Iron Lace by Emilie Richards Page B

the time Lucien returned. The children were dressed in their wet outerwear, and Marcelite had already tied Raphael’s small bundle to his back. When she heard Lucien’s summons at the door, she unfastened the peg. He brought the storm in with him.
    “The tide’s turned. I’ve brought my skiff. We’re not safe here. There are waves crashing over a good part of the peninsula. I lost my footing on the beach and almost got dragged under. I saw a dog swept out. Some boat sheds are gone.”
    “Where shall we go?”
    “I passed a house set back from the shore. No one answered when I knocked.” He described the location of the house.
    Marcelite nodded. “It belongs to Julien LeBlanc and his son. They’re probably at the oyster grounds.”
    “I don’t want to try to go farther with the children. We’ll go there. I’m certain they’d give us shelter if they were home.”
    “I’m not so certain.”
    “Enough! That doesn’t matter now.”
    “ Non. You’re right.” Marcelite went to the bed and lifted her bundle to her back, slipping her arms through two knots tied for that purpose. She reached for her cloak and fastened it, then stooped and held her arms open for Angelle.
    “You and Angelle can ride in the skiff. Raphael and I will tow, unless it grows too deep for him.”
    “That deep?”
    “It grows deeper as we talk!”
    Marcelite clasped Angelle to her and motioned for Raphael to join them. He passed the shrine and paused to blow out the candles, but the wind blowing through the cracks had done it already. He made the sign of the cross before he went to his mother’s side.
    The world outside was one he’d never seen. The sky was dark, but flashes of lightning appeared one after the other, like sparks trailing from a divine lantern. The wind threw him forward, and only his mother’s arm stopped him from landing in water up to his knees. Objects sailed by, dried branches of palmetto, a tornpatch of sail. Over the thunder and the moaning of the wind he heard the sickly lowing of the island’s cattle.
    He took tiny steps toward the skiff that Lucien had guided almost to their door. His hand closed around the rope tied to the bow, and he no longer felt his mother’s grip on his shoulder. He turned and watched as Lucien helped her into the boat. She grasped Angelle and wrapped her cloak around them both. Immediately the wind ripped it open.
    Raphael held tightly to the rope and waited for Lucien. He heard a roar from the direction of the beach, and he imagined waves as tall as trees. They would be fierce, those waves, fierce enough to slam against his house and turn it back into driftwood. What had the people of the chénière done to anger the waves?
    He felt a tug on the rope and saw that M’sieu Lucien had joined him. He wished they were already at Julien LeBlanc’s.
    They began to move. At first he stumbled frequently, but after a while he grew accustomed to the shoving wind and sucking water. He held tight to the rope until his hand cramped in place. As they made their way inland, the water was as deep as it had been at his house. He looked back once, but the rain was a solid curtain. He couldn’t even see his mother’s face.
    There were others out in the storm. Men passed, towing boats larger than the skiff. At one house, two men were handing children into the arms of their mothers, who were already on board a large lugger. Raphael tried to imagine riding out the storm in the bowels of the fishing boat. He envied the children.
    Someone shouted that Picciola’s store would be a good place to wait out the storm, but Lucien didn’t change course. They moved on, beyond the lugger, beyond houses, beyond trees bending low in the wind’s path. A new sound rang outover the peninsula. The church bell was tolling erratically, as if it were being tossed slowly back and forth by the storm. “La cloche! La cloche!” he cried. But if M’sieu Lucien heard, he didn’t answer.
    Shivering with every step, he