by Frank Yerby
X
STEPHEN closed the huge ledger book wearily. It was long past midnight and a new year had come in with the crying winter rains. Tomorrow—not today—since New Year’s Day had come in while he sat poring over the multiple entries in his big book of accounts—he would ride into New Orleans and make the rounds of the great houses of the city bearing gifts to some of his closer friends. Stephen wondered idly why New Year’s Day was the day of giving in the Bayou country instead of Christmas as in the other American states. ‘Tis the religion, he decided. To the devoutly Catholic, predominantly French lower half of Louisiana, Christmas was strictly a holy day and the fun and festivity was reserved for New Year’s.
He would stop at Andre’s house and salute him and his bride of one week in foaming egg nog. Strange to think of Andre—gay Andre, frivolous Andre—married and working hard to carve out a place for himself and Amelia. Old Le Blanc was literally coming apart at the seams with pride. Already, to Amelia’s acute embarrassment, he was talking of a grandson. Stephen remembered the faces of the young couple at the ceremony. Never had he seen such tenderness upon the face of a man—it was almost reverence. And Amelia, lifting her face to her new husband to be kissed, had been as beautiful as an angel. Somehow, afterwards, the emptiness of Harrow had become unbearable—the servants tiptoeing through the vast, high-ceilinged rooms like ghosts had become even quieter to avoid his increasingly irascible temper.
Odalie must give him an answer. Today the date must be set. This delay, this dilly-dallying must end. Clearly she loved him—she admitted it quite honestly, but always added, “I must have more time, Stephen, to get used to the idea.” She let him kiss her—quick, brushing kisses—very cool and swift, her hands always pushing against his chest in half protest. Stephen was going mad with wanting her, watching her cool loveliness which even in his arms was just out of his reach. “By all the fruits of Tantalus,” he said, standing up, “today it ends!”
He went to the window, high up under the roof and looked out. Far off to the left he saw a fire burning despite the steady cold drizzle of rain. That must be Caleen, brewing her herbs.
As he went down the stairs from his garret study, his mind wandered over a number of people. How was Achille making out with La Belle Sauvage? So far, the big black’s courtship had proved as futile as his own. That wild Negress was becoming tamer under Caleen’s wise old hands, but she was still a savage thing—as beautiful as a black panther, and just as dangerous. And Tom Warren—where the deuce was he? It had been a year and a half since he had visited Harrow. It was rumored that he was growing vastly rich down in New Orleans, with a finger in half a dozen deals, some of which were distinctly mysterious. Josh, the feeble half-mad Negro he had bought for Mike—not an unprofitable deal at that. Josh was a wonderful fisherman, and his skill as a gardener was only less than Jupiter’s own. Still he was always talking about “de big fiah, down by de ribber when pore Rad got kilt.” Not much sense to it, this talk, but there must be something behind it to make the poor black so afraid.
And Mike. The big riverman stayed on at Harrow month after month, growing ever more quarrelsome and moody and staying sober for shorter and shorter periods. Stephen was beginning to fear for his sanity. At least twice a week they would hear him roaring in his rooms, and entering find him threshing about convulsively in the throes of a drunken nightmare. Caleen, he swore, caused these black and vivid dreams.
Even now, as Stephen came down the stairs, Mike was coming out of his rooms, all his belongings slung in a little bundle on his back. His one good eye was wide and staring and his breath was coming out in short, sharp animal-like pants.
“Where on earth are ye going?” Stephen demanded. “Away from here!” Mike bellowed. “Away from this divil-cursed, hag-ridden place of yourn! I’ll never spend another night here!”
“Softly, Mike. Never is a long time,” Stephen said. “What’s troubling ye now?”
“That old black witch! Yez saw a fire in the brush?”
“Yes—but what has that . . .”
“Caleen sot it! I followed her. And yez know what she was doing? She had made up me image in clay—remarkably like me it were. Me own mither woulda recognized me at once. And she were a stickin’ pins in it and a mutterin’ curses!”
Stephen laughed aloud.
“And for that ye go chasing off in the pitch blackness with a rain falling? Don’t be a fool, Mike!”
“A fool, yez say! Yez want me to become a blitherin’ idiot with no wits in me head? She cuts off the head after and tosses it in the fire! I tole yez ‘twas her who sent those dreams!”
“Why,” Stephen demanded, “should Tante Caleen want to harm ye?”
“Because she hates all whites—even yez, Stephen—and because of the little yaller wench of yourn.”
“Suzette?”
“Yes. I tried several times to git her to bed down with me—just a wee bit of sport, Stephen, ‘twould do her good in fact. But she runs to Caleen and the old divil starts in to save her from me—with her spells and curses and clay dolls!”
“And ye’re running—from that?”
“Yez be damned right I’m running! I will not have me mind destroyed whilst I sleep!”
“This will stop, Mike,” he said, “this Voudou business. I will see Caleen at once. I promised ye that Harrow would be another home to ye. I mean to keep that promise. And I shall need your help often in the future. I’ve plans for both of us.”
“What kind of plans?” Mike growled darkly.
“A steamboat line of my own—with ye as captain of my fastest packet. ‘Twill be many years before I can do it—I am in debt up to my neck for the house and its furnishings; but when I do I want to be able to put my hands on ye.”
“That yez will, me foine lad! Why I know the river like the back of me hand. But I think still I’ll go up to Natchez until the old witch has forgotten this affair. I’ll be back to Harrow often, niver yez fear.”
“As ye will,” Stephen said. “But do not stay away too long. I shall take Caleen in hand this night!”
Outside in the oak grove, despite the partial shelter from the great trees, the rain was like needles of ice. Stephen walked rapidly towards where he had seen the fire, wrapping his greatcoat about him and bending his head before the wind. After ten minutes of pushing through the brush he came to a little clearing.
Caleen was sitting in the middle of it, crouched before a flickering fire which seemed to burn all the brighter as the rain drops hissed into it. Slowly, and with great ceremony, she was dismembering a doll of clay and tossing it into the fire. Little remained of it now. She was crooning a weird dirgelike song.
As he stepped noiselessly toward her, Stephen noticed another doll waiting at her side. It was crudely done, but he had no trouble recognizing it. This was La Belle Sauvage, the beautiful black girl he had purchased for Achille. Evidently, when she had finished her incantations against Mike Farrel, Caleen meant to go to work on the girl.
“Caleen!” Stephen said sharply.
“Maître!”
“What is the meaning? Ye would harm Mike Farrel with your witchery? And the girl, what mean ye to do to her?”
Caleen looked up at him, and there was no fear in her bloodshot, anciently wicked eyes.
“There some things, maître, no good for whites to know. I take care of Harrow and you, maître. I see that no harm come to you, me.”
“Ye’re lying!” Stephen declared flatly. “Tell me, what mean ye to work against the girl?”
“Nothing, maître. I only fix her so that she love my Achille. He crazy mad for her, him. So I fix.”
Stephen walked up to the fire and kicked it apart, trampling on the embers. They flared up again with uncommon stubbornness. When he had the last one out he turned to Caleen.
“I’ve never had one of my people whipped,” he said slowly. “But by heaven, Caleen, if ye continue this witchcraft, I’ll send ye up to the Calaboose and order thirty lashes! Ye hear me n
ow?”
Walking away, Stephen realized that on the rare occasions when, as now, Caleen was humble, her humility had a fine excess to it—so slight as to be almost unnoticeable, yet just enough to hint at mockery. He dismissed her from his mind with a shrug. There was nothing anyone could do with Caleen—nothing at all.
Back at Harrow, he stripped off his wet garments and plunged between the icy sheets. Of course he could have summoned a slave with a warming pan, but that would have cost him another half hour of sleeplessness and the hour was already late. Gradually the heat of his body warmed the bed, but it was a long time before he fell asleep. Even then, he was troubled by swift, utterly senseless dreams. He twisted and groaned in his sleep. The dreams swept through his mind in an endless train, yet the instant they had gone he forgot completely what they were about. Only the feeling of cold persisted—cold and horror and a nameless dread. It was as though icy fingers were clutched around his heart, freezing it into immobility. He let out a cry so short and sharp that it awakened him. A cold wind, laden with the icy lances of the rain, blew in the open window, and he had kicked the covers off. His whole body was covered with goose pimples.
He drew the cover back up over himself and pulled the bell cord that summoned Georges. When the valet appeared, Stephen ordered him, through chattering teeth, to bring black coffee and hot buttered rum. Georges ran from the room, his eyes wide and frightened.
“Maître sick!” he babbled to Caleen. “Him face like death!” The old woman stopped her work and took the coffee pot which was gurgling softly on the hearth. Then she prepared the spiced rum punch and went upstairs to Stephen’s bedchamber.
“Who the deuce sent for ye!” Stephen chattered. “Are ye all mad in this house?”
Caleen did not answer. Instead she laced a cup of black coffee liberally with the rum and held it to his lips.
“Drink,” she commanded calmly.
Stephen drank, glaring at Caleen all the while. As if by magic the trembling ceased as the chill departed from his limbs. Caleen put the bowl of steaming rum punch by the bed.
“Drink it all, maître,” she said. “It do you good.” Then she was gone from the room, leaving Stephen staring after her.
“She is positively uncanny,” he muttered, then turning to Georges: “Come, man, bring me my clothes!”
Stephen drank the rest of the rum punch while he dressed. It warmed him all over and made him feel cheerful again. Dreams, posh! It was just that he had overtaxed himself, that was all. Running a cane plantation was no simple business. As valuable as was the advice of Andre, old Le Blanc, and even the celebrated de Bores, there were some things a man could only learn by doing. He had made his mistakes as the big ledger plainly showed. Of course, he would survive and even make a small profit; but it was small, and although there were no longer any debts outstanding against the land, the house had set him back for years. This business of Odalie was a vexation, too.
He ate a light breakfast and set out, accompanied by Georges. The Negro had huge saddle bags slung across his nag and they were full of gifts. The first stop was the Cloutiers. Madame Cloutier had been wonderfully kind and, besides, she was a power to be recognized in the social life of New Orleans. Until he was safely married to Odalie, Stephen realized the necessity of keeping the good will of the guardian matrons, however irksome he found it. The Arceneaux’ lack of a mother to provide the proper chaperonage was a fruitful field for scandal, especially coupled with old Arceneaux’ unbelievably advanced ideas as to the personal liberty of his daughters. It would pay, then, to keep the longest tongues wedded to his service; and no one possessed a longer or more venomous one than Madame Cloutier.
Stephen stopped first at their ancient town house because he could plead as an excuse for his limited stay the fact that he had many more calls to make, and thus rid himself as early as possible of the burdensome society of the daughters Cloutier, who still attempted, under the heavyhanded management of their mother, to compete with Odalie for his attentions. At that, it was far longer than he intended before he was able to bow himself out of the salon where the brandy and whiskey stood in cut-glass decanters upon the sideboard, and the comets of bonbons and dragees were scattered recklessly about. These were supposed to be gifts from admirers, but Stephen easily recognized in their characteristic lack of grace, the not so very fine hand of the Cloutiers themselves.
Still, it was an ill wind that blew nobody good. Now he could excuse himself from visiting houses which he had no desire to in the first place and dispatch Georges with the presents and his cards. Andre he would visit and after that Odalie. He sent Georges on his way, and turned Prince Michael toward the house of the Le Blancs. Ti Demon opened the door for him, his small black face glistening with good cheer, much of it, Stephen guessed, alcoholic.
“Monsieur Fuchs!” Ti Demon called out. The proper pronunciation of Stephen’s name came with difficulty to French tongues, and none found it more troublesome than the Creole Negroes. Most people simply translated it so that it became Etienne Reynard and let it go at that.
But Andre was coming toward him now, both hands outstretched, the happiness on his face outshining the candles.
“So,” Stephen said, “it goes well with ye—this marriage business!”
“ ‘Tis beyond all paradise!” Andre declared, “and 1 owe it all to you, Stephen. I never would have met her—and she is the sweetest and the loveliest and the best . . .”
“Andre! Who is it, dearest?”
“Stephens” Andre called back. “Please come down and greet him. He’s coming to see whether you throw pots and pans at me yet.”
“But of course I do,” Amelia said as she came down the stairs. “Although my aim still isn’t very good. I’ll improve with practice though.” She came up to Stephen and gave him her slim white hand. “Thank you, Stephen,” she said softly.
“For what?” Stephen demanded with mock brusqueness.
“For my Andre. For all the happiness in the world.”
“I won’t accept it now,” Stephen laughed. “In six months or a year I will see if ye are still grateful. Then I’ll accept your thanks.”
“Make it ten years,” Andre said, “or fifty and still you’ll find me the happiest of mortals. But how goes it with you and Odalie, Stephen?”
Stephen shrugged expressively.
“Poor man,” Amelia said. “I should like to call upon this Odalie of yours. I think I’d give her a piece of my mind.”
“Have ye no eggnog for an old and tired man?” Stephen put in smoothly. “And ye used to make grand plum pudding, Amelia—‘twas like a taste of London to me.”
“Father brought Stephen home to our place in Kentucky once,” Amelia explained. “He was always collecting odd characters. Not that you were odd, Stephen. In fact I thought you wonderful. I remember falling quite horribly in love with you. But you treated me like a child.”
“Thank the good God,” Andre said. “Forgive our thoughtlessness, my friend—this way, please.”
Sipping the foaming eggnog and eating the steaming pudding, Stephen was conscious of a feeling very closely akin to pain. To see so much happiness hurt. It wasn’t envy—at least not malicious envy. Rather it was the bitterness of contrast. He who had worked and suffered had gained exactly nothing, while Andre’s joy had been handed him on a silver platter, as it were. He put down his glass and his plate and stood up.
“I must be going now,” he said.
“So soon?” they chorused.
“I go to call upon Odalie. Tonight I have hopes . . .” Andre put out his hand.
“Every happiness, Stephen,” he said. “You deserve it.”
“Thank ye,” Stephen said soberly. “A happy new year to ye both.” He turned abruptly on his heel and marched toward the door.
As he approached the town house of the Arceneaux, Stephen could see the candles ablaze in every window. He dismounted and gave the reins to a groom. Then, taking a small package from his pocket, he strode up
to the door. It was flung wide at once to his knock, and the old butler bent low before him, taking his hat, his greatcoat and his gloves. Stephen followed him into the salon, where a half dozen Creole youths were clustered about Odalie and an equal number about Aurore. The great scar on the side of his face flared scarlet. Plague the luck! It had never occurred to him that he wouldn’t have Odalie all to himself. All these oily little bounders . . . But Odalie had detached herself from her admirers and was coming forward to greet him, a smile of pleasure lighting her face.
“Stephen,” she said. “I thought you never were coming.”
“I can see how bitterly ye missed me,” Stephen observed drily.
“Oh, these boys? They’re old friends, Stephen, nothing more. You must not take offense.”
“Nor have I,” Stephen said. “ ‘Tis just that I wanted very badly to talk to ye alone. Oh, well—some other time perhaps.”
“No, Stephen. We’ll go into the little room. You’ve come such a long way and I—I like talking to you, alone.”
“That’s encouraging. I was beginning to think I gave ye the horrors.”
Odalie made an impish face at him and took his hand. As they approached the others, all the young men stood up. Stephen knew most of them, but one young man was distinctly strange—an uncommonly handsome lad with boldness and diablerie written all over his finely chiseled face.
“You’ll excuse me for a while, won’t you, gentlemen?” Odalie asked. “There is a matter that Monsieur Fox and I must discuss.”
“Oh, we were about to go anyway,” they chorused politely. “Besides, what chance have we against the formidable Monsieur Fox?”
“I’m flattered, gentlemen,” Stephen said mockingly and made them an exaggerated bow. They returned it with rare good humor and proceeded to the hallway where the butler waited with their hats and canes.
But the strange lad lingered a moment after the others. He walked boldly up to Stephen.
“You will pardon me, sir,” he said. “But I have heard so much of you since my return that I desire to make your acquaintance. My name is Cloutier, Phillippe Cloutier.”
