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"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. Grandmere 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.

"Grandmere 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. Ja

ck, 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.

I gasped and backed into Jack's arms. "She's drawing him the way I've seen him in countless nightmares."

"It must be her nightmare too, then," he said.

Finally she lowered her arms and took a small step back. She looked at the picture and whispered, "I'm sorry."

She then dropped the charcoal and started to lift the canvas.

Jack stepped forward quickly. "Let me help you, Madame Andreas," he said.