The Willows

by Mathew Sperle

  Us? We? The woman was going too far, too fast.

  “Not that I know much about carpentry, but I suppose now is a good as time as any to learn.”

  “You mean to help?” Jude asked, stunned. “You didn’t burn the roof though.”

  “No, but I did draw the alligators here. The way I see it’s, we all have mistakes to deal with, so why not pitch in and work together?”

  “I don’t get it. You don’t sound the same as when you first came. You sure have changed.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Yeah” grabbing her string of fish, Jude pushed out the door, daunted by how much she found herself sharing that hope.

  ***

  Lance marched into the rivers view Tavern. Having been in every saloon in the bayou, he had yet to find a guide willing to work for the small money he could offer. Shudder to think this hideous I could well be his last resort.

  At the last place he wished to visit, someone suggested Jim Longley might know a man so down it out, he’d worked for the promise of a bottle. Lance had been reluctant to come here, for his regulation of this Tavern were not too pleasant, but he could put up with Longley’s rudeness, I got him a guide into the swamp.

  When reaching the tavern he fine met the man he was supposed to meet. When Lance ask him what his name was. He responded with the name “Morteau.”

  Chapter 17

  Gwen peaked in the pot at the hearth and smiled in satisfaction. The children had nearly finished first to – not bad for her first attempt. Not that she could get too cocky, for as Jude pointed out, she’d laid too large a fire to cook it. The front door still open to the night air in attempt to cool the room.

  Looking about her, Gwen marveled at what a difference a week could make. Here was Jude helping her wash dishes, while the twins cleared the table, and Christopher tidied up the rest of the room. Of course, the boys argued as they worked in Jude war in large frown, but at least they had hitched into do their share. Not domestic bliss, perhaps, but all in all, she thought it was a good.

  It started when she volunteered to help fix the roof. She’d gotten horribly dirty and broken several fingernails each time the hammer slipped, but from that day on, the children began to view her in a new light. While they didn’t fully accept her, they seemed more and more likely to listen to what she had to say. They had even begun reading lessons-provided she rose early enough in the morning to catch them before they disappeared into the swamp.

  She longed to know what lured them there, kept them there, but she knew better then to ask. They must had several secrets they weren’t prepared to share, around her, they often spoke in low whispers. She could pry, poke and prod, but they’d tell her about their fortress when they were good and ready, or they wouldn’t tell her at all.

  In that regard, they were a lot like their uncle.

  Sighing as she stacked the dirty dishes in the cupboard, Gwen wondered if Michael would ever return to finish their argument. Every day, she braced herself for the encounter, prepared for his every possible reaction, yet every night, she’d fall into bed, exhausted and unfulfilled. She needed to see him, confront him, and hold him tight…

  No, she told herself firmly, slamming shut the cupboard door. It was silly, attaching so much importance to a single kiss. Very perhaps a series of kisses, each one more magical than the last, but it had nothing to do with the deeper emotions. With

  Love.

  Just one glance, she told herself. A single look in his eyes, would surely tell her that lance was still the man she wanted.

  “How come Patrick gets to play?” Christopher whined at her side.

  “Yeah,” Peter seconded. “We have to work, why doesn’t he?”

  Gwen’s own guilty start was imitated by Patrick. Jumping up from his seat by the hearth, he dropped the piece of would he’d been carving and kicked it backward, toward the fire.

  Gwen cried out in protest as she picked it of the floor. “Patrick, no. Not after the effort you put in this.” She traced the intricate detail, marveling at the child’s skill. “It’s such a beautiful sword.”

  The boy looked to his sister, who moved to stand between him and Gwen like a mother protecting her child. Reaching out, Jude took the wooden sword from her hands. “Wasn’t no effort. He carves up stuff like this all the time.” She tried to be offhand, but it was obviously difficult to keep the pride out of her tone.

  “But it’s so smooth and dangerous-looking. And look at the lovely dragon carved on the hilt. Please don’t toss it in the fire, Patrick. Let me have it.”

  He looked at Gwen in surprised, while Jude hid the sword behind her back. “It’s mine. He made it for me.”

  All four brothers looked at Jude, their closed expressions again shutting Gwen out. Another secret, she thought unhappily; once more, she’d strayed into forbidden territory. Would she ever be able to talk to these children, and not have to worry about each word she utters?

  “Well, you’re a luck girl.” She didn’t bother to hide her envy. “Your brother carved you a hero’s weapon. Worthy of Ivanhoe himself.”

  “As a reward for doing their chorus, Gwen had been reading her favorite Sir Walter Scott novel to them each evening, and Jude Blatantly pleased to be singled out as the hero. Her brother, however, appeared more delighted that Gwen had saw the swords value. Patrick was a deep one, shed discovered, a dreamer who felt compelled to hide the fact.

  “I want the story now.” Christopher tugged her hand, urging her over to the book shelf. “It’s time, I cleaned up the best I could.”

  Smiling, Gwen reached for the dog-eared copy of Ivanhoe. How surprised shed found it on Michael’s shelves; given his dark scowls, she expected more serious reading. It seemed there might be more than a secret romantic in the family,

  “Very well, I’ll read,” She said, turning to face the children. “But until we review tonight’s lesson.”

  It was her one stipulation. Before she read a word, they must review the table manners they’d learned at dinner. It not only reinforced the lesson, it made a more eager audience for her story.

  “We supposed to talk only about pleasant topics,” Peter began as they sat before her on the floor.

  “And never talk with our mouths full.” Paul made them giggle by puffing up his cheeks and pretending to chew.

  “And why shouldn’t we?” Gwen prompted, knowing how easily these discussions could degenerate into a laugh.

  “Consideration for others.” Patrick glanced meaningfully at the twins. “You’re not supposed to laugh too loud, either.”

  “Yeah,” Paul added with a grin. “No one wants gumbo spit out all over the table.”

  “Or Gator guts.”

  “Or-“

  “I think we get the Idea; Gwen stifled a smile. Let loose, the twins could banter back and forth all night. “They only thing that should come out of your mouth are topics of discussion. Let’s think of some few pleasant ones.”

  “Good books,” Christopher suggested. Encouraged by Gwen’s smile, he added, “Like Ivanhoe.”

  Jude snorted beside them. “It’s all right, but I’d much rather read about Camelot.”

  There was a collective groan from her brothers, but Gwen’s interest jumped. How interesting, that she and Jude should share a liking for the Arthurian legend.

  “King Arthur is ten times the hero Ivanhoe is.” Jude crossed her arms across her chest. “And besides, he had Merlin.”

  Of course, she’d like the magician the best. Gwen found herself wishing she have grown up with Jude. Shed bet anything the girl would make playing Camelot twice the adventure it had been.

  “Merlin,” Peter said blankly. “What a fake.”

  “He is not a fake.” Jude stood, glaring down peter. “Merlin is the greatest magician that ever lived.”

  Peter stood with her. “Yeah, then why didn’t the experiment work? All we got was a hole in the pantry roof and Uncle Michael mad at us.

  “Experiment?” Gwen watched al
l five go instantly still. “For pity sake, don’t stop now,” She said. “I helped mend the roof. Don’t I deserve to know how it got burned?”

  The boys looked at Jude. “She did help us,” Patrick told his sister. “I think we should tell her.”

  Not waiting for her answer, he scrambled up and went to the shelves. Curious-and a bit excited that they’d meant to share a secret with her – Gwen watched him select a book and bring it back to her. Jude glared, but made no move to stop her brother.

  “We saw that picture,” Patrick said. Opening to a page in the middle.

  Taking the book from him, Gwen found a dramatic rendition of a robed Merlin, conjuring up spells over a cauldron on an open fire, his assistant holding a long, metal rod. Underneath, the cation read “Turning lead into gold.” Confused, she glanced up at Patrick for an explanation.

  “Jude said she knew the right spell,” He began.

  “It was the right spell,” Jude insisted angrily. “It would’ve worked fine, if the twins hadn’t started fighting over who would carry the pipe. It want until it slipped out of Peter’s hands that the fires scattered and embers went flying.”

  Gwen remained bewildered. “You started a fire in the house?”

  Again they fell silent, looking at each other.

  “It was raining outside,” Christopher said with his sad little boy face. “We had to try. Uncle Michael needs our help.”

  Jude turn her glare on him. “You have a big, mouth, Christopher. Didn’t we agree she was not supposed to know that?”

  “That was before the gator.”

  “He is right,” Patrick intervened. “If it wasn’t for her, Christopher would not we here.”

  “Yeah,” Paul, seconded. “And she kept the code of honor. She never did tell Uncle Michael about the snake.”

  Gwen held her breath, hoping that this once, she’d be included in the secret.

  “Oh, all right,” Jude said suddenly. “If you have to know, we wanted to make gold, so Michael won’t need to work so hard.”

  “We thought it only fair to help,” Patrick explained further, “Since he’s trying to get a real home for us, with land and a farm. We couldn’t think of anything else we could do, way out here in the swamp.”

  Gazing at the children, Gwen wondered how she could ever have thought these children were brats. At their age, it would never have occurred to her to help her father with the financial difficulties.

  “It was our mother’s dream,” Jude said. “When she and Michael were our age, they wished for a place all their own, something no one could take away or even force them move out. That is what he wants for us.”

  Gwen thought of the child Michael had been, so proud and idealistic. It must have been hard for him, first losing his father, then being forced from his home. No wonder he wanted a permanent home.

  “Can we please read now?” Chris asked, pointing to Ivanhoe. “Soon it will be my bedtime.”

  Something drew her gaze to the door. Her heart seemed to stop for a moment as she saw Michael, standing there watching them. Breathlessly, she raised a hand to her hair, hoping it wasn’t a disaster. He was here at last; please, don’t let her look a mess.

  He stood in the doorway, leaning against the frame, seeming so worn and weary, she soon forgot her own looks. Emotions clogged in her chest as Chris, “Uncle Michael needs our help,” echoed in her brain.

  “I’d thought you would all be in bed by now,” he said, starting to walk into the room.

  With a single “Michael” the children jumped up and crowed around him. Watching his smile as he hugged each child in turn, Gwen fought her own urges to fling herself in his arms. How could she not be drawn to someone so solid, so strong, so… so nice.

  At least to the children. Handing out candy to the kids, he cast a wary glance in her direction.

  “Don’t be sad,” Chris said, turning to Gwen. “I’m going to share with you.”

  Hard not to love that boy. But then, the older children offered to share their candy, too, albeit less spontaneously a fact that had their uncle giving her another speculative glance. “I wish someone would offer me some food,” He said. “I feel like I haven’t eaten since Sunday.” He sniffed the air. “With the smells coming from this cabin, my mouth started to water before I got in the door.” He turned to Jude. “Anything left over from dinner tonight?”

  “I don’t know. Ask her.” The girl pointed to Gwen.

  Happy for something to do, Gwen had already gone to the kitchen for a bowl. She waved to the table and began ladling from the pot. “We have some leftover stew,” She rattled on, completely flustered. “Its not elegant cuisine, but it should be filling.”

  She remembered how Edith had said the similar words, and how Gwen had scoffed at them. She said a silent prayer that her attempt proving more appetizing than her cousins meal.

  Approaching the table, Michael eyed her with questions. “You’re looking particularly domestic tonight.”

  “We take turns cooking.” Jude spoke aloud, as if she feared her uncle would think less of her for not preparing a meal.

  Gwen smiled at the girl as she set the bowl before Michael. “It was my first try, tonight. Jude gave me lots of advice.”

  “You cooked this?” His disbelief was bad enough, but more insulting still was the hesitating manner in which he gazed at his bowl.

  “Don’t worry, I promise you won’t be poisoned. Look, the children ate it, and they are fine.”

  He sat slowly, with obvious misgivings. Holding her breath as he ate, Gwen waited for his verdict. The children, she noticed, watched him just as carefully.

  “Not bad,” He said firmly, and Gwen exhaled, too. Jude even smiled, though she turned away quickly, busying herself concealing the sword behind the chair.

  That girl needs to smile more, Gwen thought. She was too young to be suppressing her happier emotions, her sense of humor. Turning back to Michael, Gwen decided that Jude was too much like her uncle.

  He looked up when he was finished, his expression still skeptical. “I must say, my lady, you never do the expected.”

  “I thought dinner was dee-Lucius.” Chris, who wandered over to stand beside his uncle, beamed up to Gwen.

  Michael shrugged. “Not bad. For a queen.”

  “She’s a queen?” Chris looked from Michael’s grin of amusement to her flustered blush.

  “No, I am not,” She said stiffly. “Your uncle is just teasing.”

  “Such modesty, Lady Gwen? When we were children, you enjoyed lording it over us peasants.”

  By now the others had gathered around the table to listen. Gwen tried to explain. “As children, we played Camelot all the time. I got to play the Queen because I had the name and hair color.”

  “It had nothing to do with having the richest daddy in the parish, of course.”

  Why was he being so nasty to her? She wondered, her happiness at seeing him dulling somewhat. He seemed to be spoiling for a fight.

  Conscious of the children watching, she refused to argue. How could she expect them to stop their scrapping, if she and their uncle continued to cross verbal wars? As she preached, the best way to stop someone provoking you was to simply ignore them. Or, failing that, try patience and humor.

  As she worked to restrain herself, Michael leaned back, pushing the empty bowl away. “Dinner was great,” He said with a weary sigh. “But now that I’ve seen you alive and well, there no alligators around to bother you, I reckon I’d better go.” Sighing again, he rose from the chair.

  The children groaned; Gwen protested aloud. “But you’ve just arrived. Surly you can stay a few moments?”

  “A peasant’s work is never done.”

  “Wait.” She tensed as he halted a t the door, turning to frown at her. “I, er, have a few things I need to ask of you.”

  “What Things?”

  Gwen would have been more comfortable batting her lashes but considering his impatient tone-and Jude’s warning that he preferred
plain speaking-she blurted out that she needed cocoa. “For my morning drink,” she explained as his frown deepened. “I can’t drink that coffee.

  “I’ll see what I can do.” The words were clipped, dismissive.

  “Wait, I’m not done.” Gwen struggled to get the words out. “I need a dress. Not for me,” She nodded hastily as he eyed her up and down. “For Jude. She should have something special to wear, if we’re going to have a tournament.”

  Hard to tell who looked more surprised, Michael or his niece, though both seemed equally disgusted. Gwen spoke quickly. “We’ve been reading Ivanhoe, and we thought it might be fun to stage our own tournament. We wish you would join us a week from Saturday.”

  She winked at Jude, hoping she would understand. Saturday was Michael’s birthday. If he expected a tournament, the party would come as a surprise.

  Jude, bless her quick mind, spoke with enthusiasm. “Please say you’ll come, Michael. It’ll be such fun.”

  “We’ll be fighting for honor and glory,” Patrick added, realizing what Gwen meant to do.

  The twins piped in. “For Camelot.” And Chris, getting swept up in excitement, blurted out, “To win us a home.”

  Michael’s scowl grew darker with every contribution.

  “Please say you’ll come.” Oblivious to her uncle’s displeasure, Jude continued. “Gwen will be the Queen of course, and you can be her King Arthur.”

  “Arthur’s been exiled,” Michael snapped, glaring at Gwen. “Your queen decided long ago that she’d rather have Lancelot.” He marched off then, slamming the door behind him.

  Hurt and scared, the children turned to Gwen, as if expecting she could fix this, like she’d helped repair the roof. She could have told them it would require a great deal more than a hammer and nails to mend things like their uncle, but they were so hopeful, and besides, wasn’t one of her new resolutions to stop running away from unpleasant scenes? “Wait here,” She told them, pasting on a small smile. “I’ll go talk to him.”