Velvet Shadows (18 page)

Whether I had some innate barrier against complete surrender to their drugs, I do not know. I have since heard that the reactions of unbelievers cannot be as enduring as those of true worshippers who expect to see and feel what is not of this world.

I did not break, if that was what they expected. Rather I gained command of myself. Once more I could raise my hands, though those shook and trembled so I could not use them. But my legs remained numb and lifeless.

They came for me when it was dark—save for candles a man standing just outside the door held in either hand. The crone had put away her bright clothing. Now she wore a loose robe of black, caught in about her middle with a blue sash. Her headcloth, however, was the same. The man with her was bare of body save for a blue cloth about his loins.

One on either side they took me under the arms, pulled me up, and marched me forward, the man with the candles in the lead. So we came into a much larger room. Here was light from torches thrust into iron rings set in the walls. Under those stood a number of people, the women wearing robes of white or blue, the men only pantaloons. And some of that company were as white of skin as I.

The center of the room was bare and marked out there on the floor was that symbol I had seen on the crumpled scrap of paper in Victorine's room—a black heart with a sword wreathed by a yellow serpent. To one side was a hogshead, one end covered with a tautly drawn skin. Sitting astride this crude drum, two long bones in his hands to be plied as sticks, was the third man who had brought me here. He was flanked by another holding a chain on which had been strung a number of bells, on the other side by a woman holding a large gourd.

Beyond the design on the floor was a long table draped with black; pinned to that many of the same bunches of feathers as were on my robe, as well as bones. On the surface of the improvised altar lay two cocks, one white, one black, their feet cruelly bound. The wretched birds were alive and kept up a frenzied crowing.

My guards led me past the heart, being very careful not to set foot on its tracing. We passed beyond the altar to one of the pillars supporting the roof of this great room. As if they were no longer sure that their stupefying hold would continue, my captors lashed me to this upright.

On the floor behind the altar, perhaps not visible to those gathered at the other end of the chamber, was a big basket which shook of itself now and then as if something was imprisoned within.

Our entrance signaled the beginning of the rite. The man seated on the drum began to beat softly in a strange rhythm, accented at intervals by a ring of the bells, a rattling as the woman shook the gourd.

Then followed a chant, low at first, gathering volume. The crone moved to the fore of the altar, raising her arms, wrinkled leather drawn over bone, uttering sharp cries as if to summon someone—or something.

From the shadows at this end of the room where there were no torches advanced another group. Two tall men, wearing only pantaloons, supported between them a third who walked haltingly, his head lolling forward on his chest. His slender body was bare save for a scarlet cloth, and about both his ankles and his limp wrists were chains of gold hung with bells. His head was bound with a bandage and I caught sight of his pale face as they passed me.

D'Lys! Then he was not dead!

His supporters brought him to the altar, raised him to be laid upon it, the struggling, squawking birds at his head and feet. While the tempo of the drum quickened, until its beat shook my body, willing me to some action I did not understand.

A shrill cry broke from the crone, echoed by those in the chamber.

“L'appe vine, le Grand Zombi.”

“L'appe vine, pour le gris-gris!”

There was a wild leap out of the shadows, the figure clearing both the altar and the man upon it, to land in the exact center of that symbol on the floor. Her ivory body was almost entirely nude, her hair loose on her shoulders. This Victorine had no kinship with the girl I had known.

Around her waist was a belt of small bones clacking together at her every move, and at her throat the serpent necklace glinted. She began to dance, hardly moving her feet, but so twisting and swaying her body that the obscenity she suggested was clear to me, even though I had never seen such before. The crone scurried to open the basket.

She returned carrying a snake, such as I had never believed could exist. It writhed upward to coil about her shoulders until she staggered under its weight. Slowly she came to Victorine, halting only at the edge of the symbol.

Victorine turned, held out her arms. The snake reared its head, lifted the forepart of its body from the crone, stretching to meet the girl. Then it seemed to flow to her through the air. As it came into her grasp she held its head level with her face, the forked tongue darting at her cheeks. There was a shout from the watchers:

“Ah—yah—Ezili Coeur-Noir!”

The snake moved its head as if it whispered in her ear. I saw her laugh and nod. Grasping it firmly, she jerked its full length to her.

Though it had made the old woman a heavy burden, to Victorine it could have been the lightest cord. She used it like a whip, holding it behind the head, snapping its length out toward the others. They swayed from side to side, mimicking the serpent. Three times she lashed it, then she allowed it to coil about her waist, its head resting on her shoulder.

She finally made a quick dart to the side of the altar, loosened the hold of the snake, making it caress with
flicking tongue the face and breast of D'Lys. Finally the reptile flowed from her to the floor, to coil by its basket, its head still swaying to the rhythm of the drum. Victorine whirled and caught up the black cock—

I will not allow myself to remember what she did, I dare not. She could not have been wholly human in those moments, rather possessed by a devil. For now I can accept that evil incarnate
can
walk this world. What most men dismiss as superstition—that I have
seen!

There was blood on D'Lys’ body, not his own. Blood on her mouth and hands—

She faced the worshippers. “Ahhhhh!” she screamed. “Here stands Ezili Coeur-Noir. She is mam'bo!”

“Mam'bo!” they wailed. They had crept closer and their eyes had a
glazed
stare. They were flushed as if drunk. Here and there one of the women had thrown off her robe.

“Here lies our houn'gan!” Victorine pointed to D'Lys. “He is not dead, he is possessed by Baron Samedi of the Grave. Ahhh—let him rise, rise, rise!” She screamed louder and louder.

“What do we bring to Baron Samedi that our houn'gan may live, may have breath within his nostrils, feel the beat of his heart, be a man again—what do we bring?”

“Ahhhhh—” the others moaned.

“We bring the white goat without horns. Tender flesh for his tearing, for his eating. Ahhh—the goat without horns do we bring!”

She made another of those leaps, this carrying her to me. At the same time someone behind the pillar cut free my hands. There was a flash of light in the air, Victorine now held a knife. With that she made a lightning thrust I could not dodge. But that blow had not been intended to kill, rather my slashed robe fell to the floor.

“Behold the white goat without horns,” she cried. “Let it come that its blood be the drink, its flesh the food, and our houn'gan rise again.”

She beckoned as if she expected me to walk forward and have my throat cut. I did not move. Her face contorted into a devil's grimace.

“Come!” She backed to the altar beckoning.

Perhaps what saved me was that instinct which makes ns all fight death, perhaps part of it was my victory over the earlier hallucinations. Though compulsion urged me forward, I had the strength and will to stand fast.

The beat of the drum, the clash of the bells, the rattling of the gourd made a hellish noise. Within me there was that which continued to fight

“Come!”

I needed some weapon—there was none to hand. When would she grow impatient and use the knife? I raised my hands to cover my breasts in useless defense.

So I touched the dangling bracelet. What aid it could be—? I ducked my head, drew off the cord, swung it in my hand. So poor a thing, but all I had.

“Come!” Victorine cried for the third time. There were flecks of foam on her lips. Her eyes were not sane.

I did not move. Though the pack could easily pull me down. Behind Victorine I saw the crone draw near.

She screamed some injunction into the girl's ear. Why they did not rush me I did not understand. At any moment I expected them to seize me, drag me to that altar, and use the knife. Yet now I was more clear-headed than I had been for hours, as if fear had burned the last of their poison from my mind.

Sweat dripped from Victorine's chin, ran freely from her temples. Her body swayed from side to side though her feet did not move. She was—the snake! Even her tongue flicked in and out, her head appeared to flatten, her eyes were set in a reptilian stare.

She raised both hands over her head and brought them down. There was instant silence, drum, bells, rattle, chant all ceased. The quiet was so intense I could hear the sputtering of the wall torches.

“You
shall
come!” She did not scream now. “At the bidding of Ezili Coeur-Noir you shall come. For the Loa is strong in me—
she
desires you—”

Swaying, she approached me. I had but one small, near hopeless chance. In her hand the knife was ready; the torchlight seemed to cling to its cruel blade.

Once more Victorine began to chant, though this time the others did not join in, nor did the drum, bells, and rattle sound. I still could not understand why they did not force me to their will. It was as if they must have me approach the altar willingly. And that I determined I would not do.

I dangled the bracelet-weighted thong in my hand—if she would only come closer. I must be alert to her every movement. At that moment I was conscious of nothing save that the woman facing me was as oldly evil as the Lucifer fallen from heaven. One step—and another—

The knife snaked out. Whether she meant to rip living flesh as she had my robe I shall never know. But I swung the bracelet. The circlet struck her upper arm. She cried out, staggered back. What I saw then—no, I cannot swear to it—

Perhaps the setting of the spider had loosened. That can be the only rational explanation. I will not allow myself to believe that—

To Victorine's white flesh that loathsome black thing clung. She screamed again, hideously, dropped the knife to beat at it with her other hand. Then she ran to the altar, still trying, as she went, to scrape off the creature. I could hardly believe it had been driven into her flesh.

The crone screeched also, seized the knife. She turned on me, slavering, her eyes rolled up until all I could see were the whites. Still she seemed to be able to perceive me and came on for the kill.

She never reached me. There was a shot and she crumpled to the floor. Men poured in from the darkened end of the long room. My head whirling, I slipped into a crouch beside the pillar.

I saw Victorine. The black blot was gone from her arm and she had thrown herself on D'Lys, who was stirring feebly. Together they slipped to the other side of the table and rolled off it. And that was the next to the last thing I was to remember.

The last was arms about me, a soft covering lapping me around, and I was being carried while someone repeated my name over and over—

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

I opened my eyes on only a faint night light. Had I been ill? It was hard to remember. Terrible dreams—Victorine—nightmares which could only have been born of illness—

Someone was bending over me—I fought for a name to match a face.

“Fenton?”

“Miss Tamaris—you know me!” She sounded as if she had been crying.

“Have I been—ill?” Not memories—just fever nightmares, I prayed.

“You've been asleep for nearly two days. Your poor face, and him not knowing what drugs you had been given—”

I pushed myself up on my pillows. “Then the dreams—were true!” Something within me broke and I began to cry as I had never wept before, not even at the news of my father's death.

“Miss, oh, Miss Tamaris, hush you now. It is all right, you are safe—” Fenton sat on the side of the bed, took my hands in hers, crooned over me as if I were a child. “God forgive my tongue, I should not have told you, made you remember. It's all right, you are safe now.”

I gripped her hands tight in return, they were my anchorage. “I cannot help crying—”

Thus I wept myself quiet. Then I knew a kind of dull peace. Fenton brought me a cup of broth, later rolls spread with butter and honey, hot milk. I slept again—there were no more dreams.

When I awoke for the second time there was sunlight in the room. And I knew this for the hotel chamber I had left—when? It seemed weeks since I had last rested in
this bed, and all my recollections were oddly detached, as if they were now the memories of another person.

I sat up as Fenton entered the room. When she saw me she laid down an armload of freshly laundered linen and came to me.

“Miss Tamaris—how are you?”

“Hungry—”

A smile lighted her plain face. “Give me but a minute or two.” She bustled out, to return with a basin of warm water, scented soap, and towels, and proceeded to wash me as if I were five, instead of five times that age. When she touched my cheek I flinched.

“Oh, that bruise. I shall try not to hurt you—”

A scrap of memory again. That blow Bessie had used to silence my call for help.

“Bring me a mirror.”

“But, miss, it is fast fading and—”

“Please, Fenton. Let me see.”

With pursed lips she brought my hand mirror. In spite of the pain I was only half prepared for what I saw. The skin from near jawline to hair was a huge bruise several shades of color. I looked hideous, so I dropped the mirror quickly.

“I had better wear a veil.” I attempted a laugh, more shocked than I wanted her to know.

But that reflected face had brought me sharply into the here and now. All the ugliness I had been a part of was branded on me and I could not escape the memory.

I shrank from asking questions; rather I lay back on my pillows as Fenton left, making myself explore those dark recollections. I had escaped or I would not be here. But what had I escaped? Only death itself.

I had not been rescued from that defilement of mind and body. The feeling of being unclean closed in upon me. I was not the Tamaris Penfold I had always known.

And Alain—what had happened to Alain?

Above all I wanted to ask that of Fenton, yet I dreaded her answer. Still I must face the truth squarely, no matter how bleak—and I was summoning my rags of courage when she returned with a tray.

I was hungry and what she offered was tempting. Because of that hunger I did not at first notice a small bowl on the left-hand side of the tray. Then my eyes were drawn to it.

It was no larger than could fit comfortably into the hollow of my cupped hand. White, possessing a relief design of flowering branches. I had seen its like before—a treasure of a house of many courtyards half the world away.

“Mutton-fat jade,” I whispered.

Some Chinese artist had created this exquisite perfection. Now it held a cluster of white violets, their own green leaves making a frame to highlight their frail beauty. Tears smarted in my eyes, a choking lump arose in my throat.

“Fenton!”

When she came I could not master the shaking of my hands.

“What is it, miss?”

I fought to keep my voice natural. “The violets—the bowl—”

She smiled. “The master sent those. He said to give them to you.”

“Please, Fenton, take them away!”

She regarded me anxiously. Let her believe my mind was disturbed, anything—only let her get them out of my sight!

“Please—” I no longer cared what Fenton might think. I only wanted it gone.

“Of course, miss.” She whisked it away.

My appetite had vanished. I crumbled a roll, tried a forkful of creamed chicken, drank a sip of coffee. The food had no flavor now and to choke it down was painful.

“Fenton—I must get up.”

“But, miss, the doctor said—and you've hardly eaten anything.”

“I find I am not hungry after all. And I must get up—now!”

Unfortunately I discovered I did need her help. I was
very weak and she had to draw on my stockings, fasten my shoes, aid me with my clothes.

“The dark green dress if you please, Fenton.”

“But you can't be going out, miss! Here is your wrapper—”

I shook my head with determination. “No, the dress, please.”

Shaking her head, she brought it, hooked the bodice, fastened the skirt. I was trying to think of what must be done and how. The money which the crone had taken from me—how I needed that! What else did I have?

“Fenton, bring my jewel case—”

I wanted the packet of eastern bank notes I still had kept and now I counted those. But I had no idea what a ticket for a transcontinental train trip cost—did I have enough? If not—to whom might I appeal for a loan?

I had only five contacts within the city. And two of those I would not approach. There remained three—and the last was the closest. Holding the notes in my hand I looked to Fenton, hovering over me.

“Is Mrs. Deaves here at present?”

“If she hasn't gone out with the master. They've been in and out so much—”

“Ask her to come here.”

Fenton went reluctantly. But Mrs. Deaves came with a promptitude which suggested interest in my affairs, an overwhelming interest. She studied me closely, I no longer cared.

“I am so glad you are feeling better—”

I raised one hand to brush aside the need for polite speech between us. All but my purpose was unnecessary.

“I must ask for a loan of money.” That was blunt enough but I felt that time was against me. “Though I have these notes, I have no other resources at hand. And I fear that this is not enough to pay for my fare east.”

She was startled, plainly taken aback, as if those words were the last she expected to hear. They should give her pleasure, she had never wanted me here.

“You plan to return east—when?” Now she was as terse as I had been.

“As soon as possible. I shall go by coach, of course, but there is the matter of fare and food.”

“You have discussed this with Alain?” She watched me narrowly.

“There is no need for discussion now. My reason for being here no longer exists. And I have not found my visit to San Francisco so pleasant that I desire to prolong it. As for Mr. Sauvage, I shall leave him a letter. I think you will agree with me that this is the best course?”

She licked her lips. “You have asked no questions—concerning Victorine, what has happened—”

“What has happened I shall endeavor to forget as speedily as possible. As for Victorine—I assume her brother has taken the proper steps to control her activities.”

Mrs. Deaves shook her head. “She is gone—with her husband—that creature
was
her husband. Alain put them aboard the
Tangus
yesterday—they will be taken to the West Indies. He could not have them charged by the law—the scandal would have been too great. And Victorine was not truly his sister, no Sauvage. He discovered that from someone who knew the facts of her birth. She is the daughter of his stepmother's lover. Learning that, he had no reason to keep her from the man she had chosen.”

Mrs. Beall, or Mrs. Pleasant? Which had told Alain the truth? And if Mrs. Beall, why had Alain not recognized her—unless his contact with his stepmother had been very slight and the woman had later disguised herself well. I might never know, but the matter was none of my concern.

“Mr. Sauvage himself took no hurt?” I asked the one question which would give me a small peace of mind. However, I kept my voice steady and cool, as if our relationship had never been more than that of employer and employee. Had it been really? It is far too easy for a woman without experience to deceive herself in such matters.

“He suffered some bruises, a slight cut on the arm. Nothing to signify.”

“Very fortunate. But is it possible for you to honor my request?” I could not bear to discuss Alain with her.

“I can. If you are determined to go, Teresa can accompany you across the bay tonight. There is a train leaving for the east tomorrow morning. I shall have the money for you.”

“As a loan. I have funds in the east from which I can repay you.”

I believed I knew what lay behind the offer of Teresa's company—Mrs. Deaves wanted to make very sure I
was
going. She need have no fear. I expected her to leave forthwith, but instead she paused by the door to study me curiously.

“You are sure this is what you wish, to go so and at once?”

I was wearied to the point I could hardly endure her presence. But I managed to keep my control.

“Entirely sure. I am grateful for your help. Now, if you do not mind, I am tired and must rest if I am to leave this evening.”

“Of course.” But even as she reached for the doorknob she still watched me with an avid curiosity, as if she were unable to believe that I would be soon gone out of her life. If she would have said anything more, she thought better of it.

I was alarmed at my own weakness. Though I must harbor my strength, there were two things I had to do before I could rest. And, as Fenton came back, I set about those.

“Fenton, I am leaving tonight. Since I shall be unable to carry much luggage, please pack the small carryall with my toilet things, some clean linen, such articles as I will need in a week's travel by train. Afterwards, if you will be so kind, pack the rest of my clothing and see that the trunks are sent to an address I shall give you. You will not pack those gowns made here—”

Now she wore that old mulish look which I remembered from the first days of our meeting. But her displeasure could be no bar to me.

“Before you begin, please bring me my writing desk. And—this is most important, Fenton—you will, on no
account, speak to
anyone
concerning my plans. Will you give me your solemn promise not to do that?”

I held her gaze with mine, willed her to give me that assurance. I believed that I could trust her; once she had given such a promise she would keep it.

Her long, sallow face flushed and she twisted her hands together.

“Please, Miss Tamaris—please don't ask me! The master, he'll—”

I sighed. “Very well, Fenton. I will tell you why I am doing this so you can answer if asked. I have had things happen to me which have changed my life so deeply that I do not even know myself any longer. I must get away from everyone who reminds me of the past. I know this to be true. Do you understand?”

She studied me with a regard as searching as Mrs. Deaves’ had been. Her face was still unhappy, but, as if against her will, she nodded.

“Mr. Sauvage will not blame you for my leaving. I will write a letter to be given to him after I am gone. This shall explain to him exactly how I feel and why I must go home.”

“If you say so, Miss Tamaris. But—can't I go with you? You ain't well enough to make the trip alone. Look at you—you're so weak you can't even walk across this room!”

“I feel much better than I look, Fenton. And once I am away from here I will feel even better.”

With the desk on my knees, inkwell unstopped, pen and paper ready, I discovered what I lacked were the proper words. I could not entrust to paper, even for one person to read and destroy, the innermost feelings which I held now. At last I began, without salutation, for my heart said “Alain” and I had no right to that:

You will understand my feelings. I must leave the scene of events which have caused me such pain. And in going I cannot leave any better farewell than this, for I have discovered I cannot bear to look at anyone who witnessed
my degradation. Pity and scorn are equally painful. Once I am away perhaps I can in time forget.

It was stiff, but I could find no other words. I put the sheet into an envelope and sealed it. Then I resolutely composed myself for the rest I knew I must have.

Though I closed my eyes I could hear Fenton moving quietly, carrying out my orders for packing. Then I must have dozed for I awoke suddenly with her hand on my shoulder, before me a table set with a substantial meal.

“You didn't eat before,” she said as if she expected me to spurn the food, “but you must now, Miss Tamaris. If you don't you won't have strength to get to the train.”

As I ate she spoke again: “Mrs. Deaves—she says that Teresa will go across the bay with you. Why can't I do that much?”

“Because I am depending on you, Fenton, for two important tasks—to deliver my letter and take care of my luggage.”

“Oh, Miss Tamaris—I do want to go with you, all the way! You can't manage by yourself, I know it!”

I shook my head. “Fenton, in the East I have never lived the kind of life in which I required a maid. You have been very good to me, and I deeply appreciate all you have done. I have a small token for you, it was a gift to me from my father.” I brought out a remembrance I had taken from my jewel box—a cross carved from ivory with a vine entwined in high relief around it.

“Oh—miss—” There were tears in her eyes.

I pressed the cross into her hand and then I added more briskly than I felt, “Have you been able to find me a veil?”

She slipped the cross into her apron pocket and lifted from the table my traveling hat with a thick veil pinned efficiently about it to give the fullest concealment to my face. That it also gave the impression of one in half-mourning was appropriate—was I not in mourning for the person I once was and could never be again?