Michel cuts another piece of flesh from the fish and holds it up. “Eat,” he says, just before the piece he’s holding disappears into his mouth.
I’ve never tasted raw fish before, but I’m hungry. And it’s no wonder. We didn’t get a chance to eat any breakfast before Michel arrived, and it’s already way past lunch time. I glance at Andy. He’s chewing, and he seems to be enjoying it. Before I work up the nerve to try mine, Andy is asking for another piece, which makes Michel smile. I notice how white his teeth are when the sun reflects off them. Andy’s a picky eater, so it can’t be that bad. I decide to give it a try. Once I put it in my mouth, it actually tastes a lot better than I thought it would.
Before long, we’ve finished eating and Michel is once again paddling us toward the far end of the lake. When we’ve covered the distance, Michel keeps the pirogue close to the shoreline. Numerous waterways lead into the trees and away from the lake. They all look alike to me. I have no idea how he knows what he’s looking for, but he apparently does. Suddenly, the pirogue tilts at a dangerous angle when Michel turns us sharply to the right. I let out a yelp and grab the side of the boat to keep from falling into the water. Andy laughs, and when I glance back at Michel, I detect a smile on his face before he turns away to hide it.
We leave the open air of the lake behind and enter another meandering waterway. It’s wide at first, but within a few hundred yards, it pinches down to a narrow alley shaded by a canopy of moss-laden trees hugging both banks.
A large black and gold spider skates across the surface of the water and out of our path. The Spanish moss hangs down and drags across my hair every few yards, although I try to avoid it by scooting from one side of the seat to the other. Sometimes it works. Most times it doesn’t. The creek is getting narrower the further we go, but Michel keeps pushing us along and we continue deeper into the bayou.
The air becomes noticeably cooler when the sun descends below the horizon. The smell of death and decay fills the air along with the buzzing cloud of insects that are swarming around our faces. The sounds are changing. Night creatures are starting to talk to each other. Large things splash in the water ahead of us when they hear us approaching. Smaller things slither down the bank and into the water with less noise. The movement and the sound of life surround us, and everything appears acutely aware of our presence.
A misty fog rolls down the banks and floats across the water like white smoke. The boat slices through it as we glide silently along. Darkness wraps around us now. Michel quits pushing the boat and we slow to a stop. He opens the lid of a cypress box in the rear of the boat and removes a lantern. His nail flicks the top of a match and a flame sputters to life with a crackle and the smell of sulfur before he touches it to the lantern wick.
“Give dis to da boy,” he says. He hands me the lantern and I pass it along to Andy. He places it on the prow of the boat and holds the bottom of it so it doesn’t slide off.
Even through the fog, pairs of green and yellow eyes reflect the lantern’s light and follow us as we float past. The air is filled with sound as more creatures join the chorus. A large squadron of mosquitoes has found us, and I feel the stings on my neck and arms. I’m itchy. And sticky. And dirty. I wish we were home so I could take a nice, long, hot bubble bath.
The hour is getting late. We have traveled for some time now, well into territory Andy and I have never been in before. Maybe no one has ever been here—and lived to tell about it. The creek is widening out again, and just ahead, as we round a bend, the lantern’s glow shines on something silver sticking out of the water and rising above the fog.
It resembles a whale’s tail, but it’s not moving. As we get nearer and the lantern’s light illuminates it better, I gasp when I realize what it is. It’s the tail of an airplane. Even in the dim light, I can see the “S” that my father painted on it when we first got it. It gives me a sick feeling in my stomach to see it like this. It should be flying high above us in the clear sky the way it used to, not lying dead and helpless in a scum-covered creek miles from home. When Andy turns around and I see the sadness in his face, my eyes well up with tears.
We pass so close to the tail of the plane that I can reach out and touch it. It feels cold and hard. My fingers leave streaks on the dew that’s settling on it, and the water droplets trickle down, like tears. My heart breaks as we leave it behind and it fades into the darkness. A shudder goes through me as I imagine Mom and Dad inside the plane, below the water. I shake my head to push the thought away.
After another mile or so, we enter a wide, lazy turn in the creek and something else comes into view. It’s a light, and it’s dead ahead of us. We continue around the turn and another light appears, and another, and another. There are scores of them, shining with a golden glow into the dark bayou night. The lights are coming from windows in the small shanties dotting the shore. It’s a secret, hidden village, like something you’d read about in a spooky novel. Except that this one is real, and it’s spreading out right in front of us.
Andy turns to face me, holding the lantern in his hands. The yellow glow reflects in his wide eyes, and his surprise is obvious. “Did you know this was here?”
I shake my head. “I don’t think anyone knows this is here.”
The sound of strange music and singing floats across the water. It becomes louder the closer we get. Fireflies blink their lights on and off as we approach the village, and barefoot children run toward the water, waving at us and filling the air with their greetings and sweet laughter.
The pirogue makes a soft, wet sound when it slides into the mud at the shoreline. Dark faces smile in our direction and hands reach toward us, eager to help us get out of the boat. I can’t help smiling back at them. I’m not certain where we are, but I am certain of one thing: Conrad will never find us here. Excitement fills me, along with fear when I realize we’ve got to be very close to Mom and Dad now. I pray they are okay and not still in the plane.
I pick up the saddle blanket I’ve been sitting on, now heavy and moist from the muggy air, and toss it over my shoulder. Andy grabs the rifle, and we step out of the boat and into the throng of chattering children. Michel claps his hands and yells something in French. They squeal and run away, and the darkness swallows them.
A large shanty lies directly ahead of us, and Michel leads us up the hill toward it. This is obviously the home of someone of importance in this village. Light shines through every window. There is a small stoop at the front door and we step onto it. Michel knocks on the heavy door. A moment later, he jumps from the stoop and disappears into the darkness, leaving Andy and me alone as someone inside the shanty heads toward us to answer the knock.
Andy grabs my hand as the door swings slowly open. An old man looks out at us. His hair is wispy and white, his face weathered and wrinkled, and there is a strange light behind his watery eyes. A smile crosses his thin lips, revealing a mouth with a few yellowed teeth and several vacant spaces where others used to be. As I stare at this strange man, my heart is thumping so hard inside my chest that I can hear it in my ears.
“Sherwood?” he asks in a soft and whispery voice.
I nod. “Fabien Laveau?”
He shakes his head, but opens the door wider and beckons us to enter.
Chapter Fourteen
Feathers and Crawfish
A MIXTURE OF UNFAMILIAR and pungent smells fills my nose when we step inside the shanty. Andy’s hand is cold and clammy in mine—or maybe it’s my own hand that feels that way.
The stranger closes the door once we’ve entered, and we follow him across the uneven boards of the floor and further into the large room. Candles flicker and their flames dance in the breeze coming through the open window. Our shadows look deformed and grotesque as they waltz across the walls.
The room is quiet until a scruffy rooster explodes out of the darkness with a loud squawk and a flutter of wings. My breath rushes in with an audible gasp, and Andy’s grip clamps down on my hand like a vise. The roo
ster runs toward us with giant strides, his claws clicking on the wooden floor. With another loud squawk, he takes to the air and flies clumsily through the open window. He disappears into the night before the cloud of dust and feathers has floated to the ground.
My pulse is still racing when our host invites us to sit in a couple of wicker chairs that have seen better days. “Thank you,” I say as Andy and I sit. Once we’re seated, my nervous leg starts bouncing up and down as it always does when I’m in an unfamiliar situation. I move the saddle blanket from my shoulder and onto my lap. Andy rests the butt of the rifle on the floor between his boots and rocks it back and forth while he glances around the room.
The old man looks at me, and I guess he’s waiting for me to speak. “Michel said we’re supposed to meet Fabien Laveau. Is he here?”
The old man shakes his head. “Be back in de mawnin, he will.”
“What about our parents?” I ask. “We want to see them now. Where are they?”
The old man purses his lips, closes his eyes and shakes his head slowly. “No. You can’t see dem yet.”
My bright hope dims a bit when I hear his comment. “Why can’t we see them? They’re all right, aren’t they?”
He shakes his head again. “Ever ting be okay, butchu gotta wait til de mawnin when Fabien can splain de way dey is.”
Before I can ask the old man what he means by that, Andy is in my face. “Do we have to spend the night here? Why can’t we just find Mom and Dad and go home?”
The old man answers Andy’s question before I can. “De women, dey be comin’ ta getchu soon.”
A moment later someone knocks on the door. The old man gets up, walks to the door, and opens it. Everything happens quickly from that point on. Two young women, one carrying a lantern and the other a small basket, hurry into the room. One of them grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet so quickly that I almost drop the saddle blanket. But I manage to hang onto it as they shuttle the two of us out the door and across the compound.
Small fires crackle from a few locations, lighting the night and our path as we follow the women to wherever they are taking us. The barking of dogs and the crying of babies interrupts our whispering to each other as the women lead us to a small, dark shanty a hundred yards or more away.
When they open the door, their lantern illuminates a small room with a couple of makeshift pallets on the dirt floor. They shoo us inside and toward the center of the room. Without speaking a word, the taller of the two women lights a candle on the wooden table near the door and the other one places the cloth-covered wicker basket next to the candle. When they’ve finished, the women move quickly toward the doorway. Andy and I stare at the door as it closes behind them and the sound of their footsteps dies away.
“This place is weird,” Andy whispers as the flickering candle lights his face. “And kind of scary.”
“Yeah. Honestly. It’s almost like everyone has been told exactly what to do.”
“I know.” Andy nods, then stares at the small table. “I think I smell food in that basket.”
“You want to check, or do you want me to do it?”
He glances at the basket, then back at me. “Let’s both do it.”
When we remove the cloth from the basket, we discover crawfish, still steaming in their shells, and an earthenware pot containing a spicy but sweet red sauce. In addition, there is a whole loaf of bread, golden brown and also still warm. We sit in the two wooden chairs at the small table and start eating. The food is delicious and very filling.
We agree to leave the candle lit as we take off our boots and lie down on the pallets. The sheets feel cool and clean. It seems a shame to dirty them up with our sweaty, sticky bodies, but we don’t have much choice at this hour. Andy places the rifle next to him on the floor, and we cover ourselves with the saddle blanket.
Before long, Andy is snoring. My thoughts turn to Mom and Dad. I recall the old man telling us about Fabien Laveau having to “splain de way dey is.” I’m not sure what he meant by that, and I hope and pray his explanation isn’t anything bad. I’m anxious for morning to arrive, although I’m very afraid of what it might hold for us.
It’s been a very long day and we’re far from home. Weariness is overtaking my nervous excitement and getting the better of me. My eyelids grow heavy. As the night sounds of the bayou descend on the shanty, sleep finally takes me.
Chapter Fifteen
The Black Shadow
The Voodoo Swamp—Thursday morning
THE CHATTERING OF TINY voices awakens me. When I open my eyes, smiling faces press against the glass of both windows at the front of the shanty. The children see me looking at them and wave. I raise myself from the pallet and motion for them to come in. A moment later, the door opens slowly and a dozen barefoot children step tentatively inside. Their clothes are tattered, dull and gray. But their smiles are fresh and bright, like a spring morning. Their happiness is contagious, and I can’t help smiling back at them.
“Good morning,” I say.
They chitter something at me, but I’m uncertain what they’re saying. The tallest of them steps forward. She looks about Andy’s age, maybe a bit older, and she’s very pretty with dark skin and dark hair. Her eyes sparkle when she smiles at me.
“Mawnin, miss!” she says.
Andy is stirring beside me now as I get up from the pallet. He’s mumbling, “What’s going on?”
“Wake up, sleepyhead. We have visitors.”
He sits up, rubbing his eyes. “Did they bring any food?”
The children giggle and scurry to hide behind the older girl, peeking out at Andy as they whisper among themselves.
I turn to the girl. “Is Fabien Laveau here?”
Her expression darkens at the mention of his name, and she suddenly appears nervous. She shakes her head.
I pull Dad’s license from the pocket of my jeans and show it to her. “You see this man?”
She looks at the photo, and the smile returns to her face. She nods as she points to Dad’s picture. “Yah. And woman, too.”
She’s seen them! “Do you know where they are?”
The smile leaves her eyes as she lowers her head. “Dey zombies now.”
Her words cut like a knife. One word—zombies—brings back frightening memories from childhood. Growing up in New Orleans, I’d heard of the voodoo ritual of changing humans into zombies ever since I was a little girl. I’d watched the Fright Night movies on television and awakened with nightmares about the undead. I’m certain this girl must be mistaken, and I repeat my question.
“Where are they?”
She points at Dad’s photo again. “De man and de woman. Dey zombies now.”
Another shock goes through me when I hear the words a second time. “What do you mean?” I ask again, louder than necessary.
She backs away from me, moving toward the doorway, obviously frightened by the sound of my voice. I step toward her and grab her wrists before she can run.
Andy is beside me now. “Yeah. What are you saying? What do you mean they’re zombies? You mean like…like zombies?”
Her dark eyes are wide as she struggles to pull away from me, and she manages to slip one hand out of my grip. The other children have gone silent and their smiles have disappeared. They’re backing away and heading toward the door. The girl’s lips are pressed tightly together and she’s not speaking.
“Tell me! What do you mean?” I’m screaming at her now.
She’s almost crying when she replies. “Fabien Laveau give dem da zombie potion.”
The last of the children disappears out the doorway.
“Where are they?” I ask.
She shrugs and shakes her head, still struggling to free her hand from my grip.
“Tell me!” I’m in her face.
She lowers her head as her body collapses to the floor. “Zombie shanty,” she whispers.
“Where is this zombie shanty?” Andy asks.
She shakes her head. “Don�
�t know,” she replies without looking up.
“Yes, you do,” I yell at her. “You know. Tell us!”
She’s crying now. “Down de bayou. Where da big snakes live at.”
I don’t want to go where the big snakes live, but I have to find Mom and Dad if they’re here. “Show us!” I say. “You take us there. Now!”
“No!” She looks up at me with fear in her eyes as she shakes her head. “No! Never can go in dat place!”
“You don’t have to go in. Just show us where it is.” I drag her toward the door. She’s still sobbing. “Stand up!” I yell.
Andy picks up the rifle. He grabs her other hand and we lift her to her feet. The three of us are outside a moment later. It’s still early. The morning air is cool and heavy, and the sky is overcast and gray. It looks like it could rain before the day is over.
A rooster crows in the distance. I wonder for a moment if it’s the same one that flew at us last night. Other than that, there’s no sign of life in the village. Andy has let go of her other hand, but I’m still holding onto her in case she decides to bolt. She sniffs and runs her hand over her eyes before looking around nervously.
“Dis way,” she whispers as she leads us toward the trees behind the shanty.
Within a few seconds, we’re walking along the creek bank and through a shaded wood. Frogs and other day creatures scurry and slither out of our way as the girl leads us deeper into the swamp. The ground is wet, and I suddenly realize we forgot to put our boots on.
After we walk for several minutes, the girl stops and points toward a shanty directly ahead of us, nearly hidden among the trees. The building is small and dark, almost black in color, and there are strange, white images painted on it. Stick people. Skulls with snakes coming out of their eyes. And strange symbols I’ve never seen before. They have a spooky and unearthly look about them. The whole shanty is creepy, like something out of a scary movie.
Before I realize what’s happened, the girl has pulled her hand from my sweaty grip. She’s running away in the direction we came from. Within seconds, she’s disappeared among the trees, and the din of the insects and reptiles has swallowed the sound of her footfalls.
Lost in the Bayou Page 8
