A Twisted Ladder

by Rhodi Hawk

  The river turned, and the road along with it, and Madeleine’s gaze swept toward a swelling of land just beyond the bend. A flash of an old rooftop between thick branches covered with kudzu. The building was almost completely obscured by thick screens of bramble and oaks and magnolia and the climbing vines. But she did see that flash of roof on the high ground, and she was certain she’d found Terrefleurs.

  twenty-four

  HAHNVILLE, 1912

  THE WHISKEY HAD SPUN cobwebs through Rémi’s head, but he found himself unable to sleep. A pervasive sensation that the fiend Ulysses was in his room. That he’d settled into the fibers of Terrefleurs, tainting the very bousillage of clay and moss that insulated the cypress walls. Or even deeper. Deeper than that. Ulysses had invaded more than Terrefleurs; he’d somehow invaded Rémi. He’d continued to appear at random since that first moment by the well. Rémi sat up and looked around, but he was alone.

  When he rolled over on his belly, something crackled beneath him in the bed. He lit the lamp and pulled back the bedding. There, tucked within the Spanish moss stuffing of his mattress, lay a bundle of bone, feathers, and herbs tied with twine. A gris-gris.

  He grabbed the dubious magical charm, cursing as he pulled on his dungarees, slipping the straps of suspenders over his bare chest. Earlier that night he had discovered that his evening meal had been tainted with some foreign substance—it looked like a mashed root. Apparently one of the workers had slipped something in his food in order to calm his nerves.

  He opened the door to the gallery and threw out the gris-gris. The moon-drenched evening was filled with the scent of warm, wet moss. He uncorked his whiskey and sat on the porch, taking a deep pull directly from the bottle.

  Even in the darkness, he could see the river flowing beyond, glints of moonlight shimmering on her surface. The Mississippi provided transportation, sustenance, and the very life force that fed this land. And when she turned violent, the river took life away.

  A cigarette butt was lying under the railing. He retrieved it and struck a match against it, drawing in deeply. It tasted like a moth-eaten shawl.

  Somehow, the river made him think of Helen’s servant, Chloe. He thought about how she had saved that child from suffocation by slicing into his throat and breathing her own life into his lungs. He pondered how little he knew about this person whom he had taken into his home.

  Rémi suddenly felt the hairs rise on his arms, and he turned to see Ulysses sitting in the chair next to him.

  Rémi glared at him. “You leave here!”

  Ulysses continued to grin, then reached over and took the whiskey bottle, drank from it, and set it on the table. Rémi’s shoulders slumped. He wondered whether the gris-gris and the tainted food had anything to do with Ulysses’s presence. His mother was one to respect river magic, and even sought guidance from a voodoo priestess in New Orleans on occasion.

  The fiend spoke in French. “Your wife was no good, a remnant of your past. It is better that she is gone. You should kill her brother, too. He will take what you have and sleep in your bed.”

  Rémi said nothing, refusing to acknowledge Ulysses. Smoke blew from his lips in a long, slow trail. He lifted the bottle from the table and sipped, resigning himself to a night spent in the company of this river devil.

  IN THE STILLNESS THAT settled on the plantation just before midnight, Chloe emerged from a tiny cottage along the row of field workers’ housing. She checked her moon markings to make sure the time was right. Over her thin gingham dress, she wore a sling that knotted behind her long neck and formed a large pouch just below her breasts. The high, bright summer moon was suspended in the perfect position. She headed toward the dark chambers within the woods.

  She wove her way through the dense foliage until the tall, draping trees parted to reveal a damp meadow. The sound of frogs grew louder, and she knew that she was nearing the swamp. She paused and collected long stalks of thimbleweed, gently pulling the hairy stems from the ground, taking care to keep the shallow rhizomes and root system intact. She made a small bundle of the plants and tucked them into her sling.

  A snapping noise broke from the direction in which she had entered the woods. Chloe dropped to the ground. She crouched low amid the tall grass and reached into her sling, fingering the knife inside. No light in the nearby woods.

  She sat motionless for a long while, straining eyes and ears against the emptiness. The night brought forth only the usual sighs that came from the wind and creatures along the water. She withdrew her knife and turned it over in her hand, keeping an eye to the woods. When she was sure she was alone, she rose and strode in the direction of the swamp.

  She paused over a mound of Indian pinks, the flower lobes shaped oblong like pinking shears whose name they bore. Chloe checked over her shoulder once, then bent and grasped a stalk and handful of leaves, digging the knife into the ground to free the tangle of roots. She tucked three stalks into her sling and then continued south.

  Soon the shimmer of moonlight on water shone through the openings of dense woodland. Chloe wound her way through logs and thick, sharp roots until she was standing in the shallows. Her knife slashed through long tendrils of climbing hemp weed that spiraled up the trunk of a cypress. She tucked this, her final quarry, into her sling.

  Moving out until she was waist-deep in the bayou, she stirred the water and poured it over her face and body. Eyes closed, lips moving, although she did not give full voice to the chant. She opened her eyes, then lowered her body deeper into the water. She washed her hair.

  She sensed an atmosphere of danger in the bayou. Dipping her hands, she poured black shimmering droplets over her head, trying to release herself from anxiety, but dread formed in her chest. She stood and turned toward the bank, aborting the ritual.

  She was not alone.

  Chloe felt a hand clamp over her mouth. She tried to scream, but the sound came muffled. An arm curled around and gripped her elbows. She groped for her knife as someone pushed her body downward into the water. A strong grip pinned her arms, but she found the tip of the blade inside her sling. She managed only to slice her fingertips.

  She was suddenly beneath the surface, and the knife slipped away. Liquid closed in on her face and pried into her mouth. Her lungs squeezed and her stomach lurched. She thrashed from the iron grip and spun around, drawing in a single desperate gulp of air before being forced under again.

  She tried to focus. Tried to force her thoughts to converge and loosen the hands that gripped her. But her mind was too wild. Fluttering now, edging into a seductive, peaceful darkness. She knew she was on the verge of death.

  She strove for one last attempt to save her life. She managed to free her hands, raising them above, and found a face. She dug her fingernails into the flesh of eye sockets.

  RÉMI JERKED HIS HEAD back as he felt the skin tear under his eyes. He knocked her arms away from his face, gripping her two wrists with one hand, while his free hand clamped over her neck and held her down. He heard the sound of laughter and looked up to see Ulysses on the opposite bank. The fiend was sitting with elbows on knees, his lips pulled back.

  The strength waned from the arms that fought him. Rémi looked into the water and tried to see her face, but saw only blackness and fragments of moonlight. Disembodied flowers and stems danced atop the surface. He tried to blink his vision clear as droplets of sweat and blood and water stung the gashes around his eyes.

  He looked up again at Ulysses, who was watching, open-mouthed, with a look of hunger. Rémi released his grip on Chloe’s arms and then raised her head above the surface. She lolled drunkenly, water bubbling from her mouth.

  Ulysses sprang to his feet on the opposite bank and thundered at Rémi. “Finissez-la!”

  Chloe’s body convulsed, and froth spewed from her lips.

  Rémi wound his arms around her waist and dragged her to the bank, then draped her belly-down over a log that jutted above the water. She continued to retch as he seated himself next to
her, his feet dangling in the bayou, hands pulling nervously at his hair. From the opposite bank, Ulysses was glowering at him, pacing like an animal.

  Finally she stopped gagging, and her shuddering breaths slowed in rhythm. She raised her head over the log and turned wide eyes toward Rémi.

  “Your demon has turned on you,” Rémi said, waving at the opposite bank. “Now he wants you dead.”

  Chloe looked over her shoulder in the direction where Rémi gestured, but Ulysses was gone.

  Rémi gave a futile laugh and shook his head. “You killed my wife with that fiend, and then you killed a helpless child. I want to know why.”

  Chloe could only shake her head, unable to speak.

  “Don’t lie!” He slammed a fist on the log, and Chloe recoiled weakly. “You’ve been conjuring that devil!”

  Chloe made gurgling sounds, and once again shook her head. “Non, monsieur, non,” she managed, just above a whisper. “The ritual is for to help . . .”

  Her words trailed off, and Rémi glared at the water.

  “It began just after you came.” He reached into the water and pulled out a stem of Indian pink that had been in Chloe’s pouch. “What is this?”

  “It kills the worms,” she said. “The children have swollen bellies.”

  He frowned at her, then pulled another stem from the water. “This?”

  “Thimbleweed.” She looked full into his face. “It treats . . .” She took a breath. “Bewitchment.”

  He ran his fingers along the limp stems and repeated the word, “Bewitchment.” He let the plants slip through his fingers and into the bayou, where they bobbed among the litter of the other contents of Chloe’s sling.

  They sat quietly for a time, Chloe struggling to catch her breath. Finally, Rémi offered his hand, and helped her off the log and onto solid ground. Together they walked back through the woods until they came to the main house. Rémi brought her up the steps to the gallery and into the men’s parlor, where he lit a lamp and a cigarette. He sat opposite her, and regarded her soft features in the amber glow.

  “You tell me now,” he said. “Where do you come from?”

  Chloe watched him for a long moment. She let her gaze travel the dimly lit room, her nostrils flaring. She seemed to arrive at a decision, and began to speak in broken English and Creole.

  CHLOE TOLD RÉMI SHE had been raised by her grandmother, who schooled her in native Houma medicine and the ways of the river. Chloe knew nothing of her parents, only that she was half black, half Houma Indian. Her grandmother died when Chloe was twelve years old, leaving her orphaned and homeless. Not knowing what else to do, Chloe sought work at nearby Elderberry Plantation.

  But at Elderberry, the workers shunned her as an outcast, and the plantation overseer often beat her. She managed as best she could, using her medicinal abilities to gain acceptance, and she learned the art of voodoo practiced by so many plantation dwellers. As she grew older, however, the overseer began to fixate on her, and she feared for her life. She decided to leave Elderberry.

  The overseer pursued her, and she traveled with stealth in order to avoid being caught. For although the government had long since abolished slavery, the lawmen did not frequently act on behalf of the black workers. She wandered north, seeking work at plantations along the river. Her reputation as a practitioner of medicine and river magic preceded her, and the black populations treated her with reverence and fear. They provided her with food in exchange for spells and treatments, but they did not allow her to live among them. She became widely known as both a voodoo priestess and Houma medicine woman, a combination that earned her a great deal of respect, but no home.

  Finally, she came to work for Helen. Because most of the Glory Plantation workers had come from Kentucky, they were unfamiliar with the legends that surrounded Chloe. Her appearance indicated nothing more than that she was of African descent, and so she was finally able to blend in. By the time she came to Terrefleurs, her position was already secure.

  Rémi listened to the words with both fascination and skepticism. He questioned her on details, probing for any motive she might have to bring ill will to him and Terrefleurs. However, the story sounded truthful. It proved obvious that Chloe genuinely grieved for losing Helen.

  Satisfied that Chloe had not used black magic against him, Rémi began to tell her what he knew of Ulysses. He explained how he had glimpsed Ulysses just before Helen’s death.

  Chloe fingered the damp sling that still lay limp around her neck and then removed it, casting it to the floor. “Why did you try to drown me in that swamp? Was it because Ulysses told you to?”

  “No,” Rémi answered. “Well, maybe. He speaks to me, but he has a stronger way of communicating than that. Just by being there, I know what he wants of me. And sometimes I cannot tell the difference between a thing that he wants and a thing that I want. When I found you collecting your plants for charms I thought you had conjured Ulysses to torment me and kill my wife. But after I had you in the water I saw him there, goading me on.”

  Rémi paused, remembering Ulysses’s grimace in the swamp. “Why do you think he wanted me to kill you?”

  The lamplight flickered on Chloe’s coffee-colored skin, and she sat silently for a long while. Then she said, “Maybe he thinks I can drive him away.”

  “Can you?”

  “No way to know. He seems very powerful.”

  Rémi nodded. “Powerful enough to kill.”

  Chloe shook her head. “No, he cannot do that. Missus Helen and Laramie did that to themselves. Think of what you saw. What did he do to them? Only whisper. He makes suggestions, and they believe it comes from within their own thoughts.”

  “I saw him sully the well.”

  “That was only his wishful play. His way of whispering to the sickness in the water. This world to him is no more than a picture. He can’t really touch it, only whisper. It is different now for you because you can see him.”

  “I don’t want to see him.”

  “But he would still be there. He has always been there. You can try to drive him away, or I can bottle him. We could use his power to your advantage.”

  “I just want him to go away! Can you drive him away?”

  Chloe said nothing. Rémi felt exhausted and desperate.

  “Please help,” he said, and his voice caught on the words.

  She reached out and stroked his shoulder. He was touched by the kindness, and tears spilled from his eyes. She rose to her feet and laid both arms around him, letting him weep into her wet dress as she stroked his hair.

  They stayed that way for some time, clinging to each other in the lamplight of the men’s parlor. And then, as dawn began to glow purple over the Mississippi, Chloe loosened her wet dress and let it fall to the floor. She unwound her under wrappings, revealing breasts that were full and firm, capped with soft circles the color of coffee. She reached for Rémi.

  He grabbed her wrists and pushed her back. Chloe was barely more than a child, a servant. A stark betrayal to Helen. And yet . . .

  He stared at her, riveted, unable to think clearly. The air in the parlor felt heady and chilled.

  She took his hand and pulled him to the bed, and he allowed it. They peeled off the rest of their clothing. She smelled like cut tupelo gum, and the fresh bayou water was still shining in her hair. He put his face to it, taking the droplets on his lips. He lowered his hand between her legs. Already she was slick and open. He pressed his nose to her neck and drank in the scent, letting his fingers explore the feel of her.

  She pushed him aside and then rolled onto him, taking him in her hands, pressing her velvet center just at the tip. He pushed forward but she did not let him enter; she held onto him with both hands curled along his length, and she moved him against her opening in repeated up and down circles as she rocked her hips. He didn’t understand what she was doing. He gripped her buttocks but she straightened her back and held. Helen used to lie beneath him like a nesting dove, soft and warm, a gent
le smile. Chloe was moving against him with a sense of demand. He felt he might shatter if he didn’t enter her soon. Sweat pearled at her collarbone and ran down her breasts as she moved. It made him want to taste it, taste her, devour her. She gasped twice and stopped, mouth open, sustaining her pressure against him, eyes on his. He didn’t dare move.

  She leaned forward, and spread her legs wide. She pushed him inside. He shuddered at the streak of sensation that shot through his body. Chloe reached back to support herself with his thighs. She felt damp and scalding against him. She started moving again, arching her body in time with his breathing. They advanced in quicker gasps as their momentum intensified. He rocked with her, sweat curling from his neck to his back. Inside, he felt suspended, silent.

  The sky flowed from violet to indigo to gray, and then finally, to a gold-touched white. And as the first direct rays of sun touched leaves of cane, Rémi finally found sleep, lying intertwined with the woman who, only hours before, he had sought to murder.

  twenty-five

  NEW ORLEANS, 2009

  MADELEINE’S GAZE SWEPT OVER a chain-link fence with hoop barbed wire that ran along the perimeter of Terrefleurs. She slowed the truck and leaned down to get a good look. A thick tangle of bramble obscured any view beyond a depth of five feet.

  “I don’t see anything.” She chewed her lip, brow furrowed.

  Daddy Blank shrugged. “Not much to see.”

  Drainage ditches running along either side of the road prevented her from pulling over. Instead, she drove on and parked at a mechanic shop about a half mile beyond the site. A deadbolt secured the aluminum roll-up doors; no one around. She got out of the truck.