quickly back over her shoulder like a cat when another cat enters the room. There was a bruise on her face, and the lower edge of her tignon bore a line of crusted blood.
A bitter smile creased the corner of his sister's mouth. “lf l were,” she said, “you think I'd say? If a hundred men and women saw me there, do you think any of them would be able to testify in court? Do you think any of them could testify without getting a beating for it, for being out past curfew, for slipping away from their masters, to be with one another and the loa?”
“There must have been freedmen there,” said January. “Or free colored.”
“Oh, I'll buy a ticket to that,” Olympe returned sardonically. “Let's see: a man gets up and says to that churchgoing jury, Oh yes yes that voodoo witch who lays spells of ill luck on those who cross her, oh yes I saw her there I saw her there clear? You are a fool,”
Rose was right, thought January. The woman in the Cathedral came to mind, making her furtive purchase-if it was a purchase-from Dr. Yellowjack while looking around as if she expected the Protestant God to strike the building for idolatry. It would take more than absence of proof to free Olympe.
More quietly still, and still in the half-African patois of the cane fields, he asked her, “How did you know they hadn't found a body?”
Her brows pulled together, as she turned the matter over in her mind. “When the men came to get me I kept my shell with me,” she said at last. “The shell that calls the loa. I kept it in my mouth. Later I asked the shell, and I asked the spider that spins a web in the corner of the cell, and I asked the rats in the walls: who it was that had killed Isaak Jumon. And they all three told me the same: that Isaak Jumon isn't dead.”
“His brother saw him die,” said January. “Why would his brother lie?”
Olympe shook her head. “I don't know, brother. I only know what they said, those voices out of the dark.”
“You pig-faced whore!” screamed a voice in the cell. “Who you callin' whore, bitch?” screeched another. A chorus of screams ensued, and the Guard thrust January and Paul aside to come up to the bars. This proved an ill-judged interference, for someone hurled the contents of the communal latrine in question over him, and the women continued to tear at one another's hair and shriek.
Cursing, the Guard shoved January and Paul back along the gallery, “You two get out of here, now! Damn stinking wenches. . . .”
“He's the one stinking,” giggled Gabriel, and his father shook him hard by the shoulder as they descended to the courtyard.
“Damn them,” Paul whispered desperately. “Damn them for keeping her there.” They crossed swiftly through the watch room, quieter than it had been yester day without the Guardsmen and clerks and prisoners on the way to the Recorder's Court, though even on Saturdays, masters brought in their slaves to be whipped. The hear in the room was terrific, and flies swarmed and circled in the blue shadows of the ceiling.
“Are you well?” asked January, as they came out onto the arcade. “Are you managing, with the children?”
His brother-in-law nodded, and gave Gabriel a quick hug. “With my boy here to help me, yes. And Zizi-Marie is the best assistant in the shop a man could ask for. But Ben, listen. I've got an offer of work, a big order, from Orialhet at St. Michael Plantation. It's nearly fifty miles up the river. Olympe says I should go, that you'll-you'll look after her here. I shouldn't ask it of you, but...”
“No,” said January immediately, “go.” He knew that in the slow summer season, it was Olympe's earnings, from reading the cards and making gris-gris, that put food on the Corbier table. “Should I stay with the children? I'm supposed to be looking after my mother's house when she leaves for the lake, but . . .”
“I'll be back every few days,” said Paul. “And Zizi-Marie is old enough to look after things.
A bitter smile creased the corner of his sister's mouth. “lf l were,” she said, “you think I'd say? If a hundred men and women saw me there, do you think any of them would be able to testify in court? Do you think any of them could testify without getting a beating for it, for being out past curfew, for slipping away from their masters, to be with one another and the loa?”
“There must have been freedmen there,” said January. “Or free colored.”
“Oh, I'll buy a ticket to that,” Olympe returned sardonically. “Let's see: a man gets up and says to that churchgoing jury, Oh yes yes that voodoo witch who lays spells of ill luck on those who cross her, oh yes I saw her there I saw her there clear? You are a fool,”
Rose was right, thought January. The woman in the Cathedral came to mind, making her furtive purchase-if it was a purchase-from Dr. Yellowjack while looking around as if she expected the Protestant God to strike the building for idolatry. It would take more than absence of proof to free Olympe.
More quietly still, and still in the half-African patois of the cane fields, he asked her, “How did you know they hadn't found a body?”
Her brows pulled together, as she turned the matter over in her mind. “When the men came to get me I kept my shell with me,” she said at last. “The shell that calls the loa. I kept it in my mouth. Later I asked the shell, and I asked the spider that spins a web in the corner of the cell, and I asked the rats in the walls: who it was that had killed Isaak Jumon. And they all three told me the same: that Isaak Jumon isn't dead.”
“His brother saw him die,” said January. “Why would his brother lie?”
Olympe shook her head. “I don't know, brother. I only know what they said, those voices out of the dark.”
“You pig-faced whore!” screamed a voice in the cell. “Who you callin' whore, bitch?” screeched another. A chorus of screams ensued, and the Guard thrust January and Paul aside to come up to the bars. This proved an ill-judged interference, for someone hurled the contents of the communal latrine in question over him, and the women continued to tear at one another's hair and shriek.
Cursing, the Guard shoved January and Paul back along the gallery, “You two get out of here, now! Damn stinking wenches. . . .”
“He's the one stinking,” giggled Gabriel, and his father shook him hard by the shoulder as they descended to the courtyard.
“Damn them,” Paul whispered desperately. “Damn them for keeping her there.” They crossed swiftly through the watch room, quieter than it had been yester day without the Guardsmen and clerks and prisoners on the way to the Recorder's Court, though even on Saturdays, masters brought in their slaves to be whipped. The hear in the room was terrific, and flies swarmed and circled in the blue shadows of the ceiling.
“Are you well?” asked January, as they came out onto the arcade. “Are you managing, with the children?”
His brother-in-law nodded, and gave Gabriel a quick hug. “With my boy here to help me, yes. And Zizi-Marie is the best assistant in the shop a man could ask for. But Ben, listen. I've got an offer of work, a big order, from Orialhet at St. Michael Plantation. It's nearly fifty miles up the river. Olympe says I should go, that you'll-you'll look after her here. I shouldn't ask it of you, but...”
“No,” said January immediately, “go.” He knew that in the slow summer season, it was Olympe's earnings, from reading the cards and making gris-gris, that put food on the Corbier table. “Should I stay with the children? I'm supposed to be looking after my mother's house when she leaves for the lake, but . . .”
“I'll be back every few days,” said Paul. “And Zizi-Marie is old enough to look after things.
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