Love Me, Marietta

by Jennifer Wilde

  The lake behind us, we continued our trek, moving through the tangle of trees, the thick underbrush, water all around, sluggish, brown, twisting in a muddy network. Tree trunks were green with moss. Willow dripped listlessly. Gray cypress roots reached out like giant, deformed fingers trying to trip us up, and wild flowers made vivid splashes of red and purple. Exotic birds called out shrilly, snakes slithered, and the hum of insects was constant. An hour passed, two, and we waded across a river, then another, waist-high, and moved through a narrow tunnel of trees and came to another smaller lake and circled around it, the sun beating down with punishing intensity.

  “Jesus,” Em moaned, “I don’t think I can move another step.”

  “I know,” I said. “I feel the same way. We’ll stop soon.”

  “I’m going to have nightmares about those alligators, luv. I just know I am. Storms, shipwrecks, snakes, alligators. What next? Don’t answer that, luv,” she added hastily.

  “We’ll make it, Em,” I told her.

  “Sure we will,” she replied, “but I’d kinda like to make it all in one piece.”

  “Stop grumbling,” Randolph called. “Keep walking.”

  “He doesn’t know it yet,” she confided, “but the romance is definitely over.”

  We kept walking.

  Twenty-Four

  The pond was small and crystal clear and completely surrounded by willow trees that trailed long jade-green strands in the water. The water was cool, wonderfully cool, and Corrie and I luxuriated in it, filling our hands with it and pouring it over our shoulders, splashing leisurely. It was bliss, pure bliss, and both of us were reluctant to leave, even though we knew the men would soon be ready to press on. Em had already bathed, dressed, and departed to go squabble with Randolph. The men had bathed earlier, leaping in with relish as soon as Chris discovered the pond near the spot we had stopped for our midafternoon break.

  Corrie, ever ingenious when it came to plants and such, discovered some soft green moss and had shown Em and I how to use it as soap, rubbing it in the water until it dissolved into a rich, thick lather. We had bathed thoroughly, had washed our hair as well, and Corrie, ever practical, had washed our dresses with the foamy lather and spread them over the willows to dry, along with our petticoats. It was marvelous to feel clean again after three long days of trekking through the wilderness. Each day had been more grueling than the last, and it seemed an eternity since we had been sheltered in the cave.

  “Your hair’s all shiny,” Corrie remarked, slithering in the water like a sleek, lovely brown seal. “It’s the color of fire, not red, not gold, not copper, a combination of all three.”

  “It feels deliciously clean.”

  “It’s going to smell good, too. That moss has a lovely scent.”

  “This is so nice,” I said, splashing dazzling sprays over my shoulders. “I suppose Chris filled all the canteens?”

  “He filled them before the men jumped in. We won’t even have to boil this water before we drink it.”

  “I’m eager to taste those mushrooms you two gathered this morning.”

  “I’m going to make a stew,” she told me. “With the mushrooms and those roots I dug up and the meat Mister Randolph had left over. It’ll be tasty, I promise you.”

  “I don’t know what we’d do without you, Corrie. You’ve been ever so helpful. You and Chris.”

  “He’s really a nice gentleman, isn’t he, Miz Marietta?”

  “He’s a very nice boy.”

  “He’s had a—a lot of sadness in his life. He doesn’t talk much, and he frowns a lot, but I think he’s grand. He treats me like I was somebody special. He treats me like a lady. And, Miz Marietta, he ain’t—hasn’t even tried to kiss me, even though I wouldn’t have minded a bit.”

  “He respects you, Corrie.”

  She sighed, treading water, a pensive look in her lovely brown eyes. Her black hair was wet and shiny, clinging to her skull like a tight satin cap. A glow seemed to suffuse her as she thought about the stalwart blond youth who had captured her heart. She was painfully, poignantly beautiful as the water glistened on her clean, coffee-colored skin, her small breasts and delicate pinkish-brown nipples.

  “No one’s ever respected me before,” she said quietly. “I guess I love him, Miz Marietta.”

  “I think that’s wonderful, Corrie.”

  “I never thought I’d fall in love. I never figured I had the right to love anyone, particularly anyone like Mister Chris. When he looks at me I feel all trembly and sweet inside, like my blood was singing a lullaby. I guess that sounds silly.”

  “It sounds beautiful.”

  “Have you ever felt that way, Miz Marietta?”

  “I have, Corrie. Once.”

  “That man you was going to marry? The one who was killed? He made you feel that way?”

  I nodded, dipping my hair into the water again, wringing it out until it seemed to squeak. Sunlight sparkled on the surface in brilliant silver-yellow sunbursts. Our dresses and petticoats, spread out over the willows, were already dry, fluttering slightly in the breeze. The bag that held my jewelry rested on the bank near a mossy gray rock, my shoes beside it. Corrie floated on her back, treading water with her feet and palms, gliding easily, gracefully. After a while she darted under the surface and swam back to where I stood in waist-high water.

  “I think Mister Chris might love me, too,” she said.

  “I’m sure he does. He couldn’t help but love you.”

  “I told him about the shop, Miz Marietta, the one you said I was going to have in London. I told him I was going to fix fine ladies’ hair and put it up in fancy hairdos and sell them my special cream and rinse in real pretty bottles and jars with gold stoppers. He said he wondered if such a shop would be a success, and I told him sure it would, you said so.”

  “You’ll be a sensation, Corrie.”

  “They—they won’t mind that I’m colored?”

  “Your color will be an asset, Corrie. They’ll find you very exotic, different. We’ll call the shop ‘Mademoiselle Corrie’s’ and have it painted on the glass in fancy gold letters. They’ll be mad for you.”

  “I could sell perfume, too,” she said. “I make lovely perfume, Miz Marietta, just give me some flower petals and spirit and water and a low flame to cook ’em over. It smells much nicer than that perfume Miz Henrietta used to get from France. She said so herself. I told Chris about the perfume—he asked me to not call him ‘Mister’ Chris, but I keep forgetting—and he said he thought it was a clever idea.”

  “Do you think he might come to London with you?”

  Corrie grinned, nodding. “He said someone would have to keep the books and look after the business details while I was making the perfume and doing up the ladies’ hair. He said I was sweet, but he didn’t reckon I was very efficient. He said I needed someone tough and hard-headed to keep the business going on an even keel. He likes the sound of London, Miz Marietta. Since his granny died, New Orleans isn’t a happy place for him, it’s never been a happy place for folks like him who ain’t—aren’t neither black nor white. Maybe London will be different, he says.”

  “I’m sure it will be,” I told her.

  “I’m so happy, Miz Marietta. I never thought I could be so happy. Only thing I wish, I wish Mister—I wish Chris wasn’t so stern and stiff. I wish he’d break down and kiss me ’fore I get all impatient and kiss him.”

  She laughed and paddled to shore, climbing out and standing in the sunlight between the dangling strands of willow, small and naked and glistening wetly. She shook herself and squeezed water from her hair and began to dress, pulling on her petticoat, her pale-colored dress.

  “You’d better hurry, Miz Marietta,” she called. “Mister Jeremy will be rarin’ to move on, and he’ll grumble something terrible if you don’t come soon. He’s been real snappy and fretful lately. I guess you’ve noticed.”

  “I’ve noticed, Corrie.”

  “Reckon I know why,” she tease
d. “You really ought to be nicer to him,” she added. “He’s ever so brave, ever so nice. I can’t help but be sorry for him, mopin’ all the time ’cause you won’t talk to him.”

  She fluffed her skirts out and smiled again and disappeared through the curtain of jade-green willow strands. I deliberately lingered in the water, knowing that what she said was true, knowing that Jeremy would be furious with me if I held everyone up. Well, he could just be furious. It would be good for him. I swam leisurely across the pond, reveling in the cool, sparkling water that seemed to caress my skin. The men had taken their time in the water earlier on, splashing and yelling like a pack of banshees. We had heard them hooting and carrying on, and Em had confided that it took all the will power she had to keep from sneaking through the willows to take a peek.

  The past three days had been grueling indeed as we penetrated deeper into the wilderness, making precious little progress it seemed, spending most of our time wading through rivers and crossing lakes. The trees were gnarled and thick, hung with vines and moss, bizarre trees like none I had ever seen, and there were eerie ferns like giant, lacy green fans and purple-green plants with tentacles and curious flowers. It was a primeval land very few white men had seen, a handful of Spanish explorers in breastplate and helmets, perhaps. The air was damp, steamy, oppressive; shimmering with heat, the land alive with the hum of insects, the rattle of fronds, the cries of strange birds. Neither swamp nor dry land, it was full of game, at least, and shellfish were plentiful.

  Ponds like this were rare indeed, most of the water sluggish and brown with muddy banks littered with shells, alligators frequently dozing in the deep shade provided by overhanging branches. I swam slowly in the clear, deliciously cool water, knowing full well it might be days before I would have another opportunity. If Jeremy was angry, he could just be angry. He had been driving us without mercy, pushing so hard that even the amiable Bobby Roberts had complained. We couldn’t lag, Jeremy insisted, we must push on if we intended to get out of this wilderness and reach the settlement.

  I was seeing a new side to him. The jaunty, raffish charm had been supplanted by a grim, ruthless determination. He was hard on us, yes, hardest of all on himself. Though the men might grumble, they clearly admired him and respected his judgment, and I had to admit he was a superb leader. The man who set his mouth in a tight line and forged ahead with blue eyes stern, rifle at the ready was totally unlike the cocky, elegantly attired dandy of New Orleans. There was strength I had never suspected, sturdy character that had been hidden by the merry, irreverent manner and lighthearted patter.

  We spoke but rarely, and then we were extremely polite. My manner toward him was slightly condescending, his toward me extremely strained, as though it took great effort to be civil. Even though his voice was oh so polite he looked as though he wanted to strangle me. I kept away from him as much as possible, and it was just as well, for there were times when I wanted to kick his shins and claw his cheeks and hold him close, very close, and lean on him and dissolve with tenderness and end this terrible tension once and for all. I was not in love with him, of course not, the mere idea was absurd, but he aroused a whole plethora of bewildering emotions inside me.

  I kept remembering the night I had been unable to sleep and he had been on guard and the raccoon had stolen a piece of corn bread. I remembered the way he had leaned over me and, thinking me asleep, had touched my cheek and run his thumb over my lower lip, lightly, gently, the touch so tender. I glided through the water, remembering, and I found it hard to reconcile that Jeremy with the stern, ruthless leader or the devil-may-care fop who chattered foolishly and with such overwhelming charm. Did I really know him? Did I really want to?

  Sighing, I stood up in the water, near the bank, lifting my arms to push long, wet tendrils from my face, and as I did so I was aware of someone watching me. The sensation was undeniable, almost physical. I could feel alien eyes observing me closely, but when I turned I could see no one, could see nothing but the dangling, pale jade-green willow strands. I frowned, wondering if I had imagined the sensation, but no, it was still there. Someone was looking at me. Alarm began to grow as I felt those eyes burning, boring into me. There could be no mistake about it.

  The willow strands swayed, ever so lightly, and in the blue-gray shadows beyond them I finally saw the woman. She stood very still, tall, brown, wearing only a short skirt made of dried moss, a few strands of shells around her neck. Her face was broad, her eyes as black as coal, and a large, purple-blue tattoo completely covered one cheek. Her long black hair was coarse, falling to her shoulders in a tangled mass. I stared at her, terrified, and for one horrible moment our eyes met. Then the willow swayed again, and she was gone, disappearing swiftly, silently into the shadows.

  My heart seemed to have stopped beating. I seemed to be paralyzed, standing there naked in the water, waiting for some unknown horror to descend. An eternity seemed to pass, though it could only have been a few seconds. I leaped toward the bank, climbed out of the water, and snatched up my shoes and the jewelry bag. I tore my dress and petticoat from the willows and held them in front of me and ran through the swaying jade-green curtains, clearing the willows, running wildly toward camp.

  He caught me. He held me. I stammered, trying to speak. I couldn’t. I shook my head, and he scowled, his eyes stern and blue, frozen blue fire, his lean, tan face etched with anger. Don’t be angry, please don’t be angry, I begged silently. He realized then that my panic was genuine and he was not the cause, and he held me very tightly, his arms around my naked back. I shuddered, my cheek against his buckskin jacket, and he said something I couldn’t understand. I sobbed.

  “Get hold of yourself!” he said sternly. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “She—she was—watching me!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “A woman. An Indian woman. She was wearing a moss skirt and shell beads and—and, Jeremy, there was a horrible tattoo on her cheek. She stared at me, and then she just disappeared.”

  “When?”

  “Just moments ago.”

  He let go of me and stepped back. I was suddenly aware of my nakedness, my wet hair. His cheeks were slightly pale. His eyes were deeply troubled, his full mouth held in a tight, straight line.

  “Get dressed,” he ordered. “Quickly.”

  I hesitated for a moment, and then I turned my back and dropped my shoes and stepped into them. I tied the bag around my waist and slipped on the white cotton petticoat and smoothed it down at the sides. I pulled the dress over it and reached around, fumbling to fasten it, panic beginning to sweep over me again. Jeremy marched over, shoved my hands away, and fastened the dress, rough, irritable, finishing just as Randolph and Hurley came up, both of them carrying rifles.

  “Thought something might have happened,” Randolph said casually. “You were gone a mite too long.”

  “Everything’s all right at the moment,” Jeremy retorted, “but we’ve got to get the hell out of here—as quickly as possible.”

  “Karankawas?”

  “Marietta saw an Indian woman by the pond. The woman was alone, probably came to fetch water. That means there’s a whole band nearby.”

  “Christ Almighty!”

  Jeremy seized my arm and jerked savagely, almost pulling me off balance, and we began to run toward camp, Randolph and Hurley right behind us. When we reached the others, Jeremy let go of my arm, shoved me toward Em and barked a few terse orders. Guns were grabbed. Bundles were snatched up. In a matter of seconds we were moving rapidly away, half-running, and we kept up that pace for almost an hour. I thought my lungs would burst. I thought I would surely keel over with exhaustion. I kept moving, every muscle of my body straining, on fire.

  Jeremy, up ahead, raised his arm, signaling us to stop, and I leaned against a tree trunk, panting. Em, for once, was silent, as exhausted as I was, sinking onto the ground at my feet. Corrie stood beside Chris. He held his arm around her. Hurley, Roberts, and Randolph he
ld their guns and turned to watch the path we had just followed. Marshall sweating profusely, joined Jeremy, and they talked quietly in low, worried voices. After a moment Randolph joined them.

  “No sign of pursuit,” he said grimly. “Perhaps the band was farther away than we reckoned.”

  “They know we’re here, Randy. They may not have given immediate pursuit, but they know we’re here. No way of knowing how many there are. Could be half a dozen. Could be a hundred.”

  “Coupla dozen at least,” Marshall said. “Bands ain’t usually any smaller than that, usually a lot bigger.”

  We had come at least a mile, perhaps a mile and a half, and the danger was real, all around us. The very air seemed to vibrate with it. I finally caught my breath and wiped perspiration from my forehead and looked back at the twisting, vine-draped trees behind us, expecting to see a band of naked savages come racing toward us at any moment. Em sighed, some of the color returning to her cheeks. She brushed flecks of dry leaf from her blue skirt and looked up at me with worried hazel eyes. Both of us were remembering the stories we had heard about the Karankawas.

  “Thing to do is stay calm,” Randolph was saying. “We got a head start on ’em. We need to press on, find a good place to camp for the night where we can build a barricade.”

  “You’re right,” Jeremy agreed.

  “One of us ought to go on ahead, scout the area, find the right spot.”

  Jeremy nodded, straightening up, clutching his rifle with steady hands, a determined set to his jaw. His face might have been carved from granite, hard and grim, his eyes so dark a blue they seemed almost blue-black. Weak late-afternoon sunlight streamed through the treetops in dusty yellow shafts like wavering, ghostly fingers reaching down to gather us up. Jeremy gazed at one of them, frowning. His wavy brown hair was damp with sweat. The red-orange bandana was wet, his fringed buckskin jacket soiled with dirt.