The Barataria region, she'd said, had once been the haunt of pirates. Some of the people who lived here now were their descendants. He'd listened eagerly as she told more stories of the melange of people who dwelled there, stories of people from Italy, Spain and Portugal, stories of people from Manilla and China who dried shrimp on tall platforms in Barataria Bay and danced over them until the sh.e.l.ls fell off to be swept away by the currents. But it was Juan's story he'd begged to hear again. He had gone to sleep that night promising himself that the next stories he heard would be from Juan himself.

At first Raphael had been afraid to go to Juan's house alone. It was far from his own house, and etienne had frightened him with stories about ghosts who haunted the marsh. But after a while he had found his way there.

Juan hadn't spoken to him that first day, or the next. But after Raphael had visited for a week, carrying fresh water in a bucket from the well and helping Juan weave more palmetto into the thatch of his house, Juan had finally begun to talk.

Now Raphael visited Juan every day he could. Sometimes the old man was out in his boat and Raphael returned home without seeing him. But on lucky days, Juan was sitting outside, ready to tell stories. Raphael lived on these tales of conquest as surely as he lived on the bread his mother baked in her mud oven.

Today, when Raphael arrived, Juan was nowhere in sight. His boats were there, however, both the pirogue that he used in the marsh behind his home and the skiff he sailed into the Gulf.

Raphael knocked on the door of Juan's hut, and when no one answered, he pushed it open a few inches to peer inside. The hut's interior was more primitive than Raphael's own. The floor was mud and the furniture nothing more than stumps of trees. There was a shrine in the corner, like the one Raphael's mother kept, but no statue of the Blessed Mother presided over the simple wooden cross and the stubs of two candles.

Raphael closed the door and backed away. From the distance, he heard a clap of thunder. He didn't want to be caught outside if the rain started again, but he knew better than to enter the hut without Juan's permission. Just as he was turning to run back toward the village, he saw the tall sedge beside Juan's house part in a rippling wave. As Raphael watched, terrified, the old man materialized in the mists rising from the marsh.

"Hey! 'Zat you, Raphael?"

Raphael swallowed hard. For a moment, his voice was locked in his throat, as if the ghosts he'd envisioned had wrapped their boneless fingers around his neck. He swallowed again, successfully. "I'z me."

"You don' see the storm comin', cher? cher? You don' worry?" You don' worry?"

Raphael shook his head and watched Juan stagger crab-like toward him. "It's jus' rain," he said bravely, like a good pirate.

"Non. Mais, I wish you was right." I wish you was right."

"It's goin' away." Raphael squinted as Juan drew closer.

"She goes 'way, then she comes back. Boom! Like that!" Juan clapped his hands.

"How do you know?"

"Me, I seen it before. The gulls go; and the pelicans. The cows, they go up to the ridges."

"Why?"

"So they die slower."

Raphael took a step backward. "It's jus' rain."

"Mais non, cher. Is win', too. Big win'." He spread his hands wide. "Lights in the sky, this morning. I saw them lights. I know." Thunder sounded in the distance once more. He dropped his hands to his side, as if his point had been made for him. Is win', too. Big win'." He spread his hands wide. "Lights in the sky, this morning. I saw them lights. I know." Thunder sounded in the distance once more. He dropped his hands to his side, as if his point had been made for him. "Hein?" "Hein?"

"What can we do?"

Juan's expression didn't change. Slowly, he shook his head.

Raphael felt a thrill of alarm. He had experienced many storms in his seven years. He knew what it was like to be wet and miserable because his house leaked. But he could sense there was a difference between that and what Juan was saying. He tried to imagine a big wind blowing over the cheniere. cheniere. He couldn't. He couldn't.

"The win', she'll take your house." Juan turned toward his own house. "She'll take mine, too, that one, and twist it to little pieces."

Raphael thought of the few things he owned that weren't in his pocket. Most important was a pair of leather shoes that M'sieu Lucien had brought all the way from New Orleans. He seldom wore them, but now that he was old enough for short pants instead of the cotton dress he had worn until summer, the shoes were important. He couldn't let them blow away. School was to start the day after tomorrow, in a brand-new building that had just been erected. Although his mother hadn't yet promised he could go, he still held out hope. And he would need shoes.

There was also his rosary, and a tiny pirogue that he had whittled from a soft tree limb, along with a little man who sat in it. And there was Angelle's doll. That last thought made his eyes widen. "Angelle, will she blow away, too?"

"You mus' tell your maman to take you and Angelle to Picciola's store when the win', she start 'a blow. If she don'..." He shrugged.

Raphael nodded solemnly. "My nonc, nonc, Auguste Cantrelle, he has a big-big house." Auguste Cantrelle, he has a big-big house."

"That one." He spat out the words. "He won' take you in."

Raphael thought about it, and decided Juan was right. "When does this storm come?"

"Who knows? Maybe soon, maybe later." Juan moved forward and cupped Raphael's chin in his hand. The old man stared at him long enough to make Raphael wish he could wiggle away. But he stood as still and tall as he could, and waited.

"Your papa, he was a good man." Juan dropped his hand. "You didn' know him, but me, I did. He was good, strong. Les autres? Les autres? Those who say differen'?" He spat on the ground. Those who say differen'?" He spat on the ground.

Raphael was affected by Juan's words. He wanted to ask more, but he was spellbound by the revelation that Juan had known his father. Suddenly he was no different from the other boys on the cheniere. cheniere. His father had been a good man. His father had been a good man.

"Come, I show you somethin'." Juan turned and started back the way he had come. Raphael was too excited by all he had heard to be frightened now of the marsh. He stumbled after Juan.

Juan parted the gra.s.ses, just like before. Raphael followed, noting their route as best he could. The path was both solid and liquid, and in places the sedge was taller than he was. He followed Juan's zigzag steps, glancing from time to time at a thicket of moss-draped trees in the distance.

They were almost at the ridge where three trees perched when Juan sank into water that came to the top of his boots. He turned and held out his hand to the boy. "You follow?"

Raphael looked at the water. He thought of what his mother would say when he returned with his pants wet and dirty. He thought of what Juan would say if he didn't continue. Juan, who had known his father. He stepped in and sank to his chest.

Juan nodded his approval, then started forward.

The mud oozed between Raphael's toes. His feet, as tough as shoe leather, still felt the p.r.i.c.k of sh.e.l.ls and roots. He thought of all the water creatures who could be lying in wait.

They were on land again in a minute. Juan held out his hand and lifted him up. "Wha' you hear?"

Raphael listened. The marsh was strangely silent. He frowned. "Nothin.'"

"Tha's righ'." Juan started toward the trees. "Nothin'. What birds didn' leave, they listen, too. N'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas?"

"They listen for the wind?"

"Mais oui."

Raphael stared at the trees as they got closer. From a distance, he hadn't been able to tell that they were dead, but now he saw that they were mere skeletons of living trees, draped with mosslike funeral shrouds. He didn't want to get any closer. The trees were dead, and he didn't want to think about them.

"Come, I show you somethin'," Juan said.

Raphael had little choice but to follow. As carefully as he had watched their route, he knew he might never find his way back to Juan's house or the village.

He followed two steps behind the old man, veering from side to side, just as Juan did. Juan stopped at the edge of the vague shadow cast by the middle tree. "Can you fin' the sun?"

Raphael thought that was a funny question, since the sun was well hidden by thick black clouds. But he squinted into the sky, then pointed at the spot where he thought the sun should be.

"Good," Juan said. "Remember." Juan took eight perfectly straight steps forward, then turned so that his shoulder faced the trees. He took eight more steps, also straight. Here the almost imperceptible shadows of two of the trees intersected. He turned again, at an angle to the third tree, and took eight more steps. Then he stopped and pointed to the ground. "Here."

Raphael ignored his fear of the trees and went to stand beside Juan. "What?"

"Here. You dig. Here."

"Dig?" Raphael looked down. The ground looked no different from that surrounding it. He looked up at Juan. "Why?"

Juan put his hands on Raphael's shoulders and pushed. "Go back. Try again, hein? hein?"

Perplexed, Raphael turned and walked back to the edge of the shadow of the middle tree. When he faced the trees again, Juan had moved away. "Now," Juan said. "Again."

Raphael did everything Juan had done, even lengthening his steps so that they were as long as the old man's. He ended up in what he was certain was the same place.

"Non!" Juan came over to him and pushed him back to the spot where the shadows intersected, then turned him at a sharper angle. "Wha' d'you see?" Juan came over to him and pushed him back to the spot where the shadows intersected, then turned him at a sharper angle. "Wha' d'you see?"

Raphael squinted. Far in the distance, exactly facing him, was a wide gap in the trees lining the horizon. He pointed. Juan nodded. "Oui. Now fin' the spot."

This time Raphael ended up where Juan wanted him.

Juan bent so that his face was only inches from the boy's. "You can fin', hein? hein?"

"Oui."

"If this win' takes me," Juan said, "you come back, you dig. You tell your maman to take you far 'way from this place, far 'way where no one knows you, no one knows your papa. Vous comprenez? Vous comprenez?"

Raphael didn't understand, exactly, but he knew he wanted to obey. Hadn't he dreamed of leaving the cheniere cheniere himself? himself?

"If this win' don' take me..." Juan shrugged. "Someday, somethin' will."

"What will you do when the wind comes?"

"I'll get in my boat."

"And sail away?"

The old man smiled. It was the first time Raphael had ever seen his expression change. "Mais oui, cher. An' sail away." An' sail away."

Lucien had stayed too long. Rain was falling by the time he made his way back to his boat, and dark clouds masked the fading daylight. The beach was deserted except for a small boy struggling to pull the boat farther ash.o.r.e and out of the reach of the waves slithering toward its hull.

"Raphael!" Lucien hurried toward him, watching as the boy's thin arms strained with the weight. Affection filled him. "Don't worry, mon fils, mon fils, I'm taking it back now, anyway." I'm taking it back now, anyway."

Raphael straightened and turned. A smile gleamed white against his dark skin. "I was afraid it'd wash away."

"I wouldn't let that happen." Lucien ruffled Raphael's black curls. He had always thought Raphael a handsome enough boy, although he had the vaguely heathen look of some of the natives of the cheniere cheniere and Grand Isle. Marcelite had told him that her family had come from Italy and Portugal, as well as France. Of Raphael's father she had said little, only that he had left her before the boy's birth, never to return. Lucien didn't care to know more. He tolerated Marcelite's past and even felt affection for her son. There was much he could overlook for what he received from her. and Grand Isle. Marcelite had told him that her family had come from Italy and Portugal, as well as France. Of Raphael's father she had said little, only that he had left her before the boy's birth, never to return. Lucien didn't care to know more. He tolerated Marcelite's past and even felt affection for her son. There was much he could overlook for what he received from her.

"You're leaving now?" Raphael asked. He licked his finger and held it up. "The win', she'll take you quick."

"You're right." Lucien ruffled the boy's curls once more, then dropped his hand. "Maybe quicker than I'd like."

"Juan Rodriguez says a big win' is coming." Raphael threw open his arms. "Big, like this. We'll all blow away."

The rain fell harder. Lucien had to bend to peer into Raphael's face. He saw excitement, but not one trace of fear. He suppressed a smile. "You mustn't believe everything the old man tells you, mon fils. mon fils. It's too late in the year for a big storm. Don't worry your mother with stories. Promise?" It's too late in the year for a big storm. Don't worry your mother with stories. Promise?"

Raphael frowned. "Juan says if the big win' comes, we should go to Picciola's store."

"There's not going to be a big wind. I don't want you making your mother upset."

Raphael nodded, but his eyes were mutinous.

"Good." Lucien took off his shoes and socks and threw them in the boat, along with his hat. Then he rolled up his trousers. "I won't be back for a while. You must take good care of your mother while I'm gone."

Raphael nodded again.

"Come on and help me get the boat in." Lucien slung the rope over his shoulder. Then he started toward the water, dragging the boat behind him. He felt the thrust as Raphael lent his weight. Lucien climbed aboard and let the tide carry him out before raising the sail. He looked back and saw Raphael watching him. As the boy grew smaller and smaller, Lucien waved his last goodbye.

As the boat drew near to the opposite sh.o.r.e a short time later, a larger figure watched him. At first Lucien thought it was Mr. Krantz, a.s.suring himself that his guest had returned safely from his sail, or perhaps one of his employees. The figure grew more familiar until he realized that the man who waited so patiently in the rain was Antoine Friloux, his father-in-law.

Apprehension gripped him. Antoine wasn't expected. Indeed, Lucien had left him only last night in New Orleans. Antoine must have come on a steamer he had hired himself.

But for what purpose? Antoine was not a man who relished physical discomfort. Yet now he stood in the steadily increasing rain. He made no move to a.s.sist Lucien as he waded in and pulled the boat to the beach; he just stood sternly, arms folded.

"Antoine?" Lucien shielded his eyes with his hand.

"Surprised, Lucien?"

Lucien moved closer. "Shouldn't I be?" He studied his father-in-law, trying to find a clue to his behavior. Antoine Friloux was a tall, slight man with the pale skin of his daughter and granddaughter. His dark hair and mustache were always perfectly trimmed, and his collar was always crisply starched. Even now, with rain dripping off his overcoat and hat, he looked distinguished.

"I've had certain surprises myself in the last few days," Antoine said.

"Is Claire-?"

Antoine waved away the question. "Claire is fine, as fine as a woman can be with a husband who plays her for a fool."

Lucien couldn't think of a response. He fell short of perfection, but what man didn't? He labored to provide all that a woman could desire. He performed his social obligations as a man of his standing was required to; in public and at home he displayed the good manners and breeding of his cla.s.s. In what way had he harmed his wife?

"Do you know what I mean, Lucien?" Antoine asked.

Lucien glanced up at the sky. It was quickly growing darker. "Shall we discuss this under shelter?"

"I've taken the cottage nearest the dining room for the night. We can talk there."

Lucien nodded. He knew better than to show either irritation or dread. Antoine might be fifty, he might appear frail to one who didn't know him, but his appearance was deceptive. The reins of both his family and his business were tightly twisted around his spidery fingers. His slightest whim could effortlessly change the course of either.

Thunder boomed in the distance as they made their way along the track past the dining room to Antoine's cottage. Krantz filled the doorway of the dining room and nodded as they pa.s.sed. Lucien was cold and wet enough to wish for either coffee or some of Krantz's excellent brandy, but he knew better than to stop.

The cottage, formerly a slave cabin, was simple, attractive in the summer, like all the others, with wisteria vines blanketing the gallery railing and beds of flowers scenting the air. Now, with the hotel nearly deserted and rain battering the shingled roof, the cottage looked as desolate as a much-sought-after belle when the last waltz of the ball has ended.