Iron Lace Part 9

"There is nothing more to say."

"Be reasonable, mon coeur, mon coeur, you're a woman without friends or funds. You can do nothing without my help." you're a woman without friends or funds. You can do nothing without my help."

"For years I've saved every bit of money I could. Someone will take me to New Orleans for what I can offer. If you think to leave after the storm and never see me again, you're mistaken. When the storm ends, I'll no longer have a home. I'll find a new one. Perhaps on Esplanade Avenue?"

"How can you threaten me, after all I've been to you?"

"The gull protects her nestlings from the hawk."

He saw her desperation. She would not be silenced by promises. In his world, she was a woman of no consequence, yet she was about to ruin his life.

A crash outside made her turn. She peered into the darkness. Lucien was grateful for the interruption. "What was that?"

"Someone's coming up the steps." She pointed.

"The LeBlancs?"

"I don't know."

He moved to one side to improve his view. More than half a dozen figures were struggling through the rain. In a flash of lightning he saw one stagger, blown to the opposite railing by the wind. An arm shot out to help; then the sky went dark.

Marcelite disappeared into the back of the house. She was returning with towels when the door flew open and a man appeared.

"Someone's already here!" he shouted behind him.

In moments, the entry was filled with people. Marcelite stepped forward as if the house belonged to her and helped the arrivals strip off their wet outer clothing and dry themselves. Lucien counted three men, two women and four children.

One of the women was sobbing. "Our house is gone," she said between sobs. "Everything is lost."

Lucien looked at the faces of the men, expecting to find that this was an exaggeration. Instead, her words were confirmed. "Your house is gone?"

One of the men nodded. "Collapsed."

"Is anyone hurt?" Marcelite asked.

A little girl extended an arm, as if to show an injury. One of the women s.n.a.t.c.hed her from Marcelite's grasp, but Marcelite stepped forward so that the woman was forced to meet her eyes. "We're all neighbors, are we not? Especially now."

"Let her look," one of the men said.

The woman ignored him and held tightly to the child, but when Marcelite continued to wait, she finally dropped her hands. Marcelite murmured soothing words to the little girl as she wrapped a towel around her arm.

"How did you come here?" The first man to enter the room addressed himself to Lucien.

He explained. "I hope Monsieur LeBlanc will understand."

The man shrugged. "And if he doesn't? What's one man's fury next to that of the storm?"

"Was your house near the beach?"

"Not as near as some. And I built it myself. I bolted it into the ground!"

"Surely the worst will be over soon. Enough of your house may be standing so you can rebuild."

"Even now my house is driftwood for people on Grand Isle to pick off the beach. We thought to tow my boat to the trees in Leopold Perrin's yard, but the water swirled too quickly, and the wind was too strong. The storm isn't dying, mon ami. mon ami. It's just playing with us." It's just playing with us."

Lucien glanced out the window. "No. Impossible."

"There was another storm." One of the other men joined them. He was old, the patriarch of the family, Lucien guessed, and his voice quavered from age and fatigue. "I was young. The winds raged and the water rose, but the worst of it pa.s.sed over us here. Then, the next day and the next, when the skies were clear and the wind friendly, we saw bodies was.h.i.+ng ash.o.r.e, and pieces of houses. They were from L'Isle Derniere."

The younger man had obviously heard the story many times before. He seemed resigned. "If we're lucky, this one will turn that way, too. But no one lives on L'Isle Derniere now. If the storm is hungry for more than sand and palmetto, she'll come ash.o.r.e here."

"She is coming," the old man said.

"How high has the water risen?" Lucien asked.

"It was up to the fourth step when we got here. It will be higher now. It's rising quickly."

"Someone else is here." One of the women pulled the door open, and more people entered on a blast of wind-driven rain. The two men left to talk to the newcomers. Marcelite pa.s.sed close enough for Lucien to grab her arm.

"These men think the storm will worsen," he said.

"Will we be safe here?"

He thought about the old man's story, and the others he had heard before. Once, L'Isle Derniere had been a summer resort community, like Grand Isle. A dance had been held in the hotel ballroom during the storm, and the water had swept inside and carried the dancers away. Could he really be in danger? Had he been so sure of what he knew that he had refused to see the truth?

"There won't be a better opportunity to go somewhere else," she said. "If we're not safe here, we must leave now."

The door crashed open, and two more people entered. "These men know the cheniere, cheniere, and this is the house they've chosen," Lucien said. "What do I know that they don't?" and this is the house they've chosen," Lucien said. "What do I know that they don't?"

"Then I'm going to bring the children out here."

"No. Let them sleep."

Marcelite shrugged off his hand. "I want them with me."

The door slammed again, and a man entered carrying a young woman in his arms. The voices in the room fell silent until one of the men who was already inside took the woman from him. Everyone crowded around as he laid her on the floor.

Lucien saw that her face was as pale as death. An old woman, still wet and trembling herself, laid her head on the young woman's chest and p.r.o.nounced her alive. Immediately others began to work on her, turning her on one side and pounding the water from her lungs. Someone brought a quilt.

Lucien approached the man who had carried her this far. His eyes were fixed on the scene before them. "How did it happen?"

For a moment, the young man seemed unable to speak. Other men gathered around, and this seemed to steady him. "Sophia fell. She was carrying little Rosina. They...slid under the water. When they sur-surfaced, they were far apart. I could only reach for one of them."

The house shook so hard that Lucien could feel the floor heave under his feet. The other men charged into action. One led the man who had just told his story to a chair, where he put his head in his hands and sobbed. Another lifted Sophia off the floor and carried her, wrapped in the quilt, to a rug in the parlor, where the women continued to tend her. Two others began to dismantle a table and fasten the boards over the window. Lucien watched his view of the world disappear.

The two men left to cover the few other windows in the house. Everyone seemed to have a mission, but Lucien was left alone. He couldn't see outside, but he could feel wind and water shake the house. He wondered how high the water had risen now.

Would the skiff be safe? It must already be in pieces. And if it was, he would have no escape if this house was destroyed. He wondered if he should go outside and secure it, perhaps even bring it up to the gallery. If the water rose that high, launching it would be the small matter of one push.

At the front door, he put on his overcoat, although as wet as it was, it provided no comfort. He explained his intention to one of the other men, who told him he was a fool to go back outside.

On the gallery, he realized the man was right. Before he could cross to the railing, the wind threw him against the front of the house. He dropped to his knees and crawled the distance, grabbing the railing to look below. The water was still rising. Had the house not been so high, it would have flooded already. The current was swift, and waves crashed in a.s.sault.

He saw the trunks of trees wash past, and something that looked like the section of a roof. One flash of lightning revealed the horns of a bull drowned in the rus.h.i.+ng water. In the distance he thought he heard screaming over the roar of the wind. But one sound was unmistakable. The church bell pealed loudly and continuously, as if it were calling the people of Cheniere Caminada to their own funeral ma.s.s.

Horrified, he dragged himself to the top step to look for the skiff. He spotted it during the next flash of light. The current had pinned it against a ma.s.sive post, where it was temporarily protected. But any change in the wind could destroy it. He weighed his safety against that of the boat. Without the skiff, he might be helpless.

Helpless! He was filled with rage that his life was no longer his own. Marcelite and Antoine controlled his destiny. And now the storm was taking what was left of his future and twisting it to suit some demonic fancy.

Rage carried him into the water. Clinging to the porch railing, he lowered himself step by step until his feet touched the ground. The water was deeper than his knees, and miserably cold. Objects swirled in its depths. A tree eddied toward him, and he dived beneath it so that it would not pin him against a pillar. He surfaced and discovered that the current had already carried him beyond the skiff. He was completely exhausted by the time he fought his way back. He threw his arms over the stern and clung there, floating until he had regained some strength.

He thought he could feel the water rising beneath him. How could it rise so quickly? What power did this storm possess that it could turn the tide and flood the land in hours?

For the first time, he thought about Claire and Aurore. Was the storm as bad on Grand Isle? The cottage where his family was staying was an old slave cabin, never fortified against this kind of wind. He and Claire had fought about Chighizola's prophecy. Had she found the courage to seek stronger shelter?

Something brushed against his chest, something soft and yielding. Horror gripped him. He couldn't force himself to investigate. He prayed the object would wash beyond him, but whatever it was wedged itself between his arm and the skiff. He tried to make his way around the boat, but the object seemed to follow him. Finally, he forced himself to look down. The body of a child-a girl, he guessed from the length of her hair-had snagged against the hull. Lightning flashed, and he could see her sightless eyes staring at him. Bile rose in his throat. He thrust himself away from the boat, and in seconds the current had ripped her loose and carried her away.

He struggled for a deep breath, but water filled his lungs. He floundered as more water closed over him, but as his panic grew, his hands closed on the skiff once more. He inched his way to the bow to begin the fight to get the skiff to the gallery.

The water had risen higher by the time he made his way back inside. A large family of refugees had found their way to the house. There were now twenty-five people inside.

After his immersion in the storm, the house seemed almost silent. Lucien scanned the room to locate Marcelite and the children, and found them in a corner. He took Angelle from her mother so that he could rock her against his chest. She was warm, and her eyes stared curiously into his. He saw only the dead child by the boat. When he could look at her no longer, he averted his eyes. Raphael was watching him.

He could feel nothing for the boy now except pity. He switched his gaze to Marcelite and acknowledged for the first time the strength that had helped her survive her disgrace. She would never give up easily. Tonight she would struggle for her family's survival. She would struggle until death.

She rose. "I'll get you some coffee. I've been saving a cup for you."

He stared after her. She was as much a part of him as the dreams he had each night. How could he have believed he could walk away? He closed his eyes, and the dead child stared back at him.

CHAPTER EIGHT.

Lucien had just finished his coffee when someone tapped him on the shoulder. Startled, he turned and saw the man whose house had collapsed. "The water has almost reached the gallery." He gestured toward the door. Lucien rose and joined the men gathered there. Time had pa.s.sed, although he didn't know how much. Time now was a matter of rising water and strengthening wind. He struggled to follow the men's rapid, idiomatic French.

Their observations didn't surprise him. The storm would build even more. The worst moment would come later, when the winds changed and all the water covering the peninsula would rush back to the Gulf, taking whatever it could with it. There were arguments about how much damage might be done. Some believed if the water didn't rise above a certain height, they would be saved. Some believed they were already doomed.

"Is there another, better place to go?" Lucien asked.

The men stared at him as if he were crazy. "There is no place to go but into the belly of the storm." The man who'd spoken slashed his hand across the empty s.p.a.ce before him in emphasis. The others murmured their agreement.

"What if there's a lull?" Lucien asked.

"There will be. Before h.e.l.l is unleashed."

"And then, will you know the storm's intent?" another man asked. "Will you know where you will be safe and where you will not? Because if you know, mon ami, mon ami, then perhaps you'll tell us?" then perhaps you'll tell us?"

"I know nothing. I'm at your mercy."

"Then stay and help us prepare for when the water comes inside."

Lucien explained the plan to Marcelite and helped her get the children to the attic. They settled on a quilt in the corner, as far away from the window as possible. The window had been shuttered, but later it would have to be used to gauge the storm's progress. In the attic, the slash of rain and cras.h.i.+ng drive of the wind made a wild, horrifying chorus. As children were led upstairs, they cried and clung to their mothers.

One of the men carried the unconscious Sophia upstairs and laid her gently on a rug someone else had brought up for her. Her husband knelt beside her and chafed her hands. Angelle put her head between Marcelite's b.r.e.a.s.t.s and covered her ears. Raphael, wide-eyed and silent, sat perfectly still, as if the noise had stripped away speech and movement.

Screams were audible here, along with the ceaseless clanging of the church bell. Lucien thought of those trapped outside, struggling to find their way to shelter. He had convinced himself that the child by the boat had been Rosina, Sophia's daughter, one child already known to be lost. Only one. Now, as he listened to the devil's own chorus, he knew more had died, and still more would die yet.

"The house is strong," he a.s.sured Marcelite. "It's holding well. We'll be safe."

Her lips moved, and he knew she was sending prayers to heaven. He left her and went back down the stairs. The men were taking turns watching the storm from a small section of the window that had been stripped of its cover.

His own turn came too soon. The world he saw was not the one he had left just hours before. His skiff was floating on the gallery. They were an island in a rus.h.i.+ng river, and the river was alive. He shut his eyes, not wanting to examine too closely the objects sweeping by. He stepped back.

"People are dying," one of the men said. "We have to help."

There was a consensus that they must do what they could. Someone suggested they light a lantern in the attic window. Someone else proposed a human chain to rescue anyone who came close.

The man whose house had collapsed stepped forward. Lucien had learned he was Dupres Jambon and his father was Octave.

Dupres clapped his hand on Lucien's shoulder. "You unshutter the window upstairs and light a lantern. Ask one of the women to tend it. Then come down and stand guard. I'll prepare to be the first outside if I'm needed."

The house groaned, every joint tortured by the weight of the water pus.h.i.+ng against it. The east side of the house was already bulging inward. "Do you think the house will hold?" Lucien asked.

"I'm taking my family to find better shelter when the calm comes," Dupres said. "You should leave, too. If the wind circles back from the west, this house will be in its path."

As he followed Dupres's instructions, Lucien considered his advice. If the calm came and the winds died, then the skiff could be rowed or pulled to a safer place. He was lucky that it was so small. A larger boat would be impossible to guide.

The question of where they might be safe filled his mind. Grand Isle had a high central ridge, with houses surrounded by century-old trees rooted deeply in the soil. The cheniere cheniere had nothing comparable. They would have to choose a building, one as far from the sh.o.r.e as possible, and st.u.r.dily built. had nothing comparable. They would have to choose a building, one as far from the sh.o.r.e as possible, and st.u.r.dily built.

He remembered Raphael's suggestion of the church, and at first he discarded it simply because it had come from the boy. But pride was a foolish emotion now. Mentally he calculated the distance, and the time it might take to get there. Certainly the building had been constructed by some of the most talented carpenters on Cheniere Caminada. And beside it sat the presbytery, two stories, also well constructed. If either was standing, he would be given sanctuary there.

Water was pouring inside the house, gus.h.i.+ng in spouts from holes the men had drilled in the floor to take advantage of the water's weight. With luck the water might stabilize the house, at least temporarily. Lucien could feel it rising toward his knees, but he kept watch at the shuttered window and gazed with mounting horror at the scene before him. Once he shouted to Dupres that someone was struggling toward the house, but before Dupres and the others could attempt a rescue, the struggle ended.

Slowly panic replaced horror. Was he to die here, among common fishermen? Was he to die unmourned, because those who might have mourned, would die as well? Was he to die without a son to bear his name?

The water rose to his waist and crept toward his chest. When there was nothing more to be done, he moved toward the stairs with the other men. One man stepped too close to one of the holes in the floor and was almost sucked beneath the house. Lucien felt carefully for each foothold, but by the time he reached the stairs, he was almost too frightened to climb them. The house groaned continuously, and cracks were opening between boards. If the wind heightened, if the storm sent a tidal wave cras.h.i.+ng down on them, the house would break apart and throw all of them at the feet of G.o.d.

Upstairs, Marcelite clung to him. Women were wailing with the wind; children screamed and wept. Lucien held Marcelite and Angelle close. Even Raphael moved closer for comfort. The boy was trying to be brave, but his bottom lip trembled.

"Will Juan be safe?" he asked Lucien. "In his boat, will he be safe?"

Lucien couldn't find words to explain that everyone was going to die. He sat without speaking for what seemed like an eternity, waiting for the end.

"The water has stopped rising." One of the men who had been watching from the top of the stairs made the announcement.