Ralestone Luck

by Andre Norton

  “Yes.”

  “Might do for the jacket of the book. Have Mr. Richards see this. Marvelous types, where did you get them?” he continued, looking from the canvas to Ricky and Val.

  “Oh, I am sorry. Miss Ralestone, may I present Mr. Creighton, and Mr. Holmes, both of New York. And this,” she smiled at Val, “is Mr. Valerius Ralestone, the brother of the owner of this plantation. The family, I believe, has lived here for about two hundred and fifty years.”

  Creighton’s manner became a shade less brusque as he took the hand Ricky held out to him. “I might have known that no professional could get that look,” he said.

  “Then this isn’t your place?” Mr. Holmes said to Charity after he had greeted the Ralestones.

  “Mine? Goodness no! I rent the old overseer’s house. Pirate’s Haven is Ralestone property.”

  “Pirate’s Haven.” Judson Holmes’ infectious grin reappeared. “A rather suggestive name.”

  “The builder intended to name it ‘King’s Acres’ because it was a royal grant,” Val informed him. “But he was a pirate, so the other name was given it by the country folk and he adopted it. And he was right in doing so because there were other freebooters in the family after his time.”

  “Yes, we are even equipped with a pirate ghost,” contributed Ricky with a mischievous glance in her brother’s direction.

  Holmes fanned himself with his hat. “So romance isn’t dead after all. Well, Charity, shall we stay—in town I mean?”

  “Why?” a thin line appeared between her eyes as if she had little liking for such a plan.

  “Well, Creighton is here on the track of a mysterious new writer who is threatening to produce a second Gone with the Wind. And I—well, I like the climate.”

  “We’ll see,” muttered Charity.

  CHAPTER X

  INTO THE SWAMP

  In spite of the fact that they received but lukewarm encouragement from Charity, both Holmes and Creighton lingered on in New Orleans. Mr. Creighton made several attempts to get in touch with Jeems, whom he seemed to suspect of concealing vast literary treasures. And he spent one hot morning going through the trunk of papers which the Ralestones had found in the storage-room. Ricky commented upon the fact that being a publisher’s scout was almost like being an antique buyer.

  Holmes was a perfect foil for his laboring friend. He lounged away his days draped across the settee on Charity’s gallery or sitting down on the bayou levee—after she had chased him away—pitching pebbles into the water. He told all of them that it was his vacation, the first one he had had in five years, and that he was going to make the most of it. Companioned by Creighton, he usually enlarged the family circle in the evenings. And the tales he could tell about the far corners of the earth were as wildly romantic as Rupert’s—though he did assure his listeners that even Tibet was very tame and well behaved nowadays.

  Charity had finished the first illustration and had started another. This time Ricky and Val appeared polished and combed as if they had just stepped out of a ball-room of a governor’s palace—which they had, according to the story. It was during her second morning’s work upon this that she threw down her brush with a snort of disgust.

  “It’s no use,” she told her models, “I simply can’t work on this now. All I can see is that scene where the hero’s mulatto half-brother watches the ball from the underbrush. I’ve got to do that one first.”

  “Why don’t you then?” Ricky stretched to relieve cramped muscles.

  “I would if I could get Jeems. He’s my model for the brother. He’s enough like you, Val, for the resemblance, and his darker tan is just right for color. But he won’t come back while Creighton’s here. I could wring that man’s neck!”

  “But Creighton left for Milneburg this morning,” Val reminded her. “Rupert told him about the old voodoo rites which used to be celebrated there on June 24th, St. John’s Eve, and he wanted to see if there were any records—”

  “Yes. But Jeems doesn’t know he’s gone. If we could only get in touch with him—Jeems, I mean.”

  “Miss ’Chanda!”

  Sam Two, as they had come to call Sam’s eldest son and heir, was standing on the lowest step of the terrace, holding a small covered basket in his hands.

  “Yes?”

  “Letty-Lou done say dis am fo’ yo’all, Miss ’Chanda.”

  “For me?” Ricky looked at the offering in surprise. “But what in the world—Bring it here, Sam.”

  “Yas’m.”

  He laid the basket in Ricky’s outstretched hands.

  “I’ve never seen anything like this before.” She turned it around. “It seems to be woven of some awfully fine grass—”

  “That’s swamp work.” Charity was peering over Ricky’s shoulder. “Open it.”

  Inside on a nest of raw wild cotton lay a bracelet of polished wood carved with an odd design of curling lines which reminded Val of Spanish moss. And with the circlet was a small purse of scaled hide.

  “Swamp oak and baby alligator,” burst out Charity. “Aren’t they beauties?”

  “But who—” began Ricky.

  Val picked up a scrap of paper which had fluttered to the floor. It was cheap stuff, ruled with faint blue lines, but the writing was bold and clear: “Miss Richanda Ralestone.”

  “It’s yours all right.” He handed her the paper.

  “I know.” She tucked the note away with the gifts. “It was Jeems.”

  “Jeems? But why?” her brother protested.

  “Well, yesterday when I was down by the levee he was coming in and I knew that Mr. Creighton was here and I told him. So,” she colored faintly, “then he took me across the bayou and I got some of those big swamp lilies that I’ve always wanted. And we had a long talk. Val, Jeems knows the most wonderful things about the swamps. Do you know that they still have voodoo meetings sometimes—way back in there,” she swept her hand southward. “And the fur trappers live on house-boats, renting their hunting rights. But Jeems owns his own land. Now some northerners are prospecting for oil. They have a queer sort of car which can travel either on land or water. And Père Armand has church records that date back to the middle of the eighteenth century. And—”

  “So that’s where you were from four until almost six,” Val laughed. “I don’t know that I approve of this riotous living. Will Jeems take me to pick the lilies too?”

  “Maybe. He wanted to know why you always moved so carefully. And I told him about the accident. Then he said the oddest thing—” She was staring past Val at the oaks. “He said that to fly was worth being smashed up for and that he envied you.”

  “Then he’s a fool!” her brother said promptly. “Nothing is worth—” Val stopped abruptly. Five months before he had made a bargain with himself; he was not going to break it now.

  “Do you know,” Ricky said to Charity, “if you really need Jeems this morning, I think I can get him for you. He told me yesterday how to find his cabin.”

  “But why—” The objection came almost at once from Charity. Val thought she was more than a little surprised that Jeems, who had steadfastly refused to give her the same information, had supplied it so readily to Ricky whom he hardly knew at all.

  “I don’t know,” answered Ricky frankly. “He was rather queer about it. Kept saying that the time might come when I would need help, and things like that.”

  “Charity,” Val was putting her brushes straight, “I learned long ago that nothing can be kept from Ricky. Sooner or later one spills out his secrets.”

  “Except Rupert!” Ricky aired her old grievance.

  “Perhaps Rupert,” her brother agreed.

  “Anyway, I do know where Jeems lives. Do you want me to get him for you, Charity?”

  “Certainly not, child! Do you think that I’d let you go into the swamp? Why, even men who know somethin
g of woodcraft think twice before attempting such a trip without a guide. Of course you’re not going! I think,” she put her paint-stained hand to her head, “that I’m going to have one of my sick headaches. I’ll have to go home and lie down for an hour or two.”

  “I’m sorry.” Ricky’s sympathy was quick and warm. “Is there anything I can do?”

  Charity shook her head with a rueful smile. “Time is the only medicine for one of these. I’ll see you later.”

  “Just the same,” Ricky stood looking after her, “I’d like to know just what is going on in the swamp right now.”

  “Why?” Val asked lightly.

  “Because—well, just because,” was her provoking answer. “Jeems was so odd yesterday. He talked as if—as if there were some threat to us or him. I wonder if there is something wrong.” She frowned.

  “Of course not!” her brother made prompt answer. “He’s merely gone off on one of those mysterious trips of his.”

  “Just the same, what if there were something wrong? We might go and see.”

  “Nonsense!” Val snapped. “You heard what Charity said about going into the swamp alone. And there is nothing to worry about anyway. Come on, let’s change. And then I have something to show you.”

  “What?” she demanded.

  “Wait and see.” His ruse had succeeded. She was no longer looking swampward with that gleam of purpose in her eye.

  “Come on then,” she said, prodding him into action.

  Val changed slowly. If one didn’t care about mucking around in the garden, as Ricky seemed to delight in doing, there was so little in the way of occupation. He thought of the days as they spread before him. A little riding, a great amount of casual reading and—what else? Was the South “getting” him as the tropics are supposed to “get” the Northerners?

  That unlucky meeting with a mountaintop had effectively despoiled him of his one ambition. Soldiers with game legs are not wanted. He couldn’t paint like Charity, he couldn’t spin yarns like Rupert, he possessed a mind too inaccurate to cope with the intricacies of any science. And as a business man he would probably be a good street cleaner.

  What was left? Well, the surprise he had promised Ricky might cover the problem. As he reached for a certain black note-book, someone knocked on his door.

  “Mistuh Val, wheah’s Miss ’Chanda? She ain’t up heah an’ Ah wan’s to—”

  Lucy stood in the hall. The light from the round window was reflected from every corrugated wave of her painfully marcelled hair. Her vast flowered dress had been thriftily covered with a dull-green bib-apron and she had changed her smart slippers for the shapeless gray relics she wore indoors. Just now she looked warm and tired. After all, running two households was something of a task even for Lucy.

  “Why, she should be in her room. We came up to change. Miss Charity’s gone home with a headache. What was it you wanted her for?”

  “Dese heah cu’ta’ns, Mistuh Val”—she thrust a mound of snowy and beruffled white stuff at him—“dey has got to be hung. An’ does Miss ’Chanda wan’ dem in her room or does she not?”

  “Better put them up. I’ll tell her about it. Here wait, let me open that door.”

  Val looked into Ricky’s room. As usual, it appeared as though a whirlwind, a small whirlwind but a thorough one, had passed through it. Her discarded costume lay tumbled across the bed and her slippers lay on the floor, one upside down. He stooped to set them straight.

  “It do beat all,” Lucy said frankly as she put her burden down on a chair, “how dat chile do mak’ a mess. Now yo’, Mistuh Val, jest put eberythin’ jest so. But Miss ’Chanda leave eberythin’ which way afore Sunday! Looka dat now.” She pointed to the half-open door of the closet. A slip lay on the floor. Ricky must have been in a hurry; that was a little too untidy even for her.

  A sudden suspicion sent Val into the closet to investigate. Ricky’s wardrobe was not so extensive that he did not know every dress and article in it very well. It did not take him more than a moment to see what was missing.

  “Did Ricky go riding?” Val asked. “Her habit is gone.”

  “She ain’ gone ‘cross de bayo’ fo’ de hoss,” answered Lucy, reaching for the curtain rod. “An’ anyway, Sam done took dat critter down de road fo’ to be shoed.”

  “Then where—” But Val knew his Ricky only too well.

  She had a certain stubborn will of her own. Sometimes opposition merely drove her into doing the forbidden thing. And the swamp had been forbidden. But could even Ricky be such a fool? Certain memories of the past testified that she could. But how? Unless she had taken Sam’s boat—

  Without a word of explanation to Lucy, he dashed out of the room and downstairs at his best pace. As he left the house Val broke into a stumbling run. There was just a chance that she had not yet left the plantation.

  But the bayou levee was deserted. And the post where Sam’s boat was usually moored was bare of rope; the boat was gone. Of course Sam Two might have taken it across the stream to the farm.

  That hope was extinguished as the small brown boy came out of the bushes along the stream side.

  “Sam, have you seen Miss ’Chanda?” Val demanded.

  “Yessuh.”

  “Where?” Carrying on a conversation with Sam Two was like prying diamonds out of a rock. He possessed a rooted distaste for talking.

  “Heah, suh.”

  “When?”

  “Jest a li’l bitty ’go.”

  “Where did she go?”

  Sam pointed downstream.

  “Did she take the boat?”

  “Yessuh.” And then for the first time since Val had known him Sam volunteered a piece of information. “She done say she a-goin’ in de swamp.”

  Val leaned back against the hole of one of the willows. Then she had done it! And what could he do? If he had any idea of her path, he could follow her while Sam aroused Rupert and the house.

  “If I only knew where—” he mused aloud.

  “She a-goin’ to see dat swamper Jeems,” Sam continued. “Heh, heh,” a sudden cackle of laughter rippled across his lips. “Dat ole swamper think he so sma’t. Think no one fin’ he house—”

  “Sam!” Val rounded upon him. “Do you know where Jeems lives?”

  “Yessuh.” He twisted the one shoulder-strap of his overalls and Val guessed that his knowledge was something he was either ashamed of or afraid to tell.

  “Can you take me there?”

  He shook his head. “Ah ain’ a-goin’ in dere, Ah ain’!”

  “But, Sam, you’ve got to! Miss ’Chanda is in there. She may be lost. We’ve got to find her!” Val insisted.

  Sam’s thin shoulders shook and he slid backward as if to avoid the white boy’s reach. “Ah ain’ a-goin’ in dere,” he repeated stubbornly. “Effen yo’all wants to go in dere—Looky, Mistuh Val, Ah tells yo’all de way an’ yo’all goes.” He brightened at this solution. “Yo’all kin take pappy’s othah boat; it am downstream dere, behin’ dem willows. Den yo’all goes down to de secon’ big pile o’ willows. Behin’ dem is a li’l bitty bayo’ goin’ back. Yo’all goes up dat ’til yo’all comes to a fur rack. Den dat Jeems got de way marked on de trees.”

  With that he turned and ran as if all the terrors of the night were on his trail. There was nothing for Val to do but to follow his directions. And the longer he lingered before setting out the bigger lead Ricky was getting.

  He found the canoe behind the willows as Sam had said. Awkwardly he pushed off, hoping that Lucy would pry the whole story out of her son and put Rupert on their track as soon as possible.

  The second clump of willows was something of a landmark, a huge matted mass of sucker and branch, the lower tips of the long, frond-like twigs sweeping the murky water. A snake swimming with its head just above the surface wriggled to the bank as Val cut into the sm
all hidden stream Sam had told him of.

  Vines and water plants had almost choked this, but there was a passage through the center. And one tough spike of vegetation which snapped back into his face bore a deep cut from which the sap was still oozing. The small stinging flies and mosquitoes followed and hung over him like a fog of discomfort. His skin was swollen and rough, irritated and itching. And in this green-covered way the heat seemed almost solid. Drops of moisture dripped from forehead and chin, and his hair was plastered tight to his skull.

  Frogs leaped from the bank into the water at the sound of his coming. In the shallows near the bank, crawfish scuttled under water-logged leaves and stones at this disturbance of their world. Twice the bayou widened out into a sort of pool where the trees grew out of the muddy water and all sorts of lilies and bulb plants blossomed in riotous confusion.

  Once a muskrat waddled into the protection of the bushes. And Val saw something like a small cat drinking at a pool. But that faint shadow disappeared noiselessly almost before the water trickled from his upraised paddle.

  Clumps of wild rice were the meeting grounds for flocks of screaming birds. A snow-white egret waded solemnly across a mud-rimmed pocket. And once a snake, more dangerous than the swimmer Val had first encountered, betrayed its presence by the flicker of its tongue.

  The smell of the steaming mud, the decaying vegetation, and the nameless evils hidden deeper in this water-rotted land was an added torment. The boy shook a large red ant from its grip in the flesh of his hand and wiped the streaming perspiration from his face.

  It was then that the canoe floated almost of its own volition into a dead and distorted strip of country. Black water which gave off an evil odor covered almost half an acre of ground. From this arose the twisted, gaunt gray skeletons of dead oaks. To complete the drear picture a row of rusty-black vultures sat along the broad naked limb of the nearest of these hulks, their red-raw heads upraised as they croaked and sidled up and down.

  But the bayou Val was following merely skirted this region, and in a few moments he was again within the shelter of flower-grown banks. Then he came upon a structure which must have been the fur rack Sam Two had alluded to, for here was their other boat moored to a convenient willow.