Postmark Bayou Chene (33 page)

At the cemetery trees almost touched over the top of the narrow bayou, making a tunnel for the boats bearing the coffins. First came the solemn parade of little vessels bearing the bodies, most with a single passenger facing the sky. The majority of the dead were men of all ages and class, although station in life was hard to determine, since many were dressed in borrowed clothes. Two women were among them, and while it was unusual for a woman to travel alone, there was no way to know which of the bodies represented couples who had shared a life together before they were joined in death. One woman had a child lying in the crook of her arm. Two other children appeared to be siblings.

From intersecting bayous more boats joined the regatta of death. The dip and pull of the handmade paddles and oars left brief marks in the water, each one a signature of the man who carved it. The Cheners, who normally would be joking and talking, bent silently to their tasks.

One after the other the boats unloaded their burdens to men and boys on the bank. The soft thud of shovels, along with an occasional grunt or soft-spoken directions, broke the silence along the bank. Periodically, a wagon creaked down the path from York's bearing two or three coffins, which were unloaded near open graves. As bodies arrived, they were placed directly into coffins, which were then lowered into the ground to be covered with fragrant earth and leaf mold.

Even C.B. came out to help. Without meeting anyone's eye, she busied herself gathering small bouquets of honeysuckle for the graves where the unidentified children lay. When she had done all she could, she remained near the dead children and held Sam Junior tightly.

She stiffened and looked away when Roseanne arrived with York and Mary Ann Bertram. A moment later she was surprised to feel a hand on her arm. It was Roseanne's. No one else could hear what words were spoken, but it was clear that forgiveness had been asked and granted in the shadow of so much sorrow.

“Well, that's ten poor souls so far,” murmured Mary Ann. “At least they have a resting-place. We'll never know how many had already sunk or gone downstream before Sam could catch them. How sad to think of people waiting for them at docks and not knowing something's happened.”

“Once news gets around about the sinking and the steamer is identified, I suppose we'll be meeting some of their relatives,” Roseanne added. “Adam is mailing all the personal papers that had addresses on them. They'll be a comfort to some, anyway. Look, I think this is the last one.”

They turned to where Val and Sam met the final boat in the procession.

“Tie up to this little cypress; it'll hold till you unload,” Val directed. “Here you go, Sam. Me, I'll get the other end.”

Together they worked the corpse onto the bank. Within minutes it was laid out in the coffin and placed in the last open grave.

“What are we waiting for?” Mary Ann looked over the assembled crowd a few minutes later. “All the graves are covered, and the preacher's here.”

“Adam sent Fate to get Loyce because his boat is faster,” Roseanne said. “That was a while ago, so they should be here most anytime.”

Mary Ann scanned the scene again, but there was no sign of Fate's boat coming down the bayou.

“Loyce! Loyce!” Fate's voice tore through the hushed crowd, not from the bayou but from the woods path.

Heads turned to the sound of his boots pounding the trail. A second later he broke into the clearing, glancing wildly around the crowd.

“She's gone!” he panted. “I thought maybe she decided to try to walk down here with Drifter, but I didn't see them along the path. There's no sign of them anywhere.”

28

Drifter opened one eye. Pain radiated from the other one, which stayed shut and felt heavy. She inhaled a questioning sniff. A smell, like the snake on the plank walk but stronger, made the fur stiffen on her neck. She looked as far as she could see from where she was lying on the kitchen floor next to the stove. The room was empty. She listened. There was no rustle of dress and apron. No wooden rockers on the porch floor. She sniffed again. Loyce was gone, and all that remained was the faint scent of her almost overpowered by the snake smell.

Drifter drew her legs under her full belly and pushed up. Near the sweet potato that had fallen on the floor, her nose picked out the last pure spot of Loyce's scent and followed it toward the door where the danger smell blended with it. The combined scent led her off the porch, down the plank walk, and to the water's edge. She looked with her good eye, but if there was something to see, she missed it. Her nose was her true guide. She drew in rapid sharp breaths. There were willows that smelled like rain. The fishy water flowing past the dock. The rot of a lost shrimp net snagged under the logs.

Suddenly, there it was—a faint curl on the breeze. Drifter had not been in water since the day Fate had pulled her from it. In fact, she avoided the dock, boats, anything that brought water to mind. But at that moment she dove in without hesitation, heading toward the opposite bank and Loyce's scent. Her webbed paws paddled effortlessly, barely disturbing the current, which dragged her slightly downstream. When she reached the bank, her swollen body became heavy again, and she was breathing hard by the time she scrambled to the top. Not stopping to catch her breath, she snuffled the ground, the bushes, the air. There it was! Mixed again with the danger smell.

She paused for a heartbeat when she heard a familiar put- putting in the distance. Fate. The noisy human whose arrival always brought joy to Drifter and vexation to Loyce. Loyce!

Drifter turned away from the sound of Fate's motor and set to the trail again, single-mindedly forging ahead, sometimes catching hold of one or the other or both smells at once. Since she tracked by scent, not sight, a puddle or log across the path could throw her off. Then thorns and vines snatched her, blocked her way, and wound around her head, her feet. She backed up, pulled loose, or chewed her way through, always looping back to find the trail once more. The afternoon light in the thicket dimmed as evening came on, but it didn't matter because her nose held the trail, which was now mostly the danger smell.

Suddenly, there was a new pain, sharp like a thorn low on her stomach. She bit at it but caught nothing. She went on. Another pain, again nothing there. She slowed, her body getting heavier with every step, sinking on her short legs. The pains were coming faster, and she realized they were deep inside her. Exhausted, she collapsed, struggling to breathe.

Night fell, and despite the pull of the scent, she couldn't make her body move. Finally, a mighty wave of pain washed over her, followed by three more. Instincts set her tongue to licking the four little bundles. Only when they were clean and nursing did she groan and give in to sleep.

Loyce breathed shallowly, willing herself to stay conscious. Her efforts were hampered by a wad of cloth stuffed in her mouth. She remembered being dragged along the walk to the dock, then picked up and dumped into a boat. Her heart pounded, but no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't pull in enough air and soon drifted into unconsciousness.

She didn't know how much time had passed when she woke to the gentle bump of land under the boat bottom. By then she was curled into a tight, protective bundle but had straightened her neck enough to breathe. There was a sucking sound of boots in mud as the small boat was pulled up an incline. Then, with a grunt, the man picked her up like a sack of cornmeal and threw her over his shoulder. Hanging upside down didn't disorient Loyce as much as it might a sighted person, but the posture hampered her breathing again and made blood rush to her head.

She was slipping out of consciousness again when his feet sounded on a plank walk. He kicked open a door, and fetid air closed around them like a sour blanket. She was dumped onto a cot. Loyce could feel the rope supports beneath a bare moss mattress. Years of sweat, soot, and unwashed maleness made her gag.

Fear
. She could name it, even though she had never felt it before. Her sheltered life had kept it from touching her. Even the night of the snake on the plank walk, Drifter, Fate, and Adam had rushed to save her before she was even aware of the danger. Now there was no one to see, hear, or come to her aid.

Cold, prickly beads of sweat popped out of her skin. Blood thrummed in her temples, making it impossible to think.
This isn't happening, this isn't happening
. The useless words ran circles in her mind. She was not only blind but paralyzed by terror.

Slowly, her senses returned. First she heard rummaging, followed by the clink of a lamp globe. That meant it was dark enough for her to lift her chin and point her nose away from the stink of the bedding without her movement being detected. The longer she could feign being out, the more time she had to think.

How far was she from home? In what direction? Were there other people nearby? If so, would they come to her aid, or would they alert him if his prisoner tried to escape? Escape from where? Who was he? How could she leave if she didn't even know where she was? Panic rippled through her at the realization. That's exactly what he had in mind!

Loyce willed control over her terror.
Pay attention!
That's what she was good at. She lay still and listened, thinking back through the day. It had been near noon when she went to the kitchen. It felt like several hours had passed since she was taken, so the day must be nearing its end. Yet even to her acute ears, no mothers called children to supper. No dogs barked greetings to returning fishermen. No cows lowed for their calves after milking. There was no clunk of boats against docks and houseboats. No sounds of human occupation except for the man's panting, as if breathing through his mouth.

He continued to rummage. She heard a fuel can rattle against a woodstove, then smelled the coal oil. Where does he buy supplies, she wondered. The stranger wasn't one of their customers, and his movements didn't sound like anyone she had ever heard described. More rummaging, then the thud of something heavy landing in a skillet was followed by the smell of rancid grease splashing on the stove.