Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  WATER WITCH

  Deborah LeBlanc

  Published by Deborah LeBlanc at Smashwords

  Copyright 2010 Deborah LeBlanc

  Prologue

  After soaking his father with three gallons of gasoline, Olm lit a match and tossed it onto the old man’s body. With a loud WHOOSH, blinding orange heat towered towards the night sky. Olm took a few steps back, watching in fascination as clothes and hair disintegrated instantly. Soon the pop and sizzle of burning flesh out sang the chorus of nocturnal swamp life that had deafened him for the last two hours—clicks, whines, buzzes from insects too vast in species and number to count, the croaks and whomp from frogs and alligators, snakes with bodies wider than the circumference of a man’s arm. All of them raising their voices to Brother Moon, to one another.

  Skin and thin layers of fat slipped away from bone, the flames licking across the scaffolding that held his father’s body, and Olm hoped the wooden beams would hold until the ritual was completed. So much work had gone into making this happen. He’d cut thick cypress branches to just the right length, soaked them in water, hoisted the weighted logs by himself into a wobbly skiff, then transported them through the dead of too many nights. Through sloughs and flats clotted with water lilies that eventually led to a u-shaped, ten-acre knoll in the farthest corner of the Atchafalaya swamp, far away from prying eyes. Although it had been difficult to lift, hammer, and construct the burial shelf without any help, Olm's greatest challenge had been to steal his father’s body from Sasaint’s Funeral Home before it was embalmed, and to do it without getting caught. The struggle and hard work had been worth it, though, for now that everything was in place, Olms life could truly begin.

  Although this wasn’t the traditional Pawnee burial his father had requested before he died, it was the fastest way for Olm to be rid of the body, which he needed to do if he was to follow through with a crucial, albeit extinct, Pawnee custom. One his father never embraced.

  As legend had it, in order for a son to acquire the knowledge of all the leaders in his ancestral line, he had to offer his father’s body to the elements at the time of his passing. When only bleached bones remained, the father’s spirit would then be released, and all a son had to do was call upon what was rightfully his. To Olm, acquiring that knowledge meant ultimate power. For surely in the roll call of his ancestors, there had to have been medicine men, chiefs, warriors, and mighty hunters, those whose dance offerings and sacrifices, human and animal, changed weather patterns, and produced bountiful harvests. Olm had no intention of planting anything. He figured the same wisdom that created abundance in fields and swamps throughout past generations would adapt and supply the needs of a leader in the twenty-first century. Waiting for his father’s bones to bleach might take weeks, though, even in the ruthless Louisiana heat.

  He’d already spent thirty-seven years waiting for this moment, and Olm didn’t want to wait a second longer than was necessary. Since his father was only one-third Pawnee, and from the Skidi tribe, Olm didn’t think the alterations he’d made in the burial custom would make a difference. As far as he was concerned, he’d followed more than half the custom by bringing his father’s body to the swamp and building the burial shelf. How the bones were exposed shouldn’t matter.

  As the fire roared, and flesh and muscle slipped away, Olm walked towards the ritual circle that lay two hundred feet away. Even from ground level, it looked like a monstrous, unblinking black eye staring up towards heaven. He’d made it after building the burial shelf, using only a hoe, a shovel, and a few ragged memories. The hoe had worked well for marking out the three-hundred foot circumference and for clearing the swamp grass, vines, and bramble from its surface. Once the black earth lay naked, save for a few earthworms, he’d used the shovel to dig the inside of the circle to a three-inch depth. The memories were the only tools that gave him problems.

  When he was a boy, Olm's grandfather had told him stories about how the Pawnee, especially the Skidi, used annual sacrifices to assure bountiful harvests on land and water. He told how they’d danced the Ghost Dance, pleading with Tirawa, the god of the spirit world, for the return of their dead ancestors so the tribe would be strengthened by their collective wisdom and, of course, how a son offered up the bones of his dead father. So many stories, but all of them told so long ago, the details of the rituals were hazy and overlapped. Once again, Olm took the route of improvisation, trusting that he’d be granted dispensation since his father hadn’t bothered to teach him much more than how to chug twelve-ounce bottles of Budweiser without belching.

  At the northern perimeter of the circle sat a small wire-mesh cage Olm had brought along with his father’s body. Inside the cage lay a fat nutria, which he’d captured a week ago and had been caring for since. The rodent appeared mesmerized, small black eyes locked onto the fire. It didn’t even twitch as Olm approached. Once beside the cage, Olm pulled a buck knife out of the back pocket of his jeans, opened it, and flicked his thumb over the six-inch blade. Confident it was sharp enough; he leaned over, stuck the blade into the ground, then righted himself and began to undress. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt more excited. Just thinking about the new life that lay ahead made him giddy, almost lightheaded. No more being laughed at or the brunt of anyone’s joke. After tonight, he’d harvest money, women, knowledge, and strength in abundance. He’d finally be the one to have the last laugh.

  Wearing nothing but gooseflesh and a smile, Olm squatted, opened the back of the cage, and quickly pulled the nutria out by its tail. He held the squealing, writhing rodent at arms length, pulled the knife out of the ground with his free hand, then stood and stepped into the circle. After he reached the center of the sphere, he glanced over at the burial shelf. The fire was receding—his father’s bones were exposed.

  It was time.

  Olm faced west, lifted his arms high above his head, and shouted, “Tirawa!” The nutria clawed and bit at his forearm, but he ignored the pain, concentrating instead on the few Pawnee words he’d learned from his grandfather. The ones that called upon Father Sun, Brother Moon, Mother Earth, Sister Water. He’d practiced for weeks, stringing the words together into a chant, reciting them over and over until they rolled off his tongue with little effort. The words might not have been the same as the ones used by his forefathers during their rituals, but surely these held enough power to gain an ear from the netherworld.

  With the nutria’s teeth buried in his arm, its body twisting and slapping against him, Olm closed his eyes, pictured himself at the head of a tribe of thousands, and began to chant.

  “Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh—Piita. Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh—Piita…” Olm repeated the words again and again, louder each time, until his mind held nothing but the rhythm of the chant. His feet followed that rhythm, stomping the ground, first with his right foot, then with his left. A breeze kept time with him, as did the trees, their leaves rustling a soft percussion.

  Right--stomp. Left--stomp. “Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh . . .”

  Right, left.“Piita—kiitsu . . .”

  Right-left, right-left, right-left—circling, circling.“Sakuru—Poh—Piita!” The vibration of the words ran through Olm’s body, and his vision as leader grew sharper, clearer.

  It was then Olm opened his eyes, stilled his feet, lowered his arms, and rammed the knife into the belly of the nutria, ripping it open from groin to neck. As the animal screeched and writhed in its death throes, Olm held fast to its tail and covered his body with its blood, letting it splash over his shoulders, down his chest, his back, his groin, his legs. When the nutria finally fell limp, Olm tossed it aside, dropped the buck knife, lifted his arms above his head once again.

  “Great Warrier Spirit, I call upon you to give to me what is rightfully mine
. You have promised through the voice and heritage of our people, that a son only has to ask and you will provide. I not only ask you for the fullness of all that made the leaders before me powerful—I command it! Morning Star and Evening Star will testify to my worthiness, as will Brother Moon, Mother Earth, and Sister Water. Listen to their cry. Hear their testimony of all the years I have suffered, waiting patiently for this moment, enduring hardship after hardship. Do not turn your face from me, oh, Great One. I call upon you and all your minions, those from the North, South, East and West and command that the promise be fulfilled quickly. You must obey . . . Kiitsu, now! Sakuru, now! Poe, now! Piiti—“

  Before he finished the command, a gust of wind slammed into Olm's back, nearly knocking him off his feet. With it, came the maddening chitter of insects, the croaks and whomp from frogs and alligators, only their calls sounded louder than before. Shivering, he glanced about. The fire had died from the burial shelf, making the night darker; the stars above him appeared brighter, bigger. He heard the loud lapping of water against the shore of the knoll. The fecund scent that had surrounded him earlier seemed more concentrated now. Everything appeared the same, only magnified, amplified. The air was charged with something different.

  He peered from left to right, turning in small, slow circles, looking, searching for what he felt, but couldn’t see. Then, just off to his right, through an eastbound slough, he spotted something odd. At first, it looked like a million fireflies headed towards him from a great distance. Olm watched, curious, fearful, feeling very naked.

  As the pinpoints of light drew closer, the air grew thicker, charged with an electric current that filled him with dread. The specks of yellow light no longer looked like fireflies, but like eyes. Thousands—no, a million eyes coming towards him—for him.

  And in that moment, Olm instinctively knew that he had somehow managed to summon a hell of a lot more than he’d bargained for.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I don’t know which gave me indigestion first, writing a check for twenty-three hundred dollars made payable to the Internal Revenue Service, or the sound of Fritter scratching on the back door. Not that it really mattered. Both were bad news.

  Wanting to delay the inevitable as long as possible, I hesitated signing my name. Hell, the IRS got its due whether I waited until the last minute, barely making the April 15th deadline, something I did every year, or not.There was a point to my procrastination.

  For some reason, working as a freelance writer and being an heir to a few interest-bearing accounts not only made me a target for regular audits, but also a test subject for new and useless tax forms. I always imagined some governmental toad eagerly counting off five cents from every ten cents I earned, with a Post-It note stuck to the side of his or her computer that read, Reminder: Fuck with Dunny Pollock, the freak who lives in Cyler, Texas. As far as I was concerned, the bastards didn’t deserve my money any sooner than was mandated. Reluctantly, I scribbled my name on the appropriate line, then stuffed the check into the envelope.

  As much as I despised the IRS, at least I knew what to expect from them. Fritter’s scratching was a different story. Experience had proven more times than not that the small, wiry-haired mutt had an internal oh shit meter worth noting.

  Fritter had shown up about six months ago, pawing at my door and staring through the screen with large, watery brown eyes. Judging by the prominent show of ribs and the lack of a collar, I figured he had no home and wanted food, so I’d tossed out the only leftovers I had at the time. Half an apple fritter. He’d sniffed it and looked at me as if to say, What, no kibble? No beef? Then, after batting the stale pastry around a couple of times with a paw, he’d wolfed it down. No sooner had my offering disappeared, than he resumed scratching at the door until I went outside to shoo him away. That’s when I noticed a reddish sheen rising over the eastern horizon. It had taken a few seconds for me to realize it was far too early in the day to be a sunset, and I was facing in the wrong direction to boot. I blinked, took another look. The azimuthal glow shifted and wavered, as if west Texas had suddenly been awarded its own version of the Northern Lights. It turned out to be a brushfire so large it took three county fire departments to put it out.

  About a month later, while getting ready for bed, Fritter showed up at my door again, pawing as if he meant to rip through wood and screen. It was late, and I was already grumpy from a looming deadline and an article that refused to gel, so I just grabbed the first thing I happened upon in the fridge and threw it out to shut him up. It was sliced deli turkey, which evidently didn’t require sniffing because he simply swallowed the meat whole. I didn’t even have time to close the kitchen door before he was at it again, scratching, pawing, whining for all he was worth. Twenty minutes later an F2 tornado plowed through Cyler, missing my house and the twenty-acre spread that surrounded it by mere feet.

  The final incident that forced me to put two and two together about the dog came a couple of weeks later. I’d just climbed into my truck to head for the grocery store when the mutt came tearing around the corner of the house and threw himself at the driver’s door. I hollered at him to beat it, but he only hurled himself at the door again. I honked the horn, and he ran off a few feet, then came to a stop and gave me a look that seemed to say, Listen to me—see me—don’t go! That look was so human-like, so readable, I almost got out of the truck. Instead, I gave myself a reprimanding tsk and sped off. Fritter chased the truck down the long gravel drive, and it was about a mile down Highway 142 before I finally lost him.

  On my return trip from the store, bench seat loaded down with eggs, milk, bread, more sliced turkey, cans of beef stew, and orange juice, I was t-boned by a teenager speeding across an intersection in his father’s red Camaro. Luckily there’d been no serious injuries. I managed to walk away with only a bump on the head, a scratch on my right knee, and the inside of the truck covered in egg slime. When I got home, Fritter had been waiting. He yapped and raced about my feet, evidently glad to see me, then trotted off with his tail and head held high. There’d been no mistaking the haughty attitude . . . “See what you get for not listening to me, Ms. Thing?” Ever since then, the dog and I had a clear understanding. He scratched, I paid attention.

  With my stomach twisting up in knots, I pushed away from the table and went over to the door to see what Fritter wanted. As soon as I turned on the back porch light, I spotted him running in circles, chasing his tail as if something had latched onto it and refused to let go. I pushed open the screen door and quickly scanned the sky. There was no whistle in the wind, no reddish glow. It looked like any other small town, Texas night in April. Cool, dark, and filled with more stars than was possible to count.

  I turned to the dog. “What now?”

  As soon as Fritter heard my voice, his frantic circling ceased. He looked up at me, and the intensity of his stare sent my heart hammering against my chest.

  “What?” I asked again, frustrated he didn’t speak English and I couldn’t speak dog. All I had to go on were those looks he gave me. “Well?”

  In response, Fritter suddenly bolted, squeezed himself between the open door and me, and ran into the house.

  “Hey!”

  The mutt ignored me, toenails ticking, scritching on the kitchen linoleum as he ran across the room. I watched dumbfounded as he finally slid to a stop, right beneath the old telephone mounted on the far back wall. There he sat and chuffed, looking up at the phone, then over at me, then up at the phone again.

  I stood in the doorway, unsure of what to make of the situation. Fritter had never come into the house before. In fact, he’d never stayed in the yard longer than a day at a time. When he wasn’t warning me of something, he came and went as he pleased; usually taking advantage of the bowl of water and occasional leftovers I placed near the tool shed out back. Although he didn’t belong to me, I’d named him. I had to call him something other than Dog, and Fritter just seemed appropriate. A sort of commemoration of the first time we met.


  I closed the door and walked over to him, settling my right hand on my hip. Fritter chuffed again, swiped his tongue over his snout, then flopped onto his belly. He glanced up at the phone, then over to me, and the inside of my chest suddenly felt weighted with a thousand fluttering bats. Was he trying to warn me that something was going to happen in this house? Or that bad news was coming by way of the phone? My stomach churned again, and I tried convincing myself, despite the other warnings, that I was being paranoid. That Fritter was nothing but an old dog that happened to be around in the wrong place at the right time. Nothing but coincidence. But I couldn’t let it go.

  I pointed a finger at him. “Look, if you’re trying to tell me something, you’re going to have to do better than that.”

  Fritter glanced from me to the phone again, yawned, then rested his muzzle between his front paws. His yawn caused a few of the bats nesting in my chest to scatter. Maybe his scratching wasn’t a warning this time. Maybe he just wanted a warmer place to sleep tonight or a late snack. And even if he meant to warn me about something, it couldn’t have been that urgent, he looked too relaxed.

  I blew out a loud breath and headed for the pantry to get a can of beef stew. “You make me crazy, you know that?” Fritter rolled his eyes in my direction, as if I were the nuisance.

  Shaking my head, I opened the pantry and stepped inside. It was the size of a small, walk-in closet and always smelled of fresh dug potatoes and onions, even though I stored neither on its shelves. That scent had a way of bringing me comfort, a sense of peace, home and family. I closed my eyes for a moment and inhaled deeply, remembering. There was a lot to remember.

  My paternal grandmother had stored potatoes and onions, which had been harvested from my grandfather’s garden, in this pantry for as long as I could recall . . .which was quite a number of years. I’d lived here since I was five, along with my younger sister, Angelle, after our mother and father died in a car accident in El Paso. Mom and Pop Pollock had taken us in immediately after the accident, and for years, they made sure we never wanted for the basics in life or questioned whether or not we were loved. When it came to food and shelter, love and protection, especially protection from outsiders who wanted to know more about my secret, Mom and Pop Pollock had given all they had. And they continued to give even after they died, which had been about two years ago. Mom passed on after a heart attack on Valentine’s Day, and Pop followed a month later from a massive stroke. Their will had been short and simple; everything was to go to Angelle and me. The house, the land, a 1987 Ford pickup with only forty-one thousand miles on the odometer, and a surprising amount of money they’d managed to squirrel away in money market certificates.