Daughters of the Summer Storm

by Frances Patton Statham

  "Why do you think I would mind, Maranta?"

  "You are busy. I did not wish to disturb you."

  Once again, his dark blue eyes pierced her. "It is a little late for that, is it not?"

  His manner toward her made her nervous. Glancing at the child by the door, Maranta said, "Jésus has come to help me with the books."

  Ruis laughed. "And you think he might understand English?"

  "It is not. . . what you are saying, Ruis. It is your. . . manner."

  "Then we shall give him something to occupy him, hm?" Without waiting for Maranta to respond, Ruis went to the shelves and quickly selected several books, taking them to the child.

  "Be off with you, Jésus, and take these to the condessa."

  Ruis closed the door behind him, and Maranta, standing before the shelves, felt her neck prickle as the man returned to stand beside her. He was so close that she could feel his warm breath upon her neck.

  "So Mãe sent you to me," he said, taking her hand and drawing it to his lips.

  "Only for the books, Ruis. I think I had better go back to her."

  "Relax, pequena. There is no hurry."

  "But she is waiting for me to read to her."

  Ruis laughed. "Mãe is not that fond of books. She much prefers to gossip and manipulate other people's lives."

  Maranta's eyes widened. "You mean, she. . ."

  "She wished to give me an opportunity to see you, without the jealous Vasco at your side."

  "Vasco is not jealous." Did Ruis not realize Vasco paid attention to her solely to antagonize his brother?

  Ruis lifted his eyebrows in a sardonic gesture. "You think not? Then you are even more of an innocent than I imagined. Come, menina, and rest awhile. It is not good for you to be on your feet overlong."

  Despite her protests, he led her to the leather couch and sat beside her. "Is the child stirring?" he asked.

  "Yes," she admitted. "Particularly at night."

  "He will be a strong, healthy son."

  Ruis's pronouncement upset Maranta. "I wish you wouldn't talk like that. I'm already terrified that we shall both be a. . . a disappointment to you when the time comes."

  His face softened at her admission. "You think I shall be unhappy if the child is a girl?" He reached out and touched her cheek with his hand.

  "Vasco said. . ."

  "Forget what Vasco has told you. I am sure he is the one hoping it will be a boy. For then, there would be no excuse for me to frequent your bed again."

  Maranta pushed herself from the sofa. "I must go. The condessa is waiting."

  She rushed toward the door. "Haven't you forgotten something?" Ruis asked.

  She stared at him uncomprehendingly.

  "Molière. You have forgotten Mãe's book. What will she think if you return empty-handed? I wonder which she would prefer? The Imaginary Invalid? Or The School for Wives?"

  "Maranta, where are you?" Vasco's impatient voice penetrated the closed library door.

  "She is in here, brother," Ruis replied, opening the door, "getting the book Mãe requested."

  Vasco wheeled his chair into the library and glanced first at Maranta and then at Ruis, who walked to the shelf to retrieve a book.

  "Tell Mãe that I will be down to see her before I ride out to the fields."

  Vasco, pushing his rolling chair, kept up with Maranta as she walked back to the condessa's apartment with the book in her hand. Ever since he had gotten Patû to bring his chair upstairs from his chambers each day, Maranta did not know when Vasco might appear.

  "You are looking flustered, Maranta," Vasco accused. "Was Ruis forward with you?"

  "He touched my hand as he transferred the book to me," she snapped. "Is that being forward, Vasco?"

  "Probably just an accident," he admitted. "But I hope Mãe will send someone else to the library in the future. I shall speak to her about that."

  What had started out as an effort to antagonize Ruis had developed into something much more serious. For now, Vasco paid almost no attention to Floresta, or his half-breed son, Tefe. And sometimes in the hallway, Maranta could feel the Indian girl's hate directed toward her.

  Not only was Vasco monitoring Maranta's health, he had also taken it upon himself to teach her Portuguese. Each afternoon she was coached by the man in his rolling chair, most of the time in her apartment, but occasionally downstairs in the guest chambers that Vasco claimed as his own. Always in the background, Patû, the Indian, stood, his face emotionless, his eyes revealing nothing.

  The season for the coffee harvest had arrived and additional workers were hired to pick the ripe fruit and extract the beans hidden inside.

  Great baskets, brought by the mules and donkeys, were brought from the slopes of the terra-roxa to be emptied onto the ground and raked in symmetrical patterns so that they might dry evenly. When one side was dry, the beans were turned to the other side, to be baked in the brilliant Brazilian sun.

  The beans were dumped in great mounds, and it did not seem to matter to either the animals or the men that the coffee was trampled underfoot by muddy shoes and hooves. Maranta, watching the activity from the veranda, turned up her nose. She much preferred tea, anyway.

  Ruis was up early and did not return to the house until late each evening. The condessa still had her meals in her apartment, and Dona Isobel had taken to eating with her. So now there were only three at the dinner table each night—Ruis, Maranta, and Vasco.

  Innocencia lived in her own world, with Naka as her keeper. At times, she seemed to be completely lucid. But when she was having one of her spells, the slightest variation in her day disturbed her.

  No one mentioned the flowers torn from their vases in the sala and other rooms of the house and strewn over the floor. The servants, accustomed to the oddity, cleared the shredded petals almost as soon as they fell. And fresh greenery and flowers were quickly installed in the empty containers.

  Maranta, on her way to the dining sala one evening, stopped to admire the flowers on the hallway table not far from her sitting room door. The beautiful old gilt mirror reflected the image of the flowers—making the mammoth bouquet appear to be twice as large as it actually was.

  When she reached out her hand to touch a snowy white blossom to assure herself it was real and not made of silk, she was startled by the sudden opening of the library door.

  Maranta drew her hand back and took a step away. "One moment, Maranta, if you please."

  Reluctantly she halted in her flight and waited for Ruis to catch up with her.

  "I have something that is yours," he explained, coming beside her.

  She watched him reach into his coat pocket. In his hands he brought out the gold locket on its delicate chain—the one she had lost that day she had left the fazenda.

  "Where did you find it?" she asked, her eyes showing pleasure at the sight of the necklace.

  "Hanging on a broken twig, Maranta, the day you were lost."

  But that had been several weeks ago. Why had he waited so long to return it to her? Had he merely forgotten about it? She was happy to see it, whatever the reason for the delay. "I am grateful that you kept it for me. Thank you, Ruis."

  Maranta reached out for the locket, but Ruis made no effort to give it up. Instead, his eyes narrowed and he turned the locket over in his hand. "Someone seems to think you need protection in this house."

  Puzzled, Maranta took a step closer to see what he was talking about. The tiny symbol, the closed fist with the thumb resting between the two fingers, came into view. How had it gotten there and what did it mean?

  "What is it?" Maranta asked.

  "It is what we call a figa—a charm," he explained. "Part of the voodoo cult, or macumba."

  "Then I shall remove it," she said. "I do not wish to wear something pagan about my neck."

  "Perhaps it would be wise to keep it, menina. Whoever put it there would be unhappy at its removal."

  Frowning, Maranta said, "My father does not allow the slaves
to practice voodoo on Midgard Plantation. And surely, you do not condone this. . . this macumba, either."

  Ruis smiled. "We are more tolerant than that, pequena. The old pagan gods are now saints, with Christian names. It is harmless and gives the slaves comfort."

  "But I cannot. . ."

  "You have much to learn about Brazil, Maranta. After the child is born—and if you are well enough by New Year's Eve—I shall take you to the falls at the river to watch one of their more interesting ceremonies. But come—it is time for dinner. Turn around, Maranta, and let me fasten the locket for you."

  He was impatient, and Maranta did as she was told. Silently, she stood, watching in the gilt mirror while the tall, dark Ruis placed the golden chain about her throat and fastened the clasp.

  Their eyes met, and for a moment, both stood, locked in each other's glance, conscious only of each other. A sound escaped Ruis's throat, and Maranta, afraid, took a step away from the man, so he could not tell she was trembling at his nearness.

  30

  The warm, rainy season came to the fazenda, with gray clouds obliterating the brilliant blue of the sky and fresh new shoots of greenery appearing in every direction. Weeds sprouted overnight to choke the tender young coffee plants that hid under twigs and canvas from the heat; vines and undergrowth erased a path that had been there the day before. Inside the plantation house, the rain brought a restlessness that could not be contained by eating and sleeping and waiting for the sunshine.

  Day after day, the morning greeted the earth with a drizzling mist, driving the old muçurana from his place near the steps to the distant green vegetation in search of food.

  Even Fado in his cage in Maranta's room seemed to be affected by the melancholia that gripped the fazenda. His head drooped, and he was silent. Maranta, concerned for the little bird, asked Sassia to take him out to the sheltered veranda as soon as the clouds lifted and the sun peeked through.

  Though it was now the hour of sesta for all in the fazenda, Ruis and his mestiços and slaves continued to work, battling against time to rescue the tender coffee plants from the encroachment of the weeds.

  Maranta lay down and tried to sleep, but she could not. Now heavy with child, she was uncomfortable. She'd also been thinking about the condessa's deteriorating health. After her last seizure, Dona Louisa had failed to rally as she should, and most of her days were spent in bed. Dona Isobel, so zealous in caring for the woman, had moved her things into the dressing room adjacent to the condessa's bedroom, in case the woman should need her in the night.

  Though it was quiet, it was also humid and hot. Maranta gave up the pretense of resting. She combed her hair, slipped on the loose-fitting robe of white and gold that hung over the chair, and walked down the stairs to sit on the veranda. Sassia would not be pleased that she had left her room, but she would be careful in navigating the steps.

  The downstairs door was open, and as Maranta walked silently through the sala da entrada, a flash of green fled down the outside steps and hurried toward the gate. Maranta frowned at the sight of Innocencia—carrying something. There was no telling what the girl was doing.

  Maranta looked for Fado's cage, but it was not on the veranda. Was that what Innocencia had in her hands as she ran through the gate? The little green bird?

  Forgetting everything but the safety of Fado, Maranta walked down the steps and opened the gate. "Innocencia," she called.

  The girl in green was swallowed up by the expanse of green outside. Angry now that she had taken Fado, Maranta followed her. Maranta was upset at herself for having left the bird unattended. She should have sat with him, so that no harm could come to him.

  "Innocencia," she called again. Her voice startled the old vulture in the decaying treetop, and he flew to another tree some yards away.

  Now more familiar with her surroundings, Maranta continued walking, careful to watch her step. She could not afford to fall or be thrown off balance.

  The landscape became alive with sounds—protests at some disturbance in the distance. Maranta followed the sounds, knowing Innocencia must have passed that way.

  In the clearing, Maranta spied Fado. His cage was hanging on a tree limb, and inside the cage, the little green bird hopped about with a lusty chirp, answering the calls of the other birds that were free to fly in and out of the clearing.

  Relieved that the bird had not been harmed, Maranta looked around for some sign of Innocencia, but she was nowhere in sight. Another foolish prank, Maranta thought in disgust. The girl had taken the bird just to be annoying.

  Still wary, Maranta glanced to the right and left of the cage, but there did not appear to be any danger. But just as she made a step to take the cage in her hand, the ground gave way beneath her.

  A startled Maranta clutched at the vines, while her feet struggled to gain a toehold. The animal pit had been camouflaged by a mat of greenery, and there was no telling what was beneath her in the pit.

  The bird was forgotten, while Maranta tried to get free of the tangled vines and still avoid the deep chasm that waited for her. Digging her fingers into the earth, she inched upward, only to fall back as the soft earth crumbled in her hands.

  Breathing hard, Maranta gripped the edge, drawing herself upward, until half of her body had emerged. Exhausted, she laid her head against the soft, green earth and rested. And then she began once more to try to free herself.

  But the vines were wrapped around her right foot, entrapping it. Fighting against them only made it worse, for the rope of vines tightened around her ankle and pulled her downward.

  It was no use. She had crawled as far as she could on her own. If she were to get free, someone else would have to help. The baby stirred within her, protesting the position in which her body was placed. It was impossible, though, to find a more comfortable position. So Maranta, trapped by the vines, lay quietly, listening to Fado's cheerful chirp in the forest.

  She could not hope to be rescued for several hours yet, for Ruis would remain in the fields with his workers the rest of the afternoon. And there was no one else to rescue her, unless a slave should happen to pass by. But most of the slaves were in the fields. There was no one, then. Maranta closed her eyes and asked for strength to hold on until Ruis came.

  Rapidly, the jararaca slid over the slippery green earth. The snake, suddenly sensing a human presence, slowly wound itself into a coil and waited for the human to move.

  Maranta, with heart beating erratically, watched the snake. The reptile, with its malignant eyes, seemed to be assessing the figure before him—contemplating how dangerous this adversary might prove.

  Lying as still as possible, Maranta made no sound. But she was concious of the pull on her foot, the tiredness of her body, and the fear that made her cold.

  The soft earth underneath her began to give way, and with a gasp, Maranta struggled to take a new hold on firmer earth. From the corner of her eye, she saw the snake come to life.

  "Help me," she shouted. "Someone please help me."

  At the edge of the clearing, the Indian, Patû, lifted his head at Maranta's cry. Curious to see what had happened to her, he walked stealthily in the direction of the shout. Through the trees he peered, his eyes taking in Maranta's plight, the venomous snake heading toward her, and her efforts to free herself from the animal pit.

  With a satisfied gleam in his eye, he turned his back and disappeared in the direction he had come.

  The tears blurred Maranta's vision. She had no one to blame but herself. Ruis's words the day she had run away came back to her. "You must never run away again, pequena. I might not be so lucky to find you next time."

  She had not run away this time. She'd been trying to rescue Fado from Innocencia. Unfortunately, the reason did not matter. She had come and was now trapped.

  It didn't take long to die of the venom, so Sassia had said. A small consolation, Maranta decided, as she trembled and waited for the snake to strike.

  Nothing happened. Fearfully, Maranta ope
ned her eyes again and lifted her head. The subtle movement of greenery on the earth's floor drew her attention. The jararaca, so near, had changed direction, as if to escape.

  Maranta looked up to see the muςurana emerging from the path and chasing toward the venomous snake. The jararaca was not fast enough. The muςurana sprang, clamping his heavy black body around the other snake. The trapped jararaca, with his wicked fangs, struck time and again at the body that held him. And when Maranta saw the yellow venom streaming down the black snake's back, she cried. For a moment, she had thought the muçurana could save her. But the jararaca had proved too much for the other snake.

  Maranta waited to see how long it would take the muçurana to die. But as she waited, the black snake merely tightened his hold, until the jararaca's head was imprisoned.

  The fight was at an impasse. For what seemed like hours, neither snake moved. Then the black snake awakened. Along the body of the jararaca, the muçurana's froglike mouth gingerly traveled and then stopped. It began again, sliding upward until it reached the head of its enemy, and with a powerful snap, the muçurana subdued the venomous snake.

  Watching with unbelieving eyes, Maranta saw the black snake devour its prey—first the head, and then the body—until the last thing visible was the white tail of the jararaca de robo branco.

  With a sliding motion, the ground gave way, and Maranta, losing her hold on the soft earth, slipped to the bottom of the animal pit, cushioned by matted vines and leaves.

  The rain began to fall, beating down on the leaves of the trees and soaking the soft earth in torrents. And Fado, in his cage overhead, protested.

  Maranta, conscious of dryness and warmth, gazed up at white silken draperies. She was in her room—safe from harm.

  The man in the wheelchair sat by her bed.

  "Vasco?" she said softly, stirring from her cocoon of silk.

  At the sound of his name on her lips, a satisfied look passed over the man's face. "You are safe, Maranta."

  "Who. . . found me?"

  "Patû. In the animal pit. He thought you were dead."