Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  A teeaunt diligently prayed for the living and the souls in purgatory until they received a tangible answer to their prayers. That answer could come by way of a family member professing that a fever had finally lifted, or a cardinal roosting on a strand of barbwire at sunrise, which meant a soul had found its way home to heaven. Only then would the teeaunt drop the person from his or her prayer roster. Poochie had known about teeaunts since she was a little girl, but had never really considered herself one. It wasn’t as if anyone said, ‘Here are the rules to being a teeaunt,’ then trained her. She just prayed for people.

  The shoes had come about out of necessity. At one point, so many people were asking her to pray for them or a sick family member or for a loved one who’d passed on and whose soul they thought had a questionable destination, Poochie couldn’t keep track of them all. The shoes served as reminders, a sort of visual of the person they belonged to. Once a prayer was answered, the shoes were returned. The idea to hang the shoes in a tree came to her one day after she’d run out of places to store them in her house in St. Martinville.

  To make room, she simply knotted the shoestrings together and tossed the shoes into the chicken tree that grew in her front yard. If someone brought her a pair of sandals or shoes with no laces, Poochie tied the pair together with twine. By the time she’d left her home to move to Bayou Crow, there’d been over two hundred pairs of shoes hanging in that tree. As far as she knew, they were still there waiting for her. She’d thought about taking them along, but moving them felt sacrilegious somehow, so she’d left them behind.

  This tree, however, was giving her a hissy fit. The last time Poochie counted, the china ball tree held ten pairs of shoes on the left, which was the purgatory side, and eight pairs of shoes on the right, which was the living side. In fact, Sook had been the one to bring the last two pairs of shoes she’d put up on the living side—pink sneakers that belonged to Sarah Woodard and a black pair of high-top sneakers that belonged to Nicky Trahan. Poochie had never met the children, so when Sook brought the shoes, she’d made sure to describe them down to the freckle so Poochie would have a strong visual when she prayed for them. With those babies vividly in mind, Poochie had Trevor place both pairs of shoes side by side on the same branch about midway up the tree. They were still up there, all the living shoes were. Only those two were the smallest, saddest looking pairs of all.

  But something was going on with the purgatory side of the tree that left her completely befuddled. Three pairs of shoes were missing from it. The first pair, a set of dark brown, well-worn loafers with lopsided heels, had disappeared three days ago. They’d belonged to Rospier Trosclair, a big man, according to Marie, his wife. He’d been murdered by Clarence Wallace, the father of a twenty-year-old girl who witnesses claimed Trosclair had raped. Obviously wanting to make sure justice was properly served, Wallace got to Trosclair before the police and bashed his head in with a concrete-filled lead pipe. The loafers had been on Trosclair’s feet the day of his funeral, but removed for whatever reason before the casket was closed. You couldn’t get a ‘fresher’ pair of shoes than that, right off a dead man’s feet—or so Marie had claimed when she’d brought them to Poochie. Not knowing for sure if he had in fact harmed that young girl, the woman feared for her husband’s soul. No one had bothered bringing shoes for Wallace. As far as Poochie knew, the man was still serving life in Angola.

  The second pair of shoes, flip-flops that had belonged to a hooker named Cynthia Bergeron who’d overdosed on drugs, vanished a day after the first, then the third pair went absent the very next day. Those had been shrimp boots, whose owner, according to the woman who’d brought them to Poochie, had killed three people and himself in a drunk driving accident. No matter whom the shoes belonged to, though, or why they’d been brought to her, Poochie couldn’t understand their disappearance. Something like that had never happened to her before, and she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it. Either someone was stealing the shoes, or the dead were returning to claim them. As crazy as both reasons sounded, the last one felt more probable in her belly, which really confused her.

  Dropping her head back, Poochie blew out a breath and took in the expanse of sky above her. She heard the cackle of chickens coming from a neighbor’s yard. A dog barking. The hum of a boat motor off in the distance. The sounds of ordinary life. She’d always found it fascinating, how chaos could swirl around a person while sameness still managed to keep its own pace, like the chickens, the dog, the sky. Chaos, sameness—two big wheels in life spinning in opposite directions, yet still capable of moving a person forward. Only the Big Man Upstairs could come up with something that screwed up and get away with it.

  Lowering her head, Poochie closed her eyes and pictured the face of God. To her, he looked like an old Marlon Brando.

  “God, me and you got to have us a talk,” she said quietly. “I got a lot in my head, and you been leaving me in de dark too long, and I can’t stand it no more. You know if you leave me wit’ no answers like dat I’m gonna wind up wit’ all kinds of trouble, so can you give me a break now? Let me know what’s goin’ on? Look here, I know you brung Angelle’s sister to find dem chil’ren, and I feel in my belly dat you want me to help her find dem, but I don’t know what you want me to. I’d sure appreciate if you’d make dat clear.”

  Poochie paused, allowing God a chance to interject. All she heard was the chickens. She pursed her lips, a little perturbed that He wasn’t being more immediate with answers, readjusted her behind on the bench, then continued. “Okay, den here’s another one. I got dis feeling dat Dunny’s hands got something to do with what she’s gotta do for dem kids and dat don’t make no sense to me. De woman wears gloves all de time. I know ‘cause I seen her. Den, when we was at de Bloody Bucket, I could tell in her face dat her hands was hurtin’ her real bad. Does she got a bad case of art’ritis or was dat you passing her a sign? You know, like you pass me in my belly? I’d appreciate if you’d let me know dat.”

  She opened one eye and glanced up at the sky. “And something else if it’s okay wit’ you . . .I know I already ask you a bunch of times about dem little chil’ren, dat somebody find dem fas’ before something bad happens, but you been slow answering dat, too, so I figure I bes’ ask for dat again.”

  A soft breeze ruffled Poochie's hair and sent a chill up the back of her neck. She nodded, closed her eye and bowed her head, accepting the breeze as confirmation of the deity’s presence. “Thank you, God, for hearin’ me. I know you a bit slow sometimes, but now dat I know you listenin’ for sure, I’m gonna try and be patient and wait for you answers.” Poochie was about to open her eyes again, then remembered an additional request. “Oh, yeah, God, if you still dere and can hear me, would you pass you hand down here and help Trevor and Angelle? Something’s not right wit’ dem two, no. Sometimes when I look at dem, a frisson pass t’rough me, like something bad is gonna happen in de family. So if you don’t mind, please fix dat, too.”

  Poochie pursed her lips again, then added for good measure, “And if you got a little extra time, could you let me know what de hell’s goin’ on wit’ de shoes on de purgatory side of my prayer tree? Dem shoes up and disappeared just like dem chil’ren, and it’s makin’ me cuckoo tryin’ to figure out how come. So, if you would give me de answer to dat, too, I’d appreciate it. Now, I’m done. Thank you.”

  Satisfied that she’d covered all the bases, Poochie opened her eyes, prepared to sit for a while and simply listen in case God decided to quicken His response time. That’s when she saw them . . .

  Three long, dark gray shapes, floating only inches from the ground, coming from the bayou towards the house. Although the forms weren’t clearly defined, she could make out heads, arms, and what looked like very skinny stick-shaped legs. By the time she got to her feet, they’d already reached the house and were making their way inside by seeping through the bricks.

  Poochie grabbed her walker and made a Sign of the Cross. God wasn’t farting around this time. He
was obviously giving her some of the answers she’d asked for. The only problem was, from the looks of those things headed into the house, she wished she’d kept her damn mouth shut for once.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The sound of crying and grunting tugged Sarah Woodard away from a strange but wonderful dream. She’d been running through a field of purple wild flowers with a blond woman she knew to be her mother. Both of them were laughing, holding hands, exhilarated by the feel of wind and sun and freedom. Somehow Sarah knew they were headed for a flea market, one that sold magic shoes. Shoes that would fulfill their every wish, no matter how small or how big. A brand new house with a yard as wide as the field they ran through—any car they wanted—a father who’d come home from work with flowers for her mother, one who’d gather his daughter in his arms and swing her around and around until they were both hiccupping from spinning and laughter. Anything was possible with those magic shoes, and the anticipation of reaching them and the sound of her mother’s voice filled Sarah with so much happiness, she felt as if she could fly.

  The faster they ran, the lighter she felt. There was no sharp pain in her sides from running, no panting or gasping for air, only joy—her mother’s touch—and hope. Then, just as Sarah felt her feet about to leave the ground and her body prepare for flight, the crying tugged her down harder. The sound was faint at first, far away, but it was loud enough to weigh her down until she felt the ground solid beneath her feet again. She tried desperately to ignore the cries, tried to run faster, to regain momentum so she could fly. But the sound grew louder, forcing her to a slower pace, too slow to keep up with her mother, who’d already let go of her hand. Her mother raced ahead, not bothering to look back. Sarah tried hard to catch up with her, but only fell farther behind . . .

  Farther . . .

  . . . farther . . .

  When the woman finally faded out of sight, Sarah looked down at her feet and saw that she was no longer running through wild flowers. She was standing in an ocean of mud, heavy black sludge that made it impossible to run, impossible to hope. That’s when her eyes fluttered open and reality hit her full in the face.

  Kids were supposed to be able to wake up from nightmares, not stay stuck in them—literally. But at that very moment, she sat in a nightmare, in a hole, her hands tied behind her back, her legs outstretched and bound at the ankles. She could just see above the top of the hole, which had been filled with mud that reached the middle of her chest. The grunting whimpering sound was coming from Nicky Trahan, who sat in a hole just like hers, a couple of feet away. All she could see of him was part of his nose, his eyes, his forehead, his hair. Judging from the bobbing of his head and the grunting sounds he made, Nicky was trying to get out.

  Although he was about her size, which was pretty small, and his hands and feet had been tied up just like hers, Sarah held her breath, hoping he’d find some way to break free. She watched intently as his head bobbled first one way, then the other. One way—then the other. He kept it up for quite some time, then his head finally bowed and stayed still. When he finally looked up and turned to her, his eyes were red and watery. He’d been crying, something she’d done quite a bit of herself before the dream.

  Even at seven years old, Sarah knew that seeing a boy cry was a big deal. The boys around Bayou Crow were taught to be tough. They were conditioned to hunt, fish, play football, and no matter how hard they were hit, they weren’t supposed to cry. All the boys in her class were rough and loud, always acting like they were high school kids instead of second graders. If one of them ever made the mistake of breaking down into tears, the rest of the boys pounced on them, teasing them mercilessly. Not that it mattered to her. Sarah thought most boys were stupid anyway and, for the most part, ignored them.

  Because of her uncle’s constant tutoring, Sarah had started school in the second grade instead of the first, which made her a year younger than everyone else in her class. Being the only kid in school who didn’t have to go through first grade was one thing, being a preacher's kid was another. Especially a preacher like Rusty Woodard, a man prone to jumping and hollering during his services like he was being stung by a hive full of bees. Because of him and because of her age, Sarah was the target of every kid in school who wanted to move up a rung on the bully ladder.

  She knew the pain that came with teasing, and even if Nicky wasn’t looking at her with a please-don’t-tell-anyone-you-saw-me-cry look, she would have never told a soul. Not that that mattered either. Sarah didn’t think they were ever getting out of here, not alive anyway.

  Surprisingly, the thought of dying didn’t scare her as much as she figured it should have. Maybe it was because she was so tired and they’d been here for what seemed like months without any food. Or maybe anything was better than having to go back and live with her uncle Rusty.

  Sarah knew her uncle did the best he could, being single and all, but she didn’t think he had a clue about raising kids, much less understood how the real world worked. To the mighty Reverend Woodard, if a person didn’t read the Bible twenty-four hours a day, every day, and say, “Praise Jesus! Thank you, Lord!” every other minute without fail; they were going to hell and didn’t deserve to be alive on this earth. And he made a point of reminding her every day just how great a sinner her mother was. Not because she dropped Sarah off on his doorstep and abandoned her, but because she went out with a lot of men and drank alcohol and smoked cigarettes. Those things were far worse in his eyes than abandoning any child.

  When Sarah had started school, her uncle, believing that fruit didn’t fall far from its tree, had all but strip-searched her each day when she got home, looking for evidence that might alert him to her slipping into the ways of the world. He made her wear long dresses and patent leather shoes to school because that’s what he felt young ladies should wear. But heaven help her if she came home with a spot or stain on that dress. Finding any smudge would usually prompt an hour-long interrogation, ‘How did this get here? Who were you with? Did you let someone touch you? Were you alone with any boy at any time? This was followed by another two hours of preaching, expounding the reasons why every Christian should separate themselves from the world.

  She wondered what her uncle would have to say if he saw her in this hole. The pastel blue cotton shift she’d put on two days ago now looked like a muddy burlap sack, at least what she could see of it. Knowing him, Sarah figured he’d probably stand at the foot of the hole, jumping and hopping, arms waving, full of bees and the business of Jesus.All the while he’d be spitting fire and brimstone, declaring to anyone within earshot that the suffering she was going through was surely a punishment from God for all she’d done wrong. To Sarah, that was stupid, too. She knew she’d done nothing to deserve being buried in a hole. Neither had Nicky.

  Two days ago she’d been walking down the levee road, heading to Dale’s Trading Post, which was only two or three blocks from the Unified Kingdom of Christ Church. She had wanted a soda and was thinking about how the fizz made her nose tickle when she came upon a mewling kitten. Feeling sorry for the poor, scrawny thing, she’d scooped it up, then sat on the grassy slope of the levee and petted its soft, soft fur until its cries became gentle purrs. She’d been sitting there a while, enjoying the feel of the kitten’s trust in her, when Nicky showed up on his bike. The only reason she hadn’t run off then was because he was one of the few boys from school who didn’t tease her.

  Nicky was asking her questions about the kitten and talking to her like a regular person when a man in a beat-up, black pickup pulled off on the side of the road beside them. He stopped so short, dirt clouds rose up from the shoulder of the road, and the kitten jumped off her lap and ran away. In that moment, Sarah thought her life was over for sure. That somehow her uncle had spotted her sitting and talking with a boy and had sent someone to drag her back to the church so he could cast out the demons he was so fond of blaming for everything. Lust—greed—pride. But that didn’t happen.

  The man got out o
f his truck, talking really fast. He wore a purple ball cap that had LSU in gold letters on the brim, and it was pulled low over his eyes, so she really couldn’t see his face very well. He called them by name, told them to hurry and get in the truck, that there’d been an explosion at the Dow Chemical Plant, where most of the people in town worked. He said Nicky’s mother had been one of the people injured, that she was bleeding really bad and might die.

  They were so shocked by the news, by his abruptness, that they only stared at him, unmoving. He got angry then, insisting they get in his truck right away. Dangerous chemicals had been released into the air, and he had been ordered by the governor to take as many people as he could find to safety. And that safety was at Fausse Point, the farthest slough south of the Atchafalaya Basin. They needed to get as far away as possible, downwind, so they wouldn’t be affected by the chemicals.

  She and Nicky had looked at each other then, both so afraid, not knowing what to do. The man grew even more insistent, and pounded on his truck with a hairy hand, yelling that they needed to hurry up before everyone suffocated under a huge cloud of poison. He demanded that Nicky leave his bike because there was no time to load it and had assured Sarah again and again that her uncle Rusty was already safe and awaiting her arrival.

  Like idiots, they’d fallen for it.

  They wound up in his truck . . .

  Then in his boat . . .

  Then in these holes.

  The man had been right about one thing. He had taken them to the farthest slough in the Atchafalaya. The hill they sat upon was so far away from all the camps and houses, they could scream for a year, and no one would ever hear them. Everything else he’d said had been a lie.