by Pamela Morsi
"Take this stream right here," Orva Landry ordered, breaking into Armand's thoughts.
"Bayou Tortue?" He looked at the old woman questioningly.
"Yes, this way," she said, indicating the narrow waterway named for its abundance of turtles.
"Madame Landry," Armand spoke up sternly. "You have no business up there."
Orva gave him a long, deliberate stare, nearly cool enough to frost his eyelashes.
"Bayou Tortue, young man. There is a person up that way with whom I must speak."
He hesitated only a moment, casting a quick glance at Aida, who was wide-eyed. Madame Landry was going to speak to the German widow. The prospect did not please him. Then he thought once more of Mademoiselle Gaudet's strange vision. Perhaps the old woman, too, had a plan to tell Aida that she must marry Laron.
With mild trepidation, Armand guided the pirogue into the turn and began the more laborious task of poling it and five people upstream.
The bayou was much narrower than the river, and the huge cypress and stately tupelos shaded the water so that it felt chill and dark. The verdant duckweed and water lettuce was thick and surrounded the boat like an unimpeded effluvium. Armand had been up this way, hunting and fishing many times in the past. The pervasive feeling of the place had never been as it was now. It was as if there were a sadness that seeped even from the vegetation.
"Something must be done” Orva said aloud, breaking the strange silence that had settled upon them. "Something must be done and soon."
Armand's pirogue covered the stretch between the river and the German widow's settlement in good time. The occupants of the boat, including the children, kept quiet and watchful until the small, well-worn cypress landing came into view.
"Look! It's a boy!" Gaston exclaimed as he spotted Helga Shotz's youngest handfishing from the end of the dock with a length of cotton cord.
The little boy looked up, his eyes curious and a little wary.
"Bonjour!" he called out to them. The sound of his French, as familiar as their own, was in stark contrast to his appearance. He was as blond as a human could be, the fairness of his hair and eyebrows almost the exact color of his skin. And he was dressed in the German fashion of very short wide-legged pants of homespun with shoulder galluses bibbed together with a block of the same material. He was small and strange and very foreign, but he appeared eager and friendly.
"Bonjour," Armand called back.
"Put the boat in," Orva told him. "I wish to disembark."
With some skill Armand eased the pirogue next to the boat. Gaston threw the rope out to the boy and he attempted ineffectually to tie it to the pillar.
A young girl came rushing down the dock. Her long blond braids were as thick as sweetgum saplings.
"Let me do it," she told the little one without criticism. She easily pulled through the good knots, without requiring the help of Armand, who had set the pole firmly in the bayou floor and bounded onto the cypress to assist.
"Good morning," he said formally to the newcomer and her brother. "I am Armand Sonnier. This is Madame Landry, Mademoiselle Gaudet, and my niece and nephew, Marie and Gaston."
The young girl gave a credible curtsy, nodding. "I am Elsa Shotz and this is my brother Jakob. Welcome to our home." Her smile was sweet and winning. "I have heard of you, monsieur," she said. "I have heard of all of you. You are acquaintances of our friend Monsieur Boudreau."
"He's not our friend” the little boy argued. "He is our uncle."
The little girl's cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she opened her mouth to dispute her brother's words, but Armand forestalled her.
"Indeed?" he said, sounding delighted. "Monsieur Boudreau is as well a cousin to Madame Landry, who is also my godmother. So it seems we are all almost family."
Armand deliberately avoided any mention of what his friend's relationship with Mademoiselle Gaudet might be.
More might have been said had not, at that moment, Helga Shotz stepped out on her porch. Her threadbare workdress was scrupulously clean, her hair exceptionally tidy, and her face as white as death.
"Has something happened?" she asked anxiously. "Has something happened to Laron?"
The use of his given name said volumes about the nature of the woman's relationship with Boudreau as well as her current state of apprehension.
"No no," Orva said, waving assurance. "I have only come for a visit. Mon fils, help me from the boat."
The children scrambled to the dock and Armand hurried to assist the old woman. He then offered a hand to Aida and the two of them followed the old woman up the ramp to the small house.
In front of him the children chattered together as if they were old friends.
"This bayou is so gloomy," Gaston commented to Elsa.
The little girl shrugged without comment, but her brother piped in a comment.
"Only since Oncle has gone away. We were all so happy before," he said.
Armand cast a quick glance at Aida before the two of them stepped inside.
Helga Shotz bustled around nervously, apologizing for the state of her home. In fact, the little cabin was scrupulously clean and the fragrance of fresh- baked bread emanated from the row of big bowl-shaped loaves cooling upon the shelf.
Her accent was heavy, forcing the listeners to pay close attention to her words, but her understanding of the language was estimable. The woman cast several surreptitious glances at Aida. Armand wondered what she was thinking. How would a plain looking housewife regard the beautiful woman who was to be her lover's bride?
Aida, in fact, appeared more uncomfortable than Madame Shotz. She kept her body still and her eyes lowered as if she were trying to make herself disappear.
"Would you like coffee?" Helga asked. "I am afraid I do not make it so good, but I can make it."
Orva smiled broadly at her. "Do make us coffee," she said. "And do not worry about the quality of it. If an Acadian wants coffee he will drink any kind. And if he doesn't want coffee, then he's probably drinking sazerac!"
The joking comment dispelled some of the tension in the room.
As Helga busied herself brewing the aromatic cafe noir, Orva chattered along in what sounded much like idle conversation.
"I knew the man who built this house," she said. "It was empty for years before your husband bought it. But I knew the fellow who had it first."
"Really?" Helga's question was politeness devoid of interest.
Orva took no notice. "He was a Spaniard, a strange little man," she continued. "He lived alone here, needed no one and talked to no one. He trapped in the back prairies for thirty years before our people arrived."
"What happened to him?" Helga asked.
Orva shrugged. "No one knows. Some say he moved on to less peopled hunting grounds. Some say he was killed in a drunken brawl with a trader in Opelousas. Years back old Arceneaux killed a gator and found a silver belt buckle in his belly. It looked a whole lot like the one that Spaniard always wore."
"Oh dear." Helga's eyes widened in shock.
"The syndic we had then." She pointed to Armand. "The fellow who served as judge under the Spanish, he finally had to simply declare the man dead."
Orva tutted almost to herself and shook her head sadly.
"When a man has made a life where no one knows or cares about him, often when he leaves it, there is not so much as a ripple in the water to show his passing."
The coffee, when presented, was certainly drinkable, and the strange German bread was surprising tasteful, though a little coarse for their tastes.
Madame Landry kept up an unending stream of conversation, seemingly in no direction at all. Armand waited patiently for her to get to the point of their visit but the old woman seemed content to just drink coffee and chat.
With Helga's admonition to Elsa to watch the little ones, the children played together outside. Their loud boisterous play belied the fact that they had never set eyes upon each other before that morning.
The only dis
ruption in what appeared to be an amiable social call was the abrupt arrival of Karl Shotz, Helga's oldest son. The burly twelve-year-old burst through the back door, clearly believing that something was amiss. Then he glared unhappily at the room full of strangers who had come for coffee.
His mother introduced her guests and the youngster offered polite greetings in a slightly belligerent monotone.
Helga suggested that he help his sister supervise the younger children. Instead he pulled up a chair and seated himself between his mother and Madame Landry.
"Do you know who I am?" Orva asked him.
"You are the fortune teller," he answered.
Madame Landry's eyebrows shot up.
"No, that is not quite correct," she told him calmly. "I am a treater. I do what I can to aid the sick and injured. For that job, I often have the help of voices and visions. At times, it is true, I can tell a person what his future will be."
He gave the old woman a slow, almost insolent look.
"Then tell me my future," he demanded.
Armand was startled by the young man's antagonism, but even more surprised by Orva's calm response. From his own experience, Armand knew that Madame Landry did not tolerate insolence or disrespect. Yet she continued to talk to the boy as if she did not notice the offensiveness of his tone.
"You have a very bright future," she said to him. "But you think that it begins now. It does not."
The young boy's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?" he asked.
Madame Landry smiled. "It means that it is still time to leave the judgments of elders to elders." She reached over and patted his arm. "Soon enough you will be such a one yourself."
Karl angrily jerked his arm from her and stormed out of the room.
Helga's face was flushed with humiliation. "I must apologize," she said. "My son has been very short of temper these days, but I cannot excuse his rudeness."
"Let it be," Orva said, waving away the woman's concern. "It is a difficult time for your family. And a difficult step in childhood."
"Yes, I suppose so," Helga agreed.
"A boy, especially at his age," Madame Landry continued, "well, he needs a father. He needs a man to show him how to do and be."
Helga's face paled visibly.
Armand shifted uncomfortably in his chair.
"A mother must do her best," Orva stated. "But a boy learns to be a man by watching a man."
Madame Shotz lowered her eyes guiltily.
Aida's were wide.
Armand felt a surge of sympathy for the women. Why was Madame Landry deliberately bringing up this most painful of subjects?
The old woman continued. "It is up to a mother to ensure that the man he watches is the man that she wishes her son to grow up to be."
"Sometimes that is not possible," Helga said quietly.
Madame Landry shrugged and nodded. "Yes, sometimes it is not," she agreed.
"Madame Landry is teaching me to be the traiteur," Aida blurted out suddenly. They were virtually the first words she had spoken. "Of course I cannot remember the cures and charms so Monsieur Sonnier is writing it all down."
"That is wonderful," Helga said.
"I had never thought to be a person so responsible as a treater," she said. "And I know that I am not worthy, but it seems that it is what I shall be."
"How nice."
"Of course I have always loved to work with herbs, but I am not very smart and I have a very bad memory."
Madame Landry chuckled. "Mademoiselle Gaudet often sees her shortcomings, but fails to understand how they benefit her."
The cryptic words caused a momentary pause, but Aida had effectively rescued the conversation from the uncomfortable direction in which it had been headed.
Within another quarter-hour the coffee was finished and Madame Landry made to leave. Helga walked them to the dock, calling to the formerly rowdy, now tired children.
She touched Aida on the arm, drawing her aside. Her words were low but Armand could hear them.
"Thank you for coming by, mademoiselle," she said. "Though perhaps we cannot be friends, I do not wish to be your enemy."
"I would be happy to be your friend, Madame Shotz," Aida answered with obvious sincerity.
Helga was flushed, obviously embarrassed by the situation.
"Please give my regards to Monsieur Boudreau. I will not be seeing him in the future."
"I may not see much of him, either," Aida said. "I broke off our betrothal last Saturday."
Helga's eyes widened in shock at Aida's words. "You broke it off?"
Aida nodded.
The children rushed upon them like a plague, all laughing and pushing and talking at the same time. A plunge from the dock by little Marie was barely averted.
Armand handed Aida into the boat and then the two children after her. He turned to aid Madame Landry into the pirogue, but the old woman ignored him, speaking to Helga Shotz once more.
"Do you know what we call you? How we refer to you?" she asked.
Helga blushed bright red and glanced nervously at her children as if expecting a vulgar derisive term.
"We call you the veuve allemande," she said. "The German widow."
Helga's brow furrowed. "I have told no lies about my marital status, Madame," she said defensively.
Orva nodded. "I know that you have not. Actually, they got that from me. I was the first to call you that."
She turned then to Armand. "Help me into the pirogue," she said.
Once the old woman was settled, Elsa and Jakob managed the rope and cast it to Armand as he pushed off.
"Monsieur," the little boy called out. "Please tell Oncle to come and see me."
"He is gone away right now," Armand called back. "I will speak to him when I see him."
"Where has he gone?" Jakob asked.
Armand shrugged, unknowing.
"To the German coast." The reply was called out by Aida.
Armand was surprised at the answer. Madame Shotz appeared stunned.
Chapter Thirteen
Aida showed up as requested at Madame Landry's home for another day of learning. She was rapidly becoming accustomed to the idea. Certainly she still was not smart enough, and she still had trouble remembering where she'd left her shoes, her shawl, or her sunbonnet, but since the vision she was beginning to believe that it was true that she should be the treater.
Only three days earlier, on that surprisingly uneventful visit to Helga Shotz, she had stated with conviction for the first time that she was to be the new treater. Her words had been spoken only in an attempt to cover an awkward moment. Yet she had felt a strange sense of confidence. The burden of responsibility bolstered her in a way that her physical beauty never had.
Of course, there was still Armand. He still seemed less than convinced of her abilities, but while she valued his opinion, it somehow did not matter as much as it once had. If he thought her unsuited for the task—well, he was in many ways correct. If he was not willing to believe that her vision was real, well, in that he was wrong.
Aida stood alone with her thoughts inside the quiet solemnity of Madame Landry's house. Alternately she watched out the front door for Armand's arrival on the river, glanced at the old woman alone in her garden, and eyed a large luscious blueberry tart cooling on the table.
Madame Landry was in a strange mood that morning, pale and almost listless; she requested to be left to herself awhile.
Aida respected her wishes and therefore paced alone in the house. She wondered if the old woman was communicating with the voices. The idea was momentarily frightening to Aida. Then she recalled the warm sense of calm and peace that had settled upon her after the strange vision she'd experienced. Perhaps one could become accustomed to such. Especially knowing that it was meant to help people in the community, heal the sick, ward off disaster.
If only Armand had taken her more seriously. Aida shook her head as the vivid memory of the field of shorn grain troubled her once again. There was
something important that Armand must tell Laron. Somehow Armand was the key; he had the answer and he could not see it.
Of course there was still time. Laron had not yet returned from the German coast. Aida ruminated momentarily on what business he might have there and then let the thought go by. Laron would be back within days, undoubtedly. Maybe by that time she could convince Armand to speak with him.
A low murmur of voices caught her attention. Aida walked eagerly to the doorway to look out through the curtains toward the bayou.
Jean Baptiste Sonnier was poling the pirogue near to shore. Armand adeptly jumped to the dock. He carried under his arm the tools of his trade, a polished wooden box containing his paper, ink, and plume. Safely on the bank, he turned to wave his brother off.
Jean Baptiste waved back and then apparently caught sight of Aida in the doorway. He doffed his hat and gave a half-bow.
"As beautiful as always, Mademoiselle Gaudet!" he called out.
Armand turned to look at her, his expression black.
Aida's heart sank. Another bad mood day, she thought. Could Armand Sonnier never just be happy?
He stomped up the porch steps and in through the door.
"Where is Madame Landry?" he asked grumpily.
"She's in the garden," Aida told him. "She wanted to be alone for a while."
Armand's brow furrowed in momentary concern. "Is she all right?"
"Yes I think so. Perhaps she is . . . well, communing with the voices."
Armand looked askance. "Surely not," he said firmly. "That certainly must only occur when she is alone or at night or—"
"Why would you think that?"
He shrugged without answering. "It just seems more likely."
"Nothing about the voices is likely," Aida pointed out.
Armand considered her words. "Well, I'm sure you know more about it than I do."
"I do know more about it," Aida said argumentatively.
"I just said you did."
"But you did not mean it," she accused. "You are all angry and puffed up again for no reason."
"Am I?"
