Louisiana History Collection - Part 1 (37 page)

She had tried instead to let some fresh air into the large house, and more light, by leaving the door partially open.

One of the elderly aunts closed the door at once, shivering in her cloak, which dragged on the ground, so bent was she with arthritis. Elise had decided at length to leave it, considering it all to the good that no one had yet suggested taking him in his feverish condition to the creek to bathe.

Night came again. Quiet descended in the Great Sun’s house as one by one the family sought their benches. Elise sat on an overturned pot beside Reynaud, leaning with her back against the edge of the bench, staring at the dying fire. She thought of Pierre and Little Quail, wondering how they were adapting to each other.

Elise let her mind wander back to New Orleans and Fort Saint Jean Baptiste. What were the French doing now? How was the expedition against the Natchez proceeding? When could they expect to hear from it, see it? She tried to figure out the days and realized that Christmas had passed while they were on the trail and that it was now the new year of 1730.

Another year. It hardly mattered. Here among the Natchez spring was the time of renewal. That seemed natural and right, like reckoning a child’s lineage through its mother or marking time by the phases of the moon so that a year had thirteen equal months and a woman’s cycle was easy to count.

Her own time was almost on her again, delayed somewhat by the exertions of the past weeks. She could feel it coming, however. She had been afraid that she would have to apply to Little Quail for some of her herbs, but no. It was her time that made her feel so torpid this evening, so depressed and yet on edge. Combined with the emotional upset of the morning spent arguing for Pierre’s life and her weariness, it was no wonder that she was ready to jump out of her skin or to dissolve into tears. She had nearly succumbed to the last earlier in the evening as she tried to spoon the medicine into Reynaud, only to have it spill from the corner of his mouth again and again.

She turned to look at him. His lips had begun to crack with dryness and the bones of his face had become more prominent. There were hollows under his eyes, and on his cheeks and chin was the dark shadow of beard stubble, so long had it been since he had had the opportunity to pull them out. It was a strong face, one to trust. Even lost in unconsciousness, he had such presence, as if at any moment he would rise and make his opinions known. She thought of him dying, of simply ceasing to be, and it did not seem possible.

With one finger she reached out, tracing the edges of his lips with the tip, drawing it across the lower one that was so rough now when it had once been smooth and warm against her mouth. Would she ever feel it like that again? Did she want to? Her head felt light at the idea and she could not bring herself to come to grips with the question. She moved her hand to brush back the rough, black silk of his hair, a fullness gathering in her throat.

“Reynaud,” she whispered, “Hawk-of-the-Night, Tattooed Serpent, don’t die. Please don’t die.”

There was no sound from the man who lay there, no movement except for the slow rise and fall of his chest. After a time, because her eyes were burning from the smoke of the sinking fire and she felt so peculiar, she leaned over to put her head down on his shoulder.

A croaking noise dragged her back to awareness. She sat up suddenly, castigating herself for falling asleep even as she tried to bring order to her dull senses. The side of her face was hot and damp and she lifted a hand to feel the moisture there.

“Elise, love,” Reynaud repeated, his voice a rasp of sound, “could I have a drink of water?”

She drew in her breath on a gasp, springing up. He was awake, himself again. His fever had broken, for perspiration stood out on his forehead, trickling into his hair and gathering in the sunken hollows under his eyes.

“Yes, oh, yes, of course.”

Whirling to where the water was kept in a clay pot covered by a square of leather, she poured some into the wooden bowl and brought it carefully back to him. She lifted his head on her arm and held it to his lips. He brought up his own hand to steady it, drinking thirstily.

“More?” he asked when it was gone. “I’d get it myself, but I’m as weak as a baby wood rat and stiff beyond belief.”

“No, no, I’ll get it.” She felt as if she were disoriented, as if she had been awakened from a nightmare or was still dreaming.

When she had brought it, he took a swallow, then looked at her over the rim of the bowl. “I have a terrible taste in my mouth.”

A wavering smile slowly curved her mouth at his querulous tone. “It’s the medicine.”

“I don’t think I want any more.”

“No,” she said, a quaver in her voice. Then there were tears swelling in her eyes, spilling down her cheeks, and dripping onto her arm that held him.

Concern gathered on his features, darkening his eyes. “What is wrong?”

“Nothing,” she said, smiling, shaking her head so that the tears sparkled in the dim light. “Nothing, now.”

The days sped by. Dark clouds moved in from the southeast and rain fell with unrelenting steadiness until the sides of the mounds ran with water and the village plaza was a lake of mud. Reynaud mended rapidly, though by no means as fast as he wished. He was, for the most part, a good patient, but he was inclined to move too quickly, pulling the scabs forming on his sore back, and to carp at the smell of the ointment Elise and Tattooed Arm used daily. He chafed at the enforced inactivity after the first few days of extreme weakness had passed; that was until he discovered that Little Quail had been teaching Elise a few more words of Natchez and took over the lessons himself.

The results often set the Indian woman to giggling so that she had to hold her sides. Not only were the forms of address and expressions of politeness different according to whether one was speaking to a Sun or a member of the other classes, but men pronounced the words with a much harder and shorter sound than did the women. Just as Frenchmen, who often learned the language from the women they lived with, were thought effeminate by the Natchez men, so Elise sounded masculine no matter how hard she tried to do otherwise. She made swift progress, however, and there was one excellent effect. When she spoke to Small Owl, warning him away from the fire, from a hot pot, or from squatting in the middle of the floor to do his acts of nature, he paid her the same instant attention that he gave to his father and Reynaud.

Pierre’s visits also served to make the time go by for Reynaud. Their talk was sometimes grave, involving maps and plans drawn on pieces of bleached leather. Often it had a distinctly ribald sound as they put their heads together, watching Elise and Little Quail busy at the fire. It had been the Frenchman, putting in an appearance on the morning of the day Reynaud had regained consciousness, who had told his friend of his capture and of Elise’s part in gaining his release. Pierre’s expression of gratitude and pledge of eternal friendship to her had been moving. Later, when Pierre and Little Quail had gone, Reynaud called her to him, taking her hand. “You hold Pierre’s life in this small hand,
ma chére
. Do you know it?”

“You both make too much of nothing.” She tried to draw away from him, keeping her lashes lowered.

“Because I am more thankful than I can say that you had the wisdom and the concern to suggest to Little Quail the means of saving him.”

“Anyone else would have done the same in my place.”

“I doubt it. There are many other Frenchwomen in the village and none raised a hand to help him, some out of ignorance, some certainly out of fear for themselves.”

“My position is different.”

“Because you are different and I praise whatever gods there may be for it.”

He lifted her hand to his lips, pressing them to her palm. Elise, meeting the dark intensity of his eyes, felt a quiet singing inside her, though her knees, unaccountably, seemed inclined to bend like boiled grass.

Pierre did not appear to find the duties assigned to him by Little Quail at all onerous. As for Little Quail, she had taken to wearing an old pair of moccasins sewn with blue beads and blue-jay feathers and lost no opportunity for touching her Frenchman when she could find an excuse to come near enough. It was a good thing, too, that Reynaud was better, for the young Indian woman was seldom at the Great Sun’s house anymore, preferring to spend the time alone with Pierre in her own hut.

It might have been Elise’s intervention for Pierre or it may have been her habit of stopping to lend a hand when she saw a French woman or child at a heavy task, but the manner in which the French slaves looked upon her seemed to undergo a subtle change. They were less wary of her, more friendly. They accepted the food she was able to bring them and the Indian-style clothing that she gathered to replace their own, which were falling into rags. More than once she received their fervent thanks for coming to their aid with her new knowledge of the Natchez language, helping them out of difficulties in understanding and carrying out their tasks.

One afternoon Reynaud rubbed a hand over his beard, wincing at the rasping sound it made. He cocked an eye at Elise, who was pitting persimmons, helping the first wife of the Great Sun make persimmon bread that would be used in the spring and summer to control dysentery and other such diseases.

“I don’t suppose,” he said in cajoling tones, “that you would have time to help me look a little more presentable?”

“You mean find you something to use to pull your whiskers?” She knew very well that he wanted her to do it for him; he had become most adept at persuading anyone who happened to be near to serve him. She fully intended to give the beard pulling a try, but she thought it just as well not to make it too easy for him.

“I suppose,” he said, suppressing a sigh. “There should be a pair of tweezers and a piece of looking glass in my hut.”

The tweezers was long and sharply pointed, of the kind used by surgeons, and had its own satin-lined case. When she had returned to his brother’s house with it, Elise took it out and handed it to Reynaud. In dulcet tones she asked, “Shall I hold the looking glass for you?”

He lifted his gaze to give her a brief glance. “Please.”

She watched carefully as he began to draw out the blue-black hairs one by one. There seemed no particular method to it except to begin in one place and proceed steadily until the area was cleared. He used quick but steady movements, pulling in the direction the hair grew; whether from stoic acceptance or simply from being used to it, he seemed to feel no unusual discomfort.

When he stopped for a moment, rubbing at a spot the size of a
piastre
that he had cleared on his chin to see if there were remaining whiskers, she held out her hand for the tweezers. “Shall I?”

His mouth curved into a smile of perfect charm. “If you would.”

She sat down on the bench and he shifted around until he could place his head in her lap. There was a lighted bowl lamp hanging above them and she moved so that her own shadow was not thrown across his face. Gripping the tweezers, she set the pincer points around a whisker, squeezed them shut, and pulled. The whisker came out easily. She could not prevent herself from touching the vacant spot, rubbing it gently to take away the sting she knew he must have felt. After a moment, she continued.

She became aware as she reached his underlip that he was smiling. She transferred her gaze to his eyes. “What’s so funny?”

“You are. You are so determined, so serious.” He would never tell her so, but it was the contrast between her single-mindedness and the sight he had of her left breast, disclosed under the open edge of her short, shoulder-tied cloak as she leaned over him, that caused his amusement. White, tilted, coral-rose-tipped, softly inviting, the gentle globe was half concealed, half revealed by her every movement. He only hoped that she did not discover its exposure.

“I don’t like hurting you,” she answered.

“No? I would have thought that not long ago nothing would have pleased you more.”

She was silent a moment. “That was then.”

His eyes narrowed, though not entirely against the pain of the hair she yanked out. “Why should now be any different?”

“I don’t know,” she said, repeating in Natchez, “
noco
.”

“That word,” he pointed out, “means ‘I cannot tell,’ not exactly the same thing.”

“Surely you know what I mean; it’s just that things have changed.”

“Because I’m lying flat on my back?” he asked, the words dangerously quiet.

“I don’t pity you, if that’s what you mean.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not anymore.”

“Tell me you don’t despise me either,” he recommended dryly.

“Nor that.” As surprise widened his eyes and took speech from him, she went on. “But I do resent being brought here against my will. I resent being forced into your bed, both the first time and yet again, in a different way, here. I resent being made to feel that should you fail to recover it will be on my head.”

“I am going to recover,” he interrupted.

“Yes,” she said, her tone abrupt as she allowed herself the briefest of surveys of his long body, particularly of the area covered by his breechclout, “I think you am.”

Reynaud watched the pink color that invaded her face with interest and could not restrain himself from a quick glance to see if it was also evident beneath her cloak. It was, if a man looked close enough, a fascinating discovery. He flexed his knee to bring a bearskin within the reach of his hand and drew it over his lower body, unwilling to allow her to see how such a revelation, and the things she had said, affected him.