The Sword (13 page)

“Get out of here or I’ll give you both barrels!” She was deathly afraid but determined. “You leave me alone, or I swear I’ll kill you, Bragg.”

For a moment, he looked uncertain, but then he laughed in his ugly hyena bray. “You got some spit, Chantel. As soon as your ma dies, I’m gonna marry up with you.”

“I would never marry you! Never!”

“You ain’t but fifteen, and the law says you got to do what I say when your momma dies. Everything she has will be mine—and that means you, too. So you will marry me, too, little girl.” He crossed his arms and nodded as if she had agreed with him. “I’m gonna have you, Chantel. You just make up your mind to that.” With one last leer, he turned abruptly and left the room.

Chantel was so shaken she thought that her legs wouldn’t support her. She sat down on the bed, trembling in every nerve. Bragg had been after her for over a year, since her mother had been sick. He found excuses to touch her, and he made crude remarks. The fear that had driven Chantel to fight him off turned into a sick emptiness deep inside her. Still she trembled, but now with a treacherous, nauseous weakness. With an effort, she leaned the shotgun back against the wall; then she fell on the bed and began to weep. Her body shook, but she muffled her sobs, for her mother was in the next room.

Finally the storm of weeping ceased. Chantel took a deep shuddering breath. She stood up and retrieved the shotgun. The weight of the gun gave her some courage.

He’ll get me … He’ll never stop coming at me, no!

Moving to the window, she gazed out at the bayou. The moon
cast its silver image on the still dark waters, and the hoarse grunt of a bull gator broke the silence.

Chantel leaned over and put one hand against the wall and began to pray.
I can’t leave
ma mere,
good God. So You keep him from me, yes!

Chantel’s spirit was crying out for her mother, who was dying. She knew that her stepfather was evil and would never leave her alone. She’d never understood why her mother had married Bragg after her first husband, Chantel’s father, had died. The thick hatred she bore for her stepfather was like a sickening sour taste in her mouth.

Chantel knew nothing about the law, but she suspected that Bragg might be right.
When ma mere dies, he’ll take me.
The thought caused a wave of fear, as sharp as the knife she always carried. She lay on the bed, grasping her knife in its leather sheaf in one sweaty hand and holding the shotgun with the other. Chantel waited for the dawn.

At daybreak, just as the sun was coming up, Chantel heard the sound of Bragg riding away and felt a welcome relief. She rose quickly, still fully dressed, for she had been wakeful all night, expecting Bragg to come back into her bedroom at any moment. Hurriedly she went into the kitchen and fixed a broth of turtle soup for her mother.

Carefully she set a tray with the broth and some hot ginger tea. After staring at it for a moment, she turned and ran outside, then returned with a piece of honeysuckle vine and laid it across the plain tray to make it look as pretty as she could. She then took the tray into her mother’s room.

Even though her mother had been very ill for more than a year, still Chantel received a small shock when she saw her for the first time every day. She was so pale and thin! Her eyes were sunken, and her color was pale. Chantel forced herself to smile. “I have something good for you, Mere. You’ll like it.”

“I’m not very hungry, child.”

“You’ve got to eat to keep your strength up, yes.”

“Maybe just a little bit.”

Chantel set the bowl down and helped her mother sit up. Her mother’s bones felt as fragile as those of a bird, and there was practically no flesh on them. The doctors had said that it was “the wasting disease” and they could do nothing for her. In the last two months it had seemed that the life was draining out of her moment by moment.

Chantel fed her mother, but she could eat only a few spoonfuls of the broth. Wearily she then said, “I can’t eat no more, me.”

“Maybe you eat some later.”

“Chantel, sit down. There is something I must say.”

Chantel put the tray aside and drew a chair close to the bed. “What is it, Mere?”

Her mother reached out and took her hand. “The good God has told me that it’s time for me to go.”

“No, Mere, you mustn’t say that!”

“It is the good God who has told me this in my spirit. You must not grieve for me. I’ll be glad to go home, I’m so tired and I hurt so bad.”

“Maybe you get better.”

“No, Chantel, you know I won’t, and I’m ready. I want you to listen carefully.”

“Yes, Mere, what is it?”

“I’ve been praying for you to find the Lord Jesus, and you will. But when I’m gone, you must leave this place. You must go to my sister Lorraine in Mississippi.”

Chantel didn’t question her mother, for she knew that her mother was aware of Bragg’s evil ways, and this was her attempt to protect her. “It will be safe for you there. Promise me,
cherie
!”

“I promise,” Chantel said, “but my heart is breaking for you.”

Her mother pressed her hand. “God has appointed us a time to go, and it will be good for me. Now I pray that God will watch over you.” She bowed her head and began to pray.

As she did, Chantel felt the tears begin to run down her cheeks. She wiped her eyes on her sleeve, and after her mother ended her prayer, she said, “It will be well, ma mere. God will take good care of me.”

Chantel left the room, carrying the tray, her heart as heavy as it had ever been. She knew that her mother couldn’t live long. She also knew that as soon as she was gone, Bragg would be after her, and there was not a soul in the world who could help.

Chantel had helped her father make the boat called a pirogue before he died. She remembered as she pushed it out into the dark waters of the bayou how they had worked on it together. He hadn’t lived long after this, but he’d taught Chantel how to get through the waters of the bayou and the swamp in the frail craft.

Taking up a pole, she pushed off from the shore, and the
pirogue
seemed to glide across the water. The smell of humus was thick in her nostrils. She glanced up as a flight of brown pelicans in a V formation made their way across the sky. The sun was as yellow as an egg yolk. Despite the heaviness of her heart, Chantel admired the beautiful wild orchids that carpeted the still waters. Then she made her way through large pools, green with lily pads that clustered along the bayou’s banks. They were bursting with flowers. She quickly went into the heart of the bayou, where she watched a flight of egrets, then a blue heron lifting its spindly legs carefully, its needlelike beak darting down on a fish. He tossed the fish up in the air, caught it, and swallowed it. Chantel smiled as it went down his long thin neck. “You have a good breakfast, you,” she said.

The air was moist and cool, but it wouldn’t remain so long. She reached the enormous cypress, where she had tied one end of a trotline. She started to pull up the line, and she felt it trembling. “I got me a big fish,” she said with satisfaction. Even as she spoke, a flash of white caught the corner of her eye. She whirled around quickly and saw a cottonmouth that was thicker than her leg. The
white in the mouth was exposed, giving it the name. She smelled the stench that these snakes give off, and it made her shudder. Quickly, Chantel reached down and picked up the shotgun. In one smooth motion, she loaded it and pulled one of the triggers. It tore the monster’s head off, and Chantel nodded with satisfaction. “You ain’t gonna bite nobody no more, you!”

She looked around to be sure that there were no alligators. She saw none, so she began to run the trot line. She pulled up the line, and on the third baited hook, she found a large catfish that weighed over six pounds she assumed. Carefully she pulled it off, avoiding the spines, which were poison. When it was free, she kept her thumb in its mouth, holding it carefully. She picked up a pair of clippers and clipped off the spines, then tossed the fish into a sack that she had brought.

Picking up the line, she continued to check for more fish. Many of the baits had been lost, but finally the line resisted her. “I got me something down there,” she said. She tugged at the main line, and finally the head of a huge snapping turtle appeared. He’d swallowed the bait and was now snapping at her and hissing. “You go on and hiss, old turtle. You’re gonna make a nice soup, I tell you.” She heaved the turtle into the boat, and with the hatchet she always carried, she chopped off its head. The mouth kept snapping as it lay in the boat. She picked it up with her thumb and forefinger and threw it into the swamp. “I gonna eat you tonight, me.”

She continued until she’d run the trotline; then she reversed the boat and headed back. As she reached the shore, she saw Ansel Vernier, a good friend. “Ansel, I got plenty of fish. I give you some.”

Ansel helped her pull the pirogue to the bank. She pulled a large catfish out and handed it to him. He spoke in French saying, “Thank you, Chantel. You have good luck today.”

“See this big turtle? He’ll make a good soup. Come over tomorrow. I give you some of it.”

“Maybe I will.”

Ansel was a small dark man with a mouth as big as the catfish
he held in his hand. He now said, “How is your good mother?”

“Not good at all, Ansel, very weak.”

“I will pray for her and light a candle when I go to church.” He shot an unhappy glance toward the house then turned to her. “Is Rufus at home?”

“No, he’s gone to get drunk in town. I wish he’d just stay there.”

Ansel nodded. He knew that Bragg was an evil man, and he feared for Chantel. “What will you do when your mother goes to God?”

“I will stay here, me. This was ma pere’s place.”

Ansel was troubled. “Thanks for the fish. Let me know if you have trouble, little one.”

Two days passed and Chantel knew that her mother couldn’t live much longer. She had no family, but the Cajuns who lived close in the bayou came by. They tried to comfort her, and they brought food, which her mother was too sick to eat. Chantel was just too grieved.

Eventually Bragg came home drunk. As he entered the house, he grabbed at Chantel.

She whipped her knife out of the sheath.

“That’s all right, Chantel. I’ll have you soon.”

“You’ll never have me!”

“Yes I will. You’ll see.”

That night Chantel sat up with her mother, who was in a terminal sleep. Her breathing was barely discernible. She finally woke up sometime in the early hours. “I go to meet—Him. May the good God take care of you.”

Her mother didn’t move again, and Chantel was unable to tell the moment when she left this life. She folded her mother’s hands across her breast as the hot tears rolled down her cheeks.

She was only fifteen, and she was more alone in the world than any fifteen-year-old ever should be. She knew that she would have to leave, but she knew that no matter what Rufus Bragg did, she
had to see her beloved mere buried like the Christian woman that she had been.