Rafe (12 page)

“Mistuh Clayton don't want no one comin' round, missy.”

Crissa stared up at the leering guard above her. He too was armed to the teeth.

“No one comin' 'round the pitbuck compound, missy,” he repeated.

Suddenly she was running from the compound wall, running with incomprehensible fear at her back, a fear that pushed her forward and away from the mystery of the iron-tipped prison walls, away from the terrible suspicion she had to refuse to face.

Night. The raccoon waited patiently, barely visible in the rapidly fading light. Gray and black pelt blended into the surrounding foliage, became another indistinguishable patchwork of dark and light shadows. Feral eyes probed the depths at the bayou's edge and caught a flutter of movement in the murky water. The glimmer repeated itself, closer this time. The motionless night hunter waited as the remaining light all but disappeared to a chorus of bullfrogs and rasping insects lamenting its passing.

Again a stirring in the water. Closer still. The raccoon imperceptibly adjusted its stance, its wide and unwavering eyes staring past its own starlit reflection to the telltale movement below. Then a flash of paw and claw ripping the glistening, watery surface and flipping onto the bank a dripping mass of roots and a struggling crayfish, pincers held aloft, threatening and snapping at empty air. The carapacial body struggled free of the entangling water plant and scurried for the water's edge. But not quickly enough. The tiny paws seized their prey, cracked the shell in half and dabbled it in the water before tearing the sweet meat from the still writhing tail. Another splash broke the glassy evening stillness of the bayou. The raccoon-looked up, eyes glittering greedily, and tossed the morsel in hand behind him. He would eat later. The night hunter once again resumed his vigil.

A movement of shadow in shadow caught the predator's eye and he tensed to leap backward. But not quickly enough. Open jaws, great and terrible with rows of gleaming teeth snapped shut as two bulbous eyes broke through the surface, blinked twice, then sluggishly sank beneath the lily pads, dragging the raccoon down to a watery death. The broken crayfish on the bank twitched and thrashed about, settling deeper into the oozing mud and bleeding itself dry. The first ant found it a few moments later.…

The nameless black woman who served as cook for Ezra's household entered the dining room and set a large silver platter of sliced pork near the lord of Freedom. Ezra ignored the servant and ladled cuts of meat on to one plate, then another. A second servant, a young boy of twelve, carried the plates around the table and set one before Micara, another before Crissa. The woman returned carrying dishes of sweet potatoes and fresh greens. All plates served, the woman left and the boy stationed himself behind Ezra, waiting for whatever his master might command.

Micara dawdled at her meal, sipping with feigned restraint at her goblet of sherry. Crissa, though famished, was so preoccupied with unanswered questions she was unable to make any but the feeblest attempt at enjoying the food at hand. Ezra fell to with relish. He ate noisily, each swallow accompanied by a slight muttering from deep within his throat as if he was commenting on the merits of each bite taken. When Crissa could stand no more she shoved her plate away and rose abruptly from the table, her chair sliding back and scraping along the hardwood floor. Ezra stopped chewing and looked up at her questioningly. Micara sipped unconcernedly, lost in the tinted reflection of her face on the surface of the sherry. She finished her second glass and poured a third.

“You've lost your taste for pork and sweet potatoes?” Ezra inquired.

Crissa stood unmoving for a moment, her temper barely under control. “I've lost my taste for many things, Ezra. And I suppose some.…”

“I do wish you'd call me ‘father'. Ezra sounds so cold.”

Crissa glared at him, continued after a slight pause. “… something needs be said. Now is as good a time as any.”

Micara looked up at her daughter and grinned weakly. “Sit down and eat your supper, dear.”

“Don't interrupt, Micara,” Ezra instructed lazily. “Your daughter is at odds with herself. The climate, no doubt. She doesn't appreciate pork and sweet potatoes any more.”

“Don't make fun of her and don't make fun of me,” Crissa said through clenched teeth.

Ezra's hand stopped halfway to his mouth. He placed the fork back down on the plate. No person, man or woman, had spoken to him in that tone of voice for a long, long time. He had become conditioned to immediate and unquestioning obedience and subservience. Now this little trollop dared to order him about. And with a touch of menace in her voice to boot. It surprised him. Caught him off guard. Perhaps amused him a little, but he wasn't sure. Of one thing he was certain. He hadn't underestimated the girl. His assessment of the night before was accurate. She was stronger than she looked. There was only one way to handle such strength: crush it quickly and without hesitation. He would have to break her much as one broke a spirited colt, and the sooner the better. “I am the master of this house, Crissa. Micara is my wife. I will speak to her or any other person as I please. You would do best to mind your manners for such time as you intend to stay under my roof.”

Crissa's hands clenched in tight, angry fists. She leaned on the table and glared at him, hate building in her eyes. The clink of glass pulled her attention to her mother. Micara tipped the sherry bottle, sloshing some into her glass, spilling some more on the table. She smiled nervously at Crissa. “Your dinner is getting cold, dear.”

Crissa wanted to weep, but the dark anger seething inside her stopped the tears. “Mother, you've had quite enough sherry. In fact, sherry is all you've had the entire evening. Don't you think it's best you went on up and got to bed?” she asked gently.

Her mother shook her head in disagreement. “Nonsense, dear. Why, I'm not in the least bit sleepy, and you were gone when I woke up this morning. We haven't had a chance to talk.” She smiled coyly. “Sherry is good for me. It relaxes me. So many pressures, so much to do. Why, I.…”

“I trust you remember our talk the other day, Micara. I would hate to have to refresh your memory in front of dear Crissa Elizabeth. Go to your room.”

Micara swivelled about in her chair, biting her lip and petulantly shaking her head. She stared at him for a brief moment, eyes pleading silently then suddenly filling with tears as her head dropped forward in acquiescence. Avoiding Ezra's threatening gaze she turned to her daughter. “I'm going to my room now,” she said, her voice quivering. “Ezra does so care about me. I hate to worry him. He does so … worry. But I'm going to my room. No,” she held up her hand, steadying herself against the table with her thighs as she stood, “I don't need any help. You will come kiss me good-night, won't you Crissa dear? Even if I'm asleep? Come and kiss me like you used to … like I used to…” She paused, shaking her head in the silence, her mouth rigid with the unpronounceable pain of shattered pride. Suddenly she forced a smile, tossed her head brightly. “There … so. I'm fine.” She laughed girlishly. “I'm going. I'll take the sherry with me. Perhaps I'll have just another little glass. It helps me sleep.”

She stepped sideways from the table and walked stiffly to the door, stopped and braced herself on the frame. With her back to them her voice was strangely detached, the voice of a lost child. “Promise you'll come kiss me, Crissa. John does, don't you, John? Sometimes I'm asleep, but I know he does. Every night he kisses me to sleep and tells me he loves me very, very much.” She walked shakily from the room, disappearing down the hall, her muted footsteps fading as she went up the stairs.

Crissa held back the tears she felt welling suddenly in the corners of her eyes. The mention of her father's name, even if only in Micara's muddled confusion, contrasted him sharply with the man at the end of the table and deeply affected her. Suddenly weak, she sat in her chair again and forced her mind clear. The time for crying would be later when she was alone in her room. She forced herself to focus on Ezra who had resumed eating, paying not the slightest attention to his wife's misery or his stepdaughter.

“Now,” she said, her voice quiet and subdued, as cold as Ezra's. “Let's start over. What do you mean, ‘
your
roof'?'

“Why, just what I said.” Ezra looked up, pushed his plate away and snapped his fingers. The Negro boy brought a cigar and one of the table candles to Ezra and held the candle while his master lit the cigar.

Ezra waited until the candelabra was replaced and the boy left the room with his plate. “This plantation is no longer Fitzman's Freedom, Crissa. It is just Freedom. My freedom. Just as the town at the foot of the hill is my town now. I call it Claytonville. So does everyone else. Your father is dead. Long live your stepfather.” He raised the snifter of brandy in salute to himself, emptied it and placed it back on the table.

“Mr. Clayton,” Crissa began coldly. “There may be some misunderstanding on your part. I am neither a gull nor a fool. I am not an ignorant townsman nor an indigent farmer to be manipulated at your pleasure. I have spent the past four years at a most reputable school. My father's will specifically stated my Uncle Patrick was to hold my half of his plantation in my stead until my twenty-first birthday. I will be twenty-one shortly and expect to resume control of at least half of this property.”

Ezra blew a languid blue-white cloud of smoke into the air. It drifted lazily across the table. He sat back, a self-satisfied smile crossing his face. She was most amusing. More so than he had imagined. Certainly a full cut above unschooled farmers and his imbecilic wife, and perhaps even an opponent of sorts. Crissa was not only beautiful, but intelligent as well.

Ezra rose, bowed curtly and excused himself. Crissa heard his footsteps in the hall. She left the table and followed him. seeing him disappear into the library. She entered behind him. He glanced up from his desk, his smile a frozen mixture of cordiality and menace. Crissa stood mutely before him, waiting. Ezra shook his head, chuckled, then withdrew a document from the desk drawer and held it out to her. She accepted the rolled parchment, untied the ribbon. Inside she recognized her uncle's handwriting. Ezra watched her read, gloating over each frown, each furrow and crease of consternation leading to the final sanguine flush creeping up her face.

She threw the parchment on the desk. “You … he can't,” she began, eyes flashing. “He had no right, especially without telling me.”

“My dear Crissa. He had every right. You were a child and your uncle was responsible for your holdings. Since you weren't here to make your wishes known, he proceeded as he thought best and transferred your portion of the estate to me.”

“He had no right to make such a transfer. The land was not his to transfer. I shall fight this.…”

“You are a young and headstrong woman with very little say in the matter. You have no rights, and if you think any court of law will disagree, you are free to try. But I warn you. Accept gracefully and you are free to stay here and live. I shall be most generous and you will live well. I shall even see that you marry well. Make the slightest attempt to contest this piece of paper and I will have you thrown out without a penny to your name.”

Crissa stared at him in shock. “You are an evil man. I think I have never known a man as despicable as you.”

Ezra laughed heartily. “My dear Crissa. Please. No emotional accusations. I am not an evil man. I am a realistic man. A realistic man in a world not of his own making.”

“What you have done to my mother is despicable.”

“What I have done to your mother is precisely nothing. She chose her own path, freely and of her own volition.”

“You lie!”

“Sit down!” The words lashed her like a whip and she obeyed. Ezra's mien, warm and friendly, turned frigid. He breathed slowly until the harsh edge of anger blurred and eased. “Micara,” he started, rising and pacing about the room, “placed all claim to this plantation in my name. After all, I was her new husband. And her protector. Her decision was a wise one, for the law out here is tenuous at best. A man had a chance to build Freedom beyond what it had become. In time I did build it to what you see about you now. I
am
the lord of Freedom. I shall continue as the lord of Freedom until such tune as I choose to leave.”

He picked up the parchment, rolled it neatly. “As for Patrick not keeping you informed, I did not question his motives. I suspect he may have been a bit of a well-meaning scoundrel. He left here the day after he signed … this.” He walked around the desk and stood behind her. “He left talking of empires—Patrick always talked of empires while others such as I build them—and joined a pack train to Mexico on some crazed expedition. I suspect he has received his just deserts. The trail to deep Mexico is a demanding, dangerous one, full of peril. If the Indians didn't murder him, I imagine the Mexicans hanged him. A well-deserved hanging, I might add, for dreamers are good for little else.” He paused, leaning on the back of Crissa's chair, his head over her shoulder. When he continued, the mockery and laughter were barely hidden.

“Still, we shouldn't be too hard on his memory, should we, dear Crissa Elizabeth? He was acting on his niece's behalf. What would a young girl know about running a plantation? Perhaps he decided wisely. You can see for yourself the improvements I've made.”

“Whippings and beatings are not improvements,” Crissa said in a bare whisper. “My father never stood for them. And those.…”

“I am not your father,” Ezra interrupted harshly, leaving the chair and crossing back to his seat behind the desk.

“… those awful men in that prison,” Crissa continued doggedly. “So bestial. Slaves and their keepers … like animals.”

“They are animals. That is why I keep them there. All of my slaves are animals. It takes animals to guard them, to see they do as they're told.”