Darkness at Morning Star

by Joyce C. Ware

  I turned toward the light. On the bottom plank of a steep flight of roughly cobbled steps, a tray had been placed. I thought I recognized it, but the goblets of ruby-red wine had been replaced by the stub of a candle, a water jug and two pottery cups. Above it, the steps disappeared into darkness.

  “Belle!” I called. “Bazz! Where are you?” The low-ceilinged room smothered my cries, and behind me, off to my left, I heard a slithering sort of scurry that made my dry mouth go even drier. Was it a snake, seeking shelter from the heat, or a rat or— A childlike whimper reined in my runaway imagination. Someone was in here with me.

  “Who’s there?” I challenged.

  Another scurry, hushed as leaves stirred by a passing breeze, then the mistakable clink of glass. I whirled to see a bare foot, barely perceptible in the gloom, being pulled behind a wooden rack on whose warped shelves I glimpsed a few wobbling jars through a grille of rusty ironwork. Suddenly, I knew where I was. Belle had said she stored her herbal elixirs in the storm cellar. There must not have been room in her hampers for these few remaining bottles. The ironwork must be the grille from Bazz’s nursery window.

  I stole closer. “Who are you?” I could hear breathing: quick, short, fearful gasps. “Please come out,” I begged. “I won’t hurt you, I promise. Please.”

  The breathing slowed and evened. Presently, one foot, then the other, emerged from behind the rack. A slight, girlish figure slowly hitched itself out, and the pain evident in the dark eyes that gazed up at me caused me to sink to my knees. Her coarse, sack-like dress was torn and filthy, and as my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could see new bruises swelling over the old.

  “Poor little Fawn,” I crooned, cupping her small, pointed chin in my hand, “what has he done to you? How did you get back to Morning Star?”

  “Quinn ... he say the journey too hard for me ... he bring me back very fast then put me in his house and say I must hide.”

  I recalled the whirlwind I had seen, fancying it a horse and rider.

  Hide? From whom? I was bewildered. “I would have helped you, Fawn. I want to help you now, if you’ll let me.”

  Fawn shook her head and retreated, crabwise. “I not know. You sound like the nice lady—S’rena?— but you look like the other one.”

  My hand sprang to my head to explore again my hair’s unfamiliar texture. Its crimped strands reminded me of something ... the dressmaker’s form I had seen in Belle’s room. Of course! Belle’s wig! I must have had too much of the port wine, and Belle put it on my head as I slept. It was a joke, just one of her silly jokes. ... I yanked one curly lock, but it remained firmly attached, the pain telling me the truth of it: this oddly textured hair was my own. If it were a joke, I failed to see the point, and I was moved more to tears than laughter.

  “I am Serena, Fawn. I don’t know what has happened or why we’re here, but I know that much.” My head ached, from the wine last night, the blow on my head, and the strain of trying to make sense of it all. Was I awake or was this a peculiarly vivid dream? That would explain why nothing fit together: me in this dark place with Fawn, her new bruises, my strangely changed hair. “How did you get down here, Fawn?”

  “The other lady brought me, after the red-haired man find me.” A shudder wracked her thin frame. She paused and looked at me fearfully. “I hide away like Quinn say, but it so hot....” She dropped her eyes, as if ashamed about feeling the heat. “I come out, only for a little; but I fall asleep, and he find me... he hurt me... he hurt me very bad.” Her small hand crept toward her crotch. Her pathetic gesture spoke louder than anything she might have said.

  Bazz. It must have been the day before yesterday, when he searched Quinn’s quarters. I recalled the scratches on his face and neck, his torn shirt. Barn cat, indeed. “And after he hurt you, what happened then?” I kept my voice low and even, so as not to frighten her.

  “After, he hit me, here and here.” She pointed to her stomach and small breasts. “I try to get away, but he keep hitting. I cried,” she whispered, reluctant to admit what she saw as weakness. “Then other lady come.”

  As if on cue, the slanting door to the cellar crashed open above us.

  “Reenie?”

  “Belle!” I rushed to the stairs, almost knocking over the candle in my eagerness. The sky above was dark, starless. I could barely make out the outline of my sister’s head.

  “Awake, are you? There’s water in that jug on the tray, and I’m putting a bowl of food here on the top step. It’ll be dawn soon—you don’t want to be leavin’ on an empty stomach.”

  Why was her voice so matter-of-fact? “I don’t understand....” My head was awhirl. “For God’s sake, Belle, why are we here? What’s going on up there?”

  “Lordy, Reenie, so many questions! It’s kind of a long story. Too long to tell right now, with sunrise coming.”

  “You and Bazz want the gold for yourselves, is that it? I don’t mind, honestly I don’t. I decided yesterday to stay here; I was going to tell you this morning.”

  Belle made a regretful clucking noise with her tongue. ‘“Fraid that wouldn’t have changed anything, Reenie.” She began to close the doors.

  “Wait!”

  She pulled the doors back open, her head now silhouetted against a gradually paling sky more green than gray.

  “You can’t leave us here! No one will hear us. Fawn is hurt, Belle; she could die down here. She knows nothing about the gold.”

  “Here, there, what difference does it make? How was Bazzy to know Quinn’s skinny little squaw was still a virgin?” She laughed. “He never could keep his hands oft the little dark ones. First he takes them, then he punishes them for not being good little girls anymore, just like his daddy punished his mama.

  “I was there the day Ross caught ‘em, her screamin’ about his Injun whore, both of ‘em bleedin’ from the beatin’ Ross gave ‘em. As if it was Bazzy’s fault his precious mama loved him so! The way she carried on with Bazz was purely a scandal, ‘most as bad as Pa with me, but d’ya think that bastard Quinn would understand any of that?

  “Takin’ the gold’d be enough to put him on our trail, I knew that from the beginning, but Bazz pokin’ the little squaw Quinn was savin’ for himself? Why, he’d whomp the life outta Bazz for that. See, we planned on layin” down a false trail for him. Naughty Belle was goin’ to steal the gold, then get robbed and killed by a band of rovin’ outlaws—that was Jed’s idea. Now we’re goin’ to have to kill off Fawn, too. We’ll make it look like she was forced to go along so she couldn’t tell no one. With you lyin’ dead in the dust lookin’ like me, who’d ever think the silver-haired girl who run off with Bazz to git married was anyone but sweet Serena?”

  “My God, Belle! You’re not even sure you’ll find the gold!”

  “Maybe, maybe not. If not, we mighta left you here for Quinn to make use of, but the girl ... well, she’s sort of an extra complication.”

  Her cruelly deliberate mockery was like a slap across the face. I knew now that Belle had never been sorry for anything or anyone. A hot rage born of betrayal seized me. I lunged up the stairs, but Belle was too quick for me. The doors slammed down; the bolt slid home. I pounded until my knuckles were raw, then slumped exhausted on the steps, my breathing ragged, overcome by the desperateness of our predicament. She was right, of course: everyone would mistake my dead body for hers.

  Neither Quinn nor Cobby nor any of the hands had seen Belle without her wig. No one but Bazz and me knew she had been wearing one while her hennaed hair grew out to silver. The hen, I’d heard Belle say. Get the hen. But it wasn’t chickens she was talking about, it was henna. They had put something in my wine—one of Belle’s concoctions, no doubt— then dyed my hair and curled it... even the dress I wore had been Belle’s. She must have been planning this for a very long time....

  My senses swam. I took a deep rasping breath, and I reached for the water jug on the tray on the step below me. As I leaned forward, my ringleted reflection shone back dimly
from the tarnished surface of the tray, courtesy of the lighted candle Belle had thoughtfully provided. Thoughtful? I drew back my hand. If our function in their scheme required that we die, why bring us food and water? Unless, like the wine the night before, they had been drugged to insure our relaxed cooperation. The only way, in fact, our removal up those steeply pitched steps could be efficiently accomplished. No, not thoughtful... crafty was more like it.

  Deliberately, while Fawn watched in anguished disbelief, I poured the water from the pitcher, then took the bread from the basket and ground it under my heal into the earth floor, until its crumbs could no longer be distinguished from the grains of soil. I knew if I had not, we could not have resisted for long the temptation to eat. This way we still had a chance to fight for our lives.

  The candle flame flickered and dimmed, its waxy fuel nearly consumed. I skirted my way around the tray and nestled down beside Fawn. I slid my arm around her frail shoulders and tried to explain to her why I had discarded the bread and water, but I could tell her attention was elsewhere. She began to shiver.

  “Wind coming,” she whispered. “Very big wind.”

  I cocked my head. I heard nothing. If anything, the air was closer than ever; down here it was suffocating.

  Fawn’s slim hand clutched my arm. “We must ask Tirawa to keep us safe.”

  “Tirawa?”

  “Yes, chief of all the heavens. Tirawa lights the moon and stars. He sends the wind and makes the rivers flow.”

  “And does he watch over the sailors on the sea, too?” I asked bitterly.

  Fawn looked up at me. The puzzlement in her eyes shamed me. She knew nothing of the sea; why should she? Did that make her god any less worthy of respect than mine?

  To keep us safe. Mother Rogg’s favorite maxim once again came to mind: God helps those who help themselves. If we couldn’t get out of the cellar, we could at least try to keep Belle and Basil from coming in.

  I knew there were handles on the inside of the doors;

  I had bruised my knuckles on them. If I could find a length of rope or twist of wire to tie them together....

  I got to my feet, taking care not to hit my head again on the low beams, and turned slowly, feeling along the cobwebbed walls, straining to see into the gloom, silently entreating the dying flame to stay a little longer.

  The shadows crept closer. The candle guttered, inviting the darkness, then flared high. A stub of polished straw caught the light. It looked like ... yes, it looked as if an old broom had somehow gotten wedged behind the stairs and forgotten. Brooms have handles. ... I reached up, grabbed the worn straw head and pulled it clatteringly free. I scurried up the canted planks and fed the stout pole through the handles—hoping it was long enough, praying it would withstand the strain—and rammed it home just as the candle flame sputtered out.

  Step by cautious step I made my way back to Fawn. As I settled down beside her, I heard a low, threatening grumble like the growl of a large, angry beast. Fawn began to chant, a high, quavering singsong that made my skin prickle. The next rumble of thunder was longer and louder, a reverberating drum roll followed by the ripping sound of lightning so bright that my eyes, staring upward, were blinded by its searing flash through the cracks of the cellar doors.

  Fawn’s chant quickened as the wind began to blow, rattling the heavy doors as if they were sheets of paper, accompanied by rain so torrential I could only stare in appalled wonder as it flooded down upon us. It wasn’t until the rain slackened and the wind began to drop that I had sense enough to try and catch the streaming rivulets in the jug I had emptied, but by then it was too late.

  Suddenly, I heard the bolt securing the cellar entrance from above slide open, its loud metallic clack followed shortly by a furious rattling when the doors failed to open.

  “Serena! Let us in!”

  I could feel Fawn cringe at the sound of Bazz’s voice. Together, we crawled away from the stairway, sure the old broom pole could not long withstand the battering by our captors. Somehow, they must have found the gold, I thought confusedly. They found it, and now the plan they concocted to cover their tracks was falling apart.

  “Oh, God!” Bazz cried. “It’s almost upon us.”

  “Damn you, Reenie! I wish I’d broken your neck instead of your leg, I wish—”

  I clapped my hands over my ears to shut out my sister’s enraged growl. Her visits to my infirmary bed, her tearful farewell before she left on the orphan train, had they all been sham? Had her loving letter been accompanied in her heart by a similar litany of hate?

  I bowed my head in despair. Tasting the salt of my tears on my lips, I murmured a Christian prayer to the rhythm of Fawn’s tribal chant. Blasphemy, some would say, but I knew the God I loved would enjoy the harmonies. Our Father, who art in heaven....

  The pounding stopped. I removed first one hand, then the other, from my ears, only to be assaulted by a scream of such terror my heart stuttered in my chest.

  “Belle, oh, Belle,” I cried, but my instinctive rush for the stairs stopped short as a roar like a thousand steam engines running amok exploded above us accompanied by a rattle of hail so violent as to make me cower, arms flung protectively over my head, should the huge icy stones the noise portended break through upon us. The deluge of rain that followed seemed gentle by comparison, and this time the downpour lasted long enough to allow me to fill the cups and jug to their brims.

  The rain slackened. Fawn’s chanting slowed, faltered, ceased. The thunder, far distant now, was hardly more than an intermittent purr. I stood listening, cup in hand, hardly daring to breathe, distrustful of the silence. Had the storm truly passed, or was it merely gathering strength for another onslaught? I handed Fawn the other cup, and we gulped the muddy water eagerly, heedless of the grit. If, as they say, we all eat a peck of dirt before we die, I imagine Fawn and I consumed our allotted share in the few minutes it took us to slake our thirst.

  We waited. The terrible wind seemed to have gone with the rain; we heard only a gentle puffing, as if the earth itself was sighing in relief. Then, our sense of time distorted, and with no idea of what had happened above us, the creaking of the cellar doors lifted by the freshening breeze became a lullaby that nothing, not our empty stomachs nor our bruises, long allowed us to resist. Spooned together, hoarding our warmth against the rain-sodden earth beneath us, we slept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Open the doors!”

  In my dreams I cowered behind a huge, iron-studded oak door that shuddered under the hammering of a giant fist.

  “Open the doors!” the voice roared again.

  No, I whimpered, trying to hide myself among the gleaming bars of gold that surrounded me. No-o-ooo ...

  I woke with a start, my own wail echoing in my head. As I struggled to collect my sleep-scattered thoughts, the broom handle I had pushed through the handles of the cellar doors clattered to the earth floor, and the doors yawned wide.

  “Quinn!” I heard an excited voice say.

  Blinded by the light streaming down upon me, I saw only a head and shoulders silhouetted above against a bright rectangle of blue.

  “Bless me. Fawn, we’d just about given you up. “It was Quinn’s voice all right, gentler than I’d ever heard it. “Here, take my hand ... up you come. ...” There was a long silence. “My God, what have they done to you!” The gentleness had gone. “Cobby? Take her down to my quarters. I’ll see to this....”

  I shrank back as Quinn’s booted feet pounded down the stairs, wishing it was still only a dream. His eyes darted furiously from corner to corner before coming to rest on my huddled form. He looked down at me, his lips curling in disgust, arms hanging loose at his sides, fists clenched. I threw my hands up across my face, fearing he would act first and listen afterward—if at all. He reached down, grabbed one of my wrists and yanked me, stumbling, my knees and shins cruelly barked on the rough-edged steps, up into the sunlight.

  I stood unsteadily before him, blinking tear-blurred
eyes, trying to make sense of the devastation I saw around me. “Quinn, I—”

  “I’ll do the talking,” he commanded. “Where’s that no-good bastard brother of mine?”

  “I don’t know, I. ...” I looked at the house. There were only black, empty holes where windows had once been. “What on earth has happened here? Oh, dear Lord, my sister!”

  I started to run, but Quinn pulled me back. “Don’t give me that. Belle, you damn well know what happened. You saw the twister comin’ and left your sister up here to die. Mighty convenient, wasn’t it? This way the gold only had to be split two ways. What were you plannin’ to do with Fawn? Take her along to keep ol’ Bazz warm on the trail?”

  “I’m not Belle, Quinn!”

  Quinn dropped my wrist and leaned toward me, long hands on his narrow hips. His dark eyes bored into mine; the twist of his mouth expressed disgust. “Well, if that don’t beat all. You got Belle’s hair and Belle’s dress, and you certainly got her shifty ways. Who are you, then, the Queen of Egypt?”

  “I’m Serena, I— No, listen to me!” I cried as he deliberately turned on his heel and stared out over the horizon. “Bazz and my sister, they wanted everybody to think I was Belle. They were going to make it seem as if Belle had run off with the gold and been robbed and killed by an outlaw band, while she, looking like me, eloped with Bazz. Belle drugged me, and they dyed my hair and—”

  “And I just been to the moon and back,” he said, turning back with a contemptuous smile. “What d’ya take me for, Belle?” He grabbed my wrist again and dragged me after him. Across our path lay rain-scoured ditches deep enough to hide a jackrabbit. Quinn’s long, muscular strides took him clean across them; I had no choice but to scramble through as best I could, praying I wouldn’t turn my ankle or worse, but as we approached the front of the house, the scene that met my eyes drove all other considerations from my mind.