“Goddamn,” she heard Morris say, and another change of direction. Martha saw a chaos of wet leaves and branches slide along the side of the car, and she heard Vince’s head thump against the window glass—a thousand spiders scrabbled below the floor—scritch, scritch—and then the cage was still, the wipers continuing to swish, the rain drumming on the roof, voices gibbering. Groaning. To hell to hell to hell to hell…
“Son of a bitch.” She heard the words through the speakers. The seat belts relaxed. Vince leaning, groaning, rubbing his head. Leaning, straining. In front, the headlights, shivering leaves, pale branches. To die to die to die…
“What happened?” and there was no answer. Then the front door opening, the click of the emergency flashers. “Are you all right?” Vince turned toward her, a glistening dark trickle on his chin. “There’s a tree down—” He yanked at his passenger-side door handle, banged his knuckles against the glass. “Let me help you—let me—” He knocked furiously.
The man in front said, “Son of a bitch.” He got out and closed his door. And they were alone, Martha and Vince, alone with the dull green light and his glistening chin and the wiper squeak and the machine-gun rattle of the rain. Lightning flickered. A tangle of leafy limbs in the windshield, a squeak of wood against metal, and she could see the hulking shape of Morris, struggling to move the foliage that blocked the road.
Then nothing, silence. Vince, bleeding, the blood making lines on his face, lightning streaks. Then the snap of a door lock, and the terrible face is there again, hovering in front of the sizzle of the rain, the chanting. Now Martha…now now now…
“C’mon out here!” Morris shouted. “Got the whole goddamn road blocked, but I think we can move this thing. Watch the girl—”
Now Martha…now now now now…
Then Vince was sliding out, into the howling voices, into the rain.
Now Martha…now…
She reached toward the middle of the seat bench with her bound hands and grasped the folds of the damp towel. Vince stepped out onto the wet fury, slipped, righted himself. Martha slid the towel across the seat and tucked a corner into the doorjamb.
“Close that goddamn door!” Morris shouted. “Close it, goddammit! She’ll—”
The door closed, and she was alone in the vehicle, enshrouded by cloudy windows. To hell to hell to hell…
Then Martha could see two shapes in the headlights, wrestling with the leafy branches. She unsnapped her seat belt and slid across the hard plastic bench, inched toward the door, hands bound in front of her. Fly to die fly to die fly to die. Her shoulder touched the door. She leaned and it gave, opened just a crack to admit the rain. Cold, sharp droplets. She slipped one foot out through the opening, into the dark and wet, into rushing water, then the other, and slid out into the raw force of the storm, and once she was out of the car, the wind pushed the door closed again. Quiet, shhh, quiet. Voices in the rain, shouting. This way to the dying, now, there she is to die, the dying— She bent over, crouched in the dark, feeling her way along the cold wet steel panels of the SUV, around to the side of the cruiser, and she found the corner of the fender, and she went behind it. A thousand demons chanted—HAAAAA hide to die you hide to die to hell…
Martha looked up, blinking against the sobbing sky, tears that kept filling her eyes, pattering on her head endlessly. Streetlights here, salmon-colored blobs suspended in the curtain of rain, and beyond them, vague, shadowy shapes. The rain swung sideways, pushed by a gust of wind. Then sudden daylight—a strobe of lightning, and Martha could see what lay ahead of her—sidewalk, window, wall, awning. With the afterimage locked in her mind, she bolted, sloshed up to her ankles in the rushing street water and got onto the sidewalk. Her hands met brickwork, and she held on to it, and turned back again toward the street. The lightning flickered and she glimpsed the cruiser, diagonal in the street, nosed into the leafy jumble of fallen limbs. And two figures struggling—with the tree—or with each other? He fights to die He fights to die….
Oh no Vince oh my God Vince he’ll kill Vince….Help Vince. Get help….Martha was paralyzed for a moment, then tried to remember. Where was she? The sidewalk. The view she’d had in the lightning, the street. You know this place, Martha. You know this place. She heard a rushing torrent of water nearby, a moving river, contained, and that meant something. She knew she would be seen, and she made a dash, a bolt into the unknown darkness. You shouldn’t leave Vince alone.
She could see the twin cones of headlights, penetrating the leafy branches, and in the fragmented light two figures—Morris, holding something—a stick? a tire jack? a rifle—and Vince, hands up, backing away slowly—
Martha wanted to run toward him, to warn him, but before she could move, a crack penetrated the hiss of the rain, a contained thunderclap, and in that instant Martha saw half of Vince’s head vaporize into the wet darkness, vanish like a magic trick, his body toppling backward—
No no no no no no no—
Then a splitting peal of thunder—Martha took a wild step into the blackness, then another, and she was running, blind, unable to stop no no no no no no and she vaulted ahead, smashed into a low cement wall, nearly pitched over it, nearly fell into a river of rushing water she could hear but couldn’t see, a murmuring undertone below the howls of wind and rain.
She groped along the cracked cement with her bound hands, touching wild snakes of wet and twisted rebar, looking for the opening. She found the cold, iron pipe of the bridge railing with her hands and used it as a guide, followed it onto the footbridge. She could hear the sound of rain hammering against sheet iron, the rushing torrent of the canal below, and then she reached the other side of the bridge and felt her way down a steep stone stairway and descended into even deeper darkness.
She reached the bottom step and groped along the palisade wall, blind. Rain gushed from downspouts and rattled like falling marbles onto the metal overhangs. Why are you here, Martha?
She paused. Another flash of lightning, followed by a long concussion of thunder, like a vast canvas ripping in two. She glimpsed the hulking shapes of the old cotton warehouses, strafed by curtains of rain, and now she knew why she was here, she knew where she was headed. She continued along the broken cobblestones, buffeted by wind-driven rain. Vaporized in the rain. His head. Vince. Gone. It didn’t happen. It wasn’t real. You didn’t see it. You have to go.
Martha could hear a loud, incessant creak of sheet metal above the whirring howls of wind. Too dark to see, only the crumbling face of the warehouse wall to guide her, by touch—the face—
The lightning flickered and Martha saw that the wall was a pattern, a mosaic, like a quilt. It was made of faces. Hundreds of them. Swollen lips, gashed, ravaged, blackened, faces of despair, every pair of eyes bloated, watching her, imploring her—
She staggered back from the wall and stepped off the curb, into the street. Hands reached out of the rain, calloused fingers brushed her skin, clawed at her with broken and bloody nails—
Martha bolted forward, her screams silent against the howling of the night. There was a faint glow ahead, just a brushstroke in the darkness, wavering through rivulets of water. She pushed her palms out into the darkness, staggering toward it. The glow was square, smeared, with water streaming down the surface. A glass pane. Her fingers traced the wall next to it and found the grooved edge of a door frame. She found the handle, pressed the thumb latch, pushed. A heavy door swung forward and she ducked through the opening.
The door closed behind, sucked outward by the wind, muting the clamor of the storm. She scooped the water out of her face with her knuckles and blinked at the wavering light. She stood at the end of the narrow corridor, a familiar, jumbled corridor. She was panting and shivering, dripping onto the floorboards. Groups of squat yellow candles gleamed off glass jars and clay pots. The honeyed scent of the candles mingled with other smells—tobacco and soil, herbs and roots. Next to her, a fat candle flickered on a low wooden shelf, the melted wax forming voluptuous gl
obules. Below the shelf, a wooden chair with a thick towel, neatly folded in the seat. Martha reached for it, using her bound hands like a pincer.
The candle, Martha. Use the candle.
She let go of the towel and turned and held the center of the wrist strap over the flame. The moisture on the band sizzled, and in a few seconds, the pale nylon blackened, releasing acrid smoke. Martha applied pressure, pulling outward with her wrists. The strap separated into stringy threads. Martha shook off the coils.
She massaged her wrists, then picked up the towel and buried her face in it, luxuriating in its softness. She rubbed the thick pile over her hair, neck, and body and paused for a moment, embracing the towel, grateful for the touch of dry fabric. Then she wrapped it around her shoulders, still shivering, and stepped forward, limping through the light of dozens of candles, past jumbles of strange shadows cast by roots and husks hanging from the rafters. Behind her, the rain lashed against the windows. The voices growled and grumbled, frustrated, unable to follow. Martha paused, held on to a shelf for support. She allowed one desperate sob to escape.
After a few more steps, she passed the counter with its large antique cash register and reached the sitting area with the settee, the small table made from a wooden barrel sawed in half, the cast-iron stove. A pair of eyes glinted in the shadows, like liquid glass.
“Them voices in a high state of commotion tonight, ain’t they?” Lady Albertha said.
Martha nodded. “Yes, they are.”
The old woman rocked slightly in her chair. “You’ve been hurt. I can smell the fever.”
“I’m all right—” Martha said. “It’s Vince, oh God, Vince—”
“Calm yourself, you must. You’ve seen the child.”
“How did you know?”
“Because that’s why you come.”
The wind picked up, lashing the side of the building. Albertha leaned forward and slid a long twig through the grate in the stove. She withdrew it, the end aflame, and lowered it into the bowl of her pipe.
Martha tightened the towel around her shoulders. “Y-you were expecting me?”
“For true. I knew all this was comin’. Since Tuesday week, when I last threw bones. I’ve seen that child, too. My mother saw it before me. Now it’s your turn. You’ll be the new one.”
“Who is it?” Martha gripped the back of the settee with her wrinkled fingertips.
“That’s what I aim to tell you. Now you’re ready to know. But first, go ahead and get yourself comfortable. There’s a nice robe hangin’ up in the washroom. Get yourself cleaned up and dried off. Go on and get changed, then let’s have a sit-down. Just don’t take too long, ’cause we don’t have much time left.”
“Time for what?”
“For the truth,” Albertha said. “It’s time for you to know the real story of Amberleen.”
Chapter 36
Martha took a wooden saucer holding a short beeswax candle and a pasteboard box containing a poultice Lady Albertha had prepared and went into the small bathroom. She closed the door. No mirror; just a basin, vanity, and toilet.
She put her things down and pulled the drenched white dress up over her head. The clammy fabric clung to her skin. She wrung the dress out in the sink and dropped it onto the floor. She stood on the woven rug in her bare feet and took the towel and dried her shriveled skin and her hair, her armpits, the bottoms of her feet. Then she sat on the toilet and carefully crossed her leg and inspected her gunshot wound. It looked like a blood-rimmed crater, crusted, surrounded by a halo of yellow and then purple. She took the poultice, a folded square of hemp loaded up with a clear, gelatinous salve, and applied it to the wound. The salve felt cool against her fevered flesh. She tied it in place with a band of muslin.
The storm whirred and moaned outside, and the candle flame wavered. Martha stood and took a quilted robe from a hook on the back of the door and put it on and tied the sash. It felt heavy and enveloping. She sat on the toilet for a moment and crossed her arms, took hold of her shoulders and shut her eyes. The voices outside—murmuring, howling, angry. They knew her respite was temporary. We don’t have a lot of time—Lady Albertha had said that. What about Jarrell? Was there anyone left at all? She knew that if she lingered a moment longer she would begin to pity herself. She couldn’t afford that luxury. She stood, picked up the candle, and returned to the sitting area.
“Are we going to die tonight?” Martha stopped at the end of the settee and held on to it to steady herself.
Lady Albertha puffed on her pipe, cradled the lacquered bowl in her palm, and rocked. In the candlelight, she looked like an antique doll.
“I’m sorry, child, but the dyin’ ain’t over tonight. Not yet. What’s gonna happen has got to happen. But you must don’t be afraid. You bein’ looked after.”
“Looked after? By who? Why?”
“You bein’ looked after, so you can take care of the child. Take a seat over there on the long-chair, now, and listen to what I got to tell you.” Martha came around the settee and sat. Albertha put her pipe on a wooden cradle on the table, then leaned forward and lifted a square of burlap from the center of the table.
Underneath, small bones were scattered across a crude design burned into the tabletop—a circle divided into four quadrants. The bones appeared to be those of animals; there were six or seven of them, clean yet discolored, like the keys of an old piano. One was thin and sharp, another rounded and cleft, like a knucklebone, and another was a sharp tooth, maybe the incisor of a predator.
“Six day ago, come middlenight, I threw these here bones,” Albertha said. “I haven’t moved ’em a touch since then. This is the final message.” Albertha reached across the table. “Give me your hand, child.”
The old woman took Martha’s pale fingers and lowered them toward the tabletop until her fingertips rested against the osseous surfaces.
“Gently, now, gently,” Albertha said. “Don’t be afraid. Close your eyes, feel how they lay. Touch until you can see all of them in your head, a complete picture, and see if you can know what that picture is telling you.”
It didn’t take long; visions came easily to Martha. Behind her closed eyelids she saw the afterimage of the bones, changing, moving now, floating together in a dark miasma. Gradually, other shapes joined them, animal and human bones, tree roots and shells, crab claws, chains, wagons.
Martha felt herself about to fall, drawn into the vortex. Albertha’s voice broke in, tugging her back from the edge.
“What do you see, child?”
“A whirlpool, or a storm. A storm full of water, and things. A lot of dead things.”
Albertha released Martha’s hand and leaned back in the rocker. She lifted the pipe, parted her ample lips to receive it. “Mmmhmm,” she said at last, nodding and puffing. The bowl brightened. “I been pickin’ up such signs for weeks. I dream for six nights about muddy water, I hear the owl hootin’ up by the cemetery. The acorns fell early this year. And then I threw these bones at middlenight of the last full moon, and soon as I felt how they lay, I knew it was time. Them spirits has got to have their say.”
“What about the child? Is it going to be all right?”
“I’ll get around to that directly. There ain’t much time left, and I’ve got things to tell you, things about this place, things about Shell Heap, that need to be spoke. Sometimes a fever won’t end until you puncture the wound. You got to let the sickness out, let it drain.”
Albertha took several quick puffs on the pipe, pulled at the stem, then took it from her lips and held it, arms crossed.
“Now, listen. Forget about all that rain and darkness out there. Let your mind travel back, a hundred year ago, and picture a day in sunhot August month. A clear day, no cloud in the sky, no breeze to stir the grass. The sun up in the sky like a burnin’ coal. Can you see it, child?”
Martha closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. All she could picture were swirling bones, water, night.
Albertha leaned forward. “He
re, take this possum tooth in your hand and try again.”
Martha closed her fingers around the cuspid, shut her eyes. She began to think of heat, humidity, fields of cane.
“Can you feel the sun burning down?”
Martha nodded.
“And now, in that bright light, picture a man with skin as black as night. A man handsome as the devil hisself.”
Martha imagined dark, glistening skin. “He’s sweating?”
“That’s right. The sweat be rollin’ down his back and shoulders, like dew. He’s standin’ on a wood stump, feet bare, his pant cuffs is torn and ragged, his wrists is bound up in chain. Can you see it?”
“I think so.”
“That man right there was a slave name of Sattu Grundei. Like most of us, he was brung over here from Sierra Leone. But now he’s in a new land and got a new name. The white folks call him Sam.
“Now, picture another man standing nearby, a shorter man. He’s white and got a small mouth, thin lips and horn-rim glasses. To him, the man on the stump is a piece of property, a thing to be bought and sold, no different from a horse or piece of land.
“But even there, with the chains and the sweat and no shade from the sunhot, the man on the stump is the real boss. Because he’s so full up with the mojo that no man can lay a shadow on his spirit.
“Now, a slave like Sattu ought to be worth some money, but his owner, Mistah Clyde Tarrant, can’t get no decent price for the man. Sattu is dangerous, you see. Not just ’cause of his strength and smarts, but ’cause he’s a natural-born leader. He stirs the big passion in his fellow slaves, things every slave owner want to keep a rein on.” Albertha leaned back, her chair rocking slightly. “You markin’ all this down, now, in your head?”
“Yes,” Martha said. “Every word.”
The roof creaked and the shelves jostled, rattling the herb jars, as though some great beast had slumped against the side of the building.
“Now, Mistah Tarrant had a strong pocket in that day. He run one of the mos’ prosperous rice plantations around these parts. He run it from the great house, a fine place that onetime stood near the end of the big road. The house ain’t there no more, ’cept for some tabby ruins.”
The Girl in the Maze Page 26