Devil Storm

by Theresa Nelson

  Other mornings he could scarcely lift his head from the pillow. A great weight of sadness would fall on him from out of the clear, blue sky and hold him prisoner for hours. Then, as suddenly as it had come, it was gone, leaving him to laugh and shout and run again.…

  Walter felt Alice’s eyes on him and looked up. She smiled a maddening, mysterious smile that reminded him she hadn’t told him her secret yet. For crying out loud! He’d figured that bit about the campfire was it, and it probably was. Now she’d gone and puzzled out something else to aggravate him with. Well, if she thought he was going to pleasure her by begging to know what this deep, dark secret was, she had another think coming!

  Chapter 2

  Daylight lingered well past eight of a summer evening, but Walter was too tired to linger with it. As soon as supper was over, he kissed his mother good night and dragged his weary bones out to the sleeping porch, which served as bedroom for all three children in hot weather. There he tumbled into bed without casting so much as a crumb of curiosity in Alice’s direction.

  He could have sworn he hadn’t been asleep two minutes when the whispering started.

  “Walter, you awake?”

  He made no answer.

  “Aw, come on, Walter, I know you hear me. You got to wake up right now.” She was shaking his shoulders, tickling him.

  Walter sighed, turned over, and opened his eyes. There was no use in letting her carry on until she woke up the baby; there’d be no end of trouble then. “What’s the matter with you, Sister? It’s the middle of the night!”

  “I know. It’s perfect. Look at the moon.”

  Walter looked. There it was, shining in the window, so close, it seemed, he could have hit it with a rock. “Looks like an old bald-headed man,” he muttered. “Now leave me alone. Hell’s bells.”

  “Better not let Mama hear you cussin’,” Alice said placidly. “Come on, Walter, we got to go down to the beach.”

  “Good Lord, Alice, you out of your mind? I’m not goin’ anywhere but back to sleep.”

  “Well, all right, but you won’t ever know what I know if you don’t come.”

  “That’s just fine with me.” Walter rolled back over on his stomach and buried his head under his pillow. For a moment he could still feel Alice standing beside his bed, breathing on his back; he fully expected the pummeling to commence at any second. But it didn’t. When he poked his head out a minute later, Alice was gone. He looked over at her bed. It was empty.

  “Lordy,” Walter said under his breath. He was wide awake now. He knew he might as well follow her and find out what she had on her mind, or he’d never hear the end of it.

  Soundlessly he pulled on his britches and crept through the house and out into the night. Up ahead he could see Alice’s cotton nightgown fluttering like a white moth in the freshening wind. A small, dark form trotted along at her heels. That’ll be Crockett, Walter told himself. He followed the two of them down the sandy path that cut through the marsh, thick with the sharp smell of salt grass and wildflowers.

  They stopped on top of a little sand hill, looked back and saw him following, and waited there for him.

  “I knew you’d come,” Alice said as he climbed up. Crockett’s tail wagged in greeting.

  “Well, all right, I’m here,” Walter panted. “Now, what’s so dad-blamed important?”

  “Just look. ’Dy’ever see anything so pretty?” Alice pointed to the moon, shining down on the Gulf like God’s own glory. And in the water below another million trillion moons were shining, shimmering over and over in a radiant path that stretched from the horizon all the way back to the beach, where it broke apart and glittered like glass beads on the wet sand.

  Walter shivered. Not that he was cold; it was just that the sight of that bright water gave him gooseflesh somehow, right between his shoulder blades. “Lordy,” he breathed. He was suddenly glad he had come.

  Alice looked at him and smiled. Two more tiny moons shone in her eyes. “Let’s go down to the water,” she said, and then she bunched up her nightgown around her skinny thighs and ran down the hill, over the railroad tracks, and across the beach, until she was standing knee-deep in liquid moonlight. Crockett bounded after her.

  “It’s a moonwater trail!” she called to Walter over the noise of the surf. “Magic! I read about it in Mama’s fairy book ’safternoon.”

  “You’re out of your mind!” Walter called back, but he followed his sister. His brains felt addled with moonlight. The wind was fresh in his face. He had pushed his britches up over his knees, and the sea was cool on his bare legs.

  “No, really,” Alice went on, “it’s the truth! Nothin’s more magical than moonwater. The moon sees everything there is to see, knows everything there is to know; then it pours all its magic into the water. I’m tellin’ you, I read the whole thing in that book. All we got to do is drink a little, and we can read minds!”

  “Drink it? Drink this old salt water? Why, we’d be sick as dogs!” Walter laughed suddenly and whirled around, sending a shower of glittering drops flying from his fingertips.

  “We won’t, either,” Alice insisted. “We don’t have to drink all that much—just enough to give us the power.”

  “Aw, Sister, that book never meant moonwater out of the Gulf of Mexico! Lordy, I read all them stories when I was little. You got to have enchanted lakes or fairy pools or some such.… Anyhow, you don’t really believe in all that foolishness—”

  “Maybe I do and maybe I don’t. Cain’t hurt to try.”

  Walter stopped whirling and looked sternly at his sister. “This your big secret? This why you woke me up and dragged me out here in the middle of the night?”

  Alice nodded slowly. “Well, you never can tell.…”

  For a moment Walter thought about getting good and mad, but just then a fair-sized wave came tumbling in and knocked the two of them off their feet. They came up spluttering, giggling as they watched Crockett paddle back to shore and shake himself violently, then trot off into the darkness.

  “Got more sense than we do,” Walter choked. “I b’lieve I just swallowed some moonwater.”

  “Me too,” Alice laughed, and then, since they were both wet to the skin anyway, they splashed around and splattered each other, shouting out loud.

  “Uh-oh,” Walter groaned, standing up and shaking the water off just as Crockett had done. “What’s Mama gonna say ’bout your nightgown?” He didn’t worry so much about his britches, which he knew would be sun-baked on his body before the morning was half gone.

  “Aw, it’s all right. I can hide it under my bed and put on my old one. I have to help with the washing tomorrow anyhow.”

  But the thought of their mother worried Walter. He dragged his sister to her feet. “Come on, Alice. We got to go on back. You know we’d catch it if they was to wake up and look for us.”

  “Awww …”

  She knew it was no use arguing. Walter could be just as stubborn as old Dowling if he’d a mind to. The two of them walked ashore, splashing silver with every step.

  “Hey, Walter—”

  “What?”

  “I’m readin’ your mind.”

  “You’re not, either—what’m I thinkin’?”

  “I’ll never tell,” Alice giggled, and she was off in a soggy streak.

  “Hell’s bells!” Walter shouted, chasing after her. And then he almost had her—but not quite. She was fast for such a little squirt of a girl. He caught the dripping tail of her nightgown, but she got away. Then he grabbed her again by one of her slippery arms, and they were laughing and struggling.

  All of a sudden Walter stopped laughing. He tightened his hold on Alice’s arm.

  “Owl That hurts, Walter. You’re hurtin’ me!”

  “Shh!”

  “What is it?”

  “I said hush!”

  Walter meant it. Alice hushed.

  “Look over there,” he whispered, jerking his head to the left.

  Alice looked. Down
the beach a little way, nestled close to the sand hills, a small red campfire was burning.

  Chapter 3

  The cow’s name was Jane Long. “In honor of the Mother of Texas,” Papa had announced the day he brought her home.

  Mama was skeptical. “I don’t know that the Mother of Texas would consider it such a great honor to have an old cow named after her.”

  “I don’t see why not,” Papa answered. “So long as it’s a good cow.”

  That had settled that, and in the course of time the Carrolls had found themselves possessed of a whole slew of Texas heroes: the mule, Dick Dowling, the dog, Davy Crockett, and the old rooster, Sam Houston.

  “Hey, Miz Long, come on, girl!” Walter leaned on the gate of the cow pasture, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. It was a fine morning. The wind off the ruffled water was fresh and cool, the sun bright but not too hot just yet. Little yellow butterflies darted in and out among the orange blossoms of the trumpet vine that climbed helter-skelter on the fence. The whole world was so solid and sweet-smelling and reassuring that Walter almost laughed when he thought how different everything had seemed last night in the moonlight. Why, he and Alice had turned tail and run like the dickens at the sight of that little old campfire down the beach.

  “Musta been the moonwater,” he told Jane Long as he milked her. “Had us crazed. Why, my heart was poundin’ so hard after I got back to bed—thought I never would drop off again.”

  “Walter! Hey, Walter!”

  It was Alice. A sack of chicken feed was slung over her shoulder; Sam Houston, the rooster, was strutting after her, gobbling up everything she flung to him. He was Alice’s particular pet, allowed out of the chicken coop on special occasions.

  “I’m right over here, Sister.”

  “Walter, you seen Crockett? I put his breakfast in the barn, but I cain’t find him anywhere.”

  “Aw, he’s prob’ly around somewhere, chasin’ nutrea rats or some such. Just leave it in there. He’ll get it later on. Ow! Hell’s bells, Alice, don’t drop that feed over here. Your stupid chicken just pecked my foot!”

  “He’s not either stupid. He pecked it on purpose ’cause you always call him names.”

  “Aw, for cryin’ out loud …”

  “You ’bout done, Walter?” Papa called from the gate. “We ought to be gettin’ along.” He already had Dowling hitched to the wagon, which was groaning under the pile of fine, fat melons. “I don’t know that the Barretts expect us this morning—wouldn’t want them shoving off ’fore we get there.”

  “Yes, sir—” Walter squirted one last stream of the warm milk into the already heavy pail, then aimed another at Sam Houston’s rear end. The rooster flapped his wings and squawked indignantly. Alice glowered. Walter laughed. “I’m comin’ right now!” he shouted.

  They breakfasted on Mama’s cornbread and mayhaw jelly as they walked along beside the wagon on the rough shell road; Papa allowed that Dowling had plenty to carry without the two of them adding their well-fed carcasses to his load.

  “Wouldn’t be surprised if we got some rain later on today,” Mr. Carroll said when they had walked for a while in companionable silence.

  Walter looked up at the sky. It was serenely blue, flecked with a few wispy clouds way up high. “How can you tell?” he asked.

  His father chuckled. “Old sailor’s saw—‘Red sky at night, sailors delight; red sky at morning, sailors take warning.’ Today we had the prettiest red sunrise I ever did see. I expect you were too sleepy to notice.”

  Walter blushed guiltily. He’d had a deuce of a time waking up so soon after he had finally managed to get back to sleep. He looked sideways at his father, but Papa’s face gave no clue to what he was thinking.

  More silence, broken only by the creaking of the wagon and the clumping of Dowling’s hooves.

  “I just might take a look at that middle-sized tub the Barretts aren’t using anymore,” Papa said after a little. “Old Man Barrett says he may be thinking of letting her go if he can get a fair price.”

  “Well, that’d be fine,” said Walter. Inwardly he sighed. Papa was always talking about buying a boat. The watermelon schooners charged a pretty penny for their services, and Walter knew his father longed for the day when he wouldn’t have to depend on the likes of the Barretts to haul his melons to market. But somehow there never seemed to be any extra money.

  “Couple more hauls as good as this one, we just might see our way clear …” His father’s voice trailed off.

  “Yes, sir,” said Walter.

  There was a sudden rustling and commotion in the tall marsh grass beside the road, and a long-legged crane took off skyward, frantically beating its wide, white wings. Dowling shied. Papa soothed him and stopped to watch the bird’s awkward flapping smooth into graceful flight.

  “Whoa, boy, no sense in you takin’ on like some kind of racehorse. Now isn’t that a pretty thing? Must’ve been hiding right there for the last five minutes with its heart all aquiver, waiting for us to pass, and then at just about the worst possible moment it couldn’t stand it any longer.” Papa scratched his chin. “You know, there’s those as say a crane’s an omen, but I’ll be dogged if I can remember if it’s supposed to be good or bad. You ever hear that, Walter?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Well, I believe it’s good. Remind me to ask your mother; she’s the one would know.”

  “Yes, sir.” Mama had a head for that sort of thing—omens and good luck charms and what a dream signified and so forth. She had learned it all as a child, from her old nurse. That day last summer when William died she had seen a little mourning dove sitting at his window, and she’d known right then what was going to happen.…

  The crane was just a white speck now, flying westward in the blue sky.

  “Giddup, Dowling,” his father said. “C’mon, y’ole mule!”

  There were several other melon farmers at the Rollover Landing when the Carrolls arrived with their load—Rupert Bland and Frank Buvens and Ernest Atkins with his grown boy, Earl. Loud hoots of laughter issued from the knot they formed around Lester Barrett, who was evidently entertaining them with one of his whoppers. Lester, in his mid-twenties, was the youngest and most popular of the four Barrett brothers. Everybody liked Lester. He was famous for his arm-wrestling, his sailing, his fishing, and his lies—bald-faced lies, most of them, but nobody really cared; things were always livelier when Lester was around.

  Walter thought he had hung the moon and then some. It was true that Lester never missed an opportunity to rag him about his sweetheart—or want of one; he had called Walter “Romeo” ever since the day in church when he’d spied him gazing admiringly at Fanny Kate Vaughan (who just happened to be the prettiest girl in two counties, maybe more). It was also true that Lester owned the biggest, ugliest, orneriest dog on the entire peninsula—Samson, he called him. Old Samson was so mean that Lester had to chain him to keep him from eating his own kin, they said. But Walter couldn’t help admiring Lester for his arrogant good looks and swaggering self-confidence, both of which he knew he sorely lacked. Besides, one day Lester had taken him around to the back of the boat shed and treated him to five puffs off his cigar. Walter felt flattered as all get-out, though he was giddy and green for hours afterward. “Hmmph,” Alice had sniffed, when Walter had bragged to her about it, “Lester Barrett’s nothin’ but a show-off.” Which just went to show, Walter concluded, that certain things were beyond female comprehension.

  “Hey, Richard! Come on over here!” Frank Buvens called, as Walter and his father approached the landing. “Y’all hear the news?”

  Mr. Carroll shook his head. “What news, Frank?” Walter’s ears perked up. News was a rare and valuable commodity on Bolivar Peninsula.

  “Looks like that crazy old colored tramp’s come back. Lester caught him hangin’ ’round the Peterson place t’other day—”

  Mr. Carroll squinted. “You don’t mean old Tom?”

  “That’s the one.” Frank Buvens
nodded.

  The hair at the back of Walter’s neck prickled. Old Tom. Tom the Tramp. The stories they whispered about him would make your blood run cold, your hair curl and turn gray—maybe even fall out if you were the nervous type.

  “You sure it was Tom?” his father asked. “I’da figured him to be long dead by now.”

  “It was Tom, all right—Lester saw him with his own eyes, didn’t you, Lester?”

  “Sure did,” Lester said, looking up and winking at Walter. “You better watch out, Romeo. He looked mighty hungry to me.”

  The men laughed, but Walter swallowed hard. He could still see that solitary campfire burning.… Snatches of old gossip floated up from the murky bottom of his memory—half-forgotten scraps of sweltering Sundays in the parlor with neighbors come to call and good clothes that itched and, what with the business of children being seen and not heard, nothing to do but sweat and listen.…

  Ought to be locked up, that’s what.…

  They say he has fits.…

  Claims his papa was old Lafitte himself.…

  Walter had seen him once, from a distance, walking down the beach just after sunset. His cheeks burned now to think how he had cried and hidden his face in Mama’s skirts, but then he had been only six or seven years old, and it was whispered that Tom could turn the Evil Eye on you if he chose. Any Bolivar child would just as soon meet the devil after dark as cross old Tom’s path even in broad daylight.

  Lester was warming to his tale. “… and then I says to him, ‘Why, Tom, seeing as how he was your daddy, seems like the least he coulda done was left you a map!’”

  “‘Well, suh, he did, Mistah Lestah, but I done lost it.’”

  More laughter at this.

  “‘Lost it!’ says I. ‘Why, Tom, that was a fool thing to do. What was on that map, anyhow?’”

  Lester cocked his head in a comical manner, and rolled his pale blue eyes.

  “‘I’s afeard I disremembah, Mistah Lestah—but if you wants to give old Tom another little taste outen that bottle, it just might come to me!’”

  Ernest Atkins about choked on his chewing tobacco, he laughed so hard at that.