Chapter Five

By the time I arrived back at the cottage dusk had yielded to dark. I was late, very late, and as soon as my foot stepped on the porch my aunt was at the screen door. “Zara, where have you been? I’ve been in a fright over you. I thought perhaps the Lucians—” She took me in her arms and hugged me, and I hoped that she couldn’t know by touching me what I had just done.

“No, Aunt Cleo, nothing like that.” The lie came in a rush, breathless. Thinking quickly, I added, “I met a geologist. He words for the WPA, just like Pa. He showed me around.”

“I know you were raised better than to go traipsing around with strange men.”

“I was. But, with his uniform I trusted him. Plus, if you met him you’d know. He’s very sweet.”

“Dinner is waiting,” she said with a curt tone.

“I’m famished,” I said.

We sat down to eat. I ate as if I hadn’t seen food in days, wolfing down the ham and green beans and helping myself to seconds.

My aunt spoke. “Are you still wanting a canoe ride tomorrow? I was rather looking forward to it.”

“I’d love a canoe ride.”

“You still want to go?” Her voice had turned hopeful.

“Of course. I can’t wait.”

Afterward, we talked about the beach and about her childhood growing up near the water. I lingered, encouraging her to talk all she wanted, for I was afraid that once I lay in my quiet room, my thoughts would turn traitorous. And return to Navarre.

Moths clung to the screens seeking our candlelight. Crickets chirped outside, and there, after dinner, my aunt told me a story I will never forget.

“Zara, when I was eight years old, the river shifted and came within inches of our doorstep.”

“What happened?”

“Your grandmother—my older sister—she was ten years older than me and at that age where boys become important. I was too young to know the specifics, only that she got involved with a boy from the Lucians. On the night the river changed course she had come home very late. My father was irate. He knew that she was with a member of their group. He exploded at her, and called her all sorts of terrible names. I sat in my bed listening, wondering what she did that could have been so very awful that would drive my father to say such things.” She chuckled. “He was normally such a quiet man. But on this particular night he seemed almost a monster. She ran to her room crying and sobbing hysterically. It was right after that that she was sent away to Kansas, to distant family. That was how you ended up in Kansas. Father did not want her anywhere near the Lucians. Eventually, she settled and married and had your mother.” She took a sip of her drink and placed the glass neatly back upon the table before continuing in almost a whisper. “But the next morning, the river ran right up our yard and past the first step of the porch. I’ll never forget. I sat on the porch and watched it. It almost looked like our house was floating downriver. But Father said it was the wrath of God. That’s when we started going to church all the time. And I never, ever looked down that path, past that gate.” Telling the story caused great emotion inside her, which showed upon her face. She stood and carried her plate and glass to the sink. Her back was to me. She said, “When you were late, I thought for a moment that maybe…”

‘No,” I said vehemently, suddenly promising myself that I would never scare her. Never. As I sat there, I could feel my body disagreeing, pulsing with the memory of what had just happened. But I assured her, and myself I suppose, “Don’t worry, Aunt Cleo. Please don’t worry.”

I went to bed. For all my fears about sleeplessness, the moment my head hit the pillow I fell into a deep and restful sleep.

In the morning we ate breakfast and then set out for our boat trip. Aunt Cleo told me that the canoe was staked in the rushes just north of the old wooden bridge. While she waited in the shade on the path, I dug around in the thick grasses until I found the canoe tied to a stake with an old rope. Two paddles were strapped to the side and I pulled them free. The boat was neglected. But after I cleaned it out I found it to be reassuringly sound.

Holding my aunt’s hand, I led her to the canoe and guided her into the front seat. I would guide from the back. I was a bit nervous about my duties, but found that once we were underway it was rather easy to navigate. The canoe swept along with the flow of the river, and soon enough we slid underneath the bridge. We floated beside the red brick wall until it suddenly stopped, and I had full view of Navarre’s mansion.

“Tell me what you see,” my aunt said. “It has been so long now, I wonder if it has changed.”

“The wall just ended. There are oak trees all around, with heavy coats of moss on them. Wait. They are clearing now. Ahead I can see a bay of some sort, and oh, my goodness…the house.” I gasped. “What a house.”

“Yes, that’s it. Tell me more.”

“It’s a mansion. Spread wide, three wings I think. It’s white. Like marble. I see faint streaks of green on the stone. And so many windows! The tower. Aunt Cleo, the tower rises up higher than any tree.”

She laughed. “It’s the same. I always loved to look at the house. Even though I feared it. I can see it has the same effect on you as it did me. You explain it very well. I can even see it in my mind. Look closely now, at the gardens—you’ll see the statues.”

I did as she suggested. The gardens went from behind the terrace of the house, down the lawn and stopped just before a sandy beach area. Rows of hedges concealed almost everything, but I saw one statue, some sort of goddess with her arm rising in the air. I noticed with some horror that the other arm had been broken off and lay discarded beside the figure. There was no one on the shore or in the gardens, but still I had a nagging sensation that we were being watched.

We came to where the river spilled its contents into the shallow bay. Where the freshwater and saltwater met there was a fan of dark fingers reaching out into the light blue waters. I turned for one last glimpse. The house stood boldly overlooking the water, and since I was farther out, I could see all of the estate. I saw a path that led to a high, towering archway of bushes, which I couldn’t see beyond, try as I might to peer through it. Beyond the hedges another small fork of the river emptied its inky waters into the bay.

My aunt continued, “We can’t go too far into the main channel. We’ll be swept out into the gulf and it’s too difficult for a canoe. Keep an eye out for three channels, all together, like a branch. Turn there and approach the beach from the backside. The channels will be on your right. You might be able to see the beach…”

I looked ahead. In front of us, the main channel led straight to the ocean, and I could see the choppy waves breaking outside the protection of the bay. A wide expanse of shallow waters coated with marsh grasses lay between us and the white sand dunes. Wind gusted over the shallow water and the marsh grasses rustled and tossed about. It was the farthest thing from a barren farm field that I could imagine. I thought of my mother growing up here as a young child, and I envied her.

After a bit more paddling I saw the three small offshoots on the right. “I see them. The small channels.”

“Good. Take the last one—you’ll have to aim for it early because the water will push you toward it faster than you think. It will lead to a perfect spot where we can enjoy the beach.”

With a little extra effort because I was a novice, I guided the canoe toward the last small channel. We were in the marsh grasses now and they crowded the tiny passageway. I heard the rustle of the wind across the grasses. A few times I was clumsy with the canoe and we brushed against the long blades, sharp as razors.

My aunt said, “I came here all the time as a child, you know. I would crab and fish and romp all about. I’m never happier than I am with the sand between my toes. I would sit and watch the mansion, waiting to see a human sacrifice.”

I stopped paddling, the oar still in the water. The current tugged on the oar, pulled it against the boat with a hollow thud. “Sacrifice?”

“Paddle, dear,” she reminded me.

With a powerful stroke, I sliced through the water once more.

She went on, “It was just a rumor. I still hear it now and again, at church or the post office. Sometimes a girl will go missing and the sheriff goes into a frenzy. But sooner or later they return. Always a false alarm. Thank goodness. Besides, I never saw anything suspicious.”

So distracted was I by her story that I accidentally guided us into the reeds that lined the small channel. They squealed against the canoe and grabbed at my clothes.

“Sorry, Aunt Cleo,” I said. “It’ll just take a minute to get back on track.” I pressed my oar against the marsh grasses, hoping for some firmness to push against. Finally, my pole struck the ground. I drove us back into the channel as clouds of silt billowed out beneath us.

I wanted to know more about the rumor of sacrifices. But right then Aunt Cleo announced, “The breeze has shifted. I can smell the salt. We must be at the beach!”

She was right. “We are.”

“Oh, good. Just put the canoe onto the sand.”

I aimed for the sand. “Here we are. Watch out for the landing.”

She pulled her oar inside and the small vessel slid onto the sand more smoothly than I thought it would. I jumped into the water, enjoying my bare feet immensely, and then took Aunt Cleo by the hand and helped her to the shore. Hand in hand, we climbed the dune and there I saw the Gulf of Mexico.

It was a blanket of glass with folds in the water caused by wind. It reminded me of the fields around our house on a hot day, when the sun would bake a false oasis of water onto the ground. Flat and even the water barely moved save for the small waves that lapped at the shore. “It’s beautiful,” I said.

“It’s good to be here again. I can see everything in my mind and I have you to thank for that. Even the smell of the ocean, the feel of the salt in my hair brings me back.” She took a deep breath. “I feel younger. Now, let me take a seat here on the sand, leave me to my memories and I’ll wait while you explore.” She sat right on the sand and looked almost majestic with her face turned to the sea.

I went to the water’s edge, surprised at how soft and powdery the white sand was. Reaching down I grabbed some in my hand and opened my fingers and watched the wind scatter the grains fine as mist. Right then and there I fell in love with the sea, the broad blue sky above it and the mellow grasses that bowed and swayed like stalks of wheat in the breeze.

I walked in the water a bit, collected shells, especially thrilled with the bright white sand dollars, which were chalky and rough in my hand and broke apart easily. Then I went and sat next to my aunt and we enjoyed the remainder of the afternoon, basking in the heat of the spring sun and telling each other about our lives. She was very lonely—I sensed that, confined as she was to her house and her memories.

Far too soon it was time to go back. I helped Aunt Cleo walk across the dune. When we reached the highest point on the ridge, I saw a most curious thing. A small, black cloud, thin as smoke curled in the air above the land. It spread and moved quickly, threading across the sky as if it were a living thing. Then, as I stood dumbfounded, the cloud split in two and snaked in different directions.

“Aunt Cleo, there’s a strange cloud. A black cloud in the gathering twilight. It’s going fast. It almost looks alive.” I struggled for words to describe what I was seeing. “Like a dark ghost swooping across the sky.”

She interrupted me, grew excited and clutched my hand. “It’s the bats! Oh, how I miss seeing them. Every evening they come out to feed. Of all the things I can’t see, I miss them the most.”

We stood arm in arm and I described their movement to her. The cloud of bats streamed inland, rolling and dipping in the sky as one collective body, forming a tight ball, then releasing and streaming in another direction. Slowly they moved inland until I couldn’t see them anymore. By then, it was dusk and night was coming. I helped her into the canoe and we paddled home in silence.

We approached the mansion. The setting sun poured fire onto the white stone. Some of the windows were illuminated and it gave an eerie light to the house. As we drew closer I noticed a figure on the beach, and knew even from our great distance exactly who it was. Navarre. He said nothing, didn’t move as we approached his shore. I forced myself to return his gaze, sensing a need to assert my will.

He watched us approach, still as a statue and ominous in bearing. When the small boat was only a few yards away from the shore, a small smile crept over his lips.

The mansion loomed behind him framing him in fire like a bronze god, beautiful but damned all the same. Remembering our tryst, I felt that ache, that wetness between my legs and unwittingly rocked my pelvis forward. Seeking his touch. The canoe teetered slightly, sending choppy waves headed in Navarre’s direction.

His insolent smile that he bestowed upon me told me he could see right into my thoughts. Now I looked away, sliding my gaze behind him, where figures moved about on the terrace. I wondered who lived there with him, and felt the strange, almost overwhelming urge to find out more.

My aunt was oblivious to the whole event. I felt almost like Judas for not speaking up or relaying the scene to her. How could I? Already I was deceiving her. But I wouldn’t need to anymore. Never again.