Whispers in Time

by Becky Lee Weyrich

  Vic reached up to help Cami dismount. She slid into his arms, her gown clinging revealingly to her body. Instead of letting her slip immediately to the ground, Vic held her poised, kissing her in mid-air.

  “I like you all slippery and wet,” he whispered.

  She shivered in his arms. “Well, I don’t like it a bit. I’m cold!”

  Vic glanced about the barn. Except for a few horses in the stalls, the place was empty. Whoever was supposed to be on duty had doubtless gotten caught somewhere else in the rain.

  “Come on,” Vic ordered, tugging Cami toward the ladder to the hayloft. “I’ll get you warm.”

  “Vic!” she protested. “Up there?”

  “Can you think of a better place?” he asked in a low, seductive voice.

  “Oh, honestly!” she answered. “You can’t mean that you intend to…”

  He cut her off with another kiss. “You always said you liked some secret place on a rainy afternoon.”

  When Cami recalled their first rainy afternoon together in the old nursery upstairs at the Condé Street house, she knew all was lost. She knew and she rejoiced at the thought.

  “Come on, woman!” Vic urged. “You’re wasting a lot of good rain.”

  The loft was clean and dry and strewn with sweet hay. Vic found a blanket and made them a bed. Propped against the wall, he pulled off his boots while Cami stood staring at him expectantly. Vic grinned up at her and winked. “Take off your clothes.”

  Cami glanced about, nervous suddenly. “Undress? You mean, right here—right now.”

  He chuckled and nodded. “That’s what I mean. While me and the horses watch.”

  “Oh, Lord, Vic! Why did you have to say that?” In spite of her protest and her embarrassment at the thought of the horses all watching her, Cami began to slip out of her wet gown. Moments later, she stood naked and shivering before Vic’s admiring eyes.

  “Satisfied?” she asked, feigning anger. “Now I’m freezing!”

  Quickly, he shucked the rest of his wet things. “Come here,” he invited. “I’ll warm you.”

  A moment later, Cami was snuggled in his arms, her damp flesh clinging to his. She wasn’t cold any longer.

  The rain drummed on and the wind howled, but Cami hardly noticed. Vic held her and kissed her until her whole body was on fire. Then choosing a straw from the hay, he drew light little pictures on her quivering flesh—across her lips, down her chin and neck, then round and round each nipple. When Cami squirmed and whimpered, Vic let the straw travel lower, drawing it over her ribs and down across her slightly rounded belly. At last, Cami could stand his sweet torture no longer. She dashed the straw from his hand and pressed her body to his. Moments later, he was over her, filling her, coaxing her gently but firmly to the heights.

  “Ah, I do love the rain,” she sighed afterward.

  Vic stared into her wide, violet-blue eyes, his own dark with emotion. “And I do love you, my darling,” he said.

  After pulling on their clothes—clothes that had had plenty of time to dry—Vic and Cami walked hand-in-hand back to the house through the wet grass. The sun was setting.

  The air was golden. The storm was over. Or so it seemed…

  Several days passed before the next ominous clouds gathered over Elysian Fields. There was no rain this time, only a deluge of emotion and terror.

  The day began as any other. Cami and Vic rose early, she to see to the running of the house, he to ride out to the cane fields to supervise the workers.

  They breakfasted together as the sun was coming up. Over country ham, grits, fluffy eggs, biscuits and orange marmalade, they discussed their schedules for the day. Cami would direct the house servants to air the bedding since winter was fast approaching. Vic thought he’d ride over to the next plantation to look at a mare the owner had for sale. “Voodoo’s far too spirited for you to be riding now, Cami. If you insist on staying in the saddle, you need a gentler mount.”

  Had Cami possessed precognitive powers, that very conversation might have alerted her to the dangers lying ahead. But as it was, she merely kissed Vic goodbye, then went about her early-morning duties.

  Not until Vic was long gone and one of the servants was clearing away the breakfast dishes did Cami realize Pierre had not yet come down to eat.

  “Have you seen Master Pierre?” Cami asked the girl who was clearing the table. She knew that sometimes he sneaked out early, filling his kerchief with biscuits to eat on the way to his favorite fishing hole.

  “No, ma’am, Miz Cami,” the young servant answered. “I reckon he’s still sleeping.”

  “Probably so,” Cami answered. “Well, keep something warm for him in the kitchen. He’ll be down soon, I’m sure.”

  An hour later, the servants had all the beds stripped except for Pierre’s. Since his door was still closed, Cami gave orders not to disturb him. He’d been out late the night before on a ’gator hunt with some of the hands. She smiled to herself, thinking how old Jem had teased Pierre, saying that they planned to take him along to use as ’gator-bait.

  Shortly before noon, Cami walked out onto the front gallery for a breath of air. She smoothed her sweaty palms down over the white apron that covered her gray-blue frock. It was hot today for this late in the season.

  As she stood staring out over the garden, thinking how beautiful the whole world looked, someone called her name.

  “Miz Cami! Come quick, Miz Cami!” A black man in a tattered straw hat came racing around the side of the house.

  “What is it, Jem?” she called.

  “Young Marse Pierre! He done took off to the swamp on that crazy horse, Voodoo. Said he was gone find Lafitte’s treasure so he could buy back his papa’s plantation for him. I tried to stop him, ma’am, but he got clean away.”

  “Mother of God!” Cami half-swore, half-prayed. “Gather up some of the men and meet me at the barn,” she called. “I’ll be right there.”

  Cami raced toward the barn. She found several of the men already mounted and ready to go when she got there. They had saddled a horse for her as well. She climbed up and motioned them to follow. The search party headed for the swamp.

  One of the stable hands, a tall, gaunt slave who was half-African, half-Choctaw Indian, picked up Voodoo’s trail.

  “Boy went this way, him,” the man said.

  “You stay in the lead, Choctaw. We’ll follow,” Cami shouted.

  But as they forged deeper into the swamp, following a trail became impossible. Choctaw pointed out bent branches and small broken limbs, but they led in all directions, as likely disturbed by some swamp creature as by Pierre and Voodoo.

  The atmosphere in the swamp was close and humid. Mosquitoes droned their eerie songs and plagued the searchers with their stings. Alligators startled Cami’s mount twice, almost unseating her. Another time, she nearly fell off when she spied a snake hanging down from a limb.

  “Pierre!” she called over and over until her throat was sore and her voice raspy. “Answer me, Pierre!”

  She cursed herself a thousand times over for the tales she had told the boy about Lafitte’s gold. She had explained to Pierre in detail where her father found the chest. If the boy had managed to stay on Voodoo’s back this far, that tiny treasure island had to be where he was headed. Unmindful of the other searchers, Cami plunged deeper and deeper into the swamp. Before she realized what she had done, she was hopelessly lost and alone.

  “Pierre!” She kept up her urgent shouts. “Pierre, where are you?”

  How long had she been out here? She tried to gauge the time by the position of the sun, but the heavy, moss-laden branches overhead cut off her view. It seemed to be getting dark already. Her whole body ached with fatigue. She was hungry. Her face felt raw and swollen from the bites of mosquitoes, gnats, and yellow flies. Yet she refused to give up.

  Finally, she spotted her destination—a small island in the very heart of the swamp.

  “He must be there,” she murmured aloud. If he wa
sn’t, there was little hope that she would find him. And darkness was coming on fast.

  Suddenly, she froze. Something was crashing toward her through the tangle of vines to her left. It could be anything—’gator, panther, bear. She held very still, hardly daring to breathe. When a great black head burst into a clearing, she went faint for a moment, then laughed with relief.

  “Voodoo, you bastard! You scared the wits out of me!”

  The big stallion stepped almost daintily toward her until he was close enough to rub her hip with his soft muzzle.

  “Where’s Pierre, Voodoo?” she pleaded gently. “We have to find him. Show me where he is. Then we can all go home. This nightmare will be over.”

  As if he understood every word Voodoo turned and headed back the way he’d come. Cami had followed only a short distance when she spied the boy. He was lying face down in the water, motionless.

  With a sharp cry, Cami leaped from her horse and ran to him. Quickly, she turned Pierre over. There was a huge bump on his forehead, but he was still breathing. She pounded his back until he coughed and gagged, sending forth a stream of muddy swamp water.

  The moment he came to, Pierre burst out crying and threw his arms around Cami’s neck.

  “It’s all right now, son,” she soothed. “You’ll be fine. And look, right over there is where my papa found the gold. You really did find it.”

  Talking evenly, trying to calm the lad, Cami helped him through the water to the small hammock. At least the ground was dry here. They could rest for a while, then, with Voodoo’s help, find the way home. Cami herself was hopelessly lost, but she dared not let Pierre know that. He was terrified enough as it was.

  The two of them stretched out on a dry patch of sand. Cami began telling Pierre the old Lafitte tales once more, hoping to calm him. Before long, they both drifted off to sleep.

  When Cami awoke, the night was the blackest she had ever seen, and Pierre was no longer by her side. She was cold—shivering. And she was totally alone.

  Vic arrived back at the plantation leading the new mare for Cami, only to find that she, his son, and a dozen slaves were off in the swamp somewhere. Lost!

  He cursed and stormed, all to no avail. Finally, he formed his own search party, but it was getting late, getting dark. Their time would be limited to barely an hour. Vic decided to take pine knot torches along so they could search all night, if need be.

  He kept telling himself as he rode toward the swamp that he would find Cami and Pierre trudging homeward along the way. Surely the two of them weren’t lost. They both knew their way around. But when Vic reached the verge of the swamp, his heart sank. Inside that tangle of cypress and oak lay every danger imaginable. He only hoped he wasn’t too late already.

  Waving his torch over his head, Vic yelled, “Let’s find them, boys, and bring them home for a good, hot supper!”

  They crashed into the swamp, whooping and calling.

  That night was the longest, the blackest, the cruelest of Cami’s life. She dared not let herself go back to sleep. She tried to call out to Pierre, but her voice was spent. All she could muster was the barest whisper. All she could do was wait and pray.

  After what seemed an eternity, dawn seeped into the swamp. An eerie, pale gray, light slipped through the fog. Cami wept with relief. Now she would find Pierre. Now they would go home.

  Her relief was short-lived. When she glanced about, she saw that both horses were gone.

  “Oh, no,” she moaned. “Oh, God, no!”

  She had come miles into the very heart of this wilderness. Without a horse, she would never get out. Panic seized her.

  “I’m going to die here,” she said matter-of-factly, trying to swallow her fears. It was no use. “No one will ever find me.” She glanced about wildly. “This swamp will be my grave.” Her hand went suddenly to her belly. She looked down, tears filling her eyes. “Poor little Janie!”

  Those tears blinded her to something she should have seen. A swamp rattler lay only a few feet away. Sluggish with the night’s chill, the last thing on his mind was attack. Had Cami seen him, she would have remained very still or slowly inched away. As it was, when she heard Pierre’s voice call out, “Cami, I found it!” she made a sudden, disastrous move. The ratder coiled, sounded his warning, then struck.

  Cami screamed and grabbed her left leg just as Pierre splashed through the water, running back to the island.

  “I found it, Cami! Lafitte’s treasure!” Then he saw the look on her face and stopped. “Cami?”

  “Snake!” she gasped. “Give me your knife.”

  Even as waves of pain and dizziness washed over her, Cami tended the bite as best she could. But before long she lay fevered and unconscious beside the frightened boy.

  “Oh, Cami! Cami, say something,” Pierre begged.

  Pierre realized finally, in that moment, that perhaps he’d made a mistake by riding Voodoo into the swamp. He vowed that if Cami would only live, he would change his ways.

  Black Vic had never liked Voodoo. As the night wore on and the search continued, he came to hate the fiery stallion. Before dawn, he swore to himself that he would destroy the beast at his first opportunity.

  But never a gladder sight had greeted Vic’s eyes than that huge, devil-black body coming toward him at dawn. He knew how well Cami’s father had trained the stallion. At last there was hope, faint though it might be.

  “Take me to Cami,” Vic said to the horse. “I swear by all that’s holy, I’ll never hurt a hair in your mane if you find her for me. You’ll have carrots, apples, sugar cubes, and as many mares as you can pleasure, old fellow. Just find Cami and Pierre!”

  With a look of understanding and sympathy in his great, dewy eyes, Voodoo led the way. An hour later, Vic spotted Pierre on the small island. Cami lay on the ground, fast asleep.

  “Papa!” Pierre called, making Vic’s heart thud faster. The boy had never called him that before. “Come quick, Papa! Cami’s dead!”

  The thrill Vic had known a moment before deserted him. An icy hand closed over his heart. Leaping off his horse, he ran through the knee-deep water, then fell down beside Cami, cradling her limp form in his arms. His tears bathed her cold, pale cheeks.

  Cami was not dead. But she was as near to death as any mortal could come without actually crossing over. For days she lay in the big bed that she and Vic had shared since coming to Elysian Fields. Vic stayed at her side night and day. He held her hand, he kissed her cold lips, he begged her to open her eyes—to speak to him. Still, she slept on—silent and oblivious—lost in her own world of torment and pain.

  Early one morning, a servant knocked at the bedroom door. “Master Vic?” the woman said as quietly as she could.

  “Go away!” he growled. “I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “It’s the priest, sir,” the servant said. “He just come.”

  For a moment, Vic couldn’t think what the woman was talking about. Then he remembered. “The priest, Cami,” he whispered. “He’s come to marry us.”

  He watched, unblinking, hoping that his words had gotten through to her. If she loved him as much as he loved her, surely she would wake up now. Surely, she would come back to marry him.

  Never a twitch. Never a move.

  “Send him away!” Vic roared. The words all but broke his heart.

  The servant did not do as her master ordered. Instead, she showed the priest to the dining room and brought him breakfast.

  A short time later, the plantation doctor arrived for his daily visit. Vic grudgingly let him enter, then watched as the man felt Cami’s pulse, forced her eyelids open to peer at her pupils, poked her and prodded her. At last, he sighed and shook his head.

  “I’m afraid there’s nothing I can do, M’sieur Navar. I see you’ve summoned a priest. Wise of you, sir. She can’t last much longer.”

  For a moment, the physician’s words didn’t register. When they did, Vic had to use all his control to keep from killing the useless doctor.


  “The priest is here to marry us, you fool, not administer last rites! Get out!”

  Vic fell back into the chair beside the bed, exhausted physically and emotionally. In spite of his determination to watch over Cami, he dozed off. When he woke sometime later, he heard a quiet voice in the room.

  “You got to come back, Cami. I told you—I found Lafitte’s treasure. Now I can buy Golden Oaks for Papa.”

  Pierre went silent for a moment. Vic remained still—watching, listening, feeling his heart shatter into tiny pieces when he saw his son take Cami’s hand.

  “Cami, wherever you are, I hope you can hear me. Me and Papa need you. We need you bad! We both love you, Cami. We’re a real family with you. Please, come back to us.”

  When the boy broke down and sobbed, Vic had to bite his lip to keep from weeping, too. After Pierre got control of his emotions, Vic stirred in his chair and yawned loudly, on purpose. He saw Pierre’s back stiffen.

  “Oh, son, it’s you.”

  “Yes, Papa.” Pierre didn’t turn, but Vic saw the boy scrub at his eyes with his fists. “I was just keeping Cami company. She looks real pretty, doesn’t she?”

  Vic rose and went to stand beside his son. He slipped an arm around the boy’s thin shoulders. “She’s a beautiful lady—outside and in. We’re lucky to have her, aren’t we?”

  “Yes, Papa.” Pierre’s voice quivered. He was on the verge of tears again. “I wish she was my mother.”

  Vic nodded. “She’d make a fine one.”

  For long moments, father and son stood together in silent communion, their eyes focused on Cami’s pale, lovely face.

  If only… if only… The useless words kept churning inside Vic’s head. Then an idea began to dawn. A meaningless, hopeless, outrageous idea.

  “You know the priest has come, son,” Vic said quietly. “He’s going to marry us. So Cami really will be your mother.”