Darkness In the Mirror

By Rob Rice

There is something in the shadows... There, in the corner of the glass... Perhaps it's just an imperfection, the mirror is old and neglected... But you know that it's not an imperfection. There is something, there, moving with purpose. Something that wants something... And what might that something be There is something in the Bayeaux around New Orleans... Something tragic. Something evil. There is a reason why a man hardened in the school of the alley and the life-preserver cannot think of the heads in Blenheim Castle without shuddering, and a horrible reason for what some would call a dire revenge. There is an exhibit in a museum that, to a trained mind, radiates fear... betrayal... bewilderment. There is something moving in the darkness in the mirror.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Oct 27, 2016
• ISBN: 9781365490460

Book preview

Darkness In the Mirror

Darkness in the Mirror

Rob S. Rice

Copyright © 2001-2015 by Rob S. Rice

ELECTRONIC EDITION

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Any members of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or publishers who would like to obtain permission to include the work in an anthology, should send their enquiries to:

Esterhazy Press, PO Box 123, North Pembroke, MA 02358

Cover and Interior Illustration by Donna Barr

http://donnabarr.blogspot.com/2014/03/hire-artist-rates.html

I dedicate this book to all those close and dear who have found themselves thrilling to my prose-and pressing me for more of it.

Bert, John, John & Pinkie, Fred, Dr. Doug, and the rest of you... The thought that I could produce something that any of you enjoyed enough to want more of has always been more precious and useful than any of you could really know.

RSR

Swamp Echoes

December 27th

There was a pressing need of more animals to facilitate the transport of the larger ordnance from the fleet, I and three of my men are ordered by General Pakenham’s staff to canvas the surrounding plantations in the hope that earlier parties might have missed a useful beast or two.  There might also be a chance to procure strays from the American lines or from friendly planters in the vicinity of the city, such as have communicated with us already.  I am to have myself, Corporal Telford, and two of our own foragers, the presence of the Americans on the river making it advisable for us to brave the treacherous terrain of the swamp, for all its hazards, the safer route.  Curse their riflemen!

Later—Disaster.  In the night mist I became totally disoriented, we were each of us separated by falls, mishaps, and misleading noises from the fog.  It is only with great difficulty that I have extricated myself from the morass into which I had fallen, and my men and Corporal do not respond to my calls.  I have found another straggler from the ranks, a Highland Sgt. of the 85th Regiment of Foot, he seems familiar with the terrain and bids me lay still, easy counsel in my weariness.  I am most uneasy about my absence from my own troops, and remain determined not to fail in the mission for which I have been dispatched.

***

I couldn’t be rightly blamed for thinking of France, not at all, really.  Either way I was riding the motor-cycle in the presence of dangerous people, in uniform, and in this part of the bayeaux I heard about as much of the other language as I had back in the Ardennes—it sounded right the same, too, at least to my ears.  The machine was newer, faster, bigger, one of Mr. Davidson’s new 32 V models (When the King Fish had money, the State Police tended to get it), and the moonshiners didn’t have artillery.  Hat would have been the same if I’d been an officer in France.  The road was a mite better than the old communications trenches, at least the ones that didn’t have duckboards.  It was worse than those.  It was mud, and ruts, and sand, for all what Governor Long had promised he’d do and done where the folks who voted most for him lived.

Lot of the men didn’t like working down here in St. Bernard’s Parish, what with the bad roads, the Creoles, the water and the trees.  I didn’t mind it too much.  People are nice enough if you expect them to be, and give them the chance to be, white or colored, Indian or Cajun.  I’d gotten my rank by my calm nature, which showed itself in my giving folk a chance to ‘fess up to things, or drop the rifle or the knife, didn’t want to kill anyone, and not a lot of them wanted to die.  I can say I’d done well.  When folk smile at the uniform and the star on the machine, that’s a good thing, wave as you go by, and I’d rather have a glass of lemonade on an Auntie’s old porch than a charge of buckshot coming back when I kicked open a door.  Kids would come up and ask to honk the horn bulb on the machine, or like as not tell you about some ‘bad men’ back in the Swamp and save the whole troop a mess of trouble.

That day… There were signs if you were looking, I should have heeded them.  You don’t know when it’s real, or when it doesn’t matter, or when it’s just the same message twice over so you don’t miss it.  Bluejay flew right to left across the road, then two others further on… I spat over my left shoulder on the first one, should have after those next two.  Can’t fault my guardian angel, he was doing the best he could for me, and I don’t think he gave up on me at the time, nor even later.  In fact, I’m sure of that.

It was hot!  It was July 26, 1932, they had just had a big earth-quake out in Los Angeles, the hurricanes had not yet started down here, but you could think about that, things were tense over in Alabama but folk down here didn’t seem too worked up, life’s too easy in the Bayeaux if you don’t expect more than the Lord provides.  I had a bandana tied around my neck.

It’s not as if we didn’t have the feuds, and some stills out in the swamps a-workin, but we let the boys know that if they drank more than they sold and didn’t make us notice it, they’d get by, and I kept my eyes more open for the low-lifes out of the city who’d come down here and think they could hide out in a cabin a spell, whether someone else rightly lived there or not!  Knock on every door once I got out of the towns.  Gave me a chance to stretch my legs and pass a howdy with the folk on my assigned patrol, get a cold biscuit, glass of milk, maybe a smile from a pretty girl or nice old folks.  Made you feel good about wearing the badge.

Had to watch yourself in the heat, though, and they knew at the pumps at Mr. C. H. Murphy’s filling stations what I’d do if they sold me gas with paraffin-oil in it!  Stop the machine cold, it would, and not much besides could make me more ornery than that.  Depression real bad, and everyone blaming poor Mr. Hoover, as if he’d done all the speculating in Florida or made those farmers plow up the dust bowl.  My people were always of the other party than most folk around here, starting with the Rebellion, not that we made the fact known.  It looked right like that Mr. Roosevelt was going to promise himself into the White House.  He reminded me too much of King Fish Long for me to rest easy in my mind about him winning.  You do your duty and pray a lot, as I’ve did and done.  Times were bad, powerful bad, but the folk down here were poor before it all started, couldn’t get too much poorer after.

I was doing all right.  They needed me in the new State Police, and at least now we could carry our revolvers outside the uniform.  Good thing we wore that rig they called a ‘Sam Browne’ from the last war, the belt with a shoulder strap over the shoulder opposite your sidearm.  Carrying iron officially had just happened, I had me a big Colt New Service in the old long cartridge my daddy had used in Cuba.  Didn’t often need to pull the trigger on that cannon.  Accurate thing, though, you could shoot a crow of a stump at fifty yards with it, not that I’d waste a .45 on a bird like that, unless he was in the cornfield itself and the levee was behind him.  I wasn’t the killing sort, and I didn’t aim to be.  Couldn’t rightly abide hunting after I saw the look in a buck’s eyes as he lay dieing.

Granny Thibodeaux lived out of Meraux.  She was old and like to faring on toward poorly, which worried me some.  I knew the Church ladies would come out there of a while, but I made a particular point of calling on her when my route took me past her maison.  Creole as they come, Granny Thibodeaux, Acadian stock down from Canada before the Revolution and down in the bayoux ever since.  Folk said she was a wise woman, but she was the kind folk looked to see, nothing bad ever happened that got blamed on Mamere Thibodeaux.  Her cannas on the long front porch were still bright, that was a comfort, and I thought about turning back up the drive and getting on with my rounds.  But, she’d have heard the motor and be expecting me, and I wouldn’t disappoint her.

Put the machine on its rear stand on a harder piece of ground, threw a bushel basket over the seat to keep the chickens from pecking at the lining—don’t laugh, it’s happened.  Hung my goggles on the handlebar.  Granny didn’t keep a dog, but a cat or two walked around the barn and glared at me, hey-o there, Mr. State Police, we’re just minding our business and won’t you do the same, thank you.  I smiled, took off my hat and knocked.

What a fright I had then!  Door flew open just after, and didn’t Granny throw a big pail of her soapy dish water right in my face.  I could see her face crinkle up as I howled and nearly, and I do say nearly, swore at my sopping clothes and dripping badge and buttons.  Granny was all a-flurry with the apologies and I’m-sorries.

"Je couyon, Oo ye yi!  G.T., I didn’t hear you getting down, and now, look at you!  You take off those clothes, garçon, the Saints have my stove a-goin’ for the dishes, I’ll dry your conson, Beb, you take a towel off the press, there, and keep the rust off your metal things…"

That’s how people that deep in the bayeaux talked, in those days, they called us ‘Texians,’ for not talking like that, what she was at was by way of apologizing for soaking me down the way she had and planning to make it right.  And wasn’t there an old linen duster, clean, too, of old Daddy Thibodeaux’s hanging on the front door hook and she had me put that on in the spare room while she held my drawers and undershirt up to her fine cast-iron stove and got them dry with a rush.  I took a bit of her lamp-oil to wipe down my revolver and cartridges, and threw the rag in the stove when I was done with that.

She had a bit of a fresh beignet and coffee for me as I sat there, she had me smiling and laughing at the whole thing with her apologies and garden gossip, and my, she could still bake, at her age.  Then she had me at going back in the room, dark in there, while she handed in my drawers and shirt, and then I got the rest of me dressed while she chattered on.  I was glad to listen, for a fact, she had a good hold on all that went on in that part of the Parish, and I learned a lot more with my ears open then when my mouth was in the same condition.

She had me dressed and ready in less than an hour after she’d thrown the water on me, and she was fine, she said, never better, but would I call upon the Martins three miles down the road, toward Shell Beach, she’d heard of some kind of trouble out that way, and they’d be glad to see me.  She gave me a hug and a kiss on the cheek, blessed me in her own way, and tucked a bag into my hand as she saw me out.

I had a moment to think while I arranged my traps and got the machine ready to start.  Put Granny’s little sack in the leather saddlebags on the machine.  What had she been about?  Granny was old, but she wasn’t foolish, and her eyes and ears hadn’t yet failed on her.  I knew that she knew that I knew she’d thrown that water on me a-purpose, and the fact that it was clean soapy water without a bit of the kitchen in it would have proved it to someone who didn’t know Granny.  She was a good old soul, and, as I’ve said, a wise woman, I didn’t doubt, and what she’d done she’d done for a good reason.  Wouldn’t do to dwell on it, but I should have been more on my guard.  I look back, though, and I’ll tell you, I’m not certain as to how doing anything differently would have prevented it all.

Lucius Martin and his Susannah were waiting at the gate post when the machine and I rumbled up their little stretch of road.  Had to watch like a hawk on that stretch, pot hole would send you right over the handlebars and into the mire down there, it was real bad on that road, not too far from the mess around Lake Borgne in the lowest country.  I liked people like Lucius Martin as much as I favored Granny in a different way, it was a case of a man with a head and his back using both to get by.  They were hog farmers, the Martins were, colored folk who stayed away from the towns and let their stock root for what they could find in the swamps and lie up in the mud way out where none could take offense or cause ‘em trouble.

Afternoon, Mr. G.T.

Lucius.  Granny said you might be having some kind of trouble out here?

Lucius nodded hard, pushing back his old straw hat and mopping his head with a red cloth, as I’d said, it was hot that Tuesday.  The hogs smelled, and he’d been in the sun, but a man who can’t turn off his nose won’t last in the State Police, in Louisiana, at least, the year out.  You let the chife go, it let you go, and I wasn’t one to offend a man like Martin when no offense was called for.

I can get you a glass water?  Something out there, Mr. G.T., scared my hogs powerful this morning.  Thought it might be some Tahyo, bear, maybe, they’ll come out for that, but I could say that I heard a horse a-screamin.’  Could have wondered off and gotten into a bad hole, pr’haps.  Might you let me take you out for a look?

I had to smile and shake my head again, Granny didn’t have a phone, and I didn’t care to think how she’d found out that Lucius Martin had had his fright that morning.  All right, Lucius, all right.

We walked out past his pens and wallers into the areas where he drove the hogs every day—Lucius had himself an old Winchester pump gun like they’d used in France, and I’d paused to look to the chambers on the Colt.  No, it wasn’t for some bear or Tahyo, big dog, it was for a rogue hog, and if you don’t know why we’d be a bit worried about that, you don’t know your hogs.  My own sainted grandmother had been yanked off the porch as a little girl by her older sister before a big hog could get her, and you didn’t want to take the chance on one getting savage or scared enough to take a piece out of your leg on his way by.

Lucius was getting on in years, and his boy was at school up at the Tuskegee Normal and Industrial Institute.  Things had gone by for whiles, so we found that the trails were overgrown enough for us both to need a sling blade to hack through the worst of it.  We were near the banks of one of the bayeaux heading up toward the Lake Borgne itself when I heard what had bothered Lucius, and it was a horse, and it was making quite a ruckus.  I didn’t like what the sounds brought back to my mind, which was of what had been left when one of the big German whiz-bangs had caught an Artillery team of ours in the open back in France. I’d had to put down a poor beast myself, and I wonder if Lucius raised an eyebrow at my wince and shake of the head at a sight I could have done without seeing.  I imagine Lucius had his own reasons for holding back a bit as we pressed forward, besides being able to pull me out if I fell in, I mean.

It was a bad morass, that’s a fact, where the poor animal had gotten into, and it was making sounds you wouldn’t think a horse could make, if you hadn’t heard and seen what I’d seen in France.  I couldn’t blame Lucius for taking a fright at noises like those.  I called out to the beast as soon as I saw it, and it quieted right down, I could see its ears going forward to catch the sound of me.  Its head came up fast.

"I thought it might be in Le zink noir, that’s a bad spot.  Has a bad reputation, Mr. G.T.  Goes back to my granddaddy’s time, and most of the neighbors stay well clear.  We’ve lost more than a hog or two in that way, I had it fenced some years back, guess the bayou took the wire."  Lucius was putting a brave mask over a scared face as he looked at the Spanish lichen hangin’ down off the twisty live oaks and cypress that loomed all around the slough.  You’d hear gurgles and bubbling, made me touch my revolver.  A gator would not be unheard of in a place like that.

I looked out at the horse, which, a mercy, wasn’t struggling at that point as it waited for us to do something to help it.  If it’d struggled, it’d have sunk faster in that stuff.  Didn’t seem to have struggled much before we got there, but it was down to its shoulders in the muck.   It was an older animal, now that I got the look at it, ribs showing just a bit, hindquarters up and bony, but a good animal for all that and it didn’t look injured enough for me to rightly do the coward’s easy thing and shoot it.  Dark dappled gray with a whitish muzzle.

Lucius, do you have a pirogue on that bayou, or know someone that has?  You ought to be able to pole it even in that, if you can get over…

Martin thought about it a piece, then nodded.  There’s one a few rods up the road that my boy and his friends kept for the froggin,’ I could get that.  Think we’ll need it?

Oh, I’m a fool enough to go out there on my own, it doesn’t look that deep, but why don’t you go and get the thing and pass the word to Susannah what the matter is.  You don’t have a team, do you?

No, sir, Mr. Blanchard comes out from Chalmette with the truck when I’ve hogs for him.

I nodded.

I think I can get the beast out of that without one, if I might have access to your shed?  Thank you.  You bring down the pirogue and I’ll holler if I need it.

What I was at, of course, was in sparing Lucius Martin what looked to be a dirty, messy, and maybe dangerous job.  He was a strong man, farmed all his life, but he was past sixty and I didn’t want him taking the apoplexy or worse trying to help me wrestle that nag out of the mud.  He’d be at getting the pirogue—that’s a dug out wooden boat, the poor folk use them in the bayeaux—while I was wading out to the animal with a rope around my waist and getting at a trick I’d seen used in the Army when a sutler mule got himself into a similar fix.  Boat could come in handy, for that matter, yes it could.

Lucius probably had a proper axe over in the slaughtering pen, but I didn’t favor the sights and smells there just then, particularly after remembering what those horses had looked like back in ’18.  What he had in his woodshed was good hemp rope, and a lot of it, and a heavy splitting maul, with a grindstone to freshen up the edge, which I did before I made my way back to Le Zink noir, as Lucius had called that slough.  The maul had a good ash handle, but it was a heavy, clumsy thing compared to an axe.  The hammer end could be useful what I had in mind, so I didn’t bother Susannah for something better than that heavy thing before I made my way back.  Day was getting on, and I didn’t want to be out with the bogs, hogs, and frogs after dark.  No, I didn’t.

Mercy, but it was hot.  I could hear the animal whinny out as Lucius and I turned our backs on it, so I did a foolish thing that shouldn’t have worked.  That was hanging my hat on a broken bough upwind of the animal, figuring the sight and scent of it would tell the horse that we were coming back to help, and as I breathe the animal did quiet down once I’d done that.  It was staring right up the trail as I made my rope fast to a not-too-big black gum growing, providentially, I’d say, not far behind a very large live oak.  Other end I made round my waist, if I did get into a fix, it wouldn’t be for being improvident.  Threw another coil of heavier rope over my shoulder and kept on my Sam Browne and the Colt just in case something out there decided to give me trouble.

All right, there, Mr. Horse, I’m at wading out to you (I’d taken off my boots, socks, and pants, and if you want to laugh at that, go right ahead), and if you’ll co-operate with the law and wait for me to do so, I think I can get you out of this.  Draped my things over a low gum branch that hung near.

You may doubt that the animal