The grass felt soft and luxurious under her feet. She walked a little farther and paused by a small waterfall to watch water tumble over a staircase of rocks. A warm breeze moved her hair. Unsure whether this place was real, she reached down and stroked moss on the rocks. It was as soft as Vivian’s feathers.
Suddenly everything went black, and Sydnee was consumed with excruciating pain. She gasped for air and heard Margarite’s voice, but it was far away. She opened her eyes and saw a blurry light. When her vision cleared, she realized that she was looking at candles. She was on Margarite’s bed in the shed. She heard water splashing in a basin as if someone was wringing out a cloth. Then the pain came again. It started in her abdomen and swept up her back. She lurched forward and screamed.
The next time she opened her eyes, the pain was gone, and she was standing by a pond. But this was not like the wild marshy ponds of The Trace; this was a pristine and perfectly round basin with a rim around the edge. The rim was so large you could sit upon it. In the middle of this pond was a metal statue of a girl who was half human, half fish. She was holding a tall lily that spewed water high into the air which splashed back down into the pond.
Sydnee looked up realizing that she was surrounded on all sides by a white two-story home bordered with pillared walkways and lacy, iron railings. Tall palm trees rose majestically over her head. Bushes with large white flowers grew in the courtyard and wisteria vines encircled the pillars. This was a place Margarite told her about. She was standing in the courtyard of a Creole home in New Orleans.
Suddenly, without warning, red hot pain shot through her body again, and she was sick to her stomach. She was back in the shed again. She heard Margarite mumbling an incantation and shaking a rattle charm. She raised Sydnee’s head and gave her a sip of herb tea. “Take this. It will ease the pain and make you dream,” she said.
The pain subsided again, and Sydnee looked around. This time she was in a different garden bordered by tall arborvitaes and fragrant flowers. She looked down at the green grass and flowers at her feet. There were yellow daffodils planted in straight rows, dappled coleus, and bushes with pink roses, and purple phlox. Suddenly the colorful flowers grew taller and taller and changed into women dressed in vivid ball gowns. They were held by gentlemen in dark suits who danced them around and around a pool filled with lily pads and swans.
Sydnee watched spellbound as the guests whirled past her. She could smell lavender on the ladies, cedar and spice on the men.
Gradually the dancers melted away, and she found herself standing in front of a tall, white iron gate. It reminded Sydnee of the gate she had seen in the glass bowl during the divination. It was large and arched high over her head.
The wind moaned sadly in her ears. The sun was setting as she pulled the gate open. On the other side were rows of small stone houses set in straight lines. Eucalyptus trees shaded these tiny enclosures. When Sydnee came closer, she saw statues of angels and lambs adorning the doors with tiny marble crosses on the roofs.
She realized suddenly that this was a cemetery. Margarite had spoken of these Cities of the Dead, where they buried their deceased above ground in vaults.
Panic flooded her. She had to get out of this place. She did not want to be here. She did not want to think about death. She started to run but stopped abruptly, doubling over in agony. Pain shot through her belly again and began to wrap around to her back. She could not endure it. She dropped to her knees in a faint.
When she woke up she heard a baby crying, and Margarite was near. She cooed, “My leetle girl has a leetle girl.”
When Sydnee opened her eyes again, she was back under the sheltering arms of the oak tree. She was tired, but she felt safe. She leaned back against the trunk of the tree and rested.
Somewhere down by the swamp she heard a baby crying. Sydnee listened. The crying continued. She walked down to the marsh and waded into the water, parting the swamp grass, looking for the child. Her skirt plumed out around her in the water as she searched. Wading through the reeds, she remembered a story Margarite told her long ago, about a babe found in the bull rushes who grew up to become a great leader.
At last she found the baby in a basket floating among the cattails. The child stopped crying the moment she saw Sydnee. She was a beautiful little girl, with eyes the color of robin’s eggs. A thrill of wonder shot through Sydnee. Smiling, she reached down carefully and picked the baby up. She took her up the hill to the bird bath where she unwound the swaddling clothes and slipped the child into the basin to bathe her. As she scooped water over the child, they stared at each other in wonder.
“Give it to me goddamn it!” a voice roared.
Startled, Sydnee clutched the child to her breast. Dripping with water, the baby started to howl again. Sydnee scanned the woods desperately. All was quiet. With a sigh, she calmed the baby and lowered her again for her bath. Suddenly her jaw dropped. The bird bath changed into a font for divination and there before her eyes, in the water, a scene was unfolding.
Sydnee’s father was arguing with Margarite and shaking his fist at her. They were in the shed, and it was dark. “You stupid nigger!” he roared.
“Non!” Margarite screamed, backing up with a baby in her arms. “Not again!”
Victor Sauveterre scowled and with one swift movement, he covered Margarite’s face with his hand and sent her toppling backward into the wall of the shed. She stumbled and tried to remain standing but fell into the corner. In spite of the fall, she did not let go of the child.
Sauveterre reached down.
Margarite screamed “Non,” rolling away from him, holding fast to the baby.
Straddling the old woman, he jerked the child away from her and thrust the screaming infant under his arm. Throwing open the door of the shed, he strode out into the night.
* * *
Sydnee’s eyelids fluttered. She felt sick to her stomach and confused. Where am I? What happened? She recognized the shed at last, but something was banging. When she raised her head, she saw that the wind was slamming the shed door open and closed. She rubbed her eyes. Where is Margarite?
With great effort she raised herself up on one elbow. Except for a cup of grease guttering on the altar, it was dark. The blankets of her bed were soaked, and she pushed them off, sitting up gingerly. She was sore all over but particularly between her legs. Then she remembered that she had just delivered a baby.
Pulling her dirty shift over her head to cover herself, Sydnee carefully stood up. Shuffling over to the altar, she lit some tapers and looked around. The bed was rumpled and soaked with blood. The wind continued to bang the door, making the flames jump and the wind chimes jangle.
As Sydnee pulled the door shut, something caught her eye, and she started. There in a rumpled heap in the corner was Margarite.
“Ma mère!” she cried.
Hanging onto the wall, she stumbled over and dropped to her knees, putting her hands on the woman’s face. “Wake up!” Sydnee cried, turning her head toward her. “Please wake up!” she begged. Margarite opened her eyes and mumbled something, but Sydnee did not understand.
Mustering her limited strength, she crawled behind Margarite and lifted her under the arms, pulling her over to the bed on the floor. Panting, she ran her eyes over her but found no injuries.
“Where is the baby?” Sydnee asked anxiously.
Gently she shook Margarite, and she opened her eyes.
“The baby?” Sydnee repeated, looking at her desperately.
Margarite stared at her. She grimaced and then murmured apologetically, “Mort.”
Sydnee blinked in disbelief, dropped back onto the blanket, covered her face and shook her head from side to side. Another baby born without life. How can this be!
All night long and all through the next day, she stayed on the bed, stone faced and mute by Margarite. She bore her despair in silence, letting Margarite sleep. She knew that the woman was exhausted from helping her give birth, and it was not until the sun be
gan to set that she turned and looked at her. Margarite was on her back, her breathing quick and shallow. Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyeballs were yellow when she turned to look at Sydnee. Moving her lips, she tried to speak, but no words would come.
Sydnee waited, afraid of what she was about to hear. At last Margarite whispered, “Pain. Help me, my leetle one.”
Sydnee squeezed her eyes shut. She did not want to do what she knew Margarite was asking.
“S'il te plait?” the old woman pleaded.
Reluctantly, Sydnee nodded and pushed herself up off the bed. Still weak and sore, it took great effort to rise. Her hair was matted and dried blood was caked over her legs. The heat in the shed was oppressive and the air thick with illness. When she stepped outside, the damp air of the swamps filled her lungs, and the dogs dashed out from under the porch to greet her. The sunset glowed red as it filtered through the tangled webs of Spanish moss.
The first thing she did was scan the yard for her father. All was quiet. She hung onto the shed, gathering strength to walk to the cabin. She took a deep breath, mustered her courage and walked up the path.
The cabin was empty, and she sighed with relief. Sydnee took a plate of hush puppies and scooped a bowl of nuts from a barrel and then ducked out back to the still where she filled a jug with whiskey. She returned to the shed as quickly as her legs would allow. She was afraid her father would appear at any moment and demand work from her.
The white lightning seemed to put new life into Margarite as Sydnee held her head and poured the alcohol into her mouth. Margarite dropped back onto the bed and sighed, much relieved. It seemed to warm her core and ease her pain.
Sydnee felt guilty giving whiskey to Margarite. It was the very substance that was killing her, but she knew that it was too late. It was all the woman had to dilute her pain for her last few hours on earth.
She gulped some from the jug herself, ate some hush puppies and then pulled back the greased paper on the window to look outside. Vivian was perched on a branch nearby. She cocked her head when she saw Sydnee and then went back to watching over the shed diligently.
When Sydnee eased back down, Margarite took her hand. It was difficult for her to speak, but the old woman whispered, “Leave here.”
“Leave you and Papa?”
“You are not listening to the spirits. They want both of us to leave. I am a slave. Passing to the other side is the only way for me.”
Biting her lip, Sydnee rolled her head away from Margarite. She had indeed heard a whispering in her ear lately, but she had not understood it.
Margarite is wrong. The spirits would never tell me to leave. Someone has to take care of Papa.
“Saint-Christophe appeared to me last night,” Margarite said hoarsely. She gasped for breath, licked her dry lips and said, “He is waiting to carry me across the big river. He waits to guide you away from here too.”
Ignoring the words, Sydnee stood up, poured fresh water into a basin and soaked a cloth. Kneeling down stiffly, she started to sponge Margarite’s face. When she finished, the old woman said, “Go now to the creek and wash the blood and dirt from your own body.”
Nodding, Sydnee retrieved a crock of soft soap and rags from the homemade wooden cupboard where Margarite kept her herbs. Before she stepped out the door, she looked back. Margarite was watching her with a faint smile on her lips.
Baloo and Atlantis accompanied Sydnee to a private spot on Plum Creek where the water ran deep and the trees joined overhead like a giant green umbrella. Vivian seemed to know that Sydnee was weak and did not try to land on her shoulder. Instead she flew from tree to tree as they walked along.
Sydnee took her shift off and waded in the running water, splashing her body and lathering her skin. It felt good to wash again. Atlantis hopped about chasing frogs, Baloo snapped at flies and Vivian stood guard in an oak tree overhead. The creatures were relieved to be near Sydnee once more. They were frantic all night, hearing her screaming in the shed, but when she emerged at last, they were overcome with joy. Content now just to be near her, they occupied themselves happily.
Sydnee plugged her nose and dropped back into the water and then lathered and scrubbed her scalp vigorously. When she was done, she scrubbed her blood-soaked shift in the creek, putting the damp garment back on when she crawled out. The moisture would keep her cool until it dried. She tied several rags between her legs to catch the blood still running from childbirth and started back along the creek toward home.
It was getting dark now, and the bugs were getting thick. She hurried back to the shed, eager to rest again, at least for a while before her father returned. She could feel the energy draining from her body with every step she took.
When she pulled open the door of the shed, Margarite was looking at her with the same faint smile on her lips.
“Papa is still not back,” Sydnee said. “I am going to try to sleep again.”
No response.
Sydnee looked at Margarite. The woman did not move. She did not blink, the smile frozen on her face. Sydnee’s lips parted, and she stared. Margarite was gone. Dropping to her knees, she sobbed, “Non, non! How can I go on without you, ma Mere?” she cried.
Sobs wracked her body for what seemed like hours, and when she looked up at last, she realized that Margarite died the moment she stepped out of the shed. They joined eyes and souls at that moment.
Something caught Sydnee’s attention, and she looked up in the corner. It was the wind chimes jingling in the corner of the room. Margarite was saying goodbye.
Chapter 4
Victor Sauveterre returned after dark, shortly after Sydnee finished washing and sprinkling Margarite’s body with oils. He entered the shed as she was starting to wrap her. His huge frame filled the door. “Jesus Christ, she’s dead?” he asked.
Sydnee looked up into his heavily-freckled porcine face and nodded.
Sauveterre threw his hands up, exclaiming loudly, “Well, that figures. Now I’m out a nigger!”
Sydnee dropped her head, afraid to aggravate him further. She buried her hands in the pockets of her blue smock.
“God damn it, she stinks. Get me a lantern. I’ll find a spade.”
Even though it was dark, the sultry weather made it imperative they bury Margarite immediately. Her father chose a site behind the shed for a shallow grave. When he finished the hole, he returned to the shed drenched in perspiration. His broadcloth trousers were covered in dirt, and his shirt clung to his meaty flesh.
“Well, help me,” he demanded, taking Margarite’s upper body.
Sydnee reached down and took the feet, staggering from the weight. As she walked, she could feel a rush of blood soaking the rags between her thighs. They carried the body to the back of the shed where the lantern cast an eerie golden glow under the trees.
A pain shot through Sydnee’s abdomen. She dropped Margarite’s feet and doubled over, but she did not make a sound.
“Oh, Christ!” her father grumbled. “I’ll do it myself.”
He pushed Sydnee out of the way and hoisted the corpse over his shoulder. Before she could protest, he had thrown Margarite into the grave like a sack of rotten potatoes.
A man’s voice called from the cabin, “Is anybody here?”
A customer was at the cabin. Wiping his hands on his pants, Sauveterre ordered, “You do the rest.”
He yanked an earthenware flask out of his pocket, threw his head back and emptied the contents down his throat. Wiping his mouth on his sleeve, he called; “Coming!” and then turned up the path.
Sydnee watched him disappear into the darkness, relieved that he was gone. She wanted to be alone to say farewell to Margarite. She bent down, tossed the first bit of earth into the grave asking St. Christopher to guide Margarite safely to the other side. Then slowly and reluctantly, she picked up the spade and started to fill the grave
* * *
Sydnee could hear men talking and laughing with her father late into the night. The customers ca
me just in the nick of time, saving her from one of her father’s tirades. He would have ranted all night long about the loss of a slave and how bad luck only happened to him.
Sydnee understood that he was worried. She was all that he had left, and she wasn’t much. He never recovered from the death of her mother, and then The Devil’s Backbone fell onto hard times, and now the death of Margarite. It was a lot for him to bear.
Sydnee tossed the blood and urine soaked blanket outside and put a clean blanket on Margarite’s bed. At last she could drop down, exhausted from the grief and sorrow of the day. She knew that sleep would not come easily, but she had to try.
The spirits blessed Sydnee at last with some rest, but after a few hours she was awakened again with a jolt. “Girl, get up here!”
Sydnee sat up, her heart hammering.
“Girl!”
It was her father roaring for her. Sydnee stumbled to her feet. Bursting out the shed door, she ran up the path in the rain, splashing mud everywhere. The dogs scrambled out from under the shed and followed.
Lamplight glowed inside the cabin, and she saw two donkeys tied up in front. She ran up the steps and stopped, quickly realizing that her father and the customers were there on the porch. Her father was in his rocker; one customer was in a chair with his leg slung over the arm, and the other leaned on the porch railing, swinging a leg and paring his nails. All of their faces were in the shadows.
“These here men would like some company tonight,” her father said, wiping his mouth with his sleeve. He passed a jug to the man in the chair next to him.
Sydnee stood before them panting. Her hair was wet and plastered to her head, and her smock was soaked. She felt their eyes on her and heard the rain running off the roof of the porch.
“Well,” her father said in a businesslike tone while he rocked. “Who wants to go first?”
There was a bright glow from the pipe of the customer as he drew smoke, looking at Sydnee.
Sydnee was scared. She knew the pain would be too much to bear so shortly after childbirth.
The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) Page 3