They Call Her Dana

by Jennifer Wilde

  His hair was thick and glossy, rich chestnut-brown, silvering at the temples. His cheekbones were broad and flat, his nose Roman, his jaw strong and square. Beneath dark, finely arched brows, his eyes were a gentle brown, and his mouth was gentle, too, full and firm, a pale, delicate pink in color. He was terribly old, at least forty, I judged. His lightly tanned skin was like fine old parchment, and there was a soft roll of flesh beneath his chin. The faint double chin somehow made him all the more attractive. He lifted a brow and looked at me with inquiring eyes. His was a good-natured face, and there was a humorous curve to his mouth.

  “What have we here?” he inquired.

  “Please, mister—don’t—don’t shoot me.”

  He frowned. “What was that? I can’t understand a word you say.”

  “I said please—please don’t shoot me.”

  “Do you speak French?”

  “I speak perfect French,” I said in that language.

  “Perfect is hardly the word, lass. Lord, what a dreadful sound—exactly like a strangled duck. Where did you get that abominable accent?”

  “I speak good,” I protested.

  “Never heard such a deplorable noise,” he informed me.

  I was mortally offended. No one had ever criticized my voice before. I knew I sometimes slipped and said “ain’t” and used bad grammar, but my voice sounded perfectly all right to me. It certainly didn’t sound like a strangled duck. His voice was deep and melodious, with a faint huskiness that was like a soft caress. He was wearing highly polished brown boots and a pair of snug brown kidskin breeches and, over a full-sleeved, silky white shirt, a marvelous vest of brown and bronze striped brocade. I’d never seen such beautiful clothes on a man before. He must be very rich, I thought, must be a blooming aristocrat. Maybe even a prince or something, even if he was so old. Kindly face notwithstanding, the pistol was still leveled at my heart.

  “You—you gonna shoot me?” I asked.

  “I might. What were you doing going through my bags?”

  “I—”

  “Planning to rob me, were you?”

  “I—I was just—”

  “Might as well confess it, lass.”

  “I was just lookin’ for something to eat,” I wailed.

  To my complete horror and amazement, I started bawling then, bawling just like a baby in loud, heaving sobs, my whole body shaking, tears spurting from my eyes and spilling down my cheeks in a veritable flood. The man looked horrified, too, looked very uncomfortable. He jammed the pistol into the waistband of his breeches and sighed miserably and glanced around the clearing as though looking for some means of escaping this wretched exhibition. I fell to my knees, sobbing still, giving lavish vent to all the grief and heartache and fear I had kept locked inside since Ma’s death. The man finally cleared his throat, pulled me to my feet and, holding me with one strong arm curled around my waist, dabbed at my face with a soft linen handkerchief he had pulled from the pocket of his vest.

  “There,” he said. “There, there—do stop crying.”

  “I—I cain’t—”

  “Can’t, not cain’t. Can. Stop it this instant, do you hear me? It’s frightfully unbecoming.”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “Ah’m saw-ree. What kind of diction is that? Bears looking into by some phonologist. He’d be intrigued. Lord, what a filthy little swamp rat you are, covered with mud from head to toe. And the smell—I don’t believe my nostrils have ever been assailed by such a noxious stench.”

  I let out another wrenching sob and more tears spurted and the man let out an exasperated sigh and, taking hold of my shoulders, sat me down on the blankets. He sat down beside me and wrapped an arm around me and pulled my head up against his chest and let me cry myself out. His arm was very heavy, very comforting. He was a total stranger and I didn’t even know his name, yet for some reason I felt completely secure. He was a large man, tall and perhaps a trifle overweight, certainly not fat but not overly lean, either. He talked funny and used a lot of words I didn’t understand, but I sensed warmth and strong compassion in him.

  “There now,” he said when my tears stopped falling. “Do you want to tell me about it? What are you doing in the middle of the swamp at this bizarre hour, and why are you so deplorably filthy?”

  “I fell into a stream, it was all muddy, and there was an alligator on the bank and—I—I think I killed my stepfather.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I hit him hard as I could with an iron skillet, hit him on the head, and then—then I decided to run away.”

  “Sounds like a sensible decision to me. Why, pray, did you bash him with the skillet?”

  “He—he was trying to—to—”

  I started sobbing yet again, and amidst the sobs I blurted out the whole story. I told him about Clem and Jake and Randy and about Ma seeing the redbird and her death and that terrible day at the cemetery with the wooden box and the grave and the mound of brown dirt. I told him about my being a bastard and about my unknown relatives in a place called New Orleans, and finally I told him about Clem’s attempting to rape me in the kitchen. He listened with a solemn expression on his face, trying his best to follow my near incoherent ramblings.

  “And—and I ain’t had—haven’t had anything to eat since I ate a piece of cornbread yesterday and—and that’s why I was goin’ through your bags. I thought—the fowl wudn’t—wasn’t ready yet and I was afraid I’d burn my fingers and I thought maybe there’d be something to eat in one of them bags. I wasn’t plannin’ to rob you, I—I swear it.”

  “Call me an idiot if you choose, but—you know, I think I actually believe you, lass. You just sit here and rest up, child. I’ll have something for you to eat quick as a flash.”

  He climbed to his feet and opened the third bag, the one I hadn’t looked into. I watched him as though through a shimmery fog, so weary after the crying and emotional outpouring I could hardly hold my eyes open. The third bag did indeed contain food, cutlery and utensils as well, and I watched him pull things out, my eyelids growing heavier and heavier. I felt dizzy again, like I was floating and not really here at all. The hunger pains I had felt earlier had vanished, and I just wanted to drift away. The man moved about briskly, rattling things, his shadow shifting over the ground in the dying glow of the fire.

  “Here we are,” he said.

  He handed me a plate piled high with slices of roasted fowl and beans he had just heated and bread and a chunk of hard cheese. He handed me a glass, too, filled with a clear amber liquid that proved to be wonderfully tasty, if a bit peculiar when it slid down your throat. He stood with his arms folded, watching me eat, and I finally set the plate aside, half the food uneaten. I felt even dizzier than before, felt my head was actually spinning around, but there was a warm glow inside that made me cozy as a kitten.

  “Finished?” he inquired.

  I nodded sleepily and held up the empty glass.

  “Don’t feel like eatin’ anything else just now, but I’d sure like another glass-a this funny stuff.”

  “That funny stuff is wine, lass—a very fine vintage, incidentally, best my cellar contains. From the look of you, I’d say one glass was more than ample. Feeling better now?”

  “I feel like a kitten.”

  “A kitten?”

  “I just wanna curl up and purr.”

  “Jesus,” he said.

  “Mind if I take a little nap on these blankets?”

  “Feel free.”

  I yawned, making myself more comfortable on the thick blankets, everything hazy and kind of blurry, like I was looking through a shimmery piece of glass. The tepee thing with the half-finished picture on it seemed to wobble a little, and the glowing orange logs seemed to separate and become two piles of logs and then become one again. Curious as hell, I thought, blinking my eyes. My head still felt like it was spinning, only spinning slowly now, and I felt a wonderful glow inside. Never felt anything like it before. Maybe I’m dying, I told myself, an
d that frightened me.

  “Am—am I dying?” I asked him.

  “No,” he said. “you’re just drunk.”

  “I couldn’t be drunk,” I protested.

  “That was very potent wine. I shouldn’t have given it to you. I should have given you coffee instead.”

  I sighed and pulled one of the blankets over my bare legs. I was glad I wasn’t dying, glad I was only drunk. The man had put my plate down and held a glass of the very potent wine himself, sipping it as he looked down at me. He was so big and so beautiful in them, no, those elegant clothes, even if he did have silvery temples and a tiny double chin. The proud Roman nose and strong, square jaw inspired confidence, while the gentle eyes and full, humorous mouth made you feel real comfortable. Still, he was a man, and all men wanted to get into your drawers. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad if it was someone like him, I thought. He’d probably be real careful and tender and make it feel as good as they said it could feel.

  “Are you going to take advantage of me?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “All the men, they wanna pop my cherry.”

  “Indeed?”

  “I—I know I’m all dirty and wretched-lookin’ right now, but when I ain’t covered with mud and my hair idn’t all tangled, I look kinda nice. A-course, my waist is too narrow and my teats are too big, but th’ men don’t seem to mind it at all.”

  “I shouldn’t imagine they would,” he observed.

  “You ain’t—aren’t bad-looking yourself.”

  He took another sip of wine, smiling to himself.

  “You ain’t,” I insisted.

  “Thank you, child.”

  “You’re plum appealin’, even if you are so very old.”

  “Ouch,” he said.

  “I’ll bet a lotta women’d like for you to get into their drawers. I betja a lot of ’em even invite-ja to do it.”

  “It’s been a while,” he confessed.

  “If—if I had to lose my cherry, I guess I wouldn’t mind losin’ it with a great big man with warm brown eyes and a lovely mouth, ’ticularly if he was gentle and didn’t get all grabby and rough. A man as old as you are would probably know what he was doin’.”

  “Jesus,” he exclaimed, shaking his head. “One little glass of wine, just one, and you’re babbling like a gin-soaked lush. Of course, you drank it on an empty stomach and you’d never had wine before, but—”

  “What’s your name?” I asked.

  “Julian,” he said. “Julian Etienne.”

  “Julian—that’s a lovely name. It suits you. You kinda look like a Julian.”

  “Absolutely soused,” he said to himself.

  “I’m Dana,” I informed him.

  “Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dana, even under these rather bizarre circumstances. Go to sleep now, child, before you say something even more outrageous and offensive.”

  I obediently closed my eyes, snuggling my cheek against the soft blankets. I could hear the crackle of the smoldering logs and the stirring of leaves as a light wind sprang up. An owl hooted in the distance, and insects kept up a raspy chorus. They were all soothing sounds, and the rocking was soothing, too. I wondered why the ground should be rocking to and fro like this, like I was on a raft and the water was wavy. It didn’t really bother me all that much, though. It was kind of nice.

  “I wonder if you’re the man in my dreams,” I murmured, eyes still closed.

  “What’s that?”

  “You could be him,” I said, “or you could be one of the others. Mama Lou said there’d be four, but she wudn’t real specific ’bout which one was which—couldn’t see all that clearly. I’ll bet you ain’t the bad one, though, or you’d already-a done something unpleasant.”

  “Definitely soused,” he said.

  I sighed again, drawing my legs up and pulling the top blanket over me. My eyelids were as heavy as lead, layers of darkness swirling behind them. I heard the man moving around, his boots crunching softly on the ground. I drifted into the welcoming darkness, warm and snug, lulled by the night noises and the gentle rocking of the ground. I dreamed and I was running and they were running after me and the bloodhounds were baying and Clem wasn’t dead, he was urging the bloodhounds on and I cried out and strong, warm arms held me close and a husky, melodious voice said, “There, there, it’s all right, you’re all right now, child,” and I saw a flock of redbirds then and saw Ma and her face was white and she was trying to tell me something but I couldn’t hear and then she began to fade away and I couldn’t stop her, couldn’t hold her. I sobbed and sobbed and called her name and the arms tightened around me and I felt a large, tender hand smoothing back my hair, stroking my head. It all seemed so real, so very real. I could actually feel warmth and strength in those arms and actually hear that voice telling me it would be all right, telling me to sleep, just go back to sleep.

  Bright silvery yellow lights were dancing against my eyelids and a bird was making a dreadful racket and the ground was very hard and no longer rocking. I moaned, wishing the lights would go away, wishing the bird would shut up, wishing I could sleep and sleep and sleep and never wake up. A lovely smell filled the air, coffee, strong, hot coffee, and there was a tantalizing sizzling sound. I opened one eyelid and blinked. I moaned again and finally sat up and shoved deplorably dirty honey-blond waves from my temples. Every bone in my body was sore and my head felt awful and there was a queasy feeling in my stomach.

  “Good morning,” Julian Etienne said.

  I gave another moan, frowning. He smiled and poured coffee into a big pewter cup and brought it to me. I accepted it silently, wondering if I was going to live or die. I felt a little better after drinking some of the coffee. The blasted bird was still singing, warbling lustily. I longed for a rock to chunk at it. My bare feet, my legs, my arms, every part of me I could see was coated with dried mud, and my torn skirt was streaked with mud and stained with greenish moss. He, on the other hand, was clean as could be, freshly shaved, wearing a new pair of breeches, soft gray fawn, and a new white shirt and a lovely gray vest striped with silky blue and purple stripes.

  “I’m filthy,” I said.

  “Indubitably,” he replied.

  What kind of word was that? He spoke flawless French which was clearly his native tongue, but he sure used funny words. He looked even better this morning than he had looked last night, his waist a bit too thick, his body a bit fleshy, a large man, just slightly overweight, big and comfortable with himself and elegant in his fine clothes. The faint double chin and silvery temples somehow added to his charm, made him even more appealing. I wondered what he was doing in the swamp with all them—those pictures and the tepee thing, still standing nearby with the unfinished painting perched on it.

  “Want some breakfast?” he asked, indicating the fish slowly frying in the skillet. “I caught them this morning, deboned them, sliced them into fillets. They’re going to be quite tasty.”

  “Yuck,” I said.

  He smiled again. It was a beautiful smile. Old as he was, as old as Clem, maybe even older, he was still the handsomest man I had ever seen. He might be big and strong, but there was something cozy and reassuring about him. I didn’t for a minute worry about him trying to take my cherry. I stood up and stretched my arms, working the kinks out of my back and shoulders. Even if he did try to take it, I didn’t think I’d put up too fierce a struggle.

  “Would you like to wash?” he asked.

  “I’d love to.”

  “There’s a pond nearby. The water’s crystal-clear, with a tiny waterfall feeding into it. I’ve no more soap left, I fear, but you can improvise. You’ll feel better after you’ve removed some of that mud.”

  He gave me directions and I left the clearing and found the pond. Rays of silver sunlight danced on the water, making it sparkle, and a miniature waterfall spilled from a high, rocky bank on the far side. Willows and mossy plants grew all around. I stood on the bank for a moment, looking at my reflection in th
e shimmering water. Lord, my face was streaked with mud, too. I looked like a blackamoor. I took off my dress and petticoat and hauled them into the water with me and gave them a thorough rinsing, removing most of the stains, and then I spread them on the bank to dry.

  The pond was only shoulder-high at the deepest point, the bottom of smooth white and blue-white stones, and the water was deliciously cool. I swam around for several minutes, letting the water massage my body, and then I gathered two large clumps of moss and crushed them and rubbed them together until I had made a rich, foamy lather. It was as smooth as satin, and I spread it all over me, savoring the luxuriant feel of it on my skin. I rubbed it into my hair as well and used my fingers to work it in. I swam under the waterfall and let the cool water splatter all over me, washing the lather away. I repeated the process all over again and then swam some more, feeling gloriously clean as I stepped out of the water.

  The girl reflected in the pond now bore no resemblance to a blackamoor. I gazed at the shimmery image for several moments, intrigued. She looked like a tall, willowy water nymph with long, shapely legs and a slender waist and full, swelling breasts tipped with tight nipples as pink and tender as rosebuds. Her skin was a creamy tan, her expression bemused, her hair clinging to her head in damp, dark tendrils. I sighed and kicked a stone into the pond, shattering the reflection, and then I stretched out on the bank to dry. The sun was very warm already. I could feel its rays stroking my skin, causing my hair to turn light and feathery as I reclined on the soft, grassy bank.

  I closed my eyes, enjoying the sensation of warmth on my body as the sun continued to bathe me with its rays. I must have drifted off to sleep again. The sound of footsteps approaching awakened me with a start, and I leaped to my feet and snatched up my clothes, which were already dry. My hair was dry, too. I held the dress and petticoat in front of me and watched with frightened eyes as the dangling willow branches parted. Julian Etienne stepped into view, and I stared at him. I couldn’t speak for a moment. I was trembling, and my heart was pounding something awful. He frowned.