The North Face of the Heart - Dolores Redondo Page 0,167
Médora stopped at the limit of the mangrove maze and stood unsteadily looking around. Breathing hard, they stopped to watch her. Amaia was grateful for the sudden gust of perfume from fresh flowers that unexpectedly evoked memories of another meadow in another time. She put those out of her mind and concentrated on their bizarre guide. Médora awkwardly stepped away from the knotted roots and sank knee deep into the green surface that stretched as far as they could see.
Fragrant red flowers swayed above the emerald-colored swamp grass of that wide expanse. At first Amaia thought they were some rare species of orchid, but then she realized they were water lilies, the fleurs-de-lys that symbolized New Orleans.
Progress was slow as they waded after Médora. Dupree advanced to the traiteur’s side and conferred with him in a voice the others couldn’t hear. The water was thick and lukewarm, an organic slime repugnant to the touch. And then the first thunderclap sounded. It boomed loud and immense, almost on top of them.
Here it comes.
Amaia scanned the sky. A heavy fog hovered some distance overhead. Visibility across the swamp was still unimpeded, but a dense layer of churning low clouds was closing in. What kind of sky was this? The scent of flowers became more pungent and rose around them in a perfumed surge, sweet and hypnotic. As they advanced, the water gradually became shallower. The thick mists closing overhead refracted the brilliant sunshine behind them in a strange, dazzling display that hurt their eyes and nearly blinded them. Another long, rolling burst of thunder shattered the air and continued: one—two—three seconds.
The Lady is coming. The warning echoed so loud in Amaia’s mind that for an instant she thought the others could hear it too.
She heard raised voices and turned to look. Dupree had caught up with Médora and now stood in front of her, blocking her advance. She avoided his eyes but sluggishly moved from side to side and peered about as if aware of her surroundings. Confused by the human obstacle in her path, she hugged herself and started rocking back and forth.
The shrimpers had planted themselves at the rear. Bull was talking with them. He turned to beckon to Dupree. Johnson went back to join them.
“We not going any more,” the older one insisted. “We finished!”
“But why?” Bull complained. “I don’t understand!”
“We not going more, ’cause it too dangerous.”
Johnson looked them up and down. “Don’t give me that crap. You two are tough swamp Cajuns. You knew we were looking for Le Grand. What’s the matter now?”
Clive looked behind them, wanting to backtrack, while the other man replied. “That thunder.”
“Thunder?” Johnson exclaimed, amazed. “You fellows are afraid of a storm?”
The older man appeared to take offense. “Not just a storm! The thunder. You call that normal? Look up at the sky!”
They did, and the harsh glare forced them to squint.
“Where the black clouds?” the man challenged. “Where the big old cloud full of water?”
Bull interrupted. “The storm’s still far away!”
“No, that storm right here. You not hearing the thunder? The last one make the ground shake!”
“Okay, then, it’s right here,” Bull conceded. “But so what?”
“That one a bad sign,” Clive declared earnestly. “Everybody know that.” He turned to the traiteur, who said nothing but did nod in confirmation.
Bull couldn’t believe it. “Thunder is a bad sign?”
“That thunder . . . ,” the man said emphatically and pointed up. “The sky ain’t dark, not one raincloud. When thunder come out of a sky like that, you better watch out.”
His companion confirmed it. “You see and hear a sign like that, you best not go on.”
“Ha! And why is that?” Bull mocked them. “What’re you scared of?”
The men looked at one another. “They say if you go through the swamp and you hear thunder in a sky with no storm, you turn back. The swamp spirits are in a meeting; you bother them, you cross their land, they put you to sleep for a hundred years. Maybe more.”
“Like Rip van Winkle,” Dupree commented. They all turned toward him. “Same as in Washington Irving’s story.”
“There!” Johnson exclaimed. “You see? It’s just a made-up story!”
“But,” Dupree told them, “Irving took it from mountain legends. People believed it. Folks in different places have different ways of describing the same fears.” He glanced at Amaia but saw she wasn’t paying attention to their discussion. She was staring distractedly into the distance.
She was remembering thunder from another place and time.