The darkness that surrounded Bayard seemed to be almost pal-pable— soft, thick, and warm as a blanket. But at other times he felt a coldness like the frozen northlands where snow eveloped every-thing. These two extremes covered him, and he cried out at times, for one seemed as painful as the other.
The voices he heard seemed to come from far away. He strained and tried to make them out but failed. They were the voices of strangers, and he felt frightened that there was nothing familiar in his world of blinding whiteness and stygian darkness. One of the voices came more often than the other, and in time he came to look for it and to try to make sense out of the words. He was not able to do this, but the voice had a soothing tone, and that comforted him.
The sense of touch was within this world, wherever it was. Besides the burning heat or bitter chill, he felt hands touching him, and he came to look forward to it. They were strong hands, he knew, but they were gentle at the same time. There was the feel of sheets, some sort of cloth, a breeze that touched him lightly, but there was no sense of the passage of time. He might have been in the terrible place for as long as it took to build the pyramids—or it might have been only a day or less.
Finally the heat and the cold seemed to modify, and he groaned with pleasure as the pain left him. The words began to have meaning, but there was still something about them that he could barely under-stand. He longed to know who spoke and who touched him.
Finally reason and order and sense came, almost as if someone threw a switch. One moment he was deep in the warm darkness, knowing that the hands were touching him and the voice was speak-ing, and the next instant he realized that he was lying flat on his back, a sheet was covering him, and something wet was touching his face and the upper part of his body. He opened his eyes then, and directly over him was a face—one he had never seen before. His thoughts swarmed and confusion stirred him, and then he felt fear.
Where have I been? Who is this? Bayard blinked and stared at a young woman with jet-black hair and eyes that seemed black at first, but as he studied them, he noted that they were a dark blue. Her face was oval, she had broad, full lips, and her expression was friendly but focused. His eyes dropped, and he saw that she had a cloth in her hand and was sponging his chest. He watched as she put the cloth into a basin, wrung it out with one quick motion, then began to wash him again.
“Where is this place?”
His words came from his throat hoarsely and creaked almost like a hinge that had frozen in place. They startled the young woman, whose eyes widened. He noticed she had the thickest eyelashes he had ever seen, and that they curved upward gracefully. She answered him, saying, “Ah, you are awake!”
At first he could not understand her, and then he realized that she had spoken in French. “Oui,” he said. His French was very limited, so he muttered in English, “Who are you?”
The young woman’s eyes were deep pools, it seemed, and she studied him a moment before she said, “My name is Fleur Avenall. You are in our house, yes.”
Bayard closed his eyes for a moment, trying to put together what was happening, and then it all came rushing back. He remembered falling in the bayou and the enormous snake and the pain in his arm. Alarm filled him, and he looked down and saw that a bandage was on his arm. “A snake—a snake bit me.”
“Yes,” the young woman said, nodding. “You almost died, I think. Me, I think you will not live for a time.” Her English was bro-ken, but Bayard understood her. He struggled to get up, and she bent over and put her arms under his and pulled him to a sitting position. She set the pillow upright and pushed his head against it. “You have been ver’ sick,” she said. “Ma mere and I think you will die maybe.”
Bayard could hardly speak, but he managed to gasp, “Water! A drink of water!”
“Oui, certainement,” the girl named Fleur said. She picked up a pitcher on a table by the bedside and then a glass. She poured the water and handed it to him. His left arm was sore, and he flinched and took the glass in his right hand. Thirstily he drank the water, and he had never had a drink so good.
Fleur took the glass and asked, “What you are called?”
“Bayard d’Or.”
She considered that, then nodded. “Can you eat something?”
“How long have I been here?”
“Me, I fin’ you last Tuesday. Tomorrow will be a week.”
Alarms went off in Bayard’s head. “My family! I’ve got to get word to my family!”
“I would have send, but I not know who your people were. You must eat.”
Bayard watched as the young woman put the glass down, then turned and walked over to the fireplace. A series of hooks suspended blackened pots over the fire. It was warm in the cabin, and as she began to stir something in one of the smaller pots, Bayard looked at his surroundings. The room he lay in was part of a log cabin. His bed was against the wall, and he reached out and touched the smooth, rounded logs. The furniture was sparse, consisting of one small table and two chairs, both obviously homemade. A large bearskin was on the rough, plank floor, and the walls were covered with shelves on which were placed various objects: seashells, a tiny skull of a small ani-mal, a vase with blue flowers in it.
Two windows admitted pale sunshine. The smell of cooking meat was in the air, stirring Bayard’s hunger. A door to the left led to what was evidently another room, and on the far side another door led outside.
He lay quietly, and Fleur came back with a bowl and a large spoon. He tried to lift his left arm to take it, but it was so sore that he winced.
“Here, Monsieur,” she said, “Me, I will feed you.”
She dipped the large spoon into the bowl, and he saw that the food was smoking. She blew it and tasted it herself, then said, “It’s ver’ hot, but it’s good.”
Bayard opened his mouth, feeling like a child, and swallowed a spoonful. The first bite aroused a raving hunger, and he ate until she had emptied the bowl.
“Not good to eat too much at once,” Fleur said. “You have little bits not far apart.” She blinked and said, “Oh, I forget to pray over the food. Maybe you want to pray now?”
This struck Bayard as odd. At his home sometimes grace was said, but only rarely. “I am thankful for it,” he said.
“The good God, He takes care of you. If He had not, you would be buried in a grave.”
The food had somehow produced sleepiness. Bayard felt his eye-lids drooping, and he asked, “Where is this place?”
“It is our house where I live—me and ma mere.” She saw that he was going to sleep and helped him lie flat with his head on the pillow. She touched his chest and said, “You sleep now. It will be good.”
The smell of cooked meat awoke Bayard, and as he came out of the sleep, he knew the fever was gone. He struggled up and saw the young woman named Fleur across the room, stirring something in a pan. “That smells good,” he said.
Fleur turned and smiled. Her hair was long, tied with a thong, and hanging down her back almost to her belt. She was wearing a pair of man’s faded trousers and a man’s shirt, and moccasins without any stockings. Her petite frame looked odd in a man’s clothing. She straightened up and said, “You are hungry, no?”
“I am hungry, yes.”
“This will be ver’ good for you. You want to try to sit at the table?”
“I’ll try.” He threw the sheet back and saw that he was wearing only his undergarments. “Where are my pants?” he said.
“You do not need them, no. You will go back to bed and sleep some more after you eat. Come.” Fleur went over and pulled him to his feet, then draped his arm over her shoulders. The room seemed to reel, and he clung to her as she guided him across the floor. Slumping down in one of the two chairs, he shook his head. “I’m weak as a kitten!”
“You be strong ver’ soon,” Fleur said. She plucked a plate off of a shelf and pulled some of the meat out of the frying pan with a fork. She brought it back to him and furnished him with silverware. She said, “You eat. I get you some milk.” She stepped outside. He noticed that she moved quietly and gracefully, almost like a young deer. When she came back, she had a jug in her hand. Retrieving a cup, she poured and said, “The milk, she is fresh.”
Bayard found that he had some use of his left hand, and putting the fork in it, he steadied the meat while he carved out a bite-sized chunk. He put it in his mouth and chewed. It was tough and had a rather fishy flavor. “This is good,” he said. “What is it?”
“’Gator.”
Bayard had been about to insert another forkful of meat but halted. “’Gator?” he said. “You mean alligator?”
“Yes. I soak her in saltwater. Is good?”
Bayard grinned. “Very good,” he said.
She got up and spooned something out of a pot on the fireplace and brought a bowl back to him. “Gumbo,” she said. “Ver’ good.”
Bayard ate hungrily and drank the milk, and then he asked, “Where is your family?”
“Only ma mere.” She gestured toward the door. “That is her place.”
“Your father?”
“He is with God.”
Her way of speaking of God seemed very familiar. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he said.
“He was very sick—ready to go.” A tiny line suddenly appeared in the girl’s smooth brow. “Ma mere, she very sick also. She will go be with God soon.”
“What’s wrong with her?”
“I do not know, except she’s sick.”
Bayard studied the young woman. Her strange garb lent her a for-eign look. Her hair was black as the blackest thing in nature, and he guessed her age was somewhere between sixteen and nineteen. She had a long, composed mouth, and her skin was olive with a smooth-ness and a slight rose tint that did not come out of a jar. The light that came in through the window was kind to Fleur, showing the full, soft lines of her body, the womanliness in breast and shoulder. She was still not quite out of that part of youth that marks girlhood, but she was a woman. He saw the hint of her will and her pride in the corners of her eyes and lips, and as she spoke, she made little gestures with her shoul-ders and expressive turns with her hands. “I need to get word to my people, Miss Avenall.”
Fleur laughed. “No one call me that. I am Fleur. I cannot leave ma mere, but someone will go.”
“One of the neighbors?”
“I will ask Lonnie Despain to go.”
“Who is he?”
“He lives five miles from here, but he come by twice a week to pick up the meat to sell.”
“What meat is that?”
“I catch ’gators, and I trap. Lonnie takes the meat into the city to sell it.”
“What sort of meat is it?”
“I catch many fish,” she smiled. “I am a good fisherman. Also there are wild pigs in the bayou, and I shoot them. Also some people eat the coon, so I shoot him too. Squirrels and rabbits. Everything I sell. People like almost any kind of meat.”
It seemed strange to Bayard. “Do you have other family besides your mother?”
“No. She is all I have.”
“Has a doctor been here?”
“When ma mere first got sick, Lonnie, he fetch a doctor out, but he said that she cannot live. I think he’s right. When I pray, the good God, He tells me that I must say good-bye to her soon.”
“I’m sorry, Fleur,” Bayard said, and indeed he did feel pity for the girl. He wondered what she would be like if she had been born into different circumstances, but there was no way of knowing. He glanced at the door and asked, “Does your mother ever get up?”
“Oui, some days she feel ver’ good. I think she get up today later, and I fix her something good to eat.” For a moment the girl’s face changed, and he saw her vulnerability. “I feel ver’ bad that she suffers so much. I wish I could suffer for her, me. But none of us can suffer for another.”
“I suppose that’s true.”
“You have family?”
“Yes. My father and mother, of course, and I have one sister.”
“It is ver’ good to have people. I know they will be afraid for you. Lonnie will be here later on in the day. He always come on Tuesday. I do not think you are fit to move, but if you will write, Lonnie will take it to your people.”
“I’ll do that now if you have paper.”
After some searching Fleur found a scrap of paper. She also found a stub of a pencil, and Bayard wrote as clearly as he could, but he found himself growing weary. When he ended the note, he handed it to Fleur, and she looked into his face. “You are tired. You sleep now.”
“Wake me when Lonnie comes.”
“Yes, I will do that. Can you get to the bed by yourself?”
“I think so.” Bayard got up and found that he was indeed some-what steadier, but he was ready for the bed, and he lay back in it with a sigh. He wanted to say something to Fleur to thank her, but sleep came quickly, and he fell asleep thinking of the strangeness of the young woman.
Bayard heard voices, and when he opened his eyes, he saw an older woman sitting in one of the chairs beside the table. Fleur was putting food in front of her. He struggled upright and said, “Miss Fleur, could I have my trousers?”
Fleur said, “Oh, you are awake.” She found his trousers and said, “I wash them for you.” She handed them to him, then turned back to her mother. Bayard felt better when he had put his pants on, and he stood up and bowed, saying, “Good afternoon, ma’am.”
“This is ma mere. Her name is Gabrielle. This man is Bayard d’Or.”
Gabrielle Avenall’s hair was black, her eyes were the same dark blue as her daughter’s, but she was wasted away and had none of Fleur’s strength. The disease that was killing her was obvious in the sunken cheeks and bony arms. Still, there was strength in her face and traces of an earlier beauty. She must have looked exactly like Fleur when she was young, Bayard thought. “I do not know how to thank you and your daughter for taking care of me. I was very lucky.”
Gabrielle studied him with her dark eyes, her gaze intense. “Not luck. It was God who give her to you.”
“I think you’re probably right, Mrs. Avenall.”
“Come and sit down. You can eat again.”
Bayard walked over and sat down and noticed the thinness of Gabrielle Avenall’s hands. He was aware that she was watching him. For some reason, this made him nervous, and he said, “I would have died out there if it hadn’t been for your daughter.” He looked at Fleur and asked, “How did you get me here to the house? You couldn’t have carried me.”
“No, I have a mare. I was riding, and I hear you cry out. When I find you, you could not speak, and the poison was already in your blood. Lonnie was riding with me, to help me drag ’gators back to the house. He brought you back to our cabin, and my mother and I treated your sickness. I think God must have been in it.”
Bayard blinked with surprise. “I think that must be close to the truth.”
Gabrielle said, “You cannot be the same man again. When a man comes close to death, he can’t go back to being what he was. Do you ever pray, Mr. d’Or?”
“Well, I haven’t been much for prayer, but I did pray out there in that swamp.” Memory came flooding back, and he shook his head in wonder. “I cried out to God with every bit of strength I had just after that snake got me. I cried out until I felt life passing out of me.”
“Then you must live the life of a man of God.”
A silence fell over the three, and Bayard stared at the sick woman. Her eyes were fixed on him intently, and he found that he could not meet them. He nodded. “I think you are right.”
“Yes, I am right. He has given you your life, and you are respon-sible for using it to serve Him.”
Bayard lifted his eyes and found something in the expression of the woman that he could not explain. He shifted his gaze and found some of the same in Fleur’s face. The two women were regarding him strangely, and he heard himself saying, “I think you may be right. When God gives a man his life, he must not throw it away.”
“I hear Lonnie coming,” Fleur said. She had put her mother back to bed and was sitting with Bayard. Bayard had said little, but she had talked considerably. Her world was small—trapping animals, fishing, taking care of her mother, and serving Jesus. Bayard had never met anyone with such a simple faith! To her, Jesus was not a man who had lived two thousand years ago, neither was He someone who lived far off in the sky. No, for Fleur Avenall, Jesus was as real as Bayard himself. She spoke of Him as naturally as if He were a next-door neigh-bor. It was a fascinating thing to Bayard d’Or. And since his near-death experience, he was aware that something was stirring within his heart.
He told her, “When I believed I was going to die, Fleur, I thought of two things. One, the awful mess I’ve made of my own life. That was a hard thing to bear.”
“You have been a bad man?”
Bayard grimaced. “Very bad, Fleur. I’m not the kind of man you would admire.”
“Tell me some bad things that you have done, you.”
Bayard suddenly laughed. “You are an unusual young woman! Well, I have hurt my parents deeply. I’ve wasted the talent that God has given me, and I’ve been a drunkard and a womanizer. As a matter of fact, I’m a terrible man.”
Fleur watched him. “That is sad,” she said, “but God loves sin-ners, and we are all sinners. You remember in the Bible the man said, ‘I thank you, God, I’m not like other men, that I’m good.’ And the other man said, ‘God be merciful to me a sinner.’”
“I’m like that second fellow.”
“We are all like him, I think, Bayard.” She used his name easily and added, “But God loves us all—sinners though we are.”
The sound of a man’s voice called from outside, and Fleur said, “There is Lonnie.” She went to the door and invited him in. A small man, wiry with a dark complexion, stepped into the room. He was wearing a floppy black hat that he did not remove, and his eyes were gray and inquisitive. He stared at Bayard.
“This is Bayard d’Or, Lonnie. The one who was bitten by a snake and nearly die.”
“Them snakes, they are bad. You are better, I hope?”
“Very well, Lonnie, but I need to get word to my people. I’ve been here nearly a week. Could you take a message to New Orleans for me?”
“Certainement! You tell me where.”
Bayard discovered quickly that Lonnie could not read, but he was a quick, intelligent man. He listened as Bayard gave instructions and then said, “I take this to your family.”
“I don’t have any money to pay you, but my family will pay you. I put that in the note.”
Lonnie nodded and then turned to Fleur. “You have the meat?”
“Yes. Quite a lot this time.” She left the room with Lonnie, and he heard the two of them chatter as she gave him the meat. When she came back in, she said, ‘’He is a good man, but he does not know the Lord Jesus. My mother and I pray for him every day.”
Bayard admired the young woman who had done so much for him. “I owe you a lot, Fleur.”
“I’m glad the good Lord had me passing by. If I had been a little later, I would not have heard your cry.” She studied him and said, “God is good to you, Bayard.”
Evening had come. Bayard had eaten well on gumbo and fried venison steaks. He sat at the table, listening to Gabrielle and Fleur talking. They were very curious about the outside world, and he entertained them with stories. They had been interested also in his family, and he spoke of them a great deal.
Finally Fleur insisted that her mother go to bed. As she helped her to the room, Bayard went outside. He heard the two women speaking and knew that they were praying. It touched him. When Fleur stepped outside, he said, “I’m sorry about your mother. Perhaps you’d let me take her to one of the hospitals in New Orleans.”
“You are kind, but she is past all help now.”
“You can’t know that, Fleur.”
“Yes. God has told us both that she must be with Jesus soon.”
The answer elicited no argument, and Bayard sat silently on the steps. She sat down beside him. He looked up in the heavens and said, “The stars are beautiful tonight.”
“Yes. The Lord, He knows all their names. Every one of them.”
“Do you really think so?”
“Oh, yes. In Psalm 147 He tells us that. It says, ‘He telleth the number of the stars; He calleth them all by their names.’” She smiled at him. “He is a great God to know all the names of the stars, but He made them, so it is not too strange.”
They fell silent for a few minutes. Then Fleur asked, “You are married and have children?”
“No, I’m not married.”
“Why not?”
Fleur had a way of asking intimate questions with no embar-rassment at all. It amused Bayard. “Well, I don’t know why I’m not married.”
“You will be one day.”
“I suppose so.”
“What do you do to make money?”
Bayard was embarrassed. “To tell the truth, not much of anything.”
“How do you live?”
“My father has money.”
“He is rich?”
“Well, he’s comfortably well-off.”
Bayard half expected her to follow this line, but he hoped she would not. In order to prevent it, he began to ask her questions about herself. “Why are you not married?” he asked.
“I will be one day, but God has not sent me a man yet.”
“How old are you, Fleur?”
“Eighteen. How old are you, Bayard?”
“I’m twenty-five. My sister is a year younger than I.”
“What is she like?”
“She’s very beautiful. She has blonde hair and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen. Fleur,” he said, changing the subject, “what do you do for fun out here?”
“For fun? Oh, sometimes I go to the dances, me. There’s music there. It is a long way, though, and because of ma mere, I have not gone lately.”
“Don’t you get lonely out here, Fleur, all by yourself with just your mother?”
“No.”
“You don’t? I would think you might.”
“No, I have Jesus.”
The calmness of her reply and the enormity of it stunned Bayard d’Or. He could not think of anything to say. Fleur turned to him and touched his arm. She asked, “How do you live? Do you have Jesus as your friend?”
“No, I don’t.”
“How do you live without Him? I can never understand. I have know Him since I was nine years old, me.”
Bayard had never given a great deal of thought to religion. He had gone through the formality of it when he was younger, but even that he had given up in recent years. He was not a hypocrite and knew that his lifestyle was not pleasing to God. He saw that Fleur was waiting for an answer, and finally he looked up at the stars, at the magnificence of the display in the heavens, and thought of the God who had made them all. There had never been any doubt in his mind about the existence of God. He had merely refused to give too much thought to it. Finally he turned to her and said, “I envy you, Fleur.”
“You envy me? Why’s that? You have a family. You have every-thing that most men want.”
“But I don’t have God. When I called out to Him after that snake bit me, I knew that.”
She smiled. “Maybe God, He send the snake to get your attention. Now,” she said, and her eyes were warm, “that God has saved you, you will love Him.”
Bayard dropped his head. “I hope so, Fleur. I never have. I think it’s time.”