The Girl in the Maze (27 page)

“The conflagration bloomed inside, lighting the windows with tongues of orange flame that grew and filled the whole downstairs. Escape weren't possible for nobody left inside. Mistress Abigail got the message from Sattu, but they say she just laid there in her four-poster bed. She didn't move, even when she heard the glass break and saw the smoke risin' up through the floorboards.

“And soon as they had thrown the torches, the slaves ran, they went chasing after a dream of freedom, climbing into their skiffs or slipping into the forest and marsh, they went in all directions, hoping the distraction of the fire would give them time enough to outrun the trackers.

“But none of them slaves really had a plan much, beyond escape,” Lady Albertha continued. “In that day, there was no place for a slave to go that was safe. There were five bloodhounds for every slave, and before dusk the next day, they were all hunted down. Not all of 'em was killed, but Sattu was, along with any others thought to be leaders of the uprising. They were hung as examples from the fat oak tree that stillyet stands at the end of the big road.”

Martha felt a deep chill. Her mind returned to that night at the Pritchett House, the night she saw the figure suspended in the tree, the night she had brushed against a calloused foot.

“And that is the shadow that lay upon them grounds, the shadow stillyet felt by those like us, those blessed and cursed with the sight.”

“What about the girl, what about Amberleen?” Martha asked.

“She was the only survivor of that bad night. She was found in the smokehouse next day and was give to a young couple what lived downriver and had no children of their own.

“Now, that young couple, a fisherman and his wife, they loved little Amberleen, for true. They made as fine a life for her as they could. They opened a seafood shop across the river, started selling shrimp and blue crab. After a few years their business started to grow. Folks started to come from all around to buy they products. Not too long after that, the gunshot war come along and put an end to slavery and plantations. The slaves were given their freedom and, for the first time, their own stretch of land out on Shell Heap. Land, and the little bit of grace that come with it.

“The young couple eventually got prosperous and drew more business and more folks to these parts, until one day, this here town become incorporated. The girl's father, he become the first mayor, and he also picked out the city's name. He named it Amberleen, after his beloved daughter, his inspiration for everything he'd done to make the world a little better.”

Albertha leaned forward, put the pipe in its cradle. “So you see, this town arose out of ashes of that night, this town that wants to pave over and forget about its roots, forget about slaves and their ancestors and them spirits of the past. Some of us are sure that Amberleen was Sattu's child. Well, let it be known, this town got its start from the child of a slave. Cain't no one prove that, but go and tell them anyway. Tell all the world, and make so they know it for true.”

Albertha sat silently in the rocker. Rain thrummed on the roof.

“I'll write down your story,” Martha said. “I'll make sure it's known.”

“The story ain't done yet,” Albertha said. She rose slowly and went behind the counter next to the sitting area. She swung the key on the string around her wrist into her fingers, unlocked the wooden drawer in the cabinet on the wall, and took something long and dark from it.

Martha watched her, trying to discern the object, but the lighting was too dim. Albertha turned and pointed the thing across the counter, toward the darkness at the front of the shop.

“I swear, old woman, you got ears like a bat,” Morris said. “I didn't think you knew I was here.”

Martha leapt up from the settee and hobbled back toward the wall. She looked in the direction that Albertha was pointing, but could see only cluttered darkness.

“I've know'd you was there all the while,” Albertha said. “Ever since you came in here twenty minutes ago and hid back in them shadows like a wharf rat. I heard every rustle of your clothes. I heard you breathe. Most of all, I could smell you.”

“You're one hell of a good storyteller, Lady Albertha,” Morris said. “Best damn tale-spinner to ever hit the county.” He came out from behind a tower of shelves and took a step forward. The floorboards creaked. Martha could see him now. The candlelight flickered on his wet gabardines, glinted on his badge. His face was etched in shadow, like a wooden mask.

Albertha placed her elbow on the counter, the dark object still trained on Morris. “I know jes where you stand. I can hear every move you make.”

“I just wanted to hear what you had to say,” Morris said. He took a step forward. “I enjoy a good story.”

“If you take one more step, it will be your last,” Albertha said.

“Albertha,” Morris said. “You and I both know you ain't got no gun. There's nothing in your hand but an old piece of root. You think you can trick me with that?”

“It don't matter what I aim. You gonna die tonight.” Martha could detect no trace of doubt in Albertha's voice.

“Hasn't there been enough dying for one night?” Morris reached slowly for his trouser pocket, his eyes locked on Albertha. He pulled out a wet and yellowed square of folded paper.

“Here's the other version of that story you been telling this young girl.” He unfolded the wet squares slowly. The paper was torn, the ink smeared, but Martha could make out the filigree of the writing, the ornate penmanship of an earlier day. “You want to tell that story, you might as well have the Dussault family version. This letter has been sittin' up there in Lydia's old Bible since God knows when. Once she died, I thought I ought to hang on to it.” Morris held the paper out toward Martha. “Here. You can have it.”

“Don't let him near you,” Albertha said.

Morris turned his head toward Martha. “I'm not gonna hurt you.” Morris unfolded the paper, held it out for her to see. Martha squinted. She could see a cursive list of names and dates running down the page.

“This is Lydia's secret. Her own family history. All the births and deaths are recorded in this ledger.” He pointed to a name on the list. “Amberleen Tarrant. Married name, Dussault. She was the first Dussault born on American soil. It lists her parents here, see? That's the French fisherman and his wife, the ones Albertha was talking about. There's question marks next to those names.” He peeled a moist page apart from the stack. “And here's the letter she kept in the Bible, with that cock-and-bull business about the slaves. If that story is true, it means Lydia's whole family might be descended from a slave. Hell, that's half the town. Her family has been sittin' on this information for a century. And you want to know why? Shame.”

“Lydia wasn't going to hide it any longer,” Martha said. “It was going in the book. She told me.”

“The Dussaults were embarrassed, all right, but they didn't need to be. Because it ain't true. It's just a local legend.”

Morris folded the packet of pages and held it out to her. “You may as well have it. See, I really don't want to hurt you.”

“You already hurt me,” Martha said. “You tried to kill me.”

The rain rattled against the roof. The wind moaned tentatively.

His upper body turned toward her. “You may find this hard to believe, Martha, but I like you. That's the problem. I took a shine to you from the first time we met. We've got certain things in common. We're both misunderstood.” Morris shifted his weight and the floor creaked.

“Your next step will be your last,” Albertha said.

“What about Vince?” Martha asked. “I saw what you did out there—I saw—”

“Your doctor friend?” Morris said. “For some reason, he went off his nut. Seems like everybody has lost their minds tonight.” He tossed the packet of pages on the floor next to Martha's feet. “It's all over now. Put that thing down, Albertha.”

Morris stepped toward her. Albertha took the object in both her hands and broke it in two and there was a subterranean
crack.
It shook the entire room. Martha winced, squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Albertha was still holding the dark thing, now in two pieces. And Morris in front of her, frozen in his tracks, eyes wide. And Martha realized the sound she heard wasn't just the root, or anything at all inside the room, because it was bigger than that, deeper, all encompassing. It was as if someone had snapped the backbone of the Earth.

And now there was another sound, a marching, and roar of chaos released, something tumbling and rushing and climbing over itself, a nameless stampede coursing toward them.

“Holy hell,” Morris said, head swiveling, “holy hell—”

The sound was unearthly and immense and Morris was jogging toward Martha and she stepped backward, but not fast enough, and Morris tackled her, lifted her, and dragged her toward the door. He plowed forward, knocking bottles off the shelves, and lunged forward as the locomotive sound bore down—

—but before they reached the door the charging sound arrived and it blasted the windows out of their casements and thundered into the room and the shelves toppled and Martha was pushed toward the rafters…

…and she was underwater, submerged in black swirling limbo and bumping into bottles and wood and nameless things. Martha flailed her arms in churning darkness, but her head wouldn't come out of the water. She kicked upward and smashed into the roof timbers.

Then there was a change in the direction, a sucking outward, and it pulled Martha in a new direction, like an animal caught in a storm drain—

Seconds passed as she groped underwater, all dark, endless sucking darkness, not knowing which way to swim toward the surface—
was there a surface?
—and her lungs about to explode—

Then her head bobbed to the surface, into the sharp, strafing rain, and she gasped for air, rolling, tumbling, and gliding, outside now, swept along in the torrent, and she clawed wildly, arms striking loose objects….

Her body slammed into something solid, and she stopped. She rolled onto it and scrambled out of the water, gasping for air. Martha took hold of something smooth and blocky, a glassy surface. Lightning flashed and she saw that she was on top of a car, a police cruiser, its roof protruding from the center of a rushing black river. The water was full of indistinct things that smashed and pinwheeled against the vehicle, and the car itself was moving, lumbering, half-submerged.

Martha clutched on to the light bar to keep from sliding off the slippery steel. Her legs flailed in the dark and her foot struck something large and rubbery. She heard a low groan. She reached down, touched wet fabric, and then flesh.

A large hand grabbed her wrist. “Help me—” Morris said. “Help me stay on the car.” His voice sounded primal, mortally wounded. She felt the vehicle shift again. It was floating faster now, turning, and there was a metallic scrape of steel against brick, and then it stopped. Lightning flashed, a series of rapid flickers, and Martha saw that the car was pinned against a brick wall. Above them, a low-slung sheet-metal roof. Morris was beside her, his body broken, his legs twisted under him.

She grabbed at the roof, clawed at it. Her fingers slipped and scrabbled on the steel, unable to find purchase. She managed to get one knee up on the roof, but it slid back down. Then she stepped onto Morris's body and pushed off and got her knee onto the roof, then another shove, and she flopped her body onto the surface. She heard another screech of steel on brick.

“Help me—” Morris said, his voice husky, distant.

Martha paused, sucking in the wet air. Then she flattened out her body on the sheet metal and wheeled around and rolled and reached over the edge of the roof, toward the sound of the voice. She groped to find Morris, grabbing at rain-filled air. She swung her arms toward the torrent below. She paused, listened in the dark. Then the lightning flickered, and she could see that her effort was useless. There was no longer anyone there.

They stepped in unison, walking meditatively along the packed dirt of the cemetery path. The soft harmonies of the Praise House choir floated in the cool air of early spring. They paused and looked out across the field of gravestones, toward the lush maritime forest. Pennants of Spanish moss waved in the light breeze.

It was good that he'd come. It was so good to see him again, and to see him
here
. Martha fingered the whelk shell on her necklace, searching for the words. She needed the right thing to say, some hex that might allow her to break through.

Jarrell put the rubber tip of his cane against a flagstone and leaned. “It all looks the same.”

“Yes,” Martha said. “It was worse on the mainland. Some parts of Bay Street still aren't repaired.”

“That's because part of the island is protected by the sand dunes. Always has been.” Jarrell glanced toward the island road. “Where's your new place?”

“Over in the village,” Martha said. “It's pretty basic. No insulation, and it's patched with tar paper, but the locals helped me fix up the inside. The owner is letting me use it rent-free while I work on the project.”

They came to a bench and sat. Martha sensed that Jarrell was looking at her, his gaze lingering a little too long. She set her bundle of camellias on the bench and smoothed the front of her shorts. Her fingers traced a bulge in her pocket—the buckeye nut she carried everywhere now, for good luck.

“You seem different,” Jarrell said.

“Really?”

“Healthier.”

“Thanks.” Martha hoped she wasn't blushing. “I'm outside a lot. You know, no car. I just walk and bike everywhere. Also, I've cut back on meds. That helps. The new doctor—” She hesitated, winced at the memory of Vince's murder that night. “About three months ago, my new doctor, Dr. Goodwin, decided to try reducing my dosage. I'm on a new drug now. It's called clozapine. I take just three milligrams a day.”

“Does that get rid of all the symptoms?”

“No, it doesn't. I still have them.”

Jarrell nodded.

“But I'm managing them better. Now I talk back to the voices. Sometimes I argue with them.” She chuckled, and watched Jarrell's face for his reaction. She saw none.

“That's cool.”

“I'm sleeping better, too.”

Jarrell waved the tip of his cane toward Martha's leg. “How's the calf?”

Martha raised her leg, showed him the blackened, dime-sized scar. “It's ugly, but no functional damage. When does your brace come off?”

“Next month.”

“Sorry you were laid up so long.”

“It's all right. It wasn't altogether bad. I was able to do a lot of studying, get ready to go back to school. I had time to think about a lot of things, too.”

Martha turned toward him. “What kinds of things?”

“I've decided to change majors. I'm going into pre-law. I can make more of a difference in that field. I don't know, maybe I'll go into politics.”

They sat for a moment, watching the forest. Overhead, a squirrel chittered at them. It darted back and forth on the bough of a live oak.

“Jarrell—”

He turned toward her. “What?”

Martha's heart was beating. She ran her fingers over the buckeye.

“I'm glad you came back.”

Jarrell nodded, twirled the cane in his fingers. They looked at the trees.

“How's your book coming?” he finally blurted.

“It's a massive job, just trying to get all the material organized. Seventy-five interviews. Every living resident of Shell Heap. There were some who were shy about it at first. But after they got to know me, they agreed to do it.”

“Seems like folks have really accepted you around here. I can tell you, that's no small accomplishment.”

Martha nodded. “Yeah, they invite me to their social gatherings. I even attend church with them. And there's a funny thing…”

“Yeah?” He turned toward her.

“These island people—especially the old ones—they ask me for advice.”

Jarrell chuckled. “Why does this not surprise me?”

“Seriously, they ask me for spiritual advice. Like, just over a week ago, this old man found a snakeskin in his yard. He thought it was a bad omen. He brought it to me and asked me what it meant. I told him I didn't know. He insisted that I ask my voices.”

“Did you?”

“Yes. But they were silent. The voices had no comment. That's what I told him. He seemed incredibly relieved. It was like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. I just…”

“Yeah?”

“I'm just afraid of what else the island people expect. I don't know if I can do this. Do you think it's wrong?”

“Well, I don't hold truck with that mumbo-jumbo, but folks here are going to believe what they're going to believe. Speaking of which”—Jarrell stood, reached into his jeans pocket—“I think this belongs to you.”

He held out a coil of root. It was flattened, part was broken off, but its serpentine character was intact. Martha smiled and took it. “Oh my God. How did you—”

“You gave it to me, remember? I had it that night. The whole time.”

Martha closed her fingers around the talisman.

“Come on,” Jarrell said, taking Martha's hand. “I want to get this over with.”

He led her to a fenced plot of graves marked by polished granite blocks, the fronts slanted. An engraved sign on the iron fence read
HUMPHRIES.
Jarrell took a camellia from the bundle in Martha's hand and placed it on the faint mound of earth in front of Astrid's headstone. Next to it stood an older grave, fronted by well-established grass. His father. Jarrell turned away, looked out toward the trees. Martha could see his jaw tightening, a vein bulging on the side of his forehead.

“I'm so sorry, Jarrell.”

“I'm just glad they found her. Pulled her from the river.”

“I am, too.”

“At least people found out what really happened. That's the way she would have wanted it.”

What really happened…the details took months to come out. Long, draining months. Interviews, inquisitions leading to depositions, and those leading to indictments. Conspiracy, accessory to murder charges. At least Martha, with her disability, was spared the ordeal of courtroom testimony.

They went on and reached a corner of the cemetery and the plot where Lady Albertha was buried, marked by a rough granite headstone. The inscription was simple—her name in capital letters, and below that, no dates, just a single word—
SEER.
Like many others here, it was decorated with shells and trinkets. Two halves of a broken bowl and a cracked mirror leaned against the headstone. Broken things, to stop the chain of death. Martha took another camellia and leaned it against the mirror.

At the ferry dock, a sizable group of tourists, including a noisy clutch of grade-school students, filed onto the boat.

“Looks like the island's getting pretty popular,” Jarrell said.

“We've been getting more visitors since the Atlanta paper ran that series about Shell Heap last March. It got picked up in some other regional papers.”

“Well, at least you won't have to deal with any hotels or golf courses for the time being.”

“Maybe not ever, if Senator Crumbley's legislation passes,” Martha said.

“I'm working on that, too, you know. In Atlanta. Making phone calls, building up a base of support. I feel I can do more good there now than I can here.”

The ferry sounded its low-throated horn, a final summons to stragglers. Martha felt a catch in her throat.
Please, not yet
.

“Do you think you'll be back?”

Jarrell looked at the boat, the river. “Nah. Not for a while.”

Martha looked at the grass, nodded.

Jarrell turned. “Could we—” Martha started.

He turned back toward her. “What?” His dark eyes were wide, conflicted. The emotions swirled like eddies.

“It was a short visit.”

“But you'll be back in Atlanta sometime, right?”

“No. I mean, not right away. Dr. Goodwin said—”

Jarrell nodded. “I want a copy of your book, when it comes out. Will you sign one for me?”

“Sure, soon as it gets published. I mean,
if
it gets published.”

“It will be.”

The boat horn sounded again. Jarrell took her hand and held it, like a pale starfish in his large palm. He looked at her for a moment and she felt a warm tremble inside.

“You know, I just need some time to sort myself out,” he said.

“Me, too.” Her hair was blowing in front of her face. Jarrell brushed it aside. He bent down and gave her a soft kiss on the cheek.

Then he let go of her hand and her hair was fluttering again and she held it out of the way so she could see, so she wouldn't lose sight of him as he crossed the metal ramp with his cane, moving slowly, head erect, shoulders straight. He went into the passenger cabin and then came to the window. They watched each other as the boat eased from the dock. It cruised downriver, followed by a churn of foaming water. She lost sight of him as the ferry curved around the bend and the wake dissipated.

With the bustle of the visitors gone, a hush settled over the island, and she was alone, separated from the busy world by the wide ribbon of water.

Martha wiped away her tears and took a deep breath. She cradled the serpent root in her hand and turned and headed across the dirt track that led through a green field of wild azaleas, ablaze in the late afternoon sun. The path led through a stand of hardwoods, and beyond that the shaded community and her little makeshift house.

Already, she could hear them waiting for her—incessant whispers, clamoring to tell stories of what might have been, of possibilities yet to come.