My path lay in the opposite direction and threaded from the grassy banks by the bridge, onto a raised knoll that wound beneath tree cover and then disappeared out of sight.
Tentatively, I stepped onto the first slat. Once my feet were over the water, a strange sensation settled over me. It was a feeling wholly unfamiliar, a sense of disconnect from the world. It made me very uneasy and my usual determination evaporated. I hesitated, and then wobbled, and fought the sudden urge to run back to the train station and spend the last of my money buying a return ticket home.
But, no, it was too late. Pulling my bag to my chest for balance, I tried again, and somehow made it halfway across before pausing to look around.
From my vantage point, I could see upriver, along its slow, snaking course. Trees crowded all the way to the edges of the bank. Only a bit farther north of the bridge, the river widened and part of it ran free over flattened ground. Even the aroma in the air was pungent and damp. In the middle of the bridge, unable to move, I simply gaped around like a fool, like a tourist in the city staring open-mouthed at all the sights.
Somewhere far off an engine rumbled. Another train, I thought to myself, and tried to focus on my balance. When there were only a few steps left, the rumbling grew louder, throatier, and I dared a quick glance in the direction it came from. A motorcycle sped along the road I had just walked down. The bike drew closer, slowed down and I saw the silver glint of chrome as it turned onto the very bridge that I was trying to cross. Vibrations rattled the planks.
Fear seized me. My feet could not be trusted. Foolishly, I halted and turned around. With the afternoon sun sloping down, I saw only a shadow of dark hair and the outline of a very tall, very masculine body. The man revved the engine, reminding me not so gently that I was blocking the path. But, still, I had trouble convincing myself to move.
A booted foot came down. “I don’t care how you do it, but get off the bridge,” roared the man, all bristle and swagger, and yet I couldn’t see his face, which unnerved me. I jumped in an awkward leap over three boards and landed on the bank where I wobbled for a moment before righting myself. Then, as I watched, he came forward slowly, and when his bike slipped into the shade I could make out his features clearly.
He was in his late twenties if I had to guess, with hair black as jet. Ice-blue eyes boldly assessed me and under his lazy perusal I felt myself blush. He rolled off the bridge and stopped just in front of me before cutting off the engine.
Silence. Only the whisper of light ripples from the water.
“You look lost.” His voice came to my ears with an almost dreamlike quality, deep and sonorous.
“I know exactly where I am.”
He was getting off the bike and now stood in front of it, and the man was certainly tall. He had a thick five-o’clock shadow and an easy, almost insolent grace about him.
An eyebrow raised. “Do you?” He took a few steps toward the gate. “Because you have the look of a fish out of water.”
I felt a tightening in my throat. “You’re quick to judge,” I said, more sharply than intended.
“Not a judgment. Just an observation.”
“I’m heading to my aunt’s.” My tone was a bit defiant. I nodded down the lane. “She lives just over there and I’m already late.”
He ignored my hint. “Cleo’s your aunt? Then who are you? I thought there was no family other than her.”
“Zara Pendleton.”
He seemed surprised. “Zara?” He seemed very interested in me all of a sudden. “Where did you get that name, Zara?” He seemed very interested all of a sudden.
I realized at that moment whom I might be talking to, and I felt a traitorous thrill spread inside me. “From my mother,” I said in a voice that might get me into trouble. “Where else would I get it? What’s your name?”
He regarded me steadily. “Navarre,” he said finally.
It was him. I swept my eyes behind him, down the lane past the gate, trying to catch a glimpse of that white tower, of something, anything. But what started as a simple peek turned into something else, as I had trouble looking away. “Navarre,” I repeated softly. Finally, I had the presence to turn away, and I went in the direction that my aunt directed in her letter. I continued along the shaded lane, all the while my ears glued to the sound of chains rattling and the creak of the gate as it swung open. Finally, when I could take it no more, I acted as if I lost my balance and tripped, and as I righted myself I peered back at Navarre.
I saw him, all hard muscles and lean power, bathed in the soft light of the late afternoon sun. It was a study in opposites. He unlocked the gate, swung it open, and my eyes swept past him and down the shaded lane once more. A longing filled me like never before, a yearning that I couldn’t quite make sense of. I think that somewhere deep inside me, I knew that mysteries and delights waited for me down that road. But he looked up at me just then, and I understood exactly what his eyes had been telling me our whole encounter: keep away.
As if the message wasn’t clear, he spoke. “Zara, you look down that lane as if it’s calling to you. If I were you, I would be very careful and keep far away from us.” His voice easily carried across the distance between us, and I knew then that he completely understood that strange longing I felt, and was putting an end to it. He jumped onto his bike, fired the engine to life. I turned away quickly.
Chapter Three
Listening to the retreating rumble of the motorcycle, I walked along the path until I heard the engine grow fainter and then the sound disappeared altogether. Now the rustle of the trees in the wind and the light tinkling noise of the lazy river were the only sounds in the air.
By the time I walked onto my aunt’s property the afternoon was nearly gone. Shadows stretched from the trees to darken the house, though they weren’t yet dark enough to hide the state of disrepair the house was in. Vines crawled along the walls, bold enough to spread out in all directions and beneath their tendrils the cottage sagged wearily. Even the porch was dilapidated, a few stairs missing. It gave the house a gap-toothed grimace. Two rocking chairs stood like soldiers protecting the door, and as I stood there absorbing the house, I saw a figure moving.
“You there,” a voice called out harshly from the porch. I looked up and there, on the steps, stood an older woman with a shotgun braced against her shoulder. The barrel of the gun stared straight at me with an unblinking eye. Her voice barked out, loud and deep, “Those are strange footsteps on my property, and whoever you are, you best state your purpose.”
I set my bag on the ground and raised my hands in the air as if I were surrendering. I found myself searching for words, trying to come up with a quick phrase that might appease her.
“You best speak.” There was no patience in her voice. “I’ll count to three and then I start shooting.”
“One,” she said.
“It’s me, Zara.”
The shotgun didn’t move. “Two,” she said.
I yelled at the top of my lungs, “I’m Mercy’s daughter! Your great-niece!” The words came fast and harsh, but served their purpose.
The barrel of the shotgun dipped slightly. “Say again?” I heard the surprise in her voice.
“Zara,” I repeated, in a less offensive volume. “Your niece. Mercy’s girl. My father wrote to you and arranged for me to come, do you remember?”
“Oh.” It was quiet for a moment. Then, “Zara, is that really you? I’m cautious on who I can trust.”
I was so nervous, I started to ramble. “It is. I traveled by train all night.”
“I was beginning to think you might not come.” She squatted down and placed the gun on the floor. “Come here, child.”
I was relieved to see her lower the gun. I walked toward her, still wary of the situation. She was a small and wiry woman and wore a long skirt, which seemed impossible in the heat. Her silver hair was gathered in a haphazard bun, and her gaze, strange and uncertain, roamed all around me. I noticed a hesitation in her movement
s. Her odd demeanor unnerved me. “Great-Aunt Cleo?” I asked cautiously.
At the sound of my voice, her eyes snapped up and settled on my face, but didn’t quite meet my gaze. She held her hands out in greeting, and they hung in the space between us, tentative, more a gesture of faith than anything else. I looked again at her face, scarcely believing the truth in front of me.
She was blind.
I reached out and met her grasp halfway. She clutched at me, and pulled me into an embrace, and we stood for a moment breathing each other in, both of us surprised. “I didn’t realize that you couldn’t see,” I said.
“I get by,” she said. She spoke softly, almost inaudibly. “I’m used to it by now.” She shook her head and her eyes were roaming again, seeking something, anything, to attach to, and I reached out to touch her again. She took my hand and hugged me, and then took a deep breath. “You smell like winter. All bundled up and cold.”
An uncertain, apologetic laugh escaped from me. “I’m sure that will all change,” I said.
“It will.” She reached for my face. “It will.” Her touch was sincere and gentle and I never thought to shy away or be offended. Her fingers, warm, but with the paper-thin skin that accompanies age, roamed my features. “Mercy’s daughter,” she said with some wonder in her voice. “Who would have guessed?” I felt her fingers on my face. “You have a stubborn chin,” she told me in a chiding tone. She ran a hand over my hair, and even though it was pulled back, she noticed the barely contained waves. “Curly. What color?”
“Light. Very light when I was young. A bit darker now.”
Her hands were on my arms. “You’re too thin.”
“I feel too thin.”
“Well, we’ll set to work on that, too.” She moved toward the screen door and opened it with a squeak. She was cautious, but not overly so. “Are you thirsty, dear?”
“I’m parched, Great-Aunt Cleo.”
“That’s too much of a mouthful. Just call me Aunt Cleo, dear. Well, come in and let’s have dinner, and get to know each other. If you want to put your things away, there’s a small room up the stairs. But, be careful. They’re steep.”
The inside of the house was only one room. A kitchen at one end and a parlor with a small table at the window, overlooking the drive. One door stood open, and I saw a made bed through it. A narrow, dark staircase rose just to the side of the door, and I took it. Aunt Cleo was right, the stairs were steep, and led to a small room with a low ceiling and the tiniest window to look out. A quilted bed sat against one wall. I placed my bag on the bed, and looked out the window at the green-topped canopies. Beyond it, I saw for the first time the unmistakable velvet-blue of the Gulf of Mexico.
Such a strange land, with carpets of color and trees everywhere. Even the river and ocean lived side by side. There was more water here than a land ever needed.
Imagine my surprise when I returned down the stairs and found the small table set with two plates and topped with biscuits, gravy and sausage. I was famished. I had four long years of hunger inside me, and I was grateful that my aunt couldn’t see how I devoured the food without any regard to manners. But, perhaps she did know, because just before I finished she rose and quite easily made her way to the kitchen again, returning with another helping.
This time I ate more carefully and soon felt the pleasing ache of a full belly. Night had come, and outside the world was dark. Crickets called and sang to each other, and I noticed another noise, stranger, almost like drums, but before I could ask my aunt about it, she spoke first. “Would you like to sit on the porch with me and rock for a bit?”
“I’d love it, but let me clear the table for you.”
She held up a hand. “Nonsense,” she said. “Dishes can always wait.”
We went outside onto the porch and each of us sat in a rocking chair. She placed a lamp on the small table between us. Moths flitted around us like snowflakes. I don’t know who spoke first, only that we started to discuss idle things. There was a loose board beneath her chair, and every time she rocked it would creak. The noise soon became a rhythm and lulled me into a comfortable daze.
After a while, our conversation turned more serious. “I’m sorry your mother died. She was such a bright soul. I remember when she was just a baby, and used to rock right here next to me, in that very chair you are sitting in, with her little legs dangling down.”
I touched the ring that lay next to my heart. “I miss her so much. It happened quickly. Just a cough at first. The doctor said it was dirt pneumonia and then a few weeks later she was gone. Pa never recovered after that. It’s like we all died that day.”
She reached out and patted my arm. “Part of you did die that day, but the rest of you lives on, and you have to keep moving. Grow roots again. I know it’s different here, but I think you’ll be comfortable. In time you can decide where you want to go from here, maybe your father when he’s finished. That reminds me, I haven’t tidied the room upstairs. That’s one area I’m not comfortable with just yet. The stairs.”
“I’d be happy to do it.”
“You’re a dear. It’s nice to have another person around the house. It’s been quiet far too long. I was thinking before you came, that maybe you’d like to plant a garden? I used to love to garden, but of course…”
“I’d like that,” I said, before adding, “I had one back home, well before the drought and the storms.”
“Maybe tomorrow you could head into town for supplies, and explore a bit as you do.”
The tiniest spot of a warm feeling appeared in my heart. “I still have a few dollars left. That should be enough. I can walk, too, it’s not too far.”
Again, I heard the distant rumble and rhythm of drums. It was a frenzied, wild sound and right when the drums reached a crescendo I heard the wild peal of voices, people shouting and crying out excitedly. “What are those noises?”
“That, my dear niece is the sound of a godless people,” she said. “After a while you will learn to ignore it. I think of it no more than the call of the birds in the morning or the frogs after a rain. It will take a while, but you will do the same.” She went quiet for a moment. “You need to stay far away from them.”
“You mean Navarre and the Luc—”
“Lucians,” she finished for me. Then she nodded sagely, “And you’re right. Navarre. How do you know about them?”
“The sheriff told me.”
“That explains everything.”
“Fertilizer.” I spoke up suddenly, when the realization hit me. “Wait? The fertilizer we used on our wheat farm, it was called Navarre Industries.”
“One and the same dear. They had the good fortune to buy leftover unwanted land, so that they could keep away from people. But, they ended up buying one of the world’s only sources of natural fertilizer.”
“But, if they own all the land around here, why do you have this bit of land here?”
“I don’t know that I could give you an exact answer, but I can answer some of it, because our family—long, long ago—used to be part of their group.”
I stopped rocking. “What?”
“It’s true. Though we parted ways at least four generations ago. Your great-great-great-great—that’s four, right?—I think its four generations back. Anyway, your grandmother left the group to marry an outsider. That’s how they got this land. I believe the river had shifted at that time, creating the land where the cottage is now, and some agreement was reached that they could have the land. Anyway, that’s how our family broke away.”
Her words seemed almost fantastical. “Wait. Start at the beginning.”
“I will.” She began to rock in her chair. The loose board creaked in rhythm with the strange drums and her words came to life as she spoke. “The Lucians came to Florida in the 1700s from a small island in the Aegean Sea. I know that because I once looked it up in the town library. I found out it was an ancient culture. More ancient than Greece or Rome, I know that much. But, not much more than that,
I’m afraid. They worshipped many gods—somehow Christianity missed this small island—and somehow, across the centuries they kept the religion going. There are rituals and ceremonies. I’m a decent Christian woman. I didn’t care to find out too much more than that. But it’s no secret that we have a heathen past.”
“How ever did they come here?”
“Even I know this story. It’s funny how most facts are lost to history, but betrayals live on forever, don’t they?” She cleared her throat and was still for a moment, no rocking at all. I heard the drums like a heartbeat in the background, and their frantic beatings gave her story an urgency. “There was a man named Trevalin. Ruthless man. Merchant and privateer, confidant of the King of England. But not much better than a slaver. He showed up on their island during a horrible drought and promised the riches of a new country. Fertile lands, food aplenty, religious freedom. The only cost was seven years labor, and what is seven years for a dream? For boundless land instead of a small, rocky island? So, man, woman and child, they signed on, over eight hundred of them. And on three ships they came to America and landed in Florida. Only it wasn’t Florida then. That’s how long it’s been.”
“How were they betrayed?”
“He lied to them and instead of boundless lands and food for seven years labor, they were never allowed to leave his property. They were forced to work, more than twenty years I think. He forced them to become Christian. But in secret they continued on and eventually broke free and settled over here. And now, it’s not such a secret anymore. That’s how I have this little, tiny sliver of land. It came through our ancestor, also named Zara.”
Just then, from the darkness, a shadow burst onto the porch, darted over my head and then away. “What was that? That thing zipping around?”
She laughed. “It was probably a bat. They hunt this time of night. Sometimes you can see them as they fly in a group. It is quite beautiful. When I could see, I would often sit on the bridge and watch them.”
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