by Jeff Dosser
Sadie bumped her head to the left, indicating the lake. “I’m going to Calypso Cove to do some painting. I heard the cranes are still in the marshes. I’d love to see them. I wanted to paint them in the early morning light.”
The old woman smiled knowingly, reached out to grasp Sadie’s arm. Her touch was soft, her fingers cold. She leaned close, the aroma of tobacco strong on her breath.
“If ya wanna see them cranes ya gotta go ta the west bank. Get up close to the tree line.” She waved an arm in a vague westerly direction. “When they come inta the swamp, they’ll land right close.” She released her grip and smiled.
“Thanks, I’ll try that.” Sadie’s eyes fell to the basket. “Did you find all those yourself?”
The old woman picked up a mushroom the size of her thumb and as rumpled as her dark skin. She peered up at Sadie, her eyes sparkling like black marbles. “Why these here is hickory chickens, as my ol’ gran used ta call ’em. Morels they say round here. Cooked up with a plate ah polk an’ other greens. Why they’s ’bout as tasty a meal as a body can have.” She cackled gaily and covered her mouth as the laugh slid into a wheezing cough. “Well now, granny’d best be off.” She wiped a dirty sleeve across her mouth. “And mind them crows.” She jabbed a crooked finger at Sadie. “A body’s got ta mind the crows in a cicada summer.”
Sadie studied the old woman’s back as she shuffled across the lot. Cicada summer? It was early spring. What a weird, old bird. She shook her head and stepped into the store. The peculiar people around these country towns was something that struck a nerve in Sadie’s artistic nature. It was part of the reason she loved coming out here to find subjects to paint. It took a little longer to get to Thunderbird Falls than a drive to the city park, but it was well worth it.
Once she filled her thermos with cheap, bitter tasting coffee and stuffed a package of chocolate donuts in her pocket, she clambered into her Subaru. In five minutes she was pulling into Calypso Cove’s visitor parking. Hers was the only car in the cracked, dirt lot.
She hopped out and popped the latch of her wagon. Below, the water of Calypso Cove lapped sedately at the foot of the boat ramp and along the edges of the old wood dock. Far out on the lake, a boat shimmered across the water in the pink dawn rays.
Calypso Cove was one of the major tourist areas for Lake Thunderbird Falls. It sat at the center of a spiderweb of trails circling the park. The trails to the west skirted the edge of the lake and danced in and out along the shore line. To the east, a less used trail wound around the marshy perimeter of the cove terminating in an open meadow that sloped down to the water.
Sadie shouldered her pack, grabbed her folding easel, and marched off down the eastern trail. Echoing across the glassy surface of the water, the early morning calls of mallards mixed with the raucous voices of crows.
The dirt trail was well maintained and wide enough for two to walk abreast. It meandered through low scrub and thick stands of oak that grew along the shore and extended their green fingers throughout the thirty-thousand-acre preserve. As she walked, Sadie caught glimpses of the lake shimmering through the trunks or revealed in brief pastoral openings in the woods. The fresh scent of new growth tugged gently at the winter smells of wet, decayed leaves, hinting at warmer days ahead.
Just as Sadie was heating up and debating on whether to remove her jacket, she rounded the trunk of an exceptionally large oak and stepped onto the edge of the pasture, the end of the trail. She pulled a pair of binoculars from her jacket and examined the west side of the meadow, the spot the old woman suggested. The sun had already crested the trees and blazed across the opening of the trail.
On the east side of the meadow, long, spring grasses and trunks of trees hung in shadow. Sadie was about to put the binoculars in her pocket when movement caught her eye. There, just inside the darkness of the tree line. As she watched, a form resolved itself into the head and shoulders of a buck. The powerful animal stood for several heart beats staring in her direction, its majestic rack of antlers seeming to glow in the shadow of the trees. Then it turned and vanished into the woods. Beautiful was the first word that first sprang to Sadie’s mind. But the sight of the buck drew out an unease she couldn’t place. A wrongness one might feel in the smell of a cancer ward or coming upon a dead animal.
She stuffed the binoculars in her pocket and brushed away the thought. She was letting her artistic nature get the better of her. The wet grass whisked against her boots, leaving them drenched with morning dew. She was glad she’d worn them instead of her initial choice of tennis shoes.
In a matter of minutes, she was tucked beneath the overhanging branches of an old cedar tree and spreading out her gear. In the piney air of the cedar, she set up her easel, pulled out her collapsible stool and opened up the case holding her paints and assorted brushes.
Comfortable in the nylon seat, she examined her view. It was beautiful. The low growing buffalo grass was a vibrant green with fat tufts of winter brown prairie grass dotted here and there along the gentle slope. Closer to the water, cattails and reeds swayed gently in the morning breeze, the water shallow and brown compared to the deeper blues further out.
Sadie uncapped her thermos and let the steaming aroma of hot coffee fill the moist air. The aroma was almost as invigorating as the coffee itself. She winced against its bitter bite and set the thermos down to concentrate on her canvas.
With practiced finesse, she laid down the foundation of her work. The hazy arch of trees on the opposite shore, the sensuous blue-brown curve of water against the lush green of the slope.
She leaned back and eyed her work with a nod. It was a good start. Suddenly, from far behind her, a faint, high-pitched trill caught her attention. Sadie turned and regarded the tops of the trees as the trills echoed back and forth. Then, with a hiss of passing wings, a flock of twenty sandhill cranes swept past. Their wings were cupped in oval arches, their long legs streamed out behind them. Then as one, they swirled out over the water and landed at the edge of the marsh.
Sadie sat frozen as the tall gray birds marched proudly through the shallows, rolling their quavering cries across the meadow. She watched for several minutes and decided that the red paint she’d chosen for their crowns didn’t do the vibrant birds justice.
For the next two hours, she painted. The sun edged above the trees, bathing her in warmth and baking away the dew. That swirl of creativity that seemed an entity in itself took hold. Time had no meaning as she swirled a color here, a dab of blue there, almost without thinking. Finally, she took a breath and leaned back.
She sipped at the lukewarm coffee admiring her work. Sadie knew it would take days to finish but a good foundation was laid. In the bottom corner, she had painted two perfect cranes. They faced each other in a swirl of combat as ancient as the earth herself. One rose on bowed wings kicking out with one long leg while the other slashed upwards with his beak. She examined the birds milling through the swamp and nodded to herself. The light grays of their bodies fading to brown, the bright red caps. Her colors were spot on.
Sadie blinked in dismay and knuckled her eyes. One of the cranes in the painting moved. She opened her eyes and looked again. The wings of the lower bird seemed to open in slow motion, his beak to dart up. She squinched her eyes shut.
No! It wasn’t possible. It was her imagination. She opened her eyes, slowly, almost fearfully. The painting was just as she had created it. No moving parts. It was definitely time to take a break. Besides, her back was sore and she needed to stretch.
She stood and took three steps towards the trail before dropping down to touch her toes and then reached to the sky and arched her back. She dropped her arms and froze. The cranes in the cove had stopped their calls. They stood motionless watching her. For several long breaths, she and the cranes waited. Then one by one the birds seemed to forget about her and continued their foraging among the reeds.
Sighing out the breath she didn’t realize she was holding, Sadie laughed. That was close. Alth
ough she had most of what she needed for her painting, she was enjoying the cranes. She didn’t want to scare them off. Slowly, taking a step and holding her breath before taking another, she worked her way back to the easel. She picked up her angular, flat brush and considered the sky. Maybe a few touches to the clouds before she called it a day. Across the pasture, a deer moved slowly to the edge of the woods and stared out at her. She picked up her detail, round brush and dabbed the animal onto the canvas in a shade of dark brown. The addition of the deer to her painting would add that hidden subtlety she loved in her work.
As she made the first light touches to the sky a bee buzzed past. Her breath caught, her arm locked in place. Although she kept an EpiPen in her purse, the last thing she needed was a sting. She was terribly allergic and even with the pen, a sting would mean a trip to the Emergency Room.
But the bee didn’t stay and she was soon back to painting. The deer bent to graze and soon Sadie had that mysterious creature’s face captured forever in the canvas’ lush woods. She smiled at her work and dabbed her brush clean. That was when the bee returned, followed by a second, and a third.
She sat in torpid fear as they hummed busily about. Why were they here? She didn’t wear perfume or fragrant deodorant. Was it something about her new jacket? Something about the smell of the paint?
Then she noticed the ground. The entire field was covered with tiny wildflowers. Each one a yellow center with tiny white petals. Like miniature daisies. Yet the flowers weren’t here when she set up. Were they? Maybe they were a type of spring flower unfolding in the morning light and curling up at night. It didn’t matter. She needed to get out of here before more bees showed up.
Slowly, she stood and closed her paint box. Then folded her stool and slid both into her pack. That was the instant the first bee stung her on the hand. With a cry, she slapped the tiny insect away. Sadie’s eyes shot wide as the air around her came alive with the buzzing of a swarm. They seemed to rise from the flowers across the field, swirling in a cloud. She’d heard of killer bees attacking once one of their kind had been killed. There were no killer bees in Oklahoma. Were there?
She picked up the painting and started to fold up the easel when her shaking hands lost their grip and it tumbled to the ground. A cloud of insects rose irritably at the disturbance.
Fuck the easel, she thought. She turned and took a tentative step towards the trail. Already her hand was swollen and red, her heart thudded in her temples. Hold it together girl, just got to get away from these flowers.
When she took the second step two more bees hit her, one on the calf, the other on her neck. Sadie didn’t wait to brush them away. She ran. Around her, the gold and black tornado swirled. She beat the air with her painting, momentarily losing sight of the trail. Then they were gone. She stumbled forward and dropped to her knees.
Sadie gasped for air as a band of pressure tightened around her chest, around her throat. With trembling hands, she unslung her pack and fumbled out the EpiPen. She tugged off the safety cover and eyed the angry red whelps on her arms. There were at least four stings she hadn’t even felt. She slammed the needle home.
Before she slumped onto her back Sadie saw the deer still standing at the edge of the woods. Watching. I hope someone shoots you, she thought before slumping to the ground.
* * * *
A flutter of wings beside her shook her awake. Sadie wasn’t sure how long she lay there, wheezing for each breath, but at some point she’d blacked out. She tried to sit up, her head moving an inch before dropping to the ground. What was wrong. She tried to lift a hand to her face but her arm was an icy weight. She lay there, a marionette whose strings were cut.
Then the flutter of wings again and something thudded to her chest. She scrunched her eyes, and slowly opened them. A crow sat perched on her chest. It cocked its shiny head and studied her with black marble eyes.
“Go…away,” she wheezed, barely able to raise her head. The crow took a hop back before giving a raucous cry. In the distance, it was answered by others.
Chapter Two
“William twelve. William twelve, come in please.”
Matt Holmes shot a quick glance at the radio on the boat’s dash and turned his attention back to the snapping turtle caught in his net. Matt’s five-foot-ten frame dangled over the side of the Bayliner, his arms submerged in chill water. The alligator snapper caught in his specimen net must have weighed twenty pounds. Finally, he freed the troublesome creature and pulled up the rest of the net and dropped it to the deck.
“William twelve, this is base. Come on, Matt. I know you can hear me.” The voice of the caller filled with aggravation.
Matt rubbed his wet palms on his thighs and stomped across the fiberglass deck of the eighteen-foot patrol boat and yanked the mic off the hook. “William twelve here. What is it, Rachael. I’m in the middle of a survey.”
“William twelve, you can’t afford to miss another training session,” she said. “I don’t care what you’re doing. Get your butt up here by nine thirty.”
Matt grunted and keyed the talk button. “Okay, Rachael. I’ll be there. Let me finish the count on this net and I’ll start that way.”
“Good, and don’t be late,” she said. “If you don’t sign in on time, you won’t get credit for the training.”
“Fine, fine. So what’s the topic de jour?”
“The life cycle of the seventeen-year cicada,” Rachael said. “You know they’re going to be hatching in just a few weeks. You’re going to get questions about them during the trail tours so you might want to know the answers.”
Matt rolled his eyes and jammed the mic back on the stand before returning to his net. Carefully, he sifted through the fine strands, jotting down the types of snails, fish, and plants caught in the weave. He shook his head at the ten-inch gash the turtle had left. It would take him the better part of an hour to stitch it up once he got back to the station.
After emptying the trap, he put away his notepad and folded the net. The boat was anchored at the edge of Calypso Cove, at a spot where the rushes were thinning, and he could get a good collection of snails in the series of traps lining the shore. Matt loved his work. His favorite part was helping biologists from the nearby universities with their studies. It was the main reason he had quit the Alsuma police department four years prior and pursued a B.S. in biology. Once the degree was under his belt, joining the Thunderbird Falls Lake Patrol seemed the logical next step. He knew he was overqualified for the position, but when the sun crested the trees and sparkled like diamonds across the surface of the lake, he felt sorry for the suckers stuck in cubicles or battling lines of traffic to get to work. The beauty of the job made it all worthwhile.
He dragged the anchor over the side and let a whispering breeze nudge him into deeper water. Rachael didn’t need him at the office for another thirty minutes, and with a new dawn scattering her light across the mirror-smooth surface of the bay, it was no time to leave. Closer to shore, sheltered among the cattails, a flock of cranes pranced and hunted through the shallows filling the air with their vibrato calls. In the distance, a pair of crows squabbled over whatever it was crows fought over.
His mind wandered to his Saturday night date with Colleen when a coyote squealed in the woods somewhere near the bay trail. The sharp, high-pitched cry dragged out for seconds and sent the cranes winging across the water.
Okay, enough goofing around. Matt checked his watch. It was 8:20. He kicked over the Bayliner’s three-liter Mercury engines and sent her racing across the water. In ten minutes, he was easing up to the dock and tying her off.
By the time he waltzed into the back offices of the ranger station, Rachael was standing outside the classroom waiting. She frowned and tapped her watch as he rounded the corner.
“You’re pushing it pretty hard,” she whispered as he breezed past.
“Sorry, boss. It took longer than I thought to clear the net.”
The space at the back of the ranger stat
ion, designated as ‘the classroom,’ was just a thin, open office. Along one wall, a row of windows opened onto two acres of pristine, mown lawn. Beyond the manicured grass, tall oaks and cedars rose like a mammoth green wall. Six rows of plastic and metal chairs had been laid out in four neat lines. At the end of the classroom, there stood a thin, wooden podium and a large whiteboard. Matt nodded in appreciation of the turnout. Normally these university hosted sessions garnered fewer than four or five attendees. By contrast, eleven people almost made the place seem crowded.
Matt adjusted his gun belt and dropped down beside Andy Zimmerman, the other ranger assigned to Thunderbird Falls. They’d both been hired within the year and were learning the ropes together.
“How’s it hangin’ homeboy?” Andy asked.
Andy was ten years younger than Matt’s thirty-four and although they were the same height, Andy was forty pounds heavier carrying much of that weight in his gut. He wore the same tan shirt and green slacks as Matt but unlike Matt’s home ironed apparel, his starched creases were almost sharp enough to cut a finger. He topped off his crisp uniform with a flat brimmed campaign hat which he wore tight over his crewcut of bright orange hair.
“Not bad, big man,” Matt grinned. “You ready for another boring four hours of training?”
He glanced around the room at the other attendees. He nodded to old Judge Green who sat two rows behind him. In the back row, Jacob Blake relaxed in his customary dirty blue coveralls. The rest of the crowd appeared to be students from the university.
Matt turned back to Andy. “Yeah, I’m stuck taking every class until October. I blew off too many of the early ones. Now I’ve got no choice.”
“Well I don’t think this one will be half bad,” Andy said. He took off his hat and brushed a palm across the bristles of his crew cut before dropping the hat in the chair next to him. “These seventeen-year cicadas are pretty interesting.”