Bayou Phantasia II

Bayou Phantasia Part II

Twenty ghostly stories of the surreal from Cajun country

Chris Segura

Win or Lose, Ink

Copyright 2011 Chris Segura

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Conte 1 Independence Day Song

Conte 2 Sabine

Conte 3 Werewolf!

Conte 4 Fountain

Conte 5 I Hope to See Him

Conte 6 Coffin in the Tree

Conte 7 Hombre!

Conte 8 Conqueror!

Conte 9 War of the Texans

Conte 10 Redskin Coonass

Conte 11 Bell Wind

Conte 12 Fair Deal

Conte 13 Requiem

Conte 14 Rendezvous

Conte 15 Redhead in Yellow Rolls Royce

Conte 16 The Lovers

Conte 17 Blue Hour

Conte 18 Wood Stork

Conte 19 Woman in Window

Conte 20 Beautiful Lady Eleanor

About the Auther and his Work

Conte 1 Independence Day Song

The Town of Erath fluttered cosmetically with red, white and blue. Fireworks exploded in the streets, leaving blue gun smoke clouds among the excited children. His sons too were excited as he drove the truck over the railroad tracks that ran down the center of town. They glanced around wildly, wide-eyed, unable to absorb all the sights, all the excitement.

Minos Lancon gave each boy a little folding money. He did not begrudge the boys anything and would never consider not supporting them. The problem was that Louisiana courts lumped child support with alimony. That was good for his income tax return but it pained Minos to pay alimony, even one dollar, and he was never quite certain which of his dollars went to the boys.

His lawyer said if Marie would just move in with that driller from Michigan, he could stop the part of the payments they considered alimony. There was no daughter involved so Minos would have no objection to another man living in her house. He had taught the boys all they needed to know already.

Dane, the youngest, was quiet and delicate. He took after his mother. Minos didn't understand him. No one understood him. He kept to himself. Minos could never teach him the way he could teach Darrell, the oldest.

Minos helped them spy the Tilt-a-Whirl, Ferris Wheel, Bumper Cars, Space Walk, Fun House, freak shows with a giant mummy and a man who ate glass. Then he pulled up the truck. That's when he saw the Vietnamese.

Like always, they were in a group. An old mama-san with the shiny black pants and the delicate white shirt to her knees. Wooden sandals. The others dressed mostly like white people. A little nigger-loud, though. Minos nudged Darrell's shoulder. Darrell saw them, rolled down the window, started barking very loud. Like an old hound dog.

Dane blushed.

What the matter for you, you? Minos chided. He was addressing Dane. They eat dog, them. Ainh?

Dane shrugged, face down.

So bark, you! Minos ordered. But Dane did not bark. His face, reddening even more, stayed downcast.

Feet-dumb-ease! Darrell yelled as the Vietnamese entered the carnival crowd. It was something he had come up with himself. Minos chuckled although he knew it was crude in the way 'dumb' started with a 'd' and if it were 'numb' the boy had come up with it would have been more accurate, more like the way they said it themselves: 'Veet-nahm-ease'. The boy was young. You had to cut him some slack.

He told them to have a good time and to get back to their mother's house early. Now he was done with them until morning. At home, he settled himself in front of the television set with a TV dinner and whiskey chased by beer.

He fell asleep with the set still on. The sputter-buzz from the hazy-lit television did not wake him. A jingle of spurs woke him. He felt he was not alone. He switched off the set. The house was in full darkness. He felt the presence.

He saw the figure. Huge. Standing in a darker shadow. Broad, tall, heavy shouldered, a misshapen head. Minos had weapons handy. He got the M-16 from the closet, inserted a clip and locked it in place. By the time he got the muzzle around the corner, the figure was closer. There was no question of missing. In one burst of brilliant flashes, he put all twenty rounds into the chest area.

The den exploded in an angry growling of searing orange flames. In the strobe light effect of the muzzle flashes, he saw to his horror that the figure was a man with a wide-brimmed hat. A white man dressed in fringed buckskin. Pistols and a small hand-axe stuck beneath his belt. Face framed by braids, a beard. Eyes calm, unconcerned. The intruder viewed Minos with unveiled contempt. Through the acrid, gunpowder mist, the stranger seemed to take on his own light. A light all about him but neither from within nor from without.

Hand to the belt. The axe. Minos stepped back, slipped on shell casings. The tomahawk came hurtling, spinning toward him. Carrying with it the same glow of the stranger. Colliding the razor edge against the lethal barrel of the assault rifle. The gun wrenched from Minos's hands, itself aglow now until both weapons disappeared in the darkness. Sinking into the depths of the dark, mud-bottom lake of night.

Ain't right neighborly, podnah. That there mare's leg don' make a body feel welcome. I seed hoosgows taste better t' the gut 'an thissern.

The stranger did not speak French, nor did he speak American. He communicated colloquially in both tongues at once. Texas twang. Minos saw him clear as daylight. All the way down to the silver studs on the bell-bottom trousers and the hand-tooled boots. The stranger advanced swiftly. A cat in the forest. The jangle of the broad rowels of the silver spurs. Minos could not move. He was rooted among the spent shell casings of the M-16.

Mais … ainh … who you are, you? he managed before the stranger's hand on his chest sent him sliding backwards like his feet were on greased rails until he tumbled into his easy chair. Fully reclined. Feet up. Arms stuck to the rests like murderers strapped to the electric chair.

Texican, the stranger said loudly and proudly. He sat at the edge of the cold hearth and by touching his fingers to the ashes produced a fire that roared in layers like a well-stacked set of logs springing from the air itself. He removed the sombrero and repeated a little more slowly, seriously, Texican.

Me, I .... The stranger's hand, gloved but with the right index finger of the glove cut away, shot up between them and Minos was silenced. Physically silenced. Something invisible held still the tip of his tongue.

You ain't important. You listen.

The stranger sat more easily on the ledge of the hearth and removed the sombrero, tossed it to the floor where it came to rest like a glowing pool. I come here after Goliad, brung my missus an' the younguns. Warn't fer the younguns, I'd a been there yit. Texas jes got a bit too bloody fer my taste what with the younguns an' all. So I up an' hitched up the wagon and we put up the canvas an' I got 'em all the way overn ter Grand Cheniere afore that marsh lay out affronter us. Had some terrible things ahappening behint me an' that there marsh, she looked pretty good t' my sore eyes.

The Texican reached into the fire and from the dead ashes beneath the lines of flames, without apparent pain, he plucked a living coal. He lit a cigar, pungent smoke.

Lef' em there, I did, an' rid on down that there ole beach line, the way ole Jake Cole done when he brung them cattle on inter Pea-can Island. I made the island right easy 'nough an' carved meself a stake. Time I got back ter Grand Cheniere, my younguns a'ready was a-talking that French l'il bit. Fer me, shucks, warn't whole lot diff'er'nt from Messkin. Picked 'er up right smart an' had muhself a right fine life on that there island. Was easy, don't you see.

The stranger stood, took up his sombrero, set it on his head and adjusted the neck string.

You gonter hafter mend yore ways, Lancon, he said. Er yore liken ter get trawled up one day an' stept on fer trash. But, now, beer an' whiskey. But I got hyer some firewater liken ter nothin' you evern got down yourn gullet. Messkins calls 'er mezcal.

The stranger took from a pouch at his side a warped bottle of clear liquid which he tilted up and drank. The liquid gurgled downward, large bubbles bursting inside the bottle to take up the space. He drank until there was only one swallow left.

Yourn, the stranger said, handling over the bottle. Minos discovered he could use his left hand. He took the bottle. It was warm, throbbing. Drink!

The mezcal choked him, potent with fire. Something in the liquid slipped from the bottle and through his mouth, right over his tongue and down his throat, small and hard and slick.

You got yerself the worm, Cajun! the voice boomed. You got the worm!

Minos, nauseous, closed his eyes.

Oom-pah-pah!

He opened them. The music was coming from outside. A band outside. A very large woman stood before him.

She was not fat. She was muscular, tall. Very blonde. Blue eyes and ruddy checks. Middle aged. Arms and shoulders as powerful as a man's. Boisterously feminine. Under each arm was a wooden keg. She laughed a deep hearty laugh.

He ish avake! she shouted with obvious pleasure. Minos glanced toward the door, planning an escape, but he was still bound to the chair. Der mushik? Dafs der Oaktuber Feshtifull, yah! Chuly in here, Oaktuber ow dere.

She laughed again and pounded one of the kegs to the floor beside his chair. The other one she set on an end and sat. From the shadows she plucked the tomahawk. The small, pointed end smashed a hole in the top of the keg. Gunpowder! She spilled a little fuse line. She left a little ignition pile at the end of it on the floor.

Ist gemütlichkeit? Vatch dish, she said grinning. Dish ish fun, yah?

She held up a finger and fire sprang from the tip.

Ish goot, yah?

She lit the fuse. Minos struggled but he was still bound tight. He closed his eyes, turned to mutter swiftly his Act of Contrition. No explosion. First one eye, then the other. The flame sputtered in place one inch from the keg. She laughed, clapped her hands.

"Vas joost to make you lish'en. Der talk. Yah. Alle vas beginnin' in der Reformation. Ach! You don't effen know what vas der Reformation. Vas bad, vas terrible. Zwie hunnert year de vahrs! Ve vash in der Strasbourg. Know vere ish der Strasbourg? No. Vhat you don't know ish … ish … enorm. Vell vash no goot in Strasbourg. Ve vent from Strasbourg to Paris. Den, ven I vasht born, ve vent to der Deutche. Vhat you call der Teche.

She hesitated, seeing his surprise at the name of the famous bayou.

Vell, vhat you think ish Klienpeter, eh? Or ish Shoeffler, or ish Dubs vhat you call Toups. My name ish Heimendinger, Greta Heimendinger.

Und ve come into der Deutche country vhen dere vas nobody dere but der Indyans. Yah. Der Ceti, der Men-Red-All-Over. Dey vas goot, dem Indyans. I like.

Now her voice rose like an organ in a vaulted cathedral.

"Und I like der Frenchmen, und der 'Cadiens, und der.. .der Neger, vhat you call der niggers. Ve like all der people, yah. Und vhen ve come, before der 'Cadians mit dere cowsen, dey vas joost der Churmans, Deutchen, vhat vas liffing to stay. Ve saft der St. Martin from der famine, und our vettern, our cousins, dey saft New Orleans, too, mit food for to eat instead of tobacco for to make dash geld der munny.

So! You not bad man, you joost der nichtswisser, und dat I don' know vhat vay to tell you vhat ish. Und you joost ein skinny man, yah. Der talk, it make t'irst.

So she stood, took from beneath her ample bottom the second keg. She smashed a hole in the top and held the keg high, the golden frothy liquid spilling into her mouth and down her neck and breasts. She drank gallons. Then she handed it to him. His arms without obedience to him took the keg and tilted it up and he tasted the stong, unpasteurized, room-temperature German beer.

Laughter. The keg lifted from him. Last sight her standing before him, hands on hips. Laced bodice bulging about her body, laughing loudly. Grinning. Cheeks rosy. Eyes blue. Blonde hair sweaty with celebration.

His eyes closed. It seemed they only blinked, but suddenly everything around him changed. The man standing before him was tall and slender, with shirt of lace gathered at his throat. Coat and top hat black. Trousers fawn-colored, tucked into soft, suede boots.

Are you finally awake? Finally? Good. I'm going to make this very brief, I don't like to wallow in this sort of company, although I admit all these devices here, they do have their advantages. In my time we were forced to use slaves in order to live as God intended those of our station to live. Slaves can be abominable. Body lice, for instance. Constantly treating them for body lice.

He clapped his hands, which were gloved in white. A smalI black boy detached himself from the shadows behind the man and brought out a tray with a bottle of wine already opened and two crystal goblets. The boy swiftly retreated.

Not that I give a damn about their body lice. Wouldn't go near one of them if I didn't have to. One must keep one's servants de-loused in order that one keep his own house that way. Other problems, too. But I'm going to get out of here very fast, very fast indeed.

He drank from the glass, held it to the light of the fire so that the rosy oblong light spilled across his face. He sighed.

The baron's best, he said almost reverently. Then he turned an angry look on Minos. You're not nearly worth the trouble, you must understand. You were quite right to be rude to those Vietnamese. Your instincts are perfect. It is amazing, quite amazing, that a cur … that's right, a mongrel like you has even the slightest smidgen of aristocratic bearing.

The apparition quaffed the wine and poured another. It was as if the blush of the wine now spread across his face from within. He smiled warmly, but to himself.

Ah, yes. Well, the Acadiens, they were mongrels themselves, don't you know. Seventy-five years or so of breeding with Indians and Irishmen and Scotsmen. And in Normandy before they left, why they'd as soon mate with boars or bulls, I do believe.

He put the glass down on the tray and stood very straight. Before resuming the narrative, he placed his open hand upon his own breast. It was a gesture of self-love.

I, he said, pausing dramatically, am called François Jaubert Gaston Bourbon d'Autre Rive, Marquis du Pontverre. And it is I and those of my class who were forced by the vagaries of fortune to leave our own France to that Corsican barbarian Napoleon and the Republique, we who have suffered! Acadians! Bah! I spit on them!

He spat on the floor. He smoothed his hair. He replaced the top hat. Composed himself.

My pardon. You see what this place will do to one of gentle bearing? It sucks away decorum from a nobleman. But what did the Acadiens have to lose? Some pig-sties? A manure farm? Who cares? My smallest estate in the Loire supported eighteen families. Listen, you talk about bloodshed, did you see what that upstart did to Europe?

With nods of his head, he answered his own question. Then he poured another glass and drank. He used the empty glass to punctuate his words.

"And the worst of it is that I had to come into this country, with these snakes and mosquitoes and ruffians and buffoons, never to return. Never to return! Don't let them fool you, it is only the gentile, the sensitive classes who suffer. The uneducated dolts do not even know how to suffer properly. They make a mess of it. No, no, that's not the worst of it. The worst of it is having to give the last glass of this wine to a mule … that is right, you heard me correctly. I said mule ... a mule like you!"

With that Monsieur le Marquis du Pontverre, poured a glass, handed it to Minos, watched him drink it and with a toss of the hand promptly disappeared.

The wine was warm and strong, a rich, red, nourishing matrix. He watched the fire die down upon the invisible logs and branches. Watched the shadows deepen. It became his own house again. But when he tried to move, he found he still could not.

And the wine, it did not work?

The voice came from a corner where Minos had hung an old meat scale for decoration. Following it came a young man of medium height, of slender build but heavy, muscled thighs. He was dark, with straight, brushed hair and a waxed handlebar moustache. He smiled, looking Minos straight in the face. He sat on the hearth, braced his hands on his thighs.

"En boca cerrada no entran moscas."

After a pause he translated, "Into a closed mouth flies do not enter. It is something we said in Spain. Then we said it here. Spain or here, what is the difference? People say things, they do things, life goes on. I am called Francisco Javier Romero y Ruiz. Mucho gusto. All this talk of suffering! Well, of course, I missed all that in Europe about Napoleon. But I saw it here."

He slapped his thighs and settled an elbow on a knee to hold his head in his hand.

"First we fought the British at Baton Rouge, then at Mobile and Pensacola when I was hardly older than that vulgar boy of yours. We won that one, for us and the Americans, a lot of good it did us. Then again