Marcelite folded her hands and began to pray, her lips moving silently again. Lucien sat very still and listened intently to the wind. Was it his imagination, or was it losing strength? The house still rocked from both wind and waves, but was the battering less? He set Angelle on her mother's lap and rose. The men were cautious, but some were optimistic. If the water rose no higher, if the wind died and gave the house a chance to settle, perhaps they had seen the worst.

Lucien caught Dupres Jambon's eye. Dupres shook his head. Clearly he didn't believe he would be safe in this house. "There is always a lull," Dupres told them. "And when the winds begin again, they will be stronger."

Lucien remained silent and tried to follow the arguments. His panic lessened. Had he not brought Marcelite and the children here? Had he not saved the skiff? He was alive because he had used his wits, and he could still use them to survive. He tried to piece together what he knew of hurricanes. There was usually a lull; then the wind changed direction. The lull could be long or short, but when it came, he must leave in the skiff.

Marcelite and the children watched him from the corner. He knew their fates might hang on his decision. He was strong enough to have a chance if the winds returned and caught him on his way to better shelter. But if Marcelite and the children were caught in the open, he might die trying to save them.

If they remained here, they might die, too.

Silently he cursed the G.o.d who was waiting for him to make the wrong choice. Marcelite seemed to sense his distress. "What's wrong?" she asked when he returned. "Are we lost?"

He told her the truth. "Are you willing to come?"

"Did you think to leave me behind?"

Her answer took him by surprise. He frowned. For the past hours, the storm had filled his mind, pushing everything else to the background. She had found the time to think of other things. "If you come, it must be your choice."

"I have already lived through h.e.l.l." She met his eyes, and there was nothing inside her that she didn't invite him to see. "How different is the storm?"

He wondered how he could ever have believed she was a simple woman who needed him for love and guidance.

He listened to the others argue. The winds were definitely dying down, the water was receding. The world from the attic window was a scene from a nightmare, so terrible that the mind could not stretch wide enough to comprehend details. But the nightmare was ending. And until a new one began, there would be time to act.

When the winds were only those of any bad storm, Lucien crawled out the attic window onto what was left of the gallery roof. It sagged under his weight. He peered over the edge and saw that the skiff had floated away from the gallery. His best choice was to drop into the water as close as possible, then tie it where Marcelite and the children could be helped inside.

Dupres and three other men had already gone for the lugger they had left nearby. Lucien searched for them, but he could see only a short distance. The bell had never ceased its ringing. No longer tolling a funeral knell, the bell seeming to be ringing to lead him to safety.

He waited until he was certain the water wouldn't carry him away; then he swung himself over the roof and dropped into the waves. As before, the water was cold and turbulent, but deeper now, so that he couldn't stand. He battled as he had the first time, until he grasped the boat's side.

A huge gold moon lit the sky, as if to show what had been accomplished that night. Black clouds continued to blow across it, though with less fury. Lucien watched the current; it was still too swift to negotiate, but now he was sure that would change, too. He heard a shout, and from the west he saw a shape materializing in the darkness. He looked on as Dupres and the others brought the lugger toward the house.

When the lugger was secure, too, the men fought their way inside together. Upstairs, with little conversation, they gathered their families and what possessions they had. Octave pa.s.sed out the last of the tools he had gathered. Lucien took a small ax to help break up logjams. Then, huddled together, they waited for the right moment to leave.

Lucien watched Marcelite with the children. She betrayed no fear, holding them close beside her, as if her strength alone could protect them from death. He envisioned her holding them that way forever.

The house began to shift, as if to find its balance again. Outside, the bell rang more clearly, as the screaming winds quieted. Dupres approached Lucien. "There's room on my lugger for everyone."

"I still think we'll take our chances in the skiff."

The two men wished each other well, then, with the others, went down the stairs for the last time and stationed themselves at intervals through the flooded house to help pa.s.s the women and children to the boats. Marcelite was the last woman down. She carried Raphael, and another of the men brought Angelle. Lucien left her to struggle with the boy, and held out his arms for his daughter. Then he led them to the gallery. Raphael held fast to a post as she scrambled into the skiff; then she reached for him and secured him on a seat. Lucien kissed Angelle's head, then handed her to Marcelite before he got into the boat himself.

"Hold tight!" he shouted. He reached for the rope, but he fumbled with the knot, suddenly uncertain, now that it was almost too late to turn back. The lull was a certainty, but the water still swirled with vicious intent, even though it was receding.

Behind him he could hear the other men shouting, and he turned to see the lugger launched from the gallery. The shorter men were hanging on to ropes, swimming beside it, but Dupres, taller than the others, seemed to be touching ground as he hauled the boat in the direction he had chosen.

Encouraged by their progress, Lucien unfastened the knot; then, as the water pushed the skiff toward the Gulf, he took up the oars and began to row. At first he made no headway, and panic gripped him. But little by little he began to see that they were moving toward the sound of the bell. He settled into the rhythm, pulling harder as he angled the boat between swells.

The world they pa.s.sed through was terrible beyond his worst imaginings. Bodies swept past, both human and animal. Once he thought he saw a hand lift in supplication, but he was too far away to know for certain. Voices screamed from trees, from roofs drifting unanch.o.r.ed, from windows of the few houses still standing. He shut his eyes to the horror and rowed.

The farther they moved from the Gulf, the less he felt its pull. Once Lucien struck something with his oar, and hoped it was ground, but with his next pull he touched only water. Just as he was growing afraid that he didn't have the strength to keep up a steady pace, his oars struck something once more, then a third time. He stopped and lowered one into the water and touched bottom. He secured the oars before he climbed into the water. It rose to his chest, but he was able to retain his footing.

Each gust of wind was less than the one before. The clanging of the bell slowed. Marcelite shouted to him to watch out, and he hugged the hull as the wall of a house drifted by.

The church was still far away, but with every step they were drawing closer. Moments went by without the sound of the bell. Another skiff pa.s.sed, and a man shouted something in their direction. The skiff was filled with pa.s.sengers moving to a safer building, too.

The water inched downward to his waist. The lull had truly arrived now. The winds were quiet; golden moonlight warmed the terrifying landscape. He could almost have pretended the storm had been a dream, so suddenly had it ended. He wondered if the winds would come again, or if the stillness would last. He slowed his pace a little, stepping carefully, watching for landmarks, but it was as if the peninsula had been wiped clean and nothing he recognized remained.

He glanced behind him at the outline of Marcelite and the children and felt satisfaction that, at least in this, she depended on his goodwill. What choices did she have now? She was at the mercy of the storm, just as he was, and she needed his strength. What good were her threats, when her survival and her children's were linked so closely to his? He wondered if she would remember this moment when the storm was over.

There were more screams and shouts in the night, but he hadn't heard the bell for long minutes. Had it fallen at last, or was the wind so mild it could no longer lift the bell's weight? He had counted on the sound to guide him. Now he realized he could be off course, perhaps even heading into the marsh. Confused and exhausted, he stopped to rest.

"What is it, Lucien?"

He didn't have the breath to answer her.

"We must keep moving!"

He heard the fear in her voice, and his power to enhance it pleased him. He rested longer before he answered. "Must we? I don't know where to go."

"I'll guide you. Please, keep going!"

"How can you guide me? Can you see what I can't?"

"We aren't far. Listen! Hear the bell ringing?"

The bell sounded again, closer than he had imagined the church to be. The sound heartened him. He looped the rope around his waist and tied it before he began to move forward once more.

"We'll be there soon. Please, Lucien, don't stop again."

He felt a new surge of power. In this crisis Marcelite had no choice but to be all the things he had always believed her to be. Her very life depended on his whim. He turned his head to tell her so, and saw the most terrifying sight of his life.

Black clouds were ma.s.sed to the west, made clearly visible now by slashing streaks of lightning. Thunder growled through the stillness, distant, but growing closer with every rumble. The wind picked up enough to ring the bell again, then again. As he watched, the clouds seemed to creep steadily closer, an army of death cloaked in black.

He turned and plunged forward, one hand on the rope still tied around his waist, one hand thrusting everything from his path. He couldn't gauge how much time was left to reach the church, but he knew it wasn't much. The lull had been just that. And behind it was a storm front so ma.s.sive that what they had already lived through was as nothing.

He stumbled once, catching a foot on some unseen object, but he regained his balance and plunged on, jerking the skiff along behind him. The rain began again, lightly at first, then pelting him harder and harder. Lightning flashed so constantly that the midnight sky seemed lit by the sun. The shrieks of surviving animals who sensed death approaching merged with the fierce screaming of the wind. He plunged on, heedless now of anything except the bell.

At first he thought the flickering light in the distance was lightning. Only Marcelite's shout made him realize it was a lantern in the presbytery window. Something close to elation charged through him. He was almost to safety. The storm was closing in with all the fury of h.e.l.l, but he still had time-precious little, but time nonetheless.

He plunged toward the light, letting it be his guide. The bell was pealing in rhythm with the frantic pounding of his heart. Only a little way to go now. Just yards to go.

He was almost on top of the remains of someone's house before he realized it was blocking his way. He jerked the skiff around, and for a moment he thought he had been in time, but the current pushed the skiff against the ruin and snagged the rope. He tugged, but it wouldn't give.

The sky was so light that he could see where the problem lay. The problem was a small one, easily taken care of.

"Throw me the ax!" he screamed, coming to the side of the boat. "For G.o.d's sake, the ax!"

He could clearly see the expression on Marcelite's face. She was terror-stricken, and Angelle was clinging to her, screaming. Only Raphael seemed capable of movement. He crawled along the bottom of the boat and brought the ax to the side. His eyes met Lucien's. Lucien saw terror there. Worse, much worse, he saw resignation.

Behind the boy, Lucien saw the storm rushing in, pushing a wall of water in front of it that was higher than anything still standing on the peninsula. A shout was torn from his own throat. He grabbed the ax and turned, heaving it frantically against the post that had snagged the rope. The post split. One more chop, only one, and the boat would be freed.

He turned back toward the storm and saw Raphael watching him. Rain plastered the boy's curls to his head and ran down his cheeks like a thousand tears. Behind Raphael he glimpsed Marcelite. In his power. Completely in his power now.

He brought the ax down once more, but not on the post. The rope tore free exactly where the ax had struck it. In seconds the weight of the skiff was gone. He whirled and saw it careening in the current, spinning farther and farther away from him. He heard screaming, and didn't know whose throat it had come from. In seconds the skiff was gone.

Head down, he turned back to the light in the presbytery window and, half swimming, half wading, fought his way there alone. Inside, he crawled up the stairs to the second story.

As the bell rang, a sobbing Father Grimaud welcomed and embraced him. The bell continued to ring until the only sound Lucien could hear was the bell. Louder than the screams of the dying. Louder than his own screams.

The bell rang, and even when it was finally silenced in the last hours of the storm, it still rang for Lucien's ears alone.

CHAPTER NINE.

There were eight little girls in Belinda's living room when Phillip returned from Aurore Gerritsen's house. He recognized Amy and her little sister, but the others were strangers to him. Each child had a sheet of newspaper spread out in front of her, with a lump of rust-colored modeling clay in the center.

Belinda stood at the opposite end of the narrow room, wearing a long, flowing robe of bright blue and green. A green turban bound her hair.

She flashed Phillip a wary smile, but otherwise ignored his entrance. Obviously she had just begun a lecture. "We don't know a whole lot about the people of Nok, 'cause African history's never been a big concern of the white man, but we do know that way back before the Romans and the Jews were fighting each other over the teachings of Jesus, about five hundred years before, in fact, the Nok people were sculpting statues of terra-cotta, kind of like that clay you've got in front of you there."

"When we be making something?" one of the little girls in the front asked.

"After you mind your manners and listen awhile. First, I want one of you to come up and point out Nigeria on this map." Belinda stooped and reached behind her, and when she straightened she held up a large map of Africa.

No one stirred.

"None of you knows?"

Amy raised her hand. Belinda nodded, and Amy got up and went to stand in front of her. She frowned, then poked her finger in the center of the map.

Belinda didn't shake her head. "Amy's got the right idea. She's real close. Thank you for trying, Amy. Are you proud of yourself?"

"I'm proud," Amy said.

"Good."

Amy went to sit back down.

Phillip watched the rest of the lesson unfold. The little girls giggled and whispered occasionally, but clearly Belinda had captured their attention. For this afternoon, at least, they had become part of a culture with an ancient and honorable heritage, and Belinda was their role model.

"What do you think these people ate?" Belinda asked as the lesson wound to a close.

"Giraffes?" Amy's little sister asked shyly.

"Oooh... Now that'd be a long, tall meal, wouldn't it?" Belinda's smile made it clear that she was glad the little girl had answered. "But the truth is, we think they ate a lot of the things that you like, things like beans and corn and yams, and they liked to season them with lots of red pepper, just like we do here in New Orleans. Fact is, some of your favorite foods came from Africa. They were brought here by slaves who pa.s.sed them on to the white masters. When you're eating red beans and rice on Monday nights, you're eating the same kind of thing the people of Nok ate. You're eating African food, and don't you forget it."

"We won't forget it," they chimed together on cue.

"Now we're going to make statues, like the ones I talked about before," Belinda said. "Archaeologists-that's people who study civilizations from a long time ago-have found statues just this high." She held her thumb and forefinger an inch apart. "And they've found some as big as real people. There are two things most of the statues have in common. First of all, they've got pierced ears. Second, their eyes are hollowed out. We don't know why. Not yet, anyhow. But when you make your statues today, I want you to try to make them like those Nok statues. Hollow eyes and pierced ears. I've got some pictures you can look at. Can you do it?"

"We can do it," they chorused.

"Then get busy. I'll help, and so will Phillip. You all know Phillip, don't you?"

Phillip immediately edged toward the door and escape, but eight little pairs of eyes stopped him.

He didn't like children, particularly. His experience with anyone under the age of ten was limited, and that was the way he had planned to keep it. But he had been thinking about children when he walked through the door-a boy named Raphael and a baby girl named Angelle. And their story, as well as Aurore's, was still with him.

He held up his hands. "Do these look like the hands of a man who knows anything about making statues?"

"Kids'll teach you everything you need to know," Belinda said.

He realized that more than eyes held him in place now. One of the littlest girls, her hair neatly sectioned and clipped with pink plastic barrettes, had clasped her arms around his waist. He was a captive.

An hour later, he had red clay embedded under every fingernail and a little girl wearing a dress meant for a larger child embedded on his lap. He had tried unsuccessfully to remove her half an hour before, but she was as tenacious as the woman teaching the cla.s.s. Four feet away, Belinda was in the midst of promising the children an authentic Nigerian meal at their next session.

"Now scoot," she said, clapping her hands. "And don't you forget what you learned here today. Some of you may even come from those Nok people. You can be proud of everything they did. Are you proud?"

"We're proud," they chorused.

The room cleared quickly. In a moment, nothing was left of the giggles and the whispers except eight little statues drying on Belinda's front windowsill.

Belinda put her hands on her hips and stared insolently at Phillip. "Well? Go ahead and say it."

"Say what?"

"Whatever you're thinking."

He didn't know what he was thinking. He hadn't known about Belinda's after-school cla.s.ses. She hadn't discussed them with him, or asked for his advice. She hadn't even warned him.

Belinda stood in front of him, proud and indisputably magnificent. Phillip had been to Africa on a.s.signment. He had interviewed African leaders, covered hideous tribal ma.s.sacres, eaten from wooden bowls in tiny villages and silver plates in capital cities. He had l.u.s.ted after dark-skinned women as beautiful as any in the universe. But he had never felt precisely what he was feeling now.

"What made you decide to do this?" he asked.

"You wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"You don't know what it's like for these kids. You went to boarding school in Switzerland. You graduated from Yale. You write about civil rights, and sometimes somebody bars a door you want to waltz on through, but you don't know what it's like to be raised somewhere where nothing you ever do will be good enough."

"Because you're a Negro."

"Because you're black."