A Twisted Ladder (17 page)

HAHNVILLE, 1912

A
S THEY TRAVELED DOWNRIVER
into the floodplain, the scent of stagnant water and rot clung heavily in the air. Rémi had sent Francois out to continue rescue efforts in the motorized bateau, which meant that he, Helen, and Chloe had to huddle together in the little pirogue, powered only by Rémi’s sweat. The floodwaters were brown and thick with the lifeless bodies of cattle and other livestock that had been swept away. Helen held her handkerchief to her mouth and clutched Chloe’s arm as they glided along.

Raised post-and-beam plantation houses hovered over the water like genteel ladies lifting their hems to avoid puddles. Smaller outbuildings were submerged to the roofs. A rowboat sat tethered at the Locoul house, and servants bustled about controlling the damage as best they could.

The bayou had crept from the woods and mingled with the waters of the river, and the otherwise-familiar land was unrecognizable. Rémi navigated in the stifling humidity by following reeds growing from the earthen levee that ran along River Road. The sound of cicadas buzzed in the trees, along with the gentle lapping of water against the boat. Off in the distance, ever so faintly, came the unnatural sound of a bell ringing.

Rémi stopped. The faint ringing continued, not like church bells, but more like the sound of a cow bell, tolling rhythmically from the direction of the bayou.

Helen needed to get to the train station soon, but Rémi suspected the ringing came from someone in need of help in the flood waters. And so much time had now passed since the flood began, anyone who was still surviving out there would be in a desperate condition.

Helen followed his gaze to the cypress forest in the distance. “Go see who it is, Rémi.”

He dipped the oar into the water and turned the boat in the direction of the ringing. They moved silently away from the main channel of the river, across a broad, watery plain to where a thicket of trees marked the borders to the swamp. The bell grew steadily louder. They pressed forward until they reached the heart of the
ciprière
. Because the towering cypress trees are naturally aquatic, the
ciprière
seemed unperturbed by flooding. The only hint came from the fact that the trees wore giant nests of Spanish moss at their bases as well as on their boughs. The ringing echoed all around them.

Rémi cupped his hand around his mouth and called out across thick waters: “Hallo?”

The ringing stopped, and the trio listened intently. Nothing but the sizzling noises of insects in the trees. A trickle ran down Rémi’s temple, and it felt as though he was perspiring swamp water.

Then from beyond the cypress, they heard a woman’s voice:
“Hallo! Ici! Au secours!”

The bell rang out again, this time with fervor.

Rémi thrust the oar into the beery swamp, turning the boat back to the north by a thicket. They came upon a black woman cradling a child in a cypress.

She wept when she saw them, sobbing pleas of help and gushing relief in muddled English and Creole. In her arms lay a child of about six or seven, and he neither lifted his arm or raised his hand. She handed the limp boy down to Rémi, who passed him to Chloe and then helped the woman into the boat. The child’s eyes were open but dull and rimmed red. His breathing came in ragged, wheezing efforts, and his body burned with fever.

Helen’s pale eyes grew wide. “Rémi, the doctor!”

Rémi nodded. “Vacherie.”

HE NAVIGATED THE PIROGUE
back to the main waterway. As they traveled, the woman babbled in her Creole-English mix, describing the events of the past several days.

Her name was Fatima. She told them how she had heard the warning that the water was coming, and had been evacuating when her son Ferrar disappeared. She’d gone looking for him and had found him trying to salvage his crawfish traps at the rim of the bayou. There the initial wave had hit, and though it had been a low, creeping wave, it had grown turbulent when it collided with the swamp. They had tried to wade and then swim back to Locoul Plantation. But, disoriented and exhausted by the tumultuous water, they’d taken refuge in a tree. They’d stayed there through the night, and the next morning they’d again tried to swim, but once again failed to find their way. By then, the wet chill had taken its toll on the boy, and he was succumbing to exposure.

The following day had passed with Ferrar growing weaker and more ill. Fatima was afraid to try swimming again, exposing her son to the cold water which by then had become foul. Finally, this morning, she’d noticed the bloated carcass of a cow drifting nearby. She’d slipped back into the fetid water to retrieve a bell from around its neck, and had been ringing it ever since.

Her hands were clasped around her son’s, with tears streaming down her face as she spoke. Helen and Chloe patted and cooed, dipping Helen’s handkerchief into the thick waters and trying to cool the boy’s fevered brow. Helen stole furtive glances at Rémi as if to urge him faster with her eyes.

Fatima’s gaze darted past Chloe, and then returned and fixed upon her as if noticing her for the first time. She addressed her in rural French.

I know who you are. You’re from Elderberry Plantation
.

Chloe shook her head.

The boy’s ragged breathing grew louder. The four adults ceased conversation and stared at him. His rasping became a gurgle, and he writhed in his mother’s arms. And then he clawed at his throat. Fatima gasped and grabbed his hands, but his small fingernails had already left bleeding tracks on his neck. Rémi pressed forth with all his might at the oars, frantically heaving for Vacherie, still a good distance away. Too far away. Rémi thought the child’s shredded gasps were the most terrible sounds he’d ever heard.

But then the sounds stopped altogether, and the desperate silence that followed was far more horrible.

The child gaped, his tongue protruding to its farthest extent and his eyes wide with panic. Fatima grabbed his shoulders and shouted his name. His eyes rolled with abject fear, but his lungs did not fill.

Fatima screamed. “For God, my baby’s not breathing! Ferrar!”

A burst of red appeared in his left eye. A blood vessel overstrained. He flailed.

Fatima clamped Chloe’s wrist. “Help him!”

Rémi dropped the oar in the boat, seizing the boy and shaking him. Ferrar thrashed but did not catch a breath. Chloe reached past Rémi and thrust her fingers into the boy’s mouth, but he responded with not so much as a gurgle.

Chloe touched Rémi’s arm. “I must to have a reed.”

He looked back at her in confusion.

She repeated herself, switching to French, and pointed to the clump rising out of the river several feet away.
“Tout de suite!”

Realization dawned and Rémi started paddling for the reeds. He cursed and tossed aside the paddle and threw himself over the side of the boat. With a glint of his pocket knife, he severed a fistful and splashed back to Chloe.

She grabbed the reeds and also the pocket knife. Rémi climbed back in.

“Hold the head!” she said.

Rémi positioned himself behind Ferrar so that his knees were on either side of the boy’s ears, his hands gently cradling the skull. Ferrar was no longer thrashing.

Chloe made quick cuts on the reed until she had a short, stiff tube, then blew through the center of it. The child’s dark skin had grown ashen. She straddled his limp body and cupped her hands behind his neck, lifting so that his head lolled backward. She grabbed Rémi’s hand and directed him to hold the child firmly so that he maintained this posture.

Chloe probed the V in the center of the child’s collarbone. And then her fingers moved from the V up toward the chin, until she found the sensitive, boneless indentation just below the Adam’s apple. Her knife flashed, slicing into tissue. Fatima cried out.

Chloe pressed her finger inside the boy’s throat as blood began to flow. She sank the reed into the incision and blew a short breath through the tube. The child’s lungs expanded, then lay still. She blew again, paused, then repeated the action. Each time the child’s chest rose, then lay motionless. Blood flowed down the boy’s neck and onto Rémi’s clothing.

Chloe blew again, and then again, and again.

Finally, there came a strangled gurgle from the boy’s throat. He gagged, a silent gesture at the mouth, but audible at the point of incision. His lungs filled and released on their own, each breath causing a hollow whistle through the reed.

Fatima sobbed and pressed her forehead to her son’s hand. Helen, ghost-white and unsteady, trembled as she mopped the child’s blood with her dampened lace handkerchief.

Rémi crawled back into position with the oar, and resumed haste for Vacherie.

BAYOU BLACK, 2009

T
HE CITY OF NEW ORLEANS
faded to haze in the rearview mirror as they drove south, and Jasmine’s tiny wet nose bounced along the window, leaving wispy patterns on the glass. Ethan sat at the wheel. Madeleine sat in the passenger seat with Jasmine in her lap. And wedged between them, chattering like a squirrel in November, sat Daddy Blank.

“So y’all had a good time at the zoo?” Daddy said.

“Yup,” Madeleine said, and switched on the Cajun music station. Daddy patted his leg in time to the jaunty rhythms, and Madeleine smiled. When his schizophrenia was escalating he had a hard time tolerating things like radio and TV. His enjoying the music was a good sign.

“You went on over to Monkey Hill, did you?” Daddy pressed.

Madeleine said, “Yup.”

“That’s it? That’s all?”

Ethan cocked an eye at him and then returned his gaze to the road.

Daddy said, “Oh, that’s right. Y’all went out to dinner after, didn’t you?”

Madeleine rolled her eyes and gave him a look. Daddy only knew about Monkey Hill because he’d been eavesdropping when they’d made plans. He’d been staying in the Quarter, so he wasn’t aware that not only had they indeed gone to dinner, but they’d gone again the next night. And every few days since.

She stole a glance at Ethan’s forearm, muscular and patterned with downy hairs, and she remembered that sandalwood-and-granite scent of him. An unbidden grin came to her lips, and she turned her face toward the window.