Fyrea's Cauldron Read online

  However, if it was a fire, Marie was apparently the only one aware of it. Even as she was up and across the carpet to the window, the house remained quiet.

  What she discovered, upon looking outside, took her breath away. If she had correctly analyzed the reflections as having been flame-caused, it was hardly what she expected.

  Out there, weaving, like a slow-moving serpent, was a long line of figures carrying lighted torches. The flickering flames had the night battling to reclaim its supremacy. Shadows and light fought for control, converting the whole backyard into a maze of shifting designs through which moved—how many?—people. There had to be at least a hundred. Going where?

  Marie turned from the window and reached for her robe on a nearby chair, tripping on a footstool as she did so. She hardly noticed the pain of her bruised shin, so anxious was she to put definition to this latest night-time madness.

  Any initial fears that the house was being set to torch by natives was put to rest. The figures weren’t moving toward the house but away from it. The torchbearers weren’t running helter-skelter, or jumping up and down: stereotypical actions of savages run amok.

  Actually, Marie had a firm inclination to stay right where she was. The idea of one lone woman rushing out to confront a hundred figures with torches had not a little bit of madness to it. She was driven, though, by an inner knowledge that too many unsolved mysteries were liable to make her crack under the strain. Somehow, somewhere, there had to be some speck of reason to the general overall confusion. She was determined to get one piece of it, this piece of it, before this latest macabre happening became but one more inexplicable cipher.

  She reached the door to the hallway and slowly opened it a crack to look out. The house was dark, but her eyes adjusted well enough to distinguish solid objects from ethereal shadow.

  Convinced the coast was clear, she stepped out, leaving her door ajar, just in case she was forced to make a sudden retreat back through it.

  She headed for the stairs, aborting only when she realized her husband’s door was absent its two human sentries.

  She went into her husband’s suite.

  Its outer room had its walls and ceiling splattered with the same shifting shadows Marie had left behind her, since his rooms, too, looked out on the same stretch of back lawn as hers, through which the torchbearers still marched.

  In her husband’s bedroom, though, it wasn’t the play of shadow which caught her attention.

  His bed was empty!

  “Charles?” She thought he must have gotten up for some reason.

  If he was up, he apparently wasn’t scheduled for any quick return, if just because his bed was made, as if he’d never laid comatose in it.

  “Charles?” Marie called again, this time louder. Her voice was somehow swallowed by the room.

  She was on the verge of tears. Only pure willpower kept her from them. She told herself, over and over, that converting to a weeping female wasn’t going to solve any of her problems, or answer any of her questions. She was merely upset by certain things that distorted. Obviously, there was even a logical reason for what was happening, then and there, just as there were logical reasons for everything that had come before. She shouldn’t get so worked up until all of the facts were in for proper analysis.

  Still, telling herself to be calm, cool, and collected, was not the same as being calm, cool, and collected.

  If she thought there could be more gained by hiding in some dark corner, waiting for startling revelations miraculously to appear, then she would have gone to that corner straightaway. Somehow, though, she suspected any answers as to what was happening would have to be gleaned, then and there, or probably not at all.

  She proceeded from her husband’s room to the stairs. She stumbled twice, once almost having a serious fall. Both times, she recovered.

  She crossed the downstairs rooms in the dark, heading for the French doors that opened out onto the veranda that overlooked the back lawn. It took all of her effort to keep her feet moving, one in front of the other. Her brain kept insisting she stop.

  What was this madness she was forcing herself to meet head on? What could she possibly hope to gain: one woman against a hundred people with torches? How could she believe there would be anyone to answer her questions, there, amidst those macabre circumstances?

  She unlatched the French doors and threw them open. She stepped out onto the veranda, her face and body instantly a screen for the flickering torchlight in the darkness.

  Before and below her, there was a seemingly endless line of figures, men and women, holding sticks topped with flame. The line stretched all of the way across the lawn and into the edge of the jungle.

  She turned toward a sound off to her right, confronting a life-size version of the wooden figurine she’d found hanging from the bush at the pool. It was the very same grotesque and ugly creature with its bulging eyes, and its obscenely parted lips.

  It came closer, towards her.

  She did what she had only done a very few times in her twenty-six years. She fainted, somehow finding the blackness of the unknown far more preferable to an inexplicable reality she couldn’t comprehend.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  BURNT OFFERING

  Whatever she was dreaming (something about being chased by a big black man with a machete, both of them running through a forest of burning trees), Marie came awake with a start that shot her into a sitting position.

  “Easy, darling, easy,” Charles consoled. He was sitting on the edge of her bed. He proceeded to enfold her in a comforting embrace.

  “Oh, Charles, it was horrible!” She buried her face against his chest. He smelled of lime-based after-shave or cologne.

  “It was nothing but a nightmare, honey,” he assured her. “It’s all over now.”

  She gave a grateful shudder and pulled reluctantly away from the protectiveness of his strong body. A good look at her husband’s forehead, with its bump and discolored bruise, told her that one nightmare might be over, but a more horrible one was possibly about to resume where it had left off the night before.

  “You had me worried sick!” she exclaimed.

  “Me? I’m fine.” He flashed a wide smile that set off his dimples to their best advantage. “Except for a slight headache.”

  “You’ll have to see a doctor,” she said. “That could still turn out to be something really serious.”

  “Let’s see how it is in a couple of days? If it’s not completely healed by then, I’ll go see a doctor. Okay? Okay!”

  Marie had to admit that he didn’t seem any the worse for wear. Certainly, he seemed, once again, to be completely rational.

  “I hear you had quite a scare last night,” he changed the subject. “I should apologize for not being around to explain it all to you. I’m afraid none of the servants felt comfortable enough to make explanations, which caused you more concern than you need have had.”

  “You mean there’s an explanation for the scene I saw on our lawn last night?”

  “You can well imagine the talking down I gave Lucie when I heard she and her cohorts had you collapsing on our veranda,” Charles said. “I assure you, they won’t be doing it again soon. Such ceremonies are few and far between. However, next time you wake up to find a procession of islanders bearing torches across our yard, you’ll know a little more about it, won’t you.”

  “Will I?” Marie countered. “If so, you’re going to have to be a lot freer with your information, because, right now, I know no more about what happened last night than I did last night when confronted by...by...by...whatever that ‘thing’ was that appeared out of the darkness on our veranda.”

  Assured that he was all right, Marie was determined not to let him out of her sight until he gave her some logical explanations. She had no desire to go through another night like the one just endured.

  “That thing, as you put it, was really a ‘she’,” Charles said. “Or, rather it was one of the village women made up to
look like Fyrea.”

  “Fyrea?”

  “Probably a bastardization of the French word for fire. The older natives, I hear, have a name for Her that goes back before the French arrived on Saint-Georges, but I’ve never heard it. I suppose every deity must have its own special name to be used only in sacred ritual, away from hearing infidel ears.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand. You mean that ceremony, last night, had some kind of religious significance?”

  “That surprises you?”

  “I suppose it does. I assumed the islanders were all Christian.”

  “Oh, but there certainly are many of those.” Charles gave his wife a surely-none-of-this-is-really-all-that-strange look; for Marie, though, it was strange. “They’ve accepted Christ, but they’ve not surrendered their old gods, either. They rather like to hedge their bets, if you know what I mean.”

  “While on the subject of religion....” Marie was tempted to interject a reference to Father Westbrook’s visit, but she thought there was no sense in moving on to an entirely new subject until this one had been discussed more thoroughly. “What exactly were they doing last night?”

  “They’re convinced The Cauldron is going to erupt any day now and swallow us all up in fire and brimstone.” He must have been amused by the resulting expression on Marie’s face, because he gave another of his thoroughly captivating and good-humored laughs. “Don’t worry your pretty little head, though, my dear. Every ten years or so, the rumor goes around that The Cauldron is about to start bubbling again. The natives revert temporarily to the primitive, quite content to believe, in the end, that their incantations and little dances save the day. It’s all rather harmless if taken in proper context.”

  “You were out there with them?” She couldn’t forget her panic when she’d gone to his bedroom and found him gone.

  “Purely as an observer, in my capacity as major landowner hereabouts.” He sounded genuinely sorry for how things had turned out. “The natives need a white authority figure on hand to give them that little extra incentive to keep things in check. I apologize profusely for not telling you I was going. Lucie said you were in your room asleep. I’m afraid I figured, what with everything else you had gone through yesterday, that you would probably sleep through the whole silly thing. While I’m apologizing, by the way, let me add my regrets about what happened at the pool. I’m afraid I haven’t the foggiest notion what got into me, unless it was just too much heat during our morning ride to get there. Rest assured that it certainly won’t happen again. Did I hurt you?”

  “I was a little shaken, that’s all.”

  “Well,” Charles said, and he gave an accompanying shrug, “the sun has been known to cause some people to do some mighty strange things. I have to admit that was the first time I’ve done anything quite so crazy, though.”

  Marie began to feel a little easier. Just as she expected, all she needed to clear up the muddied waters was a new day and her husband to provide rational explanations. The little ceremony was certainly feasible. The natives on Haiti somehow had managed to combine pagan and Christian doctrines into one mishmash religion. So, why not something similar on Saint-Georges? Too much sun, even for a man who was used to its tropical glare, could probably, on occasion, take its toll. If Marie insisted Charles wear a hat, she might be assured there would be no recurrences of his performance by the pool. However, she wasn’t finished with her enlightenment yet.

  “Who’s Lucie?” she asked. Charles had already mentioned her twice in their conversation that morning.

  “You know Lucie,” he insisted. “Lucie Bruay. You met her your very first day.”

  Marie began a quick mental rundown on the staff, giving faces to all the available names: Petre, Karena, Madeleine, Marc, Julie, Rolphe....

  “Come on, now, Marie,” Charles chided, as if his wife had to be feigning ignorance.

  Suddenly, it struck Marie as to whom Charles referred. So, the old woman had a name. Lucie Bruay. Up until then, Marie hadn’t even thought of putting a name to the gnarled old gnome. Names were for people. Marie hadn’t brought herself to think of Lucie as anything more or less than a decidedly malignant force that had somehow, uninvited, entered Marie’s life.

  “I don’t like her!” Even as she said it, she realized she was likely coming across like a pouty child. After all, what had Lucie really done to her? Whatever the hag’s faults, they might easily be forgiven when taken as indications of the woman’s approaching senility. If it hadn’t been for Lucie on the scene by the pool, Charles might still have been lying there unconscious. Although, Marie was confident she would have managed—somehow—to get help on her own.

  “She does take a little getting used to, I’ll grant you that,” Charles agreed. If he was upset about his wife’s out-and-out statement of dislike, he didn’t show or say it. “She hates change. Any kind of change. If she had her way, she would set the calendar back and get rid of us all—herself included.”

  “She was watching us out by the pool, Charles.”

  Surely you’re not insinuating Lucie has become some kind of prurient voyeur at her advanced age?” In seeming answer to his own question, he gave a low chuckle that mocked that possibility as ludicrous.

  Marie wondered how she was somehow managing to come across the heavy in the scenario.

  “Actually, she said they were out gathering roots,” Charles said, his voice indicating Marie must see how that explanation had to take precedence over the other. “She’s kind of the local shaman—or, is it shawoman? She’s not bad at it, either. She treated this bump on my head, didn’t she? Look at me today, up and jumping.”

  “Just what is her capacity around the house?” Marie decided she had best get the lines established while she had Charles handy to draw them.

  “I’m afraid I don’t understand,” he said, as if sincerely puzzled by her question.

  “I mean, as far as the servants and the house goes, who has the final say? Me or Lucie Bruay?”

  “What a strange question,” he decided. There seemed no doubt about his actually believing it was strange, either. “You’re my wife, my dear. Lucie is...well...is just Lucie. She isn’t even officially a member of this household. I’m wondering whoever, or whatever, gave you the impression it was otherwise.”

  Marie could have given examples, like the woman having been at the head of the reception line, but she had second thoughts about coming across sounding like sour grapes. She should have been more assertive from the get-go. Some people were very much like children in that they had to be shown who was boss from the start or else they’d walk right over you. Give them an inch, and they’d take a mile, every time.

  Well, she had given her last inch. Everyone—Lucie Bruay included—had taken the very last mile he or she could hope to get from Marie Camaux.

  Madeleine interrupted with breakfast. The girl looked just as nervous as she usually did. Marie was going to take a good look at every person on the household staff, and, if they didn’t stand up to her close scrutiny, she would have them replaced by people who did. This was officially her domain, now, signed, sealed, and delivered. It was her home for the rest of her natural life. She had no desire to share it with people who didn’t know where the real authority was. They would learn, and learn fast, or they would be replaced by people who could learn far faster.

  “I thought I’d take the morning off to join you for breakfast for a change,” Charles said, removing silver lids from sterling chafing dishes. “I hope you don’t mind.”

  In fact, breakfast with Charles turned out to be the perfect beginning to Marie’s new day. The only slightly sour note—and it was short-lived—was when she mentioned Father Westbrook.

  “Was here? Last night?” Charles oh-so-gently replaced his coffee cup on its delicate China saucer.

  “Drunk, I do very much believe,” Marie said. “He wanted me to be sure to tell you that you were ‘a certifiable fool’.”

  “Yes, that does, indee
d, sound like Father Westbrook. I’m afraid he’s the local eccentric...priest. I wouldn’t be surprised if he isn’t defrocked before long. Quite frankly, I’m surprised he hasn’t been already. He can’t have much of a congregation remaining. Anyway, if he comes by the house again, give me a call. If I’m not around, have Marc show him the door. The man is something of a bore, and his usual drunkenness is not only a disgrace to him and to the church, but it’s never pleasant to see.”

  Charles asked Marie to please pass the blueberry muffins, and they drifted into making plans for how they would soon ride up the mountain to see the lake cupped within The Cauldron.

  * * * * * * *

  Her resolve seemed to get results. At least, the servants appeared to become more respectful the moment each was called in and informed that changes were possibly in the offing. Marie wanted them all to be on notice. In a couple of weeks, she would definitely decide who would stay and who would go. The only one Marie went so far as to assure a continued position was the cook. Marie couldn’t but appreciatively remember how Karena had seen Marie got fed while the rest of the staff went into hiding. Of course, Madeleine had been visible, too, but there was something about Madeleine’s continual state of hyper nervousness that made Marie, in turn, nervous. In the end, Marie thought the girl might have to go.

  Since Lucie Bruay wasn’t officially part of the staff, Marie could hardly give the old woman walking papers. On their next encounter, though, she was determined to let Lucie know, in no uncertain terms, that the old woman wouldn’t be welcome at the château if she continued her haughty, mainly confrontational, ways.

  Marie interviewed Karena’s daughter, Jannette, for the position of personal maid. She took to the girl immediately, telling herself it had absolutely nothing to do with Marie being anxious to try her hand at hiring now that she had put into motion the mechanics for future firings.