VIVI WAS AN artist, and her pictures told many stories—not simply the story of Isabelle’s kidnapping, but also the stories of other people whose spirits had lived on through Vivi’s hands. There were pictures of farmers, and storekeepers, and mothers; of people working the land and people in great cities. Henriette had collected a large portfolio of Vivi’s sketches over the years, though she seemed cautious about revealing it, when she exposed it to Joseph and Moody.
“Not everyone can see what this girl sees,” Henriette said. “Not everyone has the courage to see.”
Henriette had sheltered her, and yet, even in her silence, Vivi seemed to know much of the world. She was the child of the swamp, and yet the child of something else, and there was a sense that she was a young woman of motion. At one point she draped a gauze over her head and abruptly made to leave—as if beckoned by a call, somewhere beyond the walls of Henriette’s cabin.
Henriette took no notice, and simply waited for Vivi to go. Once Vivi had departed, Henriette began to talk about their time.
“For that is how I see it,” Henriette said. “Just time—which was never mine. I knew that you would come some day, and that we would need to decide what to do. She was drawing these things when she was just a little child, before she even knew what they were.”
Then Henriette leafed through the portfolio and pulled out a picture that had been hiding amongst the others. It was a sketch of a young man—a handsome man, with a beard. The man bore a rough resemblance to Moody.
Henriette handed Moody the sketch. The pencil strokes were bold—almost violent.
“The girl knows,” she said. “It is remarkable, what this girl knows.”
That was what Moody had seen in Vivi’s eyes … not just sorrow, but knowledge. Isabelle’s knowledge, and the knowledge of the many hundreds—thousands—who had come before her.
Moody stared at the sketch—was it him, or someone else? Was he seeing what Isabelle’s daughter had seen, or what he himself wanted to see?
But the swamp would only condone so many revelations, for soon the door creaked, and admitted one of Henriette’s men.
There was no urgency on his face as he approached Henriette, and she looked down at the floor as he whispered into her ear. These men who surrounded her were hardened and unkind. Henriette remained unmoved by what he said.
At last the man finished and was gone as quickly as he had come.
“So,” Henriette said, her eyes fixed on Moody, “you went ahead and brought the devil along with you, eh?”
Moody at once knew what Henriette meant.
“I am sorry,” he said. “We should go then—right away.”
“Too late—but not to worry,” Henriette replied. “We’ve dealt with men like him before. Important thing is, we must get to the crossroads and get rid of that water. Then you can be on your way. We don’t have much time … you don’t have much time.”
It was not yet evening, and they piled into a boat—Joseph, Moody, Henriette. Henriette pushed them away from the dock.
“And Vivi?” Moody asked.
“She has things to do,” Henriette said. “But she will be there to greet us. That girl is rarely where she doesn’t need to be.”
Henriette navigated the boat with surprising skill, her body strong, upright, and unwavering. In the water, the eyes of alligators sparkled like pairs of misplaced coins.
No birds called—only insects screeched. It was a dreadful kind of symphony.
The lights of Henriette’s cabin were barely discernable far off behind them, when the boat brought the group to an unusual bump of land, covered with thick brush. Dense walls of cypresses surrounded this piece of terrain, but a series of canals had cut through the walls too, forming ambiguous paths through the giant trees.
“The crossroads,” Henriette said.
There was a figure—beyond the shore.
However it had come to stand there, it had come forward with the darkness. It was draped in the weeds of the swamp … but also in other things. There was moss upon it, and rags, and a skirt that might have billowed. Who could have owned such a terrible scarecrow? Had Henriette placed it there, as a warning?
“I told you that she is rarely where she doesn’t need to be,” Henriette said.
And as the boat touched the shore, Moody watched the figure transform into Vivi.
Moody’s breath retracted, so sudden was the transformation. The uneven shadows of the swamp had both hidden her and revealed her. Then Moody stepped out of the boat, followed by Henriette and Joseph. He wanted to run to Vivi, and seize her, and remove her from this horrible place. She seemed impalpable though … camouflaged beneath the murky greens and grays of the swamp. He moved forward—a small step—but then felt the pressure on his arm.
“Careful, photographer,” Henriette said. “There’s the water to deal with first, and we are running out of time.”
Moody was confused. He looked at Joseph for an explanation. Did Joseph not understand these things, almost better than anyone else? But that quickly Joseph had jerked his head away from Moody and Henriette. He was staring at something amorphous that had risen up out of the brush.
There, behind Vivi, loomed the devil’s outline itself, bearing down upon her, with a knife.