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A wave of oppression and drowsiness swept over Evelyn during the church service. Her head ached, and the altar lights seemed to sway before her eyes. Normally, she would have tried to regain her composure, but now her sole thought was to escape the stifling air inside. She stood, muttering an apology as she climbed over Taylor’s feet.
Old Monsieur Farival, flustered and curious, stood up, but upon seeing Taylor follow Evelyn, he sank back into his seat. He whispered anxiously to the lady in black, who ignored him, her eyes fixed on the pages of her velvet prayer book.
“I felt dizzy and almost fainted,” Evelyn explained, instinctively lifting her hands to her head and pushing her straw hat up from her forehead. “I couldn’t stay through the service.” They stood outside in the church’s shadow, Taylor full of concern.
“It was foolish to think of going, let alone staying,” he said, taking her arm gently. “Come over to Madame Antoine’s; you can rest there.” He led her away, his eyes filled with worry.
The stillness was profound, broken only by the whisper of the sea through the reeds in the saltwater pools. Little gray, weather-beaten houses nestled among orange trees. It seemed perpetually peaceful on that drowsy island, Evelyn thought. They stopped at a jagged fence made of sea-drift to ask for water. A mild-faced Acadian youth was drawing water from a cistern, an old rusty buoy sunk into the ground. The water he handed them in a tin pail wasn’t cold, but it was cool on Evelyn’s flushed face, reviving her.
Madame Antoine’s cottage was at the far end of the village. She welcomed them with native hospitality, as if opening her door to sunlight. She was fat and moved clumsily, but with a heart full of eagerness to help. Though she spoke no English, Taylor conveyed that Evelyn needed to rest, and Madame Antoine bustled to make her comfortable.
The cottage was spotless, and the big, four-poster bed, with its snow-white linens, invited repose. It stood in a small side room looking out over a narrow grass plot toward a shed where a disabled boat lay keel-up.
Madame Antoine had not gone to mass. Her son Tonie had, but she expected him back soon and invited Taylor to wait inside. Instead, he sat outside the door, smoking. Madame Antoine busied herself in the large front room, preparing dinner. She boiled mullets over a few red coals in the huge fireplace.
Evelyn, alone in the little side room, loosened her clothes, removing most of them. She bathed her face, neck, and arms in the basin between the windows, then took off her shoes and stockings, stretching out in the very center of the high, white bed. How luxurious it felt to rest in this strange, quaint bed, with the sweet country scent of laurel lingering in the sheets and mattress. She stretched her limbs, aching slightly, and ran her fingers through her loosened hair. She examined her round arms, marveling at their fine, firm texture as if seeing them for the first time. She clasped her hands above her head and drifted into sleep.
Her sleep was light at first, half aware of her surroundings. She heard Madame Antoine’s heavy tread on the sanded floor and chickens clucking outside the windows. Later, she half-heard Taylor and Tonie talking under the shed, their voices blending with other drowsy, muffled sounds lulling her senses. Tonie’s slow Acadian drawl and Taylor’s quick, soft French became part of the soothing background as she slipped into deeper slumber.
When Evelyn awoke, she felt as if she had slept long and soundly. The voices outside had hushed, and the rhythmic tread of Madame Antoine could no longer be heard. Even the chickens had moved on. The mosquito net was drawn around her; Madame Antoine must have come in and lowered it while she slept. Evelyn rose quietly from the bed and peeked between the curtains. The sun’s slanting rays indicated that afternoon was well advanced.
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Taylor lounged under the shed, reclining in the shade against the keel of the overturned boat, engrossed in a book. Tonie was nowhere to be seen. Evelyn wondered where the rest of the party had gone. She stole a few glances at Taylor as she washed herself in the basin between the windows.
Madame Antoine had left clean, coarse towels on a chair and a box of poudre de riz within reach. Evelyn dabbed the powder on her nose and cheeks, studying her reflection in the small, distorted mirror above the basin. Her eyes were bright, wide awake, and her face glowed.
After finishing her toilet, she walked into the adjoining room, feeling very hungry. The room was empty, but a cloth-covered table stood against the wall, set for one, with a crusty brown loaf and a bottle of wine beside the plate. Evelyn tore a piece from the loaf with her strong, white teeth and poured herself some wine, drinking it down. Then she slipped outside, plucked an orange from a low-hanging branch, and tossed it at Taylor.
Taylor looked up, startled, and a broad smile spread across his face as he joined her under the orange tree.
“How many years have I slept?” she asked playfully. “The whole island seems changed. A new race of beings must have sprung up, leaving only you and me as relics of the past. When did Madame Antoine and Tonie die? And when did our people from Grand Isle disappear from the earth?”
He adjusted a ruffle on her shoulder, his touch familiar and gentle.
“You’ve slept precisely one hundred years,” he replied, with a mock-serious tone. “I was left here to guard your slumber, and for one hundred years I’ve been reading under the shed. The only thing I couldn’t prevent was the broiled fowl from drying up.”
“If it’s turned to stone, I’ll still eat it,” Evelyn laughed, moving with him into the house. “But really, what happened to Monsieur Farival and the others?”
“They left hours ago. When they saw you were asleep, they decided not to wake you. Besides, I wouldn’t have let them. That’s what I was here for,” Taylor said.
“I wonder if Léonce will be uneasy,” she mused, seating herself at the table.
“Of course not. He knows you’re with me,” Taylor replied, busying himself among the pans and covered dishes left on the hearth.
“Where are Madame Antoine and her son?” Evelyn asked.
“They’ve gone to Vespers and to visit friends, I believe. I’ll take you back in Tonie’s boat whenever you’re ready.”
He stirred the smoldering ashes until the broiled fowl began to sizzle afresh. He served her a hearty meal, brewing fresh coffee and sharing it with her. Madame Antoine had cooked little besides the mullets, but while Evelyn slept, Taylor had foraged the island for food. He was childishly pleased to see her appetite and the relish with which she ate the food he had procured.
Evelyn savored every bite, grateful for the care and effort Taylor had put into the meal. They shared a quiet, companionable moment, the simple act of eating together deepening their bond. Outside, the sun dipped lower, casting long shadows and painting the sky with hues of orange and pink.
“Shall we go right away?” Evelyn asked, after draining her glass and brushing together the crumbs of the crusty loaf.
“The sun isn’t as low as it will be in two hours,” Taylor replied, leaning back.
“The sun will be gone in two hours.”
“Well, let it go; who cares!” he said with a carefree shrug.
They waited a good while under the orange trees, enjoying the languid afternoon until Madame Antoine returned, panting and waddling, with a thousand apologies for her absence. Tonie, too shy to return and face any woman except his mother, stayed away.
It was very pleasant under the orange trees as the sun dipped lower, turning the western sky into a flaming display of copper and gold. Shadows lengthened, creeping out like stealthy, grotesque monsters across the grass.
Evelyn and Taylor sat on the ground; he lay beside her, occasionally picking at the hem of her muslin gown. Madame Antoine settled her broad, squat figure on a bench beside the door. She had been talking all afternoon and was now wound up to storytelling pitch.
And what stories she told them! Despite having left Chênière Caminada only twice in her life and for the briefest spans, she had gathered an incredible trove of legends about the Baratarians and the sea. As night fell and the moon rose, Evelyn could almost hear the whispering voices of dead men and the click of muffled gold.
When Evelyn and Taylor finally stepped into Tonie’s boat, with its red lateen sail, the night was alive with misty spirit forms prowling in the shadows and among the reeds. Phantom ships seemed to glide over the water, heading to unseen destinations.