Iron Lace (9 page)

He explained. “I hope Monsieur LeBlanc will understand.”

The man shrugged. “And if he doesn’t? What’s one man’s fury next to that of the storm?”

“Was your house near the beach?”

“Not as near as some. And I built it myself. I bolted it into the ground!”

“Surely the worst will be over soon. Enough of your house may be standing so you can rebuild.”

“Even now my house is driftwood for people on Grand Isle to pick off the beach. We thought to tow my boat to the trees in Leopold Perrin’s yard, but the water swirled too quickly, and the wind was too strong. The storm isn’t dying,
mon ami.
It’s just playing with us.”

Lucien glanced out the window. “No. Impossible.”

“There was another storm.” One of the other men joined them. He was old, the patriarch of the family, Lucien guessed, and his voice quavered from age and fatigue. “I was young. The winds raged and the water rose, but the worst of it passed over us here. Then, the next day and the next, when the skies were clear and the wind friendly, we saw bodies washing ashore, and pieces of houses. They were from L’Isle Dernière.”

The younger man had obviously heard the story many times before. He seemed resigned. “If we’re lucky, this one will turn that way, too. But no one lives on L’Isle Dernière now. If the storm is hungry for more than sand and palmetto, she’ll come ashore here.”

“She is coming,” the old man said.

“How high has the water risen?” Lucien asked.

“It was up to the fourth step when we got here. It will be higher now. It’s rising quickly.”

“Someone else is here.” One of the women pulled the door open, and more people entered on a blast of wind-driven rain. The two men left to talk to the newcomers. Marcelite passed close enough for Lucien to grab her arm.

“These men think the storm will worsen,” he said.

“Will we be safe here?”

He thought about the old man’s story, and the others he had heard before. Once, L’Isle Dernière had been a summer resort community, like Grand Isle. A dance had been held in the hotel ballroom during the storm, and the water had swept inside and carried the dancers away. Could he really be in danger? Had he been so sure of what he knew that he had refused to see the truth?

“There won’t be a better opportunity to go somewhere else,” she said. “If we’re not safe here, we must leave now.”

The door crashed open, and two more people entered. “These men know the
chénière,
and this is the house they’ve chosen,” Lucien said. “What do I know that they don’t?”

“Then I’m going to bring the children out here.”

“No. Let them sleep.”

Marcelite shrugged off his hand. “I want them with me.”

The door slammed again, and a man entered carrying a young woman in his arms. The voices in the room fell silent until one of the men who was already inside took the woman from him. Everyone crowded around as he laid her on the floor.

Lucien saw that her face was as pale as death. An old woman, still wet and trembling herself, laid her head on the young woman’s chest and pronounced her alive. Immediately
others began to work on her, turning her on one side and pounding the water from her lungs. Someone brought a quilt.

Lucien approached the man who had carried her this far. His eyes were fixed on the scene before them. “How did it happen?”

For a moment, the young man seemed unable to speak. Other men gathered around, and this seemed to steady him. “Sophia fell. She was carrying little Rosina. They…slid under the water. When they sur—surfaced, they were far apart. I could only reach for one of them.”

The house shook so hard that Lucien could feel the floor heave under his feet. The other men charged into action. One led the man who had just told his story to a chair, where he put his head in his hands and sobbed. Another lifted Sophia off the floor and carried her, wrapped in the quilt, to a rug in the parlor, where the women continued to tend her. Two others began to dismantle a table and fasten the boards over the window. Lucien watched his view of the world disappear.

The two men left to cover the few other windows in the house. Everyone seemed to have a mission, but Lucien was left alone. He couldn’t see outside, but he could feel wind and water shake the house. He wondered how high the water had risen now.

Would the skiff be safe? It must already be in pieces. And if it was, he would have no escape if this house was destroyed. He wondered if he should go outside and secure it, perhaps even bring it up to the gallery. If the water rose that high, launching it would be the small matter of one push.

At the front door, he put on his overcoat, although as wet as it was, it provided no comfort. He explained his intention to one of the other men, who told him he was a fool to go back outside.

On the gallery, he realized the man was right. Before he could cross to the railing, the wind threw him against the front of the house. He dropped to his knees and crawled the distance, grabbing the railing to look below. The water was still rising. Had the house not been so high, it would have flooded already. The current was swift, and waves crashed in assault.

He saw the trunks of trees wash past, and something that looked like the section of a roof. One flash of lightning revealed the horns of a bull drowned in the rushing water. In the distance he thought he heard screaming over the roar of the wind. But one sound was unmistakable. The church bell pealed loudly and continuously, as if it were calling the people of Chénière Caminada to their own funeral mass.

Horrified, he dragged himself to the top step to look for the skiff. He spotted it during the next flash of light. The current had pinned it against a massive post, where it was temporarily protected. But any change in the wind could destroy it. He weighed his safety against that of the boat. Without the skiff, he might be helpless.

Helpless! He was filled with rage that his life was no longer his own. Marcelite and Antoine controlled his destiny. And now the storm was taking what was left of his future and twisting it to suit some demonic fancy.

Rage carried him into the water. Clinging to the porch railing, he lowered himself step by step until his feet touched the ground. The water was deeper than his knees, and miserably cold. Objects swirled in its depths. A tree eddied toward him, and he dived beneath it so that it would not pin him against a pillar. He surfaced and discovered that the current had already carried him beyond the skiff. He was completely exhausted by the time he fought his way back. He threw his
arms over the stern and clung there, floating until he had regained some strength.

He thought he could feel the water rising beneath him. How could it rise so quickly? What power did this storm possess that it could turn the tide and flood the land in hours?

For the first time, he thought about Claire and Aurore. Was the storm as bad on Grand Isle? The cottage where his family was staying was an old slave cabin, never fortified against this kind of wind. He and Claire had fought about Chighizola’s prophecy. Had she found the courage to seek stronger shelter?

Something brushed against his chest, something soft and yielding. Horror gripped him. He couldn’t force himself to investigate. He prayed the object would wash beyond him, but whatever it was wedged itself between his arm and the skiff. He tried to make his way around the boat, but the object seemed to follow him. Finally, he forced himself to look down. The body of a child—a girl, he guessed from the length of her hair—had snagged against the hull. Lightning flashed, and he could see her sightless eyes staring at him. Bile rose in his throat. He thrust himself away from the boat, and in seconds the current had ripped her loose and carried her away.

He struggled for a deep breath, but water filled his lungs. He floundered as more water closed over him, but as his panic grew, his hands closed on the skiff once more. He inched his way to the bow to begin the fight to get the skiff to the gallery.

The water had risen higher by the time he made his way back inside. A large family of refugees had found their way to the house. There were now twenty-five people inside.

After his immersion in the storm, the house seemed almost silent. Lucien scanned the room to locate Marcelite and the
children, and found them in a corner. He took Angelle from her mother so that he could rock her against his chest. She was warm, and her eyes stared curiously into his. He saw only the dead child by the boat. When he could look at her no longer, he averted his eyes. Raphael was watching him.

He could feel nothing for the boy now except pity. He switched his gaze to Marcelite and acknowledged for the first time the strength that had helped her survive her disgrace. She would never give up easily. Tonight she would struggle for her family’s survival. She would struggle until death.

She rose. “I’ll get you some coffee. I’ve been saving a cup for you.”

He stared after her. She was as much a part of him as the dreams he had each night. How could he have believed he could walk away? He closed his eyes, and the dead child stared back at him.

L
ucien had just finished his coffee when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw the man whose house had collapsed. “The water has almost reached the gallery.” He gestured toward the door. Lucien rose and joined the men gathered there. Time had passed, although he didn’t know how much. Time now was a matter of rising water and strengthening wind. He struggled to follow the men’s rapid, idiomatic French.

Their observations didn’t surprise him. The storm would build even more. The worst moment would come later, when the winds changed and all the water covering the peninsula would rush back to the Gulf, taking whatever it could with it. There were arguments about how much damage might be done. Some believed if the water didn’t rise above a certain height, they would be saved. Some believed they were already doomed.

“Is there another, better place to go?” Lucien asked.

The men stared at him as if he were crazy. “There is no place to go but into the belly of the storm.” The man who’d
spoken slashed his hand across the empty space before him in emphasis. The others murmured their agreement.

“What if there’s a lull?” Lucien asked.

“There will be. Before hell is unleashed.”

“And then, will you know the storm’s intent?” another man asked. “Will you know where you will be safe and where you will not? Because if you know,
mon ami,
then perhaps you’ll tell us?”

“I know nothing. I’m at your mercy.”

“Then stay and help us prepare for when the water comes inside.”

Lucien explained the plan to Marcelite and helped her get the children to the attic. They settled on a quilt in the corner, as far away from the window as possible. The window had been shuttered, but later it would have to be used to gauge the storm’s progress. In the attic, the slash of rain and crashing drive of the wind made a wild, horrifying chorus. As children were led upstairs, they cried and clung to their mothers.

One of the men carried the unconscious Sophia upstairs and laid her gently on a rug someone else had brought up for her. Her husband knelt beside her and chafed her hands. Angelle put her head between Marcelite’s breasts and covered her ears. Raphael, wide-eyed and silent, sat perfectly still, as if the noise had stripped away speech and movement.

Screams were audible here, along with the ceaseless clanging of the church bell. Lucien thought of those trapped outside, struggling to find their way to shelter. He had convinced himself that the child by the boat had been Rosina, Sophia’s daughter, one child already known to be lost. Only one. Now, as he listened to the devil’s own chorus, he knew more had died, and still more would die yet.

“The house is strong,” he assured Marcelite. “It’s holding well. We’ll be safe.”

Her lips moved, and he knew she was sending prayers to heaven. He left her and went back down the stairs. The men were taking turns watching the storm from a small section of the window that had been stripped of its cover.

His own turn came too soon. The world he saw was not the one he had left just hours before. His skiff was floating on the gallery. They were an island in a rushing river, and the river was alive. He shut his eyes, not wanting to examine too closely the objects sweeping by. He stepped back.

“People are dying,” one of the men said. “We have to help.”

There was a consensus that they must do what they could. Someone suggested they light a lantern in the attic window. Someone else proposed a human chain to rescue anyone who came close.

The man whose house had collapsed stepped forward. Lucien had learned he was Dupres Jambon and his father was Octave.

Dupres clapped his hand on Lucien’s shoulder. “You unshutter the window upstairs and light a lantern. Ask one of the women to tend it. Then come down and stand guard. I’ll prepare to be the first outside if I’m needed.”

The house groaned, every joint tortured by the weight of the water pushing against it. The east side of the house was already bulging inward. “Do you think the house will hold?” Lucien asked.

“I’m taking my family to find better shelter when the calm comes,” Dupres said. “You should leave, too. If the wind circles back from the west, this house will be in its path.”

As he followed Dupres’s instructions, Lucien considered his advice. If the calm came and the winds died, then the skiff
could be rowed or pulled to a safer place. He was lucky that it was so small. A larger boat would be impossible to guide.

The question of where they might be safe filled his mind. Grand Isle had a high central ridge, with houses surrounded by century-old trees rooted deeply in the soil. The
chénière
had nothing comparable. They would have to choose a building, one as far from the shore as possible, and sturdily built.

He remembered Raphael’s suggestion of the church, and at first he discarded it simply because it had come from the boy. But pride was a foolish emotion now. Mentally he calculated the distance, and the time it might take to get there. Certainly the building had been constructed by some of the most talented carpenters on Chénière Caminada. And beside it sat the presbytery, two stories, also well constructed. If either was standing, he would be given sanctuary there.

Water was pouring inside the house, gushing in spouts from holes the men had drilled in the floor to take advantage of the water’s weight. With luck the water might stabilize the house, at least temporarily. Lucien could feel it rising toward his knees, but he kept watch at the shuttered window and gazed with mounting horror at the scene before him. Once he shouted to Dupres that someone was struggling toward the house, but before Dupres and the others could attempt a rescue, the struggle ended.

Slowly panic replaced horror. Was he to die here, among common fishermen? Was he to die unmourned, because those who might have mourned, would die as well? Was he to die without a son to bear his name?

The water rose to his waist and crept toward his chest. When there was nothing more to be done, he moved toward the stairs with the other men. One man stepped too close to
one of the holes in the floor and was almost sucked beneath the house. Lucien felt carefully for each foothold, but by the time he reached the stairs, he was almost too frightened to climb them. The house groaned continuously, and cracks were opening between boards. If the wind heightened, if the storm sent a tidal wave crashing down on them, the house would break apart and throw all of them at the feet of God.

Upstairs, Marcelite clung to him. Women were wailing with the wind; children screamed and wept. Lucien held Marcelite and Angelle close. Even Raphael moved closer for comfort. The boy was trying to be brave, but his bottom lip trembled.

“Will Juan be safe?” he asked Lucien. “In his boat, will he be safe?”

Lucien couldn’t find words to explain that everyone was going to die. He sat without speaking for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the end.

“The water has stopped rising.” One of the men who had been watching from the top of the stairs made the announcement.

Marcelite folded her hands and began to pray, her lips moving silently again. Lucien sat very still and listened intently to the wind. Was it his imagination, or was it losing strength? The house still rocked from both wind and waves, but was the battering less? He set Angelle on her mother’s lap and rose. The men were cautious, but some were optimistic. If the water rose no higher, if the wind died and gave the house a chance to settle, perhaps they had seen the worst.

Lucien caught Dupres Jambon’s eye. Dupres shook his head. Clearly he didn’t believe he would be safe in this house. “There is always a lull,” Dupres told them. “And when the winds begin again, they will be stronger.”

Lucien remained silent and tried to follow the arguments. His panic lessened. Had he not brought Marcelite and the children here? Had he not saved the skiff? He was alive because he had used his wits, and he could still use them to survive. He tried to piece together what he knew of hurricanes. There was usually a lull; then the wind changed direction. The lull could be long or short, but when it came, he must leave in the skiff.

Marcelite and the children watched him from the corner. He knew their fates might hang on his decision. He was strong enough to have a chance if the winds returned and caught him on his way to better shelter. But if Marcelite and the children were caught in the open, he might die trying to save them.

If they remained here, they might die, too.

Silently he cursed the God who was waiting for him to make the wrong choice. Marcelite seemed to sense his distress. “What’s wrong?” she asked when he returned. “Are we lost?”

He told her the truth. “Are you willing to come?”

“Did you think to leave me behind?”

Her answer took him by surprise. He frowned. For the past hours, the storm had filled his mind, pushing everything else to the background. She had found the time to think of other things. “If you come, it must be your choice.”

“I have already lived through hell.” She met his eyes, and there was nothing inside her that she didn’t invite him to see. “How different is the storm?”

He wondered how he could ever have believed she was a simple woman who needed him for love and guidance.

He listened to the others argue. The winds were definitely dying down, the water was receding. The world from the attic window was a scene from a nightmare, so terrible that the mind could not stretch wide enough to comprehend details.
But the nightmare was ending. And until a new one began, there would be time to act.

When the winds were only those of any bad storm, Lucien crawled out the attic window onto what was left of the gallery roof. It sagged under his weight. He peered over the edge and saw that the skiff had floated away from the gallery. His best choice was to drop into the water as close as possible, then tie it where Marcelite and the children could be helped inside.

Dupres and three other men had already gone for the lugger they had left nearby. Lucien searched for them, but he could see only a short distance. The bell had never ceased its ringing. No longer tolling a funeral knell, the bell seeming to be ringing to lead him to safety.

He waited until he was certain the water wouldn’t carry him away; then he swung himself over the roof and dropped into the waves. As before, the water was cold and turbulent, but deeper now, so that he couldn’t stand. He battled as he had the first time, until he grasped the boat’s side.

A huge gold moon lit the sky, as if to show what had been accomplished that night. Black clouds continued to blow across it, though with less fury. Lucien watched the current; it was still too swift to negotiate, but now he was sure that would change, too. He heard a shout, and from the west he saw a shape materializing in the darkness. He looked on as Dupres and the others brought the lugger toward the house.

When the lugger was secure, too, the men fought their way inside together. Upstairs, with little conversation, they gathered their families and what possessions they had. Octave passed out the last of the tools he had gathered. Lucien took a small ax to help break up logjams. Then, huddled together, they waited for the right moment to leave.

Lucien watched Marcelite with the children. She betrayed no fear, holding them close beside her, as if her strength alone could protect them from death. He envisioned her holding them that way forever.

The house began to shift, as if to find its balance again. Outside, the bell rang more clearly, as the screaming winds quieted. Dupres approached Lucien. “There’s room on my lugger for everyone.”

“I still think we’ll take our chances in the skiff.”

The two men wished each other well, then, with the others, went down the stairs for the last time and stationed themselves at intervals through the flooded house to help pass the women and children to the boats. Marcelite was the last woman down. She carried Raphael, and another of the men brought Angelle. Lucien left her to struggle with the boy, and held out his arms for his daughter. Then he led them to the gallery. Raphael held fast to a post as she scrambled into the skiff; then she reached for him and secured him on a seat. Lucien kissed Angelle’s head, then handed her to Marcelite before he got into the boat himself.

“Hold tight!” he shouted. He reached for the rope, but he fumbled with the knot, suddenly uncertain, now that it was almost too late to turn back. The lull was a certainty, but the water still swirled with vicious intent, even though it was receding.

Behind him he could hear the other men shouting, and he turned to see the lugger launched from the gallery. The shorter men were hanging on to ropes, swimming beside it, but Dupres, taller than the others, seemed to be touching ground as he hauled the boat in the direction he had chosen.

Encouraged by their progress, Lucien unfastened the knot; then, as the water pushed the skiff toward the Gulf, he took
up the oars and began to row. At first he made no headway, and panic gripped him. But little by little he began to see that they were moving toward the sound of the bell. He settled into the rhythm, pulling harder as he angled the boat between swells.

The world they passed through was terrible beyond his worst imaginings. Bodies swept past, both human and animal. Once he thought he saw a hand lift in supplication, but he was too far away to know for certain. Voices screamed from trees, from roofs drifting unanchored, from windows of the few houses still standing. He shut his eyes to the horror and rowed.

The farther they moved from the Gulf, the less he felt its pull. Once Lucien struck something with his oar, and hoped it was ground, but with his next pull he touched only water. Just as he was growing afraid that he didn’t have the strength to keep up a steady pace, his oars struck something once more, then a third time. He stopped and lowered one into the water and touched bottom. He secured the oars before he climbed into the water. It rose to his chest, but he was able to retain his footing.

Each gust of wind was less than the one before. The clanging of the bell slowed. Marcelite shouted to him to watch out, and he hugged the hull as the wall of a house drifted by.