Once I had feared I could never be a lover, but Jack's surprised laughter and plea to let him catch his breath made me realize those fears were foolish. I was the lightning that needed the right marriage of elements to fire up the night sky, and the right elements were someone who really loved me and someone I really loved.

Finally he turned over on his back and cried, "Mercy!"

I laughed and we held hands and waited for our hearts to stop pounding and our breathing to slow down. Then he lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my fingers. He put my hand over his heart.

"Feel how content my heart is now," he said. "Feel how it beats for you."

"And mine too, Jack," I said bringing his hand to my breast. We lay beside each other quietly, astounded by how hard and how deeply we loved. I realized this was like the eye of the storm, the quiet that came in the midst of turmoil. Jack told me the hurricane was in me because I had been born in one. Maybe he was right. In the throes of all this disaster and tragedy, I had found him waiting to embrace me; I'd found his love, and with it I'd found the strength to battle the storm to follow.

I closed my eyes and drifted into a soft, pleasing sleep, but sometime in the night, as if I had been nudged, I woke. My eyelids fluttered. For a moment I had forgotten where I was. Then I heard Jack's soft breathing beside me, and I relaxed. Then I turned and gazed out the window that faced Cypress Woods. Immediately my heart began to pound, and I sprang up as if I had a coil in my spine.

"Jack!"

"Wha . . . what is it?"

"Look." I pointed at the house. Just barely visible in a corner window of my mother's art studio was the glow of candlelight.

Jack sat up and studied the great house looming against the purple night sky. His eyes narrowed and he turned to me slowly. In a whisper he said, "Someone's up there all right."

Quickly we dressed. Jack grabbed a flashlight and a shotgun.

"It could be burglars," he explained when he saw my surprise.

I was hoping beyond hope that it was my mother, but another possibility occurred to me. "Or Buster Trahaw's cousins?" I asked.

Jack grimaced, but he didn't deny the possibility. Instead, he reached into the drawer and took out another handful of shotgun shells.

We got into my car and drove up to the mansion. The night sky was an eerie purple with the cloud cover broken here and there to permit some stars to twinkle. The strong breeze made the willows and cypresses sway ominously. Shadows seemed to float and twist over the grounds. When we stepped out of the car, I heard the cry of a night heron and then saw it flap its wings and sail over the field and toward the marsh.

I looked up at the mansion. The candlelight was still glowing in the window.

Jack took my hand and walked quickly to the side stairway. He paused at the first step. "Let me lead the way," he whispered. "And let's go up as quietly as we can."

I tried to swallow, but couldn't. My heart was thumping so loud I was sure that if it was a burglar, he would hear it. I was afraid to breathe. Slowly, cautiously, we mounted the steps that would take us to the studio. I thought they creaked enough to announce our approach. I tried to be as light-footed as possible. Once upstairs, Jack hesitated, checked his shotgun, and then, keeping me behind him, opened the door with a strong, quick thrust.

At first neither of us saw anyone. A few white candles were burning around an easel upon which there was a blank canvas. Then she stepped out of the shadows, resembling a shadow herself. It was Mommy, finally.

"Mommy!" I cried with joy. Jack lowered his shotgun as I hurried past him, but I stopped short midway.

Mommy was behaving as if she didn't hear us or see us. She wore a slight smile and moved as if she were sleepwalking. Her hair was disheveled, strands curling every which way. Her face was streaked with grime, a dark blotch on her chin, and her dress was creased and crinkled, spotted and stained, suggesting she had slept in it the whole time she had been away, and slept outside, too! In her hands she clutched some charcoal pens and a rag.

"Mommy, it's me, Pearl," I said and waited. She turned her back to me and stared at the blank canvas, which was caked with dust. Jack stood beside me, gazing at her curiously, too. "Mommy? Don't you hear me?" I asked. She didn't turn. "Jack, what's wrong with her?"

"She's in some sort of daze," he said. "Careful."

We drew closer. I reached out and touched her shoulder. She put her hand over mine and patted it.

"It's all right," she said in a loud whisper that sent chills along my spine. "All I have to do is draw his face the way I last remember it, the way it was in my heart. He's trapped, you see, because of what he did.

"But you shouldn't blame him. No one should blame him, not even the church. He was very distraught. I should have realized he would be; I shouldn't have accepted his sacrifice so readily. We were all he had, really.

"Oh, he had this great house and all these grounds with their rich oil wells, but money had no meaning to him if he didn't have the people he loved around him, people on whom to spend the money.

"How he suffered," she continued, "until he could stand the suffering no more. He went out to the swamps to remember us, to recall those youthful days when we were always together, innocent and loving, believing in the promise of tomorrow and never dreaming there were monsters looming all around us, even in our very hearts.

"He went through great turmoil, drinking and crying and bemoaning his fate, and then he decided he could not survive with half a life, and he cast his measly existence to the wind. He dived into the water and swam in circles until he could swim no more. Then, choking, filling his lungs with the swamp water, he dragged his poor body to the shore and perished under the stars that had once looked so dazzling and promising to him.

"And it was largely my fault. Selfishly I had accepted his love and his help, and then, when my true love was available to me once again, I deliberately closed my eyes to Paul's suffering and accepted his generosity once more. I had a new existence; I was with the one I loved, beside him every night, while Paul was beside an empty space he could fill only with his dreams. It wasn't enough.

"I put him through such torment. I pretended to oppose his every offer. I put up an argument to dissuade him, but I gave in to his arguments. I let him fool himself. Worst of all, perhaps, I let him love Pearl as if she were his daughter. I let him pretend to be her father; I let him have that illusion, and then I swept it out of his hands and his heart.

"He had lost everything that mattered, you see, and I had been a party to all that pain."

"Mommy." Tears were streaming down my cheeks, tears that burned into my heart because I felt her suffering so strongly.

She patted my hand again, but kept her eyes fixed on the blank canvas. "No, no, there's no use pretending any more or denying. Grandmère Catherine told me: every time we incubate an evil thought or commit an evil act, another evil spirit is set loose in the world to do battle with the good. The evil spirits I set loose have finally come to roost. They found their way to my home. I must do what I must do," she said softly.

"What must you do, Mommy?" I asked, terrified of the answer.

"Grandmère Catherine's spirit told me. I slept on her grave last night and waited for her words of wisdom to seep into my brain. I must put the face of Paul that is in my heart on this canvas."

She took a rag and wiped away the dust. "And then I must bring it to his grave and set it afire so his troubled spirit can return to him and he can escape from limbo."

"Mommy, you've got to come home with me," I said through my tears. "I'm here now, with you. It's me, Pearl. Please. Look at me. Listen to me. We need you. Pierre needs you. Daddy needs you."

She didn't turn around. She raised her charcoal pencil to the canvas and began to draw a face. "Mommy!"

"Wait," Jack said, putting his hands on my shoulders. "Let her do this first."

"Do this? But she's gone mad, Jack. I've got to make her snap out of it!" I cried.

"You won't succeed, and she won't be any good to you or to your brother. I've seen people like this before," he confessed. "At religious gatherings where a traiteur has conducted a ceremony to drive away a mental problem. Sometimes it worked, sometimes not, but you've got to let her do what she thinks she's been told to do."

"This is like black magic, voodoo. Jack, it's a waste of time."

"That's not for you to decide, Pearl. The important thing is, she believes it. You don't have to believe it. I'm not a psychiatrist, but I know the power of the mind when it comes to these things. You weren't brought up in the bayou where religion and superstitions are married to form a different set of beliefs, but your mother was. Leave her alone for a while," he insisted.

I looked back at Mommy. She had already shaped the face and was working on the eyes and the nose. As she worked, she began to hum softly. I had never heard the tune, but I saw how it brought a gentle smile to her face, a smile that suggested she was enjoying some memory.

The miracle in Mommy's fingers was never as evident as it was now. In minutes she brought the face on the dirty old canvas to life. I saw a glint in the eyes, felt the twisted movement in the mouth, and easily imagined a breath. Her hands flew over the canvas as if they had a mind of their own, as if the picture were flowing out through her fingers. There was enough detail in it for me to recognize Uncle Paul, but the expression on his face was frightening. I had seen it a hundred times. It was the face of the man in the water.