by Wile E Young
As if he could tell my pain, I felt a furry snout push itself under my hand. Mojo licked it, and I smiled before I remembered who the dog was supposed to be guarding.
“Lincoln?”
There was a pause from both men; I could blurrily see them look at each other before Luc responded. “Yeah about that…”
A third blurred form joined them. Thought it was a man, judging from how big he was.
A firm hand slipped into mine, I felt the fused skin and immediately knew it was my grandson.
“Grampa, I was worried.” His voice was deep. In two days he’d grown into a man.
I wanted to recoil from his touch, but his hand held me firm. “Don’t fight Grampa, I’ve been seeing what’s down there too… the mockery of what they once were.”
The memory of that gigantic idol dripping mercury flooded through my mind, and a name…
“Don’t speak it Grampa. My father’s powerful enough to give Mr. Robichaude a tough time repelling.”
“Thought your father was run of the mill…” I grunted. My grandson squeezed my hand tighter and I heard Luc gravely respond.
“No, Grady Pope, he’s the chieftain.”
****
Took me the better part of a day to recover. According to Luc my body had been through the ringer, something to do with psychic trauma and magical illness that I didn’t understand. My eyes slowly came back to me, blurry shapes that had been a struggle to make out gradually giving way to faces when they got close.
Despite his disfigurements, including the ragged lines under his neck that I was disgusted to know were the beginnings of gills, my grandson had grown up to favor me… could have passed as my son judging from the old pictures of me from back in the day.
And he had such things to tell me…
Vhi’octa. The name stuck in my mind but one I didn’t dare repeat out loud. Names had power apparently, some magical bullshit that flew right over my head but Luc Robichaude said was important.
Lincoln had grown more powerful. When I wanted to go out on the deck, he carried me like it was nothing. I weighed a good two eighty, two ninety if I had been hitting the bottle hard, and still my grandson carried me as easily as a box.
That new strength had come with new visions in the past two days. His father had reached out to his mind, promising glory and inflicting pain in equal measure.
Luc had interrogated Lincoln mercilessly and now sat on top of the houseboat brooding. Gideon mostly puttered around, usually with a bottle of something in his hand… couldn’t blame the kid. He had been deeply in love.
I wanted to find a bottle myself when my grandson explained everything.
Apparently what Luc knew of the Deep Folk added up. They had been driven insane and with every passing generation were growing more and more savage, thanks to the mercury poisoning in their veins. Once peaceful, advanced beings of magic and science reduced to primitive savages worshiping an old statue as a god, seeing the mercury still leaking into the Cradle as holy water.
Lincoln was the first-born without the taint. Pure and strong, he would grow into a powerful chief someday according to Luc if we allowed him down to the Cradle. He’d also lose his mind. There wasn’t anything that could stop the madness cooking below us naturally… the Deep Folk would die off eventually. Lincoln’s birth to them may have been a sign of salvation, but to Luc it was little more than a genetic quirk due to be snuffed out given time.
All of this was just barely coherent to me, more tall tale than anything. But God help me, I believed it. After all that I had seen and been through, I believed it.
“Why didn’t they kill me down there? Or when I fell in the river… woke up and I was alone?”
Lincoln spit into his hand: a bloody tooth. He stared at me with those blank eyes that were becoming more fish like. “Because I’m your grandson. They thought if they kept you there that I would come, follow you down into the dark where my father could then mold me into what he wants.”
My grandson chuckled, and I saw the needle teeth haphazardly poking through the flesh of his gums. “Thought they could break your mind down there, but you’re a right tough old bastard, Gramps.”
I licked my lips, parched to the bone. “If he’s this powerful, why can’t he come up and get you himself?”
“Because he isn’t ready.”
Luc Robichaude closed the sliding glass door softly. My grandson eyed the Cajun witch doctor warily as he pulled a seat up to the kitchen counter and began going to work mixing herbs and ingredients, different colored cloths laid out before him.
“He’s on the cusp of turning. Soon as those gills of yours come in Lincoln, he’ll send his warriors out in force to claim you.” The pestle clanked heavily inside the pewter bowl. “And we’ll be dead.”
Maybe I had spent enough time with Luc Robichaude to know he liked his theatrics, or maybe I was just tired of everything.
“You have a plan to prevent that? Because I’m of the mind we find the nearest speedboat and make it to the nearest high ground. Can’t take him if he’s five hundred miles away in the middle of the fucking desert.”
Luc blew a light covering of bone dust off the cabinet, raising the pewter bowl, concentrating hard. “A good plan, Grady, but your grandson is going to need to spend some time in the water. Don’t think there is an overabundance of that in Amarillo.”
I practically deflated while Luc set the bowl back down and added a few plants and roots that I couldn’t immediately identify.
“When the Deep Folk broke faith with us, we cast enchantments and erected totems in preparation for trying to keep them down there. Carved most of them by hand. A good portion of them have been torn down by the cult, releasing the Deep Folk and other nasties back into the river. But the most important few still stand…”
“Marker 158,” I breathed out in realization.
Luc snorted. “Close. We did erect it but it’s been vandalized enough times over the years to make it useless. But I think I have a plan for us to find the others. Just need to get back to making these for us.” He indicated the half complete mojo bags, turning around and placing a small bone in the red cloth’s center, ignoring us as he went about his conjuring.
I knew when a conversation was over. “Need some fresh air.”
Lincoln placed a hand on my chest, webbed skin stretching as he firmly held me down. “Grampa, you’re not strong enough yet.”
I grabbed his arm, trying not to recoil by how moist it was. “Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do boy. After what I’ve been through, I want to get out and see the damn river!”
My grandson recoiled as if I had hit him and I hoisted myself up, straining against the pain stitching its way through my belly until I was bent over gasping for breath between my legs.
They had put me on a small couch that was the centerpiece of the boat’s living room. Not many folks around here owned houseboats. Lake houses were more peoples speed. Still for some folks the easy floating life was what gave them joy.
The Minute Mother was pretty simple as far as most of these boats went; the interior was like a small apartment, brown cupboards and white faux marble countertops. Furniture that must have been a couple of decades old and bought secondhand, a fireplace that had a small television set mounted over it. Must have taken him quite a while to save up for a flat screen. Four wooden chairs around a dinner table that probably came from someone’s garage sale, pictures framed on the walls showing various triumphant fishing trips and time spent with Vicky Barnes.
No wonder Gideon had spent most of his time outside for the past day. If Renee had betrayed me I wouldn’t have wanted to be surrounded by her smiling face either.
My legs trembled as I stood up and I gritted my teeth. Lincoln slipped a hand under my arm and helped me to my feet as I took a few wobbling steps towards the porch. I reached out and slid the glass door open. My legs were already burning and my head ached, but the fresh air hit me with relief, that muddy pine scent lik
e sweet perfume. The outside of the boat had been painted a bone white that had faded overtime, the paint peeling in places.
We were anchored close to Shady Glade and I had to stop and take in just how much the water had risen since I had come up gasping for air under the channel marker.
It was late afternoon and the sky was dark with rolling thunderheads. There must have been a break in the storm, but I could still smell the rain waiting high overhead. Folks were out in droves here and maybe a hundred yards down at Johnson’s Ranch, all of them desperate to get their boats out of the marina before they were crushed against the roof by the rising water.
“I can’t go outside Grampa. If someone saw me…”
I stood up straight, reaching out for one of the ladder rungs that led up to the top deck. “Yeah, yeah, I get you. Just leave me to catch my breath for a bit, would you?”
Maybe he knew I couldn’t stand looking at that face that was a mockery of a real man’s; maybe he thought I just needed some time. Either way he disappeared back into the interior of the houseboat.
Gideon was sitting on a chair, bottle of bourbon halfway empty on the green shag carpet covering the deck. I hobbled over and slowly lowered myself into the chair’s matching counterpart. The younger man offered me the bourbon without looking at me.
We drank in silence, Gideon’s eyes rooted on the dark cypress forest and letting out a deep sigh as he drank the rest of his glass. That boy who had been happy to see an old man wake up on the table had drifted down the river.
“We were going to get married, you know.”
“Never had a fucking clue.” I felt bad for the kid. There was no coming back from something like this; hell, I was going to get the fuck out of here when all of this was over.
“Lincoln… kid might be as old as me now.”
I nursed the bourbon, letting the warmth run through my veins and didn’t respond.
“You’re never going to be able to pass him off in society you know.”
I grunted.
“Planning to keep him down in the boathouse? Feed him old fish or gator scraps?”
Gideon’s tone had become a bitter tirade, one that I cut off as I sat the glass down on the deck’s carpet harder than I should have. I leveled a look at the younger man.
“I appreciate your concern Gideon but word to the wise: watch your fucking mouth.”
He turned away like I had slapped him. Neither of us said anything else as we nursed our glasses and waited for the sky to fall out.
There was a pounding of heavy footsteps and sloshing water. Davis Trucker was making his way down the pier, cap in hand, fanning his red face as sweat came rolling down. I gave a weary smile as he took a ponderous step onto the houseboat deck, clapping Gideon on the shoulder as he passed.
He put a gentle hand against my shoulder as I started to rise. “Don’t get up, old man. Robichaude and Gideon told me what happened.” He shook his head in bewildered awe. “Didn’t believe any of it until I saw your grandson.”
I nodded my head in agreement. “Yeah he’s a little bit of a shock, isn’t he?”
The thunder boomed overhead, and the rain began again.
“Shit, if the water gets up inside the restaurant again, I’m going to lose it. Repairs cost me an arm and a leg.”
I snorted as Davis and Gideon both helped me to my feet and we hobbled into the Minute Mother’s interior to get out of the rain. “After what I’ve seen, you might lose an arm and a leg to the things that are in this river.”
Davis helped me sit down on the couch before flopping into Gideon’s easy chair; the wood creaked in protest as the man forced his massive bulk into the chair while Gideon watched with a pained expression.
“Davis.” Luc said simply nodding from the small kitchen. The fat restaurateur nodded back at him.
“Shouldn’t you be manning the restaurant, Davis?” Gideon asked quietly, pulling out one of his dining room chairs and sinking into it. He looked smaller than I had ever seen him.
Davis’ face darkened, and he gestured for the bottle of bourbon Gideon held lightly in his hand. He tossed it to the big man who caught it with one meaty hand and took a deep swig without bothering to pour any into a glass.
“Man that’s some good stuff.” He said wistfully as his eyes shifted between the two of us. “Been hard keeping a straight face after what you idiots have told me, especially when Vicky’s been asking around if I’ve seen you, Grady.”
Davis snorted. “If she had bothered to show up for work today, I would have told her to just look out the damn window.” No one laughed and Davis lapsed back into silence as I asked what had been weighing on my mind.
“Who all do we think is in on this?”
Luc spoke. “Victoria Barnes, Earl Ray and his wife—wouldn’t doubt that she’s shacked up down in the Cradle. If I didn’t need help sewing Gideon up I wouldn’t have bothered calling Davis, but my family spoke well of him.”
Davis raised the bottle in salute to Luc who tipped his index finger in response.
“What about Scott and Misty Carter?”
Gideon glanced at Luc, who looked confused. “I’m unfamiliar with these people.”
“New guy runs the funeral home. Grew up in Atlanta, met him at church… good man.”
Davis chuckled. “You think he’s a good man.”
I gestured to the bottle and Davis passed it over. “Only one way to find that out.”
“What if he doesn’t believe us?” Gideon asked quietly.
Lincoln wandered into the room, each one of his footsteps making a wet plopping sound; Davis blanched a little at the sight of his massively dilated eyes.
“Luckily we have evidence.” I pondered darkly.
Chapter Twenty
Gideon had an old hoodie that barely fit over Lincoln’s physique. When my grandson had pulled off the tattered old shirt that had belonged to me in my heyday I recoiled at the sight of his chest. Scales were beginning to push their way out of his skin and the rest of his flesh had begun to take on a sickly brown tone, thought I could hear his bones crunching with every slight movement. A pair of jeans immediately ripped when he pulled them on; his toenails had been replaced with claws.
“I don’t think this is going to work very well, Grampa.”
“Folks around here mind their own business, son. Just act normal and no one will notice.”
Davis had a hand against one of the ladder rungs, keeping himself steady. “Unless they get a good look at his face, that is.”
I fixed him with a death glare as Luc appeared, passing out small red pouches to each of us. “Hopefully we won’t be needing this, but if something nasty comes our way, recite the Lord’s prayer a few times and that should do the trick.”
Davis pulled at the string. “What’s in this?”
Luc grabbed his hand. “It’s a conjure sack, bit of magic in a bag, and if you unwind that string my enchantments will unravel with it.”
The restaurateur coughed then shrugged and placed the bag in his pocket. “Whatever you say, Robichaude. Heard the rumors but I never believed any of that hoodoo crap.”
Luc wrapped a necklace of bone, alligator teeth, and other little charms around his neck. “Best start believing, Mr. Trucker.”
****
The wind howled and rain swept the pier as we left, Gideon locking the Minute Mother’s doors behind us.
The water was starting to come up fast now, the swell upriver probably feeding into the current faster. People were beginning to get desperate with lines of trailers waiting at the ramp to pull their boats out of the water. There were blaring horns and angry fists as folks were soaked senseless under the never-ending downpour. We walked past them, hopefully projecting that people should mind their own business. Lincoln’s shoulders were stooped, his head bowed as we made our way down the pier.
No one paid us mind, much to my relief. I hadn’t fully recovered yet and Lincoln had to support me when we reached the cinderblock steps leading
up to the muddy parking lot in front of Shady Glade. We decided on taking two trucks: Gideon would drive Lincoln and I in his truck while Davis would take Luc in his.
Lincoln eased me into the back seat of the extended cab truck; Gideon slid into the driver’s seat and cranked on the heat. My grandson climbed up next to me and shut the door a little harder than he probably intended, then we were off.
It was about a ten-minute drive from Shady Glade to Scott’s house next to the old ammunition plant in Karnack; Gideon turned on music, a local rock station out of Shreveport and lapsed into his own little world.
Lincoln was quiet too, though I occasionally caught him giving me furtive glances before turning away quickly when I noticed. Hadn’t spent this much time with him since he was little.
Since he was little… God, five days ago seemed like a lifetime, hell…
“Grampa…” I glanced over at him, still seeing the human features despite the grotesquely huge pupils and mixed teeth. “What was my mom like?”
The question caught me off guard; I hadn’t really expected him to be curious about his mother… didn’t think something like him would even care.
“She was… she was… beautiful, smart, and much smarter than your grandmother or me.”
I laughed and told Lincoln a story of when his mother was eight and had to dress up as a state for a school pageant; Renee had been busy pulling a double shift down at the diner in Jefferson, leaving me to help my daughter. Using my skills I had made the shittiest rendition of Florida that ever existed, old cardboard and torn mattress scrawled with Florida facts and doodles. As parental projects went it was a pretty crappy effort, but it was the best that I was able to make. She had inevitably lost for best costume, the other students and parents looking at the poor girl with mixtures of pity and anger.
Sammie Jo had taken those looks with pride, taking pleasure with the costume her Dad had put effort and time into, even if it had come out looking like a half-aborted alligator.
Told her I would give her a twenty if she kept it from her mother too.