At home, I never run.
Swamp Tour
“Been on an airboat?” Bending, hands on his knees, Bear breathes deep, gulping breaths.
I’m panting so much my sides hurt. Bear doesn’t even wait for me to answer. He’s off running again.
I follow, not minding the rasp in my lungs. I feel bold, happy. We come to a clearing. I stop, awestruck.
All around me is green—light, dark, yellow-green, purplish green, turtle and forest green. Plants are everywhere, low weeds and moss carpeting the ground. Up high, tree branches arch, blocking out the sun. It’s still hot, but shade makes the air cooler.
Bear watches me. Both of us are still. It feels like we’re the only people in the world. Like there is no world, except here.
Head tilted back, legs planted wide, Bear stretches his arms high into the air.
“Why’re you named Bear?”
“Not my real name.”
“What’s your real name?”
Bear grimaces. “Not saying. It’s awful.”
“Come on, tell.”
“Won’t. I’m Bear. ’Cause if anybody feeds me, I come back for more.” Bear grins. “You don’t have any food, do you?”
I shake my head.
“That’s all right. We’ll catch some. This is the best place. My hideaway.” Excited, Bear swings his arms. He walks around the clearing’s rim, touching plants. “This here’s a Christmas fern. Green, all the time. This here’s a royal fern. It’s a baby now. It’ll grow five feet, big as me.” He pauses, his fingers stroking leaves. “Want to see something special?”
I nod.
“Come on. Crawl through.”
“What?”
“Come on!”
I get down on my knees like Bear and crawl. I’m glad I have overalls. Moist dirt sticks to my hands, my covered knees. Crawling over swampland, I can see the plants up close. Roots, spiraling deep. Tendrils, shooting up.
My sisters would call me crazy. But just like it felt good running, it feels good getting dirty. Slithering over spongy land.
Bear points. Puts a finger to his lips. Points again.
Belly flat, using my elbows, I inch forward. Deep in a crevice, next to a willow tree, is a small, rough tunnel. “Swamp rabbit hole,” says Bear.
“Cottontails. Few weeks old. You have to look close.”
I scoot closer, seeing dark, puffy shadows.
“Lay your head down.”
Grass tickles my face. I peer, closing my left eye and squinting with my right. I can see a mound of furry gray. Tufts of white, here, there. A small rabbit ear. And another! A black-toed paw nudging another rabbit’s head.
Bear inches back. I turn, digging with my elbows, and stand with him.
“They’re sleeping,” he says, glancing back. “They only come out at night. I’ve watched them.”
Bear sighs with joy. His profile is sharp, angular, straight-nosed. I’ve never known a boy like him. Chattering then quiet. Chatter. Quiet. Chatter.
Bear rubs his dirty hands on his overalls, so I do, too. And he’s off again. “Come on, Maddy. Come on!”
I like how Bear says my name—not “Maddy” but “Mah-dee,” making it twang, linger.
“Come on. We’re almost at the water.” I follow.
Salt fills the air. I wriggle my nose. I smell muck, too; it’s getting stronger, but it doesn’t smell bad. Smells alive, not like city stale.
“Look.” Bear halts suddenly, pointing up.
Aahhhh. A red-tailed hawk glides, arcs across the blue sky.
“Come on.”
The landscape changes again. With each step, the forest darkens, thickens. More and more grasses. Endless towering trees. Fallen branches, cracked logs.
Bear swats away willow branches, drooping with shimmering green. “Careful. Water everywhere,” says Bear.
Fallen seeds, leaves decomposing, the marsh has become muddier, squishier, blackening my tennis shoes.
We come to a wide stream. The shoreline is chocolate-black with green slime; the water, sluggish, has tangles of algae, duckweed, patches of floating moss. Bayous are stagnant or slow-moving streams, I remember from science class. “Part of our disappearing wetlands,” said Miss Avril. “Erosion causes hurricanes to hit New Orleans harder.”
“The bayou’s got snakes, crawfish. Catfish. Bugs and gators.”
“Oh,” I exhale, surprising myself, thinking Bear’s twang makes even snakes and gators sound good.
We walk a slippery edge between water and marsh grass. If I bend too far left, I’ll fall into dark water topped with water lilies and moss. Stalks of wild grass clump, struggling to hold soil together. To keep the boundary between land and water.
“To ride an airboat, Maddy, first, you’ve got to understand the waterways.”
“Like reading a map of the road?”
“That’s right. Need to understand where swamp water ends. Where it’s safe and unsafe to go.”
The stream widens, branching into inlets, like fingers poking deep into land. Currents quicken. Dragonflies flit, land, and flit again.
“Stay close,” Bear says.
Then, like exiting a cave, the landscape changes again, brightening, becoming an endless expanse of water.
“The Gulf of Mexico.”
“I’ve never seen so much water.” Waves, blue and dull green, roll to shore, creating white foam, collapsing, lapping and licking the sand.
“You can’t ride an airboat here,” I say.
“Nope. Waves too powerful.”
I watch a pelican fly, skirt above the waves. Its long-nosed beak is yellow, spotted red. Its wings reach, flap, and glide. The pelican dives, plucking a wriggling fish.
Bear sits cross-legged on the sand, surveying everything he sees. Sky, land, waves, sun, and birds.
He’s used to being alone, I think. He’s forgetful I’m even here.
I frown. I’m a second wheel, a “tagalong,” like my sisters always complain. Even when I don’t want to go, Ma says, “Dionne, take Maddy.” “Layla, take Maddy.” To the mall. A neighbor’s apartment. Their playdates.
Bear doesn’t need me here.
“Why’re you doing this?”
“What?”
“Taking me along?”
“Queenie told me to. Said you’d like it.”
I shudder. “Who’s Queenie?”
“Your grandmère.”
Grandmère? “She isn’t a queen.”
“Is around here. Queenie said you needed to find home.”
“I’ve got a home.”
“Nobody said you can’t have two. ’Sides, if Queenie hadn’t asked, I would’ve wanted to.”
“Why?”
“You’re Maddy,” he answers, matter-of-factly. “You’re exploring with me.”
I like what Bear says. I’m not the youngest, the littlest—just me. Not just another one of those Johnson girls.
I plop beside him. Waves race in and out, each different as they form—water churning, sunlight glittering—crashing like diamonds.
“My pa has two homes.” Bear points. “See, Maddy. Way, way out there, far, far in the Gulf. On the sun’s right side.”
I don’t see anything besides endless water and pancake clouds, but I don’t want to disappoint Bear. “I see.”
“It’s Pa’s oil rig. Black metal and concrete slabs. Stilts sunk deep into the water. Platforms are huge. Gigantic cranes, towers with steel drills plunging, twisting like a corkscrew into the ocean floor. See? Do you see, Maddy? Do you?”
I nod.
“Pa’s gone most always. Stuck in the middle of the Gulf during storms, hurricanes.
“But he likes the bayou better. Being with me.” His whole body slumps.
“Where’s your ma?”
“Not here.” Bear looks even sadder. “Ma’s a one-home person. But it isn’t here. ‘Texas, maybe,’ Pa says. We’re not sure.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make you sad again.”
; Bear’s eyes are deepest brown. He blinks, jumps. “Sad is as sad does. Come on.”
“Is that your favorite phrase? ‘Come on’?”
“You don’t want to come?” Bear looks disappointed.
“Come on,” I crow in the biggest, loudest voice. “Come on.”
“Ya-hoooo.” Bear’s smiling again.
I run from the Gulf, back toward Grandmère’s home.
“Almost to the airboat, Maddy,” says Bear, running in the lead again. “Over here.” I follow him, twisting, turning until we come to a small dock.
Surprised, I stop. “Wow.”
It’s huge. Sitting three feet high off the water is a boat with two high-backed seats and a fan, a thousand times bigger than a house fan, attached to the back.
“Fastest airboat in Louisiana.” Bear scrambles up, extends his hand.
Eager, I pull myself in.
“Here. Put these on.” He hands me earmuffs, thick and black, like a pilot’s.
Bear presses a button and the fan roars, the boat jumps, and we’re off!
We bounce over swamp water, startling fish, birds. Screeching, heart racing, grabbing my seat with both hands, I think this ride is better than a roller coaster in an amusement park.
“Ya-hooo!” yells Bear, turning the wheel, making a sharp curve. Both our bodies lean right; I scream. It’s scary-fun to think I might fall off. Fun-scary, having the boat kicking up spray. Fun-scary, blades whirling, roaring so loud even earmuffs can’t block all their powerful noise. Fun-scary for me and Bear to be shooting like an explosion across the swamp waters.
Bear cuts the engine. I slip off the earmuffs.
We’re north of the Gulf, in deep, deep bayou water. It’s dead quiet. Weeping willows’ branches hang like rope. Patches of moss float in the thick water.
“See the gator?”
I look, but I don’t see it.
“It looks like a log. Charcoal gray.”
“I see it.” And I do. A big old alligator eye slowly opens.
I hold tight to my seat.
Lightning-quick, the gator lunges, its jaws opening like a lion’s. Snap! Little feet wriggle out of the side of its mouth. I almost cry, “Poor baby turtle.” But I clench my mouth. I don’t want Bear to make fun of me.
The nasty gator swallows. I sniff.
Bear moves, capable, sharp. He tosses an anchor and reaches behind the seats, pulling out two long sticks with dangling wire, handing me one. Then he lifts a jar, bugs crawling inside. Cockroaches? June bugs? Water bugs?
“Bugs catch fish,” says Bear. Catching his bottom lip with his teeth, he focuses on pricking the bug with the wire’s hook.
“Yuck,” I say.
“Bugs don’t mind. They help us catch redfish. That’s the way the world works here.”
A bug wriggles between his fingertips.
“I don’t think I can.”
“Sure you can. It’s what we do in the bayou. Fish.”
I take the wriggling bug. “Sorry,” I say to the bug, pricking the hook through its skin. “Now what?”
“We drop the lines and wait.”
And wait. And wait.
But the waiting isn’t bad. It’s like cooking in the kitchen. Quiet, calming. Deep in our own thoughts.
Me and Bear sit back-to-back. Bear’s hook dangles off the left side of the boat; mine dangles off the right.
Tiny, tiny bugs flit up, over, and across the water. Birds, mouths open, gobble them up. Fish leap, swallowing them, too. Poor bugs. I guess Bear’s right. Bugs expect to be eaten.
My wire tenses. A fish? I lean over the side, peering, trying to see a fat-belly fish swish by, but the swamp bottom is too muddy.
Still, my wire tugs. One—two—three. “I think I’m catching a fish, Bear!”
“Hush, then. Else you’ll scare it.”
One tug, two tugs, three. I see nothing. Then, a big tug jerks my arm.
I look over the side. A face. Wide, black eyes. I start to yell. A finger touches, crosses her lips. It’s a girl, like me. Her face, black and sparkling, skimming beneath water. Long black hair stretching and tangling with the algae and grass, floating in the brown water.
“A fish!” shouts Bear, distracted, reeling in his line.
I look away, just for a second, and when I turn back, the face is gone. Lost beneath the water.
A cold redfish wriggles across my feet. Bear flips open a locker, lowering the fish inside. “Let’s get to shore and eat. I’m starved.” He starts the engine.
Am I crazy? Should I tell Bear I saw a girl, breathless, covered with water?
Yes, I decide. Bear is a friend. “Bear, I saw… something.”
“Always lots to see.” He maneuvers the airboat to shore.
He helps me down. “I’ve been waiting to see you, actually. Four days I had to wait. Queenie said so.” He ties the airboat to a log post stuck deep in the water.
“You waited, just for me?”
“Today’s day five. Queenie said I’d be ‘your surprise.’”
I smile. Bear’s a good surprise.
From his overalls, Bear pulls a pocketknife. He cuts off the fish’s head, scratches off its scales, then slices its belly. His fingers rip out the guts. I can’t look away. I’ve never seen things caught, killed, and cooked, up close. Only store chicken cut and packaged for frying.
“Thank you, Fish,” says Bear. He moves, quick, gathering twigs, thin branches, leaves. From his pocket, he pulls two smooth rocks. He scratches them together, making a small fire. He sticks a branch into the fish’s mouth down to its fin. He holds it over the fire.
A different kind of cooking.
“Maddy, in the wild, carry salt and pepper. Queenie taught me.”
“To cook?”
“Sure ’nough.” Bear pushes his hand deep inside his back pocket and pulls out a cloth bag. “Pepper and salt mixed. I added dried onions, rosemary from Queenie’s garden. My idea. Never know when you catch a fish.” The fish, on a stick, spins above the fire. Bear turns it slowly, evenly, so it doesn’t burn. It sizzles, pops, crackles.
We eat with our fingers—smacking lips, biting skin and flesh, licking juice from our fingertips. “This is good, Bear.”
Bear cooks with his heart. Like me.
“Bear,” I murmur, gathering courage. “Beneath the water, I think I saw a girl.”
“Can’t be,” he answers, dousing the fire. “Nobody swims in the swamps.”
“She wasn’t swimming. More like floating.”
“Must’ve been mixed-up shadows, underwater twigs.”
“I saw her, Bear, I’m sure I did.”
“Not possible.”
“Bear, she looked straight at me.”
Bear looks down, staring at ashes, wriggling his bare toes.
“Bear!” I shudder, feeling as though I’m about to ruin the day. What if I’m wrong? What if I didn’t see what I think I saw? “Grandmère—Queenie—says you’re going to be my best friend. Friends trust friends.” I don’t tell Bear that I’ve never had a best friend. Ever.
Bewildered, Bear shakes his head. “Lived here my whole life. Never heard a thing about swamp—”
“—people. A girl.”
Bear puckers his lips. Tugs his hair. Any second, I think, he’s going to make fun of me.
He looks at me serious. “I don’t know everything. Pa says the bayou always has mysteries. Show me, Maddy.”
We shake hands.
“Bear, you’re the nicest, strangest boy I know.”
For more than an hour, Bear revs and cuts the engine. We search and search as the airboat drifts, floats. Section by section, me on the right, Bear on the left, we stare into the dark, murky water. Thick with algae and moss, the swamp barely moves.
“Let’s try over here,” says Bear. The boat speeds to the left, rounding a curve. The water is a bit clearer. Four turtles sun on a log. For another hour, we search, moving south.
“Fresh water and salt start mixing here,” say
s Bear. “Land erodes, can’t hold back Gulf waters. Pa says that’s why land’s disappearing.
“‘People’s fault,’ Pa says. ‘Oil folks dredging canals. Engineers altering the river’s course.’”
“Maddy?” Bear taps me on my back, startling me.
I lift my head, my neck hurting from leaning so far over the boat’s side. Me and Bear are dripping sweat. Staring, bug-eyed, at water is hard work.
“Do you think this thing—I mean, the girl you saw—likes only fresh water? Or salt? Or both? Maybe we’re too far south?”
“I don’t know, Bear.” Now it’s my turn to feel dejected. Nothing to go on, and Bear still believes me. Maybe I saw something because I wanted to see it; just like Bear pretended to see his pa’s rig, miles and miles away?
“Maddy, you sure she wasn’t dead? Accidents happen. Swamps are dangerous. Just like Pa’s rig. A fall, not paying attention, acting like you know everything…” His voice trails off.
Bear’s brows squish. He’s worrying about his pa.
“Your pa’s fine, Bear.”
Bear nods, quick. “I know.”
He leans forward to turn the boat’s key. Touching his shoulder, I stop him. “Alive, Bear. She was, truly. Not dead. Alive.”
His expression quizzical, serious, Bear looks at the setting sun. “Time to go in. Next time, Maddy. Next time.” He turns the motor on. Fan roaring, we bounce and bump over water, avoiding logs and gators.
At dusk, the sky glows purple-orange. The airboat fan moves slowly as Bear guides the boat to its home anchor.
On land, a puffy-cheeked, red-haired man is flailing his hands. Shouting something I can’t hear.
The boat shudders, stops. Me and Bear remove our earmuffs.
“Bear, I done told you to leave my boat alone.”
Bear mutters, “See, Maddy. Never promised not to get in trouble.” He steps over my legs, leaps onto dirt, and offers me a hand down.
“How many times I told you? Ten? Twenty? Hundred?” The man shakes a fist.
Turning away from me, fingers crossed behind his back, Bear says, “I’m sorry, Mister Cochon. I’m sorry.”
C for cochon, I remember. “Pig” in my French alphabet book.
Bayou Magic Page 3