“Who knows,” he says, sounding like Dracula, “what creatures live in the deep?”
Fear rises, grips my chest. I gulp. What if it is a monster? We’re alone. Searching for our doom.
Whoosh.
I screech. Splash.
“Just a gator.” Bear laughs. “Still like a log, then quick, pouncing into water. Probably ate a catfish.”
I exhale.
Bear zooms ahead, then cuts the engine. We float on the airboat throne. On the left, Bear peers into water; on the right, I look, too. We both focus on the dark, deep water.
“There!” yells Bear.
“Where?” I lean over his shoulder.
“Aw, a diamondback.” A snake, dark olive green, with a pattern of diamond shapes, wriggles through the water.
“Poisonous?”
“Naw. Eats toads and slow fish. You’re thinking of diamondback rattlers. This one’s a plain water snake.”
Staring too hard, my eyes hurt. I feel woozy. I fill a tin cup with water from the Coleman cooler. I gulp, fill the cup again and again.
Bear turns the engine key. The fan, behind us, whirls. Earmuffs on, we’re moving fast, the airboat shuddering, rattling, skimming across the water.
I poke Bear. “Eyes.” I poke his back. “Eyes!” He shuts the engine.
“What?” he asks, taking off his earmuffs.
“There. Eyes.”
“Lilies.” He shakes his head. “Just lilies trapped by algae.”
“No, eyes, Bear. Definitely eyes,” I say, hoping wishing can make it so.
“Lily centers, Maddy. Sometimes brown, yellow specks. Sometimes full-bloom flowers.”
Disappointed, I lean back, putting my feet up on the dash.
I’m wasting my time and Bear’s. And Bear’s been so nice about it, sitting quiet, staring into muddy water, when we could be playing.
“You sure you saw it, Maddy? I believe you, I do. But are you sure?”
“Sure,” I say, emphatic, but it hurts to say it. “I’m sure. Just like I’m sure I’m going to turn ten.”
Bear squints, nods. He knows when to be quiet.
“Tomorrow,” I whisper. “Please, let’s try again tomorrow.” I don’t say “for the thirty-third time.” Neither does he, but I bet he’s thinking it.
Bear revs the engine. Our earmuffs block the sound. It’s quiet. Though he doubts, Bear still helps.
“Thanks, Bear,” I say. He can’t hear me. I tap his back and smile. Bear smiles back. Not a big smile, but he does smile. I’m grateful.
We head back toward Bon Temps. We both sway as the airboat tilts left, right. Pressure builds inside me, scratching, clawing, plaguing me as we draw closer and closer to land. Another failure.
I feel like a squashed bug. I’m trying hard, trying to learn all Grandmère’s been teaching me. But I just know that finding, seeing Mami Wata is important. Grandmère’s given me so much, and though she hasn’t asked, doesn’t even speak of it, I hear wistfulness when she tells Membe’s tale.
Finding Mami Wata would be my gift for Grandmère.
Bear maneuvers the airboat to its mooring. It’s not a full-fledged dock, just a wood post plunged deep. He leaps off the boat, his feet sucking up mud.
“Pa’s coming,” he says, knotting the line.
“Bear, that’s wonderful. Why didn’t you tell me before?” I leap off the airboat, slip a little, and catch myself.
“I don’t know,” says Bear, shrugging. “Pa’s been gone over a month. Supposed to be fourteen days on, fourteen off. But he did an extra shift.
“Won’t be staying at Queenie’s. Staying with Pa.”
“’Course, Bear.” I wipe my hands on my overalls. “Can’t wait to meet him. Maybe he and my pa can be friends.”
“Yep. Maybe.
“My pa’s the strongest, smartest man in the whole world,” Bear says.
I’ve never heard him this proud.
“The best pa. He’s got a beard, Maddy. Did I tell you that?” Bear’s speaking fast.
“A beard that rests on his chest. Both soft and scratchy. He’ll take us fishing, Maddy. Pa always catches the biggest catfish. Once he caught Old Lucien—two feet long, fifty pounds. Pa threw Old Lucien back, said such an old catfish deserved to live on. Wasn’t that nice, Maddy?”
“Real nice,” I say.
Bear’s glistening with sweat, his hair flat and wet against his neck.
Pay attention. Something’s wrong—I know it. I can feel it, hear it in what Bear isn’t saying.
Days are getting stranger. Grandmère’s sad songs. Odd warnings. Bear rattling, nervous? Just about his pa?
Dark beneath the willows, the day is darkening more. I look up. Drifting clouds fill the space between treetop branches and leaves. I sniff. Rain? Far off, I hear herons shriek. I hear animals scuffling in the bushes. A raccoon? Baby rabbits?
“Let’s go,” says Bear, not looking at me. “Maybe we should go see if Queenie’s all right?”
“Good idea, Bear,” I say. But I can tell he’s thinking more about his pa than Grandmère.
I turn, scanning the shoreline and water. There’re tons of shadows—some still, some moving. Bayou animals and hot breezes rustling willows. Nothing new.
“Come on, Maddy.”
I can’t see Bear anymore. He’s deep in the forest. Yet I can’t move. Swamp water calls. Something—someone?—is holding me here.
There’s a swish-swish behind the airboat. Lapping currents? Old Lucien?
Swish-swish.
I step forward, crouching, trying to see deep. I spot it—a shape, something long as a gator.
Excited, I lean flat, not minding the dirt and dead leaves on my arms and clothes. Please be real, please be real.
Something flicks—a tail?—kicking high out of the water. Then disappears.
I blink. Nothing. The water is flat, calm.
Frustrated, I pound my fist. I’m not seeing, not even daydreaming. Crazy, my eyes are seeing what I want them to see.
It’s been an awful day. Grandmère’s fearful. Bear’s uneasy. Nothing got discovered.
The bayou feels unsettled. I’m unsettled. Swamp mud can swallow anything. I wish it would swallow me.
“Maaaah-deeee.” Sound echoes from far off.
I stand, hollering, “Coming, Bear.”
As I turn, I see a flicker. A hand rises from the water and waves. Then, just as quickly, it’s gone.
My whole body shakes. Fingers. I’m scared. This time I know what I saw. But maybe I’m not ready after all?
Missing Bear, Missing Water
I feel grumpy. Moodier than my sisters when Ma doesn’t give them what they want, like TV or extra sweets. Haven’t seen Bear in three days. He’s with his pa. I’m not jealous; I’m happy for him. But I miss him.
I miss his help searching swamp waters. Miss telling him I’m sure. Surer than before. I haven’t had a chance to say Fish don’t have fingers.
All week I’ve searched by foot. It’s not the same as motoring on an airboat. There are hundreds, thousands of miles of water to explore. I’ll never solve the mystery. Maybe’s it’s crazy to think I ever could?
My only joy left is Grandmère’s lessons—her sayings and signs. They lift me up. Except when they’re creepy and sad.
New Lessons
Grandmère and I snap pole beans. Quiet, without words, we snap. Snap, snap, snap. Our bowls fill with green bits.
I love gardening. Working on the porch. Sweet Pea struts and clucks, pecking at seeds. Her feathers ruffle, but she’s just preening.
“Just ’cause you can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t there,” Grandmère says out of the blue.
“Is that another lesson?”
“Oui. Things seen, unseen.”
“Said I saw Bear’s pa’s rig when I didn’t.”
“It’s there all right. Wish it wasn’t.” She sighs.
“Why, Grandmère?”
She doesn’t answer.
�
��Smell the wet in the air?”
I sniff.
“Less wet or more?”
I sniff again. Who knew damp air smelled musty green? Like grass soaked with rain.
“Take your time, Maddy.”
I inhale deep. Gray. I think I smell it, a sour beyond the green. Trouble’s coming, I think, without knowing why.
“More, more wet,” I say, emphatic.
“Good, Maddy-girl. Storm’s coming. Maybe not today or tomorrow, but it’s coming. Hovering, breathing over the Gulf, ready to pounce.”
“How do you know?”
“Bayou folks follow old ways. City folks forget. Living close to nature, you need to keep yourself extra safe. Can’t let blue sky, sun, and bright clouds fool you.”
“See our garden?” I tilt my head. “Just ’cause you can’t see the roots, doesn’t mean they aren’t there.”
“That’s right, Maddy-girl.”
“There’s life above, below the earth. Above and below water, too.”
Grandmère grins, ear to ear. She’s pleased. I can tell.
The beans are all snapped.
“Why do you wish Bear’s pa wasn’t on a rig?”
“’Cause he hates it. You’d hate, too, if work you did spoiled what you love. After slavery, people got better at loving one another. But we didn’t get better at loving the land. Miles and miles of land, just gone.”
“Gone?”
“Disappeared. Started with merchants, farmers. Folks wanting to move goods quicker up and down the river. I’m old enough to remember when the Army Corps of Engineers started messing with the Mississippi. Building levees to make a straighter ride. Didn’t plan on changes affecting the land itself. Changes stopped silt from making new land.”
“What’s silt?”
“Clay, sand, dirt. Used to deposit at the river’s mouth. Made new land. With no silt, land started disappearing. Salt water mixing with fresh didn’t help. Fewer oysters, shrimp. Plants started dying.”
“What’s it got to do with Bear’s pa?”
“Oil companies dredged canals in the bayou, laying pipes, made the problem worse. There’s been oil spills, too. Sickening the bayou. Killing fish.”
“But I thought Bear’s pa worked in the middle of the Gulf?”
“Nobody knows what harm is happening in the deep. Oil companies promise ‘no harm.’ But in Bon Temps, we know better. Deep inside the Gulf water, there might be harm.”
“You mean harm we can’t see?”
“That’s right, Maddy-girl. Just ’cause we can’t see it, doesn’t mean it isn’t real. Isn’t there. Wounds, disasters we don’t know about, can’t see, might already have happened.”
Grandmère stands, shaking herself, shaking away sad thoughts. “Let’s boil water, Maddy. Cook these beans.”
We enter the cottage. Set a match to wood chips. I add salt to the water in the pot.
Salt helps water boil faster. But it destroys land, freshwater life.
The water bubbles, making tiny air pockets. I stare. “Things seen, unseen,” I murmur.
Can’t see salt. It’s invisible.
Next to the stove is a can of lard. I reach for it and scoop spoonful after spoonful of white blobs into the water. They melt.
Grandmère watches, says nothing.
“Oil doesn’t disappear like salt.”
Quick, into the pot, Grandmère dips a shiny spoon. When it rises, it’s dull white, slippery, and wet.
Using pot holders, I pour the hot, slick-filled, greasy water outside. Sweet Pea clacks, tiny wings flapping, and runs away.
I can’t cook beans in oily, too-salty water.
Filling a new pot, I try to piece together my thoughts. “Bear’s pa works on an oil rig,” I say. “But he loves the bayou.”
“Loves it, Maddy-girl. Just loves it.”
“He’s like a grown-up Bear?”
“Used to be. Gotten crusty. He’s a good man, but complicated. All twisted inside.”
Grandmère pours beans into the simmering water. They bubble and roll like tiny green logs. “Imagine Bear, grown.”
I’ve never imagined a kid being grown. But, in my mind, I can see Bear tall, arms crossed over his chest, his hair even bushier, grinning. Happy.
“Imagine Bear, grown, day in and day out, doing work that might harm his home. But he needs a job. Money. Cars need oil. Someone’s got to drill.”
Grandmère’s voice lilts, her lovely sound making the words more awful.
“Imagine Bear trapped, all day, all night, weeks at a time on a metal-and-concrete rig, sucking thousands of gallons of black, slick, crude oil from the ocean floor. Imagine Bear living on a platform speck in the middle of the Gulf, far from the bayou.”
“He’d be lonely,” I say. “Lonely all the time.”
“That’s right, Maddy-girl.”
I shiver. Froth sticks like glue to the pot’s sides.
I don’t want to imagine Bear grown, working on a rig like his pa. He’d be so unhappy. Wouldn’t be Bear without the bayou.
All day, I think and think on the porch.
Grandmère offers me food, but I turn it down. Sweet Pea pecks dirt at my feet.
Beyond Grandmère’s yard, there are herons, rabbits, turtles, gators, and snakes, twisting on land, swimming in water. Plants that droop, shiver, and sway, making shady caves that shimmer with mysterious life.
Bayou folks are the best. I like visiting Bolden, the shrimp boat captain; Willie Mae, his pretty wife; and their kids. Liza grows vegetables and herbs. Old Jake raises chickens and saves hurt birds. Even Bolden’s little Douglass knows how to catch fish.
Everybody, young and old, lives off the water and land.
What’ll happen if Bon Temps disappears?
Where will folks go?
Grandmère wouldn’t be happy in New Orleans.
My head hurts.
Oil is energy. Energy is good. But what if you can’t get oil without causing harm? To land, water, animals? People?
Environment. It’s a gold-star spelling word.
Saving the environment is harder than fractions. Harder than getting my sisters to be nice. Harder than dreaming nightmares. Or searching for mermaids.
Living My Own Tale
Nights on the porch, I can’t sleep. I’m not scared to sleep outside. I love the night sky, the moist air, and cricket and raccoon sounds. My firefly glows.
But nights alone, I imagine Bear grown. An oilman. I feel like I’m suffocating. Like something is pushing hard on my chest. I squirm beneath my sheet, try to breathe slow and deep. I just want to see my friend climbing trees, crawling in the dirt, peeking in rabbit holes.
Grandmère won’t let me visit Bear. She says, “Bear and his pa need time.”
Time for what? I don’t want to lose another day. Don’t want summer to end.
Time should STOP so Bear and I can have adventures. Find Mami Wata.
I sigh. Doesn’t seem fair it’s taken this long for me to have a bayou summer. Taken this long for me to get to know Bear.
As if she knows what I am thinking, Grandmère says, “Don’t be selfish, Maddy.”
“It’s already July. Summer’s going too fast.”
“Bear and his pa need time.”
“T—i—m—e,” I whisper into the night air, stretching the word like rubber. “T—i—m—e.”
Time for what? Grandmère won’t say. I punch my pillow.
My firefly flits and rests beside my head. Wings lazily flapping, her belly pulsing, she’s my own private night-light.
My eyes feel heavy. Warm breezes stroke my face. I smell mint, honeysuckle, and damp earth.
“Be green,” we learned in school, but I didn’t really understand. Here I touch, feel, and smell green. Nature isn’t just a picture in a book, or locked behind glass in an aquarium, or caged in patches and pots in a botanical garden.
“I saw a girl in the water,” I say to my firefly. “It means something. I know it does. Some lesson ’sp
ecially for me.”
She glows brighter.
I’ll see Bear again, I know. I just hope it’s soon.
I fall asleep, dreaming.
There’s no sound in the world.
No sound is scarier than a roaring hurricane. No sound feels as empty.
The sky is blue with white clouds. A thin black line, like a black felt marker, marks the horizon, where sky meets water. It’s thin but spreading, growing taller, wider, expanding like black inky fingers across the water. The blackness is thicker than water. Slick, sticky. It covers me. I’m drowning. Black crude drags me down.
Wake. Wake. I scream and bitter oil streams down my throat.
I wake, panting.
A ghost. Standing at the porch rail. White glowing hair and robe.
I’m still dreaming—no, I’m awake.
Then I see the feet. Tiny, brown feet. Grandmère’s feet. She has a bunion on her left big toe.
“Grandmère?”
She doesn’t move.
“Grandmère.”
Motionless like a ghost, her eyes are drooping and blank.
“Grandmère?” I grip her hand. “Let me take you back to bed.”
“Where am I?”
“With me, Grandmère.”
Her eyes focus. “Maddy? How’d I get here?”
“Sleepwalking.” Layla said Grandmère sleepwalks. I didn’t believe her.
Grandmère’s fingers are small, her hand fragile. “Come, Grandmère.”
“Tiny mighty. Tiny mighty,” she murmurs. “I’m getting old, Maddy. Slowing down.”
“No, Grandmère,” I murmur. I can feel the difference between my hand, Ma’s hand, and Grandmère’s. Like bayou land disappears, I sense, one day Grandmère will, too. It isn’t fair. I’m just now getting to know her.
I help Grandmère sit on the edge of her bed. She touches her nose to mine, kisses my forehead.
“All my life I’ve been waiting. You were the last hope. I thought magic deserted our line. Your sisters saw the world too real. You need space in your mind. Space for imagination.”
Bayou Magic Page 6