The Gilda Stories Read online

  Chapter Two

  Yerba Buena: 1890

  Gilda’s eyes opened abruptly in the black room. She remembered where she was—the guest room at Sorel’s—but still felt disoriented and reluctant to leave her dream behind. It had been like this for many of the nights since she had left Woodard’s and traveled west. She would be filled, just before she woke up, with the same dread she felt the evening she discovered Bird was gone. She would relive the certain knowledge that Bird was nowhere near, that no matter where she searched there would be no clue to use in locating her. With her eyes open in the dark, Gilda let the feelings rush over her once more and replayed the last conversation between them.

  She had found Bird pacing beside her narrow bed after they were out finding their share of the blood. It was time for them to retire, but Bird seemed unable to sit, relax, or look Gilda in the eye. Gilda had moved to the small cushions on the window seat where she had spent so much time as a girl learning to read. She had tucked her long, dark legs underneath her and watched Bird as she did when she was a child, waiting for the lesson to take shape.

  When Bird finally stopped her pacing and looked down at Gilda, a smile broke through her clouded face. But it didn’t hold long, and Bird simply said, “I will leave here tonight.”

  “Where do you go?” Gilda had asked, trying not to let her voice sound tremulous.

  “I think to my family.”

  Gilda hesitated only a moment, letting her practical nature take charge in shaping her response. “They must all be dead now, you know that.” And indeed the mother and brothers that Bird had left behind were dead. Or if not, they would never accept Bird as their child—a girl who had aged little since she was cast out by her brothers thirty-five years before. But surely they must be dead, Gilda thought, remembering the terrible campaign that had been waged against the Lakota to the north of Louisiana in the years before the end of the war between the states. The news of the mass killings, the hanging of thirty warriors in Mankota by the U.S. military twenty years ago still sent a shiver through her body. Surely there’d be no one… but Bird broke into her thoughts.

  “There are others of my people. There will always be others.”

  Gilda swallowed loudly, pushing down her impulse to beg Bird not to leave. This restlessness in Bird felt much like what she had witnessed in the one now dead. Bird had struggled futilely to hold on to her; Gilda was determined not to make that same mistake with Bird.

  “Will you take something of mine with you when you go?”

  Bird nodded. Gilda rose from the window seat and ran down the hall to her room. She returned quickly, handing Bird the wood-handled knife she had kept since she was a girl. The rust on its blade was perhaps mixed with the blood of one who had tried to return her to slavery, yet the edge was still sharp, the handle strong.

  “I no longer need this. I gave myself freedom, and you’ve given me life. Maybe you can use it on the road.”

  Bird took the old weapon tenderly, staring at it as if it might shift shape or tell its story aloud. She looked at the girl who was now a woman and said, “You will want to take to the road again yourself someday. I’ll make a trade.” They both smiled, for it had been some years since they had first traded the blood that linked them forever.

  Bird took from her cabinet a small knife set snugly in a leather casing decorated with the tight quill-and-bead work in an angular design for which Bird was known. Gilda clutched the warm leather to her breast and looked around the room in which she’d spent so much of her childhood. She didn’t know how to ask the question without betraying Bird’s right to live or die as she chose, so she spoke it simply, trying to hold an even tone. “Do you go to end it? To die?”

  Bird turned toward Gilda, but her eyes remained blank. She held Gilda in her opaque gaze with a power she’d not used often. The dark brown flashed orange and red as the thought whirled around inside of her, then back and forth between them. Gilda could feel the tumultuous confusion that besieged Bird tumbling inside her own head. She picked through the feelings of bitter regret, sadness, loss, trying to find her answer. But the confusion was too complete. Still Bird answered her aloud, “No.”

  “Later,” Gilda went on, “if the answer resolves itself truly as yes, will you come to me first… simply so that I may do my leave-taking honorably?” She didn’t mean her request to sound like an accusation, but she saw Bird flinch.

  “Of course I will come to you when there is some resolution. When the vision has made itself known, you will know it too.”

  “You’ve prepared your way?”

  “Yes.”

  Gilda thought of the many nights Bird had been gone for long hours. She must have been traveling the countryside hiding her caches of home soil. She didn’t know what else she might say, so Gilda only stared at Bird’s back when she turned, ready to pack now that things were settled. Gilda tried to let go of her old fear of being alone, of losing her family again. She wrestled with herself to remember how long a life was now hers and how many more chances she had to be with Bird again in the future.

  She let go of her anxiety and allowed the love she felt flood through her, knowing Bird could feel it too. Bird turned back to look at Gilda, her eyes glistening. But there were no tears for them.

  “Yes,” Bird said urgently, as if in lovemaking. Then she turned to the chest where most of her clothes lay folded neatly.

  Gilda had watched Bird leave less than an hour later on horseback with a small travois strapped to her saddle to carry her traveling pallets of soil, books, and clothes. Her figure had looked small, ancient, from the window of Gilda’s room. Her firm legs were wrapped tightly in rough leggings, and her straight shoulders were covered with a dark blanket tucked tautly into her belt and saddle.

  The feeling of anxiety that awoke Gilda a few minutes earlier had been the same every evening since Bird’s departure from Woodard’s. Even here in the secured room of Sorel’s home on the western coast. After her long journey on an unfamiliar road she thought her rest would finally be quiet, deep. But her waking now was not much different from the mornings when she had remained at Woodard’s managing the house alone.

  She jumped up, throwing the satin coverlet to the floor, and glanced back at the silk-covered pallet, one of the many she had carried with her or left in secured hiding places. She breathed in the strong scent of Mississippi soil rising from within the pallet, then lit the oil lamp beside the porcelain bowl. She poured water and washed her face slowly, gazing at her image in the oval mirror on the wall above. There she was, her dark eyes flecked slightly with orange, signifying the hunger that was beginning to gather itself inside of her. The thick softness of her hair was pulled back into a single braid that started at the crown of her head and ended at the base of her neck. The kinkiness of it reassured her—not at all the look of a ha’nt or spook as many thought her and her kind to be.

  Her face was there in the mirror, not banished to some soulless place. It was there just as it was for the others who lived here with Sorel, or for those who visited his gambling room and bar each night. Others. Gilda staggered slightly at the thought. There would be others, Bird had promised her before leaving her alone. Sorel had assured her when she arrived on his back doorstep the morning before. There would be others.

  She had found the place easily. It still stood at the same crossroads that Minta had described in her letters so long ago. But even if it had been moved fifty times in the twenty years since Minta left Woodard’s and made her home in California, it would have been impossible not to find it. The gambling rooms and hotel were well known by both rich and poor in this muddy, waterfront town that was straining so hard to be a city. And to those like herself it was a home of sorts. They came late in the evening to gather in the back rooms and bar, talking, laughing, mixing with the townspeople as if there were no difference between them. Bird had told her once that she had spent the evening here with five others and carried the memory as if it were a dream. Five plus Sore
l and Anthony. Gilda was not certain she was prepared to meet so many at once. She also dreaded speaking with Sorel to learn what he knew of Bird and her disappearance. She left through the rear door, which opened out into a dark alley beneath bright stars.

  Gilda wandered to the top of one of the many hills, walking east, and looked down on the bay and the small lights twinkling around it. It was a breathtaking view—houses and businesses all ablaze with light, some of it provided by the electricity that was changing her world. She could not imagine what a world with endless light would be. But she didn’t fear it, only found it curious.

  A wave of emptiness swelled inside her as she thought of all the things she hadn’t shared with Bird: somewhere Bird knew of this new light too. Ahead of her a man swung down from a horse and looked at one of its hooves. Gilda walked up behind him in silence, her movements fluid. She seemed to caress the air rather than cut through it. She had grown used to searching the sleeping night for someone with whom she might trade for life’s blood. In the ten years she had traversed the countryside around New Orleans with Bird, it had become natural to her to exchange dreams or ideas for a share of life. She did not need to struggle to remember the words of caution about her power, or to remain aware of the one with whom she shared. The exchange had become an important part of her living and of her understanding of those who remained mortal. She approached the man with only the thought of natural communion in her mind, as if she were about to sit down with the women in the old kitchen at Woodard’s or to speak with a merchant in town. Feeling her presence, he turned. She caught him up in her gaze, then probed his mind for what he might be seeking and was surprised.

  Gilda had never encountered such a void of desire in her life of night-traveling with Bird. He seemed full of only himself. She sensed a greed for gold much like that pervading the air of the whole town, but it was bolder, sharper. Little else appeared to be of consequence to him. He was on his way to gamble and thought only of winning—even if it meant cheating. Gilda sliced the soft flesh of his neck and caught him up in her arm. She bent to him in the shadow that protected them from the endless electric night below. She sucked insistently at his life blood, almost losing herself in the need for the blood and in her disappointment in the smallness of his vision. Gilda felt him sagging in her arms, then quickly slipped in among his thoughts with the idea that cheating was merely a way of shortening the possibilities for his own life.

  She urged this realization into his resisting mind as she took her share of the blood, as she held her hand over the wound, waiting for it to heal and for his heart to pump the much-needed substance back through his body. Once his heartbeat felt more regular she leaned him against the saddle of his horse. Gilda left him there–dazed and ambivalent about his dishonesty. As she turned to walk away she realized she was now very anxious to talk to Sorel, to hear whatever he had to say.

  She covered the distance back to the rear door of Sorel’s quickly, slipping into the room she’d been given. Using a damp towel she hurriedly wiped away some of the mud that clung to her boots and swatted at the dusty smudges on her face. The distant sound of music and voices made it impossible to be alone any longer. She had traveled by horse for many days, avoiding people except when it was time for the exchange. Suddenly she wanted the feel of people near her, the smell of them sweating and living, changing before her eyes. She needed to feed on their laughter and games in the light this city offered.

  Gilda hurriedly locked the door to her room with the key Sorel had given her so ceremoniously, then slowed her steps deliberately as she descended the stairs to the public rooms. She took the seemingly endless time of the descent to listen to the sounds coming from the rooms to the right and left of the stairway and wide foyer. And to watch the people who only glanced up at her casually as they moved briskly past the stairs to their destinations: one room with a grand piano and a singer of some note who held a small audience enthralled; two other rooms with gaming tables and people, mostly men, bent over them furiously winning or losing. And the salon, its perimeter outfitted with plush settees and small tables so that anyone, even women alone, would feel comfortable being there.

  The long shining wood bar with its equally polished brass foot rail was lined with men who were leaning and talking in low tones. The electric lights blazing from the wall sconces made everyone’s face seem unnaturally pale. She was certain that few, if any, of those gathered here were as she was, but they looked unlike any people she had ever seen before. She didn’t know how much was her own deep fatigue, the special quality of the light, or simply the gaiety of the salon in contrast with the rough roads of the past few years.

  She was not in charge here as she had been during the time after Bird left. She hesitated inside the door deciding whether to sit on one of the brightly striped settees, as all of the women seemed to have done, or to follow her impulse and stand at the bar with the men. She stiffened as she heard, Perhaps you’ll allow me to show you to Monsieur Sorel’s table. He asked me to inform him of your... return.

  Anthony had spoken without speaking, which unnerved Gilda when done among others. Yet she followed him as he turned to the left and directed her to a slightly larger table near one of the broad, draped windows looking out onto a small circular driveway.

  “May I bring you something?” Anthony said in his soft, rather low-pitched voice. He felt her hesitation and gave her time to orient her thoughts.

  Gilda sensed several people in the salon turning to stare at her—some discreetly, some not. Anthony seemed to notice nothing. He spoke again. “I would be impolite to boast, but Monsieur Sorel has his own vineyards in Europe, vinted by monks with impeccable taste. We have the most excellent red known to the palate. Of course, if you’re fond of this champagne that seems to have taken everyone’s fancy, we have that as well. But perhaps you’d prefer something to take away the chill of this damp night. I’m afraid most nights here are damp. One becomes accustomed to them, though. Even to love them—with time.”

  Gilda had picked up the thoughts of the patrons around her in a desultory way. They revealed disapproval of both her well-traveled clothes and her dark skin. But Anthony’s words, all delivered in such a soft and soothing tone, made Gilda forget the people gawking at her. His attentions became all encompassing. She gazed into his immense deep, blue eyes and was taken by the very slight smile that lurked behind them. His hair was a forgettable brown color and his build was slight. His hands, however, were quite large, imposing and solid with stout veins running their length. Gilda let him comfort her with his mild words about the city.

  Before she could speak, Sorel’s voice boomed out from halfway across the room. “The champagne, of course, Anthony. What else do we serve when family returns home?”

  “Of course,” Anthony said with only the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth, as if he found smiling ostentatious. He bowed almost imperceptibly in Gilda’s direction and turned toward the door. As he receded from the room, the space was filled to overflowing with Sorel. He appeared even larger tonight in the salon among these genteel people than Gilda remembered from their first brief meeting in the morning when she’d arrived at his back door. He wore a finely tailored blue suit and brightly embroidered shoes made from some soft material; at his neck was a flurry of silk.

  There was a light scent of Arabian musk about him that was enticing. As with Anthony, when Sorel spoke it felt as if they were absolutely alone rather than standing in the middle of the patrons of a busy salon. The people behind them shifted in their seats almost as one body, rising slightly to actually see who Gilda was and to be certain that Sorel noticed they were smiling. Gilda let her senses take in the entire room again to better understand the full influence Sorel had. He moved lightly for a large man, delicately fitting himself into the curve of the settee so that he was both beside her and also able to look her in the eye. Gilda noted that of the perhaps thirty people in the room, only about five were absolutely unable to accept her presen
ce. And even they—each separately, with almost no real conscious knowledge of their strategy—resolved to sit for a while longer so there would be no chance that Sorel would interpret their departure as an insult to one he had named as his family.

  Gilda, who’d been gazing without focus at Sorel’s thick mustache, looked up into his dark eyes and heard him. But we shall know. Will we not?

  She smiled. Sorel laughed so loudly that the drapes at the window rippled. Gilda matched his mirth with her own. He reached across the table and took her hands in his, leaning forward to kiss them, but was unable to contain his laughter. They both continued to laugh until Anthony appeared with the bottle of champagne.

  “As usual, Anthony, you have quite a sobering effect on me. He serves each meal as if it were the last supper,” Sorel said with a smile, barely restraining another outburst.

  Anthony was unmoved as he opened the bottle with just the appropriate pop of the cork. As he was about to pour he stopped and said to Gilda, “I believe that in the homeland of your mother’s people the first libation is poured into the ground in honor of the ancestors.”

  Sorel’s gleeful smile turned to one of pride as he looked at the small, tightly muscled arm that held the large bottle effortlessly. Anthony continued holding the bottle away from the table above the shining wood floor.

  “I honor your ancestors. I honor our ancestors.” Anthony solemnly poured sparkling wine onto the floor. The conversation in the room around them continued, but in a distracted way, with everyone keeping one ear on the activity at Sorel’s table.

  “You welcome me with great humanity,” she said as Anthony poured the champagne into delicate crystal. “And with great honor,” she added, raising her glass in Sorel’s direction when his was filled.

  “Let us just hope it is great wine,” Sorel said softly. Anthony left the bottle in a bucket of ice and moved away from the table.