David Robbins: New Orleans Run

The young woman halted and spun, her long raven tresses swirling, and stared intently at the benighted landscape to her rear. “I think we’re being followed,” she asserted.

“You’re imagining things,” her companion stated. A brown-haired man in his early twenties, he wore faded jeans, a green shirt, and a denim backpack.

“Didn’t you hear something just now?” the woman asked anxiously. She wore dark blue pants and a matching blouse. Her green eyes narrowed as she tried to pierce the gloom.

“No.”

“I did.”

The man turned and surveyed the rolling expanse of open field they had just traversed. Scant illumination was provided by the quarter moon already several hours high, but he could see well enough to ascertain no one trailed them. “As usual, your nerves are getting the better of you.

We’re not being followed.”

“My nerves are fine, thank you.”

“Come on, Eleanore. You know you become jumpy as when we make these trips.”

Eleanore made no comment. Instead, she turned and resumed hiking to the west, her spine rigid, her fists clenched at her sides.

“In one of your moods again, I see,” the man remarked as he followed.

“Don’t start, Jerry.”

“I’m only mentioning the obvious.”

“Obvious to you maybe.”

Jerry sighed and adjusted the tight straps on the backpack. “I wish you’d quit looking down your nose at me, Ms. High and Mighty. We’re both part of the Resistance, you know. Your family may have been wealthy and powerful decades ago, way back before World War Three, but you’re no better than the rest of us poor white trash now.”

Again Eleanore stopped, and this time she fixed a flashing glare on her surprised companion. “Is that what you and the others think? That I have some kind of snobbish attitude?”

A noncommittal shrug was Jerry’s reply.

“Answer me, damn you!”

“Let’s keep going,” Jerry said, starting to walk past her. “This is hardly the proper time or place to air our gripes.”

Eleanore grabbed his left wrist and held fast. “What’s wrong with right now? We’re in the middle of nowhere, four miles from New Orleans. No one can hear us. The tonton macoutes have ho idea we’re here. So let’s get this off our chests.”

“Be serious,” Jerry stated testily, trying to pull his arm loose. “The eyes and ears of Damballah are everywhere.”

“Don’t give me that garbage,” Eleanore snapped.

“You never know,” Jerry noted, and ceased tugging. “Look, will you quit behaving like a five-year-old and let go of me? Adrien is waiting for us.”

“We’re ahead of schedule,” Eleanor pointed out. “A few minutes won’t hurt.”

“No.”

“Please,” Eleanore pleaded. “Ever since I joined the Resistance four months ago, everyone except Violet and Rad has been giving me the cold shoulder. At first I thought it was all in my head, but lately I’ve come to realize that none of you like me. Why?”

“You don’t want to know,” Jerry said.

“Then it’s true,” Eleanore said softly. She released his wrist and gazed absently at the flickering lights in the city to the east. “I can hardly believe it. What did I ever do to any of you?”

“Nothing,” Jerry admitted, fidgeting uncomfortably.

“Then why?”

A strained silence persisted for all of ten seconds, until Jerry took a deep breath and blurted out, “Because no one trusts you, that’s why.”

Eleanore looked at him in astonishment. “No one trusts me? I’m as dedicated to the cause as anyone else. And I have more to lose by joining the Resistance than most. So why doesn’t anyone trust me?”

“Some suspect you might be a plant, a spy.”

“A spy!” Eleanore exclaimed angrily.

“Shhhhh!” Jerry cautioned. “Keep the noise down. We don’t want anyone to hear us.”

“You’re the one who claims no one is following us,” Eleanore reminded him. “And the nearest house is two miles away. So who could hear us?”

“You never know.”

“Is that your favorite phrase or something?” Eleanore inquired, and then continued before he could answer. “To tell you the truth, I don’t much care who hears me. You’ve handed me the worst insult possible and I demand to know the reason.”

“You’re no dummy. Surely you can figure it all out by yourself.”

“Tell me, damn you!” Eleanore insisted, a shrill tinge to her tone.

Jerry placed his hands on his hips and regarded her critically. “All right. But remember you asked for it.” He paused. “We all know you’re Violet’s friend, but how can you blame us for suspecting you? You were one of Laveau’s women, for crying out loud. You lived in the lap of luxury.

Fine food, fine clothes—anything you wanted, you got. And there were always dozens of slaves waiting to serve you at any time of the day or night. How can you expect any sane person to believe you’d give all of that up to join the Resistance?”

“You’re right. I was one of Laveau’s women. Was. Past tense. As in past history. But the son of a bitch dumped me, just like he does every woman once she turns nineteen. Surely you know he only beds sweet young things,” Eleanore stated, saying the last three words bitterly.

“There’s a rumor to that effect,” Jerry acknowledged.

“It’s no lousy rumor,” Eleanore snapped. “Laveau is the most superstitious bastard on the planet. He won’t eat food that has been touched by anything metal. All of the cooking utensils at his estate, all of the pots and pans, the forks, spoons, and knives are made of wood. All of his clothes, all of the washcloths and towels are red because only red fabric can touch his body. And five times a day he has to drink fresh goat’s blood.”

“Goat’s blood?” Jerry said distastefully.

“That’s right. He firmly believes that if he breaks any of those rules, plus dozens of others, his magic will grow weak and his enemies will be able to defeat him.”

“And that’s why he dumped you?”

“Yep. He’ll only have sex with women between fifteen and nineteen.”

“A fifteen-year-old is hardly a woman,” Jerry mentioned with evident scorn.

“They are by the time Laveau gets through with them,” Eleanore remarked, her voice suddenly raspy. “I should know. I went through the whole routine. The tonton macoutes showed up at my parents’ house when I was one month shy of my fifteenth birthday and informed them Laveau wanted me as one of his harem. They went on and on about the honor I was receiving, and they paid my parents twenty pieces of gold in compensation.”

“Did your folks accept?”

“Of course.”

Jerry recoiled in shock. “How could they sell their own daughter to that fiend?”

“Be realistic. What choice did they have? If they’d refused, the tonton macoutes would have taken me anyway and about a week later my mom and dad would have mysteriously disappeared,” Eleanore said, and bowed her head. “So they did what they had to do. On my fifteenth birthday, which most girls celebrate with their family, and maybe with a boyfriend on hand, I was carried kicking and screaming from our house and taken into the bayou to Laveau’s estate. That very night he took me for the first time.” She paused and inhaled deeply.

“There’s no need to go on,” Jerry advised her.

“I want you to know the truth,” Eleanore declared, glancing at him. “I want you to tell the others in the Resistance so they’ll understand the reason I joined. I’m not a damned spy. I want to make the Baron pay for what he did to me.”