“I’ve got space.”
“I know you do. I’m counting on you to hold together Bon Temps. To keep the stew spicy and strong.”
“Like a good jambalaya?” I sound silly, but I don’t know what else to say.
“The best jambalaya.” Sighing, Grandmère lies, curling her knees to her chest. I kiss her forehead. Like she’s the child.
I tuck the sheet beneath her chin.
Eyes closed, skin soft as silk, Grandmère looks like an older version of Ma. An older version of me. It’s scary but comforting. I feel how deeply we connect. Blood, bones, and skin.
Seeing Grandmère peaceful, eyes shut, not looking at me, I feel brave.
“I’ve seen something, Grandmère.”
“What, Maddy?” she murmurs, eyes closed.
“A girl in the water.”
Grandmère opens her eyes. “C’est vrai?”
“Twice. A water spirit, a mermaid.”
Grandmère sits up, smiling, her face glowing. “How I hoped. How I hoped you’d see her. It’s Mami Wata. I know it. I just know it.”
“She’s real?” I can’t help but ask even though I’ve been searching for weeks.
“My mother saw her. Once I might’ve seen her. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tailfin, but when I turned—nothing. It’s been almost seventy years. I didn’t think I’d live long enough—” She breaks off into a sob.
“Don’t cry, Grandmère.”
“These are happy tears. Mami Wata will always be real as long as someone believes. To see her means something else. A different kind of magic.”
“Ma, my sisters—none of them saw Mami Wata?”
“When you called the fireflies, I had hope. Hoped your gift would be stronger than mine. Like my mother’s.”
There’s an inkling… a scratching in my mind.
“I need to go, Grandmère. Got to run. Find the mermaid.” I pull up my overalls, stuff my nightgown inside.
Grandmère looks lost again.
I pause. “Come with me, Grandmère?”
“Non, Maddy.” Grandmère shakes her head. “Mami Wata chose you.”
I give Grandmère the biggest hug. We both hold tight. “I’m glad I came, Grandmère.”
“I’m glad you did, too.” Her arms release me. “Now, go. Run. Vite. Run, my Maddy-girl.”
I run. Bam. Out the front door. Jump over the steps.
I run faster than I’ve ever run before.
Triumph?
I run. It’s dark but I know exactly where to go. My feet don’t stumble. They know the path to water by heart.
I pass ferns, pass the rabbits’ den. I don’t shudder when I hear owls hoot. Or hear snakes swishing in the grass.
I feel like I’m home.
I breathe deep. Exhale. Run. Run. Run. My feet pick up speed. I feel damp air, see night stars, and smell deep green.
Oh, how I wish Bear were here.
Miss Firefly darts, dips, and dives around me as I run. “Come, fireflies,” I shout into the quiet air. “Come.”
Blinking lights cascade.
Fireflies surround me as I run and run some more.
My feet take me to an inlet where I’ve never been, just above the airboat dock and the trail to the village.
I halt.
I’ve seen this place before. In Ma’s kitchen. Inside my mind. I saw myself—on this shore, a full moon high, mirrored in blue-black waters.
Like Grandmère, I must’ve dreamed while wide-awake.
Standing on land’s edge, I peer into the water. The surface shines, glitters from starlight and moonlight. I think how water connects and flows from the Mississippi through the swamp, rivers, and streams. All heading south to the Gulf.
“Blood flows like river water,” Ma says.
For the first time, I understand what she means.
There’s all kinds of history inside me. People, living, like Grandmère, Ma, and Pa. People, dead, like Membe and her children and children’s children. And all kinds of other people I don’t know. I’m mixed-blood. Just like everybody else in the world.
“Every stew is different. Special.”
Grandmère couldn’t find Mami Wata.
“But I will,” I say aloud.
The moon glistens vibrant white. It seems alive. Everything in the bayou seems alive. Even things without a heart: the mud sucking at my feet; the air brushing my skin; and tree limbs reaching out to me.
Fireflies hover above the water’s center.
“Come,” I call the water spirit. “Please. Pretty, pretty please.” The fireflies like my good manners. “Please.”
Nothing.
Disappointed, I tremble.
With my whole heart, I say, “I know you exist. Not just in stories.”
Nothing happens.
“Please, please come.”
Nothing.
I move closer, edging my toes into the water. “I know your name. Come, Mami Wata. My fireflies are waiting.”
I see water rippling, spiraling into wider and wider circles.
“Mami Wata?”
Faster and faster, water moves, spraying, foaming into a huge wave.
Up, up… rising from the dark waters I see a girl, beautiful, velvet black. Curls of blue-black hair fall to her waist. She keeps rising above the swamp waters.
I gasp. Below her waist, she’s shaped like a fish. Scales shimmer blue, green, silver, and purple. Water drips.
Poised in the air, the moon looks like Mami Wata’s crown. Back and tail arching, arms outstretched, palms pressed, her body jackknifes and dives.
“Wait!”
Beneath the water, there’s a streak of motion, waves rushing and roaring toward the shore.
I stumble back.
A face appears. Mami Wata doesn’t look any older than me. Head tilting, her wide eyes gaze at me. Her lashes are thick, her nose pointy and small. She’s smiling.
She reaches out her hand. I clasp it, shivering at the damp cold.
Mami Wata tugs me and I fall. Water closes over my head, filling my nose and throat. I panic, choke. I kick hard but Mami Wata’s arms chain me.
I twist, jerk. Muddy water blinds me. I’m going to die. I’m never going to see Ma, Pa, or my sisters again. Never see Bear or Grandmère. I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have come here alone.
My lungs ache; my ribs are nearly cracking. Mami Wata’s tail drives us deeper and deeper below water.
Slippery tendrils—plants? an eel? fish tails? snakes?—brush against my face and clothes.
I feel light-headed, a quieting darkness like sleep. This is what it feels like to drown.
But then…
Lips touch mine and I feel… bubbles, air. My eyes open. From the inside, Mami Wata glows like a hurricane lamp. I can see her beating heart.
Moving close again, she blows a trail of tiny white bubbles from her mouth to mine. Instead of choking, I breathe.
I breathe water as easy as air.
Mami Wata no longer grips me. Holding my hand gently, she snaps her tail. Whoosh. We glide.
She points to her tail, then to my legs. I flutter-kick. We move, quickly, against the current, our palms cupping water. Redfish and speckled trout dart.
Mami Wata laughs. At least, I think so. I hear a high tremor like harp strings.
She stops swimming, pulling me upright. Her powerful tail slaps. Up, up, we fly, rushing like a rocket to the surface.
The sky is a blue-black comforter. The moon is white, like the creamy filling in a moon pie.
Side by side, we float. Warm water beneath us, warm air stroking us.
Against the dark sky, hundreds of fireflies gleam-blink.
We travel onward. I splash a lot but my mermaid moves smoothly, like the water parts before she reaches it.
I stick out my tongue and taste salt.
We’ve traveled downstream to the Gulf of Mexico. Just like Bear and I did in the airboat. Wata and I have swum so far.
The Gulf seems endless. Water flows, stretch
es back to Africa.
Wata, my name. Wata, I think I hear. Mother Water.
Treading water, I look closely at the dark face. It’s comforting that Wata looks as young as me. But I feel an otherworldliness, how ancient she is.
“Maddy,” I say. “My name is Maddy.”
Wata smiles like she already knew.
Hard Lessons
I wake, lying on the inlet bank, smelling like decomposing leaves. I sit up. The sun is straining, peeking through bushes, around trees.
Where is she? Mami Wata?
The water is smooth, empty. My clothes and hair are dry. It was a dream? It seemed so real. I thought I had done it. Found Mami Wata. But I didn’t.
I feel sorry for myself. Pity. Dawn, Miss Firefly and her kin are gone. I feel abandoned.
I remember Grandmère’s lessons. Self-respect. Pay attention. Leave space for imagination.
I exhale.
An owl hoots. A breeze flutters through the bushes and trees.
On the far shore, I see Bear’s rabbits, nibbling on leaves. I hope the owl doesn’t pounce.
I try to puzzle it out. Awake or dreaming, stories mean something. They’re a kind of truth.
Isn’t that what Grandmère’s been teaching?
Mami Wata is alive, even if she lives in my imagination. My mind.
I swam with a mermaid!
On my belly, I scoot and wriggle toward the water’s edge. “Mami Wata,” I call. “Mami Wata.” My spirits lift. “Just ’cause I don’t see you, doesn’t mean you’re not there.”
The water doesn’t answer. Mami Wata doesn’t appear.
No Time to Tell
“Grandmère!” I holler, running fast over moist land, kicking through grass and brush. The sun warms my back. Nearer to the house, I smell sweets simmering. Cinnamon. Brown sugar. Vanilla. Moon pies.
Sweet Pea clacks. Her tiny wings flutter. I leap the porch steps, two at a time.
“Grandmère, I saw… saw Mami Wata. She’s been here all the time.”
“Thought so. Eat,” she says.
I’m starving. I chew, swallow, talk. Chew, swallow, talk.
“Water holds all kinds of fish. Single fish, schools of fish, moving, always moving. Bugs cloak about the surface.” I bite bacon. “Gators are huge, like rock, seen close. They didn’t chomp me, though.” Scrambled eggs melt in my mouth.
“Every animal knew the mermaid. She is a Queenie in the water like you’re Queenie on land.”
Grandmère smiles like it’s Christmas. “Tell me more.”
“I breathed water. I was a mermaid, too.”
Grandmère cradles my cheeks. “Of course you were.” She kisses me on the forehead, the tip of my nose.
“Can I tell Bear? I need to see him.”
“There’ll be time enough. Eat.” She slips another slice of bacon on my plate.
“I could take him moon pies.”
“They’re not ready.” Grandmère’s face crinkles like walnut skin.
My eyes feel heavy. I feel like my body is being weighted, pulled down to the ground.
“Sleep, Maddy-girl.” Grandmère guides me to my cot.
“It’s morning,” I murmur.
“A nap, then. You’ve been out all night.”
“I should tell Bear.”
“There’s time. Sleep, Maddy.” She tucks me in bed. “You’ve had a wondrous time. Rest.”
I feel overwhelmed. I’ve seen and felt so much. Stories—real and imagined—are powerful.
I clutch Grandmère’s hand. “You won’t go anywhere?”
“I’ll be right here,” she says, stroking my hair. Something about Grandmère’s tone isn’t right. It’s not quite carefree. I don’t understand, but I’m tired now. There’ll be time to think.
“You’re getting ready. Almost there,” I hear before falling deeper into sleep.
“Almost ready,” I murmur, falling asleep, feeling the happiest I’ve ever felt.
Spiderwebs shift into patterns like a kaleidoscope. Out of the walls, spiders troop. A dozen. Two dozen. A hundred.
Liquid secretes from their tiny mouths. It’s not silk—it’s oil soaking webs, transforming them into wet black lace.
Drip-drip.
Black specks stain my sheet. Oil falls on my cheeks, brow, and lips. Oil tastes bitter.
Drip-drip.
Oil stings my eyes, drains into my ears, nose, and throat.
I gasp, open my eyes. The ceiling’s webs are grayish white. I don’t see any spiders and the window is letting in moonlight, not sunlight. How long did I sleep? Dream? I’ve slept all day and into the night.
I slide back the curtain. Without turning from the stove, Grandmère says, “Glad you’re up. There’s a plate of ham and greens.”
The table is set for dinner. I’m not hungry, just thirsty. My dream has shaken me—it’s a truth, too. Past? Future?
From the pitcher, I pour water. I wash my hands extra with the soap. More strength, more courage, I think.
“You want to go, Maddy?”
“Yes, please. I’m not hungry.”
Grandmère laughs. “If I was younger, I’d want to swim with a mermaid, too. Here.” She holds out the basket. “In the bottom is your swimsuit. A towel. In case you get wet this time.”
I smile. Grandmère’s teasing. “Take off your shoes, too.”
I hug her, feeling her heart beat, hearing her blood flow. “Thanks, Grandmère. You’re not worried about me?”
“No, you’ll be fine. Just worried about the bayou.” She kisses my cheek. “I want it to be here when you’re as old as me.”
I kiss her once, twice, then again. “I love you, Grandmère.”
“I love you, Maddy-girl.” She squeezes me again. “Go now. Have fun.”
I open the screen door, jump the steps, and I’m off. I look back at the cottage. On the porch, I can’t help but think Grandmère looks like a ghost again.
Not tiny mighty—just a small, old woman with white hair quivering in the breeze.
I bite the corner of my lip and it bleeds. I keep running. No time to tell Grandmère about my spider dream.
Mami Wata
Sitting, watching water twist, surrounding rocks, fallen logs, and grass, I think Louisiana is all water. Wetlands everywhere. A perfect home for mermaids. Do they prefer fresh or salt water?
“Wata,” I call. “Mami Wata.”
Do mermaids have chores? Work? Do they spend their days hiding from people? Or do they just play? Explore? Watch over those who believe in them and those who don’t?
Behind a bush, I take off my shoes and slip on my bathing suit like Grandmère said.
“Wata?”
Bugs flit above water, a fish jumps, and a turtle and its two babies flap little green-speckled legs. Across the shore, I see frogs and gators. A heron glides over water and rests on a branch.
The moon shines bright. “Wata.”
The water is sluggish as ever.
I wish Bear was here. He’d sit with me, waiting for Mami Wata. But I know this is something I must do on my own.
Splash. I hold my breath. Is it her?
She nods and water sprays from her hair.
I jump into the dark water, surface, treading water, feeling unafraid. The shore seems hazy, remote. Water feels good.
Wata swims. At ease, I swim beside her. A huge turtle tilts and dives deep beneath me.
Mami Wata pulls me underwater and she breathes glittering bubbles. They’re like soda-pop bubbles streaming to me. I swallow them. From the inside, my chest glows.
I breathe like a mermaid.
Wata pulls me toward shore. Gators. I hesitate.
She tugs; my heart races. The gators don’t move.
Wata glides to the left, to a pile of logs half in, half out of the water.
I look quickly at the gators on shore, then I look to where Wata’s pointing. I see eggs in a nest of damp, blackened twigs and leaves. At least a dozen. Ivory with brown and black specks. They�
��re small, just a third bigger than Sweet Pea’s eggs.
The two gators watch us but don’t move. Wata waves. One gator’s eye blinks.
We swim downstream toward a thicket of cypress trees. Thick trunks rise out of water. Branches arch and leaves on their edges make puffball shapes. Wata points straight up. Another nest. Can’t see the eggs, but I bet it’s a pelican’s nest.
Pay attention. Mami Wata is teaching me.
There’s an inlet, a pocket of water. I start searching the grass. Wata smiles. There. Eggs. Round, little pebbles glimmering with moonlight. One cracks. Staring, I hold my breath. A webbed foot, then a green leg. Crack-crack-crack. A head pops, a wrinkled neck extends. A baby turtle!
I sigh, happy, and float on my back. “Thank you, Wata. I’ve never seen an egg hatch. Something being born.”
I hear sounds trill, burst staccato then smooth like a watery echo. Is Wata singing? But then she stops, her voice becoming sharp, like an irritating alarm.
She lifts her tail, arms outstretched, hands palm-to-palm; she dives.
I try to follow but I can’t kick myself deep enough.
Frustrated, I slap the water. Now the water is heavy. I’m not graceful. Water is a wall with currents pushing me upward.
“Wata,” I cry. “Wata!”
I’m alone again. Wata is somewhere I can’t be. I swim back toward shore.
Here, I think I hear. Belly-up, Wata’s swimming on her back. She’s parallel, just beneath me. I reach. She reaches.
I’m pulled down, down, down through murky waters to muddy bottom. There’s less and less light. Then no light. Only Wata’s glow.
The glow inside my lungs.
The bottom is like a thick stew. Fat catfish, their whiskers flicking, rest. Teeny-tiny fish dart, zigzag through the stringy plants. Wata starts clawing mud; as soon as she pushes it aside, it slides back.
Her hands move faster and faster. Until, finally, I see metal pipes, rusty, huge and round.
Oil tunnels. The canals built before the deepwater drills.
Wata lets go of my hand and I float to the surface. My lungs adjust to air.
Grandmère is at the shore, “Maddy!”
Bayou Magic Page 7