Devil Storm

by Theresa Nelson

  Alice gave a stifled scream and stumbled over her feet, trying to back up.

  “What do you mean?” Walter cried. “This ain’t the graveyard; we never got that far!”

  “You wrong again, boy,” said Tom. There was no question that he was grinning now. “We standin’ slap in the middle of it.”

  The children turned and ran. They ran as if all hell gaped behind them, ran blindly, tripping and scrambling, mindless of the sticker-burrs that stabbed their feet, expecting every second to hear the rush of owls’ wings about their ears, to feel the clutch of icy claws at their necks. Crockett ran with them, bounding along joyfully, barking at cows and nutrea rats alike.

  The air was damp, clammy as a grave. It smelled of dead fish. Sweat clung to the children’s skin like old wet rags. Walter had Alice by the arm, dragging her along when she started to lag behind.

  “Come on, Sister, you can do it—not much fu’ther now. Look there—you can see the beach over yonder. We’re almost to the beach—”

  Alice yelped and fell. One foot had slipped on a shell and turned under. She sat on the ground, holding her ankle, sobbing as much from fright and exhaustion as from pain. Walter knelt beside her.

  “For cryin’ out loud! It’s not all that bad, is it? Aw, come on, Sister, cain’t you get up? Here, lean on me—that’s right.…”

  “Ow—it h-hurts.…”

  “Well, I know. Look, we can walk now—no need to run. Come on, Alice, we just got to get home!”

  “I’m comin’ fast as I c-can.”

  They limped along more slowly now, too worn out to speak. They had reached the beach. The tide was nearly all the way out. The moon had disappeared altogether behind the clouds that were blowing in off the water, but the sky was a little lighter, glowing dimly at the horizon. Every now and again it spat raindrops at them.

  Suddenly Walter stood stock still. “Lord help us,” he breathed.

  “What is it? What’s the matter?”

  Wordlessly, he pointed. The beach made a gentle curve here, so that now the Carroll house was clearly visible about a half mile away, just beyond the sand hills.

  From every window, yellow light streamed.

  Lillie Carroll’s heart was pounding in her ears. She couldn’t stop the pounding, though she had willed it to stop—ordered it to stop at once.…

  “What in the world were you thinking of, Walter?” Her husband’s voice was taut with anger. Their son stood in the middle of the kitchen floor, hanging his head, while Richard stormed around him, hollering. “You just answer me that—what in the world did you think you were doing? Don’t you know you both could have been killed? Didn’t you even think twice about putting your little sister in that kind of danger?”

  “Don’t let him yell at Walter, Mama,” Alice sobbed. “It was my fault, too.…”

  But Lillie couldn’t speak, couldn’t say a word. She could only stand there, dumb with horror, holding the distraught child in her arms.…

  “Scarin’ your mother to death. She’s worried herself sick—do you see that? And Alice’s foot swoll up so bad—I tell you, I’m so mad, I can’t see straight!”

  Alice had spilled out the whole story through her tears; it was that which had left Lillie mute and shaken, set her heart pounding. It was like some awful nightmare—that horrible old man, talking to her children, breathing the very air they breathed, filling their heads with no telling what sort of vile things. Why, he was crazy—everybody knew that. A murderer, too, most likely. Lillie’s head was reeling. She felt sick to her stomach.

  Her husband was still shouting. “I told you, didn’t I? I told you that old tramp was none of our business! Well, answer me, boy—didn’t I tell you?”

  “Yes, sir, you told me.”

  “Well then, why didn’t you listen?”

  “’Cause Lester was gonna set old Samson after him. I heard him say so … and you said yourself that Tom never did anybody any harm—”

  “Don’t tell me what I know!” Richard exploded. “If you were so anxious to do the right thing, then why didn’t you come talk to me about it? Why’d you have to go sneakin’ around in the dark? I thought you had more sense than that, Walter—I sure did.”

  “I’m sorry, Papa.”

  “Well, sorry’s not enough, you hear me? Sorry’s nowhere near enough. You got to learn better, son. Go get me my belt. Go on—”

  Lillie didn’t stay for the belting. She knew it was necessary, had sometimes even thought that Richard was too soft with the children. “Spare the rod and spoil the child”—everybody knew that. But she couldn’t bear to watch, all the same. Silently, she carried Alice away and tended to her foot, then bathed her scratches and mosquito bites and put her to bed on the porch beside little Emily, who had slept, for a wonder, through the whole episode.

  “He ought to belt me too,” Alice kept wailing. “It was my fault, too.…”

  “Hush, Sister.” It was all Lillie could do to form the words. “You just hush, do you hear me?”

  The pounding had gradually diminished, given way to a growing heaviness, a dull throbbing behind the eyes that always signaled the beginning of one of her bad headaches. They had plagued her, off and on, all during the past year.

  She passed Walter in the hallway. He went by her without a word, his eyes averted. He wasn’t crying, hadn’t shed a tear, from the stiff-necked look of him. As Lillie stood staring, she felt a strange kind of distance, as if she no longer knew her own child. God help me, she asked silently, have I lost another?

  Now her husband was beside her, putting his arms gently about her. “Come to bed, sweetheart. It’s been an awful night, but it’s over now. You ought to try and get some rest.…” His voice sounded hollow, drained. She knew he was sick at heart, now that his anger was spent. He loved his son deeply—any fool could see that. She ought to feel sorry for him, offer him some comfort. But she had none to offer. She felt nothing for him. She felt nothing but her own pain.

  Chapter 12

  Walter woke to the sound of Sam Houston’s crowing. “Dang rooster,” he mumbled, dragging himself out of bed. “Seems like he’d get sick of hearin’ himself …”

  Fog was rolling in off the water. A pale gold sunrise struggled through it, thin and watery as chicken broth. “Prob’ly be hot as blazes again once this burns off,” he told Jane Long, as he sat squirting the milk into the pail. “What you think ’bout that, Miz Long?”

  Jane Long didn’t seem to care one way or the other. She gazed off dreamily into space, chewing her cud.

  He felt so empty—as if there would never be anything else to get excited about, to care about. His life stretched before him, dreary as one of Dr. Croombs’s sermons. Funny, he hadn’t realized how taken up he’d been with old Tom and his crazy talk, how they’d come to fill his heart and head with a kind of magic, a mystery that was gone now.…

  “Mornin’, son.” It was Papa, walking out through the dewy grass, wanting to make up—to be friends again as if last night had never happened. That was his way.

  “Mornin’.” Walter didn’t raise his head. He could feel his cheeks heating up again with shame, the smart of the belt still tingling on his legs.

  “You feelin’ all right this morning?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Had a good long rest, didn’t you?”

  Walter looked up now, confused. Was his father teasing him? “Only ’bout an hour, wasn’t it?”

  Papa chuckled. “More like twenty-four, I’d say. It’s Tuesday, son. You missed Monday altogether—didn’t you know?”

  Walter was amazed. He suddenly felt more rested. “No, sir.… I’m sorry—you had to do my chores, then.”

  “No matter.” His father shrugged. “There wasn’t that much to do. Rained off and on all day, anyhow.” He looked as if there were something else he wanted to say, but then he appeared to change his mind. “You, uh—you ’bout done there?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, that’s fine. M
ama’s fixin’ you a good breakfast. I’ll, uh, I’ll see you back at the house.” He stood there for a moment more, fiddling with a button on his shirtsleeve. Then he started to walk away.

  “Papa—”

  His father turned around. “Yes, son?”

  “Did you hear if—if they caught old Tom?”

  Papa shifted uncomfortably. “They caught him, all right. Lester’ll be takin’ him over to High Island sometime today. They kept him locked up in the boat shed overnight.” He laid a hand on Walter’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, son. I know you meant to help him. But I believe it’s the best thing, after all. I don’t know—maybe he really was gettin’ crazy enough to be dangerous. Can’t take a chance on something like that.…” He paused for a moment, cleared his throat, and went on. “Walter … I was with ’em. I was the one showed ’em where to look for him, in the graveyard. Your mother and I agreed I had to, after the scare we had. You see that, don’t you?”

  Walter stared blankly at his father. Surely he hadn’t heard right.

  “Don’t you see I had to, son?” His voice was gentle.

  “Yes, sir,” Walter murmured. He did see—of course, he saw. Hadn’t he been telling himself he didn’t care what happened to the old man, that it wasn’t any of his business, just like Papa had said in the first place? Well, sure … He was even glad that Tom had got himself caught—that’s right—glad. Walter had tried to warn him. It wasn’t his fault he wouldn’t listen.…

  Funny, though, thought Walter—if it hadn’t been for me trying to save him, maybe they wouldn’t have found him, after all. Maybe old Samson would have turned out just like Crockett and all the others. Maybe Tom’d still be free as a bird, right this minute—free as those big old owls flying over the graveyard last night.… No, not last night! Lordy! It was all so muddled.…

  Some hero he had turned out to be. Some big hero. It was funny, that was all. Funniest thing—

  So how come he felt so awful?

  Papa cleared his throat again. “Well, I’ll go on back now, tell Mama you’re on your way in. I’ll bet you’re right hungry.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Walter. But he wasn’t hungry at all.

  No one in the Carroll household spoke of Tom after that morning. It was as if they had all agreed silently that he was best forgotten now. But, try as he might, Walter couldn’t forget him, couldn’t throw off the sick feeling that came over him whenever he thought of the old man and his dad-blasted sackful of secrets. It ain’t my fault, he told himself over and over again. It ain’t my fault they locked him up; I just tried to warn him, that’s all. It ain’t my fault he wouldn’t listen.… But he could still see Tom squinting at him and muttering, “You thought wrong, boy … ain’t nobody askin’ you for nothin’.… You thought wrong, boy, wrong, wrong, wrong.…”

  Walter tried to ease his conscience by throwing himself into his work. All week he milked and weeded and hoed and turned melons like a man possessed, till even his hardworking father noticed and tried to slow him down. “Why, son, I believe these are the same melons you turned yesterday! No need to fool with them again so soon. You’ve been working too hard. Why don’t you take this afternoon off, enjoy yourself a little? Water looks mighty inviting.…”

  The water did look good. The weather had been perfect lately—full of blue skies and sparkling waves, sea grass bending in the Gulf breeze. But Walter’s insides had ached too much for him to notice.

  “Maybe you could take Alice for a swim,” Papa went on. “Her ankle’s looking better. Water might do it some good.”

  Walter flushed. “Don’t really feel much like swimmin’ today.” He had avoided Alice as much as possible ever since the night of the graveyard. She couldn’t really tag after him much with her foot hurt, and that was all to the good, as far as Walter was concerned; looking at her only made him feel guiltier than ever.

  Papa gave him a keen look. “Well, suit yourself, son. But no more work today—that’s an order, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He settled on going wade-fishing. He thought for sure that would take his mind off his troubles; it most always did. But the fish had other plans that afternoon. He never got a nibble, save for a couple of bony little catfish not worth the time of day. And then, when he wasn’t paying good attention, a bloated purple monster of a Portuguese man-o’-war floated by and stung the sweet Jerusalem out of his left arm. Walter was feeling so low-down by that time that he would have almost welcomed the pain, if it just hadn’t hurt so much.…

  He was too big to go crying to Mama about it, but Lord, how he wanted to—how he wanted to run to her and bury his head in her lap, as he used to do when he was little, and just cry and cry till he was all cried out. But he was thirteen years old, for heaven’s sake—practically a grown man. And anyway, Mama was shut up in her room; she had been suffering all week with a sick headache. So Walter shuffled through the medicine chest himself and found the Tischner’s Antiseptic and did the best he could for his hurt without disturbing her.

  That night he couldn’t sleep a wink for the pain. His arm was burning like fire, throbbing like thunder; the rest of him was alternately hot and cold and altogether miserable.

  “Serves me right, serves me right,” he moaned as he tossed back and forth on his pillow, shivering beneath his covers one minute, throwing them off the next.

  Alice heard him. “What serves you right? What’s the matter, Walter?”

  “It’s my arm—it’s killin’ me … my own fault … I was wrong—he didn’t ask me for nothin’.… Hell’s bells, but it hurts, though.…”

  Alice hobbled over to his bed in alarm. “You’re sick, Walter. You’re burnin’ up with fever. I’m gonna get Mama.”

  Walter pushed up on his elbow and glared at her. “No, you’re not. Don’t you bother her, you hear me?”

  “But Walter, you’re sick!”

  Now he sat up straight. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong with me—it’s not my arm atall. It’s that old man, Sister. He’s drivin’ me crazy—he’s poisonin’ me.…” Walter jumped out of bed and started groping under his mattress.

  “Poisonin’ you—what are you talkin’ about?” Alice’s voice was tight with fear. “What are you doin’? You ought to get back in bed.”

  But Walter had found Tom’s driftwood and the Indian beads and was already carrying them across the room toward the door.

  “Walter, come on back to bed. You don’t even have your britches on!”

  He didn’t listen. He had to go down to the beach. He just had to.…

  He felt a little better once he was outside in the night air. He ran like the wind, like a jackrabbit with the hounds after him, past Mama’s garden, through the marsh, across the sand hills, onto the beach. Crockett was at his heels; he had heard him and come running too.

  The tide was just past full. From somewhere in the darkness a lone seabird cried, disturbed out of its night’s rest.

  “Walter! Walter, you all right?” Alice had followed him, hopping along as best she could.

  “Looka there, Sister—it’s another moonwater trail, ain’t it—another blasted moonwater trail,” Walter muttered, staring out at the water.

  “What are you talkin’ about, Walter? There ain’t no moon tonight—nothin’ but stars—cain’t you see?”

  Walter blinked. She was right. There was no moon. It had been there just a moment ago, surely, but now the water had sucked it into its belly, swallowed it whole.…

  Suddenly Walter felt afraid. He had been afraid of many things—thousands of things, it seemed to him sometimes—but never of the Gulf, never before. He had been born with its sound in his ears, its taste on his tongue; its murmur had lulled him to sleep in his cradle—how could he fear it? But tonight it was unfamiliar, a living, breathing thing—a dark animal that sighed and rushed at him, as if it wanted to gobble him up, then changed its mind at the last second and retreated, only to rush at him again.…

  “Devil gonna come crawlin’ o
uta the Gulf again someday—carry ever’body off this time—old fool, too …,” he whispered.

  “Walter, you’re scarin’ me. Let’s go back, Walter,” Alice pleaded.

  “Just a minute, Sister.” His teeth were chattering, though the wind was warm. “Just a minute—” He heaved back his good arm and with all his might flung first the driftwood, then the beads, as far as he could—out into the water, out into the rushing, tumbling waves.

  “All right, then!” he shouted. “I’m finished with you, you hear me?”

  The water surged around his feet. It was icy cold against his hot skin.

  Alice took his hand, tugged at it gently. “Come on, Walter.”

  This time he didn’t resist. He was too tired. “Finished,” he sighed, shuddering.

  BOOK TWO

  The floods have lifted up, O Lord,

  the floods have lifted up their voice;

  the floods lift up their waves.

  —PSALM 93:3

  Chapter 13

  The fever lasted for five days. Mama had to be told of it, and though Walter cussed Alice for telling, his mother was grateful to have him need her, as he was glad to have her cool hands on his hot head, glad to be fed and fussed over as if he were a baby. Little by little the ache inside him began to ease. August slipped quietly into September, each day a hairsbreadth shorter than the one before. Goldenrod glowed at the edge of the melon fields.

  The first Friday of September dawned bright as an angel’s smile. Walter awoke with the early morning light. He lay still for a few minutes, trying to work his way through the cobwebs in his brain. He had had the oddest dream—something about a white crane, like the one he and Papa had seen that day on the way to the Landing.… What was it Mama had said a crane was supposed to mean—good luck flying south, bad for north? Or was it the other way around? Not that it really mattered. The crane in the dream hadn’t flown anywhere; it was sitting on a nest of some kind—just sitting, staring at Walter. He had gone up close to it, and it hadn’t been at all afraid. Suddenly it had begun to hoot like an owl, and then the hooting had turned to laughing, and the laughing had turned to crowing.… No, it wasn’t the crane that was crowing; it was Sam Houston—good old Sam. Walter opened his eyes and stretched a mighty stretch.