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Authors: Jewelle Gomez

The Gilda Stories (7 page)

BOOK: The Gilda Stories
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“Yes,” the Girl whispered.

Gilda opened her eyes, and the Girl felt herself drawn into the flowing energy. Her arms and legs became weak. She heard a soft humming that sounded like her mother. She couldn't look away from Gilda's gaze which held her motionless. Yet she felt free and would have laughed if she had had the strength to open her mouth. She sensed rather than felt Gilda pull her into her arms. She closed her eyes, her muscles softened under the touch of Gilda's hand on her arm. She curled her long body in Gilda's lap like a child safe in her mother's arms.

She felt a sharpness at her neck and heard the soothing song. Gilda kissed her on the forehead and neck where the pain had been, catching her in a powerful undertow. She clung to Gilda, sinking deeper into a dream, barely hearing Gilda as she said, “Now you must drink.” She held the Girl's head to her breast and in a quick gesture opened the skin of her chest. She pressed the Girl's mouth to the red life that seeped from her.

Soon the flow was a tide that left Gilda weak. She pulled the suckling girl away and closed the wound. Gilda sat with the Girl curled in her lap until the fire died. As the sun crept into the dark room she carried the Girl upstairs to the bedroom, where they slept the day through. Gilda awoke at dusk, the Girl still tight in her arms. She slipped from the bed and went downstairs to put a tub of water to boil. When she returned to finish dressing, the Girl watched her silently.

“I'm not well,” the Girl said, feeling the gorge rising in her throat.

“Yes, you'll be fine soon,” Gilda said, taking her into her arms and carrying her downstairs and outside. The evening air made the Girl tremble in her thin shirt. Gilda held the Girl's head down over the dirt, then left her sitting alone on the back stairs. She returned with a wet cloth and wiped her mouth and face, then led her inside again. She helped her remove her clothes and lifted her into the large tub standing beside the kitchen table. Then she soaped, rinsed, and massaged the Girl into restfulness, drawing out the fear and pain with her strong, thin hands as she hummed the tune from the Girl's childhood. She dressed her in a fresh gown, one of her own bordered with eyelet lace, smelling of lavender, then put her back to bed.

“Bird will return soon. You mustn't be afraid. You will ask her to complete the circle. It is she who will make you our daughter. Will you remember that?”

“Yes,” the Girl said weakly.

“You must also remember, later, when time weighs on you like hard earthenware strapped to your back, it is for love that we do this.” Gilda's eyes were fiery and unfocused. The power of them lulled the Girl into sleep, although she felt a pang of unease and hunger inside of her. Gilda's lips again brushed her forehead. Then she slept without dreaming.

She awoke abruptly to find Bird standing over her in darkness shadowed even further by a look of destructive anger, her eyes unblinking and dry.

“When did she leave you?” Bird's voice was tight with control although her hands shook as they clutched several crumpled sheets of paper.

Gilda had said don't be afraid and she wasn't, only anxious to understand what would happen now. “It seems long ago, before dark. She wore her walking clothes and said you would complete the circle. I was to be sure and tell you that.”

Bird stalked from the room. Downstairs she stood on the porch, turning east and west as if listening to thoughts on the wind. She ran to the west, through the field, and disappeared for three hours. Her clothes were full of brambles when she returned. She went to the cellar and climbed part way through the door. She could see the new sacks of fresh soil stacked beside the ones she and Gilda had prepared so long ago. She stepped back outside and let the cellar door drop with a resounding thud, then came into the house where the Girl lay weak, unmoving except for her eyes, now dark brown flecked with pale yellow.

Bird looked down at her as if she were a stranger, turned away, and lit a lantern. Again she read the crumpled pages she'd dropped to the floor, then paced, trying not to listen to the Girl's shallow breathing. The darkest part of night passed. Bird stood on the porch again and peered at the stars as if one might signal her.

When the sun began its rise Bird retreated to the shadows of the house, moving anxiously from corner to corner, listening. She was uncertain what to expect, perhaps a ripping sound or scream of pain inside her head. She felt only the Girl weakening upstairs and a cloying uneasiness. In her head she replayed recent conversations with Gilda. Each one came closer and closer to the core.

Gilda had needed Bird to step away so she could end this long life with the peace she sought. And each time Bird had resisted, afraid of losing the love of a woman who was the center of her world. Upstairs was the Girl, now in her charge, the one who'd given that permission for which Gilda had yearned.

Full daylight came behind the closed drapes. Bird stood tense, her body a bronze rod, dull and aching, her full length of flesh and hair calling out for hours. The answer came like the sunlight it was. She felt Gilda lying naked in the water, marveling at its coolness and silence. Then she dove into the darkness of the tide. Without the power of her native soil woven into her breeches, she surrendered easily. The air was squeezed from her lungs and she eagerly embraced her rest. Bird felt a moment of the sun's warmth, her head filled with Gilda's scent. In her ear was the soft sigh of pleasure she recognized from many mornings of their past together, the low whisper of her name, then silence. She knew the knife-edged sun rays stripped the flesh from Gilda's bones. The heat seared through Bird, lightning on her skin and in her marrow. Then, like the gradual receding of menstrual pain, Bird's muscles slackened and her breathing slowed. The crackling was silenced. It was over. Gilda was in the air no more.

Bird went upstairs to the Girl whose face was ashen, her dark eyes now flecked with orange. A frost of perspiration covered her body, and tears ran down the sides of her face. She opened her mouth but no sounds came out. Bird sat against the pillows and pulled the Girl into her arms. She was relieved by the cool tears washing over her brown arm as if she were weeping herself. Bird pulled aside her woolen shirt and bared her breasts.

She made a small incision beneath the right one and pressed the Girl's mouth to it. The throbbing in her chest became synchronous with the Girl's breathing. Soon the strength returned to the Girl's body; she no longer looked so small.

Bird repeated the exchange, taking from her as Gilda had done and returning the blood to complete the process. She finally lay her head back on the pillows, holding the Girl in her arms, and rested. Their breathing and heartbeats sounded as one for an hour or more before their bodies again found their own rhythms. Even then, Bird remained silent.

“She's gone then?” Bird heard her ask. She only nodded and eased her arms from around the Girl's body.

“I'll build a fire,” she said and rose quickly from the bed. Alone in the room Bird found the crumpled letter and returned it to the box Gilda had left on the dressing table. She heard the sound of a robe brushing the carpet below as the Girl moved about laying wood on the fire, then settling the kettle atop the stove in the kitchen. She called to Bird to come down. Her voice, now strong and vibrant, was a shock in the late afternoon quiet without Gilda.

They sat in the twilight in front of the low flames, not speaking for some time. Then Bird said, “She wanted you to be called Gilda.”

“I know.”

“Will you?”

“I don't know.”

“It will be dark soon–we must go out. Are you afraid?”

“She said there's little to fear and you'll teach me, as always.” They were quiet again.

“She loved you very much, Bird.”

“Loved me so much that she traded her life for yours?” Bird almost shouted. In all else there'd been some reasoning, but she could find none in this. Here in the place of the woman to whom she'd given her life sat a child.

“I'm not a child, Bird. If I can hear her words and understand her need, why can't you? I didn't steal her life. She took her road to freedom—just like I did, just like you did. She made a fair exchange. For your sake.”

“Fair exchange?” Bird was unnerved by the words she had heard so often in the past when she had been learning the manner of taking the blood and leaving something in return—how to partake of life and be certain not to take life. She chafed under the familiar words and inflection. “You for her?” Bird spit it out. “Hundreds of years of knowledge and wit in exchange for a girl who hasn't lived one lifetime yet.”

“It's not just me, it's you. Her life, her freedom for our future. You are as much a part of the bargain as I am. She brought me to this place for your need as well as for mine. It's us seeing the future together that satisfies her needs.”

Bird heard the past speaking to her, words she had chosen to ignore. Tonight she stood face to face with their meaning: Gilda's power over her own death was sacred, a decision all others were honor bound to respect. Bird had denied Gilda's right to her quietus and refused to even acknowledge that decison. It was a failure she could not wear easily.

Darkness seeped through the drawn curtains of the parlor. The glow of the almost-steady flame burned orange in the room, creating movement where there was none. The two women sat together as if they were still at their reading lessons. Finally Bird spoke.

“Gilda?”

“Yes.”

“It's time now.”

They dressed in the warm breeches and dark shirts. Bird took Gilda's hand and looked into the face of the woman who had been her pupil and saw the childlike roundness of her had melted away. Hunger filled her eyes.

“It is done much as it was done here. Your body will speak to you. Do not return to take from anyone too soon again: it can create the hunger in them. They will recover though, if it is not fed. And as you take from them you must reach inside. Feel what they are needing, not what you are hungering for. You leave them with something new and fresh, something wanted. Let their joy fill you. This is the only way to share and not to rob. It will also keep you on your guard so you don't drain life away.”

“Yes, these are things she wanted me to know.”

“I will teach you how to move about in indirect sunlight, as you've seen us do, and how to take your rest. Already your body sheds its mortal softness. You'll move faster than anyone, have the strength of many. It's that strength that you must learn to control. But we will talk more of these things later. It is better to begin before there is pain.”

Gilda and Bird turned west. Their path through the flat field was invisible. Bird pushed aside all thoughts for the moment, remembering only her need to instruct, to insure that the girl gained enough knowledge for her survival. Gilda allowed the feeling of loss to drift through her as they sped into the darkness. Along with it came a sense of completion, too. There was certain knowledge of the world around her, excitement about the unknown that lay ahead, and comfort with her new life. She looked back over her shoulder, but they had moved so quickly that the farmhouse was all but invisible. Inside, the fire was banked low, waiting for their return.

Chapter Two
Yerba Buena: 1890

Gilda's eyes opened abruptly in the black room. She remembered where she was—the guest room at Sorel's—but still felt disoriented and reluctant to leave her dream behind. It had been like this for many of the nights since she had left Woodard's and traveled west. She would be filled, just before she woke up, with the same dread she felt the evening she discovered Bird was gone. She would relive the certain knowledge that Bird was nowhere near, that no matter where she searched there would be no clue to use in locating her. With her eyes open in the dark, Gilda let the feelings rush over her once more and replayed the last conversation between them.

She had found Bird pacing beside her narrow bed after they were out finding their share of the blood. It was time for them to retire, but Bird seemed unable to sit, relax, or look Gilda in the eye. Gilda had moved to the small cushions on the window seat where she had spent so much time as a girl learning to read. She had tucked her long, dark legs underneath her and watched Bird as she did when she was a child, waiting for the lesson to take shape.

When Bird finally stopped her pacing and looked down at Gilda, a smile broke through her clouded face. But it didn't hold long, and Bird simply said, “I will leave here tonight.”

“Where do you go?” Gilda had asked, trying not to let her voice sound tremulous.

“I think to my family.”

Gilda hesitated only a moment, letting her practical nature take charge in shaping her response. “They must all be dead now, you know that.” And indeed the mother and brothers that Bird had left behind were dead. Or if not, they would never accept Bird as their child—a girl who had aged little since she was cast out by her brothers thirty-five years before. But surely they must be dead, Gilda thought, remembering the terrible campaign that had been waged against the Lakota to the north of Louisiana in the years before the end of the war between the states. The news of the mass killings, the hanging of thirty warriors in Mankota by the U.S. military twenty years ago still sent a shiver through her body. Surely there'd be no one… but Bird broke into her thoughts.

“There are others of my people. There will always be others.”

Gilda swallowed loudly, pushing down her impulse to beg Bird not to leave. This restlessness in Bird felt much like what she had witnessed in the one now dead. Bird had struggled futilely to hold on to her; Gilda was determined not to make that same mistake with Bird.

“Will you take something of mine with you when you go?”

Bird nodded. Gilda rose from the window seat and ran down the hall to her room. She returned quickly, handing Bird the wood-handled knife she had kept since she was a girl. The rust on its blade was perhaps mixed with the blood of one who had tried to return her to slavery, yet the edge was still sharp, the handle strong.

“I no longer need this. I gave myself freedom, and you've given me life. Maybe you can use it on the road.”

Bird took the old weapon tenderly, staring at it as if it might shift shape or tell its story aloud. She looked at the girl who was now a woman and said, “You will want to take to the road again yourself someday. I'll make a trade.” They both smiled, for it had been some years since they had first traded the blood that linked them forever.

Bird took from her cabinet a small knife set snugly in a leather casing decorated with the tight quill-and-bead work in an angular design for which Bird was known. Gilda clutched the warm leather to her breast and looked around the room in which she'd spent so much of her childhood. She didn't know how to ask the question without betraying Bird's right to live or die as she chose, so she spoke it simply, trying to hold an even tone. “Do you go to end it? To die?”

Bird turned toward Gilda, but her eyes remained blank. She held Gilda in her opaque gaze with a power she'd not used often. The dark brown flashed orange and red as the thought whirled around inside of her, then back and forth between them. Gilda could feel the tumultuous confusion that besieged Bird tumbling inside her own head. She picked through the feelings of bitter regret, sadness, loss, trying to find her answer. But the confusion was too complete. Still Bird answered her aloud, “No.”

“Later,” Gilda went on, “if the answer resolves itself truly as yes, will you come to me first… simply so that I may do my leave-taking honorably?” She didn't mean her request to sound like an accusation, but she saw Bird flinch.

“Of course I will come to you when there is some resolution. When the vision has made itself known, you will know it too.”

“You've prepared your way?”

“Yes.”

Gilda thought of the many nights Bird had been gone for long hours. She must have been traveling the countryside hiding her caches of home soil. She didn't know what else she might say, so Gilda only stared at Bird's back when she turned, ready to pack now that things were settled. Gilda tried to let go of her old fear of being alone, of losing her family again. She wrestled with herself to remember how long a life was now hers and how many more chances she had to be with Bird again in the future.

She let go of her anxiety and allowed the love she felt flood through her, knowing Bird could feel it too. Bird turned back to look at Gilda, her eyes glistening. But there were no tears for them.

“Yes,” Bird said urgently, as if in lovemaking. Then she turned to the chest where most of her clothes lay folded neatly.

Gilda had watched Bird leave less than an hour later on horseback with a small travois strapped to her saddle to carry her traveling pallets of soil, books, and clothes. Her figure had looked small, ancient, from the window of Gilda's room. Her firm legs were wrapped tightly in rough leggings, and her straight shoulders were covered with a dark blanket tucked tautly into her belt and saddle.

The feeling of anxiety that awoke Gilda a few minutes earlier had been the same every evening since Bird's departure from Woodard's. Even here in the secured room of Sorel's home on the western coast. After her long journey on an unfamiliar road she thought her rest would finally be quiet, deep. But her waking now was not much different from the mornings when she had remained at Woodard's managing the house alone.

She jumped up, throwing the satin coverlet to the floor, and glanced back at the silk-covered pallet, one of the many she had carried with her or left in secured hiding places. She breathed in the strong scent of Mississippi soil rising from within the pallet, then lit the oil lamp beside the porcelain bowl. She poured water and washed her face slowly, gazing at her image in the oval mirror on the wall above. There she was, her dark eyes flecked slightly with orange, signifying the hunger that was beginning to gather itself inside of her. The thick softness of her hair was pulled back into a single braid that started at the crown of her head and ended at the base of her neck. The kinkiness of it reassured her—not at all the look of a ha'nt or spook as many thought her and her kind to be.

Her face was there in the mirror, not banished to some soulless place. It was there just as it was for the others who lived here with Sorel, or for those who visited his gambling room and bar each night. Others. Gilda staggered slightly at the thought. There would be others, Bird had promised her before leaving her alone. Sorel had assured her when she arrived on his back doorstep the morning before. There would be others.

She had found the place easily. It still stood at the same crossroads that Minta had described in her letters so long ago. But even if it had been moved fifty times in the twenty years since Minta left Woodard's and made her home in California, it would have been impossible not to find it. The gambling rooms and hotel were well known by both rich and poor in this muddy, waterfront town that was straining so hard to be a city. And to those like herself it was a home of sorts. They came late in the evening to gather in the back rooms and bar, talking, laughing, mixing with the townspeople as if there were no difference between them. Bird had told her once that she had spent the evening here with five others and carried the memory as if it were a dream. Five plus Sorel and Anthony. Gilda was not certain she was prepared to meet so many at once. She also dreaded speaking with Sorel to learn what he knew of Bird and her disappearance. She left through the rear door, which opened out into a dark alley beneath bright stars.

Gilda wandered to the top of one of the many hills, walking east, and looked down on the bay and the small lights twinkling around it. It was a breathtaking view—houses and businesses all ablaze with light, some of it provided by the electricity that was changing her world. She could not imagine what a world with endless light would be. But she didn't fear it, only found it curious.

A wave of emptiness swelled inside her as she thought of all the things she hadn't shared with Bird: somewhere Bird knew of this new light too. Ahead of her a man swung down from a horse and looked at one of its hooves. Gilda walked up behind him in silence, her movements fluid. She seemed to caress the air rather than cut through it. She had grown used to searching the sleeping night for someone with whom she might trade for life's blood. In the ten years she had traversed the countryside around New Orleans with Bird, it had become natural to her to exchange dreams or ideas for a share of life. She did not need to struggle to remember the words of caution about her power, or to remain aware of the one with whom she shared. The exchange had become an important part of her living and of her understanding of those who remained mortal. She approached the man with only the thought of natural communion in her mind, as if she were about to sit down with the women in the old kitchen at Woodard's or to speak with a merchant in town. Feeling her presence, he turned. She caught him up in her gaze, then probed his mind for what he might be seeking and was surprised.

Gilda had never encountered such a void of desire in her life of night-traveling with Bird. He seemed full of only himself. She sensed a greed for gold much like that pervading the air of the whole town, but it was bolder, sharper. Little else appeared to be of consequence to him. He was on his way to gamble and thought only of winning—even if it meant cheating. Gilda sliced the soft flesh of his neck and caught him up in her arm. She bent to him in the shadow that protected them from the endless electric night below. She sucked insistently at his life blood, almost losing herself in the need for the blood and in her disappointment in the smallness of his vision. Gilda felt him sagging in her arms, then quickly slipped in among his thoughts with the idea that cheating was merely a way of shortening the possibilities for his own life.

She urged this realization into his resisting mind as she took her share of the blood, as she held her hand over the wound, waiting for it to heal and for his heart to pump the much-needed substance back through his body. Once his heartbeat felt more regular she leaned him against the saddle of his horse. Gilda left him there–dazed and ambivalent about his dishonesty. As she turned to walk away she realized she was now very anxious to talk to Sorel, to hear whatever he had to say.

She covered the distance back to the rear door of Sorel's quickly, slipping into the room she'd been given. Using a damp towel she hurriedly wiped away some of the mud that clung to her boots and swatted at the dusty smudges on her face. The distant sound of music and voices made it impossible to be alone any longer. She had traveled by horse for many days, avoiding people except when it was time for the exchange. Suddenly she wanted the feel of people near her, the smell of them sweating and living, changing before her eyes. She needed to feed on their laughter and games in the light this city offered.

Gilda hurriedly locked the door to her room with the key Sorel had given her so ceremoniously, then slowed her steps deliberately as she descended the stairs to the public rooms. She took the seemingly endless time of the descent to listen to the sounds coming from the rooms to the right and left of the stairway and wide foyer. And to watch the people who only glanced up at her casually as they moved briskly past the stairs to their destinations: one room with a grand piano and a singer of some note who held a small audience enthralled; two other rooms with gaming tables and people, mostly men, bent over them furiously winning or losing. And the salon, its perimeter outfitted with plush settees and small tables so that anyone, even women alone, would feel comfortable being there.

The long shining wood bar with its equally polished brass foot rail was lined with men who were leaning and talking in low tones. The electric lights blazing from the wall sconces made everyone's face seem unnaturally pale. She was certain that few, if any, of those gathered here were as she was, but they looked unlike any people she had ever seen before. She didn't know how much was her own deep fatigue, the special quality of the light, or simply the gaiety of the salon in contrast with the rough roads of the past few years.

She was not in charge here as she had been during the time after Bird left. She hesitated inside the door deciding whether to sit on one of the brightly striped settees, as all of the women seemed to have done, or to follow her impulse and stand at the bar with the men. She stiffened as she heard,
Perhaps you'll allow me to show you to Monsieur Sorel's table. He asked me to inform him of your..
.
return.

Anthony had spoken without speaking, which unnerved Gilda when done among others. Yet she followed him as he turned to the left and directed her to a slightly larger table near one of the broad, draped windows looking out onto a small circular driveway.

“May I bring you something?” Anthony said in his soft, rather low-pitched voice. He felt her hesitation and gave her time to orient her thoughts.

Gilda sensed several people in the salon turning to stare at her—some discreetly, some not. Anthony seemed to notice nothing. He spoke again. “I would be impolite to boast, but Monsieur Sorel has his own vineyards in Europe, vinted by monks with impeccable taste. We have the most excellent red known to the palate. Of course, if you're fond of this champagne that seems to have taken everyone's fancy, we have that as well. But perhaps you'd prefer something to take away the chill of this damp night. I'm afraid most nights here are damp. One becomes accustomed to them, though. Even to love them—with time.”

BOOK: The Gilda Stories
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