Like a Charm Page 2

  Still, his heart told him that he was going in the right direction, the direction that would take him back to the caves, back to the woman. As the sun beat down on his neck and his belly grumbled with emptiness, he felt driven up the hills, certain that every footstep was taking him back to her. Even as the mountain stretched tall and wide before him, a crevasse splitting the middle, virgin water trickling from a warm place at the centre, he thought only of her. He would lick his lips, wishing the rough chapped surface he felt under his tongue was her. Sometimes Macon would be so taken with the wanting of her that he would drop to the ground, his pants down around his boots, pulling at himself until he could not bear it. He would stroke himself raw with thoughts of her, and still, even as ropes of his seed saturated the earth, it was never enough.

  Plans came to Macon. He would build a house to take her home to. They would have a bed of feathers and a real kitchen. A barn would house horses and cows. She would carry water from the stream to wash his clothes and cook his meals. He would farm again. They would grow their own food, food like she had shown him. Every night, he would fuck deep into her, making her scream from the pleasure of him. In return, she would give him children – sons; sons he would pass his farm on to, sons who could protect the land.

  With each mile Macon walked in the forest, the woman grew more alive to him. Their life took shape as surely as the trees that grew in the forest. Everything about the woman had been seared into his memory: sight, smell, taste. He remembered the cave, the berries from the forest, the way she had pressed her body into his and let him breathe her breath. He understood everything she had told him without saying a word. The Elawa worshipped the birds in the sky and the animals in the woods. The gold charms they created were meant for worship, not trade. This was how they honoured the beasts of the forest, and in return the forest gave them food, shelter, warmth. Without uttering a word, she had conveyed a lifetime to him. All she had to do was look into his eyes with that piercing black stare and she was him.

  Behind him, a twig snapped. Macon spun round, but there was nothing there. He looked into the sky and saw a crow circling – or was it a buzzard? The animal's wingspan was enormous, enough to block the sun. Macon squinted, shielding his eyes with his hand, but the bird was gone.

  Another twig snapped, and his heart jumped into his chest even though he saw nothing. He ran, tripping over a root that stuck up from the forest floor. Pain radiated from his twisted ankle. Face down on the ground, he smelled the musky odour of darkness, of death. Underneath that, he smelled blood. He looked at his hands, shocked to see they were covered in blood. Was this from the squirrel? From the earth?

  The ground vibrated against his belly. Behind him, the padding of four heavy paws shook the ground.

  Macon scurried to stand, dirt kicking up in his wake as he stumbled deeper into the forest. The pain in his ankle was nothing as his mind reeled with possibilities. Something was chasing him; he heard the heavy gait of a large four-legged animal as it followed him through the forest. Was it a bear? A coyote? A lion?

  His mouth opened, sucking in air; he tried to breathe as panic tightened round his chest. Macon chanced a look over his shoulder and stumbled again, this time catching himself before he fell. He heard something sigh behind him, and even as he ran Macon replayed the sound in his head, reproducing the sigh second by second, hoping for exhaustion, desperation, even pity. There was no denying the absence of all; whatever chased him was merely annoyed. Impatient. Stubborn. Hungry.

  Another bird cawed in the distance, or was it the old medicine man with the blackened teeth? Macon's mind flashed on the healer, the three globs of spit on the dirt.

  'Lapacba ko wanee.'

  I curse your seed.

  Macon was so close to her. He could feel it, feel her wrapped around him in their feather bed. She would hold him inside of her, milk him, suck out his essence. The pleasures they gave each other every night would soothe away the pain and loneliness of his mountain existence. The Indian woman would give Macon what the other Indians had taken away. They would have their own family. Macon would hunt for them. Their sons would eat the meat and be strong. They would have a family. They would be safe from attack.

  Was she calling him now? Was the woman saying his name?

  He jerked round as a puff of air pricked up the hairs on the back of his neck. It was as if the animal was directly behind him. Chills ran through his body as Macon turned a complete circle, looking all around, trying to find his pursuer. His knees buckled and he caught himself against a tree. The bark was rough under his bloody hands. He looked at his fingers, the palms, the wrists . . . all smeared with blood. Whose blood?

  'God damn you.' Macon sucked his fingers as he cursed the forest. 'God damn you to hell.'

  He forced himself to move, his injured ankle beating out a protest along with his pounding heart. Another step, then another . . . he felt as if his ankle was on fire. The heat was burning him up inside, a fever taking hold like a steel vice around his leg. In front of him Macon saw the house where they would live. Could he see the woman in the distance, making her way towards him? Was she looking at the forest floor as she walked, her hands already filled with herbs and berries?

  Macon put his hand to his crotch even as he stumbled through the forest. His cock burned when he thought of the gnarled old medicine man, heard the vicious curse in his head.

  'Lapacha ko wanee.'

  Dirty Indians and their dirty charms. That he could curse a man like Macon so easily when life itself was a curse. How else would anyone end up in this godforsaken mountain trying to live off this unforgiving land?

  Up ahead! The house! It was their house! The yard was swept clean, chickens scratching at the packed dirt. A cowbell clanged and a dog barked, urging its master homeward. Tendrils of smoke came from the hole in the thatched roof. Macon ran towards it, but behind him his pursuer's gait matched his own, growing quicker, more impatient.

  Another exhalation that sounded so like 'Macon' that he turned his head. He stopped short, his breath knocked out of him by some unseen force. Suddenly, he saw things not from within himself, but from without and above. Macon stood there facing the woman. She was naked, the thick thatch of her pubis wet with the wanting of him. He moved for her but she pushed him back on to the ground and stood over him. All he could do was look up, his body frozen, rootbound to the earth. The woman straddled him, tore his clothes away.

  'Yes,' he hissed as she impaled herself on him. He groaned, watching himself disappear inside of her again and again. As wet as she was, the tightness was almost unbearable. He heard crackling and rustling as the leaves around them circled into a spiral. The air grew thin and he struggled to breathe as his body began the spasm of release. He came so hard his teeth rattled, spit flying from his mouth. He reached out to touch her but her skin burned white hot, the blood on his hands boiling the flesh. Macon screamed from the pain even as pleasure convulsed through his body. The forest grew dark then finally black as his eyes rolled back in his head.

  Spent, he could only lie there, his arms splayed to the side, angry welts festering on the tips of his fingers. Macon did not care. A startlingly clear calm washed over him, and he felt as much of the forest as he ever had; his body was one with the ground. Everything had sudden clarity: the creek gurgling in the background, the quiet noises of the forest, birds, insects, animals. He thought of his mother, the way she would wash her hair in the old iron tub then sit by the fire, brushing it out as it dried. He thought of his father sitting in his chair, whittling a toy for the brother or sister Macon would never have.

  Without warning, the air changed again, becoming thicker, almost wet. Macon felt the brush of her skin, the silky hair on her legs mingling with his own. Slowly, she moved down, taking him into her mouth. Such was his tiredness that he could only lie there, eyes half shut, staring up at the sky. He was empty. There was nothing more he could give her.

  He shuddered as she worked her tongue along his body
, licking his stomach, chest and neck, then back down again. Like a dog with a bone, she lapped every inch of him with her silky, warm tongue as he lay there, faint from pleasure. He let out a small sigh even as the weight of her body grew, pressing him deeper into the ground. Macon felt the heat between them, the mingling of their hair, the soft scratch of her skin on his stomach as she leaned harder into him. He felt himself stirring again, throbbing from want. He arched his back, thrusting up into her, gasping as he opened his eyes to find the woman gone and a mighty black bear straddling him in her place.

  He screamed in terror, his throat straining as if he had swallowed glass.

  A mighty claw slashed across Macon's chest, tearing open the flesh. His brain exploded from the pain, his lungs lurching for air. Macon opened his mouth to scream again but the bear stilled him with a look, one paw resting lightly over Macon's heart. There was no question in her eyes this time and Macon knew it then – she had come to collect on the awful bargain he had made in the cave.

  'Yes,' he had said. She could have anything she wanted so long as she kept touching him.

  Without further hesitation, the bear reached into his chest, like a child reaching into a bag of candy. Macon's eyelids fluttered, and he saw his own heart glimmer in the sun as the bear offered it up to the heavens. Rays of light licked against the wet tissue like a burning flame. Blood dripped down the bear's arms and chest, splattering his hips, pooling at the joining point between them. The creature roared, and Macon saw the glint of a bracelet round the bear's surprisingly slender wrist just as she put Macon's still-beating heart into her open mouth and swallowed it whole.

  VANITAS

  Emma Donoghue

  This afternoon I was so stone bored I wrote something on a scrap of paper and put it in a medicine bottle, sealed it up with the stub of a candle. I was sitting on the levee; I tossed the bottle as far as I could (since I throw better than girls should) and the Mississippi took it, lazily. If you got in a boat here by the Duparc-Locoul Plantation, and didn't even row or raise a sail, the current would take you down fifty miles of slow curves to New Orleans in the end. That's if you didn't get tangled up in weed.

  What I wrote on the scrap was Au secours! Then I put the date, 3 juillet 1839. The Americans if drowning or in other trouble call out help, which doesn't capture the attention near as much, it's more like a little sound a puppy would make. The bottle was green glass with Poison down one side. I wonder who'll fish it out of the brown water, and what will that man or woman or child make of my message? Or will the medicine bottle float right through the city, out into the Gulf of Mexico, and my scribble go unread till the end of time?

  It was a foolish message, and a childish thing to do. I know that; I'm fifteen, which is old enough that I know when I'm being a child. But I ask you, how's a girl to pass an afternoon as long and scalding as this one? I stare at the river in hopes of seeing a boat go by, or a black gum tree with muddy roots. A week ago I saw a blue heron swallow down a wriggling snake. Once in a while a boat will have a letter for us, a boy attaches it to the line of a very long fishing rod and flicks it over to our pier. I'm supposed to call a nègre to untie the letter and bring it in; Maman hates it when I do it myself. She says I'm a gâteur de nègres, like Papa, we spoil them with soft handling. She always beats them when they steal things, which they call only taking.

  I go up the pecan alley towards the Maison, and through the gate in the high fence that's meant to keep the animals out. Passers-by always know a Creole house by the yellow and red, not like the glaring white American ones. Everything on our plantation is yellow and red – not just the houses but the stables, the hospital, and the seventy slave cabins that stretch back like a village for three miles, with their vegetable gardens and chicken pens.

  I go in the Maison now, not because I want to, just to get away from the bam-bam-bam of the sun on the back of my neck. I step quietly past Tante Fanny's room, because if she hears me she might call me in for some more lessons. My parents are away in New Orleans doing business; they never bring me. I've never been anywhere, truth to tell. My brother Emile has been in the Lycée Militaire in Bordeaux for five years already, and when he graduates, Maman says perhaps we will all go on a voyage to France. By all I don't mean Tante Fanny, because she never leaves her room, nor her husband Oncle Louis who lives in New Orleans and does business for us, nor Oncle Flagy and Tante Marcelite, quiet sorts who prefer to stay here always and see to the nègres, the field ones and the house ones. It will be just Maman and Papa and I who go to meet Emile in France. Maman is the head of the Famille ever since Grandmère Nannette Prud'Homme retired; we Creoles hand the reins to the smartest child, male or female (unlike the Americans, whose women are too feeble to run things). But Maman never really wanted to oversee the family enterprise; she says if her brothers Louis and Flagy were more useful she and Papa could have gone back to la belle France and stayed there. And then I would have been born a French mademoiselle. Creole means born of French stock, here in Louisiana, but Maman prefers to call us French. She says France is like nowhere else in the world, it's all things gracious and fine and civilized, and no sacrés nègres about the place.

  I pass Millie on the stairs, she's my maid and sleeps on the floor of my room but she has to help with everything else as well. She's one of Pa Philippe's children, he's very old (for a nègre), and has VPD branded on both cheeks from when he used to run away, that stands for Veuve Prud'Homme Duparc. It makes me shudder a little to look at the marks. Pa Philippe can whittle anything out of cypress with his little knife: spoons, needles, pipes. Since Maman started our breeding programme we have more small nègres than we know what to do with, but Millie's the only one as old as me. 'Allô, Millie,' I say, and she says 'Mam'zelle Aimée,' and grins back but forgets to curtsey.

  Aimée means beloved. I've never liked it as a name. It seems it should belong to a different kind of girl.

  Where I am bound today is the attic. Though it's hotter than the cellars, it's the one place nobody else goes. I can lie on the floor and chew my nails and fall into a sort of dream. But today the dust keeps making me sneeze. I'm restless, I can't settle. I try a trick my brother Emile once taught me, to make yourself faint. You breathe in and out very fast while you count to a hundred, then stand against the wall and press as hard as you can between your ribs. Today I do it twice, and I feel odd, but that's all; I've never managed to faint as girls do in novels.

  I poke through some wooden boxes, but they hold nothing but old letters, tedious details of imports and taxes and engagements and deaths of people I never heard of. At the back there's an old-fashioned sheepskin trunk, I've tried to open it before. Today I give it a real wrench and the top comes up. Ah, now here's something worth looking at. Real silk, I'd say, as yellow as butter, with layers of tulle underneath, and an embroidered girdle. The sleeves are huge and puffy, like sacks of rice. I slip off my dull blue frock and try it on over my shift. The skirt hovers, the sleeves bear me up so I seem to float over the splinters and dust of the floorboards. If only I had a looking glass up here. I know I'm short and homely, with a fat throat, and my hands and feet are too big, but in this sun-coloured dress I feel halfway to beautiful. Grandmère Nannette, who lives in her Maison de Reprise across the yard and is descended from Louis XV's own physician, once said that like her I was pas jolie but at least we had our skin, un teint de roses. Maman turns furious if I go out without my sunhat or a parasol; she says if I get freckled like some Cajun farm girl how is she supposed to find me a good match? My stomach gets tight at the thought of a husband, but it won't happen before I'm sixteen, at least. I haven't even become a woman yet, Maman says, though I'm not sure what she means.

  I dig in the trunk. A handful of books; the collected poetry of Lord Byron, and a novel by Victor Hugo called Notre Dame de Paris. More dresses – a light violet, a pale peach – and light shawls like spiders' webs, and, in a heavy travelling case, some strings of pearls, with rings rolled up in a piece of black velve
t. The bottom of the case lifts up, and there I find the strangest thing. It doesn't look French, somehow; perhaps Oncle Louis got it for Eliza on one of his trips to Savannah? It's a sort of bracelet – a thin gold chain – with trinkets dangling from it. I've never seen such perfect little oddities. There's a tiny gold locket that refuses to open; a gold cross; a monkey (grimacing); a minute kneeling angel; a pair of ballet slippers. A tiny tower of some sort; a crouching tiger (I recognize his toothy roar from the encyclopaedia); and a machine with miniature wheels that go round and round; I think this must be a locomotive, like we use to haul cane to our sugarmill. But the one I like best, I don't know why, is a gold key. It's so tiny, I can't imagine what door or drawer or box in the world it might open.

  Through the window I see the shadows are getting longer; I must go down and show myself, or there'll be a fuss. I pack the dresses back into the trunk, but I can't bear to give up the bracelet. I manage to open its narrow catch and fasten the chain around my left arm above the elbow, where no one will see it under my sleeve. I mustn't show it off, but I'll know it's there; I can feel the little charms moving against my skin, pricking me.

  'Vanitas,' says Tante Fanny. 'The Latin word for?'

  'Vanity,' I guess.

  'A word with two meanings. Can you supply them?'

  'A . . . a desire to be pretty or finely dressed,' I begin.

  She nods, but corrects me: 'Self-conceit. The holding of too high an opinion of one's beauty, charms or talents. But it also means futility,' she says, very crisp. 'Worthlessness. What is done in vain. Vanitas paintings illustrate the vanity of all human wishes. Are you familiar with Ecclesiastes, chapter one, verse two?'

  I hesitate. I scratch my arm through my sleeve, to feel the little gold charms.

  My aunt purses her wide mouth. Though she is past fifty now, with the sallow look of someone who never sees the sun and always wears black, you can tell that she was once a beauty. 'Vanity of vanities, saith the Preacher, vanity of vanities,' she quotes; 'all is vanity.'