said. ‘I saw him fall, I’ve seen it for a year. I could see his face peering out a break in the wall. It was the only pale spot in all that blackness. And then he jumped. But not down. Forward. As if he were in a hurry to get somewhere. I’m sure he didn’t think he was falling, but I don’t understand what that means.’

  ‘Girl, you know I believe in the mysteries,’ said Mr Brisbeau, continuing to empty plates into the sack. ‘In the now and forever, the here and hereafter. I’d be a damn fool, me, if I didn’t. Ain’t no point in not believin’.’ He held up a moldy orange. ‘See this here. That Robichaux boy he come ‘bout ever’ week and leave an orange, and the way that family is, so damn mean to each other and poor, this orange stands for somethin’! Somethin’ special. The boy here’ - he patted the stone - ‘who knows what he could do if he can bring out the soul in Herve Robichaux’s boy. Maybe you got reason to hope.’ He tossed the orange into the sack.

  ‘It’s not hope,’ said Jocundra. ‘It’s just confusion. I know he’s dead.’

  ‘Sure it’s hope,’ said Mr Brisbeau. ‘Me, I ain’t no genius, but I can tell you ‘bout hope. When my boy he’s missin’ in action, I live wit hope for ten damn years. It’s the cruelest thing in the world. If it get a hook in you, maybe it never let you go no matter how hopeless things really is.’ He closed up the sack and laughed. ‘I remember what my grand-mere use to say ‘round breakfas’ time. My brother John he’s always after her to fix pancakes. Firs’ ting ever’ mornin’ he say, “Well, I hope we goin’ to have pancakes.” And my grand-mere she tell him jus’ be glad his belly’s full, him, and then she say, “You keep your hope for tomorrow, boy, ‘cause we got grits for today.”’ He stood and shouldered the sack. ‘Maybe that’s all there is to some kinds of hopin’. It makes them grits go down easier.’

  He worried the ants with his toe for a few seconds, weighing something, then said, ‘You come ‘long wit me while I slop ol’ man Bivalaqua’s hogs, and after that I buy you breakfas’ in town. What you say, girl?’

  ‘All right,’ she said, thankful for the company. ‘I’ll be up in a minute.’

  As soon as he was out of sight, she opened her purse and took out the folded piece of paper on which Donnell had written ‘The Song of Returning.’ She went over to the stone and laid the paper on the ground. It fluttered and unfolded in the breeze. An ant ran along the central crease, using it as a bridge between scraps of food, and a stronger breeze sailed it toward the bayou. She started to chase it down, but held back. Even though she remembered the words, she had an idea that if she let it go she would finally be able to let go of Donnell. The paper caught on a myrtle twig beside the boathouse, tattered madly, and then, obeying a shift in the wind, it skittered to rest under the chair where she had been sitting. She waited to see where it would blow next, but the wind had swirled off into the swamp and the paper just lay there. After a while, she picked it up.

  THE END