Orleans Read online

  Patting the pockets of the weatherproof oilcloth coat he wore over his suit, he found another length of dirty linen gauze and wrapped it around his neck like a scarf. Feeling more like a dime-store mummy than a local with a skin disease, Daniel headed out into the gray afternoon.

  8

  THIS CHURCH AIN’T SEEN GOD IN A LONG TIME. It be dark as pitch in here and don’t smell too clean, neither, but there be a fire in a grate to the side of the altar, and it nice and warm inside. Especially to me, without a proper shirt. I pull myself up and look around. The branches below done a good job of hiding this place. The floor be gritty with dirt, and the walls be dark from wood smoke. There be six rows of benches, a pulpit with space in front of it. There be a door in the far wall, so there be at least one other room. No priest, no priestesses. Might not even be a church anymore with no one here tending it.

  Then my eyes adjust and I see there be a few people sitting on the benches. The front row even got real pews, probably taken from some drowned church. They been painted up and stuck in a place of honor right against the altar. There be no service right now, so I take a minute to check out who be here with me. We safe enough, it being a church, but you still got to keep your eyes open when you decide to leave.

  In the second row on the right there be a big guy, muscle and fat from what I’m seeing. And he got tattoos, which mean he either AB or a blood hunter. I don’t like the thought of being in here with him, but if he here, it most likely because he reformed. Blood hunters don’t go to church. Too much temptation inside, and even they respect that one law. Nobody ever been taken from a church. Not to say they don’t get jumped at the door, though.

  Behind him a few rows be a nervous little man muttering to himself. He got a bald spot on top his head and patchy hair growing ’round the sides. He tugging at it like he don’t even realize what he doing. Freesteader, I guess. Nobody with nerves like that be in a tribe worth its salt. He be in his church best, dress shirt rubbed thin with wear, and what used to be a decent pair of pants. I wonder where he camping down these days. Maybe that why he so nervous—’cause, like me, this be it.

  What worry me most be the person on the other side, in the second to last row of the pews. Man or woman, I can’t tell, but they be shaking and sweating worse than the freesteader. Whoever it be, in the light I can see two things: First, he used to be a smuggler—still got parts of the encounter suit he wore rolled down around his neck like a scarf, afraid to take it off, but knowing he might as well; and second, he got the blood Fever. This smuggler be white, whiter than you see in Orleans anymore, with yellow-blond hair stuck to his forehead with sweat. It remind me of Lydia kneeling at that boy’s bedside the other day.

  Yesterday.

  It take the wind out of me, thinking how much be changed in so little time. How much lost. And I been worrying she’d catch her death in the hospital tent. Show what I know. Childbirth been killing women long before the world ever heard of Delta Fever or blood hunting or Orleans. Lydia didn’t have the baby the right way, in a bed with a healer or somebody watching who knew what to do. Just me, and I ain’t enough.

  It be warmer in here than that little fire grate can explain, and I know I come to the right place, ’cause that mean there be a kitchen back behind the altar somewhere.

  It started with the missionaries that came after the first storms. I guess there always been a tradition of church folks feeding the hungry. Even now, when the churches be in trees and religion be as mixed up as the people, there still be food coming out at the end of each service. I settle in to a back pew and tuck Baby Girl in my arms just as nice as can be. Maybe we both can rest up awhile, get some food in our bellies, and then be on our way. We in God’s house, so we gonna let him provide.

  Soon as I think it, the curtain behind the altar open up and two kids come out, skinny and tall. They look enough alike to be brother and sister. The boy stand behind the altar, pale long-sleeve shirt buttoned to his chin, arms too long for the sleeves. His pants be too short for his legs, too, like he grew three inches just before he walk into the room. The girl be wearing a dress the same pale color as his shirt. Homespun, dyed with salmon berries. It look like a pillowcase on her, hanging on a drying line. She come stand by the front pew holding a big silver-painted tray. The boy raise his hands to the ceiling.

  “Welcome, brothers and sisters, to the House of the Rising Son. I am Brother William, and this is Sister Henrietta. Join us, won’t you, in prayer?”

  He got a soft voice, like a bale of cotton, serious for his age. Something change people’s voices when they find God—soft and gentle, or loud and fiery, there ain’t no in between. I been hoping for a fiery preacher to keep me awake. But with the heat and this boy talking, it gonna be hard for sure.

  Before he get to preaching, the girl, Sister Henrietta, walk up the aisle, passing the plate for donations. I sit up and dig through my bag for a bottle of water, glad I got two left for Baby Girl. When Sister Henrietta reach me and hold out the plate, I put it in next to the freesteader’s dried fish and the pheasant the blood hunter already donated. The smuggler too far gone to be giving up anything but the ghost, and soon. Still, it gonna be a good dinner tonight, if the plate be any sign.

  The trapdoor bang open across from me and I jump at the sound. A man with one leg climb through, and I wonder how he managed the rope ladder, even with them big arms. He drop a smoked ham hock on the collection plate, and that be it, five people and a tidy heap of food. They gonna give us some, save the rest for later, but that pheasant ain’t keeping like the hocks and the fish, so we doing all right.

  The girl smile at the man, all soft and sweet, and let him pass. He move himself up to them front pews and prop up his legless thigh. I tuck into my corner and watch the whole room. Sister Henrietta slip behind the curtain with her platter of food, and I work harder than usual to keep my eyes open, waiting for the word of the Lord.

  “Thank you, Sister,” Brother William say in that drowsy-making voice of his. “And many thanks to and blessings upon you, sisters and brothers. For it is a blessing that each and every one of us is alive and drawing in the blessed air tonight. Did not the Lord say that Heaven is like unto a grain of mustard seed, grown into a tree in which the birds of the air made nests in its branches? So, too, do we nest amongst the arms of cypress trees and know that we are closer to Heaven.”

  I listen for a while just to have something to do that ain’t dwelling on what happened to Lydia, but it hard to pay attention when they just be preaching the same mess you hear in any church up and down the Delta. “Be kind to each other. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.” With some mess about Job and Noah thrown in for good measure. It don’t go on as long as some of them Catholic masses the Ursulines hold, though, I’ll give them that.

  Soon it’s over and Brother William announce the meal being prepared and we all welcome to stay. He and Sister Henrietta work they way down the aisle, shaking hands and talking to the handful of lost souls they got. I start to think of a story for when they get to me.

  It come soon enough, especially since they both avoid the smuggler, who still be sweating up a storm in his half-worn suit. Sister Henrietta smile all big and tender when she see Baby Girl in my arms.

  “Blessings, sister, and to your little one. Welcome to the House of the Rising Son,” she say, hands clasped in front of her like she be praying with every word. They drop down on the bench beside me and I feel trapped. But they just two little church people—nothing I can’t handle.

  “Sister, you seem tired,” Brother William say. “You are welcome to rest in our House as long as you require. Indeed, if you are in need of a Home, you are welcome to join ours. Sister Henrietta here is quite smitten with young ones, and you would be most welcome, along with your babe.”

  “Never let it be said there was no room at the inn,” Henrietta say with a chuckle that I don’t like, but seem harmless enough.

  “Thanks, but we just stopping for the n
ight. Got people to meet come morning.”

  Brother William nod and rise from the pew. Henrietta be a bit slower to accept. “Are you a freesteader?” she ask me.

  I raise an eyebrow. “Do I look it?” I sound sharper than I should. These people be feeding me and I don’t got to bite they heads off just for asking obvious questions. Then I see her eyes drop down to my arms. She ain’t looking at Baby Girl; she looking at my scars. I tilt my chin up and dare her to say something. She pull her eyes away and clear her throat.

  “My apologies, Sister . . . ?” She wait for my name, but I don’t give it. What can I say? It hard to be nice sometimes.

  “I only ask because we offer care for the little ones, as Brother William implied. I am the nursery attendant. Several of the freesteaders in the area rely on our services with their children. If you find that you are in need . . . Well, please think of us as your friends.”

  I smile then, and it ain’t a nice smile. Anybody in the Delta say they your friend, you best be watching your back when they come ’round.

  “How nice,” I say. “Thanks for your offer, but my chief wouldn’t be too happy with me if I be leaving my baby with strangers. That what the tribe be for.”

  Henrietta sigh and stand up, her pillowcase dress swaying with the movement. “Certainly. Tribe is life,” she say like she heard it before. Probably lots of folks come in for a nap and got to put up with her pushy form of friendship. She ain’t never had a tribe of her own, or she’d know what it be about.

  “Tribe is life,” I agree, and nod. She walk away, and I be left alone waiting for dinner. She got me thinking, though. In Orleans, you either a tribe, a religion, a hunter, or a freesteader. Better a tribe than a religion, but freesteader be as good as free-deader, so you choose second best sometimes. Leastways ’til you figure something else out. And I got to keep reminding myself that I ain’t tribe no more. Least not for the time being. That make me a freesteader ’til I get to Father John. Or maybe a member of the House of the Rising Son.

  I look down at Baby Girl in my arms. She look peaceful. Probably because it so warm in here. “What do you think?” I ask her. Ain’t like she gonna answer, though. She wiggle at the sound of my voice, and I wonder what her mama’d think of me leaving her here. “These folks used to handling babies,” I tell her. Maybe I stay on a little while to make sure it all right, then I make my own way. Lydia want a better life for her daughter. I look around the dim little church. It ain’t paradise, but it be safe above the ground, protected as a church. No blood hunters burning her out of here in the middle of the night.

  “Maybe,” I finally say. Not decided, but maybe.

  The curtains open at the front of the room again and I sit up straight. The smell of food waft from the back room, and Brother William come out with a big old steaming pot of stew. Sister Henrietta follow, passing bowls around, and they singing some hymn or other about the Lord being a shepherd or something. My mouth be watering.

  Everyone be tucking into they bowls, and I ain’t no different. Henrietta give me a large ladleful from the pot, and I pick that bowl right up and start eating. Bits of pheasant and salt meat, potatoes and yams, mixed up in thick brown gravy. It be just about the best thing I ever ate, seeing as how I been going all day on empty. When I be done, I’ll ask them to heat a bottle for Baby Girl. We doing all right for our first night on our own.

  I scrape the bottom of the bowl, belly full and eyelids drooping. I shouldn’t have eaten so fast. I set the bowl aside and put my arms around the baby in her sling. But my arms don’t want to be holding her, they so heavy. I let her rest in my lap and my head jerk back trying to stay upright, I be so dead tired. Around the room, everybody else doing the same thing, nodding off over they empty bowls. I hear a clatter as some spoon hit the ground, and I realize something ain’t right.

  Then I smell it. Incense. They been burning it in the cooking fire, and I ain’t noticed over the smell of food. But it ain’t just perfume like they be burning in some churches. This be something stronger, and it ain’t good.

  Damn. I shake my head and pick up Baby Girl, but I ain’t got no strength left. I look at my empty stew bowl. They done drugged us all. But why?

  Fighting the incense and the poison in the food, I force myself to keep my arms around Baby Girl. Around me, folks be swaying in the pews and I hear a drum being played. Tat-ta-tat-tat-tat.

  A jolt of fear go through me as I recognize the rhythm and the smell of them burning herbs. I know whose house this be, and it ain’t God or the Rising Son. This be one of Mama Gentille’s places.

  Mama Gentille’s name means kind, but her name be the only place you’ll find it. Hers be the kindness of the gator to the rabbit, the snake to the bird. Before Lydia took me in, I been one of Mama’s girls. And I got the scars to prove it.

  9

  I ain’t crying. No, I ain’t crying. Nine be too old for that.

  Daddy say run and I run. Day turn to night and my boots be crashing through the weeds and moss, splashing through the swamp. I hit concrete, sand, and gravel and keep running ’til I don’t hear the dogs no more, or my mama screaming, or Daddy crying. I run ’til I know I be lost. Daddy say run, but he also say where to get help, and I be a long way from it.

  I be so tired. I find a place under a fallen tree to hide, shaking like a rabbit. “Fen, Fen, Fen, Fen.” I sing my name to myself nice and quiet, like Mama sometimes sing it. I got to find Mr. Go. I stay quiet. Maybe Mama and Daddy come find me, if I be still and good. They always do, they always do.

  Then I remember them dogs and the hunters, with they chains and ropes and things, and I know Mama and Daddy ain’t coming for me. That’s when I start to cry.

  • • •

  I wake up. A little boy, old as me, be peeking at me. It dark, but he holding up a burning torch that light him up. I don’t leave my spot beneath the tree, but I watch him.

  He be wearing a man’s T-shirt that look almost like a dress on him, except he got pants on, too. He could be a ghost, except I don’t think ghosts got skin that black-brown, and they don’t giggle like he be giggling. The whites of his eyes flash in the torchlight as he look at me, and then he turn and disappear into the woods.

  I don’t move. I close my eyes, but I still want to see, so I open them again, and he be back, giggling and holding hands with a girl, this one older, but dressed almost the same. She got a rope belt around her big shirt, though, and it look more proper somehow. She put a bowl on the ground and then they leave together, the boy looking over his shoulder at me. I don’t leave the bushes. I don’t touch that bowl.

  Next morning, when the mist be steaming off the ground like will-o’-the-wisps, the girl come back, only now she got a man’s coat on. It hang off her like she a scarecrow. She sit down in front of the bowl and mix it, and I see there been a spoon in the bowl the whole time. After a minute, she shrug and eat it herself. By the look on her face, it just as good cold, and I’m wishing my daddy had said it be okay to eat from a stranger’s hand, so I don’t be left with nothing but growling to fill my belly.

  The next night, she leave me another bowl. This time, the girl take a spoonful while I be watching, then she wipe the spoon off carefully and leave it behind, so I know it ain’t poisoned or nothing.

  “Wait,” I say when she start to walk away. The girl turn around and scan the bushes for me.

  I come out and ask, “Where’s the little boy?”

  The girl shrug. “He got work to do.”

  “What about you?” I ask, sidling up to her.

  She smile. “You be my work tonight and every night ’til I get you to come out.”

  “Well, I’m here,” I say, and try not to look so cold and small, but I know I be just that, and she know it, too.

  “Yep,” she say. I sit down. She follow, crossing her legs Indian style.

  “Eat,” I say, and she take another spoonful of food. Fish stew tonight. I see the shrimp in it, pink and white, and the tiny black veins in a pie
ce of catfish. She wipe the spoon off and set the bowl down. I pick it up and, after sniffing it, I take a bite.

  My stomach clench like it gonna turn on me. My mouth water, and for a second I don’t know if I gonna be sick or it just saliva. I glare at the girl, but she smile back.

  “It ain’t poisoned,” she tell me. “You just hungry.”

  “I know,” I lie. I been hungry before, but never so hungry that food make me sick. Mama and Daddy never let it get that bad. I swallow hard so I don’t start crying about them.

  The girl take another bite and I follow suit. Together we finish the bowl, and I know I be keeping it all down.

  “You alone out here?” the girl ask.

  “No,” I lie again.

  “Me neither,” she say. “I mean, before, yeah. But now, I never am.”

  I give her a suspicious look.

  “All because of Mama Gentille. She take care of all the little kids, and when we grown, we take care of her. It ain’t hard. And soon I’ma be grown enough to start paying back all the good she done me. That why Alfie be gone today. Alfie can only do little things, like pick berries. Tonight he snapping beans back at the house. But I get to come out here and talk to you. You want to come with me? You should be with us kids, and Mama Gentille.”

  It sound nice—a house, other kids, snap beans and berries. “Are you a tribe?” I ask her.

  The girl shake her head. “No, silly. Mama don’t believe in tribes. She say God made us all for something, and she take care of us all just alike.”

  “And you ain’t get sick being together like that?”

  The girl shrug. “Sometimes. But we tend to each other.”

  I grunt, thinking about it. “You freesteaders?” I ask. I crouch on the ground and watch a beetle making his way across the dirt, a leaf on his back. What he doing with that leaf? I wonder. Daddy’d know. Mama, too. But I guess I never will.