No Normal Day IV (Travelers)

by Richardson, J.

  “Oh, I am feeling better this morning,” said Emily, “Just really sore. Some pain medicine would help, if you have it.”

  Within another hour, they had piled all the sleeping bags in the wagon and hitched up the donkeys. They shuffled and re-arranged, managed to free up two bags for Emily to put her personal things and clothes in. Her valuable dutch oven and other supplies joined the father and son's, dangling from the wagon sides. They rolled away from the barn and from the city of the healing springs. Jeff and Kevin rode in their usual places on the seat in the front of the wagon, Emily sat Indian style on top of the sleeping bags with Girl snug in the triangle that her legs made. The crumpled letter that now lay on top in the mail bag read, Leona Bell LaSalle, Pecan Plantation, Louisiana. On the back of the letter a simple map had been drawn, it located the old city of Natchitoches, La. and a wavy line dropped south to an x, with the name Pecan Plantation. The travelers were going south.

  The wagon and travelers moved further away from the city of healing springs, the road serpentined through the forests and down to lower and flatter land. Rolling along, the miles slipped slowly away and the three new companions remained mostly quiet. Each had thoughts of their own occupying their minds.

  Kevin, was a true boy of the After world, who knew nothing of video games or Ipads or even televisions. His Dad had explained to him once about tv and how moving pictures were on it twenty four hours a day. Of course, you don't really miss what you never had. He was very young when his mother became ill. She had played games with him and taught him his ABC's, later his father had taught him to read and worked with him on his math regularly. They never passed up old books if they found them and not only did he learn about the way the world once was, but his Dad taught him many things about the places they traveled and the things they saw.

  He thought it was fun to have a new person traveling with them. He knew that the woman had been hurt and he was sorry for that. Most certainly, he didn't have a clue why his father had decided to rescue her. They had met some pretty sad people before and his father had always explained to him that they could not risk their own survival to help them. He had never had a dog before, he thought Girl was the most fascinating little creature he had ever seen. The front and back tent flaps were tied back, he stole a glance back at the dog and the woman, as they bounced along. The boy turned back and smiled, “Yep, this was fun and those biscuit things were yummy.”

  Emily was pretty comfortable, the pain relievers that Jeff had given her helped a lot. It seemed that the rattling wagon swayed and turned. Jeff had told her that they would soon be on a bit straighter and flatter road and the ride would improve. She really didn't care, her mind whirled with thoughts. It might not have been a smart thing at all, to come along with this man and his son. What choice had she honestly had? She was definitely weaker than she expected. If she had stayed at the campground, she would not have been able to travel alone for who knows how long. What if those devils had found her...a shiver crept down her spine at the thought. The truth was she didn't think that she could bear being at the campground with Caleb dead. She was so glad to just be moving away from everything back there behind her.

  The man seemed like a good man. She knew that was an inane thought, how many men had she been around in the last fifteen years? Her father had always said, “Trust your heart, Emily. You will know a good man when you meet one and you will also know a bad man. Don't let pretty words fool you. You judge a man by his actions.” She looked up at Jeff, his short brown hair combed down under his cap, his tan arms showing below the wildly printed shirt. She was amused that he and his son had both put on similar ones this morning. He did not have to barter for her, he could have left her right in the hole that she had dug herself into.

  Jeff adjusted his cap, slowed the donkeys a bit as they were going down a steep grade. They were finally getting to a road that didn't twist and drop. His thoughts turned towards the woman that sat behind him with her small dog. He had no idea what had possessed him to act like the damn hero and get her out of her situation. He had always remained strong and passed up pitiful people and stray dogs, trying to always put his son's safety and interest first. God knows, he thought, she was as pitiful as any stray dog he had ever ran across. Even with the brief amount of history he had learned about her, he was sure that she had made a stupid decision and she would torture herself for a long time about the consequences of that decision.

  That morning as they had prepared to leave the barn, he noticed her take out a mirror and pat some kind of make-up on her bruised and swollen face. She had brushed her hair and pushed it back with a stretchy band. She was lean, this life did not leave much extra cushioning on the body. Looking past her battered state, he thought she was very pretty. Even with the bruising, her skin looked smooth and clear and her big blue eyes were framed with thick lashes. When she smiled it was contagious and those soft thick curls made a man think how great it would feel to run his fingers through it. Whew! Where is my mind going? Not anywhere that it needs to be going. This woman was in trouble and I helped...that's it, no more.

  As the day stretched out, dark clouds began to cover the sky, thunder tumbled in the distance and the Winter chill, not ready to give over to Spring touched the air. Jeff looked for a good place to camp, up ahead was an old gas station canopy with one corner sagging down. He coaxed the donkeys under and the wagon was at least sheltered by the high roof, he stopped for the day. It wasn't long before the rain came, it fell in sheets around the shelter. Kevin tended to the donkeys, Jeff with some help from Emily got together some supper. Gusty wind blew the rain through the shelter, Jeff said, “I think we will all have to bed down in the wagon tonight.”

  Emily said, “Of course, this is nasty weather.”

  They dropped the tent flaps and put Kevin's sleeping bag across, behind the seat of the wagon. Jeff's and Emily's had to stretch out in the rest of the cart, side by side with barely a couple of feet in between. The wind howled outside and the rain sounded like a waterfall. The coziness was a little uncomfortable for a man and a woman who were strangers but they were all tired and this would keep everyone dry. Girl scrunched along on her belly from beside Emily to Kevin's bed. The blanket of weather gave a false sense of security and they all slept. Jeff was awakened by something scrabbling around outside. He peered out, his pistol ready. It was only a raccoon in it's bandit's mask, poking around. He shooed it away and slipped on his tennis shoes, eased over the back of the wagon. He thought of the weird critter that they saw in New Mexico. No question though, this was a raccoon.

  Over some breakfast, they talked again about their destination. Jeff told them that he figured it would take about two weeks to get to the Louisiana town that the letter was addressed to. He wanted to avoid the big city of Shreveport-Bossier City with the Red River running through it. They would move more to the east at the Louisiana border and then south towards Natchitoches.

  In one small community with only about a dozen survivors, they were able to do a bit of bartering. The group was very self sufficient and not only grew their food but had about a quarter acre that they had planted in wheat. They had an old gristmill set up and they produced flour. Emily was thrilled to acquire some more flour for her biscuits. She offered to trade some of her sparse supplies. Jeff would have none of it, he insisted that they had become very fond of her biscuits and he presented plenty of goods to trade with the group. They traveled on with the flour, three jars of canned vegetables and one quart jar of home brewed liquor.

  Emily was healing and each day she improved. Her bruises faded from that awful black and purple to yellow, like bad bruises do. She would have a minimum of scars, one cut about an inch long on her forehead would most likely leave a red line. Her muscles even felt stronger and she was slowly regaining her stamina.

  Chapter Three

  Alligators and Magnolias

  They had been on the road about five days and would possibly cross the Louisiana border later that day.
Over breakfast, Emily said to Jeff, “We had a horse and a mule back home, we plowed and pulled a cart sometimes with the mule. I know how to handle the donkeys, why don't you let me guide for a while today?”

  Jeff responded, “If you are sure you feel like it, that would be fine. As soon as you get tired, you can let me know.” So, when they headed out from camp that morning Emily had the reins and Jeff sat on the seat beside her. Kevin and Girl lounged around in the wagon, under the open ended canopy.

  Over the next couple of days, they took turns driving the donkeys and moved over the state border. The map showed numerous rivers twisting south through Louisiana and they were heading the wagon towards the nearest one. They traveled down a dirt road that they thought would lead them to the river's edge, a smoky odor floated across the air and three gray plumes spiraled up above the thick trees. Emily rode on the wagon seat today, she said, “Wait, do you hear that?”

  It was music of an unusual style, the sound of a fiddle filled their ears as they rolled up nearer to the camp on the water. The river was wide and a murky green color, flowed leisurely along under tall cypress trees. Some of the gnarly rooted trees were in the edge of the current and many lined the shore, tangles of curly moss drooped from the limbs. Campfires dotted around a campsite, with about a half dozen weathered shanty looking shelters built up high on stilted posts. A very long and dead alligator, looking much like a prehistoric monster was hooked by the tail and hung from a heavy post between two trees.

  Kevin peeked out between Emily and Jack, he tried to quiet Girl's yipping. The donkeys pulled the curious travelers on the clanging wagon, into the camp. Several women and children bobbed up and down to a 1-2-3 rhythm and clapped their hands to the high pitched mellow tune of the fiddle. A wiry man in an old felt fedora and plaid shirt, drew the bow expertly across the strings of the instrument, he moved towards the wagon, smiling. A clear and loud voice from behind him sang out, Joli Blon, ma chere 'tit fille.... Gardez donc quoi t'aprés faire...

  Jeff and Kevin looked at Emily with a “what?” in their eyes. She shrugged and said, “I don't know...something about a lovely blonde and going away. It's French. Well, sorta. It's Cajun.” The two looked at her in awe that was only slightly less than the scene before them caused.

  The man dropped the fiddle and bow and squinted up at the three, “Welcome, ma friends. We celebrate the kill o' the big gator.” He pointed over to the stretched out catch and looked back at the wagon, “Ee-ah-h, that be som cart yew are drivin'! Are yew a trader?”

  “Yes, we do some trading. Are you interested in some dealing?” said Jeff.

  The man said, “Oh sure, we be always interested in the tradin'. Yew all come down and stay for a while. We will have big supper with da gumbo and fried alligator.” He danced away, strumming the fiddle again.

  The revelry was contagious, the three looked at each other and laughed. They disembarked and tied up the donkeys. The quick 1-2-3 waltz cadence filled the air again and several of the folks danced on the dirt covered ground. Jeff reached out his hand to Emily, she gave a slight curtsey and they moved awkwardly around the campfire with the others. A little girl in a printed cotton dress grabbed onto Kevin and drug him out to the circle of dancers. Girl pranced around the edges barking.

  It was an unexpected afternoon. The three laughed and danced, the people living here on the river were colorful, smart and lived well. They explained that their way of life had not changed all that much from the way they had always existed. They survived by the land and by the river. Kevin prowled around with the children of the camp, splashed in the edge of the water and got a lesson about the monsters of the water. That evening, the gumbo was hot on the tongue and full of flavor and the alligator that they all tried with hesitance, was delicious. Emily helped prepare the food and she learned how to make little round dollops of fried corn meal and onions that the women called hush puppies. When questioned, the cooks explained that the name was pretty literal, the cornbread balls were made to keep the dogs from begging during the cooking of meals. Girl was right on board with that idea.

  Around the campfire, Jeff and Emily both told their stories. The fiddler player said, “So, mon chere, yew have bon nouveau compagnon, eh?” Emily blushed a little and turned away, she caught the gist of the remark, a good new companion was not what she had been looking for. No question she had felt so much safer the last few days and more important, happy. She stole a glance at Jeff, who looked at her in a way that she could not figure.

  That night, the father and son slept outside under the moss draped canopy and she spread her sleeping bag inside the wagon. The little dog was a fickle friend, first she was completely enamored by the old man, Caleb and now her new love was the boy. She lay on top of Kevin in his sleeping bag, on her belly, her short legs stretched out. Maybe she just liked males better, she mused. As Emily fell into a restless sleep, she thought how she missed hearing the sleep noises of Jeff and his son near to her.

  They stayed on at the camp for a couple of days, they wheeled and dealed and bartered. All parties seemed pleased with the results. One afternoon they had eased down the river, sat in the small boats called pirogues (p-rows) and fished. There was a joy to these people and like all people these days, they worked hard to survive. In the evening, the fiddle played, sometimes a mournful sound. The campfire and dancing figures cast shadows against the towering trees like nymphs in a vintage painting. Jeff brought out the home made liquor and they put spoons of it into coffee that was nearly as thick and dark as the mud on the shoreline. Stories were told, from the alligator hunt tales to the detailed description of the weird animal in New Mexico, told with gusto by Kevin.

  Jeff told them how he was somewhat a carrier of mail. “We have a letter for a woman that lives on a plantation near the town of Natch-e-to-ches,” he said. “That is where we are headed next.”

  The fiddler man looked puzzled and then said, “Oh-h, yew mean Nack-i-tish. That be not very far south of here.”

  One of the women, with hair as black as ebony and eyes to match said, “I have...or had, a sister. She live'n east Texas, the last time I know of her. Could I send a letter with yew?”

  “Sure, I would be happy to take it. We are planning on going into east Texas, eventually, I will try my best to deliver your letter.” said Jeff.

  All of the approximate two dozen residents of the river camp waved them away the next morning and told them in their unique accents how they would always be welcome. With a tear at the corner of her eye, the woman handed Jeff a letter to her sister and hugged him tight. It was with reluctance that the three clicked to the donkeys to take them away. This had been a rest that was needed and the jovial hospitality of the people had given a magical atmosphere to the place. At the end of the dirt road, they all took a look back but the camp had vanished into the trees. Jeff turned the wagon south.

  ***

  The travelers arrived in the old town of Natchitoches late in the afternoon, a few days from the river camp. A river ran through the center of the town, which had been established in 1714. It was clear that in the Before world, in the day of tourists, shops and restaurants had lined the river. One of the big draws for the town had been the elaborate Christmas light displays on the river. Some of the metal frames forming large shapes of Christmas trees and scenes still stood. Mostly the buildings which were already aging when the event happened, were in ruins. The brick walls of a few still stood, pieces of decorative wrought iron rusting and hanging from second floor balconies or still holding up a porch roof. Huge magnolia trees dotted the landscape, it was a bit early but here and there beautiful white blossoms and buds dotted the shiny green foliage. They moved on through the town and camped at the intersection of the road that would lead to the plantation. Dawn would be a better time to start searching for the Pecan Plantation.

  Very damp air came with morning. The travelers were at a crossroads with two choices of which side of “Y” they would take. No markings were to be seen and what ha
d been narrow country roads were now close to invisible. Both directions were grown over and paving was only showing in spotty areas. The map said that the road to the plantation was Old Church Road. Jeff studied the map, hoping to get some clue to a direction. Emily said, “Jeff, look...over there back in the tall grass. Do you think that is an old church?” Just visible, an old weathered building sat a ways back from the road to the left. A crooked cross was on the front gable.

  He replied, “It's worth a try. Let's take the road to the left, it is supposed to be about ten miles to the plantation. The going was pretty rough, they had to stop occasionally and be sure that they were still on the road. The river that ran through the old town, twisted and turned and it was sometimes right beside the road.

  It was well before noon and they had traveled probably five miles. The river had moved away from them again and they could see a looming three story house, off of the road and near the water. A rusting wrought iron arch stood at the road and it read Rosebrier Plantation, not their destination. Nearly two centuries before, this had been an area with many sprawling plantations, rich with cotton and stained with slavery. The waterways were often used to transport the cotton crops. As the donkeys picked their way further along the road, Jeff told Kevin about the plantation way of life and how cruel the slavery that provided the labor had been. The boy was stunned that humans would buy and sell and own other humans. He looked around as they passed the plantation and felt like the ghosts of many broken bodies and spirits floated over the now grown up fields. It was solemn and creepy, a coming down from the euphoria of the visit with the river people.

  By the middle of the afternoon they arrived at another crossroads, the road that led on was even more obscure than the one they had been traveling. On this corner tall brick pillars were topped with two foot tall lanterns that had once been lit. A metal plaque on each pillar was embossed Pecan Plantation. Thank goodness, looked like they had found the right place. He turned the wagon between the pillars, a wide entrance lane was created by huge spreading live oak trees on each side. The heavy limbs curved out and down, sometimes to the ground, like leafy sea monsters. At the end of this long lane, an enormous three story house loomed. Shaped like a box, with columns across the front that were three foot in diameter and stretched up to the roof. Brick chimneys towered and hugged each end. Though the paint was all chipped away, some windows were broken out and what had been expansive curving brick steps up to the front porch were deteriorated, the house was an awesome sight to see.