Blood Roots

by Richie Tankersley Cusick

  “So where’s your pocketbook?”

  “I told you, he took it.” Olivia shrugged. “My suitcase, too.”

  “So …” the woman said slowly, “you ain’t got nothin’ with you?”

  “No. Nothing. I came up here to the house to get help. I knocked and knocked, but nobody came.” Olivia stopped and took a deep breath. “When I pushed on the door, it just opened. I thought maybe someone might be inside. I didn’t mean to walk into your house like that—really—I just thought someone here could help me.”

  The black woman was watching her intently, but Olivia didn’t care anymore. She finished the last of her water and handed back the glass. The woman stared at her for a long, long time.

  “Whoever told you was wrong,” she said at last. “There ain’t no work here.”

  And it shocked Olivia to hear the woman say so, for her plan had been going so well. She felt her breath catch in her throat, and something roared deep, deep in her mind, as her whole world started to crumble down around her shoulders. Tell her, tell her who you are, tell her now—the roar got louder and louder, but no, Olivia argued silently, no, I can’t, it’s not the right time. Something was holding her back, making her put her hands to her head, making her smother that awful roar in her brain, certain that the woman must be able to hear it—

  “You can’t stay here.” The woman’s voice was flat. “You gots to go back.”

  But you don’t understand … I have to stay here … I belong.

  “If I could just rest, then.” Olivia turned away, massaging her head, the roar practically gone now. “If I could just rest here for a little while, just until I feel better.”

  “You’s runnin’ away.” The woman gave her a grim smile. “Ain’t you.”

  “No. I don’t have any family.” Olivia stared at the fireplace, at the portrait above it, at the vase on the mantel, heavy, dull crystal.

  “How long since you ate?” Olivia felt the woman’s powerful hand close around her wrist and squeeze it roughly. “Don’t lie to me now.”

  Pulling her arm free, Olivia eased herself down into a chair … lowered her head between her hands.

  “Sometime … yesterday, I think.”

  “And nothin’ since?”

  “No. Some coffee. That’s all.” At least this was the truth. As Olivia sighed and sagged back against the cushion, the woman gave a grunt and turned away.

  “Might as well forget about ever seein’ your things again. That stuff’s long gone and spent by now, I reckon. Ain’t got no phone to call—even if we did, no cab gonna come out here this time of night anyhow. Can’t expect you to walk back. Can’t send you away sick.” She was grumbling, more to herself now than to Olivia, and she shot another look in the girl’s direction. “You wait here. I’ll be right back.”

  Olivia nodded, and then on a sudden impulse pointed to the painting. “Who is that?” she asked. “His face is so … real.”

  She saw the woman’s eyes flash to the portrait, then dart away again. The sturdy black hand tightened on the edge of the door.

  “Wait here. Don’t go out the room.”

  She wasn’t gone long this time. Olivia had scarcely settled into her chair when the woman was back again, motioning her to stand up.

  “What’s your name, girl?”

  “She hated her so much she put a curse on her …”

  “Olivia.”

  “Olivia what?”

  “Hated her so much … she couldn’t ever come back …”

  Her mind raced. “Crawford,” she decided. It wasn’t really a lie, she told herself. Mama would never say the name of her real father, and she’d taken on so many other last names in her lifetime, she couldn’t take a chance that somehow, somewhere, her grandmother might have heard one of them and be able to recognize it now. “What’s your name?” she added, hoping to stop the questions.

  “Yoly,” the woman answered. “Miss Rose says for you to stay the night. Have some food.” She glanced again at the portrait, and her voice lowered. “She’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  Olivia’s heart gave a leap, but she managed to keep her face only mildly curious. “Miss Rose?”

  “The lady I works for. Miss Devereaux. The lady of this here house.”

  Olivia nodded. “That’s very nice of her. I’d like to thank—”

  “Come with me.”

  Yoly swung open the door and stood aside to let Olivia pass. The hall was still dim with lamplight, but Yoly moved swiftly through the shadows, leading the way to the very rear of the house.

  “You can sleep upstairs. Second floor. There ain’t no air-conditionin’, so you just has to stand the heat. I’ll bring up some food.”

  There were no stairs at the end of the corridor. Instead Yoly led the way outside onto the open veranda and made a sharp turn to the right. Wisps of fog curled between the tall supporting columns along the back of the house, slid across the bricks like soft gray worms. Olivia spotted a narrow staircase tucked back against the outside wall beneath the eaves, and Yoly looked back at her as they started to climb.

  “Watch these steps. Some’s fallin’ apart. Some’s missin’.”

  Olivia nodded, holding onto the rickety banister as she followed Yoly up. It was nearly pitch-dark by now, but Yoly moved ahead without a light, leaving Olivia to keep up as best she could. The fog was even worse up here, and as they came out onto the second-story gallery, Olivia caught only glimpses of long, darkened windows, some with broken fanlights and transoms, some half covered by sagging shutters. It was an eerie feeling—as if they were walking into nothingness—and Olivia wrapped her arms around herself to keep from shivering. She could hear warped floorboards groaning underfoot, and as she peered off curiously to where she thought the balustrade must be, she sensed damp, open spaces and a sheer drop to the ground below.

  “Here.”

  She nearly collided with Yoly as the woman stopped and began to fiddle with a latch on one set of tall French doors. As Olivia stood waiting uncertainly, the doors opened, and Yoly disappeared inside. Almost immediately a dim light came on, and after a brief hesitation, Olivia went in.

  Her first impression was that she’d entered some sort of cave. The doorway was recessed deeply within the thick brick walls, and as she stepped out into the room, the ceiling loomed high above her, far out of reach of the light. The room itself was enormous, made even more so by the one candle flickering on a mantel before a huge mirror. Dust lay everywhere, and as she let her eyes wander over the torn wallpaper, she heard Yoly gathering up pillows and blankets, taking them outside to shake them. Olivia gazed around at the massive furniture, the stern, shadowy portraits, the full, loose swaths of mosquito netting that cascaded down on all sides of the four-poster bed. Like a casket, she thought, an open casket for viewing a body … Mama should have had a pretty one like this … She pushed the unwelcome image from her mind and turned around and stared at the windows,

  Bars.

  Bars on every one of them … as tall as the windows were tall … from the wooden floor to the high, high ceiling. The room obviously lay at one corner of the house, for there were two adjacent walls with outside accesses onto the encircling gallery—and two French doors on each of them, all covered over with thick strips of black iron.

  Olivia walked over to one of the windows. She ran her hands slowly along the bars, then lowered her head against them, closing her eyes. But he tried to hurt me, Mama, I had to do it … don’t do that to me again, Mama—not again—I’ll be good—I’ll stay right here and be just as good as—

  “There ain’t no electricity up here either,” Yoly said behind her. “There’s candles in them drawers over there. Matches, too.”

  “Those other doors.” Olivia opened her eyes and pointed to the two interior walls. “Where do they go?”

  “That one—out to the hall, but it’s locked. And that one—to the room next door, but it’s locked, too. All the doors is locked. ’Cept the one we come in—you can lea
ve that one open if you wants to. Might get a breeze in here.”

  “Why do the outside doors have bars on them?”

  Yoly turned away, shaking her head. “It ain’t nothin’ to worry about. They’s locked, I said. Nobody comes in those doors.”

  “I’m not worried about someone coming in—I just wondered—”

  “I’ll bring you somethin’ to eat.” Yoly moved toward the threshold. “There’s a bathroom downstairs, where we come out the back. But be careful wanderin’ around in the dark.” She moved outside, but Olivia called after her.

  “Can I thank her?” For suddenly she was thinking about her again, trying to conjure up the sound of that tired, old voice … Miss Rose … Grandmother … “The lady,” Olivia clarified, seeing Yoly’s puzzled look. “Can I thank her for letting me stay?”

  “Miss Rose.” Yoly’s voice was flat, and she turned her back. “I told you. She’ll see you tomorrow. Not till then.”

  Olivia watched as Yoly faded from the doorway and into the darkness beyond. She took a deep, shaky breath and curled her fingers around the bars of the window. She pressed her whole body into them and moved slowly, rhythmically, letting the hard strips of iron grind deep into her soft flesh. They felt cool and solid and safe … they felt hard and angry and punishing … I’ve felt this before … put my head right here, my hands right here in these same spots … I’m free of this now but it’s happening again, trapped here … exposed here …

  There were no curtains on any of the windows. As Olivia lifted her eyes to the black, black night, she could see flickering shadows reflected in the grimy glass, could see her face white and anxious and bewildered. I’ll have to undress here without curtains … sleep in this room without curtains … but there’s nobody here … we’re miles and miles away from the whole wide world.

  “Here’s your supper.”

  She jumped as Yoly came up behind her. How much time had passed—minutes? An hour? She had no idea how long she’d been standing there daydreaming, crushing herself into the bars, and now the warm, heavy aroma of food was luring her back into the room. She watched as Yoly deposited a tray on a table. The black woman stood so close to the candle she could have touched it easily, and yet Olivia couldn’t see any reflection of candlelight in Yoly’s eyes. Fascinated, Olivia stared at her, then realized with a start that Yoly had been staring back the whole time.

  “It’s stew.” Yoly straightened up, her big hands still outstretched toward the tray.

  It smelled strange—strong and almost gamy, but whether from some sort of meat or an overabundance of spices, Olivia couldn’t tell.

  “I hope you didn’t go to any trouble.” She tried to sound polite.

  “Leave the tray. I’ll get it tomorrow.”

  “Yes. And thank you for—”

  “Good night.”

  Up until that very moment Olivia thought she’d be relieved to have Yoly gone, to have the room all to herself and her thoughts. But now, as the silence caved in like an endless black sea, she had to restrain herself to keep from calling Yoly back.

  But I’m here.

  This is what I wanted.

  Her head fairly swam with the miracle of it all. As she took another look around the bedroom, she left the tray where it was and carried the candle outside.

  She’d never seen a night so dark.

  If there were clouds or stars or a moon, they didn’t seem to exist in this little corner of forgotten time. Holding her candle high, Olivia peered up through the fog at the overhang, which was also the floor of the third-level balcony above. Spiderwebs hung from sagging boards; in several places the flooring had decayed all the way through. She walked cautiously toward the balustrade, then stopped, afraid to get too close. Leaning over a little, she could make out the splintered wood of the railing and the rotting posts beneath. The gallery was surprisingly wide—at least twenty feet, she guessed—yet she pressed back against the wall once more as she moved on. Close to her room a huge magnolia tree hugged the side of the house, pressing thick, gnarled limbs against the bricks, as if squeezing the very life from its walls. Long streamers of moss dripped from the eaves above; vines and leaves spilled over the railing and trailed across the floor. The air was so incredibly muggy it sucked the breath from her throat.

  Deciding to continue her exploring by daylight, Olivia turned back toward her room. She was exhausted, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to finish her dinner and fall into bed. Remembering Yoly’s directions and warning about the steps, she managed to find the bathroom without any trouble. The house seemed silent and strangely empty, as if nobody at all lived there, and she hurried back along the veranda, eager to get upstairs.

  It was eerie the way sounds carried through the night.

  When she heard the noises, she couldn’t tell at first if they were below her on the walkway or ahead of her on one of the galleries above.

  All she could really be sure of was that something—somewhere—was crying.

  Soft, frightened little sobs …

  Like a trapped animal.

  Pausing, Olivia lifted her head, her ears straining through the darkness.

  For just a moment, she thought she’d heard laughter … and then a scream for help.

  But the scream cut off—abruptly—

  As if it wasn’t meant for anyone to hear.

  4

  FOR A LONG WHILE she stood there, heart pounding, listening for the cries to come again.

  And then a new sound took their place.

  At first she thought it must be Yoly, coming back to check on her, but as Olivia pressed tightly against the wall, she knew the quick, light footsteps weren’t Yoly’s. She blew out her candle and tried to melt into the deep, swirling shadows around her. The feet passed very close to her, running. She could hear sharp little gasps of breath and a pitiful whimper. And then the footsteps were fading again, disappearing into the endless darkness behind the house.

  Frightened, Olivia started again toward the stairs, then froze.

  Someone else was nearby.

  Someone approaching so swiftly, so stealthily that she could sense them now, practically upon her, yet she hadn’t even heard them coming.

  For the second time Olivia flattened herself against the wall and held her breath.

  She could hear them now … within several feet of her hiding place. She could hear them slowing … stopping. One part of her mind told her to step forward, to reveal herself, but some other, deeper instinct warned her to keep silent.

  The night seemed to thicken around her, the very air throbbing with each frantic beat of her heart.

  And then she heard them again … the footsteps … slow and deliberate … moving away from her.

  Seeing her chance, Olivia moved as quickly and quietly as she could, up the steps and along the gallery toward her room.

  She heard the floorboards creaking, like screams in the night.

  She heard the footsteps coming after her.

  In her fear, she got disoriented somehow—as she tried to open her door the latch jiggled uselessly in her hand, and she realized she’d gone too far along the gallery, missing her own room completely. Spinning around, she started back again through the fog when she realized the footsteps were right behind her now, moving unhurriedly along the wall. She threw herself into one of the brick alcoves and flattened herself against the door.

  The footsteps went past her …

  And stopped.

  As Olivia drew in her breath, the mist actually seemed to part for an instant, just long enough to reveal a tall, vague form within its swirling depths. Mesmerized, she saw the head slowly lift … pause … as if sniffing the very air for her whereabouts … as if gathering silent, secret signals from the night. In the black, black dark it was impossible to make out a face—yet she could almost feel the slow, careful tensing of the body, the way the eyes swept over her hiding place, seeing through shadows. Without warning, the mist closed in again, and she began to quiver,
fire and ice rushing through her veins. And then she knew she had met this presence before—just that evening—beneath the oak trees leading to the house.

  Olivia closed her eyes and prayed that when she opened them again, she’d be alone.

  An eternity seemed to pass.

  Finally … slowly … she worked up the courage to look.

  The gallery was deserted.

  Leaning forward out of the niche, she listened. And waited.

  There was no sound. No movement of any kind.

  It was as if whatever had been there had simply been swallowed by the night.

  Thoroughly shaken, Olivia inched her way back along the balcony. She found her door but hung back at first, afraid to go through. The room throbbed with emptiness, shadows pulsing up and down the high, high walls. In slow awareness, she saw the candles on the mantel—dozens of them now—a flickering altar lit with blue and yellow tongues of tiny flame.

  “Yoly?” she whispered. “Are you in here?”

  As Olivia came farther into the room, the shadows seemed to slide away from her, hovering expectantly in the corners. She paused in front of the mantel and frowned at the line of candles. The fireplace with the large mirror above it stood just to one side of the bed, and she could see practically the whole room behind her reflected there in the glass. Someone had turned down the blankets and sheets and left a nightgown spread out across the pillows.

  It was a pretty nightgown … long and white and clean.

  No, Mama, don’t make me … don’t make me take it off …

  Olivia looked down at the stub of unlit candle in her hand. Slowly she held it out to one of the flames, staring as the wick sputtered and began to burn. She tilted it, letting the hot wax trickle down onto the mantel, and then she held it in the small, soft puddle of itself until it hardened again and stayed upright.

  From the spotted depths of the mirror she saw her own reflection, dark eyes too large for her thin face, light brown hair hanging down past her shoulders, arched brows and high cheekbones and a mouth that had never done much smiling. She gazed at herself in the glass and saw the shadows stirring at her back, closing in on her again … gathering into vague, formless shapes.