Texas Born (9 page)

Her father's familiar face was contorted into
an unfamiliar horror, and bits of his nose and cheeks crumbled
away, showing the charred skull beneath.

She tried to scream, but no sound would come
from her throat. And then, with a terrible searing pain, the fire
flared against her body. . . .

Her eyes snapped open as she awakened,
trembling violently, uncontrollably.

She drew a deep breath and glanced around,
trying to orient herself. After a moment she could feel herself
begin to calm down. She was no longer in the nightmare world. She
was at Auntie's—and everything was all right.

The house was dark and unearthly quiet, and
right away she knew she was the first one awake. All she could hear
was the sharply whistling wind outside and the creaking of the
house. She didn't like to be the first to awaken, because she
didn't like the stealthy sounds of the night. She wanted to wake up
to comforting sounds—to muffled brisk footsteps moving about
upstairs, to the muted chatter of voices, the scraping of chairs.
But at this early hour she had only smells to keep her
company—smells of aged wood and musty walls and clean laundry . . .
the exotically fragrant odor of herbs. It was a disconcerting,
overpowering medicinal odor that wafted down in stifling waves from
the tangles of dried herbs hanging upside down all over the
ceiling.

She shifted in bed and sat up slowly, looking
around timidly, her eyes wide as saucers. It was not completely
dark and she could make out the shapes around her: from between the
curtains, a chink of silvery moonlight fought its way into the
room. Winter moonlight it was, cold and icy, and somehow that was
comforting. Warm sunlight, yellow and red sunrises, flaming
sunsets—those were things that frightened her, reminded her all too
clearly of the . . .

She forced herself to swallow and tried to
shove the awful memory aside. But her throat felt dry and clogged,
and it was difficult to make the memory go away. It was always
there, if not lurking in the front of her mind, then worming
restlessly somewhere in the back, constantly trying to wiggle its
way into her consciousness. Anything could trigger it and push it
forward. Anything at all.

She leaned sideways and reached for the thick
green glass tumbler of water Auntie had left on the bedside
cabinet. Holding it carefully between both hands, she took a sip.
The glass felt smooth, and the water was cold and refreshing. She
licked her lips and set the tumbler down. The patchwork quilt had
fallen to her waist, and the chill air bit through her flannel
nightgown.

She shivered and quickly lay back down,
pulling the quilt up around her neck. For a while she stared up at
the dark ceiling.

She wished she could go back to sleep. This
large rough-hewn room made her feel tiny, lonely, and frightened,
but it had been the only unused room in the house. Auntie had
wanted to put her in with Jenny, but since Jenny had kicked up a
fuss, Auntie had put her in here. 'Besides, every young lady needs
a room of her own,' Auntie had told her kindly, trying to make her
feel better.

Elizabeth-Anne glanced around the room. It
was actually a storeroom, where Auntie kept all her herbs, staples,
unused furniture, and anything else that was not used regularly or
which she wanted to keep out of sight, and there was something
disconcerting about it. The big heavy pieces of stored furniture
loomed threateningly, like mute giants, and in the midst of it all
was Elizabeth-Anne's bed, a huge, towering spiral- posted bed with
a lumpy horsehair mattress. When the house had been built, the
plasterwork had been stenciled with primitive green leaves and
yellow thistles, but they had long since faded away, leaving a
murky, trailing pattern that Elizabeth-Anne's imagination took for
other, more horrible things: thorns and nettles and monsters and
snakes.

She had tried desperately to communicate to
Auntie how much the storeroom frightened her, but the words had
never come. She had opened her mouth and struggled to form them,
feeling the effort in her throat.

The only sound that had emerged was a
garbled, hideous, high-pitched squabble.

She had seen Auntie's stricken expression,
and Jenny's horrified look the first time she had made that sound,
so she had stopped trying to talk altogether.

But Auntie hadn't given up easily. Every day,
for half an hour, Elender sat her down in the parlor and tried to
teach her to speak.

'A,' Auntie said slowly, drawing the sound
out so that it lingered musically in the air. 'Aaaaa . . . Now, try
to repeat it, Elizabeth-Anne. Just watch my lips. Aaaaa . . .'

Elizabeth-Anne sat in the chair and stared at
her.

'A,' Auntie said again. She pointed at her
own lips and then moved her hand gracefully, as if she were
conducting an orchestra. 'Aaaaa . . . Aaaaa . . .'

Elizabeth-Anne dutifully formed the vowel
with her lips, but not a sound could be heard.

Auntie drew her chair closer to
Elizabeth-Anne's. She took the girl's hands and looked into her
face. 'Let's try it again, dear,' she said gently. 'Aaaaa . .
.'

Elizabeth-Anne eyed her sadly. She had never
felt so miserable. She wished Auntie would give up.

Elizabeth-Anne knew she would never be able
to speak again, no matter how much coaching she got. It wasn't that
she didn't want to speak. She just couldn't.

'Aaaaa . . .' Auntie gave Elizabeth-Anne's
hands a little squeeze. 'Please, dear. Just give it a try?'

Elizabeth-Anne nodded solemnly. She had loved
Auntie since that first day, and she wanted to please her in any
way she could. She'd do anything for her.
Anything
. But
couldn't Auntie understand that the one thing she simply
couldn't
do was speak? That she would never talk again? That
as hard as she tried, it just wouldn't happen?

'Aaaaa . . .' Auntie prodded again, and
Elizabeth-Anne closed her eyes and furrowed her brow in
concentration. She took a deep breath. Then, summoning up all her
strength, she opened her mouth and once again formed the sound with
her lips. She fought to force it out from deep inside her, and she
could feel the back of her throat hurting from the strain, but
still there was only silence.

She fought to bring out a sound. Any
sound.

'Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh-eh.'

All she could produce was that inhuman
clucking noise. Defeated, she slumped in the chair and opened her
eyes. She stared at Auntie helplessly.

I've failed
, she thought miserably.
I've
let Auntie down again
.

But Elender smiled reassuringly, quickly got
up, and bent down to hug her. 'That was very good, Elizabeth-Anne!'
she said. 'I'm very proud of you. We'll continue tomorrow.'

And Elizabeth-Anne thought:
Oh, what's the
use?

It was the twenty-third of December, and rain
was lashing down in thick sheets. In the warm parlor, Elender
hummed 'Silent Night' to herself as she stood atop the stepladder
and carefully draped the last glittering garland around the top
branches of the Christmas tree. Then, clapping her hands together
in a gesture of finality, she stepped down, moved the ladder away,
and stood back. She surveyed the trimmed tree with pleasure.

The pine was perfectly cone-shaped and stood
nearly six feet tall. It was crowned by the angel she had made
years earlier out of gold paper and white lace, and the crocheted
ornaments and the silver glass balls she cherished sparkled and
looked lovely. The feathery white angel's hair stretched from
branch to branch like snowdrifts. All that was missing were the
candles.

In the past eight years Elender's Christmas
festivities had become a tradition. All her roomers were single or
widowed, and she made an effort to ensure that they enjoyed a nice
holiday. On Christmas Eve she would light a Yule log in the
fireplace and hang mistletoe above the door, just as the servants
in the Cromwell house on Beacon Hill used to do. Then, when she
rang the dinner bell, all the roomers would come downstairs and
gather in the cozy parlor to share a smorgasbord of roast beef,
smoked ham, fried chicken, and plum pudding. There were freshly
baked Christmas cookies and glasses of punch for everyone.
Afterward the roomers would gather around the tree while she lit
the candles, and she would sit down at the spinet and everyone
would join in singing the carols.

But this year there would be no candles on
the tree. Elender didn't need to be told that they would terrify
Elizabeth-Anne. Since the circus fire, the child had become alarmed
of flames of any sort.

Elender glanced at the pendulum clock ticking
away on the mantel. It was nearly eleven o'clock, long past her
usual bedtime. Tomorrow would bring a long, grueling day. She would
have to get up by five. There were the gifts to be wrapped, the
smorgasbord to be prepared, the house to be cleaned, and any
multitude of last-minute things she had overlooked to be taken care
of.

She crossed to the window, parted the
curtains, and looked out. She sighed. The night was unusually dark
because of the rain, and a chill draft blew in from around the
window frame. She had never quite got used to Christmases here in
southwest Texas. They could be rainy and cold or dry and cold. But
never cold enough for a white Christmas. Just cold enough to settle
in your bones.

Elender let the curtains fall back in place
and walked around the parlor. She checked to make sure the embers
in the fireplace had died. Then she lifted the frosted hurricane
shades from the lamps and blew out the flames. She'd bought the
frosted shades especially for Elizabeth-Anne. The girl didn't seem
half as frightened of them as the clear ones. Of course, they
didn't give off as much light, but at least the flames weren't
visible.

She left the last lamp lit and carried it to
her room. On the way, she looked in on the girls. Jenny was curled
up on her side under a mountain of quilts, breathing peacefully.
Silently Elender kissed her on the cheek and then closed the door.
Then she went to the storeroom and looked in on Elizabeth-Anne.

The child was having another bad dream.

She sighed to herself as she approached the
bed and held the lamp high. She could see Elizabeth-Anne squirming.
Her forehead was creased in agitation and she was flushed and
sweaty. Elender could hear her making frightened clucking
noises—those same clucking noises that were the only sounds she
could produce.

Quickly Elender set the lamp on the bedside
cabinet, leaned over the bed, and reached out and shook
Elizabeth-Anne gently. 'Elizabeth-Anne,' she called out.
'Elizabeth-Anne!'

The girl awakened with a start, her eyes wild
with fear. Immediately she sat up and threw her arms around
Elender's neck.

Elender sat down on the edge of the mattress
and held her tightly, patting her reassuringly on the back. 'There.
There,' she whispered soothingly. 'You've just had a bad dream.
Everything's going to be all right. Auntie chased the bad dream
away.' Gently she uncurled the girl's arms and made her lie back
down.

Elizabeth-Anne's aquamarine eyes were wide.
Don't leave me, they seemed to plead. Please stay here.

Elender read the expression and stroked
Elizabeth-Anne's cheek reassuringly, but she was worried.
Elizabeth-Anne's nightmares had been recurring ever since the day
she had found her wandering in Geron's Fields. But lately they
seemed to have increased in frequency. Perhaps . . . She frowned
thoughtfully to herself. Perhaps a tiny dose of laudanum would help
her sleep more peacefully. Would keep the nightmares at bay. It
was, after all, a harmless mixture of alcohol and opium.

'I'll be back in a moment,' Elender said
decisively. 'I'm going to get you something to chase away your
dreams.'

Elizabeth-Anne sat up again and clung
tenaciously to her, afraid to be left alone with her nightmare.

'I'll only be a moment,' Elender assured her
gently.

Elizabeth-Anne looked at her doubtfully, but
obediently lay back down.

Elender left, and soon returned with the
bottle of laudanum she kept on a shelf in the kitchen and poured a
mere drop in a teaspoon.

Elizabeth-Anne licked the spoon dry and
grimaced, but for the rest of the night she slept peacefully. The
next day, for the first time, she awakened without a haunted,
restless look.

The next night, without the laudanum, the
nightmares returned. Elender gave her another tiny dose, and
Elizabeth-Anne slept soundly.

From that day on, before bedtime Elender
would give her a drop or two.

She did not know that it was the beginning of
Elizabeth-Anne's addiction.

Amanda stood uncomfortably beside Bazzel
Grubb in front of the big clapboard house. The ground-floor windows
were all lit, and from inside came the tinkling of a piano and
voices raised in a carol. They were mostly men's voices, deep and
off-key, but a woman's strong voice overpowered them and kept the
tune going:

Deck the hall with boughs of holly,

Fa la la la la, la la la la,

'Tis the season to be jolly,

Fa la la la la, la la la la . . .

Amanda glanced sideways at Bazzel. 'I still
don't like this,' she murmured. Her lips were numb from the cold
and her nose was running. She wiped it on the sleeve of her coat.
'It ain't right, Bazzel. 'Specially not at Christmastime.'

Bazzel stared at the house through the sheets
of rain. For the first time, he, too, felt misgivings. They had
begun at the railroad station. Night had fallen by the time they
had got off the train, and all the while they'd ridden here in the
horse-drawn buggy they'd hired, he'd been on the lookout for signs
of the circus. In the night he hadn't been able to see a thing, and
there wasn't even any moonlight because of the rain. He'd thought
it best not to ask the old man who drove the buggy anything about
the circus. These small towns were all alike. When one person as
much as sneezed, the next day everybody within miles knew about
it.