Back to Wando Passo, David Payne [little red riding hood ebook .TXT] 📗

tract of land and moved down here and essentially seceded.”

“From what?”

“Everything. America. The West. The state of South Carolina. They went completely African—tribal dress, agriculture, everything. They’ve been down there for over thirty years. The place is famous.”

“What’s Shanté doing there?”

Cell looked at Ran. “Well, you know, after she stopped singing, she spent several years in Africa. Mostly in Zaire. I don’t know the whole story, but I know there was a guy involved, and then there wasn’t. After they split, she came home and went to Alafia to take some time and ended staying. But the thing is, while she was in the Congo she was studying to be ordained.”

“Ordained as what?” Claire asked. “Please don’t say a vodou priestess.”

“Well, I don’t think they call it vodou over there,” Cell said, “but that’s the general idea.”

Ran and Claire both stared.

“Dag,” Ran finally said.

Claire began to laugh. “Oh, yes! Yes! Better and better! This is all we need! Shanté Mills up here, drinking chicken blood and tossing goofer dust, shaking the dark twins in Ransom’s face! That will clear this right on up! Let’s call her now!”

Ransom, on another wavelength, looked at Cell. “Do you have her number?”

“At home.”

“Ha! Ha! Ha!” said Claire.

“Mommy?”

They all turned, and there was Charlie in the doorway in his red firetruck pj’s, screwing a little fist into his eye.

“Oh, sweetie, did Mama wake you up?” Claire knelt and took him in her arms.

“The doggy do it.”

“What doggy, Pie?”

“There’s a black dog in the hall upstairs.” Hope stepped from the shadows now. “I’m scared.”

Claire looked at Ran, and Ran looked back. “Sweetie, I don’t think there is. Maybe you dreamed it, but let’s go make sure, and then I’ll tuck you both in bed.”

“Doddy do it,” Charlie said.

Hope concurred. “We want Daddy.”

This clearly took her by surprise. She looked at Ran.

He shrugged. “Hey, I’m new,” he said consolingly. “They’ll learn. You guys go see what you can scare up for dinner. Maybe Domino’s?”

Claire obliged him with a smile.

“What?” Ran said. “They must have Domino’s.”

But she was wise to his old tricks. “Hill, I swear to God, you do still make me smile sometimes. You really do.”

“That’s a good thing, right?” He gave her his best sly, sheepish grin, and she returned it, but her eyes were thoughtful, as though her inclination toward him worked against her better judgment.

Ran, however, who’d never considered good judgment a large motivating factor in human affairs—not his, at least—took encouragement.

As Claire headed to the kitchen with Marcel, he turned to the kids. “Okay, dutes, let’s clear the premises of canine intruders. But, first, raise your right hands and repeat, ‘I pledge allegiance to the dad….’”

TWENTY

Turned away from him in bed, Addie awakes from a light sleep as Harlan goes into the bath. It’s the shank of the afternoon now, judging by the melancholy light that filters through the bedroom window. Returning, he leans over her, scrutinizing, and Addie continues feigning sleep as he dresses and goes out. From the window, she watches him cross the lawn and come out of the barn on Runcipole again. He disappears into the same break in the same wall of trees, and this time, Addie dresses and sets after him.

The way is wet and low and quickly she is in the swamp, where dusk is more advanced than on the lawn and has a gloomier timbre. Overhead, the bearded cypresses are roped with tangled vines. A large crow flits and disappears. On her left spreads a broad water meadow full of lily pads and rotting cypress knees. There are wildflowers and green, tender ferns. Her steps make a wet, quashing sound in the mud, where Runcipole’s prints, already filled with water, show the way. Addie’s shoes are ruined, her hem sopped by the time she enters the pine barren. Under the stand of old-growth longleaf pines, stillness presides, and as Addie walks over the carpet of fallen needles, the soughing of wind through the treetops sounds almost human. She thinks she hears voices, and when she stops to listen, she catches sight of a cottage through the trees. Surrounded by beds of flowers and herbs—there is pink deer grass and yellow orchis, tiger lilies with their great brilliant trumpets, and basil, asafetida, and dock—it’s made of squared pine logs with white clay daub, with a rustic porch and a chimney made of ballast stones. The shake roof is black and scabbed with lichen, like pale green sores, and she can hear hens brooding and clucking somewhere, though she doesn’t see the coop. Addie’s eyes and full attention are fixed on the porch, which is hung with braids of drying herbs and flowers, and in whose deep shadow Harlan stands talking to Clarisse.

Clarisse is smiling. The unhealthy, mottled flush, the glassy eyes—these are gone. She’s radiant. She offers Harlan something, but he pushes her hand away, and now she frowns and her face darkens, as though a cloud shadow has passed over it. Lighting a cigar, Harlan starts to pace, to make the large, emphatic gestures of the hands.

They’re arguing. Addie can make out their angry tone, but not the words. The whole forest has grown still around her. The wind has ceased to blow. They face each other. Clarisse is weeping now. As Addie watches, Harlan reaches out and curls a lock of hair around her ear, and Clarisse, by way of answer, slaps him hard across the mouth. Harlan appears stunned, and then—to Addie’s astonishment, her horror—he laughs. His laugh is strong and bold, reverberating in the wood. He lifts Clarisse’s hand and takes what she was offering before. A slant ray of sun illuminates the glass. There’s something in it, a small red berry floating, suspended, like a drop of blood. He reaches in a finger and a thumb. He takes the granadilla out. Clarisse’s face has lost its coldness now. It’s come alive. With both her hands, she takes his one and pulls it