by Rita Woods
She moved to the window and pushed aside the thick drape. The manicured lawn swept down toward the road, where it disappeared from view beyond two magnolia trees. Her little sister was supposed to be helping to clean, but Margot hadn’t seen even so much as her shadow since their morning coffee, hours before.
Something rustled behind her and she spun, the hairs on her neck standing up.
“Veronique?” she called. She cocked her head and listened, but the only sound was that of the old clock out in the hallway.
“Idiot, fille,” she muttered.
She straightened and ran a hand across the gritty mantle. Never mind the vague threat she felt oozing from every corner. There was real work to be done and the very real Grandmere to fear.
In less than six months’ time Margot would be eighteen. The Hannigans had promised her her freedom on her birthday, but until then, her grandmother could still pinch her arms until they turned blue if she caught her daydreaming instead of working. Margot smiled as she stepped into the hallway.
“Boo!”
Margot yelped and dropped the bundled sheets as her sister danced gleefully in the hallway.
“I scared you, didn’t I?” crowed Veronique. “Admit it! I scared you. Did you think I was a ghost?”
Margot glared at her younger sister as she bent to pick the linens up from the floor. “I was not frightened.… And where have you been?”
Veronique simply laughed and grabbed her from behind in a tight embrace.
“What mischief have you been up to, ma petite?” Margot laughed in spite of herself, pulling away to face her sister. “Sweet Virgin, you are a mess.”
She ran a thumb across the dirt smudged along Veronique’s cheek, tried to smooth down the wild hair, the same sandy color as her own, except that her sister’s stood in a wild tangle about her face and was matted with straw and feathers.
“I was collecting eggs.”
Margot eyed the feathers. “Collecting eggs or playing with the baby chicks?”
Veronique threw out her arms and laughed. “I do one and then the other is easier, oui?”
Margot smiled and shook her head. She thrust a handful of the sheets at her sister to carry. “Come, silly girl. There is real work to be done.”
* * *
All night she’d tossed and turned in a fitful sleep, and now, just before dawn, she lay wide awake. Groaning softly, Margot sat up. Yesterday had seemed to last forever—endless hours of scrubbing floors, beating half a year’s worth of dust from the carpets, airing out the bedding. The heavy work—mending the coop, taking the shutters from the windows—that would be left to Girard when he brought the Hannigans from the city, though their work had been hard enough and Margot’s body ached with fatigue.
Pale light seeped through the window of the small cabin she shared with her sister and grandmother. Wincing, she pushed herself out of bed. Veronique was still asleep, curled in a tight ball at the edge of their bed. Margot glanced across the narrow room toward the cot where their grandmother slept, and groaned softly. Grandmere was not there. The small sitting area off their bedroom was empty as well. Margot pulled a thin shawl from the hook by the door and stepped onto the porch.
“Non, Grandmere,” she muttered. “Not again.”
The day was still just beyond the horizon but the predawn air was already thick with heat. Across the damp grass, fireflies flickered in the shadows of the cypress trees.
“Grandmere?” Margot hissed into the darkness. “Grandmere, es tu ici?”
From somewhere deep in the gloom, where the grass dissolved into bayou, a cougar screamed. Margot flinched.
Their cabin sat on a slight rise, connected to the main house by a stone walkway, and though her grandmother was an early riser, the house was dark. In the other direction, the walkway led to the creek. Growling in frustration, Margot turned toward the creek. In the shifting light, something brushed across her face and she swatted frantically.
“Nom de Dieu, Margot,” she murmured. “Get hold of yourself.”
The walkway was cool beneath her bare feet and she moved slowly in the dim light. She rounded a bend, and there on the creek bank loomed the old hickory tree, a lantern flickering at its base. But her grandmother was nowhere to be seen.
A thick mist rose from the dew-covered grass. Moss, hanging from the tree branches that leaned far out over the creek, quivered in the slow-moving water.
“Grandmere?” Her voice bounced from tree to tree, then disappeared in the fog.
A figure moved in the shadows down at the creek’s edge, and she stiffened. Moments later her grandmother stepped into the small circle of light cast by the lantern. Her nightdress was soaked and muddy all the way to the knees, her square face scratched and bloodied.
“Holy Mary, Mother of God,” whispered Margot.
The old woman stared blankly into the trees and Margot rushed to her side. She flung her arms around Grandmere and tried to guide her back up the walkway toward the house. But though her grandmother was well into her seventies and a head shorter, she was strong and solidly muscled. It was like pushing against a tree.
Margot glanced at the sky. It would be light before long, and Veronique would wake and find herself alone. Her sister had an unreasoned fear of being left alone. Margot pushed harder.
“For the love of God, chére. What are you doing? Do I look like a wheelbarrow to you? Stop pushing on me.” Her grandmother was squinting at her in irritation.
Margot dropped her arms. “What am I doing?” She glared at Grandmere. “What are you doing out here in the middle of the night, vielle dame? And look at you.”
Grandmere glanced down and grunted, seemingly surprised by the mud caked on the hem of her nightdress. “Ah.”
She picked up the lantern and turned toward the cabin.
“Grandmere!”
“Hush, chére,” snapped Grandmere. She grabbed hold of Margot’s hand. “The spirits called my name.”
Margot felt the hairs stand up on her arms.
Her grandmother spoke to the spirits often—as often as she spoke to her and Veronique. Each morning, Grandmere lit a candle and whispered her prayers. Each night she did the same. On holidays, she saved a bit of the choicest meat and the richest cream as an offering to the ghosts of the ancestors. The Hannigans knew and left her to it. At least the mistress did. But the master … well that was a different matter.
But when she began to wander—when Margot would wake to find her grandmother gone in the middle of the night, or worse—missing for one whole day, or more—then Margot grew terrified. For it was at those times, few and far between, that Grandmere said the spirits were calling especially to her, had come to whisper their warnings.
The feeling of dread that had weighed on Margot since they’d arrived grew heavier, making it hard to catch her breath. Grandmere was watching her.
“Come,” she said. “Your sister will wake soon. The fireplaces all need cleaning and the linens got to be laid in the sun to freshen.” She sucked her teeth.
“And that kitchen garden’s a mess. I’ll get to working on that, then make us some sweet potato biscuits for supper.” She smiled. “You and your sister can grow fat as me, oui?”
Margot resisted being pulled along. “Grandmere, you promised Master Hannigan…”
Her grandmother whirled. “Master Hannigan does not control the spirits, girl! He does not control the world of gods.”
“But he controls this world, Grandmere. The one we live in every day. You might remind your spirits of this when they come whispering in your ear late at night.”
Grandmere reared back, the air quivering hotly between them. For one long moment Margot thought her grandmother might strike her.
“Master Hannigan is spit in the ocean, Margot,” said Grandmere finally. “In fifty years, a hundred, who will know his name? But the ancient ones, they will still rule the ways of the world.”
The old woman turned and stomped away, leaving Margot alone in
the shadows. By the time she arrived back at the cabin, her grandmother stood waiting on the tiny porch. The two stared at each other.
“Chére,” said Grandmere finally. “I will not always be here like this for you and your sister. But when the world is black, when you think you are alone, the spirits, my spirit, will be with you, living in your heart. When you don’t know the answers, just listen. Quiet. And the answers will pour into your soul.”
She gazed up at the lightening sky and laughed bitterly. “They might not be the answers you want, but the spirits always answer.”
She turned and walked into the cabin, leaving Margot shivering on the threshold.
3
Far Water sat on the far eastern edge of the vast Atchafalaya Basin, wedged on a narrow spit of land between seemingly endless miles of swamp and marshland. The estate was far enough away from the poisonous air of the city for safety, yet still close enough should James Hannigan have the need to rush back and attend to his business empire.
The big house was invisible from the main road. Perched at the end of a long, curving drive, it appeared suddenly to visitors—with its heavy stone walls, tall, white pillars, and ornate shutters—rising like a massive wedding cake between the trees.
Catherine Hannigan had filled Far Water’s rooms with crystal chandeliers and heavy velvet tapestries. The windows and doors were trimmed in gold leaf. The bureaus and cabinets overflowed with silver. Far Water was as grand in every way as the Prytania Street mansion back in the city, thirty-five miles to the northeast. During the long, hot months of summer, the Hannigans entertained often. Those who made the trek from their plantations along the great River Road that ran beside the Mississippi or from their mansions in New Orleans or Baton Rouge were feted like the cotton, coffee, sugar, cattle, slave-holding royalty that they were.
Margot was on her hands and knees in the foyer, giving the floor of the great hall a final scrubbing before the family arrived. The marble glowed in the sunlight streaming through the tall windows on either side of the front door.
“You missed a spot.”
Margot jerked, nearly overturning the water pail. She hadn’t heard Veronique come down the stairs.
“What are you doing?” she asked over her shoulder, dabbing at the spilled water.
Veronique shrugged.
Margot rolled her eyes. “Well, what are you supposed to be doing?”
Her sister didn’t answer and Margot sat back on her heels to look at her. Veronique sat with her tiny hands clenched in her lap, her lips pinched tight.
“What is wrong with you?”
Veronique reached up and began to worry the scarf knotted on her head. Grandmere had tied it there just this morning, and already most of her pale, thick curls had worked themselves free.
“Is something bad going to happen, Margot?” she asked finally.
Margot inhaled sharply through her nose. “What are you talking about, goose?” She forced a smile.
“Grandmere. I woke up. Really late. And she was gone.”
Margot looked away. Sunlight danced on the gleaming marble steps.
“Mar?”
She sighed. “Yes, chére. She went out last night.”
“Then something bad is going to happen.”
“Perhaps not, Vee.”
Veronique fixed her with a look and Margot felt a chill spiral up her spine. She remembered the fear she’d felt hours before out by the creek with Grandmere, and she searched her memory for a time, any time, when Grandmere had wandered in the world of the spirits and the words they’d whispered in her ear had been anything other than a warning of something terrible to come. She shivered.
“Remember the flood?” asked Veronique.
Margot nodded. She’d been ten, Veronique had just turned six—but she remembered clearly how they’d woken to find Grandmere gone, the tiny room off the kitchen they all shared filled with flickering candles, the door to the outside wide open. Mistress Catherine had been frantic. She hadn’t believed for a moment that the old woman had run away. Fortuna Rousse would die before she abandoned her granddaughters. And what reason would she have to leave? Weren’t she and her girls treated just like family? Girard had finally found her, wandering Magazine Street in the dead of the night, her white hair wild around her face. She said she would speak only to Master Hannigan. She never shared what passed between her and her master, but James Hannigan had, suddenly and without explanation, moved a large share of his stored cotton out of his warehouses in the business district. Two days later, a levee broke upriver. Water roared down the Mississippi, flooding the district. The stench of the muddy river lay over their neighborhood for weeks, nearly paralyzing the city. But while the other white businessmen wandered the sodden Garden District with pale, pinched faces, stunned, bankrupt, the Hannigans were little more than inconvenienced by the flood. At Christmas that year, Mistress Catherine had slipped three gold coins into Grandmere’s apron pocket.
And that had been a good thing, yes? Money in Grandmere’s pocket? The Hannigan’s fortune spared? Except that James Hannigan had become oddly distant after that, watching Grandmere from across the rooms, his expression wary, fearful.
“And the fever?” Veronique went on. A cloud seemed to pass across the golden floor. Margot nodded, her mouth dry.
“I remember,” she murmured.
1853. Just four years before, winter had seemed to last forever, cold rain lashing the muddy streets of New Orleans. A dank fog hovered over the rooftops, the stink of raw sewage choking every breath.
Then suddenly, without warning, it was blazing hot, the fog burned away. The city had been joyous. People poured into the streets to warm up and dry out, everyone’s spirits high in anticipation of Mardi Gras.
Everyone except Grandmere.
Once again, she began to wander. One night, then two. Fortuna Rousse moved through the house as if in a daze, lips moving in silent prayer. The bread she baked was thick and tasteless, her stews thin and bland. Margot struggled to get up earlier and earlier every day, trying to cover for her grandmother, while Veronique drifted behind her, anxious and silent.
And then, the Sunday before Mardi Gras, Grandmere had stalked into the dining room and slammed a platter of fish onto the table. Catherine Hannigan’s brother, his wife, and their seventeen-year-old son were visiting from Natchez. They’d been discussing plans to have the mistress’s nephew start in James Hannigan’s business. They all stared in silence as the platter skidded across the tablecloth.
“New Orleans will be filled with death,” declared Grandmere. She fixed her eyes on her master. “Get the mistress and the little ones to Far Water. Now.”
The whites said nothing. Margot gripped a pitcher of iced wine and glanced at her master. Master Hannigan’s Adam’s apple bobbed wildly above his silk collar. Time seemed to stretch, then warp, like hot taffy. Margot saw her sister trembling in the doorway, a basket of biscuits in her hand. She shook her head, warning her to stay quiet.
Finally, Catherine Hannigan laughed. A short, quivery bark. “Fortuna is so superstitious. You know these Louisiana Negroes.” Her voice was shrill, pleading, as she addressed her guests. “But she makes the best beignets and biscuits in all New Orleans.”
“Mistress,” said Grandmere, turning toward her. “It is the fever. It will come this year.…”
“Some fever or another comes every year to this maddening city.” James Hannigan had found his voice at last. He rose slowly from his chair, and Margot read danger in his eyes. She was certain her grandmother saw it, too, and yet …
“This will be like no fever before, or after,” insisted Grandmere, her voice hard. “Before it ends this will become a city of ghosts.”
“Fortuna…” Hannigan growled a warning.
From the doorway, Veronique whimpered, so softly that only Margot heard. James Hannigan was a bear of a man, quick to laugh and quicker to anger. He brooked no nonsense: not from his employees, not from his wife and children, and certainly
not from his slaves.
Margot stood frozen, staring at the table, shoulders hunched, waiting for the explosion. The fish lay partially off the platter, its dead eyes glazed, as if plotting its escape across the sea of lace and cutlery.
“You will all die,” said Grandmere, her voice flat. “Corpses will float in the street like—”
“Enough,” roared Hannigan. A fist came down on the table, sending a crystal glass crashing to the floor. “Enough of your voodoo, black magic, witchcraft! Get the hell out of here, old woman, before you make me forget you belong to my wife and not to me.”
“James!” His wife was on her feet, her normally pale face as red as her hair.
Grandmere turned and left the dining room without another word, pulling Veronique with her. Margot would have followed except that she had taken root to the spot, heart racing, hands welded to the wine pitcher. Hannigan stood glowering at the door for a long moment, then he turned his great, bearlike head and caught Margot’s eye. He blinked slowly, then visibly shook himself.
“Bring me some a’ that wine, Margot,” he called to her. He plopped in his chair and laughed. “Damn Louisiana niggers. Superstitious as hell with their curses and their ghosts.”
“James,” said his wife again, sinking back into her seat, her face still flushed.
Her brother and his wife sat wide-eyed and pale. Their son, Alain, looked amused. Margot managed to pour the wine without spilling it.
Hannigan raised his glass. “Ain’t no saffron scourge can ever get James Hannigan.” He drank from the glass and smacked his lips. “And I’m staying right here in New Orleans all summer long just to prove my point.”
But he hadn’t.
Catherine Rousse Hannigan may have been quiet, and skittish as a rabbit, but she believed to her core in what she called Grandmere’s visions. She had made her husband’s life a nightmare of tears and pleading and slammed doors. The entire Hannigan family was at Far Water by Easter.
By the end of that summer, eight thousand souls had succumbed to yellow fever, including seventeen-year-old Alain Rousse. James Hannigan would never again allow Grandmere in the same room with him.
