she merely would smile at him and it would still fill him with hope. How exciting he had been that night she begged him to take her away. Feeling like a boy again, he waited for her in the Bayou, working self into a fever pitch with plans for the future. When she told him she change her mind that she couldn’t leave John after all, a black feel of rage and hurt had engulfed him. He couldn’t remember nothing afterwards, except standing over her lifeless body, and a tree branch in his hand.

  Thinking fast, he’d stage her accident, then spent the next five years letting John and Gwen blame themselves for her death. In one mistake, he saw now, had been in keeping that glove.

  A vain gesture, taking off her hand as if it were some token of his lady’s favor. The sheriff had thought it was odd for a woman to wear only one glove, but the man had been easily bribed, and the matter had been quickly forgotten by everyone. Except, apparently, for John.

  Taking the last of the drug, Jervis cursed his brother for most of everything. Now there would be no Willows, no trust fund-the best he could anticipate was the hangman’s noose. Even from the grave, John found a way to best him.

  Glancing up, Jervis saw Michael banking his boat, safe and untouched by the fire. Why, he’s just like John, Jervis thought, consumed by frustration. Always bigger than life and better at everything, winning even when the odds were against them. It in raged him that Michael should survive, that he would get Gwen and her trust fund. In his drugged mind, it was John having Amanda, all over again.

  He rose to his feet, swing unsteadily. No sense trying to shoot the bastard-he’d only miss-but he could still talk, enough to make sure he was not the only one miserable.

  ***

  Michael stood before the cabin, stare at the locket, trying to take it all in. The evidence was there, right before his eyes, yet his mind could accept that everything was gone. Any minute now, the children come popping out of the woods, smiling at the long string of fish they carried, while Gwen smiled from the porch.

  He called their names, but the children did not show. Slowly, sadly, the truth became less and less avoidable. There was no porch, and there was no more Gwen.

  The tightness built inside him. He could remember yelling her, right there in this very spot, petty demands and accusations that he wanted to take back. Let Gwen have the Willows, he thought, the word almost a prayer. Hell, let her have gone to Lance-just don’t let her be gone forever.

  “Are you looking for my niece, Michael?”

  Michael Spun on a heel, startled to find anyone there, much less Jervis. How had he got here? Michael Wonder, his thoughts disappointed. More importantly, what did the man know about Gwen?

  “You are too late,” he said. “My niece is long gone.”

  Gone. The word drained him, left him a shelf. No wonder John had given up on life. What could a man do when nothing was left but to drink his pain away?

  Swaying on his feet, Jervis seem to have been drowning some pain of his own. “Awkward things, triangle. Put three people together and it is inevitable that one gets left out. You and me, Michael, we are the unlucky ones. The losers.”

  Michael barely heard the man peered his mind had begun to accept the hideous truth, counting up the extent of his losses, each with a name in a face that would haunt him forever. They were just children, he thought uselessly. He should have been here. How could this happen?

  “… Some women are just like that,” Jervis continued. “John could have slept with a hundred women, and still Amanda would have always chose him.”

  John? Amanda? Michael shook his head in confusion. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “That Gwen is just like her mother. Got one man’s name fixed in her head and there it ain’t a thing anyone can do to budge it. All she ever felt for you, boy, was a pity, and I took care of that this morning.”

  As Jervis explained how he related Michael’s crimes, all embellished and most outright lies, Michael pictured Gwen listening to her uncle, believing every word. Indeed, Michael was so caught up
in the image, it took them some time for the fact to sink in that she’d been hearing in this morning. “Where was Gwen when you were telling her this?”

  “At the Willows. Came home yesterday.”

  Michael flooded with relief when he found out Gwen was alive.

  Jervis looked at him, then smiled at the cabin. “You thought she was inside when we burned it down?”

  Michael grabbed the man by the throat. “Are you insane?

  “Children? Didn’t mean to hurt… Not children though… Maybe Lance or Morteau?”

  Michael froze. He remembered the name.

  Jervis weekly pointed toward the swamp. “He went that way after them.”

  Michael look to the bank, finding several boats. If the children’s father had brought reinforcements, probably drinking clones, Jude and Patrick would have seen them coming instantly and fled. He then remembered their talk about the secret fortress.

  Cupping the locket, Michael turned toward the swamp. He thought of a young pair, alone with their wooden swords, trying to fight off their evil excuse of a father. Breaking into a run, he said a silent prayer.

  Let them have reached the fortress, and dear God, let them get there in time.

  Chapter 23

  Gwen can hear the men crashing through the force behind them. Lance had left the chase, even the foul language and dire threats, but his silent, determined pursuit loomed all the more menacing. Though when and the boys ran with all of their might, he and his men continue to gain ground with each step. Looking ahead, weighing their chances, Gwen knew they would never make it to the fortress. Her skirt made it nearly impossible to run. Without her legs holding them back, the boys, with their young, powerful legs, could fly like the wind. Looking at the path to the cove, she made her decision.

  “Let them… Follow me,” he said to the boys, gasping to for air. “Get to…the fortress…and stay there.”