by Terri Reid
Wilma often helped Doc with cleaning and dishes and sometimes cooked the elderly neighbor a good meal. He had become a father-figure to Wilma, and often told her stories of his life beyond Yellville. Doc was one of the few people in town who had traveled to the world beyond the swamp. He had been to cities like New York, Boston and St. Louis. He had even gone overseas when he served in the military. People enjoyed his tales of far-off places, and always gravitated toward him when he was around. Every small town has a hero, and for Yellville, their hero was Doc Jackson.
Wilma climbed the creaky stairs and peeked into Doc’s bedroom. The old man struggled to raise his head. She looked into his eyes and saw fright. She saw the sickness in his eyes as well, and didn’t have to ask him how he was feeling.
“Doc, little Emily’s burnin’ up inside,” she said. “And by the looks of it, you ain’t doing any better than she is.”
There was obvious desperation in Wilma’s voice. The old man struggled to rise, and when Wilma helped him do so, dizziness overtook him. His head pounded with a headache, he felt nauseated and could not stand.
“Swamp fever,” he croaked. “High water and mosquitoes…”
Wilma hitched a breath when Doc mentioned Swamp Fever. There had not been a bout of the fever in many years, but Wilma knew the stories—the awful stories of Swamp Fever plagues taking hold of the bayou. It took a certain set of circumstances to trigger an outbreak, and Wilma figured those conditions must have been met.
“What can we do, Doc?” Wilma asked. She took him by the hand and gasped when she realized how hot it was.
Doc Jackson rolled his eyes and wheezed out another breath. He looked at his friend and with a struggling voice, he simply said, “pray.”
*
Later that same night a fog drifted in from the Black Bayou and old Doc Jackson succumbed to the fever. Two neighbor ladies sat with him until he passed because Doc had no family left in Yellville. He took his last breath thirty minutes before midnight. The women said a silent prayer in thanks of Doc’s service to the community. They said a second prayer that the plague would pass quickly and take few.
Little Emily survived until the following day, her youthful immune system allowing her to fight off the infection for a few hours longer. Her parents were heartbroken at the loss of their youngest and watched their other two children with a wary eye, checking for fever every few minutes. By the time news of the deaths had passed around town, several others fell sick with the same fever.
Virgil awoke to the sound of his mother speaking softly. She sat on the edge of Vernon’s bed with her hand held over his twin’s forehead. She noticed Virgil stirring.
“Your brother is hot with fever,” she said.
The worry on her face said everything Virgil was afraid of. “Is it the swamp fever?” Virgil asked in a hushed tone.
She turned her face away from Virgil and her shoulders shook. Her lack of an answer was answer enough.
Virgil climbed out of his bead and pulled on his trousers. He spoke to his mother as he worked his arms into shirt sleeves. “I’ll be back, Momma,” he said in a rush.
His mother barely noticed the door close as Virgil left the house.
Virgil was connected to his brother in a way that only twins would understand. His brother was like an extension of himself, and he could not bear the idea of life without Vernon.
Virgil hurried through the swamp on the same path that he and Vernon had taken only a few days ago. It was the route that led to the back of the Black Bayou. The same path that he swore he would never take again for fear of crossing paths with Hattie the swamp witch.
But now it was Hattie that he sought. Virgil’s fear of Hattie was nothing compared to his fear of losing his only brother. If anyone could save his brother, Virgil figured it was Hattie.
He found the great Cypress tree and saw his brother’s name carved in the bark. He looked ahead to the path, but the water was higher than it had been, and things looked different. He trudged and waded and made his way deeper into the bayou than he had ever been before. The canopy of the trees was so thick over his head that it seemed like darkness had fallen only an hour after sunrise.
Virgil looked around and spotted a small shack in the gloom ahead of him. He pulled up and stared at the small shack. Its roof was covered in moss, and the wood was so dark and damp that it appeared black. The front door was partially open. Only darkness lay beyond it.
“Miss Hattie!” Virgil called. He took a few steps toward the shack. “Miss Hattie!”
Virgil saw the front door of the shack slowly close.
“Miss Hattie?” There was no response.
A channel of deeper water lay between Virgil and the shack. He looked for a way across and spotted the eyes and nostrils of a large alligator in the black water. He saw no other way to cross.
“Miss Hattie, the people in Yellville are sick and dying from the swamp fever,” Virgil shouted. The big alligator submerged at the sound of Virgil’s voice. He heard a soft shuffling sound from inside the shack.
“Don’t mean to trouble you, Ma’am,” he said. “But good folks are dyin’, and I was hoping you’d be able to—”
A loud, angry cackle came from the shack, cutting Virgil off. The boy stood his ground while every muscle in his body tensed.
“Miss Hattie,” he called. “Truth is, my brother is sick with the fever. He’s my twin, and I love him more than anything.” Virgil’s voice gave way to a sob. “I need your help, Miss Hattie, and I’d be eternally grateful if there was anything you could do.”
A softer, smoother cackle came from the dark shack. The door opened just a bit.
Virgil sat with his head in his hands and cried. “I can’t live without Vernon,” he wailed. “If he was to die… well, you might just as well turn me into a snake.”
Virgil heard a sound from the shack. A giggle? He sat for a long while before he decided he’d said his piece. No sounds came from the shack, so with his head hung low, Virgil began the trek back to Yellville with his mind on his brother and best friend.
*
Three days after Doc Jackson died there were several fresh graves next to the Baptist Church. The townsfolk held mass funerals to bury their dead while others still suffered on their deathbeds. After the funerals, most of the somber community gathered around the churchyard. The only ones missing were those who sat at bedsides caring for the sick.
“Ain’t never seen anything like it,” a man said as he stroked his chin. “Been livin’ here all my life and there ain’t never been a plague like this.”
“It ain’t natural,” another man said. “Like the ol’ Devil takin’ a shot at Yellville.”
Others nodded, and another spoke up. “My guess is old Hattie brought this on us. You know them twins claim to have seen her a few days ago. Right after that, we get a storm and a flood, and then… well, this.” He waved toward the graveyard, and then slapped a mosquito that was feasting on his neck.
The men looked at each other. “And the ’skeeters,” one offered, “I ain’t never seen them so thick.”
During a moment of silence as the men stood around, one of them had a hateful idea.
“I think we ought to go fetch old Hattie and put an end to this.”
“How you mean to put an end to it?” another asked.
“We tote her back to town and show her the end of a rope,” one boasted.
“Hang old Hattie?” one criticized. “If you ever found her, hangin’ would be too good for her.”
Heads nodded and eyes glanced around the group trying to determine if anyone was serious about finding old Hattie and hanging her.
Just about then, an eerie sound came from the swamps behind the graveyard. It was a sound so haunted and sad that some of the men shuddered. It could have been described as a wail, or perhaps a howl, but it sounded like something that was injured and dangerous.
The men looked at each other again, but this time with doubt in their weary eyes. One
decided to lighten the mood and took another by the arm.
“You gonna let a little swamp cackle spook you?”
Some of the men put their hands in their pockets and others dug into the mud with the toe of their boots. Everyone who lived in Yellville for any length of time had heard what the locals call a swamp cackle. Most attributed the sounds to Hattie, but others knew that there were plenty of things in the swamp that made mighty strange sounds. Nobody knew what it was, and nobody wanted to go find out… especially after the shadows grew long and the night creatures began to move. A swamp cackle could send shivers up the spine of a confident man.
“I say we fetch a rope, and when morning comes, we head out to the bayou, find old Hattie and put an end to this once and for all,” the same man said. “I’m tired of livin’ under her spell…”
Another swamp cackle echoed off the trees and the dark water and carried to the small group of men who could not help but move closer to the church. One of the men saw his wife emerge from the open doors.
“There’s my wife,” he said as he moved toward her. “Better git on home.”
Others searched for their wives and kids and within minutes the group of men had disbanded, all thoughts of a hanging quelled, but thoughts of the swamp witch heavy on their minds.
*
Few folks in Yellville slept well the night after the first round of funerals. Many were still suffering from the fever themselves. Those who weren’t sick sat and watched over others who were.
The widow Evelyn James lived alone in a two-story house next to the town square. Like many folks in the autumn of life, Evelyn often found it difficult to sleep. She spent many nights looking out her bedroom window, watching stray dogs and cats and noticing when a light came on at a neighbor’s house. Her insomnia had worsened in the months since her husband of forty-three years had gone to be with the Lord. She missed cooking and caring for him. Since his death, Evelyn ate simple meals and tried to keep busy cleaning the house that nobody messed up.
But on the day of the first funerals she had missed her afternoon nap, so when she retired for the night she was more sleepy than usual. She managed to fall into a slumber while listening to the lullaby of the frogs, crickets and owls in the bayou.
Something awakened her in the small hours of the morning. It was such a gentle awakening that she lay there confused for a few minutes wondering why she was awake but still so sleepy. She listened, certain she had heard something unusual, but puzzled by what it might have been.
The clock on her dresser ticked in a routine rhythm. Thinking that a forgotten dream likely woke her, she adjusted herself and her light covers and closed her eyes again.
Then a sound triggered a faint memory of what had awakened her.
She heard someone whispering. It was too faint to make out the words, but definitely a whisper from somewhere just beyond her room. The voice was unique, raspy and high-pitched. Evelyn noted the delicate clink of metal and a watery sloshing sound.
She was about to get up and look out her window when another strange sound broke the silence.
Laughter.
That same unusual, unfamiliar voice chuckled ominously. It was a hideous, deceitful laugh that sounded like a hyena circling a wounded animal. The laugh turned to a chant, a soft and melodic chant with the cadence of a poem being read in a hush.
Then there came another soft, metallic clink, followed by more chanting.
She could no longer resist a peek out her window. She swallowed her fear and crept to the windowsill. She stood to one side, peeking toward the square. She saw a firelight flickering on the wall of a storage building, but could not see the source. Embers lifted upward, dancing toward the sky. A shadow crossed the same wall. Some hideous, crouching form moved about the small fire, casting a dark, distorted shape upon it.
Evelyn rushed back to her bed. She broke out in a cold sweat under her cotton sheet. She dared to wipe the sweat from her brow, but was careful to be as silent as the dead. Something was out in the town square—and Evelyn felt content in her ignorance of what it might be.
The whispering continued, broken from time to time with that ghastly muted laughter.
Dark, dreadful images filled Evelyn’s head until she wished she could have been snoozing instead of wondering what lay beyond her small house whose walls suddenly seemed insubstantial.
She closed her eyes and pulled the sheet over her gray hair, pulling it tight despite the heat in her core and the cold sweat on her skin.
Sometime toward dawn, the strange sounds ceased, but Evelyn prayed for sunlight to fall upon her windowpanes. But daybreak brought a dismal gray sky, as if night was hesitant to let go.
When the sound of voices—normal voices—drifted through her window, Evelyn looked outside. There were several people gathered at the town square, talking as much with their hands as their voices.
Evelyn knew everything that went on in Yellville, and there were no scheduled gatherings in the town square that morning. She rushed herself into her house-dress, pulled on a head-scarf, and set out to see what was happening, ever mindful of the strange sounds she had heard in the night.
As she approached the gathering of people, she realized they were all looking into a kettle that hung from a steel tripod over a small bed of hot coals. The community used iron kettles for crawfish boils and other celebrations that involved cooking. Beside the kettle she saw a crude sign—a sheet of parchment with a stick poked through it at the top and the bottom and shoved into the soft ground. A single word was written upon it:
CURE
The word had been scrawled onto the paper with some coarse writing instrument, perhaps a sharpened twig dipped into some dark, inky liquid.
Evelyn peeked inside the kettle and saw a bubbling green brew, thick and noxious. Flecks of various colors surfaced then rolled back under to be replaced by other colorful bits of things that might have been herbs.
Evelyn saw the confusion on the faces gathered round. “It’s from old Hattie,” she said. “I heard somethin’ out here last night, making all sorts of strange sounds.”
Virgil joined the gathering crowd. “Did you see her?” he asked.
Evelyn shook her head. “But it was Hattie, I swear.”
All eyes were upon Evelyn now as she described the sounds and the chanting and how scared she had been.
Evelyn looked into the pot. “I ain’t touchin’ that stuff,” she said. “Probably turn you into a goat or somethin’ if you drink it.”
Heads nodded all around her just as Pastor Turner approached. The short and rotund preacher peeked into the kettle. He had listened to what Evelyn was saying and tossed forth an opinion. “It’s the work of the Devil,” he said as if he knew with certainty. “The Devil and his minions are trying to deceive us.”
That must have sounded right to the majority of folks gathered around. A few whispered amen and others said sweet Jesus, save us under their breath. Pastor Turner lifted his ever-present Bible and led the group in prayer, asking forgiveness for sins and salvation from the swamp fever and the Devil.
Virgil kept his eyes open during the prayer so he could watch the bubbling green liquid in the kettle. It was a mesmerizing sight and he could not pull his eyes from it. But he wondered if Hattie had actually made a cure, or if this might be a trick because he had dared to ask for her help. The kettle could be full of poison for all Virgil knew.
It was then that Big Bill Jennings walked into the growing crowd. Big Bill was called Big Bill not because he was a large man, but because he had a son who everyone called Little Bill. But Big Bill was a big man in Yellville. He was the closest thing to a mayor the town ever had.
Big Bill was level-headed and generally made good decisions on the town’s behalf. He was Yellville’s go-to man when emergencies arose. When Big Bill had something to say, the people of Yellville listened.
Big Bill stepped up to the kettle and was brought up to speed on the ideas surrounding its appearance in the town s
quare.
After considering all arguments, Big Bill took off his hat and spoke.
“Little Bill has taken the fever,” he said. “His momma is watchin’ over him, but the boy’s burning up. He’s talkin’ crazy… don’t even seem to know who I am.” He hung his head at the sadness of his own story.
Faces drooped at the news of Little Bill. The boy was fourteen years old and always on the right side of things. He helped people out when he could and was admired by all in town.
Big Bill spoke up again. “The road is underwater, and those who are sick would never make it out of the swamp by boat. Doc Jackson is gone, and I’m afraid there isn’t much more we can do.” He paused for a minute, seemingly looking at his boots. Then he raised his head again. “If there is any chance this brew is really a cure, then I’m all for trying it.” He looked into people’s eyes, seeing the sadness and fear reflected back to him. “I don’t see as we have anything to lose.”
Big Bill took the ladle that hung from the side of the kettle and dipped it into the churning green concoction.
The preacher warned him again that it was the work of Satan.
Evelyn told him that there wasn’t anything good that came from old Hattie and the Black Bayou. “Swamp witch magic will do you in!” she admonished.
But Big Bill cautiously sipped the cooling mixture with all eyes upon him. Not a breath was exhaled until Big Bill slugged down the ladleful and was still standing. He belched, excused himself, and then licked his lips. “Ain’t that bad,” he said. “It smells worse than it tastes.”
He dipped the ladle again, letting the overflow drip back into the kettle. He then took the full ladle and walked toward his house which was a block away.
Half the crowd followed him. The others stayed back and talked about what a foolish thing he had just done. Someone offered that he might now be under old Hattie’s spell and should not be trusted. Many agreed.
Within a few minutes, Little Bill’s mother spoonfed her child the green substance with some folks looking in from the parlor and others peeking in the windows of Big Bill’s house.
An hour went by with no change in Little Bill, but his mother said he seemed to be cooling down. The crowd started to dwindle, many having sick of their own to care for and chores that had to be done. But a few stayed around and watched, curious about what effect the brew might have on the ailing boy. Virgil watched, ready for a sign that he could use the brew to save his twin.