Read Online Benjamin January 3 - Graveyard by Barbara Hambly - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Hambly
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wonderingly, and shoved his verminous hat back on his head. “Iff'n you'll excuse me, Maestro . . .”
He set off at a long-legged run.
January stood for a time in the sunlight of the Cathedral steps, watching him go. By this time, he thought, Olympe would have been returned to her cell, and he had had enough, for the time being, of Fortune Gérard's rage and Clement Vilhardouin's oil-smooth suaveness. He pushed open the Cathedral door, stepped through into the cool still gloom.
All that remained of the morning Mass was the smell of smoke and wax, and a market-woman telling her beads. A woman got quickly up from one of the benches usually reserved for the less prosperous of the free colored, a white woman in a pale blue gown, cornsilk hair braided unfashionably under a cottage bonnet. She was very American, prim and bare of a Creole lady's paint, and there was a hunted nervousness to her huge blue eyes as she retreated from him, drawing her child to her side.
More to it, thought January, than simply not seeing the person whom she clearly expected: a fear that was startled at shadows. He'd removed his hat already, so he dipped in a little bow and asked in his best English, “May I help you, Madame?”
Her gloved hand went quickly to her lips. “I-That is-No.” She shook her head quickly, and looked around her at the shadowy dimness of the great church. “It is all right to sit here, is it not?”
“Of course it is;” said January. He'd encountered Protestants who seemed to believe Catholics sacrificed children on the altars of the saints.
The child peeked around her mother's skirts, guinea-gold curls dressed severely up under a small brown hat, sensible-and suffocating-brown worsted buttoned and tailored over the hard lines of a small corset; tiny brown gloves on tiny hands. She at least showed no fear, either of him or of this echoing cavern of bright-hued images and flickering spots of light. “The nuns won't come and get me,” she whispered conspiratorially, “will they?”
January smiled. “I promise you,” he told the child. “Nuns don't come and get anyone.”
The mother tugged quickly on her daughter's hand, to shush her or discourage conversation with a black man and a stranger. January bowed again, and went to the Virgin's altar, and though money was tight and would be tighter-Pritchard had indeed, as Aeneas had warned, docked his pay last night-he paid a penny for a candle, which he lit and placed among all those others that marked prayers for mercy rather than justice. Holy Mother, forgive her, he prayed, his big fingers counting off the cheap blue glass beads of the much-battered rosary that never left him. Don't hold it against Olympe's soul that she turned from you and your Son. Don't punish her for making little magics as she does. For serving false gods.
The woman's soft voice drew his attention. Looking back, he saw the person she had come here to meet. A small man, wiry and thin; a ferret face whose features spoke of the Ibo or Congo blood. He wore a shirt of yellow calico, and a leather top hat with a bunch of heron-hackle in it. A blue scarf circled his waist-a voodoo doctor's mark, Olympe had said when she'd pointed the man out to January in the market one day, the same way the seven-pointed tignon was the sign of the reigning Queen.
January heard the woman say, “It has to work,” and the man replied, “It'll work.” He handed her something that she swiftly slipped into her bag.
Sugar and salt and Black Devil Oil to bring a straying lover home? Black wax and pins, to send an unwanted mother-in-law away?
It has to work.
The howl of a steamboat's whistle shrilled through the Cathedral as the woman opened the door. She disappeared with her beautiful golden-haired child into the square, the voodoo-man watching-Dr. Yellowjack, Olympe had said his name was-as she walked away. When time enough had elapsed that their departures would not be too close, he, too, took his leave. January
He set off at a long-legged run.
January stood for a time in the sunlight of the Cathedral steps, watching him go. By this time, he thought, Olympe would have been returned to her cell, and he had had enough, for the time being, of Fortune Gérard's rage and Clement Vilhardouin's oil-smooth suaveness. He pushed open the Cathedral door, stepped through into the cool still gloom.
All that remained of the morning Mass was the smell of smoke and wax, and a market-woman telling her beads. A woman got quickly up from one of the benches usually reserved for the less prosperous of the free colored, a white woman in a pale blue gown, cornsilk hair braided unfashionably under a cottage bonnet. She was very American, prim and bare of a Creole lady's paint, and there was a hunted nervousness to her huge blue eyes as she retreated from him, drawing her child to her side.
More to it, thought January, than simply not seeing the person whom she clearly expected: a fear that was startled at shadows. He'd removed his hat already, so he dipped in a little bow and asked in his best English, “May I help you, Madame?”
Her gloved hand went quickly to her lips. “I-That is-No.” She shook her head quickly, and looked around her at the shadowy dimness of the great church. “It is all right to sit here, is it not?”
“Of course it is;” said January. He'd encountered Protestants who seemed to believe Catholics sacrificed children on the altars of the saints.
The child peeked around her mother's skirts, guinea-gold curls dressed severely up under a small brown hat, sensible-and suffocating-brown worsted buttoned and tailored over the hard lines of a small corset; tiny brown gloves on tiny hands. She at least showed no fear, either of him or of this echoing cavern of bright-hued images and flickering spots of light. “The nuns won't come and get me,” she whispered conspiratorially, “will they?”
January smiled. “I promise you,” he told the child. “Nuns don't come and get anyone.”
The mother tugged quickly on her daughter's hand, to shush her or discourage conversation with a black man and a stranger. January bowed again, and went to the Virgin's altar, and though money was tight and would be tighter-Pritchard had indeed, as Aeneas had warned, docked his pay last night-he paid a penny for a candle, which he lit and placed among all those others that marked prayers for mercy rather than justice. Holy Mother, forgive her, he prayed, his big fingers counting off the cheap blue glass beads of the much-battered rosary that never left him. Don't hold it against Olympe's soul that she turned from you and your Son. Don't punish her for making little magics as she does. For serving false gods.
The woman's soft voice drew his attention. Looking back, he saw the person she had come here to meet. A small man, wiry and thin; a ferret face whose features spoke of the Ibo or Congo blood. He wore a shirt of yellow calico, and a leather top hat with a bunch of heron-hackle in it. A blue scarf circled his waist-a voodoo doctor's mark, Olympe had said when she'd pointed the man out to January in the market one day, the same way the seven-pointed tignon was the sign of the reigning Queen.
January heard the woman say, “It has to work,” and the man replied, “It'll work.” He handed her something that she swiftly slipped into her bag.
Sugar and salt and Black Devil Oil to bring a straying lover home? Black wax and pins, to send an unwanted mother-in-law away?
It has to work.
The howl of a steamboat's whistle shrilled through the Cathedral as the woman opened the door. She disappeared with her beautiful golden-haired child into the square, the voodoo-man watching-Dr. Yellowjack, Olympe had said his name was-as she walked away. When time enough had elapsed that their departures would not be too close, he, too, took his leave. January
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