Bartleby of the Big Bad Bayou

by Phyllis Shalant

  “Obviously, I am the sssuperior croaker,” Seezer announced when he’d run out of air. “I win.”

  “Harrumph!” Big-Big rearranged himself on his throne of lettuce. “That wasn’t a croak—it was a bellow. You were supposed to croak. You lose!”

  Seezer flicked his tail against the surface. “Don’t be sssilly. Alligators don’t croak.”

  Big-Big jumped up and down. “See—you admit it. I win! I win!”

  This time, Seezer’s tail smacked the water. “You wartssskinned ssswindler!”

  “You scaly cheater!”

  Seezer opened his jaws and emitted a long, chilly hiss. Silence fell over the pond as the glaring gator and the pop-eyed bullfrog locked stares.

  With trembling webs, Bartleby paddled between the two opponents. “Stop! Please! Perhaps we should call it a tie.”

  Crack! Seezer clapped his long jaws shut. “Oh, why not? Ssstrangely enough, I haven’t had ssso much fun in a long time.”

  “Harrumph!” Big-Big settled back onto his lettuce seat. “I’m sure I’m having more fun than you!”

  11

  Fishguts Brings Trouble

  When the contests, the arguments, and the feasting were done, Bartleby rested on the mud bank with the other red-ears. Together, they listened to the concerts the bullfrogs gave to boast of their skills at croaking and leaping, and enjoyed the twinkling lights of the fireflies. Digger and Baskin snacked on the juicy mosquitoes that swarmed the bank. But Bartleby had already consumed so many he ignored them. So did Lucky Gal. She was such a good eater that she’d won the fly-eating contest.

  As the singing and chirping creatures began to quiet, Seezer and Grub disappeared in search of a last, whiskery catfish. Quickfoot retired to her hollow log at the edge of the swamp to curl up for the night. Digger and Baskin paddled off to bed down in the tall grass that grew in the shallows. But Bartleby remained on the bank beside Lucky Gal. He was too excited to sleep. He was brimming with questions about life in this place. Where were the best places to hunt for fish fry? Were there any snakes around? How far did the swamp go? But Lucky’s limbs were tucked into her shell as if she were drowsing. Bartleby was afraid if he woke her, she might go away. Instead he soaked up the wonderfully humid air, and marveled at the yellow path the moonlight made on the surface.

  “Come closer,” the water seemed to murmur.

  Bartleby blinked, but he couldn’t see anything. He wondered if he was dreaming. It seemed as if the water were inviting him to swim along the golden trail.

  “Closer.”

  The call was irresistible. He rose on his webs and treaded down to the edge.

  Plop! He heard a noise. Rings of circles formed on the surface. They glittered and danced in the golden light. He waded in to get a closer look.

  Suddenly he froze. A dark, sleek shape was flowing through the water. It was coming toward him as fast as if it were flying. He tried to bellow, or croak, or chirp. But the only sound of alarm he could make was a turtle’s soft grunt.

  “Lucky—quick, hide!” he warned as he pulled into his shell. He hoped she heard him.

  A paw with five webbed toes and five sharp nails snatched Bartleby up. A flat black nose sniffed him. “Is that you, Tender Toes?” it asked.

  “Wh-who is Tender Toes? And who are you?” From inside his shell, Bartleby peered at the creature. It had a small round head with little half-circle ears. Its whiskers were longer than a catfish’s. It smelled fishy, and musky, and dangerous.

  “Silly! It’s me, Fishguts, of course. I’ve come to finish what I started. Stick out your web!”

  Bartleby curled his limbs up tighter. Above his plastron, his heart was leaping like a grasshopper. This creature had to be the otter that ate Lucky Gal’s toes!

  Fishguts licked Bartleby’s carapace. “See? Green’s not so bad,” he mumbled.

  “Stop! Put me down,” Bartleby demanded.

  “Sorry, Tender Toes! You got away from me once, but you won’t escape again.”

  “I’m not Tender Toes. I’m Bartleby of the Mighty Mississippi—and you’d better let me go.”

  Fishguts held Bartleby up in front of his flat snout. “Oh, no—I couldn’t do that. I have a yen for plump green turtles now. Especially one with three tender toes on her right rear web.” He curled his tongue and licked his whiskers. “Don’t I look hungry?”

  Bartleby peeked at the sleek-furred beast. Its nose was twitching as if it smelled something bad. “Not really,” he answered. “Besides, I haven’t seen any three-toed turtles around here. Just tough ones like me.”

  “Too bad. Well, I will just have to settle for you.” Fishguts raised Bartleby toward his open mouth. He touched Bartleby to his teeth. “Yum, I can’t wait.” He put his paw back down. “Er, let’s go for a dip. I’ll eat you while I float on my back.” He grasped Bartleby tightly and slipped into the water.

  “Harrumph! What do you want that rubbery red-ear for?” a voice called.

  Fishguts twisted his neck around. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me, Lucky Gal. Your favorite three-toed treat.”

  To Bartleby, the voice didn’t sound at all like Lucky Gal’s. But it did seem familiar. He edged his head out a teeny bit so he could look around.

  “Tender Toes?” Fishguts wiggled his long, tapered tail. “Where are you?”

  “Over here, Wormheart.”

  “Wormheart! You’ll call me Coldheart when I get you. I’ll swallow you down like a minnow. And I won’t share.” Fishguts raised himself higher in the water. He still had Bartleby in a firm grip. “Can you see her?” he asked. “My eyes are not as good as my nose—or my teeth. Help me and I promise to let you go.”

  “All right,” Bartleby agreed. He glanced around. “I think I see a webbed foot that’s missing two toes kicking across the swamp toward those water lilies.”

  Using his long, powerful tail, Fishguts swam into the raft of fragrant blossoms. His sensitive whiskers swept the patch. “I still can’t find her,” he grumbled.

  “Harrumph! I’m right over here, Mousemettle!”

  “You won’t call me that when you feel my teeth,” Fishguts squealed.

  Suddenly Bartleby saw a shell pop up. It didn’t look like any turtle shell he’d ever seen. It was more like the shell of a large clam. Four broad flippers stuck out from under the shell.

  “It’s dinnertime, Tender Toes!” Fishguts cried when he spied the shell. He began to swim faster toward the odd turtle.

  As they got closer, Bartleby saw the turtle’s face. Its eyes were big and bulgy—not at all like Lucky Gal’s tiny black ones.

  “I’ve got you now!” Fishguts dropped Bartleby and dove after the pop-eyed turtle. His nimble webbed paw grabbed hold of the wide, flat shell. Big-Big swam out from under it.

  “You’re not Tender Toes!” the otter squealed.

  “No, but I’ve got fast flippers,” Big-Big bellowed as he kicked the otter in the nose.

  Fishguts snatched at the bullfrog, but Big-Big disappeared among the lily plants.

  As fast as he could, Bartleby swam down to the bottom of the swamp. Not a single ray of moonlight reached down there. It was so dark and murky he couldn’t see a thing. But he knew he had to keep moving before Fishguts found him. With his long, sensitive whiskers, the otter didn’t need light to hunt.

  Bartleby stumbled along the bottom over smooth stones and sharp ones. He sank into a mound of mucky, moldering leaves that smelled awful. He struggled until he pulled himself out—and wandered into a forest of hairy roots.

  “I’ve got to get away from here,” he said as the waving roots enclosed him. But as he searched for a way out, he got twisted up in the sticky strands. They wrapped themselves over his carapace and under his plastron. They wound themselves around his left rear web. Bartleby tried swimming back and forth to free himself. But the more panicked he got, the more tangled he became. He tried to stroke upward, but the roots held him as fast as the jaws of a powerful creature.

&n
bsp; The twisting and pulling was exhausting. Bartleby needed to rest and regain his strength. In spite of his fear, he closed his eyes. Maybe in the morning, Seezer would find him—unless the Claw, the Paw, or the Jaw found him first.

  He awoke with a start! Something was nibbling at his rear web. He tried to jerk it into his shell, but his leg was still tied by one of the roots. Terrified, he tried to kick the nibbler away.

  “Quit it!” a voice demanded. “Hold still! I’ve got to get you out of here.”

  Bartleby edged his head out at the peevish voice. “Lucky Gal, is that you?”

  “Of course it’s me. Now stop wriggling while I bite through the rest of the root, or I might miss and chew your web along with it.”

  “Okay.” Bartleby could hardly speak. He was relieved and grateful—but he was also embarrassed. “My shell is tangled up, too,” he murmured.

  “I know.”

  While Lucky Gal gnawed with her strong, sharp jaws, Bartleby didn’t move a toenail. In a little while, he was free. “Stay right behind me,” Lucky ordered as she led the way out of the roots. “You’ve sure got a lot to learn about being a swamp turtle.”

  12

  Swamp School

  It was still dark when they broke through the surface of the water. Bartleby wanted to settle down with Seezer and Grub. The two gators were sleeping under the great willow at the edge of the mud bank. But Lucky Gal refused to get too close to the pair.

  “Seezer and Grub wouldn’t think of harming us,” Bartleby told her. “It’s the best place for a good, deep sleep. No otter would dare approach an alligator. We’ll be perfectly safe there.”

  Lucky Gal cast a long glance at the motionless gators. “Maybe Seezer needed you as a companion for your journey—but he doesn’t need you now. Here in bayou country, not even a sleeping gator can be trusted,” she insisted.

  Bartleby felt as if he were being pulled in half. He didn’t want to argue with Lucky Gal. He’d traveled so far to meet other red-ears, and he wanted her to like him. But Seezer was his best friend. Bartleby couldn’t take sides against him. Unsure of what to do, he treaded the water with his weary limbs.

  Lucky snapped the air with impatience. “I’m leaving. See you around.” She began paddling away.

  “Wait! Where are you going?”

  “Bayou turtles don’t announce where they’re planning to sleep. You never know who’s listening.” Lucky Gal picked up speed as she sank down in the water. “I’ll be in the lettuce patch tomorrow—if you can find it.”

  “You ssslept late,” Seezer said when Bartleby poked his head out the next morning. “We’re about to ssset out in sssearch of sssomething tasty. Come on.”

  “You go without me. I’m not ready.” Bartleby took his time stretching out each web, and then his neck.

  With the tip of his tail, Grub gave Bartleby’s carapace a friendly tap. “The early gator catches the biggest fish, little bro’.”

  “Maybe, but I’m not a gator,” Bartleby grumbled. “And I can find my own food.”

  Seezer swung his head around and gazed into Bartleby’s eyes. “No one sssaid you couldn’t. Perhaps you’d sssooner be with red-ears now.”

  Bartleby looked away. “No. I ... I just want to be on my own this morning.”

  “Sssuit yourself.” Seezer bumped against Grub’s side. “Let’s go! I sssmell bass ssswimming nearby. ”

  As he slid down the bank, Grub glanced back at Bartleby. “Better be careful, little bro’. This swamp’s a big place. There’ll be a lot of creatures out looking for their morning meal.”

  Bartleby gazed at the dark, meandering water. “I will,” he answered.

  But the alligators were already gone.

  Bartleby paddled quietly in search of the water-lettuce patch. He didn’t want to become anyone’s “morning meal.” His webs were alert for the vibrations of nearby swimmers. His eyes searched the surface for bubbles or ripples. But of all his senses, his ability to smell was the most useful. By sniffing and gulping, he could “tell things.” When a breeze came by he poked up his snout. Sure enough, he detected water lettuce nearby. Feeling pleased with himself, he began following the scent like a trail.

  Before long he recognized the circle of cypress trees that stood in the water. He paddled up to them and ducked under a silvery curtain of moss that hung from a branch overhead. He wove in and out of the bumpy knees. Finally, he reached the patch of bouncy, big-leaved plants.

  “Welcome,” Quickfoot called softly. She had her paws around a large green leaf. “I’m glad you found us.”

  “Harrumph! Why be glad? Turtles eat too many flies.” Big-Big was perched on a lettuce. He flicked his tongue out and captured a passing moth.

  “Quag-quog! Don’t be greedy! There’s enough food here for everyone,” Plume said without taking her eyes off the water. In another minute, she speared a silvery minnow and tossed it down her throat. “The fish here are fresh and sweet. You must try one.”

  “Right now I just want some lettuce,” Bartleby said, but he didn’t take a bite. He was looking around for Lucky Gal. He didn’t see her fiery orange ear patches anywhere.

  “Hurry up and finish your breakfast. We’ve got to get going. I’m not waiting all day!”

  Bartleby peered back over his carapace. Lucky was right behind him. “I was blending in with the lettuce. You swam by without seeing me!” she said.

  He was so glad to see her, he didn’t mind being teased. “Where are we going?”

  She spun herself around in a circle. “Everywhere. If you’re going to keep out of harm’s way, you’d better get to know every part of this swamp and every creature in it. Ready?” Without waiting for an answer, she began swimming away.

  As the two red-ears paddled side by side, Lucky pointed her snout toward things to be wary of. “See that oak? A great owl lives there. You’d better not get caught above the surface when she’s out hunting. And that hollow pine is home to a raccoon. She’s not much interested in big turtles like us unless she’s got babies. Then she’ll hunt whatever she can.”

  Bartleby liked being called a big turtle. He held his head up higher as he swam. Ahead he could see a log bobbing in the water with two turtles basking on top. One had deep red ear patches, and the other had dusty red ones.

  “Hello, Digger and Baskin,” he called out.

  Digger turned his head toward the water. “Welcome! Isn’t it a wonderfully humid day? The swarms of flies are almost as thick as the air.”

  “Why aren’t you sunning yourselves?” Baskin grumbled without turning his head from the sun.

  “Yes—there’s plenty of room. Join us,” Digger offered. “This is the best basking place in all of the swamp.”

  “We’re going exploring,” Lucky Gal told him. “Maybe later.”

  Baskin shot Bartleby a squinty look. “I heard they don’t have logs like this up north.”

  Bartleby wondered where he’d heard that. “There were lots of logs to sun on at my old water place. But yours is very nice, of course.”

  “Huh!” Baskin grunted. “Well, I’ve heard the turtles up north are different.”

  “Um, yes, I’ve heard that, too,” Digger agreed.

  “Different?” Bartleby backpaddled a bit. “How do you mean?”

  Digger gulped down a small, white fly as he thought. “Well, do you stretch out your right rear web or your left rear web first when you are basking?”

  Bartleby considered for a moment. “Sometimes one. Sometimes the other.”

  “We always stretch our left first, and then our right.”

  “Why?” Bartleby asked.

  “Because.” Digger set his jaw and raised his snout.

  “Ahem. Do you eat an earthworm head first or tail first?” Baskin asked.

  “Whatever end I can catch,” Bartleby replied.

  “We always eat the head first.” Baskin stuck his snout up toward the sun again.

  “Phish!” Lucky Gal splashed the water with her tail. “I e
at whatever end is in front of me.”

  Digger and Baskin both stared at her with their mouths open. But Lucky Gal didn’t even seem to notice. “We’re off to hunt fish fry now,” she told them.

  “Why bother? If you wait on this log, the mosquitoes will come right to you,” Baskin said.

  “Waiting is boring.” Lucky Gal began splashing away. “And besides—I have to show Bartleby where the swamp ends. Good-bye!” Without another word, she began swimming away.

  “Are we really going to hunt fish fry?” Bartleby asked hopefully. He hadn’t eaten any of the water lettuce before. Now he was starved!

  “I always do what I say I will.” Lucky looked back over her carapace at him. “Are you too tired to go farther?”

  “Certainly not.” Bartleby began to stroke faster. “I swam here from New York. Surely I can paddle this little swamp.”

  But the swamp wasn’t little at all. Bartleby had to admire what an excellent swimmer Lucky Gal was. In spite of her damaged web, her strokes were steady and powerful. He wondered if he would ever feel as confident as she seemed.

  “I hope you don’t mind my asking,” he ventured, “but how did Fishguts ever catch you?”

  “The time after leaving the nest is the most dangerous of all here,” she answered without slowing down. “I was just a hatchling when three young otters came turtle hunting at our swamp. The one named Sneak got my brother, and the one named Squeak got my sister. But I was lucky—I was caught by Fishguts.”

  “That doesn’t sound so lucky to me.”

  “Oh, yes it was.” Lucky Gal splashed the water with a front web. “The other otters gobbled up my brother and my sister, but Fishguts only held me in his paw. When his friends asked why, he said he hated eating green food.”

  “That does seem fortunate,” Bartleby said.

  “Yes, very! Fishguts might even have let me go, but Sneak and Squeak began to fight over me. ‘I’ll take that turtle—I’m still hungry,’ Sneak demanded.

  “‘No, I should get her—the turtle I ate was smaller than yours,’ Squeak retorted.”