by Terri Reid
The people in Yellville lived mostly off the bounty of the swamp, but had enough dry land to plant gardens and graze a few cows and goats. They were a trustful sort who never locked their doors at night—unless somebody took to telling stories of old Hattie. On those nights, locksets clicked and wooden bolts were thrown before the lights went out, because nobody wanted Hattie getting in.
“I think we ought to turn around,” Virgil said. He swatted at the mosquitoes that swarmed about his head.
“Tommy Coultrain said you had to pass a giant Cypress tree, bigger than any other in the swamp. When you come to it, you’d be almost there.”
Virgil slapped another mosquito. “And how’s Tommy Coultrain know that?”
“His cousin told him,” Vernon replied.
The pair sloshed further ahead, wading in ankle-deep water. Virgil didn’t like the dead-fish smell of the bayou, or the mosquitoes that sucked his blood from above the water, while leeches sucked his blood from below it. The dampness mixed with the heat to create an oppressive, insulting atmosphere.
Virgil grabbed Vernon’s arm and pointed. “Look at that tree!” he said in a muted shout.
Vernon looked in the direction where Virgil pointed and saw the biggest Cypress he had ever seen. It would have taken a dozen men with joined hands to circle the trunk of that giant tree. It ascended so high that the top was lost in the canopy of the swamp. The cypress knees were taller than most men and rose like jagged teeth from the shallow black water.
The boys looked at each other, suppressing their fear. They spoke in whispers.
“That’s gotta be it,” Vernon said. “I ain’t never seen a tree that big before.”
“I think we ought to turn back,” Virgil said. “It’s gettin’ darker.” While it was the middle of the afternoon, this deep into the swamp it seemed like twilight. The vegetation overhead was thick, and Spanish moss drooped in masses like gobs of coarse hair.
“Let’s get on past the tree,” Vernon urged. “We might never find it again.”
“Let’s don’t and just say we did,” Virgil replied. “We’ll tell ol’ Tommy we found it.”
Vernon looked at his twin and grinned. “You’re scared.”
“Naw,” Virgil said, shaking his head. “I just think we ought to get back.” He looked at the surrounding swamp. “Look how dark it’s gettin’,” he reminded his brother.
Vernon moved away, forcing Virgil to follow or be left alone. They made it to the giant Cypress tree when Vernon stopped and pulled a small jackknife out of his pocket.
“What are you doin’?” Virgil asked in a hushed but anxious tone.
“Carvin’ my initials in this tree.”
“What for?”
“To prove I was here, o’ course.”
While Vernon carved on the tree, Virgil kept watch for anything that moved. He looked past the huge tree into the gloom of the Blackwater Swamp. He noticed what appeared to be fog hanging over the water, but caught the scent of smoke. What ran through Virgil’s mind was the fact that somebody was burning something this far out in the bayou. He then spotted a thin trail that twisted its way deeper into the swamp. It was nothing more than a muddy rut that cut through the cordgrass and seepweed as it wound around the edge of the murky water. As his eyes followed the path he saw the tops of some weeds move. His eyes stopped on that place as he wondered what unseen thing was moving at ground level. The boy stared as a slithering form emerged from the vegetation—dark in color, its skin glistening with wetness.
He tapped Vernon’s shoulder but couldn’t utter a single word. He pointed with a shaking finger to the path a few yards beyond the big tree.
Vernon saw it too. The creature pulled its entire length onto the path and looped upon itself. Each coil of the great snake seemed as thick as a man’s thigh. It sat in an enormous heap; as if someone had dumped a pile of old tires on the path. It turned its serpentine head toward the cowering boys who were frozen in place with their jaws hanging open.
The snake appeared to stare at them with yellow eyes. Its tongue flicked in and out as if it were altogether another creature—an ugly forked parasite reaching out to taste the humid air.
As if the giant reptile wasn’t enough, the boys looked beyond the snake and watched an old woman emerge from the tall weeds. She wore a dark, raggedy-looking dress that drug on the ground. The bottom of the skirt was wet and muddy. Small leaves and debris clung to it like ticks clinging to a host. Her long gray hair hung down over her face in thick strands which covered one eye. The other eye, dark like a deep pit, was staring at the boys. She raised an arm and pointed a crooked finger in their direction. Then she made the strangest cackling sound blended with a few unrecognizable words in a thick Creole accent. The boys only heard one word clearly.
“Git!”
And they both got. They turned away, tripping over each other to gain distance from the old hag. Their pounding hearts thrummed in their ears. They were barely aware of the racket they made as they crashed through sawgrass and duckweed. Each scrambled over Cypress knees which seemed malevolently intent on slowing them down. The boys leaped over rotted logs, slipped on swampy slime and crawled through muck and brambles. They ignored stubbed toes and fine cuts as they fled.
After what seemed far longer than it was, Vernon chanced a glimpse over his shoulder to see if the swamp witch was following them. He half-expected to see her gliding through the air, that crooked finger pointed at him, that dark, wet dress flapping behind her.
But she was not there.
Virgil never stopped to look back, and Vernon didn’t catch up with him until they got to the dirt road that led back to town. They both flopped down on the road and rolled onto their backs, chests heaving as they pulled in long breaths. Their feet were bleeding. The sawgrass had made fine cuts all over their hands, forearms and shins. They were soaked to the bone from running through muck and shallow water.
After catching enough breath to speak, Virgil said, “I ain’t never goin’ back in there.”
“Me neither,” said Vernon. “Not in a million years do I wanna see anything like old Hattie again.”
“You figure that was old Hattie?”
“You kiddin’?” Vernon asked. “Who else could it be?”
“You saw the size of that snake. I’ll bet it used to be a man—like in the stories.”
“Ain’t no way I’ll let old Hattie turn me into somethin’ awful like that. I’m never going back to the Black Bayou.”
Vernon and Virgil walked back to town, swearing never to tell anybody that they ran across old Hattie for fear they may be locked away for being stupid, or because old Hattie might hex them with her swamp-magic voodoo.
*
Yellville was the kind of town where people worked hard, helped one another in a time of need, and celebrated about any occasion with a crawfish boil and fish fry in the town square. A dance typically followed any community gathering. The sound of fiddles, banjos and guitars floated over the square like a musical mist. The old folks tested their dancing legs while bashful boys hooked elbows with giggling girls at the urging of friends.
Although Vernon and Virgil swore they would never tell about their encounter with old Hattie, the fear wore down and the memories of what had happened became mixed with what they thought happened and they told their buddies. The story was told differently the first few times. In one version, Hattie had no eyes—just deep holes where eyes should have been. In another rendition, lightning flew from Hattie’s fingertips, narrowly missing Vernon, but catching a tree on fire.
And of course, those friends who heard the stories were sworn to silence, and each other person they told was sworn in the same way, and soon the town was buzzing with talk about Hattie.
Virgil grew ever more curious about Hattie the swamp witch, which prompted him to visit old lady Greenwood. Everyone in town called her Granny Greenwood, and she was known to serve up home-baked cookies to anyone who might stop and visit for a spell.
A heavyset woman waddled toward the door, looking over her reading glasses at the boy. She clutched a skein of yarn and a pair of knitting needles in one hand.
“I ain’t buying nothing,” she said. She looked at Virgil through the screen.
“Not selling anything, Granny,” Virgil replied. “Just wanted to ask you about the old days,” he said, knowing she had a fondness for telling stories about the town’s history.
She waved Virgil in as she hobbled toward her rocking chair. A black cat scurried into the darkness of a back room.
“You takin’ an interest in Yellville history?” Granny asked. She motioned for Virgil to have a seat on the threadbare sofa.
“Well, ma’am,” Virgil said, “I truly wanted to know something about old Hattie.”
“Oh, Lord,” Granny said as she picked up a hand fan and began waving it before her plump face. “Everybody’s talkin’ about Hattie again.” She eyed Virgil with a suspicious look. “Which twin are you? I never see one of you without the other.”
“Virgil, ma’am,” Virgil replied. “And I’m curious about what is fact and what is fiction in regards to old Hattie.”
“Fact and fiction,” Granny repeated. “I know a few of the facts,” she said. “I knew Hattie back in the day.” The hand fan sped up. “I knew her momma better.”
Virgil nodded, encouraging Granny to go on with what she knew.
“Hattie’s momma fell in love with a Choctaw Indian,” Granny said. “She would sneak off into the swamp to meet with this Indian fella. They had to keep it all secret, you see, because Hattie’s momma was white, and this fella was an Indian. His tribe was hidin’ in the swamp, because the government was roundin’ up all the Indians and sendin’ them out west.” Granny paused a moment to think. “Oklahoma, I believe,” she said.
“Hattie’s mamma was named Nell, and her and her Indian beau kept meeting in secret whenever they could. Then one day, Nell’s papa noticed how his daughter was bulging a bit in the middle.” Granny looked at Virgil, uncertain on how to continue this part of the story.
“She was with child,” Granny said.
Virgil nodded in understanding.
“The folk in Yellville ain’t got nothin’ against the Choctaw,” Granny said. “Unless your daughter is carryin’ a half-breed baby inside her. Nell’s papa was furious when he found out about her Indian lover and kicked Nell out of his house. She went to live with the Indian in a little shack at the back of the Black Bayou.
“A few months later, Nell died giving birth to Hattie. Nell’s daddy felt horrible. They had the funeral here in Yellville. On that day, Nell’s father buried his only daughter and met his little granddaughter, Hattie.”
Virgil was slowly shaking his head.
“Hattie grew up with her Indian daddy in the bayou,” Granny said. “She came to town once in a while, but never stayed long. She would stop and see her grandparents, but it was always an uncomfortable visit for all involved. At some point, she stopped coming to town altogether.”
It seemed to Virgil as if Granny’s story was nearing the end. “So how did she turn into a witch?” he asked.
“Well, that’s where fact begins to blend with fiction, and I reckon nobody but Hattie knows for sure.” Granny began to rock while continuing to fan herself. “Some folk say the Choctaw tribe never took her in because she was half white. But rumor has it that a Choctaw Medicine Man taught Hattie the healing arts.”
Virgil was nodding, as if the story made sense to him. Then a frown crossed his face. “But that don’t make Hattie a witch,” Virgil said.
Granny acknowledged Virgil’s statement with a nod. “But there came a time when Hattie’s daddy went off toward New Orleans,” Granny said. “And folks say that he came back to the bayou with a dark-skinned woman from a place called Haiti. I never saw this woman,” Granny said, “but others did, and they say she knew black magic and Voodoo. Folks were afraid of that dark woman,” Granny said.
Virgil sat silent, enrapt by Granny’s story.
Granny stopped rocking and leaned toward Virgil on the couch. “I don’t know if this is fact or fiction, but the story goes that the Voodoo lady lived with Hattie and her daddy. And of course that would explain how Hattie got to know black magic and became the swamp witch.”
Granny got up and went to her kitchen. She returned with a small plate of cookies and offered one to Virgil.
“Some who knew Hattie back then say that she wanted to know her family in Yellville, so she stayed close. But she never really fit in and was never accepted by the townsfolk.
“What about the Choctaw tribe?” Virgil asked.
“There are still a few Choctaw up north of here,” she said. “But Hattie stayed out in the only place she felt at home—the Black Bayou—halfway between the Choctaw tribe and Yellville.”
Both Granny and Virgil sat in silence for a moment as Virgil ate his cookie. Then Granny spoke again. “I guess that’s been Hattie’s life all these years; livin’ halfway between the Choctaw and Yellville, and never bein’ fully accepted in either place.”
*
The stories about Hattie swirled around Yellville for a few days before it took to raining. The sky darkened and a light breeze carried the smell of brackish water from the nearby coast. A dark sky turned into a black sky as the rain fell in large, fat drops on the tin roofs of the houses and shacks in town. At that point, talk of the weather overtook talk of Hattie.
The older townsfolk knew that a big storm was churning out in the gulf and prepared for a heavy rain. Some secured tarps over leaky roofs while others did outdoor chores ahead of the storm. Firewood for cooking was stocked in kitchens to keep it dry.
The big drops turned to a steady rain. The wind grew stronger and drove the rain at steep angles. It pounded the windows and doors, finding its way through the smallest cracks in the houses. People walked on wet rugs as they watched puddles grow on their linoleum floors. They kept the kitchen stoves stoked and hot to chase away the permeating dampness.
Outside, things that were not fastened down blew around, banging into other things which set them all in motion across the town from west to east.
And it continued to rain.
“The road’s gone under,” Bobby Monroe said to his wife. There was one road into town, and during hard rains the rising water covered it.
This was not unusual for the town of Yellville. Living in the swamp meant dealing with water. There was no such thing as high ground in the swamp—there was simply higher ground—which might only be a few feet higher than the normal water level in the bayou. When the water rose, the low spots in the dirt road into town went under. There were only a handful of people in town who owned cars anyway, along with a couple of trucks folks used for hauling things. But during high water times, there was no car or truck going to leave Yellville.
But the boats floated just fine despite the high water. The folk in Yellville didn’t fret over a flood. It happened often enough that the folks learned to wait it out.
An old man sat under the covered porch in front of the general store in Yellville. He looked out at the steady rain and saw one of his friends approaching on the boardwalk.
“Mornin’ Harold,” the sitting man said when his friend got under the porch.
Harold shook the water off his raincoat and pulled off his hat. “Do you think it’ll ever stop raining?” he asked.
The old man on the bench looked at the soaked town. “Always has,” he replied.
And after four days of steady rain, it finally stopped. The sky remained gray, but life in Yellville went on. People picked up the clutter from the storm, patched broken windows, and dried out their belongings.
Birds flew and squawked again, fish found that their world had grown larger, and the people and critters of the swamp settled for a new normal.
*
Doctor Jeremiah Jackson awoke one morning well after the storm. When h
e put his feet to the floor, he realized that he felt odd. His face felt flushed as he stroked the gray whiskers on his chin. His lanky frame groaned as he tried to stand up. He sat on the edge of the bed and placed his hands to the sides of his feverish head. His hands were clammy and moist. He lay back again, thinking that this awful sickness would pass.
He could see the gray skies outside his window. The clouds churned on a high-altitude breeze that Doc Jackson wished would come though his open window and relieve the stifling heat.
Just as Doc Jackson drifted into a restless sleep, someone banged on his front door. The sudden sound startled Doc into wakefulness, but he felt even worse than he had before. He remained on his bed, though he urgently wanted to get up.
“Doc! Hey, Doc!”
Someone shouted at his open window. The shouting seemed compelled to rouse the good doctor at all costs. It was a familiar voice, but in Yellville, most every voice was familiar.
“It’s Wilma, Doc. My little girl is sick somethin’ awful!”
Doc Jackson tried to answer Wilma, but his voice was so weak that it was drowned out by the song of a distant mockingbird.
A few minutes later Doc’s front door issued a familiar squeak as it swung open.
“Doc?”
Wilma Upchurch stood in the doorway to Doc Jackson’s front room, listening for any sound. She called the doctor’s first name.
“Jeremiah?”
Doc could not answer, but summoned his strength to reach over and knock a copy of The Good Earth by Pearl S. Buck from his nightstand to the floor.
Wilma heard the thump of the falling book. “Doc? Are you all right?” She walked to the stairs and listened for a reply. “Are you up there?”