On the far shore, the banks were covered in saw grass and cane. On this side the grass had been clipped a week or so ago, so that it was short enough that a big snake couldn't hide in it. A few gnarled pines clumped along the bank, creating a wooded feel. As Bron stepped onto the dock, he heard a large "plock," and something dropped into the water near his feet.
He stopped cold, unsure if he should move.
"Just a turtle," Olivia said, "trying to catch some sun."
Bron hurried onto the dock. Across the river, something long and gray slid into the water. An alligator splashed its tail.
Bron peered into the river, to see if anything might be moving within it, but thick sediments, like bits of black moss, floated in the water, hiding anything below.
Bron walked to the boat and peered up toward the pickup. The old coot was just standing there at the back of the pickup, as if peering into the bed. He had his revolver in hand, hidden just behind his back.
A black sedan with tinted windows came down the road and slowed a bit, then rolled on down the highway. The fellow watched it suspiciously, gun ready, as if trying to decide whether to pop a few rounds through the windshield. By the time that it had passed beyond a screen of trees, his fidgeting had calmed.
He limped on down to the boat, as if his hip were stiff, and unlocked the chain that held it to the dock. He motioned to Olivia and Bron. "You all take de frent!"
The both of them sat on an aluminum slab at the front of the fishing boat, while the old fellow took the back. He pushed a button on the motor, and it coughed a bit, then took hold. In moments they swung out from the dock, onto the broad river.
Bron felt stupid. With him and Olivia sitting in front, the weight on the boat was distributed unevenly, so that the bow was deep in the water while the motor rose too high, almost high enough so that the propellers were in the air. The helmsman didn't seem to mind, though. He wanted to keep his passengers as far away from him as possible.
So the boat plied the dark water, slowly at first, then picked up speed. Bron watched the banks and trees. Every few hundred yards, a dead log would poke up out of the water, often with a few turtles sunning on it. Blue herons strutted in the shallows on stilt-like legs, hunting for fish, and sometimes a snowy egret would do the same. Every few hundred yards, he'd spot an alligator floating as still as a log, until the boat neared. Then the gator would thrash and dive.
Most of the gators were small, a foot or two in length, but a couple of times he glimpsed bigger gators ahead—ten-footers. The big gators never let the boat get close.
Bron's thoughts were a muddle. He tried to imagine his mother. Out here in the swamp, she'd probably be wearing blue jeans and a work shirt.
How old was she, anyway? If the old guy was her husband, she might well be in her sixties. He hadn't thought of that.
But Monique had said that she was a young woman.
What will she think of me? he wondered. Almost he felt as if he were going there to be judged.
What should I do when I see her? Say hello and stand at arm's length? What if she wants to kiss me?
He couldn't imagine kissing the woman who had abandoned him. He resolved that he wouldn't do it. He wasn't even going to touch her. If she hugged him, she'd get no hug in return.
Along the channel, a few cabins on stilts began to rise up from the water. Some houses floated on giant pontoons. Some had motorboats or jet skis parked out front, and he saw a few kids at one. Four children, ages eight through twelve, were swimming in the water. They were diving off the deck of the cabin, while one boy swung on a rope.
Bron wondered where their mother was, or where they'd left their common sense, for he'd seen three or four large gators in the past mile.
Soon a forest closed up around the river, and the channel began to narrow and wind through a swamp. In many places, the ground was dry on either side, and here the cypress trees and forests of alders and magnolia, interspersed with palms, began to darken the channel.
Trumpet vines with flowers of red and yellow hung over the limbs of trees, creating living walls, while dragonflies and linnets, gnats and butterflies and hummingbirds darted in and out of shafts of sunlight.
Bullfrogs croaked in the shadows, while strange birds emitted piercing cries.
Everywhere was the scent of water, mold, vines, and an earthy odor that Bron couldn't name.
As they began to pass beneath the shadows of trees, Olivia whispered, "Watch out overhead. I've heard that sometimes snakes will drop out of the branches into a boat."
Bron didn't have to be warned twice. Almost an instant later, he saw a huge dark snake drop out of a tree and hit the water with a splash. It went twisting through the waves. Suddenly something dark lunged up out of the water, and the snake disappeared in a flash of teeth.
Bron hated to think what might have happened if he'd been in the water. He hoped that the boat wouldn't hit a snag.
Soon the old coot had to slow the boat, skirting submerged logs as he took a narrow path. Every so often, the river would fork, and he would veer to the right or left. He did it so often that Bron felt convinced that he was only doing it an effort to confuse his passengers. He didn't want them to be able to find their way back to his lair.
After a lifetime of dreaming about his mother, wondering what she had looked like, Bron found himself trembling with anticipation. He had never imagined being here, had never envisioned a mother in hiding, out in the deepest swamps.
At last they entered a dead-end, where weeds and water lilies choked the shallows, and the old fellow gunned the engine so that the boat slid up over the foliage under some dark trees.
They got out and stood on the shore, Bron searching the trees above and the grass below for any sign of snakes. He spotted a white egg in the water, and said to Olivia, "There must be chickens around here." He thought that was a good sign. It meant that they were probably close to someone's cabin.
"Dat's a gator's egg, son," the old coot informed him. "Dere be a nest round-bouts."
He climbed out of the boat, and led them through a forest. Vines clung to the ground, and every few yards, some lizard would slink up the trunk of a tree. Bron heard a warning rattle and stopped, but it was just a big snake making the leaves of dried vines shiver as it slithered away.
The woods were baking, oppressive, and Bron found himself opening his shirt, trying to stop the flow of sweat down his front. For three miles they walked over vines, climbing fallen trees, negotiating a landscape that seemed to have no trails. Darkness began to fall, until the only light was a blush on the horizon, and the shadows grew thick. They waded through a bog, where young alligators watched from the rushes, and then finally dropped down into another swamp.
The old man waved the gun at Bron's back. "Dere is da pirogue, unner dem vines. Take care you doan get bit by no bebette."
A thick carpet of vines was draped over a tree, and beneath it Bron spotted part of a boat. He didn't know what a bebette was, and imagined that it was some kind of snake. Since the old man had the gun, Bron pulled the vines off, uncovering a long, flat-bottomed skiff. A pair of colorful black salamanders with red spots lurched away. A millipede trundled about in confusion. A long black snake went slithering under the boat to hide.
Bron checked the boat. A spotlight was attached to a huge battery, and a long pole lay in the boat's bottom. Bron shoved the boat out into the little lagoon. The snake that had taken refuge beneath it hissed and raised its head, displaying fangs and a white throat.
Olivia pulled Bron back a pace, and the snake turned and raced into the water.
They loaded onto the boat, and the old man took a seat in the back, with his flashlight, and pointed the way. "You ken punt da boat."
The pole was light of weight and rough on the surface. It felt as if the wood was rotting away, but it was strong enough to push through the black water easily.
Bron began to pole as night fell completely, with only the thinnest of starlight shining throu
gh gauzy clouds. Vines and creepers hung down from the cypress trees. The water could not have been more than two feet deep. Yet with the coming of night, the sounds of the swamp grew raucous.
Frogs croaked everywhere, millions of them. Some he recognized as deep-voiced bullfrogs, but there were several other frogs peeped or emitted high-pitched croaks. Leopard frogs, like the ones he'd dissected in biology class, were everywhere. The sound grew in volume until Bron felt as if he was in a football stadium and crowds were cheering.
The old man shined his light out over the waters, and Bron could see the frogs under the trees, each of them with a bloated sac under its throat, croaking like mad. The males were serenading females, and each of them seemed to be shouting, "Me! Come to me!" with all of his might.
As a musician, Bron wondered, is that what I'm doing when I play?
Yet with the frogs came the gators—many of them newly hatched in the spring, a foot or two long. Their older cousins from last year were out in force, too, and they silently cruised the waters, legs splayed for stability. Bron could see their big yellow eyes, like golden coins, and their toothsome smiles.
He'd hear a frog croaking for attention, oblivious to all else, and then see a gator float up behind it. With a snap the frog would go silent.
There has to be a lesson in that, Bron thought. He understood now why Olivia would not play in public.
So he poled for a long hour. From time to time, green flashed in the bushes as fireflies lit up the night.
They reached some shallows where the boat could hardly get through the mud, and Bron found that the pole sank for two or three feet in the muck. Quicksand, he realized.
They went through a narrow space, where dead cypress trees blocked the way, as white as old bone. Their bark had rotted off long ago, and gaping holes could be seen at their bases, habitat for raccoons.
Bron was just about to push off on a tree, when the old fellow called, "Hop! Watch da han'!"
Bron halted and saw in the wan beam of the flashlight that he'd nearly put his hand on top of a giant spider, a wolf spider with a leg span wider than a tarantula's.
"Watch for dem eyes," the old fellow said, "glowin' like diamonds." The spider's eyes shone bright yellow and crystalline in the light, like gems. The old fellow shined his light about near the water, and Bron saw that at nearly every one of the cypress trees, where its base met the water, there was a bright pair of eyes on a giant spider. The wolf spiders hung upside down, with their mandibles in the water, where they could easily hunt for minnows and frogs by touch alone.
"I get de freesons when I see dem critters!" the old fellow said.
Suddenly the river opened up, broadening, and in the pool ahead, Bron spotted a truly huge gator, perhaps twelve feet long. The thing dove and the water churned.
He kept poling for an hour more, following a watery road through the trees, and the noise of frogs deepened, becoming deafening, until at last he spotted a light.
A pair of dogs began to bay and howl.
There was a cabin in the swamp, hidden away. The roof was shingled with wooden shakes, so old and mossy that they blended with the trees themselves, as did the ancient planks that lined the cabins' walls.
It would have passed as an abandoned hunting shack, if not for the light of a single gas lantern hanging from a hook out front, along with the howls and barks from the hounds.
"Dere we go," the old man said softly.
The house perched on stilts at the very edge of ruin, at the end of the world. This long lagoon seemed to dry up just down the way. They were on a watery road that came from nowhere, led to nowhere.
Like my life, Bron thought.
People who did not want to be found could not have resorted to a more desolate place.
Bron poled up to a floating dock some eight feet beneath the house, and tied up the pirogue. Two red-bone hounds were chained to the porch above, and their chains rattled as they lunged excitedly. They quit barking, except for little yelps, and stood with tails wagging. As the light flashed about, Bron saw a couple of giant spiders down at the waterline. His back and shoulders were aching from all of the work. He suddenly felt weary as he peered up that crumbling ladder that reached the porch, but he placed his foot on the bottom rung and shinnied up.
One of the dogs came to inspect him, and Bron held out his hand, then petted its wet snout as it began to lick.
Olivia and the old man followed, and when he reached the top, the old man waved his pistol toward the door.
A small sign above the door said in faded letters, "Adder Manor."
Olivia took the lead, opening the door, while their guide grabbed his lantern. He unleashed both of the hounds, and they stood wagging their tails. "Gwon, then!" he told them. "Gwon and getcha them coons!"
Both dogs lunged away and raced into the woods out back, baying and barking.
Bron steeled himself. He wanted to savor the moment, the first sight of his mother. He stepped through the doorway.
The house was utterly dark inside, but a woman's voice warned, "I've got a gun, and I can see you against the starlight. Don't make any sudden moves."
She spoke elegantly, but with a Louisiana drawl. Bron had never imagined that his mother might have an accent.
Bron and Olivia entered the shack and stood uneasily, as their guide came in from behind. These people obviously didn't trust Bron.
Bron just hoped that none of the guns would go off.
In the light of the lantern, a petite woman was revealed. She sat on an old sofa, as if the better to remain completely hidden in shadow. Her thin dress was pulled over a lithe body, her breasts almost non-existent. Her hair was hacked short, as if by a butcher's knife. She looked surprisingly young, maybe only thirty? But no, she had to be older.
If he'd seen her in a supermarket, he would not have recognized her as his mother. She couldn't be. She was too young, slender, impish.
Even now, he wasn't convinced. He even suspected that Monique had sent him to the wrong place.
Could this really be his mother?
All of her attention was focused on him. She was shaking, staring at him in terror, as if afraid that he might be a fraud.
She looked like the victim of a war, or perhaps a refugee hiding from police. Her clothes were worn to rags. Her hand moved, and Bron's eyes adjusted enough so that he suddenly spotted the double-barrel shotgun pointed right at his throat.
I'll get no welcoming hug from her, he realized. They've got me in a crossfire.
She nodded just a bit. "You have the look of your father about you, boy. You remind me of that sick old bastard."
Bron didn't know quite what to say, so he asked the one question that most often came to mind. "Why the hell did you leave me?"
The mousey woman stared at him, and her jaw began to work, as if she were speaking, but no words would come. Tears welled in her eyes, and she shook her head no. "Oh, god, I am so sorry! I wasn't abandoning you. I was trying to save you!"
"From what?" Bron demanded.
"From Lucius," she said as if it were obvious, but the name didn't ring a bell.
She frowned, then said, "Lucius Chenzhenko, your father." She said the name as if it should strike terror into his heart, and to Bron's surprise, Olivia gasped.
"I, I haven't told Bron about Chenzhenko," Olivia apologized. "I never imagined...."
Bron's mother peered at Olivia accusingly, her mouth widening in horror, then looked back to Bron. "Your father is Lucius Chenzhenko. You've never even heard the name?" she asked in disbelief, as if a major part of Bron's education had been neglected.
"You know what the Draghouls are, though," his mother asked, "those who belong to the dark guild?"
Bron nodded.
"Lucius is their leader, their ... king," his mother explained. "He is the Shadow Lord who rules the stock markets and the banks. He is a puppet master who controls the nations. He has held his position for the last five thousand years. Though you might not have heard
of Lucius, an older version of his name has passed down through history. Certainly you've heard of Lucifer?"
Chapter 27
A Child's Tale
"The greatest leap in human evolution took place when men realized that they could use their brothers as tools to meet their own ends.
"For most people, to do this remains morally repugnant.
"But as masaaks, we need not refrain from using mankind on moral grounds. We are lions, and they are cattle.
— Lucius Chenzhenko
Sommer was Bron's mother's name, Sommer Bastian, and she did not move from her chair as she spoke. Instead she jutted her chin toward a couch, ordering Bron and Olivia to sit, and both of them took seats uneasily.
Olivia looked about the two-room shack, torn between the desire to know more, and an aching thirst.
As she settled into a seat, Olivia studied her surroundings. A wood stove sat quietly in the corner. There was no need for heat tonight, and probably had not been for months.
There was no sign of electricity that Olivia could see—no refrigerator, no microwave, no phone or clock. The only burglar alarm came from the hounds on the porch. The only sound from neighbors erupted from the frogs outside, croaking in hysteria, and the occasional barking call of an alligator or the hoot of a great-horned owl.
Olivia could only guess at the fear that had driven Bron's mother to such a primitive existence. The petite woman bore little resemblance to Bron.
"Could we have a drink?" Olivia asked. Sommer kept them covered with her shotgun, but the old man went to a corner and opened a cabinet. He rummaged around for a moment, pulled out a couple of tin cans. He tossed them across the room. In the dim light of the lantern, it was hard to read the contents. Bron's can contained lemonade, sugar free. Olivia had a beer. Their hosts didn't apologize for the fact that the drinks were warm.
This is probably as good as it gets out here, Olivia realized. There would be nothing to drink in this swamp.
"I was only eighteen when I met him," Sommer began, as she settled into her story. She spoke guardedly, as if what she had to say pained her. Yet she was resigned to tell the whole truth. "My father worked on the bayou, fishing for catfish by nights, trapping crayfish and turtles by day. I knew nothing of the world. But we lived near the city, in a fine little house, with twenty acres of swamp behind it. Our nearest neighbors lived half a mile away, and so it was a quiet existence, until I turned eighteen."
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