Amaranth

By Lee Duval

Anastasie Devereux was born in Louisiana amid the ferocity of a hurricane. Her parents, simple, but not ordinary, can’t shield her from the world.
Leprosy, polio scourges, and bigotry infect the nation.
At puberty, her mother reveals that she possesses a gift of healing, passed from mother to daughter. If the daughter denies the gift or fails to use it, it disappears forever. If the gift is used, she acquires symptoms of the ailment she cures. The healer and her ability are diminished.
Anastasie knows love and predation in adolescence, but is drawn to her legacy of healing. She becomes a nurse and joins the Army. In the mountains of Vietnam, Anastasie’s destiny is challenged. She encounters love, loss, despair.
She returns home to protesters and turmoil, yet gains solace with her father, a quiet war hero. She renews her friendship with a girl whose issues of being an African-American have led her into an abyss.
Anastasie takes a job in nursing. Life is empty, prospects grim. A call changes that and she finds love and happiness with a former vet, Sam..
The couple lives an idyllic life in Virginia and has a child, Abigail. Everything is perfect, but Sam, who works for the CIA, is sent to Bosnia and dies. Anastasie has a child crushed by the loss of her father.
Communication between Abigail and her mother is tenuous. As the child enters high school, she shows grief by blaming her mother and using drugs. Anastasie ends the latter, but can’t heal the rift. She wavers in discussing Abigail’s legacy, which is revealed by accident. Tension increases as Anastasie tries and Abigail rejects reconciliation. .
Abigail quits college and goes to New York to work. With the help of her friend, Trixie, Abigail descends into a miasma of sex, drugs and self-loathing. She is vaguely aware of danger from someone in her mother’s past, the father of the man who once raped Anastasie. The father now demands that she save his son from AIDS.
On September 11, 2001 Abigail is awakened. From her window, she stares at the smoking Twin Towers. The south tower collapses. She runs into the chaos to find her friend. Trixie is dead. With the north tower plunging around her, Abigail restores Trixie’s life.
In the aftermath of 9/11, Abigail resolves to change, but she is pursued by two men. One a shadowy figure, the other is Dwayne. Dwayne is too perfect and Abigail both encourages and rejects him.
Anastasie, as before, moves to end the threat. The shadowy figure disappears, but Dwayne won’t. Abigail waffles. Trixie, convinced that her boyfriend, Tyrone, and Abigail are having an affair, commits suicide.
Abigail and Dwayne are shaken to find that Tyrone is injured. Abigail, torn by grief and guilt, saves the despicable Tyrone.
Abigail returns home to her mother. Fate intervenes and she discovers her mother’s journal. It is a pivotal moment. She realizes the magnitude of her responsibility to life, love and the care of others. She calls Dwayne, admits her love for him, and they are married. They settle in New York.
Anastasie plans an anniversary party for the couple in New Orleans. This time the intruder is the hurricane, Katrina. Anastasie has prepared the trip for weeks and won’t allow a storm to intervene. Abigail and Dwayne think she is safely in Virginia, visiting friends.
During the storm, Anastasie awakes to discover that four of Lavonia’s family members are drowning, trapped in their car in a swirling river. She races to the rescue.

Abigail and Dwayne think Anastasie is safe and make love. Anastasie struggles to rescue the family. With her last breath, she saves the final member. Strength gone, Anastasie drifts into the depths of the river. Light and loving spirits embrace her.
Abigail is aware the instant she becomes pregnant. Emotion engulfs her. She will have a daughter, Amanda. The child will struggle as those who came before. There will be tragedies, but triumphs also. And a beginn

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lee Duval
• Release date: May 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310937699

Lee Duval

Lee Duval is a former humanities instructor who enjoys kayaking and hiking when he's not writing. He has traveled extensively across the United States and Europe.

Book preview

PART ONE

Chapter One

September, 1947. A confluence of clouds hovered above western Africa and began to spin like a child’s pinwheel. In the center the air pressure dropped steadily. The mass moved westward past Dakar, Senegal, and on to the Cape Verde Islands.

The storm was tentative and erratic, a tropical depression, which first turned southwest, then northwest. It expanded in size and ferocity, unnoticed by humans, until the crew aboard the ship S.S. Arakaka sighted and reported it.

The tempest gathered momentum and thrust across the northern section of the Abaco Islands in the Bahamas with winds of a hundred and fifty-five miles an hour. It hesitated briefly and sped toward the southern United States. It ripped through Ft. Lauderdale, Florida as a Category Four hurricane.

The hurricane blew through the Everglades, entered the Gulf of Mexico and approached southeastern Louisiana.

***

The Atchafalaya swamp, southern Louisiana. Michele Devereux woke to the pain in her belly and told herself it was simply hunger. The wind outside the clapboard house rattled the branches of the oaks in the yard. They tapped against the windows as if sending an urgent message.

The pain came again and pulled her from the comforting haze of sleep. She had to be certain before she bothered her sleeping husband. She turned slightly and listened. His nose squeaked as he inhaled, lips pursed together when he let go of each deep breath. Michele loved him dearly and soon he would be the second most important person in her life.

She tried to ease out of bed. Gravity made it difficult. She hobbled to the window and strained to see anything familiar in the darkness. A bolt of lightning struck the tallest oak near her and it split in half. Michele bit her lips and a sharp pain sent her to one knee.

She heard her husband turn over and prayed that he was awake. The house shook and the little crucifix above their bed fell to the floor. She struggled to stand.

Andre, she called softly, the hurricane is coming.

Her husband snored in answer.

Andre. I think it’s time.

Michele heard him bolt upright. Time? What time is it?

It’s time to get Ophelia, Michele replied.

Andre sat up. Michele heard him fumbling. A match flared and the candle beside the bed pushed back the shadows. He blinked, swung around and shoved one of his feet into a boot. Michele giggled and felt another stab of pain.

Andre, shouldn’t you put your left foot into the left boot?

Andre stopped, put the boot down and picked up the other one.

"Are you all right, Cherie? Do you feel any pain?"

Michele smiled at him. Yes, but it’s good pain.

Good pain, Andre muttered and shook his head. He got up, kissed her gently on the forehead and helped her sit down on the bed. Don’t move, he commanded, I’ll start the truck and get Ophelia. Do you need anything?

Just one thing, Andre. Shouldn’t you be wearing pants?

Andre looked down at his bare legs. Yes. Maybe some pants. Might get wet.

Michele hid her smile which faded with the next thrust of agony. Andre grabbed his pants with one hand and patted her arm with the other. He rushed out the door and down the stairs.

Hurry, she said softly.

***

Michele lay back on the bed. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep, hopeful that time would move faster. The pain erased the idea. It was coming more often and spreading into her back and legs. She rose slightly and pushed herself up to rest against the headboard, but that too failed. There was still pain and it was increasing.

One, two, three, four, five, she counted and could go no higher before another jolt coursed through her.

Michele waited for the start of the engine of Andre’s old truck. She could hear nothing but the storm. Sweat dripped from her brow and she tasted its salt in the corners of her mouth. Something sticky trickled down her thighs.

The candle flickered and Michele gasped. The darkness of the room would find its way to her and she would suffocate. Her hands clutched the sheets, balling them into soggy mounds.

Breathe, a voice intoned and the candle flared and brightened the room. Breathe, she heard again and remembered that single word which Ophelia, the midwife, had chanted.

Her lungs wheezed and expanded with the effort. The pain eased a little.

Breathe slowly, like you tryin’ to stoke up a fire, not like some ol’ houn’ after his bitch.

***

Another tree fell in the yard and Michele heard the door downstairs burst open.

"Cherie, I’m coming!"

Michele listened to Andre’s heavy tread. He stopped outside the bedroom door and she could hear his breathing, as labored as her own. She raised her head. Specks of light swirled across her eyes.

Where’s Ophelia?

The tr-truck, Andre stammered.

She’s in the truck? Please, go get her.

No. I mean the truck wouldn’t start. The storm. I couldn’t get her, he confessed.

Please come inside the room. Michele stifled a scream as another wave of pain descended. Andre, you’ll have to help me now.

Michele watched him look back at the door as he shuffled closer. I don’t know how—

Andre. Listen. We can do this.

Andre stared at her.

Michele moved her back again against the headboard and spread her legs. I’m going to push. All you have to do is get the head when it comes.

Andre shook his head. "Men don’t know anything except how to make babies."

Michele grimaced. We both made the baby. Now we bring it into the world. She saw the anguish in his handsome face and feared it was greater than her own.

He moved closer and looked down at the bloody sheets.

All right, he whispered.

Michele braced herself and looked up at her husband. You’ll have to help me. I’m going to push. When you see the baby’s head, take it gently and guide it out. Do you understand?

Andre nodded, but she wasn’t certain he understood anything. The wind renewed its assault and the house trembled.

Michele took deep breaths, groaned with each and pushed. Andre hunkered over her, waiting.

She pushed again and the baby inched forward. Take the head, Andre! Gently.

No head, Andre muttered.

Andre, please, just guide the head!

No head, Andre repeated.

Michele bit back words Andre had never heard her speak. The pain was excruciating. She pushed again.

I see something! Andre yelled.

Take the head!

A foot, Andre replied.

Foot? Andre, it must be breech. The baby is coming out backwards. Take the feet and—

One foot, Andre said.

All right. Good. Now look for the other.

I see another. Two feet!

Good, Andre. You’re doing good. Now I’ll push some more. Get the shoulders and head out as quickly as possible.

Michele pushed and the baby moved.

Stop! Andre shouted. It has a worm attached to its belly!"

It’s not a worm. It’s a good thing. Is it wrapped around the head?

There was no reply.

Andre, is it wrapped around the head?

No head, Andre whispered.

Michele’s fingernails dug into her palms. She pushed again with her last remaining strength and her only child was delivered to the world outside.

It is here! Andre yelled.

Take it carefully. Wipe its nose and mouth. Mind the worm. Put it in the blanket. Give it to me.

Andre moved slowly. He wiped the baby’s face with his dirty undershirt and it looked at him and screamed. He almost dropped it. He handed it to Michele eagerly, but carefully.

The hollering. It’s a good thing, no?

Yes, Michele replied. She held it low to her breasts and gently pressed the cord aside.

"Cherie. The baby. Is it deformed?"

What? Michele said weakly and gazed at the wonder in her arms.

It, it has no poodle, Andre said.

The baby is not deformed, you lug, she whispered.

But it has no—

Andre. We have a daughter.

Andre looked uncertain. A what?

Michele smiled. A daughter. A baby girl. A beautiful baby girl, Andre.

***

Michele carried the sodden basket of wash on one hip and her small child on the other.

She dropped the basket next to the clothesline Andre had secured between two trees in the backyard. She carefully placed her baby on the sparse grass nearby. She produced a rag doll from her apron pocket and handed it to the child.

Annie, this is your new friend, Shirley T. Shirley T, meet Anastasie.

Annie took the doll in her tiny hands, chuckled and hugged it tightly.

Swirly Tee, she said.

Michele sighed and tried to massage her back as she pulled out the damp sheets and strung them on the clothes line. She grabbed clothespins from her other pocket and struggled to hang the cloth in the stiff breeze.

Dammit! she said, as the sheet slid off the wire and landed in the dirt beneath her feet.

Dimmit! Annie said and pointed her finger reproachfully at Shirley T.

Don’t say that! Michele warned. She blew back hair that had tangled in the corner of her mouth. Now, you see, Annie, the sheet is ruined!

Rurnt, Annie echoed.

Michele stared at the mess on the ground. It wasn’t that she didn’t love her child. It was just that Andre had been gone for so long and now he was finally home. He worked hard all day and spent most of his spare hours with Annie. The two had been inseparable in the short time they had been together since he had returned. She was a Cajun woman, but she needed her man. Of course she felt a responsibility toward their child. Their child and others.

Momma? Momma! Annie said.

Michele looked down at her. What is it, Annie?

Anastasie held the doll above her head and then squeezed it against her tiny chest. I wuve Shirley T. I wuve you too.

Michele smiled. I wuve both of you.

How could you not? She bent down to pick up the soiled sheets and felt the familiar pain in her back again. She thought back to that first time when she was but fifteen. She gazed down toward the bayou where the old pier lay. Her father had built it years ago. The boards were still good, but the nails were rusty and stuck up here and there. She and her friend, Cilly, and Cilly’s little brother, Mikey, had been jumping into the water from the pier. The little boy was only ten when he got a running start, blew past the two of them and tried to do a flip into the water. He landed short. Much too short. His back hit the end of the pier. He slid off into the water and lay floating, head down, arms outstretched. At first the girls thought he was faking, trying to get their attention for his daring act. A full minute passed and he wasn’t moving. Michele shook herself, dove into the water and pulled his lifeless body onto the grass and pebbles. She turned him over and she would never forget those sightless eyes, staring into the sun and that frozen expression of astonishment.

Do something! Cilly had yelled at her.

Michele placed her hands beneath him, her fingers gently caressing his spine. She felt an overwhelming rush of energy coming from somewhere within her body. A lifetime passed. The boy coughed. Michele felt his chest moving. He spat out a little water and coughed again. He looked at her and smiled. She helped him up and Cilly was there, wrapping her skinny arms around both of them, her large eyes filled with awe as she looked from her brother back to Michele. The three children never told anyone what had happened that day. They never spoke about it among themselves.

Michele put out the rest of the laundry to dry and crammed the soiled sheet back into her basket. She would have to wash it again. She glanced down at her child who was cooing softly to her new friend.

She hoped she was up to the job of teaching Annie what she needed to know. It was a daunting task to pass on something that required such self-sacrifice. Her back always ached when she bent over and there were other pains as well, but she knew her own needs must be forfeited. As she watched her child cuddle with the doll, she felt a mix of both sadness and elation. She prayed they would both be up to the task.

She reached down and picked up Annie and Shirley T. Annie kissed both of them, her mother first. Michele kissed the child and the doll. She stumbled slightly and Annie giggled.

She regained her balance, carefully took Shirley T and placed her in the basket. She put her child on one hip, the basket on the other. Together, they journeyed toward home.

***

Journal of Anastasie-1

I remember. I must have been four or five. I don’t recall much before that age, but later I found out that Papa had been gone to another war in a place called Korea. I vaguely had the feeling that something important was missing during that time. Momma seemed sad until he returned and then she laughed often again. I don’t think the two of them ever talked about exactly where he had been or what he had done in either war, but I recall a box full of medals in the attic.

Papa would take me out in his dented, metal boat with the busted motor that worked sometimes. Often he would row or pole, especially if the water was too shallow. Some people, some who even lived near us, were afraid of the swamp. They didn’t go near it, failed to embrace it and remained terrified of it. I think the richness of their whole life experience was diminished by their inability to explore the world around them.

Papa would smile. He was always smiling. He would point out a heron dipping down into the water and scooping up a little fish for its supper. He would tell me to close my eyes and see with my nose. He would ask me to tell him what I saw. I saw the sweetness of magnolia and the putrid odor of hyacinth. The scent of bald cypress trees and the fungal smell of moss. He would tell me to keep my eyes tightly closed and tell him what I felt. The warmth of sunlight on my face, the tickling of sweat down my neck and the slight rocking of our little metal island.

What did I hear? The warning chirps of squirrels, the swoop of a hawk, the rustling of cattails. Papa laughed and praised me and my nose and skin.

"Open your eyes now, Annie. Lookie. Look at that log near the shore!"

I found the log. At first it looked like so many others. What was so special about this one, I wondered? The boat’s small wake rolled over it. Its huge jaws yawned wide. I stared at the log’s nobby head and its eyes opened, cat eyes, staring at us.

"Big lizard, Papa!"

"No, no, Cherie. Big gator. Don’t be swimmin’ with that fella’ around," Papa said to me and laughed.

Papa checked one of his nets. He pulled it up out of the brackish water with a grunt. Yellow cat. Supper! he said excitedly and held up a whiskered, prehistoric creature.

I was a little afraid of it. Papa, it’s as big as me!

"It sure is, he said and whacked it a few times with an oar. The catfish finally lay still, taking up most of the boat between us. Your Momma will be happy. Good eatin’ for all of us."

I only saw my Papa afraid one time. We were in the boat, the water had narrowed and we glided under a tangle of vines near the shore. As we passed underneath the spidery limbs, something fell and landed in the boat just a few inches from my bare feet.

I looked down and a writhing dark form slithered toward me and began curling around my ankles. It opened its mouth, yawning like the gator had done and I saw the color of snow surrounding the forked tongue.

"Annie! Don’t be moving. Not a twitch," Papa said in a voice so odd, it scared me. He rose up as if to come toward me, but the boat was rocking fiercely and he lost his balance and had to sit back down.

"Papa, you sit. It’s all right," I remember calling out to him. I wasn’t afraid of the snake. I was afraid for him. The cottonmouth seemed content to remain attached to my skinny bones, its tongue darting in and out through flashes of white. I reached my hand down slowly and it raised its body and then remained motionless. I grasped the back of its head, held it up above my own and the snake lay limply in my small fingers.

I moved the snake over the water, lowered my hand and gently let go. It flopped into the water and swam away.

"Mother of God," Papa whispered.

"You see, Papa. It didn’t want to hurt me. The snake was just confused."

"We’re going home," he said.

***

Anastasie held her doll clutched tightly to her chest and danced round and round in the front yard to the fiddle music in her head. Michele hummed to herself, while she darned socks and kept an eye on her child from the front porch. Anastasie’s bib overalls were too big, but Momma had rolled the legs up and tightened the straps. The sparse clumps of grass amid the dirt and pebbles felt good against the soles of Anastasie’s tiny, bare feet and she slowed her dancing just long enough to jump from one green mound to another.

She stopped for a moment, held the doll up and whispered to her little playmate, whose body had been carefully pieced together from bits of stuffed cloth and mismatched buttons. Momma had topped the head with a crown of hair made of light, curled knitting yarn.

Shirley T, I love you, but I wish…

Shirley T stared at her unblinking, politely waiting for Anastasie to finish. Anastasie could not bring herself to hurt Shirley T’s feelings.

I love you a whole lot, Anastasie said and squeezed her.

Anastasie hugged her close again and they continued dancing as a cool breeze stirred the willows. Anastasie stopped suddenly and listened. She looked up at the porch and Momma was still rocking and sewing and humming. She looked down at Shirley T.

Did you hear something?

Shirley T didn’t answer, but she knew.

Anastasie glanced to the side and something rustled in the thick brush.

Just an old nutria. She smiled at Shirley T. Now, you don’t be letting those big old teeth scare you. It won’t hurt you.

Anastasie stomped her foot and a small, furry animal that resembled the offspring of a beaver and a rat, scurried from beneath a tangle of vines and disappeared.

Anastasie giggled. See?

Then they both heard a cough. A small sound, but distinctly human.

They glanced at the porch again, but Momma hadn’t noticed it.

Anastasie and Shirley T walked slowly toward a huge pecan tree. Anastasie placed her feet cautiously to avoid the shells which lay everywhere. She stopped and peered into the shadows beyond the tree.

There’s somebody there. I knew it! she whispered to Shirley T.

A little girl stood not five feet from them. She stared at them and tensed as if to take flight.

Wait! Wait, don’t go, Anastasie called out to her. I’ve got something for you. Can you wait a second?

The intruder nodded. Anastasie carefully placed Shirley T against the pecan tree. I need someone to watch her for me. Will you do that?

The girl nodded again.

Anastasie backed up, then ran as fast as she could down to the bayou’s bank, a few yards from the house. She stood searching, found what she wanted and pulled it carefully away from the tangle of wet leaves that surrounded it. She ran back. The little girl was still there, silently watching.

Anastasie walked toward her. She held out her hand. It’s for you.

The girl stood uncertainly for a moment. She snatched the delicate purple flower with a dark hand, held it to her nose and made a face.

Thank you. It’s beautiful, she said and smiled shyly.

Anastasie laughed. I know it sorta stinks, but it’s very pretty. Are you lost? Anastasie asked.

The little girl shook her head. I lives ‘round here. I know all about you. You is Anastasie and you momma and papa are Michele and Andre. Her teeth sparkled.

Anastasie smiled. Then I know you too. You’re Lavonia and your momma and papa are Ophelia and Cornelius.

The girls giggled. Guess that makes us frien’s, Lavonia said.

Anastasie pointed to the pecan tree. And this is Shirley T, she said. She used to be my best friend. Until today.

***

Journal of Anastasie-2

I remember the last time we went out in the boat. It was a cool autumn day, early in the morning. Heavy mist enveloped us. Papa rowed for what seemed like hours so that the sun was finally trying to find its way to us when he steered the boat toward a small sandbar. He jumped out and pulled the boat onto the shore. He grabbed his knapsack and shotgun.

"Come, Annie, but be very quiet," he whispered.

I followed him through the tall grass and we walked silently for a while until we came to the edge of a little opening in the forest. Papa gestured for me to sit down beside a tall oak. He moved closer to the opening and squatted behind a downed tree. He carefully laid his knapsack beside him, broke open his battered single shot and placed a shell in the chamber. He positioned the gun against a forked limb