Chapter OneLong ago, a stranger warned me not to marry Charles Colquitt. The spirits as well cautioned me against the marriage. They, like the stranger, feared that Charles would destroy me.
I wish I'd listened to them then; if I had, I wouldn't be running now.
There are many ways one can destroy the life of another; it doesn't always take a pickax or a gun. My husband's weapons were his words. They could be sharper, more deadly, than any sword or knife. They could slash and tear and bite, humble and browbeat. They could attack with great thunder, or sneak up quietly and strike when least expected.
If I'd let them, my husband's words could have sliced away my soul. As it is, I am missing great chunks.
But I am a Deveaux woman, and I endured through the years by calling upon the deep inner spirit of my people to give me strength. It was what he hated the most and tried hardest to kill -- that part of me that managed to remain independent of him.
It all started, I guess, when I refused to take his name when we married. It's a Deveaux tradition; the strong-willed, spirited women of my family never adopted their husbands' names, and the land was always handed down to the women.
It was difficult at times to remember I possessed that Deveaux spirit. When Charles was particularly abusive, I had to consciously remind myself of who I was and where I'd come from, or he would have crushed my soul altogether.
This is another of those times.
I am Gabriella Deveaux, I silently remind myself as I enter the manic stream of traffic on the highway leaving the New Orleans airport. I am the daughter of Juliette Deveaux, granddaughter of Ariella, and many generations descended from the legendary Angelique Deveaux, who first came to Louisiana from the Caribbean as a bride.
The humid May air is thick and cloying, and I find it difficult to breathe.
I am Gabriella Deveaux, I repeat silently, favored by the spirits, beloved by thespirits, empowered by the spirits.
Where are those spirits now, when I need them most?
When I was younger, I used my Deveaux power, my special gift, to speak to my ancestors and draw from them the wisdom and strength that later saw me through my troubled times.
But I am also Gabriella Deveaux, the first woman in my family ever to abandon the legacy that has nurtured and protected our people since Angelique's day, our plantation, Shadow Haven. I broke our tradition and left our land to live in a place far away, among strangers. It displeased the spirits greatly.
When I married Charles, I turned my back on many things, seeking adventure and experience in a wider world. I was young then, too young to realize the enormity of my mistake. I left my place of power, my heritage, my ancestors, and now, when I'm desperate to reclaim my legacy, I wonder if the spirits will allow it.
The midday sun glares through the windshield, teasing a headache that already throbs behind my eyes. I turn the air conditioner a notch higher, but the sultry heat sucks the cool, wet mist from its teeth before it has a chance to circulate farther into the car. Sweat trickles down my back.
I am returning to Shadow Haven now, running for the protective grace of its shadowy bayou land. But will it receive me? And can it protect me and mine from the forces that threaten to destroy us? I have been gone many years. Is my power, my gift, gone as well?
Were those warnings true -- has Charles destroyed me?
I keep glancing into the rearview mirror, fearing that I've been followed, although I don't think it's possible. Charles is dead, and I told no one of my plans to flee New York. It's just my persistent paranoia, one consequence of my eight-year marriage to Charles Colquitt.
Buckled in beside me is the only good thing to come from that disastrous union, my daughter Michaela, who fidgets in her own six-year-old discomfort. Her mouth is an unhappy line, and she rubs sleepy eyes. She doesn't understand what is happening. I've promised her ice cream as soon as we clear the heavy traffic, but she nods off before we even cross the Huey P. Long Bridge.
The highway dwindles in width and quality the deeper I drive into the lowlands of south Louisiana. Steam rises from the asphalt, and the road reminds me of a wet, black snake as it curves through the countryside. Small farms and weathered houses pass in a blur. Cotton fields and pastures bake in the sun. The landscape is achingly familiar; I recognize the neighboring farms, the little country church that stands at the bend in the road on the way home. Nothing seems to have changed much, except perhaps me.
A Dairy Queen appears on the right when I reach the small town of Tibonne, and I slow the car. I haven't had the soft ice cream from a DQ in years. Memories of my childhood begin to surface. I went to school in this tiny dot of a town, had friends I left behind without batting an eye. I wonder if any of them are still around?
Michaela is sleeping soundly, so I pass up the DQ even though my throat is parched. I'm anxious to reach our destination and put this difficult journey behind us.
But when I approach Shadow Haven and look for the twin stone pillars that mark the entrance to the plantation, I nearly miss my turn because they are so densely overgrown with weeds and vines. I'm filled with a sudden foreboding. For years, we've paid my neighbor, Conrad Armand, to care for the property, but from the looks of things, he hasn't been doing a very good job of keeping it up.
I stop the car between the two crumbling pillars and kill the engine, my heart beating wildly. Rolling down the window, I deeply inhale the rich, moist air, and it calms me almost immediately. I have always loved the smell of Shadow Haven -- a blend of earth and sky, seasoned with the indescribable scent of the nearby bayou.
Primordial. Dank. Mystical.
Home.
Hopefully, the shaggy appearance of the seldom-used entrance is just an oversight on Conrad's part, and I'll find the stately old plantation house in better shape.
Whatever condition it's in, I think, drawing my long, dark hair away from the sweat on my forehead, it's the only option for us at the moment. It's my hope that here I can gather the remnants of my shattered soul, restore my power, and find the strength to face the coming events. I am hopeful, too, that Shadow Haven will be too far away, the legal system of Louisiana too difficult to penetrate, that my pursuers will in the end give up their hateful and unjust quest.
"Are we there yet?" Michaela stirs and sits up, her large, deep brown eyes still heavy with sleep.
"Oui, chérie."
Michaela wrinkles her nose and frowns at me. "What'd you say?"
The language of my childhood, that languid, Creole French, feels good as it trips easily off my tongue, but it's unfamiliar to my daughter.
I smile at her, but it's a sad, poignant smile. Charles forbade me to teach Creole to our daughter; he'd considered it a bastardized pastiche of a language. Early in our relationship he'd seemed to find it charming enough, but being imperfect French, it didn't fit in his world. We argued fiercely about it at first, but as I did about so many things during our marriage, eventually I gave in. I simply found it easier to accede to his wishes than try to fight his indomitable will.
"Yes, baby, we're here."
I turn my gaze to the tree-lined lane in front of us and see that nature has taken over here as well. Grass and weeds choke the once manicured avenue, and vines entwine the heavy live oak branches overhead, creating an ominous dark canopy above the road. It looks -- and feels -- as if no one has cared for the place in a while. But I force myself to look beyond the overgrowth to the inherent decadent beauty of the land.
"Well, what do you think, chérie? It's beautiful, mais non?"
Michaela stares down the lane. "Looks kinda creepy to me."
Copyright © 2005 by Jill Jones