Prophecy

by C. Marie Bowen

  In a blink, both cats disappeared. Alyse watched in wonder as two tiny lights, brighter and steadier than fireflies, floated toward the ceiling. They paused, bobbed several times, and then streaked down and out underneath the front door.

  Alyse jumped to her feet and ran to the window, just in time to see two red-tailed hawks disappear into the rainy mist. They were headed south.

  “Owls?” Bern asked her as he came up beside her and looked out the window.

  “No. Hawks,” she said, her heart full of wonder.

  Bern nodded. “Good choice.” He turned to Chantal.

  “We’re loaded and ready to go, Mum, whenever you are.”

  Chantal finished knotting the protection satchels and released her wards. She swept the salt on the floor into a pile, scooped it up with a stiff piece of paper, and poured it back into a jar.

  She nodded at her son. “Let me get my coat and I’ll be ready.” She placed her craftwork on a tray and carried it across the room to the family altar. She placed the white satchels around the altar, now decorated for summer solstice with roses, wild thyme and ferns, and then slid the empty tray beneath the settee.

  Alyse slipped her arms into her coat as her grandmother came back down the hall with her large black cape and hood. She handed Alyse a hat like her uncles wore, and opened the door. Together, they headed out into the rain.

  Alyse and her grandmother sat in the wagon with the trunks while her uncles sat on the seat above. The rain had made the road bumpy. They had to go slow to avoid puddles for fear hidden potholes would damage the wheels. What would, on a clear day and a well-tended road, be a two-hour ride to town, became a four-hour muddy and miserable trip.

  They paused briefly at the Chesham home where Bay went in and spoke with them about their furniture order. Bay said they understood about the family emergency and would be willing to wait for their dining room table and chairs.

  When they finally reached the station, Bay climbed into the back of the buckboard to help Chantal to her feet. Then, the men unloaded the wagon and carried their trunks to the raised wooden platform around the train station. A wooden awning built around the station kept the platform dry for passengers and baggage.

  As they gathered together beneath the awning, Chantal gave Bayard the money in her reticule. “Ask for the train departing to Boston, Bay. Find out the departure time and remember to only purchase three tickets.” As Bayard moved to stand in the line for the ticket window, Chantal turned to Bernard. “I won't be able to get the wagon back home in this rain.”

  He nodded his understanding. “Do you want to take a room at an inn? I could stable the rig and horses until the weather clears.”

  Chantal shook her head, as she massaged her hands. They always became stiff and sore in the rain. “No. There isn't time to wait for good weather. Take them to the stable and see how much you can get for Pippin and the wagon. Ask if they have an inexpensive saddle for Acorn they will sell you. I’ll ride Acorn back to the farm today.”

  Bern gave his mother a single nod and stepped back into the rain. He took the horses by the lead to walk them and the wagon across the muddy street to the livery stable.

  “Are you sure about this?” Alyse questioned, as Bay returned with their tickets.

  “Of course, I'm sure, dear heart. That old wagon has seen better days. Acorn will get me home without losing a wheel or breaking an axle and do it in half the time.”

  Bayard looked to his mother. “What are you doing?”

  “Riding Acorn back home, dear. Bern is going to sell Pippin and the wagon for me. Did you get the tickets?”

  Bay held up three tickets and offered Chantal back the extra money.

  She refused it. “Divide it between the three of you. You will need it for meals and incidentals.”

  “Mum, this is quite a bit of money,” Bay argued.

  Chantal smiled. “I know, dear, but I won't need it, and you three will.”

  Alyse watched her uncle Bayard's face fall.

  He didn’t realize this was goodbye.

  “Ah, Bay, dear heart, don't start.” Chantal scolded and wrapped her son in her arms. “We’ve been together a good long time. Longer than many get to be near the ones they love. This is the best thing I can do for you and the girls.”

  Bay nodded his head against his mother's silver white hair and managed to say, “I love you, Mum.” Then, he released her, and walked into the station.

  Tears streamed down Alyse's face as Chantal reached out a hand to her.

  She took her grandmother’s thin, strong hand and held it tight in her own. They waited together in silence for Bernard to return.

  Bernard emerged from the stable yard leading Acorn. They watched him walk across the muddy street in the rain. He wrapped the reins around the hitching post near Alyse and stepped up on the platform out of the rain.

  “Did he get the tickets?” Bern asked as he shook the water off his hat, then returned it to his head.

  “Yes. Bay went inside.” Chantal’s gaze never left her son’s face.

  “I hope this is the right saddle.”

  “It’s fine, dear. I’ll need you to help me mount,” she said to Bernard.

  Chantal turned to Alyse. “My dear beloved girl, never forget how strong you are. Have faith in yourself. Remember, Amylia is just as strong with her elements, but she is untrained. Your uncles can teach you to twyne and pair, but it will be different for you and Amy, because the two of you can only work as a pair when you’re twyned.” Chantal ran her gloved hands up and down Alyse's arms.

  Alyse could only nod as emotion tightened her throat.

  Chantal wrapped Alyse in her arms and whispered into her hair, “Remind your mother I love her. I’ve thought of Margaret every day we’ve been apart. Tell your sister about everything you and I have shared. When you share it with her, I will be with you both.”

  Alyse nodded and whispered, “I love you, Mémé,” before her throat closed.

  “I love you too, dear heart—so very much. Go on inside, now, and get warm.”

  Alyse hugged her grandmother one last time, then turned away and entered the station.

  Through tears, she saw Bay at the end of a bench against the wall, his face turned away. She spun around and leaned against the window to watch her grandmother and uncle.

  Uncle Bern lifted Mémé to the saddle and gave her the reins. He made sure her leg was secure, and her cloak covered her dress and boots.

  Chantal bent to speak with Bern, and he nodded his head several times.

  Bern kissed his mother’s gloved hand and stepped back.

  Chantal tightened the reins, turned Acorn away from the station, and rode down the street toward home.

  Chapter 11

  Hunter

  Hunter dressed in an old pair of denim trousers and frayed shirt for the excursion into the swamp with Minister Tremble. He pulled on tall brown-stained boots, pushed his old felt hat onto his head, and chose three glass vials with cork stoppers from his leather satchel.

  Once downstairs, he paused long enough for a quick breakfast in the common room. While he sipped his coffee, an unexpected surge of compassion filled Hunter’s chest, and he shook his head. If it hadn’t been for his grand-mère, he might have been put out on the street, or forced to live hand-to-mouth along the bayou, much like Minister Tremble.

  When he finished his meal, he selected a large biscuit from the tray and wrapped it in a cloth napkin. He nodded to the desk clerk as he left the dining area and stepped outside. The sun had just risen and already the cloudless hazy white sky pressed its heat upon the city.

  On the far side of the porch, Minister Tremble perched on the edge of a bench. When the door clapped shut behind Hunter, Tremble lifted his head and stood, bony hands fluttered beside his dark, discolored robes.

  Hunter crossed to Tremble and offered him the linen-wrapped biscuit.

  The old man narrowed his eyes. “What's this?” He glared at the white cloth in Hunte
r’s hand and raised his reluctant gaze to Hunter’s.

  “It’s a biscuit.” Hunter opened the cloth to display the flaky golden crust. “I thought you might like to eat before we head out.”

  Minister Tremble licked his lips. “I don't take charity.”

  Hunter tipped his head to one side and studied the elderly man. “But you do take donations, do you not?” Hunter lifted the biscuit again. “Consider this a donation, mon ami. Go on. Take it.”

  The minister snatched the offering from Hunter's hand and took two quick bites before both the biscuit and the napkin disappeared inside his dirty robes.

  “It’s this way.” Minister Tremble turned, stepped off the porch, and scurried down the street.

  Hunter watched the old man for a moment and shook his head.

  Mon Dieu! What a strange person.

  He confirmed his knives were secure before he followed the minister away from the river.

  After several long blocks, Tremble stopped at a small public dock beside a canal. He glanced back at Hunter then stepped into one of the shallow flat-bottomed boats tied to a low rail. He knelt in the bow of the small vessel, knees wide, and sat back on his heels. He looked over his shoulder at Hunter. “Get in and untie us.” He jutted his narrow chin toward the rail and picked up one of the paddles.

  Hunter raised an eyebrow. He checked the vials in his coat pocket to make sure they would remain secure should the vessel capsize. No stranger to this type of boat, he stepped down, slipped the rope from the rail, and lowered himself to his knees. He sat on his boot heels and picked up the other wooden paddle.

  “We will follow the current to my home.” The minister spoke over his shoulder. “It will be harder work when we return.”

  Hunter put his paddle in the water opposite the minister, and they pulled away from the dock. The canal ran straight through the city, then turned sharply into the bayou and headed northeast toward Lake Pontchartrain. They were almost an hour on the water when Tremble pointed toward the shoreline, thick with moss-covered trees. They turned the canoe onto land.

  The spry old man jumped from the boat and held the craft stable as Hunter walked forward and stepped from the canoe onto the soft soil. Tremble pulled the light boat ashore and covered it with netting concealed with moss. Satisfied with his work, the minister moved onto a narrow path through the trees. “This way, it ain’t too far.”

  Not ten feet past the first bend in the path, Hunter spotted the shack. Set off the trail, it looked to have grown from the hanging moss and foliage. The front door stood open, the interior dark.

  As they approached, Tremble grabbed his stringy hair. “Oh no! Oh no!” He broke into a run toward the cabin.

  Unsure of what had upset the man, Hunter slowed his pace and kept a sharp eye on the foliage and brush along the trail. He touched the knife beneath his jacket and moved between the trees toward the shelter.

  The minister stopped in the doorway, his hands covered his mouth, as he turned his head from side to side. “She's gone.” He glanced back at Hunter. “They took her—one of those... those... abominations took her.”

  Hunter stood behind the distraught minister and studied the shack’s interior. Dim light from a dirty window left the room in shadow. The smell of rotting flesh permeated the air. “Whew! The smell alone will bring predators.” He stepped from the door and surveyed the ground beside the hovel. “It looks as though an alligator or three have been here.”

  The minister disappeared inside, and a flicker of light illuminated the shack.

  Hunter stepped to the doorway and peered inside. A hard-packed dirt floor supported a tall cabinet beside the entrance. Along the left wall, an old cot tilted on two legs beneath a small, mud-streaked window. Across from the cot lay the remnants of a foot and leg, torn from the body below the knee, and chained by the ankle to a stake. The rotting appendage lay in a muddy pool of blood.

  Hunter drew back in revulsion. “Mon Dieu! What have you done?” The stench of rotting meat was overwhelming. He turned to the madman and swallowed the bile in his throat. “You kept a woman chained in here?”

  “The succubus had to remain until the prophecy was spoken.” Tremble continued to pull at his stringy hair. “She’s been taken. The body has been defiled.”

  Hunter turned away in disgust. “We must be quick. Grab what you wish to take and let's go.” He withdrew one of the vials from his inside pocket and stepped to the remains of the woman's leg. The blood pooled beneath the foot was fouled and sticky. He had never used blood from spoiled flesh, and the thought sickened him. Teeth clenched, he held the container steady and milked a tiny amount of blood from the woman's severed leg.

  The results may be uncertain, or perhaps, not work at all.

  Cabinet doors opened and slammed behind him, and Hunter glanced back at Tremble, unwilling to trust his back to the man.

  Whoever this madman searches for needs to be warned.

  Hunter placed a stopper in the vial of dark fluid, wrapped the glass in a soft cloth, and returned the it to his jacket. He stood and watched as the minister counted his money.

  “Here.” Tremble offered a jumble of paper bills to Hunter and stuffed the rest back in the metal box. “I’ll pay the rest once you show proof the witches are dead.”

  Hunter took the bills, folded the wad and shoved them deep into his trouser pocket. “You should not return to this place. You’ll never be free of your—abominations. Your seer will forever dwell in this place and call to the scavengers for your blood.”

  Hunter turned from the wide-eyed lunatic, stepped outside and studied the area around the shack. Long strands of moss hung from trees and obscured his view. He edged away from the cabin just as movement to his right captured his attention. A quick scan to the left showed a clear path back to the boat.

  Clear for now.

  He took a step down the boat trail and pulled the long knife from its sheath beneath his coat. “Time to go. We’re about to have company.”

  The minister hurried from his shack with a burlap bag of items and the tin box clutched in his arms. He paused at the sight of the large alligator, quickened his step past Hunter, and scurried along the path toward the canoe.

  Hunter followed more slowly to be sure they had not caught the ’gator’s eye, but the big fellow entered the cabin to retrieve a final meal.

  At the boat, Tremble stood waiting. His arms clasped around his belongings. He tipped his head toward the netting. “Set the boat in the water. Hold it still for me.”

  Hunter stared at him for a moment, then slid his knife into its sheath. He uncovered the light canoe and set the bow on the water.

  Minister Tremble placed his items in the center of the craft, then took his place at the front of the vessel.

  Hunter stepped into the craft, picked up the wooden pole in the bottom of the boat, and with feet braced apart, pushed them away from the shore and into the bayou.

  They fought the current on their return, but Hunter’s strength pushed them steadily forward. He could not shake the memory of the delicate ankle chained and rotting on the shack’s dirt floor. He kept his thoughts to himself and used his anger and disgust against the water as he rowed. When they reached the public dock, Hunter climbed from the boat and turned his angry regard to the crazy man. “You're not getting out?”

  Tremble shook his head. “When should I expect you to return?”

  Hunter clenched his jaw and lifted one shoulder. “I don't know who I'm looking for or where to find them. I wouldn't get too anxious if I were you. This could take some time.”

  “I must remind you the matter is urgent. The Lord's work is laid before you. The demon has been called forth.”

  “Evil disguises itself in many ways, Minister Tremble.” Hunter stared down at the scrawny man in the canoe. “Ask at the boarding house in a few weeks. If I learn anything, I will send a wire, and have it delivered there.”

  The minister nodded and pushed his canoe away from the dock with th
e paddle.

  Hunter watched him glide away along the canal for a moment then turned and made his way back to the boarding house.

  The clerk at the front desk looked up as he entered. “Welcome back, sir.”

  Hunter stepped to the desk. “I’ll need laundry service, today if possible, and I’ll need my boots cleaned.”

  The clerk leaned away from Hunter. “At once, sir. If you would place your soiled laundry in the hemp bag and the boots in the hallway beside your door, I’ll send Wanda up to fetch them. They will be returned by morning, at the latest.”

  Hunter shook his head. “I’ll need them tonight.”

  “It will cost extra.”

  Hunter grinned at the clerk. “Might you have a train schedule available?”

  “Of course, sir.” The clerk handed Hunter a leaflet with departure times, destinations, connections, and pricing.

  “Thank you.” Hunter took the schedule and made his way to the stairs. He noticed Sam Kline and his woman having lunch in the dining area, but Hunter continued up the stairs to his room. The shack’s rank odor lingered on his clothing and he didn’t want to spoil her meal.

  Once in his room, he removed the vial of dark fluid from his jacket and laid it on the bedside table. He placed the money in his long wallet, stripped himself of his clothing, and followed the clerk’s instructions for laundry service. Then he closed and secured the door.

  He stood naked as he made quick use of the room's water and clean smelling soap, even washing the rancid smell from his hair. He draped a towel around his neck to catch the chilled droplets from his wet hair as he turned his attention to his work.

  Hunter pulled his travel bag from under the bed and opened it. He withdrew his leather folder, tossed it on the bed, and set the bag aside. He untied the folder, retrieved a white satin pouch, and dumped the rest of the contents onto the bed. Five sackcloth sandbags along with a dozen maps slid from the folder. Most of those were small area maps of different locations which he had drawn himself. He pulled the largest from the stack and unfolded the heavy paper. Not knowing where to begin his search, he would have to cast a wide net.