Chapter 1

Philippe waited until his daughter left the house. She would not want him to do this. She would want him to stay in bed. He thought, “She is worse than an army general.” He knew that he would have to disobey her orders. It was time.

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     He sat on the edge of the bed, looked out the window and gazed across the fertile land that had for so long been the life, and soul, of the Marchand family. He thought, “This is the land that I, and my father, and my father’s father, tilled. This life is ending, as is my life.” He took a deep breath and began the task that he had been dreading.

     He did not bother to get dressed. He limped to the hall area, reached for the rope, pulled down the access ladder that led up to the attic, and climbed the stairs. He stopped halfway up to catch his breath. He, then, pulled himself to the floor of the attic, rested again, turned on the light and looked around. He spotted the small leather suitcase.

The last time he had opened the suit case was when he replaced the chess set - it seemed like an eternity ago – when Robert was here with Madeleine – it was, in fact, twenty-two years.

   His fading memory became vivid. He recalled the time when he and a surprise visitor, Robert, had enjoyed their time playing chess. He remembered how happy his daughter was. He had hoped that Robert would have returned to be with Madeleine. He had wondered why Madeleine did not inform Robert that he was a father of a beautiful son. But she, for her own good reason, did not do that. Philippe had admonished her - before he went to heaven, (Philippe was a man of deep faith and this was the expression that he used to describe his passing), “When I go to heaven, take your son to meet his father in America.”

     He lifted the lid of the suitcase, took out the chess set, dusted it off and looked for the book. He found it under some papers, retrieved it, dusted it off, crawled back to the attic entrance and turned out the light. He rolled over on his stomach, secured his foot on the top rung of the ladder and slowly climbed down. He released the ladder to return it to a position not quite flush with the ceiling.

     Philippe carried the book and the chess set to the kitchen table. He placed the chess set aside and opened the book. Then he rested his head on his hands. The parchment pages had turned yellow. He read the writing on the first page: Louis Marchand, 1822, Thomas Marchand, 1865, Raymond Marchand, 1905, and finally, his own name, Philippe Marchand, 1950, each written in their own handwriting. He began to read the writing of Louis Marchand.

     His breathing was heavy. He felt a pressure to his chest; he was not worried; he had experienced the chest pain quite often recently. But then the pain grew worse. Fear came over him. He managed to get to the kitchen counter where he found a note pad and a pen. He returned to the table and scribbled two notes. He called out in desperation for his daughter, “Madeleine, Madeleine.” He clutched at his chest and then fell - his arms reached out over the table, his hands covering the book, as if to protect the secrets within. Finally, Philippe Marchand, the peasant farmer, the last male descendant of Louis Marchand, aide to Napoleon, took his last breath.

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     Madeleine returned home from her errand. She started, “Papa, do you…” She did not complete the sentence. Philippe Marchand was slumped over the table. Madeleine walked over to him; ran her fingers through his hair and thought, “He always had nice hair.” She continued, “Papa, do you want coffee?” Tears streamed down her face as she poured two cups of coffee, as she always did, both black as he liked it. She sat at the table, sipped her coffee – and thought, “He’s with Mama now.”

     Thus, with this event - the end of the life of Philippe Marchand, a story that had been waiting impatiently, was allowed to be told.

Stephen Hawking tells us that

we have one-hundred years

to save us, our species.

I want to save my great-grand child.

The hell with the species.

A redwood is chopped down.

People rally - save the species.

Does the redwood that was chopped down

have a name?

Does a tiger that was killed by a hunter

have a name?

My great-grand child will have a name

Save him.

It was 1885. Willie Klinger softened his step so as to muffle the sound of his shoes striking the damp wood block surface of Magazine Street. He walked past the lifeless line of dark gray houses. He thought, “They are like tombs from which death could reach out and afflict me.” As he approached Delachaise Street (his home was there), he increased his gate. He glanced up from time to time hoping to see shadows of life in the windows of the long row of houses he was passing. He wondered if the pestilence had touched the inhabitants.

     He stumbled as his foot turned on a wooden block. The street blocks were undermined by the heavy afternoon downpour; some had broken away and floated buoyantly toward the river, as if they had finally freed themselves of the burden of bearing the bodies of men and animal, with their insufferable putrafication. Willie hardly noticed the sweat that was soaking through his long sleeve shirt; he just wanted to get home.

     He turned on to Delachaise, past the burning tar barrels that clouded his vision and singed his nostrils. The burning tar was a feeble attempt by a desperate people, they thought, to ward off the unknown evil that was stealing so many lives. A full moon was barely visible through the smoky mist. He found his home and knocked on the door. The knock surprised the occupants even though they were expecting it.

     Lisa stiffened. Then her head turned toward Anna. She pulled her white cotton blouse down over her exposed breast barely disturbing the baby who attempted to continue her feeding through the cloth. She walked slowly to the window. cracked the shutters to see out and heard her husband whisper, “It’s me, Willie.” With the same free hand, she snapped back the latch, turned the key and he felt the door push gently against her as he entered. He crossed the room and without looking up fell backwards onto the soft cushioned chair and caught his breath. They didn’t speak. Lisa then laid the sleeping infant in the crib and stood over her husband to comfort him.

     Anna Klinger placed her German language prayer book face down on the makeshift altar, sat down in her rocker and leaned forward to glance at her brother and asked. “Is mama O.K.?” Willie did not respond. Anna broke the silence, “I get you a brandy.” She watched her brother nod his head and she left the room.

                                                                      ^

     After a while, Willie whispered, “Mama wants to stay in their home.” He hesitated, and continued, “She waits for Papa.” Lisa restrained herself from blurting out, “The old fool!”

     The baby girl slept peacefully in the crib, her blonde hair was just long enough to curl up over the lace collar of her thin pink gown. Lisa touched the hair softly and resisted an urge to scoop up and caress the small fragile child.

     A mosquito lit on the rail of the crib and Lisa swiped at it furiously. She turned in anger toward her husband. His pale face and drawn features shocked her. She quickly crossed the room, knelt before him and buried her head in his lap. He caught her face in his hands and as her blond braids fell to both sides, she wept. He gently brushed her tears.

     Hearing Lisa sobs, Anna busied herself in the kitchen looking for signs of roaches, rats, or whatever, even though she had thoroughly rid the small house of those small scavenging monsters when they first moved in. It was easier to keep this house clean than the home that they had left three years ago – her thoughts turned to her hard life in Southern Germany. They did not eat well in America, but it was better than starving in Germany.

     It was not the case with Lisa. She was well off in Munich and happy there until her father was killed for his politics. Her mother had died at her birth. She left Germany in a hurry, leaving behind her house; she took only what was necessary.

     She met Willie Klinger on the sailing ship. The ship left Bremerhaven in the winter, so the seas were not calm. Willie’s sister, Anna, and their father and mother, sailed with him. They were figuratively in the same boat – Otto Von Bismark had invaded Bavaria and the Catholics were persecuted. So there was a rush to exit Germany, and America seemed the answer to their prayer. But there were times when the three had second thoughts about the move to America.

     Lisa and Willie were married at St. Mary Assumption church within a week after they arrived in New Orleans.

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     Lisa had left the room. Anna brought in a glass of brandy, handed it to her brother and kissed his forehead. She stopped to pick up her prayer book and moved the crib closer to the makeshift altar. The brandy brought color to Willie’s face. He thought of the last days spent with his father. It seemed so long ago. His mother sent for him, and Anna, when the fever began. Vomiting followed. Then his father suddenly rallied and Willie kidded him of having his cronies sneak him a bottle of his favorite wine. He was so confident that his father was out of danger that he went home only to be call back the next day. He lost hope when his father’s face and eyes became jaundiced and the vomiting returned, and it was black.

     Willie stayed to watch his father die; his mother was asleep. He dressed his dead father, placed a rosary in his hand, kissed him, carried him outside and laid him on the steps for the cart to pick up in the morning. He pinned a message of instructions on his father’s coat. The message included a request for the last rites.

     The body was gone before his mother woke up in the morning.. When he told her that her husband was dead, she nodded and smiled.

     The brandy was making Willie drowsy. He reached overhead to turn off the gaslight. The only light remaining, as the exhausted Willie Klinger dropped off to sleep, was the flickering reflection of the altar candles.

                                                                     ^

     As if it was waiting for the precise moment, a small insect launched herself from a shadowed area of the room. She raced randomly around the walls, bumping into the high ceiling until she dropped suddenly landing on the white linen altar cloth. No sooner had she settled on the altar when she rose again bobbing up and down before the helpless chalk images of the saint protectors. The flickering flame of the candles highlighted the miniature demon as she conducted her death dance.

     The suddenly, she glided to her destination, inserted her stylet into the tender young flesh, drew blood and heft her death behind. The baby stirred and clutched the white sheet with its tiny fist and settled back to sleep. The mosquito glided off satisfied that it had the human blood necessary to nourish its eggs to reproduce itself.

     Baby Louise Klinger lived nine days after the yellow fever virus was carried to her innocent body.

                                                                     ^

     Willie and Lisa Klinger, having paid their dues to Bronze John, lived a healthy normal life span and, although Lisa surrendered part of her sanity during the baby’s episode with yellow fever, she remained a dutiful wife and bore her husband three more children who lived healthy normal lives.

     Anna Klinger, although her prayers failed to heal her baby niece, was called upon to read from her German language prayer book to help cure every disease from Cholera to the Wasting Disease. Her prayers were so successful that people came all the way from Texas with their ailments and their hope.

     Although Anna Klinger never married, she outlived her brother and his wife. She was the only one of the three to learn the identity of the miniature creature of death, the female of the species: the carrier of the yellow fever virus.

I wrote a story, a good story

But it wasn't perfect, so

Prose auto-corrected the grammar

and the spelling

I was happy about that.

Then Prose changed some words

That made the story better

I was happy about that

Then Prose changed the ending

So that the hero died

I didn't like that

I rewrote the ending

so that the spirit of the hero lived on

We both liked that.

To write in a language not your own

Is a connection

To the otherwise  

Other than your own

Your own is limited