by R. J. Blacks
“You’ve heard of the Trail of Tears.”
“Yes.”
“When Andrew Jackson was president, he ignored a ruling by the Supreme Court and instead, ordered Federal troops to push my ancestors, the Creek, off their own beautiful lands and onto barren reservations west of the Mississippi. It was a wasteland, so poor we couldn’t even feed ourselves.”
“So how did they get here?”
“They escaped. Florida was ideal because the swampland impeded the troops and provided places to hide. But they came here mostly because there was nowhere else to go.”
“But if your ancestors were Creek... why are they called Seminoles?”
“The word, ‘Seminole’ comes from simanoli, a Creek word meaning the runaways. We see ourselves as the ‘free people’ because we never surrendered to anyone or were forced to sign a treaty.”
“Good for your ancestors,” I say.
“Life in Florida was tough in the 1800’s. The heat and mosquitoes were relentless, but even more so for the Federal troops. Their heavy uniforms slowed them down, made them easy targets. The harsh environment is what kept us free.”
Fargo goes back to breaking up the earth with his knife and pulls out three more roots. He hands me the sweet potatoes and then pushes the loose dirt back into the hole.
“Is that all you’re getting?”
“We take only what we need,” he says.
I place the roots into the leather bag and then Fargo approaches a bush about six feet high with quarter-sized dark green leaves. He picks a couple of the fruits, pops one in his mouth and then hands one to me.
“Coco-Plum,” he says.
They look like Concord grapes having a deep purple color and are about the same size. I study the fruit for a few seconds then pop it in my mouth.
“Be careful of the pit,” he says, as I crunch down and almost break a tooth.
“It’s almost all pit,” I say.
“Yeah, but worth it.”
I take the fruit out of my mouth and use my teeth to scrape off the soft edible part. He’s right; it looks and tastes like coconut, with a hint of almond, and I love both. I consume a few more and place a dozen into the food bag for later.
Fargo leads me from bush to bush and from tree to tree collecting fruits and vegetables until the leather bag is completely filled up. Altogether, we’ve managed to accumulate, wild oranges, mangos, avocados, blueberries, pine nuts, swamp apples, sea grapes, tallow plums, arugula, passion fruit, dandelion roots, wild mustard, and poor-man’s pepper. And this is in addition to the sweet potatoes and coco-plums.
“I think we have enough,” I say.
“Okay. We fish now.”
He hacks his way through the underbrush with his machete until we encounter another trail, different from the first one. We follow the trail for several miles and then I see the water’s edge. The canoe is right where we left it. I place the leather bag with the fruits and vegetables into the canoe and step aside giving Fargo all the space he needs to drag the canoe into the water. He signals me to get in and then wades into knee-deep water pulling the canoe behind him. He steps inside, then pushes off with the oar.
Fargo paddles through the swamp for about twenty minutes and then maneuvers the canoe between two closely-spaced Cypress trees until it wedges between the trunks. He climbs over the side and lowers himself into the water carefully, without making a splash. The water appears to be about five feet deep and he is able to stand on the sandy bottom with his shoulders just above the surface. I dip my hand into the water and swish it around a bit testing the temperature. The water looks so inviting I was thinking of joining him, but it’s just a bit too cold for me this time of year.
I’m just about to ask him where he’s going when he holds his finger to his lips telling me to be quiet.
“Hand me the spear,” he says in a whisper.
I slide the spear out of its storage space at the bottom of the canoe and study it in fascination. The shaft is thin, about the diameter of my finger, and perfectly smooth and straight. It appears to be about seven feet long. At one end there’s a slender metal point about six inches long tied to the shaft with thin strips of rawhide. The metal end glistens in the sunlight as I rotate it back and forth. I flick my thumb over the edge of the blade in several places testing the sharpness.
“Watch it. It’s as sharp as a razor,” he says.
“I can see that,” I say, in surprise.
I hand the spear to Fargo and then he ducks under the crystal clear water swimming effortlessly toward a group of Cypress about thirty feet away. I momentarily lose sight of him, but then see him come up for air. He slips under water again, and then, a few minutes later, stands up, holding the spear above his head. At the end of the spear is a fish, about eighteen inches long, with the metal point clear through its body. Fargo comes back to the canoe, pushes the fish off the spear, and lets it drop right next to me. It flops around a bit at first, but then quiets down. I’m no expert on fish, but it looks like a Largemouth Bass.
“Nice catch,” I say.
“Let’s make it three,” he says, and then swims over to the same group of Cypress.
A few minutes later he’s back with two more fish, drops them into the canoe, and then, climbs in himself. He rinses off the spear, dries it with a rag, and places it in its storage space at the bottom of the canoe.
He pushes the oar against the tree trunk freeing the canoe, and then, paddles back through the swamp to the place where we left the airboat. Up ahead I see the old gator we passed on the way in and he’s still there on that same partially-submerged log basking in the sun. We pass it without incident, but I do see his eyes open for a moment and check us out. But Fargo was right; he’s not interested in us. He’s already had his fill and just wants to be left alone to digest his meal.
Twenty minutes pass, and then we come upon the same sandy bank we originally set out from. Fargo steers the canoe towards the beach and lets it glide up onto the shoreline until it stops. He hops into the water and then drags the canoe farther up the bank so I can disembark without getting my feet wet. I grab the food bag and my own personal stuff and step out of the canoe. Fargo slides the canoe into the bushes, rolls it bottom-up so rain water can’t collect inside, and then places his spear, bow and arrow, and a few other items under the canoe to keep them safe and dry.
I follow Fargo back to the cove and then we both climb into the airboat. He uses the long pole to push it through the branches and out into the lake. We get into open water and then he climbs into his seat preparing to start the engine.
“Can I see the springs?” I ask.
“Oh yeah, the springs. I almost forgot,” he says.
Fargo starts the engine, slams the throttle forward, and in seconds we’re skimming over the water at sixty miles per hour in the direction of his cabin.
A few minutes later, he steers the airboat to the side of the lake. He slows down and cruises along the side of the lake apparently looking for something. Suddenly he makes a sharp right and pulls up onto a small sandy beach. We hop out of the airboat and he guides me to an overgrown trail that looks like it hasn’t been used in decades. He uses his machete to chop off any vegetation that gets in our way. After a short walk, we arrive at a clearing and in the middle is a turquoise-blue pool about fifty feet across with water so clear I can see rocks and boulders all down the side until they eventually disappear into blackness.
“How deep is it?” I ask.
“No one knows,” he says.
“Where does the water come from?”
“Aquifers.”
“Yes, I should have known,” I say.
I stroll to the water’s edge and fill a specimen jar. I hold it up and peer through it. It’s as clear as bottled water.
“Doesn’t look bad to me,” I say.
“Taste it,” he says.
I dip my finger into the water and touch it to my tongue. It’s as bitter as an old copper penny with a distinctly me
tallic aftertaste.
“Yuk,” I say, and promptly spit it out. “When did it get like this?”
“About thirty years ago. Before that it was the sweetest water you ever tasted. Then they built this factory to produce pesticides, about twenty miles from here. After that everything changed,” he says.
“What was the name of the company?” I ask.
“Global World Industries.”
“Amazing, my old friend GWI.”
“You know them?”
“They’re a billion dollar company. Who doesn’t know them.”
“At one time, that company was well respected around here. But that was before they built the plant. The local folks now believe they contaminated the water.”
“Did you call the EPA?” I ask.
“We even got our senator involved. There was a brief investigation, but in the end he said the plant had nothing to do with it.”
“What did the EPA say?”
“The EPA also did an investigation and released a one-hundred and twenty page report. We had to hire experts to decipher it. Basically it said that the plant was not violating any laws and that was the end of it. There was nothing more we could do.”
“Did anyone take water samples and compare it to the runoff?” I ask.
“You know, it’s hard to get anything out of these organizations. They talk in legal gibberish and give you practically nothing to go on,” he says.
“Yes, I’m not surprised.”
I seal the specimen jar, then return it to the lunch bag.
“I’m done here. We can go now.”
Fargo takes the lead and I follow close behind as we head down the trail towards the airboat. I use the opportunity to recount the events of the last couple of days. I’ve managed to collect some good samples and I’m anxious to get them to Dr. Parker for analysis. I have this overwhelming faith that once the analysis is complete, the water samples will give up their secrets and the truth will finally come out.
But what is the truth? Suppose I do all this and in the end the data shows that Dr. Haas was right, I was chasing after ghosts and all those reports were an illusion. Perhaps I was joining the dots and creating a conclusion that was just based on coincidence. Perhaps my own enthusiasm was blinding me, causing me to see relationships in the data that didn’t exist.
Doubt creeps into my psyche and the thought of failure sends chills up my spine. I begin to wonder if I’m just wasting my time. Maybe I should forget the whole thing and go get a job in a restaurant. Maybe I should have listened to Logan and stayed up north. This whole exercise is supposed to vindicate me, but if it doesn’t, I would be finished, a relic with no credibility.
I see the airboat up ahead so I pull myself together and try to set aside these disheartening thoughts. Tomorrow is Christmas, and damn it, I plan to enjoy every minute of it!
CHAPTER 20
Fargo and I climb into the airboat, and as I’m stowing my items away, he starts the engine. The sun is low on the horizon and I’m glad to be out of the swamp. The dense canopy of vegetation which protected us from the relentless Florida sun would turn against us now and block whatever little light was available transforming the swamp into an environment of complete blackness. The nocturnal world of spiders, snakes, bats, panthers, wild boar, and alligators, will then come alive taking every opportunity to torment us.
But all that drifts into the distance as the airboat picks up speed and skims across the wave tops toward home. It’s been a wonderful harvest by any measure and in just four hours we were able to collect enough fruits, vegetables, and meats for an outstanding feast. It’s a shame we have no way to share it with Will’s homeless friends in Philadelphia.
Back at the pier, Fargo ties up the airboat in several places. I gather my personal things, step onto the dock, and then trudge up the path to the house. He follows close behind carrying the food bag. Inside, we discover Will in the kitchen preparing a concoction of scrambled eggs, ham, and grits. As I approach him, I see his eyes drawn to my face as he notices the blue and white stripes on my cheek and the eagle feather weaved into my hair.
“I see Fargo got to you,” he says.
“Actually, it was my idea.”
“I like it, gives you kind of a savage look.”
“Savage or not, I’m famished,” I say.
“Well dig in. Plenty for everyone.”
I go to my room, change out of my swimsuit, and slip into a pair of jeans. I clean off the face paint and then redo my makeup. When I return, Fargo is already seated at the table and he has also changed into jeans and a deerskin shirt and removed the paint from his face. I take a seat at the table and help myself to the meal. It looks more like a breakfast than a dinner, but who’s complaining? I’m totally exhausted from the day’s events so I’m happy for whatever I can get.
After dinner, I help Will take the dishes back to the kitchen and begin filling the sink with soapy water.
“I’ll take care of it,” he says, and nudges me away.
I slip outside and scour the adjacent forest for any low-lying pine branches I can use for decoration. After collecting a few, I come across a young pine that would make a perfect Christmas tree. It hadn’t been part of my plan, but I couldn’t pass up this opportunity. I rush back into the house to get Fargo’s permission to cut it down and he seems to have no issue with it. He hands me a small saw and I go outside to retrieve the tree.
When I return, he’s hunched over an ancient set of colored Christmas lights laid out across the wood floor. It appears that several of the bulbs are out and he’s attempting to replace them with spares he keeps in an old shoe box. He gets all the bulbs working and then strings the light set along the top of the couch and any nearby chair he can reach to prevent anyone from accidently stepping on it.
“Do you have a stand?” I ask, holding up the pine tree.
“No,” he says, and then I see a glint in his eye. He rushes out the door and returns a few minutes later with an old metal bucket filled with sand. He trims off a few of the bottom branches and then we bury the trunk in the sand. He strings some stiff wire from the bucket to the trunk to give it some extra strength and then stands back in admiration.
“Have any wrapping paper?” I ask. “We need to cover the bucket.”
Fargo leaves the room and then returns with a stack of colored ad pages from the local newspaper.
“This is all I have.”
It’s not exactly what I had in mind, but I take the ad pages anyway and tape them around the bucket. It comes out better than I imagined. From a distance, the colors and images blend together to produce a festive look.
“Not bad,” I say. “It’s amazing what you can do for free with a little imagination.”
Fargo brings over the light set and proceeds to string it around the tree. He’s completely absorbed in the task so I retreat to the kitchen to keep out of his way. Will approaches me, and in a low voice, comments: “It’s amazing. The last time we had a Christmas tree was when my mother was still alive, and even then, he paid it no mind. I don’t know what did it, but this is the first time I’ve seen him like this.”
“Maybe he likes the company,” I say.
“Never cared about company before.”
I shrug and return to help Fargo set up the tree. We finish stringing the lights, and then, he carries the tree over to a spot he cleared near the wall. He straightens it, then plugs it in.
“Looks great,” I say. “But it needs one more thing.”
I slip out the door, collect a dozen pine-cones from the surrounding forest, and then place them on the table.
“Do you have some string?” I ask.
“I have an idea,” he says.
Fargo picks up all the pine-cones and strolls out the door. I look over at Will wondering if he has any idea what is going on, but he just shrugs. Fargo returns a few moments later without the pine-cones.
“What happened to the cones?” I ask.
“I sprayed
them gold, with some paint I had left over. They’ll be ready in an hour. In the meantime, let’s have a drink.”
Fargo retrieves a wine bottle from the refrigerator, and then shows it to me.
“Made it myself, from Sea Grapes,” he says.
He places the bottle on the table and searches through the kitchen drawers for a cork opener.
His phone rings. He answers it, and after a few minutes, his relaxed demeanor turns serious. He hangs up and turns to us.
“That was Detective Bolt. It’s another alligator attack. I have to meet him at the site.”
“Can I come?” I ask.
“I’m leaving right now,” he says.
“I’ll be ready in thirty seconds,” I say, as I dash to my bedroom, grab my backpack and the bag with the specimen jars, and then join him at the front door. I follow him to his jeep and we both get in. He races down the dirt road and then looks over at me.
“You know, you’re not supposed to take pictures at a crime scene without permission.”
“Sorry, I didn’t know that.”
“Personally, I have no problem with it. Just keep a low profile.”
“Sure, I’ll be careful.”
We drive for about a half hour and then I see the blinding blue lights of police cruisers up ahead. Fargo pulls into the parking lot of a small Mexican restaurant. It appears to be closed since there’s no one around except for the police. He parks the jeep, gets his flashlight, and then, we go inside.
Detective Bolt sees us enter the front door and rushes over to greet us.
“Glad you could make it.”
He peers at me. “You’re... no don’t tell me... Indigo, right?”
“Yes, you remembered.”
He smiles.
“I’ll never forget that blue hair.”
He gazes at me for a moment, and then turns to Fargo.
“The 911 operator gets this call that there are dozens of alligators outside and one of the restaurant workers is missing. When the police arrive, they see this gator clamped on the foot of a man who is trying to beat it off with a large metal spoon. The cop shoots it and frees the man’s foot.”