Disclaimer: Remy, Belle, and the
guy with the red eyes belong to Marvel. And until Lizzie jumps
out of my head, and starts writing these stories herself,
she, Juliet, Deven and Uncle Jim, belong to me.
The Sun Will Shine Again
Lizzie wiped her nose with the back of her hand and sniffled.
She was okay now, her funny feelings having been pushed to
the back of her mind where she ignored them. Her momma had
repeatedly told her everything would be okay before she had
calmed down. And the lady sitting next to her kept looking
at her with a funny expression and saying something about
What a mutie?
Momma had turned to look at the woman and shot daggers at
her for saying that. Lizzie still didn't know what a mutie
was. After the plane had become airborne, the two had traded
seats with Juliet in the middle and Lizzie on the isle.
The sky had long grown dark with thick black clouds covering
the sun, and the stewardesses had said that they would be
flying around the storm. But Lizzie wondered if there was
going to be some kind of storm waiting for them in Paris.
Juliet was humming softly to herself as she busily wrote
in her five subject note book, lyrics for songs she one day
hoped to sing. It was something she had given up by loving
Lizzie's poppa, her singing. But Lizzie knew she loved her
and Remy more then the music, and she was happy teaching it
But Lizzie sometimes wanted her mother to have more. To be
able to go and follow the dreams she had set for herself when
she was younger. And now, there was this nagging feeling in
the back of her mind, that her mother wouldn't ever sing again.
But that's silly, she told herself as she fought back the
tears that were starting to well up behind her eyes again.
She had had these feelings before. And nothing had ever come
from them. Once, it had been when Poppa was teaching her how
to tern off security systems in really big houses. She had
the feeling that they were going to get caught, and that people
were going to take her from her parents. But it didn't happen.
The cops never showed up, and they got out of the house with
a new necklace for Momma's birthday, and some things for Poppa's
And yet, there was something strange about this feeling.
It was different somehow. It seemed more... real. Like waking
in the morning and looking out your window to see fog swirling
around the trees in the bayou and thinking that it must be
a ghost. But you know there are no such things as ghosts,
and then suddenly the fog moves and it seemed to be coming
right at you, and then you realize, as it shoots out of the
mist, that it was just some old owl flying back to it's home.
That seemed to be the only way Lizzie could think to explain
it to herself. And then she realized that the feelings couldn't
hurt her anymore then a dumb ol' owl could.
She relaxed in the chair, hugged Ted E. Bear close, and opened
her new book. Within moments, she was lost in a world where
a young Indian boy had to journey to the sun in order to win
the love of his life.
Deven swept his long black bangs out of his teal eyes. Maybe
he could get one of the waitresses to cut his hair for him
before they left for the night. Christina Brown had taken
a liking to him, and had even offered to let him stay at her
place for a few nights, maybe she would cut it for him.
He was nine, although he looked almost two years older and
his eyes looked like those of a twenty-year-old who had known
nothing but hard times. He was thin from having one too many
days where he had nothing to eat, but he was strong. And bright.
He could read, while most kids, and many of the adults, who
made the streets their homes couldn't. He was also resourceful,
and while he wasn't much of the thief or a pick pocket, he
could con money from Scrooge.
Luck. That's what it was, luck. Pure and simple.
He had lived on the streets for almost as long as he could
remember. His only memory of his parents was when they had
left him on some old lady's porch. When the lady'd opened
the door and saw him there, all she'd done was close the door
in his face. It was then and there at the tender age of six
that he realized that all he had was himself, and he needed
only that to survive.
After only a few days on the streets, he was already beginning
to starve to death until he'd met a man who he'd called Uncle
Jim, if that was his real name or not, Deven never knew. Uncle
Jim had thought him how to beg for money and food. How play
card tricks on the side of the road, how to travel and how
to live off of the land. "Boy, the good Lord, our God
gave man everything on this earth to use. Every plant, every
animal. All have a purpose, but you just got to know how to
use them right."
Uncle Jim had been smart too. He'd thought Deven to read,
and had even given him a new copy of the Bible on his eighth
birthday. Deven still had the Bible, dirty and dog-eared now,
and he read it every night as Uncle Jim had thought him. Everything
he knew about living on the streets and off the land was because
of Uncle Jim. He'd learned what plants he could eat, and what
plants could heal, and even learned how to get water form
roses. He knew how to catch fish with his hands, and could
smell water and know if it was polluted or not.
Uncle Jim had been his friend for almost three years. But,
as he had always learned, nothing good would ever stay. They
had been walking along railroad tracks somewhere in Idaho
when Deven's foot had caught in the tracks. No matter how
much ether of them had pulled and pried, they couldn't get
his foot louse. Then, with a train not far down the tracks,
Uncle Jim had untied the laces of his boot, and pushed him
out of the way screaming "Get outa here, you fool boy!"
Deven could still hear the roar of the train's wheels, and
the blowing of the whistle in his ears. He'd been pushed down
and embankment, and it had taken him half an hour to climb
back up it.
He'd stolen a shovel from some man's garage and barred Uncle
Jim right there beside the tracks where he'd been killed.
He had read all of his favorite passages in the Bible as a
eulogy. And he'd sat by the grave for two days before his
will to survive had taken over and he'd gone to hunt up some
He'd taken everything from Uncle Jim's pockets before burring
him, five hundred twenty-two dollars and a little change,
and a post card from Uncle Jim's daughter. He'd bought paper,
an envelope, and a stamp at a drug store and wrote to his
daughter telling her her father had died saving his life and
asked that she say a prayer for his soul. 0 He wiped a tear
from his eyes and continued sweeping the floor. No since in
crying for the dead. It wouldn't bring him back.
Deven had been lucky the day he'd found this job sweeping
floors in the kitchen of a rundown, dirty old Pedro truckstop
in South Carolina just outside of Florence. The people who
worked there were mostly hicks from Darlington who lived for
the NASCAR races, and who, almost every one of them, seemed
to fit all of the "You might be a redneck if..."
But the owner was nice and had taken petty on him. And although
he never asked Deven to come stay in his own home, he'd given
him a room in the back with a cot, and plenty off leftovers
to eat, and every once and a while, Deven would steal one
of the books at the gift shop to read and then would put it
back after he was finished. 0
He'd been there for almost a month now, and had save about
a hundred dollars. Soon, it would be time for him to move
on. But maybe he could get someone to cut his hair for him
before he left.
Somewhere in Paris, as fog swirled about them like lost souls
looking for a resting place, a pair of hands shook. Hands
that belong to two completely different people who were making
a deal, each for a different reason.
Belle smiled. "So den, dat be it." She said yanking
her hand away from the other's.
"Quite." He said, his voice so cold and without
emotion that it made a shiver run down Belle's back.
"De plane be here soon, an' you get wha' you want af'er
you take care o' de woman."
"As you say." Belle nodded and turned away from
him. She never saw the smile and the mouth full of sharp teeth,
or the glint of the red eyes as he lowered his sunglasses.
Continued in Chapter
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