I nodded, recognized a dark box on a pole near the road. “Magic monitors?”
Liam glanced out the window, nodded. “Yeah. Not nearly as many out here as closer to the cities. And the farther you get out, the fewer the markers.”
Along with the magic monitors, billboards dotted the landscape. They were peeling or shredding now, but they’d been long forgotten by whatever company had hung them. They advised people to save water, to GARDEN FOR VICTORY, and BEAT MAGIC WITH MIND AND MUSCLE. The letters were big, the pictures simple. The messages a little depressing, even now.
• • •
As twilight fell, scorched land turned to swamp and both sides of the narrow road dropped into murky water dotted with duckweed, cypress trees and their knobby roots peeking through like tentacles. Liam turned off the AC and rolled down the window. The scent of the bayou washed in—green things, wetness, decay. It was an earthy scent, not totally unlike the smell of New Orleans after a heavy rain. It was all swamp one way or the other.
Other than the occasional scorched tree, there wasn’t much evidence of war here at all.
“The battles didn’t often reach the bayous,” Liam said. “Too messy, too wet, not enough line of sight.”
Tadji nodded. “And when they did, the impact was often covered with a few feet of muddy water. Turn here,” she said, and directed Liam to turn the truck onto a bumpy gravel road, the swamp lapping at the edges. If the water had been much higher, the road would have been impassable.
The house sat on an empty rise surrounded by magnolia trees and palmetto plants, and was absolutely gorgeous. We weren’t far from the river, and the house, two stories with porches that extended the length of the building, sat on brick columns to keep it dry in case of flood. Both floors were lined with windows and haint blue plantation shutters. The house looked old, but was in perfect condition.
A car was parked beside a boat on a trailer in the driveway beside the house, and a pirogue leaned against one of the columns. Transportation for any conditions.
Tadji opened the truck door, hopped down into the grass, wiped Quinn Truck Residue from her pants. I followed her.
Liam circled around, and we glanced at each other while she looked at the house.
“You all right?”
“No,” she said. “I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and my stomach is in a knot.”
“You can do this,” I said. “We’ll go in, get them out, and go.”
“Let’s be quick about it,” Liam said, and gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”
We took the steps to the first floor, and Tadji knocked on one of the double doors, also haint blue, before pushing it open. She walked inside, and we followed.
The interior was lovely, and beautifully French. Ivory walls climbed to an olive green ceiling, which met the painted wooden mantel of a fireplace. The floors were dark wood, mostly covered by a faded rug. The furniture was simple, and probably as old as the house. Ladder-back chairs, a table that held a hobnail vase of flowers, a low sofa.
We walked through one parlor and then a dining room, also pretty and outfitted with antiques, and then into the kitchen.
A woman stood there, stirring a pot that sizzled on the stove.
“Hervé? That you? I thought you were bringing the propane tomor—” She turned back and glanced at us with eyes the same deep brown of Tadji’s. The resemblance didn’t end there. Her skin had the same dark depth, her limbs similarly long and slim. Her hair was a short cloud of tight curls, the fingers around the spoon elegant and slender.
When she recognized Tadji, she froze, looked from her daughter to the strangers she’d brought with her. Fear crept into her eyes, and the spoon clattered to the floor.
Liam glanced out the window, nodded. “Yeah. Not nearly as many out here as closer to the cities. And the farther you get out, the fewer the markers.”
Along with the magic monitors, billboards dotted the landscape. They were peeling or shredding now, but they’d been long forgotten by whatever company had hung them. They advised people to save water, to GARDEN FOR VICTORY, and BEAT MAGIC WITH MIND AND MUSCLE. The letters were big, the pictures simple. The messages a little depressing, even now.
• • •
As twilight fell, scorched land turned to swamp and both sides of the narrow road dropped into murky water dotted with duckweed, cypress trees and their knobby roots peeking through like tentacles. Liam turned off the AC and rolled down the window. The scent of the bayou washed in—green things, wetness, decay. It was an earthy scent, not totally unlike the smell of New Orleans after a heavy rain. It was all swamp one way or the other.
Other than the occasional scorched tree, there wasn’t much evidence of war here at all.
“The battles didn’t often reach the bayous,” Liam said. “Too messy, too wet, not enough line of sight.”
Tadji nodded. “And when they did, the impact was often covered with a few feet of muddy water. Turn here,” she said, and directed Liam to turn the truck onto a bumpy gravel road, the swamp lapping at the edges. If the water had been much higher, the road would have been impassable.
The house sat on an empty rise surrounded by magnolia trees and palmetto plants, and was absolutely gorgeous. We weren’t far from the river, and the house, two stories with porches that extended the length of the building, sat on brick columns to keep it dry in case of flood. Both floors were lined with windows and haint blue plantation shutters. The house looked old, but was in perfect condition.
A car was parked beside a boat on a trailer in the driveway beside the house, and a pirogue leaned against one of the columns. Transportation for any conditions.
Tadji opened the truck door, hopped down into the grass, wiped Quinn Truck Residue from her pants. I followed her.
Liam circled around, and we glanced at each other while she looked at the house.
“You all right?”
“No,” she said. “I’m nervous, and my palms are sweating, and my stomach is in a knot.”
“You can do this,” I said. “We’ll go in, get them out, and go.”
“Let’s be quick about it,” Liam said, and gestured to the stairs. “Shall we?”
We took the steps to the first floor, and Tadji knocked on one of the double doors, also haint blue, before pushing it open. She walked inside, and we followed.
The interior was lovely, and beautifully French. Ivory walls climbed to an olive green ceiling, which met the painted wooden mantel of a fireplace. The floors were dark wood, mostly covered by a faded rug. The furniture was simple, and probably as old as the house. Ladder-back chairs, a table that held a hobnail vase of flowers, a low sofa.
We walked through one parlor and then a dining room, also pretty and outfitted with antiques, and then into the kitchen.
A woman stood there, stirring a pot that sizzled on the stove.
“Hervé? That you? I thought you were bringing the propane tomor—” She turned back and glanced at us with eyes the same deep brown of Tadji’s. The resemblance didn’t end there. Her skin had the same dark depth, her limbs similarly long and slim. Her hair was a short cloud of tight curls, the fingers around the spoon elegant and slender.
When she recognized Tadji, she froze, looked from her daughter to the strangers she’d brought with her. Fear crept into her eyes, and the spoon clattered to the floor.
