That call tugged at something deep in Olm’s chest, making him want to, ache to respond. Every nerve ending in his body felt awakened by the glow before him, and he found himself desperately wanting more of it. On a barely conscious level, he knew he was coming dangerously close to the point of no return, falling under the feux fo lais’ spell. He gripped the throttle hard, then purposely snapped his teeth down on his tongue to regain charge of his senses.
As soon as Olm broke eye contact with the feux fo lais, he felt stronger, more in control. He leaned over towards the back of the boat to a tool chest, opened the chest and grabbed the utility knife he kept inside. He opened the knife and cranked up the motor again.
Seemingly perturbed by the sound of the engine, the feux fo lais did a furious twirl about the boat, then stalled and floated up closer to him. Keeping one eye on it, Olm aimed the bow of the skiff towards a cypress tree and inched the boat forward a foot or two. The twirling ball of light followed, maintaining only a slight distance. For a moment, Olm feared they might collide before he reached his destination.
Holding his breath, he counted to three, then cranked the motor up to wide open. In an instant, he slalomed right, skimming the side of the cypress tree, and as he flew by it, Olm jammed the pocketknife deep into its soft bark. A second later, the feux fo lais hit the right side of the boat, nearly jostling him off his seat, then it flew in an arc over his head towards the knife. The cry that followed sounded like a thousand female cats in estrus, and as soon as the feux fo lais hit the handle of the knife, it burst into a million tiny embers that fell to the water and died.
With a nod of satisfaction from a job well done, Olm revved the motor up again and shot off towards the knoll. He made it there in record time. As soon as he nosed the skiff onto the bank, he grabbed the gallon of blood near his seat, got out of the boat, then secured the skiff to a nearby cypress tree with a rope. Adrenaline had his blood racing, his heart knocking out of its natural rhythm. The contentment he’d felt only a short time ago had been replaced with a growing anger and agitation. Nothing was going to stop him from his mission. Not the feux fo lais, not the swamp, not the universe itself. His destiny was all that mattered.
Gritting his teeth, Olm hurried to his special hiding place behind a giant willow, where he kept the mud bucket and the other tools he knew he’d need for his sacrificial ceremony. Once there, he placed the gallon of blood near the base of the tree, picked up the bucket, then marched over to the side of the knoll and filled the bucket with sludge. Ignoring the painful weight it placed on his arms, Olm stormed over to the foot of the hole where the boy sat. Even in the deep purple haze of dusk, he saw fear in the children’s eyes. That pleading, desperate look infuriated him all the more.
“You will die,” he said, then dumped the bucket of mud into the boy’s hole. It moved the level of sludge higher up on the kid’s chest—but not high enough. The girl whimpered, the boy let out a sob.
Determined, Olm did an about face, went back to the edge of the knoll, scooped up another bucket of sludge and carried it back. That one he dropped over the girl, which moved the level of sludge just under her breastbone. She let out a bloodcurdling scream, so satisfying to his ear. Looping his arm through the handle of the now empty bucket, Olm stood before the kids and pointed to each in turn.
“You will go down in history as the ones chosen for the Great Olm, his first and final sacrifice to the Great Tirawa. I am Skidi bred, of the Pawnee Nation. My people are a great people. My fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, all strong leaders. So magnificent will be this offering that the Morning and Evening star will bow before me as they bowed before my forefathers.”
“I wanna go home!” the boy cried. “Please, don’t hurt us . . .Mama! I want my mama!”
Olm snorted. “So pathetic. Here you have a chance to go down in history books, and what do you do? Cry for your mother’s tit. You’re a pathetic little shit, a sad, sad—”
“Stop!” the girl suddenly yelled. “Leave him alone! You’re a horrible man, and you’re the shit! You’re the shit! Nicky didn’t do anything to you. Leave him alone!”
Taken aback by the girl’s outburst, Olm stood silent for a few seconds with his head cocked. When he finally got his wits about him, he clenched his teeth and said, “Brazen little bitch, huh?” With that, he did another about face, went back to the edge of the knoll for more sludge, then returned to her.
“No, please, she didn’t mean anything,” the boy cried. “Stop! Don’t hurt her, please! No more—please, no more!”
Ignoring his pleas, Olm dumped the mud directly over the girl’s head. She gasped, immediately shook her head to fling off the muck, her mouth hinged open so she could breathe.
“No!” The boy’s scream was so loud and shrill it sent a covey of quails whooshing out from nearby brush.
Olm grinned, watching the sludge ooze down over the girl’s face, down her shoulders, settle into the pool already at her chest. When he was sure she was able to breathe normally, he set the bucket down on the ground and did a series of little hops and steps, turning in a circle as his people would have done during a victory dance.
Feeling like he could bend iron with his bare hands, Olm lifted his arms in the air and let out a triumphant whoop. Then he lowered his arms, clapped his hands to make sure he had the children’s full attention, then pointed to a nearby hollow, cypress stump and the thin shoots of green sprouting from its middle.
“Do you see that? That dead, rotted cypress tree, that hull of nothing? It holds nothing in and of itself. There’s nothing left of it but a shell of its former self. Yet, within its center grows new life, new birth. Do you see that? Do you see it? That new life is called an Olm.” He slapped a hand against his chest. “I am Olm, that which is born from what was once thought dead. I am like that new growth within that old dead stump. I will be reborn. That is the power of my ancestry, of my tribe, of my people!”
No sooner did he finish his proclamation that Olm saw a flicker of yellow off to the east. He froze, watching. The kids were crying, screaming, slobbering all over themselves now in pathetic, useless supplication. He hated their crying.
“All good,” Olm said. “All good. It will all be good.” And it would be because they were so very afraid. That’s what he needed—he neededthem to be afraid. He needed that fear for Tirawa. He desperately wanted to add more mud—now.
Turning his eyes from the orange light in the distance for only a second, he glanced down at the kids. He couldn’t add more sludge. Not now. It would take him too far into the process too fast. Now wasn’t the time to offer them. It wasn’t time for their deaths. He had to wait. He had to. Or all that he’d worked so hard for would be stolen from him. Everything in the ceremony had to fall in just the right order with the apex of Brother Moon as it swelled to glorious fullness.
Olm peered up, saw the dot of orange light suddenly blink out, then before he was able to draw his next breath, more lights appeared. Feux fo lais? Dozens more. Some much closer now. They were the size of marbles and glowed like gator eyes did in the dark—yellow-orange, steady, intense. But the lights couldn’t be the eyes of alligators. There were too many of them, and they were too high off the ground. And they began to dance for him—call to him—were circling him.
He forced himself to look away, down at the ground, forcing his thoughts to the number of buckets he would need to complete the ritual.
Six buckets . . . six each.Six more buckets and the kids would be gone. . .
Before Olm knew it, he was scooping sludge up from the edge of the knoll. He ran back and dumped it over the boy, his mind spinning. Don’t look at the lights! Don’t look!
He ran back for more mud, sweat trickling down his face, heard the kids crying—the whine of insects around his ears. “Five, just need five for the boy, six for the girl . . .six.”
The bucket seemed to fill on its own. He didn’t remember dipping it, scooping up anything, yet he was already running back tow
ards the kids, grunting, panting, sweating, the bucket full.
He threw the sludge over the girl. “Five more! Five!”
Again he found himself racing to the edge of the knoll, only this time his brain seemed to hook onto a different frequency in order to admonish himYou’re going too fast. It’s not time for them to die, stupid! Wait for the moon! Wait!
But he couldn’t wait—couldn’t.
Insects whining—kids crying . . .
“Four buckets now, four!”
Four . . .
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Poochie had made good on her promise, serving up a shrimp stew that would have made Paul Prudhomme envious. Although it was the best thing I’d tasted in years, getting it past my throat and into my knotted stomach had been a chore. But then again, the simple task of breathing had become a chore since my encounter with the dark figure earlier. Even now, sitting at the dinner table with my sister’s family, thinking about it, the sound the thing made—those crying children—haunted me, made my breath catch. I still heard those children so clearly in my mind, vividly remembered the thick, dark hand reaching for me. I don’t know if it was my loud gasp that caused the entity to vanish or the fact that my eyes went from slits to saucers, but vanish it did, almost as quickly as it had appeared. Had it not been for Angelle assuring me over and over that she’d seen it, too, heard it, witnessed everything I had, I would have thought I’d gone bonkers and hallucinated the whole thing. Both of us had been so shaken by the incident, Angelle had to pull out heavy artillery to calm our nerves—a bottle of Jose Cuervo. Two shots each eventually did the trick. And I could have used another one right about now.
Although a few hours had passed since the shadow episode, and I hadn’t seen the thing again since we’d returned from collecting Poochie at the Bloody Bucket, I still couldn’t keep from looking over my shoulder—like now.
My next breath was one of relief. Still nothing. I felt wired for sound. Not only was I anxious over some goddamn thing possibly, suddenly popping up in my face out of nowhere again, I was worried about the covert operation Angelle had concocted while downing tequila. She’d hinted at it again on the drive over to the Bucket, then haphazardly fleshed it out when Poochie wasn’t underfoot, which was hardly never.
The plan was to get a skiff, which I learned was an eighteen-foot aluminum boat with a pointed bow, and take that boat out into the swamp.According to Angelle, it was crucial to have a pointed bow. Otherwise they’d never get the boat through the flats, which were filled with water lilies and marsh grass—whatever the hell that was. And it was important that we waited to run at night. There was too much activity in the bayous during the day, men crawfishing, trapping, checking trout lines, and she was sure they’d get nosey seeing two women out in a boat alone and undoubtedly ask questions or follow them out of blatant curiosity. With that in mind, Angelle planned to wait until Trevor fell asleep tonight, then take his boat. It didn’t matter that the man was her husband, being an accomplice to grand theft, much less thieving something I knew nothing about, like boats, made me nervous.
Poochie slapped a hand on the table, startling me out of my reverie. “And you should’ve seen dat cow,” she said, then whisked a hand through the air. “It just took off down de bayou like somebody was reeling it in wit’ a fishing pole. No head, its belly all open and its guts hangin’ out. Talk about something to see, yeah.”
“So you’ve said . . . again,” Angelle mumbled.
Trevor shook his head. “All kinds of crazy people in this world, Poochie.” He picked up the plate he’d filled and emptied twice, got up from the table and walked over to the sink. “Doesn’t make sense that somebody’d throw away a perfectly good cow.”
“Dat’s what I’m sayin’,” Poochie said. “Imagine all de good barbeque we could’ve got outta dat?”
Trevor grinned, set his plate inside the sink, then walked back to the table, rubbing his belly. Watching him, I couldn’t help but wonder, as I did during Thanksgiving, when they’d visited me in Cyler, and as I did on their wedding day, what spark of passion my sister had caught from this man. Ever since she was little, Angelle had buzzed with life, so curious about everything, wanting to touch and learn and be everywhere at the same time. Trevor on the other hand reminded me of a plow horse, steady and reliable, not easily excited by much. In the looks department, Angelle carried the same height and slender build I did, but her heart-shaped face and flashing brown eyes were exquisite and never failed to turn a man’s head. Trevor was of average weight and height, as well, only with light brown hair and eyes. He’d fit into an average slot, along with every other average Joe, in any place America. If ever there was a case of opposites attracting, those two were it. I didn’t understand it, but then again, I didn’t need to.
“Plant’s short-handed again,” Trevor said to Angelle as he settled back into his seat. “I’ll be pulling the eleven to seven tonight.”
Angelle frowned. “You’ve been here over an hour and a half and you’re just telling me that now?”
“Since when does it matter when I tell you?”
Glancing down at her plate, Angelle picked at a grain of rice with her fork.
“Poo-yi,” Poochie said, then got up from the table, collected her plate and glass, and brought both over to the sink.
Feeling a bit of steam rise between Angelle and Trevor, I took Poochie’s cue and silently excused myself from the table. After picking up Angelle’s plate, I carried it over to the sink, then went back for my own dirty dishes. It was awkward clearing a table with one hand stuck nonchalantly in your pocket, like doing so was natural. Natural for a one-armed paper-hanger maybe . . .On my second trip back from the table, I spied a pair of yellow rubber gloves near the sink, grabbed them and quickly put them on. There. Anonymity.
As Trevor kept pressing Angelle for an answer, Poochie came up beside me, rolled her eyes, then plugged the drain in the sink with a stopper and turned on the faucet.I shook my head and mouthed, “Let me, please.” She’d done the cooking; I wanted to do the dishes. Besides, it would distract me from the argument that was brewing at the table. Poochie nodded, then reached for a dry dishcloth and pantomimed that she’d dry.
With our roles established, Poochie and I went to work. Behind us, the tension grew thicker than the roux that had been in the shrimp stew.
Trevor let out a heavy sigh. “If that’s all it takes to upset you, then this should really piss you off . . .I’m taking Bullet and leaving in a few minutes to check traps before my shift. I’ve got fifty of them down on the west end of Point Coupee Lake and put out seventy-five more at Flat’s Cut. Those are both new areas, so I need to make sure nobody’s out there messing with those traps. Make sure beavers haven’t gotten to the bait.”
Angelle cleared her throat, and I knew that was her way of trying to maintain composure. I didn’t know what a Bullet was, but if it had anything to do with checking crawfish traps, there was a good chance it resembled a boat. It so, that meant our plans were fucked, and she didn’t want to over react to the news. I glanced over my shoulder towards her, and sure enough, there was frustration etched all over my sister’s face.
“Why should taking your boat out piss me off?” she said. “You’re always checking traps. Are you . . .did you plan on bringing it back before you go to work?”
“No,” Trevor said, leaning back in his chair. “Too much crap. It’ll be easier to load the boat back on the trailer and haul it to the plant with me.”
I chewed my bottom lip as I washed the last glass. Bullet was indeed a boat—a boat we wouldn’t have—which meant we’d have no way to go look for the kids.
“So do you have to work the night shift tomorrow night, too?” Angelle asked, the question sliced with sarcastic overtones.
“What the hell’s your problem?” Trevor asked.
“I’m just asking.”
“I don’t know what shifts I’ll be working tomorrow. Like I said, they’re short-handed at the plant,
and I’m going to go work when they tell me to work. Damn, Gelle, you know we’ve got bills to pay, a mortgage on this house. What do you want me to do when the foreman calls? Tell him, “Wait, I’ve got to check with my wife to make sure it’s okay for me to work that shift? I mean, goddamn!” Trevor shoved himself away from the table and got to his feet.
Poochie and I took turns peeking over at them from the sink. I wished there were more dishes to wash.
“I never said you had to do that.” Angelle tossed the napkin she’d been mauling in her fists onto the table.
“Then what’s with the forty goddamn questions?”
“I was just asking!” Angelle voice clipped up an octave and about two more decibels. “What the shit’s wrong with a wife asking her husband when he’s going to be working?”
I found myself mesmerized by the argument. It was like getting caught up in a soap opera. The plot might be predictable and the acting bad, but you managed to get hooked on it anyway. I had to force myself to turn away again and act like I wasn’t listening. I wiped down the counter, even though it was spotless—and that’s when I saw the toaster on the counter near the refrigerator slide over about five inches—on its own. In the next second, my extra finger turned to ice, just like it had earlier today. Cold meant dead. Somehow that had to be tied to whatever made the toaster move because the rest of the people in this room were very much alive.
The lights overhead flickered, and Poochie let out a little gasp. “Good Lord be wit’ us.”
I couldn’t help but say a silent prayer that whatever god Poochie believed in had heard her.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Probably just some weather stirring up,” Trevor said, glancing up at the flickering light. “Best get out the flashlight and candles just in case the lights go out for good. You know how it is around here, a mouse pisses and Bayou Crow loses power.” For someone who’d just been barking words out at his wife, his voice seemed carefully controlled as he spoke to Poochie.
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