This is the beginning of a story I have been playing with for a few years, and finally I am sitting down to write it out properly. So I want your honest reactions to it; the good the bad and the ugly. If you hate it, tell me why so I can fix it.If you like it, tell me why so I can be vain and feel good about myself. :) Thanks.
The Legend of
the Rassmussen Plantation
Alyce Rassmussen was the most beautiful woman in Louisiana, and possibly the wealthiest. Her father owned an enormous, sprawling plantation where they grew tobacco and sugar cane, and spilled over into the bayous, where nothing grew but moss and mud and fog that obscured everything, where the alligators lurked in the cold, black water and frogs chirped in the warm, humid evenings. Her father’s family had been there for as long as anyone could remember, prestigious, haughty, and wealthy from the first. Her mother had immigrated from Romania, Gabriela Biaram, an impoverished, uneducated and remarkably beautiful girl, with a laugh like falling gold coins, and hypnotic eyes that held you in them with just a glance. From the moment that he saw her, skipping rocks into the bayou, running barefooted through the fog like a wild little animal, laughing her enchanting, intoxicating laugh, he knew that that she had to be his. He married her at the young, young age of fifteen, and she bare him two daughters before disappearing back into the fog that had produced her. He never remarried, but raised the two girls on his own, with the occasional, passing help of nannies or governesses; Alyce and Madeline. They looked very much like their mother- dark, heavy eyelashes and dark, curled hair. Alyce and Madeline were both famous from the time they were two years old for their beauty, until the night ten-year-old Madeline was found wandering the halls of their mansion screaming and pulling fistfuls of hair from her head, wild-eyed and feverish; from that night on, she was locked away in a spare room, and never spoken of again, leaving Alyce’s fame free to increase without competition. Alyce’s dark, captivating eyes, her laugh like bells ringing, her long, curling hair, her perfect petite shape and her porcelain, almost white skin. The talk and the toast, the belle of every ball- but most especially of the Monster’s Ball, the Halloween Masquerade her father hosted every year at their home.
She was dressed as Midnight this year; a navy blue dress overlain with shimmering miniature stars, and a round silver disk in her black hair like a full moon. Her mask was real silver, with stars engraven on it, and a navy satin ribbon to tie it around her face.
“You look very much like your mother.”
Alyce turned away from her mirror to look briefly at her maid, “I hardly think anyone knows what she looks like, least of all you,” she turned back to her reflection, “She’s old and wrinkled now, crazy like Madeline and hiding out in some swamp. Me, on the other hand…”
Alyce stood, and picked up the long-handled mirror from off her dresser. She twirled a circle with it, gazing at her reflection. “Every man at the Monster’s Ball will be watching every step I take, every twirl of my skirt, every bat of my lashes, every sip I take from my cup… and they’ll watch each other, too. Green-eyed they’ll watch to see who I smile at, to whom I pass a whisper… and how they’ll vie and jockey for a position by my side.” She lowered the mirror and went to the window, then looked down at the carriages about to arrive.
“The fools!” she giggled. “Poor fools, you think that any of you are good enough for me?” She tied the silver mask about her face, and let her poor, fumbling maid tie a perfect bow behind her head. “Do you want to know who the Monster is, at the Monster’s Ball?” She batted her eyelashes perfectly and smiled her pretty, feminine smile.
“I am.”
Sidenote: (By the way, this next part is Fifty years later... you'll understand as the story goes on)
Chapter Two
“Toast and warm milk.”
The waitress set the warm order out on the table and smiled, a drained, tired kind of smile, but a genuine and friendly smile nonetheless.
“Seems kinda like a breakfast meal, don’t it? People do strange things nowadays.”
The man at the table looked up at her. He, too, looked tired, drained, weary.
“Breakfast? Well, yeah, I reckon it does, but people have been eating toast at five o’clock before 1913, miss. Much obliged to you for cookin’ it up, even ‘round suppertime.”
“Pleasure, mister. Anything else I can bring ya?”
“A little more butter. I like my toast all buttered up.”
“Why sure. Be right back.”
The waitress brushed her long red hair back from her face, and turned back into the kitchen. She looked around briefly for the cook, Abram, but didn’t see him, so scooped up a pat of his butter onto a plate to take back out to the weary-looking man.
“Girl, han’t I tole ya not t’be stealin’ from my butter bowl?” a voice came from behind.
She smiled lightly and turned around.
“Well, now, Abram, I didn’t see you there. You don’t mind my borrowing just a little bit of your butter do ya?” She cocked her head to the side and smiled her winning little half-smile. She knew that Abram was a tough old alligator, the share-cropping grandson of former slaves, but he had a real sweet spot in his heart for her.
Abram laughed, “Cinnamon chile, you know that smile don’ work on ole Abram no more. You smiled your way outta trouble too many times, that’s what.”
The waitress, Cinnamon, opened her blue eyes wide and innocent, and batted them.
“Oh, now, Abram, you know I’m just a poor little woman, on my own and trying to put bread on my table. How’m I gonna get a good tip from this gentleman if I don’t get him just a little ole butter when he asked so nice and polite? Now c’mon Abram. You ain’t gonna take a little butter from a poor working girl, I just know you ain’t, not a kind soul like you, not a sweet old fella like you, what can cook the best gumbo in Louisiana.”
Abram may have blushed, Cinnamon could never tell beneath his dark skin, but he laughed again and swelled up like a proud bullfrog.
“What you need butter for girl? Seems you got enough butter up yo sleeve, the way you butter ole Abram up so easy. Go on an take it out to your polite gentleman and get yo tip you need so bad.”
Cinnamon giggled, “Thanks Abram.” And pecked him lightly on his cheek as she passed him on her way back out to the restaurant floor.
The man hadn’t yet touched his food when Cinnamon got back to him, and looked up with a start when she reached his side, like he had been lost in reverie.
“Had to wrestle a gator for it, but here you go.” she said, setting the butter before him.
“Thanks, miss.” He said, absently stirring his milk.
“Haven’t seen you ‘round here before mister. You just passin’ through?”
“Yeah, just passing through.”
Cinnamon smiled. She’d just caught him in a lie. He was hiding something. She sat down across from him.
“Yeah? Where you passin’ to? We’re right upfront a bayou, and nothing north of here you couldn’t get to faster by passing through another town, which means you ain’t passing through at all, but you don’t want me to know what you doin’ here. Why’s that?”
The man looked rebuffed for just a moment, but then just smiled lightly, “I had better improve my story I reckon.”
“Yeah, I reckon you’d better.” Cinnamon smiled, “You’re not here to make trouble are ya?”
“No,” the man said, “no, good Lord. I’m a lawyer. I’m here about an estate settlement. But it’s a private business, and I know how small town gossip travels.”
“Do ya?”
“Born and raised in a small town, miss. Now get along and don’t bother me anymore.”
Satisfied, Cinnamon went back to the kitchen. Again, she looked around for Abram, and this time found him at once.
“Abram, you know that polite gentleman out there?”
“Yes, girl, yes and I seen you out there botherin’ that po’ man, and I don’ want to know where he from or where he goin’ or why he come here, who knows what all. You gots to learn to leave a body alone and stop pokin’ yo nose where it don’ belong, or you gwienna fin yo’self wich yo nose in a trap you cain’t git outta one day.”
“Oh, Abram you mean. You a mean ole man.”
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