It was true. For years, stands like The Devil’s Backbone prospered along the 400 mile path from Natchez to Nashville. “Coon Box Stand”, “Buzzard Roost”, “Shoat’s”, “French Camp”, over fifty stands in number, dotted the rugged trail. But with the invention of the steam engine, there came a new and easier way to travel on the Mississippi; by paddle wheeler, and the golden years of the Natchez Trace came to a close.
Sydnee walked over the little bridge and then up a path alongside the creek toward her favorite spot under a willow tree. She brushed aside the long green tendrils of the tree and sat down. Baloo and Atlantis ducked in after her.
Sydnee eased herself down onto the moss. The verdant chamber was the only place she felt safe. With the green curtain surrounding her, she could lower her guard and allow her imagination to soar. Ever since she was a small child, she would come to this hideaway, armed with stories from Margarite about Martinique and a city called New Orleans.
“The ladies gowns are the color of the finest flowers,” Margarite told her. “Fabric as blue as cornflowers, reds like christmasberry blossoms, and yellows as brilliant as the flowers on lily pads.”
Sydnee would listen with her chin cupped in her hand, memorizing every word.
“And the houses, child,” Margarite would continue. “They all have balconies bordered with lacey iron railings and courtyards filled with magnolias and camellias.”
Sydnee would try to imagine the big river to the west, called the Mississippi, where the “Trace” began in Natchez. She had never seen a cake, but Margarite told her that the paddle wheelers on the river looked like gigantic, white layer cakes, all trimmed in gold.
“Someday I will see it all,” she murmured to the dogs.
As she mused, a crane caught her eye. She could see him just beyond the green strands of the tree, strutting in the shallow water. Sydnee loved all creatures but particularly birds. It was because of her love of birds that Vivian had come to her.
Sydnee dropped back with her hands behind her head, thinking about life in the city to the south. Margarite had spoken also of her life on the sugar cane plantation in Martinique. Sydnee knew this was where Margarite was born and where she received her training in Hoodoo, and her ritual scarring. These stories were not as beautiful though. In fact they were frequently disturbing. They often ended in talk of cruelty to slaves and people using Voodoo for dark purposes, a practice which Margarite abhorred.
Suddenly she heard the bell ringing from the porch of the cabin. It was her signal to return to the house. As she rose, she felt the muscles of her abdomen spasm. She recognized this feeling from her first pregnancy. It was her belly practicing for birth.
As she headed down the path with the dogs, she stopped to check her turtle traps. She had six holes, about ten inches deep, along the banks of creek to lure turtles. Sydnee would entice them with worms around the ridge of the hole, placing the juiciest morsels at the bottom of the hollow. Greedy for the best worms, the turtles would drop down to the bottom of the hole and be trapped. The catch was small today. She scooped up the few turtles she found and held them in the skirt of her dress. She would take them home to Margarite for soup.
As she walked down the path in her bare feet, Vivian landed on her shoulder. Baloo lumbered behind her as Atlantis dashed in and out of the creek, scaring up waterfowl. The birds would burst out of the marshy grasses with their wings thundering. On one occasion, the terrier put her nose underwater and then yelped. She was investigating a snapping turtle too closely.
When Atlantis returned to shore, she stood in their path and shook her coat, spattering Sydnee and Vivian with water. Sydnee blinked but Vivian swooped down giving Atlantis a punitive peck on the head. The dog immediately dropped into a crouch and ducked into the bushes.
When Vivian landed back on her shoulder, Sydnee commanded, “Come!” and Atlantis came out to the path once more. Sydnee reached up to dry her face with her sleeve. Her dress was nothing more than a rag. It had been a well-made gown at one time, but now it was threadbare, faded, and ragged around the hem. Her clothing came from a Kaintuck whose wife died along The Trace several years back. The man gave them three dresses, a sun bonnet and an apron. Prior to that, Sydnee had worn only the garments left by her mother. Victor Sauveterre did not think it was necessary the females have fabric for clothing. He thought they should make-do with sack cloth or burlap and that footwear was a luxury, so Sydnee never owned a pair of shoes.
Margarite was hanging Victor Sauveterre’s clothes up to dry. She was wearing her faded turban or tignon and a brown gown with a dirty, white apron. A string of shells hung from her neck, and she had one hoop earring in her ear. Sydnee could smell the rice and gravy simmering in the Dutch oven on the campfire near the cabin. It was too hot to cook inside the house this time of year.
Chickens scattered as the dogs raced up to greet the old woman. She bent down stiffly to pet them, murmuring endearments as she scratched their ears. Margarite always moved slowly, but lately her crippled hip caused her to move even slower because of increased pain. Sydnee knew this was one of the reasons she was drinking heavily.
Sydnee and Margarite managed to hide the drinking from Sydnee’s father thus far, but her failing health was hard to disguise. Sydnee noticed the woman’s appetite was decreasing and that she was drinking more and more corn whiskey instead of eating. Margarite had access to the alcohol from a still in back of the cabin. Since it was one of her tasks to make “white lightning” for customers, she was around it constantly.
Sydnee dropped her skirt full of turtles into a bucket of water and started toward the cabin to see if her father wanted breakfast.
“He is gone to Buzzard Roost already,” Margarite called to her in French.
Sydnee was relieved. Victor Sauveterre went to George Broussard’s stand frequently to play horseshoes and drink. Many days he was gone from sunrise until sunset.
She turned and came over to help hang up clothes instead. Margarite put her wrinkled hand to Sydnee’s cheek and said, “Good morning, my leetle girl.”
Sydnee murmured, “Are you well after last night?”
Margarite shrugged her shoulders, not wishing to discuss the incident with the stranger. She changed the subject. “I picked an egg for my reading today.”
Sydnee lowered her eyes and frowned.
Margarite looked at her and dropped her arms from the clothes line. She continued in her French patois, “What is it?”
Sydnee thrust her jaw open and strained to speak, but no words came. Mute until the age of nine, Sydnee had been speaking for only the past five years. When she at last spoke, Margarite was amazed at her mastery of both English and French. It was further confirmation that Sydnee had a fine mind.
“Why don’t you want to do my reading?” Margarite pressed.
“I-I am not good at egg readings,” Sydnee said in English, but she was lying. The truth was that she was afraid of what she might see in the woman’s future.
Margarite narrowed her eyes. She knew that Sydnee was lying. At fourteen, the girl was the most proficient diviner she had ever known.
“Well, I want you to try,” the old woman said, pursing her lips. She started to the back of the cabin toward the still. Sydnee knew that she was going to start drinking again.
After pinning the last of her father’s shirts onto the line, Sydnee picked up a bucket and a knife and started down The Trace into the woods. When the creatures tried to follow she commanded them to stay back.
She felt another tightening in her stomach as she trudged down the dirt road, bucket in hand, but she ignored the sensation. It was a fine summer morning, and she enjoyed her peaceful walk. Years ago, she would have met all sorts of people traveling this thoroughfare, but now it was unusual to see anyone. A meadow opened up on her right and Sydnee left the trail to cross the sun-drenched field of grass. She wiped the perspiration from her brow and slowly approached the hollow remains of an oak tree. Bees swarmed around the trunk, but S
ydnee continued toward them.
As she walked, she began to chant. The words and their meaning were unknown to her, but the bees seemed to be charmed into submission. The chant came to her from the spirits one day years ago. Gradually the bees landed on the trunk of the tree, mesmerized as if asleep, allowing her access to the hive. They looked like a large fur coat on the oak.
Sydnee set the bucket down, still chanting, took the knife and shaved off a large hunk of honey comb. Dripping with liquid gold, she dropped the comb into the bucket. Leaning over and looking at the bees, she bowed once in gratitude and then backed away. She crossed the meadow, sucking the delicacy from her fingers.
The first few times Sydnee tried to harvest honey, Margarite told her to use smoke to subdue the bees. Although an ancient technique for bee charming, she found it ineffective. She believed if she simply approached the colony, chanted the incantation and asked for permission, the bees would share their honey with her.
Like with so many creatures, Sydnee had an uncanny ability to communicate with them. From an early age, Margarite taught her to respect and love all living things and to use the power of Hoodoo to do good deeds. Sydnee’s whole world revolved around this simple philosophy of living.
Before she left the meadow, she put the bucket of honey down and pulled a flat blade of grass from the ground. Pressing it between her fingers, she blew on it making a loud screeching noise. In a matter of moments, she could see the dogs running up The Trace with Vivian soaring above them.
As the group ambled back toward the cabin, they met Margarite on the road. She was carrying a basket of produce on her head. It was filled with onions, okra and plump red tomatoes which she had just picked from their garden. Sydnee reached up and carefully transferred the basket to her own head.
Margarite took the bucket of honey and limped along beside them. “I found the plant we need to ease your pain when the baby comes. It is over there near the indigo bush.” Well versed in the use of plants for Hoodoo potions and medicine, Margarite was frequently in the woods searching for flowers, barks, and herbs. “How do you feel today, my beauty?” the old woman asked.
Sydnee smiled. This time the words rolled quickly off her tongue. “I know this baby will live. It kicks more than my first one.”
“Any pains?”
“No, but I feel my stomach practicing.”
“Get your craw fishing done early, so you can rest this afternoon. Your father will be gone until late tonight.”
The dogs dragged along behind Margarite and Sydnee, panting. The air was steadily growing more humid in the green darkness along The Trace. Two redwing blackbirds darted in front of Sydnee, one chasing the other through the trees. The girl smiled. She loved the woods, the creek, the swamps and all of its creatures.
“Bon jour to you my little Cumptico,” said Margarite suddenly.
Sydnee looked down at a rattlesnake sunning himself on a rock along the side of the road.
“Thank you for your protection,” the old woman continued. “May your day be filled with peace and harmony.”
They continued past the snake with the dogs giving Cumptico a wide berth.
“You have taught me so many things,” Sydnee said. “Will you teach me how to be a mother?”
Margarite’s eyebrows shot up. She stopped walking and looked at the girl. Her wrinkled face looked like the head of an old apple doll. “You know that I have no children.”
Sydnee said, “You have me.”
Margarite brushed a lock of hair off the girl’s face affectionately and murmured. “You are right, leetle one. It is true that motherhood is not just about giving birth. Oui, I will help you.”
When they reached the cabin, Baloo crawled under the porch where it was cool, Atlantis waded in the creek lapping water, and Vivian flew to the shade of her favorite oak tree.
With a sigh of relief, Margarite sat down in the rocker on the porch, a mug of white lightning in her hand. She could never have rested if Victor Sauveterre was home. Sydnee went into the cabin to get some mint tea out of a jar. She came out and eased herself down onto the step, drinking out of a gourd.
Margarite rocked back and forth, fanning herself. “Your name has given you a good start at motherhood.”
Sydnee looked up at her quizzically.
“The name Sauveterre, did I never tell you, child? En français, it means safe haven.”
“That is what Papa’s name means?”
Margarite frowned. “The name belongs more to you. You live by it. He does not.”
Sydnee drained the ladle and pushed herself up. “I am going craw fishing now.”
“Good,” the old woman said draining her cup too and starting inside to make turtle soup. “Soap making tomorrow,” she called, but the girl did not hear her. She was already headed along the creek with Baloo.
Carrying her net and bucket, Sydnee found a slow back wash of water under a cypress tree and squatted down. The muddy creek bottom was alive with the creatures. Prodding them gently with a stick, scores of crayfish backed into Sydnee’s net. In no time, her job was complete.
She sat down on the bank and put her arm around Baloo’s big neck and kissed him. “Margarite does not like Papa very well, does she?”
The dog rolled his brown eyes up at the girl adoringly.
“He has never been very nice to her, but I think it is because he is lonely. I think he misses Mama.”
Baloo rested his chin in Sydnee’s lap while she scratched his head. She said nothing for a while, deep in thought. “This baby will make Papa feel better,” she declared, nodding.
Sydnee told Baloo everything. In fact, he was the first creature to ever hear Sydnee utter a word. The girl was seldom lonely but when she did see other children her age, she felt awkward. The Devil’s Backbone was very isolated, and when a customer brought youngsters to the stand, Sydnee was too busy cooking and doing chores to play.
“Let’s go,” she said to Baloo, picking up her bucket.
They rested that afternoon during the oppressive heat of the day. Sydnee was glad her father had not returned. She felt guilty thinking it, but things went more smoothly when he was not around. Everyone was on edge when he was home. She was also secretly grateful when no customers came to the stand. Inevitably her father would offer her body to the men, and when they accepted, she had to endure their heavy, sweating bodies upon her behind the hanging quilt in the cabin. Most of the time they did not look at her, but on occasion the customers wanted her to look into their eyes while they did vile things to her.
She had seen the animals of The Trace mating, and she found it a natural and functional way to procreate, but the customers of The Devil’s Backbone changed all that. They made the act filthy and depraved.
That evening after the sun set and their chores were complete, Margarite told Sydnee it was time for her egg divination. They went to the shed and lit one candle. Usually they burned strings in cups of grease for light, but a divination was special and called for a candle.
Sydnee felt sick to her stomach. She knew the reading would not be good. She felt it in her bones.
Before they sat down, she poured a ring of purifying salt onto the floor, around the table and sat down. Margarite sat across from Sydnee, holding the egg. Solemnly, she swept it around the outside of her body to cleanse her aura. She started over her head and then moved the egg down over her arms, legs, under her feet and then up the other side of her body. When she was finished, she handed it to Sydnee who quickly cracked the egg and let the white drip through her fingers into a clear glass bowl of water, discarding the yolk into a small crock at her feet.
Sydnee looked to the heavens first with her palms raised to thank the Lord for life and pray for guidance, and then she moved the bowl forward. They waited in silence as the egg white settled into the water. The sounds of night were all around them. Crickets were singing in the woods and toads called to one another in the swamps.
At last the divination began to unfold.
The first thing Sydnee saw was a thin veil of translucent white that resembled a shroud, dropping gently over an oblong mass at the bottom of the bowl. She swallowed hard and clenched her teeth, staring at the bowl. Next long threads began to rise up like spires on a church. They were beautiful slender filaments, like the gates of heaven. Next she saw bubbles resembling the stars and the opaque form of a woman draped in white, her arms raised in welcome. Lovely as it was, this was not what she wanted to see.
She looked up at Margarite who was studying her.
“Oh, my dear one,” the old woman murmured. “I know what you are seeing. I have known for some time.” She shook her head. “I was wrong to have you divine this. Peut-être it was my way of telling you.”
Tears welled up in Sydnee’s eyes and rolled down her face. The girl sat rigidly, not looking up from the table. She did not want to admit that Margarite was dying.
Suddenly a crippling pain clutched Sydnee’s abdomen, and she cried out. Margarite grabbed her hand. When the pain passed at last, Sydnee looked up at her panting, with sweat drenching her brow.
When the chimes tinkled in the corner, a slow smile spread over Margarite’s face, and she said, “The spirits are speaking, my beauty, a life for a life. It is the way of it, and it is good.”
Chapter 3
The ancient oak tree above Sydnee’s head stretched over her like a canopy. She examined the heavy black branches with their verdant foliage and then looked down at the dappled sunlight at her feet. She felt warm and protected as if she was enfolded in the arms of a loving mother. She longed to stay but something compelled her to keep moving.
When Sydnee started down the paved walkway, she frightened away two song birds that were drinking from a stone basin on a pedestal. Walking closer she saw that the basin was filled with water. Something in her memory stirred. Margarite told her of such a decoration. She called it a bird bath.
What beautiful and peaceful place is this?
The Grand Masquerade (The Bold Women Series Book 4) Page 2
