Free Child of the Storm by R. B. Stewart Page A

brought them into town and still wanted something more. Oh, she
knew about trains from Augustin. Anything that could take you far away was
something he liked. A train had a belly like a furnace; as hot as the furnace her
papa worked, only this fire made the train ’ s blood boil, and
filled it up with more GO than it could know what to do with. Even now, there
was a puffing plume, a throb, and now and then, a hiss, like something sent
through clinched teeth.
    Odette
helped her onto the train and steered her toward their seat, placing Celeste by
the window where she could look out onto the platform. It was empty now and she
craned her neck to see if they had brought her mama along or left her behind.
Odette eased her back down into her seat. “ Everything is taken
care of, ” she said, and Celeste understood. They
waited there for a while longer, not speaking but listening to the rumblings of
the engine until, with a lurch, the train began to move away.
    Soon,
the truck seemed a plodding thing as Celeste sat with her cheek pressed against
the window of the train car, her stomach just a little churned, and the scenery
racing by — water, marsh, farms and trees, there
and gone again. It had never occurred to her to notice the name of the town
where they stepped on board, and didn ’ t seem to matter now.
The train wanted to get to New Orleans and so did she. That ’ s where Augustin had gone before he
went farther still. Aunt Odette said that her papa would come home that way, so
if she was already there, it would be that much closer
for him. That much sooner.
    The
thought of New Orleans scared her nearly to death, but that was okay. She ’ d been scared nearly to death before
and come out just fine.   Her old
home would just be a memory. The ones dearest to her were with her now, or
waiting to guide her again next time she visited that other place, or coming to
join her at the new home. Odette lived in New Orleans, and Odette had powers
over all manner of things. They ’ d be safe with her
looking out after them. She told herself that.
    At
the Mississippi River, the train was loaded onto the ferry for the crossing,
since a bridge was still years away. The ferry was not much more than a big
flat something — like a platform to build a house on,
only this one floated. It was hard to see just what all was going on as the
train loaded itself on to that flat boat, but once the cars were arranged in
rows across the width, Celeste was glad her window still faced out where she
could see the river.
    She
compared this to the little bayous she knew back home that ran clear enough to
see to the bottom, when they weren ’ t dried up during a
long stretch between rains, or ran brown with traveling mud right after a
downpour. This Mississippi River looked like it ran brown all the time. It was
so wide, she thought maybe they ’ d traveled too far
and reached that ocean her papa had sailed across to fight the war.
    A boat, like a train of the river,
shouldered alongside the ferry, shepherding it across. Celeste could see it just outside her
window and see the man standing at its wheel in the windowed room set in front
of the fuming stack. She ’ d never seen a boat
so big, or one that wasn ’ t rowed. Machines pushing machines. That was how you got to New
Orleans. If you didn ’ t have a bridge, then the machines
would make you one.
    On
the other side, the train had its own rails again and plunged on toward the
city, passing through places Celeste thought might be New Orleans at last, but
Odette told her it wasn ’ t so. These were
towns out from the city ; children of New Orleans. They
rolled on under the sun, west to east, slower than they had before the river.
No running inside the house.
    Celeste
watched a town of neat, white houses slide by them. She pointed out the window,
looking back at Odette with a question.
    “ That ’ s a cemetery, ” her aunt explained. “ You know what that is? ”
    Celeste
nodded. Would they