They call her Dana (8 page)

It must be nearing five o'clock, I thought, wading across another stream and brushing aside strands of moss. It would be dark before long. I had never been in the swamp at night—that was when the spooks and zombies prowled, when the wild creatures came out. Stufl'and nonsense. I didn't for a minute believe in spooks and zombies, and any wild creature I might encounter would be every bit as scared of me as I was of it. There was nothing to be worried about, I assured myself. I would find a dry, secure place and curl up and go to sleep and continue on my way at dawn. I kept reassuring myself, but apprehension grew nevertheless. I was all alone and, yes, I was frightened, and I wanted to sit down and cry like a baby.

I was hungry, too, ravenously hungry. I hadn't paid any at-

tention to it before, had staunchly ignored it, but the emptiness inside was now like an urgent demand, intensified by the roiling and rumbling I couldn't control. I'd been hungry before, but never like this. When was the last time I had eaten? Yesterday morning? Yes, I'd had a piece of combread then. One piece. Without butter. I'd had no appetite at all since Ma died, had eaten very little, but now I felt that if I didn't have something soon, I would actually pass out. Pay no attention to it, Dana, I scolded myself. Don't think about food. Keep on moving.

I kept on moving, and the light grew dimmer and dimmer and the air seemed to be tinted with mauve. Hazy blue-black shadows were gathering, and spiraling tendrils of mist were beginning to rise from the water, looking just like wraiths, looking spooky as could be. Soon I was going to have to find a spot to spend the night. Someplace dry. Someplace secure. Maybe up ahead there would be a clearing or something, I told myself. The ground was too wet here, like mud, and there were sure to be more alligators about with all the water. Shadows thickened, making dark nests, and the mauve air was deepening to purple. Night was falling, falling fast, and then, abruptly, it was upon me. I stopped, panic beginning to set in again.

You can only be strong for so long. I looked around me at the dark nests of shadow, the black shapes of trees, silvered only slightly by wavery rays of moonlight. Water gurgled, sounding sinister now, and the mists still swirled, more ghostly than ever in the darkness. I was afraid to move on and afraid to stay where I was. Every drop of courage I had mustered earlier on deserted me now. I was only seventeen years old and my Ma had died and I had no one and I wanted to die, too. I listened to the night noises and folded my arms around my waist, trembling, and it was then that I saw a light flickering in the distance. At first I thought it was a firefly, but fireflies weren't stationary, were yellow-gold, not orange. A campfire, I thought. Someone was camping out here in the middle of the swamp.

I hesitated only a moment and then moved slowly toward the light, taking each step cautiously. I stumbled on a tree root and almost fell, knocking my shoulder against a tree trunk. Moonlight faintly silvered a small stream, and I waded across it carefully, passed under more trees, trying my best to avoid the tangle of exposed roots. The light seemed as far away as ever, a glowing orange shadow at the end of a long black tunnel, but grad-

ually it grew brighter. Yes, it was a campfire. I could see the flames leaping merrily, casting yellow-orange patterns in the darkness. Someone was moving about in the small clearing, a man, I saw, although I was still too far away to make out any details. I crept forward, extra cautious now, for I didn't want to alert him of my presence. It seemed to take me forever to reach the edge of the clearing. Stationing myself behind a tree, shielded by its thick gray trunk, I leaned my head to the left and peeked through a tangle of shrubbery.

The fire wasn't nearly as big as I had thought it was, and it had burned down considerably now, a few logs glowing bright orange inside a small circle of rocks. A coffeepot was setting on one of the rocks, steam wafting out of the spout and filling the air with a delicious aroma, and over the fire on an improvised spit some kind of fowl was turning a rich golden brown. Drops of grease splattered on the logs, making tiny tongues of red-gold flame shoot up. Near the fire was a thick bedroll of blankets, beside it three lumpy-looking bags made of some kind of heavy cloth. A curious tepee-shaped object made of wooden sticks stood a few feet away, a half-finished painting leaning on a narrow wooden ledge midway up the tepee. Funny contraption to set a painting on, I thought, and who'd want to look at a painting that wasn't finished? But I gave it only a moment's attention. I was much more interested in that fowl roasting over the fire. I could smell the meat cooking and, hungry as I was, it almost drove me out of my mind.

The man I had seen earlier was nowhere in sight. He had left the clearing for some reason or other. I quickly moved around the tree and parted the shrubbery, stepping into the clearing. The fowl wasn't fully cooked yet, and there was no way I could get it ofi'the spit without burning my hand. Almost reeling from hunger, I hurried over to the heavy cloth bags. Maybe they would contain some other kind of food, beef jerky or cheese or even an apple. Kneeling on the blankets, I opened the first bag and pulled out an enormous leather folder full of watercolor paintings of flowers and plants. There was a box of watercolors, too, paintbrushes, a lot of other things, nothing to eat. Opening the second bag, I discovered a pair of boots, a mirror, shaving equipment, several neatly folded garments. The breeches were of the finest material, and the shirts were exquisite, soft and silky and as light as air, like woven cobweb, I thought. I was

examining one of them when I heard a footstep behind me and an ominous metallic click. I froze.

"Make one move," a lazy voice warned, "and Til blow your head off."

My blood literally seemed to have mmed to ice, and I was indeed frozen. I couldn't have moved if I had wanted to. I was kneeling there on the pile of blankets, the soft, exquisite shirt still in my hands. My fingers were numb. The silk spilled from my hands, the shirt floating to the ground like an airy wisp. He was there, behind me. I could feel his presence, and I could feel the pistol, too, aimed at a point just between my shoulder blades. Was he going to pull the trigger? Was I going to die? Several moments passed, and my knees and the muscles of my legs began to ache. I couldn't maintain this position much longer. I tried to swallow. My throat was dry. A log in the fire broke in two, making a loud crackling noise, and I let out a little cry, expecting a bullet to smash into my spine.

"Looks like I've caught a thief red-handed," the man drawled,

"I—I wudn't—" My voice cracked.

"All right," he said. "Stand up."

I gnawed my lower lip and got slowly to my feet. My legs were trembling so badly I could hardly stand, and my heart was palpitating madly. I didn't dare turn around, not without his permission, and I stared at the trees a few yards away from me. The flickering orange glow of the logs made shadows leap over the ground like frenzied demons. I could still feel the pistol pointing at my back. He might as well shoot me, I thought. The smell of the roasting fowl was sheer torture. If I didn't have something to eat, I was going to die anyway. At that moment my stomach gave a terrific rumble so loud it startled even me.

"What was that?" he asked sharply.

'' My—my stomach.''

"Turn around," he ordered. "Very, very slowly."

Trembling, I obeyed.

Chapter Four

THE FIRST THING I SAW was the barrel of the pistol, long and sleek, the small black hole at its end pointed at my heart now, ready to send a bullet tearing through flesh and bone. I stared at it with horrified fascination. An elegant hand gripped the pistol, one long finger curled tightly around the trigger. I was still trembling, gnawing my lower lip, and tears spilled over ray lashes. After a moment I raised my eyes and looked at my captor's face, and I let out a gasp. He was the most beautiful creature I had ever seen. Beautiful probably wasn't the right word, but to me he was like a vision from another world.

His hair was thick and glossy, rich chesmut-brown, silvering at the temples. His cheekbones were broad and flat, his nose Roman, his jaw strong and square. Beneath dark, finely arched brows, his eyes were a gentle brown, and his mouth was gentle, too, fiill and firm, a pale, delicate pink in color. He was terribly old, at least forty, I judged. His lightly tanned skin was like fine old parchment, and there was a soft roll of flesh beneath his chin. The faint double chin somehow made him all the more attractive. He lifted a brow and looked at me with inquiring eyes. His was a good-natured face, and there was a humorous curve to his mouth.

*'What have we here?" he inquired.

"Please, mister—don't—don't shoot me."

He frowned. "What was that? I can't understand a word you say."

"I said please—please don't shoot me."

"Do you speak French?"

"I speak perfect French," I said in that language.

"Perfect is hardly the word, lass. Lx)rd, what a dreadful

sound—exactly like a strangled duck. Where did you get that abominable accent?"

"I speak good,'' I protested.

"Never heard such a deplorable noise," he informed me.

I was mortally offended. No one had ever criticized my voice before. I knew I sometimes slipped and said "ain't" and used bad grammar, but my voice sounded perfectly all right to me. It certainly didn'l sound like a strangled duck. His voice was deep and melodious, with a faint huskiness that was like a soft caress. He was wearing highly polished brown boots and a pair of snug brown kidskin breeches and, over a full-sleeved, silky white shirt, a marvelous vest of brown and bronze striped brocade. I'd never seen such beautiful clothes on a man before. He must be very rich, I thought, must be a blooming aristocrat. Maybe even a prince or something, even if he was so old. Kindly face notwithstanding, the pistol was still leveled at my heart.

"You—you gonna shoot me?" I asked.

"I might. What were you doing going through my bags?"

"Planning to rob me, were you?"

"I—I was just—"

"Might as well confess it, lass."

"I was just lookin' for something to eat,'' I wailed.

To my complete horror and amazement, I started bawling then, bawling just like a baby in loud, heaving sobs, my whole body shaking, tears spurting from my eyes and spilling down my cheeks in a veritable flood. The man looked horrified, too, looked very uncomfortable. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his breeches and sighed miserably and glanced around the clearing as though looking for some means of escaping this wretched exhibition. I fell to my knees, sobbing still, giving lavish vent to all the grief and heartache and fear I had kept locked inside since Ma's death. The man finally cleared his throat, pulled me to my feet and, holding me with one strong arm curled around my waist, dabbed at my face with a soft linen handkerchief he had pulled from the pocket of his vest.

"There," he said. "There, there—do stop crying."

"I—Icain't-"

"Can't, not cain't. Can. Stop it this instant, do you hear me? It's frightfully unbecoming."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Ah'm saw-ree. What kind of diction is that? Bears looking into by some phonologist. He'd be intrigued. Lord, what a filthy little swamp rat you are, covered with mud from head to toe. And the smell—I don't believe my nostrils have ever been assailed by such a noxious stench."

I let out another wrenching sob and more tears spurted and the man let out an exasperated sigh and, taking hold of my shoulders, sat me down on the blankets. He sat down beside me and wrapped an arm around me and pulled my head up against his chest and let me cry myself out. His arm was very heavy, very comforting. He was a total stranger and I didn't even know his name, yet for some reason I felt completely secure. He was a large man, tall and perhaps a trifle overweight, certainly not fat but not overly lean, either. He talked funny and used a lot of words I didn't understand, but I sensed warmth and strong compassion in him.

"There now," he said when my tears stopped falling. "Do you want to tell me about it? What are you doing in the middle of the swamp at this bizarre hour, and why are you so deplorably filthy?"

"I fell into a stream, it was all muddy, and there was an alligator on the bank and—I—I think I killed my stepfather.''

"Indeed?"

"I hit him hard as I could with an iron skillet, hit him on the head, and then—then I decided to run away."

"Sounds like a sensible decision to me. Why, pray, did you bash him with the skillet?"

"He—he was trying to—to—"

I started sobbing yet again, and amidst the sobs I blurted out the whole story. I told him about Clem and Jake and Randy and about Ma seeing the redbird and her death and that terrible day at the cemetery with the wooden box and the grave and the mound of brown dirt. I told him about my being a bastard and about my unknown relatives in a place called New Orleans, and finally 1 told him about Clem's attempting to rape me in the kitchen. He listened with a solemn expression on his face, trying his best to follow my near incoherent ramblings.

"And—and 1 ain't had—haven't had anything to eat since I ate a piece of combread yesterday and—and that's why I was goin' through your bags. I thought—the fowl wudn't—wasn't ready yet and I was afraid I'd bum my fingers and I thought

maybe there'd be something to eat in one of them bags. I wasn't plannin' to rob you, I—I swear it."

"Call me an idiot if you choose, but—you know, I think I actually believe you, lass. You just sit here and rest up, child. I'll have something for you to eat quick as a flash."

He climbed to his feet and opened the third bag, the one I hadn't looked into. I watched him as though through a shim-mery fog, so weary after the crying and emotional outpouring I could hardly hold my eyes open. The third bag did indeed contain food, cutlery and utensils as well, and I watched him pull things out, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier. I felt dizzy again, like I was floating and not really here at all. The hunger pains I had felt earlier had vanished, and I just wanted to drift away. The man moved about briskly, rattling things, his shadow shifting over the ground in the dying glow of the fire.