Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  The children’s shrieks didn’t worry him, for the knoll was so far back in the swamps, God Himself couldn’t hear them. If anything, their cries for help encouraged Olm. It meant their fear had already started. To encourage and feed that fear even more, he’d tied them back to back against a cypress tree and made them watch while he dug two holes, both three feet wide by three feet deep—a hole for each of them.

  As soon as he reached the appropriate depth for each hole, the rich, black earth beneath his shovel grew spongy, just as he’d suspected it would. That had given Olm hope, for it was just another step in the plan that had gone without a hitch.

  The only real hiccup had come when he’d grabbed the boy to put him in the first hole. The brat bucked and wiggled and refused to keep his legs outstretched. It was only when Olm threatened to bash the girl’s face in with a shovel that the boy quieted down. The girl gave him no problem at all. In fact, she seemed almost paralyzed with fear.

  Once the children were settled in their individual holes, Olm had moved on to the next part of the plan. He collected silt in a metal bucket from the edge of the knoll, then dumped that silt over their legs. It had taken several trips to bury both children waist deep, but once that was done, all he had to do was stay mindful of the schedule he’d set, the one that ran in conjunction with the waxing moon. From there, it was only a matter of waiting.

  Waiting—simple—simple pimple.

  But it wasn’t simple. The waiting drove Olm mad. He wanted to move on with his new life now, wanted whatever he’d fucked up to be fixed now. But only so much silt could be added now. Too much too soon, and the whole schedule would be thrown off. He had thirty-one hours and twenty-two minutes left before he could bring the ceremony to its climax. That was a lot of time—for fear.

  Olm imagined the horror raging in the children’s minds as they felt bucket after bucket of silt dumped on their bodies, the level of muck rising higher and higher, pressing against their chest and back. He wondered what their reactions would be once the mud reached their shoulders and inched up to their chin—covered their mouths. Then what terror, what glorious terror might fill them as the ceremony rolled to its conclusion. The last bucket poured—pushing the silt past their noses—finally suffocating them in mud. What could possibly generate more fear than that? Then to join that apex of fear to the fullness of Brother Moon—the entire plan was pure genius.

  After the fear element was offered to Tirawa, all he’d have to worry about was the blood, something so easily remedied. He’d make certain the children were dead, then dig them up one at a time and wash their bodies with swamp water. Once cleaned, he’d cut out their hearts and place them on a burial shelf, where they’d be burned in honor of Tirawa. Then it would be done.

  Olm felt no guilt or regret for anything he’d done or would do to the children. It was simply the way of his people, something he accepted wholeheartedly. Besides, it was either them or him, and which offered more by way of societal contribution? The children were simply two brats on an already overpopulated planet. Kids understood little more than take, take, and always wanted more. He, on the other hand, not only had the wisdom of additional years, he had a bloodline that had led an entire nation of people. Yes, who contributed more, indeed.

  All he had to do was survive the next thirty-one hours and a handful of minutes. And he would, no matter what it took. He’d hide out if he had to, do without food or water until this was over. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this ceremony and getting his new life started. He was willing to do whatever needed doing to turn the universe in his favor.

  Having calmed considerably, Olm pulled his truck over to the side of the road and stared out at the bayou that ran parallel to the road. Down those murky waters, through the sloughs and channels, across the flats, down into the darkest parts of the Atchafalaya, where the cypress tress grew so thick their branches seemed conjoined, sat his two aces—in the hole. He considered the wild game, snakes, and alligators that populated the swamp. There was always the chance the children might wind up as a meal before ceremony time. That thought sent a slight flutter of concern through Olm, but he quickly squelched it. In truth, collectively or independently, mud, alligators, spiders and snakes bred fear. Wasn’t that what really mattered, the fear? If nature got to the kids before he did during the full face of the moon, there was nothing he could do but accept it as fate. Surely Tirawa would take everything into consideration.The children’s fear would still be a part of the ceremony, even if he didn’t get to witness it.

  Olm smiled. It felt good to have a plan come together, especially one this intricate and of his own making. He wished his grandfather was around to witness the ceremony, maybe take part in it. He imagined the elderly man standing tall, chest stuck out with pride over the work of his grandson.

  With a contented sigh, Olm turned, ready to tap the accelerator and pull back onto the highway when he heard someone call his name. A deep, raspy sound that sent dread rumbling through him.

  Not wanting to look but unable to help himself, Olm glanced in the rearview mirror. The sound had come from behind him—the backseat—the back—behind. He saw it immediately. A black, translucent thing, wavering, bobbling as though having difficulty maintaining its shape. It looked similar to the ones he’d seen in the kitchen—the ones that haunted him night after night, the one that touched him, kept him from sleep—the ones that contaminated his food.

  Only this time . . . this one had teeth.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Bayou Crow gave me a new appreciation for the term small town. Although it held the standard one red light, one main road attraction of most rural blips on the U.S. map, it was the first one I’d seen with a levee wall flanking its entire east side. Beyond that wall was nothing but swamp, which wasn’t surprising. Most of southern Louisiana appeared to be swamp, a giant fertile womb always giving birth. It kept its offspring close, nurturing it with an exotic amniotic fluid that created beauty out of dark and foreboding. The population of Bayou Crow might have only numbered six hundred, but what lived and thrived in and on these waters was countless. I felt it, saw it as we traveled near its banks. So many birds—reptiles—animals—insects . . . To someone whose total wildlife adventures consisted of running into an occasional jackrabbit or groundhog, maybe even a scorpion or rattler, and, of course, kept company with a mangy mutt, it was all a bit intimidating.

  Aside from its swamp, Bayou Crow didn’t offer a hell of a lot. A few beat up mobile homes and weathered clapboards lined its west bank, along with a beige metal building that held a large red and white sign which read: DALE’S TRADING POST. Just below that sign were notices that DALE’S now carried live bait, served frozen daiquiris, and had a thirty-percent sale on Blue Bell ice cream. One block past Dale’s was a squat, pale-brick building that, judging by its sign and the crooked cross on the roof, was the Unified Kingdom of Christ Church. It looked more like a post office with a broken weathervane.

  Angelle took a left on a side street that ran alongside the church, her foot still heavy on the gas. I couldn’t blame her. For the past half hour, Poochie had been talking non-stop about ghosts, the feux fo lais, and shoes that disappeared from china ball trees. The only time she came up for air was when she asked a question, and even then you had to answer quickly or she’d fill in the blanks for you.

  “You see dat?” Poochie said, tapping a finger against her window.

  “The church?” I asked.

  She nodded. “Dat’s where de little girl lives.”

  I glanced at Angelle. “The girl who’s missing?”

  “Yeah,” Angelle said. “The preacher there is Sarah’s uncle, Rusty Woodard. They live in that old house, just behind the church.”

  “Dat man’s cuckoo in de head, yeah,” Poochie said. “He can’t hardly keep track of his ownself. No wonder dat baby got los’.”

  “Where are her parents?” I asked.

  Angelle shrugged. “Sarah’s lived with Woodard as long as I�
��ve been here. I’ve never met her parents.”

  “I don’t know about de daddy, but I know about her mama,” Poochie said matter of factly.

  “How can you know?” Angelle said. “You’ve only lived here a couple of weeks.”

  “Sook tol’ me, dat’s how I know. She said when dat little girl was three, four years old, her mama just drop her off in de church like a sack of dirty clothes and tol’ her cuckoo brother she didn’t want her baby no more. Sook said de mama was trash, all de time jumpin’ from boyfriend to boyfriend. I guess she didn’t want no baby around when she did her jumpin’ so she brung her here.”

  “Why do you keep talking about Woodard that way?” Angelle asked. “I’ve met him a few times, and he didn’t seem crazy to me. A little enthusiastic maybe . . .” She turned left into a parking lot that fronted a run-down metal building with glowing Budweiser and Miller Lite signs in the windows.

  “Meetin’ dat man on de street ain’t de same. I’m tellin’ you, he don’t got all his marbles in de same sack, no. When he’s in dat church, he gets all crazy, jumpin’ up and down, wavin’ his arms in de air and talkin’ stuff dat don’t make no sense.”

  “Maybe he’s a fundamentalist?” I offered. “You know, speaking in tongues and all that.”

  Poochie tsked. “De good Lord gave you a tongue, me a tongue, him a tongue. Just ‘cause we got one don’t mean we s’pose to run around and talk stupid.”

  I turned away, hiding a grin. The woman had a point.

  “Enough about him,” Angelle said, killing the engine and opening her door. “Let’s get you inside, Pooch.”

  ”Where are we?” I asked, following her out of the car.

  “This . . .” Angelle spread her arms out wide in mock presentation of grandeur. “Is the Bloody Bucket.” She rolled her eyes, then opened the back car door. After pulling out the collapsible walker, she opened it, then helped Poochie slide out of the backseat.

  Obviously happy to be mobile again, Poochie clomped off with the walker like someone eager to lead a Mexican standoff—pretty impressive for someone supposedly unsteady on her feet. Angelle followed with less enthusiasm, and I trailed behind, worried about what had my sister looking so bad, so exhausted. I had to admit spending that much time in a car with Poochie Blackledge prattling on nonstop was tiring. Although far from boring, being confined in a small space with her was like playing tennis in a closet—in the dark. You couldn’t tell where the ball was coming from next or at what speed. Living with the woman twenty-four-seven had to require the patience of a saint, and even then it wasn’t hard for me to imagine Mother Teresa doing a few eye rolls.

  The sound of arguing reached us before we made it to the front door. A man and a woman from the sound of their voices, and if volume had anything to do with surmising the winner, the woman was way ahead.

  “ . . . and you know that doesn’t make a lick of sense, Vernon Francis—”

  “— said put it on.”

  “It’s too deep, doggonnit!”

  “Just listen to dat,” Poochie said with a snort. “Dem two is at it again.” Having reached the glass door first, she turned her walker sideways and hipped her way into the building.

  Once inside, it was easy to see why Angelle had laughed when I’d asked if the place was a bed and breakfast. Judging by the four aisles filled with assorted foodstuffs, we’d entered the grocery store end of the Bloody Bucket. The small place looked clean but old, and it smelled of grilled onions and fresh fish. The short, narrow counter near the right wall was crammed with various displays—chewing gum, cigarette lighters, artificial fishing bait, rhinestone bracelets, beef jerky, and Eveready batteries. There was hardly room for the cash register, which was a punch key model circa 1953. Butted up against the backend of the counter were two tables, both with faded red bench seats made out of hard plastic. Each table held an ashtray, salt and pepper shakers, a bottle of ketchup and an even taller bottle of Tabasco sauce. On the other side of the room was a set of old saloon type swinging doors, which I assumed led to the bar. And to the right of the doors stood an elderly couple who appeared to be in the middle of a hand-wrestling match. The woman was nearly half a foot taller than the man and probably outweighed him by a hundred pounds.

  “What’s all de noise about?” Poochie demanded. “We could hear y’all big mout’s all de way ‘cross de bayou.”

  The wrestling stopped immediately, and the couple turned towards her at the same time. Angelle let out a little gasp, and my heart did a kerthunk when we caught sight of the generous amount of blood smeared on the front of the man’s white t-shirt.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  “Merciful Jesus and all de saints!” Poochie said, her face growing pale. “What you did, Sook? Stab him?”

  The woman tsked loudly. “No, the darn fool did it hisself.” Grabbing the man’s left hand by the wrist, she pulled it into view. A blood soaked paper towel covered his palm. She yanked it off, revealing a deep gash that promptly sprouted fresh blood.

  The man grimaced. “Dammit, woman! Look it, you got it bleedin’ again. Now I gotta start over with the paper towels.”

  “Don’t you‘woman’ me, Vernon Francis Nezat, and don’t you be cussin’ like that in front of comp’ny. That thing needs stitches and you know it.”

  Poochie nodded vigorously. “Dat’s for sure. Sook said it right on de nose.”

  “And quite a few stitches from the looks of it,” Angelle said grimacing. “How on earth did you manage to do that?”

  He pulled his hand out of Sook’s grip and hissed in pain through his teeth. “First off, ain’t nobody takin’ after me with no needle and thread. I can fix it my ownself. Nothin’ a little rubbin’ alcohol, paper towel, and freezer tape won’t cure.” He marched over to the counter, grabbed a roll of paper towels, and tore off a few sheets.

  Sook stuck a fist on her hip and huffed. “Freezer tape ain’t gonna hold that, you old hard-head.”

  “Then I’ll use duct tape goddam—” He threw me a quick, sheepish look. “I mean doggonit. Sorry.”

  I grinned. “No problem.”

  “Now ain’t that a fine howdy-do,” Sook said, and headed towards me. “We standin’ ‘round here like fool idiots that ain’t got a lick of sense for introducin’. You’ve gotta be Gelle’s sister. How you doin’, Sugah?” She held out a hand, which I quickly scanned for blood before shaking. “I’m Sook, and that skinny piece of man over there with blood all over ‘im ‘cept for that darn camouflage cap on his head is my husband, Vern.”

  “Dunny,” I said still holding my grin.

  She gave my gloved hand a curious look, and I saw the question flash in her eyes. She didn’t ask it, though, only released my hand and grinned back up at me. Her smile appeared easy and genuine, but it did little to soften her face. Sook’s head and neck looked as if they belonged on a linebacker, her nose to a boxer who’d been in too many fights. She wore a red smock, baggie denim, knee-length shorts, and green flip-flops that revealed bright red toenails. Her dark gray hair sat near the base of her neck in a haphazard bun.

  “Angelle says this here’s your first visit to Louisiana,” Vern said, his hand now gloved in paper towels and duct tape. “That true?” He cocked his head, sizing me up, taking in my boots, jeans, long-sleeved button-down shirt, black gloves. His eyes settled on my left hand, and I crossed my arms reflexively over my stomach, meaning to hide both hands from view.

  “Yes, sir, first ti—”

  “Hey, where’s my scoot?” Poochie asked. She took off for the back of the store, her walker thumping the floor with each step.

  “Back in the storage room,” Sook said. “Vern fixed some kinda spring thingee on it this morning. Saw it pokin’ out one side of the seat; didn’t want you hurtin’ yourself on it.”

  “It’s good to go now,” Vern said.

  “’Preciate it,” Poochie said, then disappeared down one of the grocery aisles.

  “You really should have that cut looked at,” Angelle s
aid to Vern.

  “Nah, it’s all good.” He held up his hand. “See? Hardly bleedin’ anymore.”

  As deep as his wound was, I was surprised to see that he was right. There was only the smallest dot of blood in the center of the paper towel.

  “How’d it happen?” Angelle asked.

  “You know that big jar of pickled eggs I got behind the bar?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Fool thing up and broke. I was pickin’ up the glass from the floor when one of the pieces up and stuck me.”

  “Whadda ya mean it up and stuck you?” Sook said. “You wasn’t payin’ attention and grabbed that piece of glass wrong, that’s what happened.”

  He scowled. “I already told you I wasn’t even reachin’ for one when it happened. I was sayin’ somethin’ to Pork Chop and next thing I know, I’m bleedin’.”

  Sook snorted. “That’s what I said. You wasn’t payin’ attention.”

  Batting away her words, Vern stormed off towards the swinging doors, mumbling to himself.

  When he disappeared into the next room, Sook shook her head. “I swear that man’s gettin’ more senile by the day.” She sighed, then went over to one of the tables and dropped onto its bench seat with a grunt. She patted the space beside her. “Y’all come sit, take a load off. Y’all hungry? Thirsty? I can get Vern to cook up a couple burgers real fast.”