Water Witch
Page 19
Swim was the last word that went through mymind as I dropped the flashlight and dove into the inky black water—headfirst.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The first mistake I made was trying to open my eyes under water. I saw nothing but a canvas of black. It was as if the water below and the sky above and everything in between had vanished. I blinked to make sure my eyes were really open. Still nothing, nothing but a burning in my eyes that I had to ignore.
The second mistake was trying to scream for Angelle before I broke the surface of the water. I tasted gasoline, mud, and stagnant decay. My lungs felt ready to burst. The need for oxygen, to cough and gag, so strong, it nearly overrode common sense. Stay calm! Calm! I thought of the dead woman. Wondered if some of her hair had gotten into my mouth, any of her sloughed off skin, fingernails. The thought made me retch, which brought another wave of water into my mouth.
I heard nothing but the gurgle of water, the whoosh of my frantic movements. The absolute assurance that I was about to die in some disgusting swamp overtook me, and I screamed inside my head, screamed with my mouth closed, my eyes opened wide.
But if I died, who’d save Angelle? Who’d get her away from the dead woman? I could see it, plain as day… the dead woman taking my sister into her arms, floating off with her. Going down . . . down . . . together. My sister. The dead woman. My sister with empty eye-sockets.
That last thought propelled me into action, past the fear. I ignored the burning in my chest. Drowning was not an option. Fear was not an option. My sister. . . my sister . .. goddammit, she couldn’t die!
I dogpaddled frantically, first this way, then that, pushing water away with my hands, searching for air, for ground with my feet. There had to be something I could grab hold to, step up on. . . a log. How deep was it? Had to find my way up . . .up to air. But the faster I paddled, the more water I found, and I felt my body began to sink. No! Gelle . . .Gelle!
Suddenly my toes tapped against something solid beneath me, and I wanted to weep with relief.I prayed it would be enough leverage. . .
Despite my fear, despite every instinct that told me to paddle, to move, I held still, sinking, sinking, waiting for both feet to find purchase. As soon as they did, I coiled my body in tight, the sprang up as hard as I could.
Up! With in seconds, my head broke the surface of the water, and I found air, glorious, sweet precious air. I collected it in loud gasps.
I looked frantically about, my eyesight clouded. “Gelle!”
No answer.
How much time had passed since she’d fallen overboard? I knew fear and panic could warp time, bend it at will . . .Had five seconds gone by? Five minutes? I slapped at the surface of the water with my hands, trying to stay afloat, gasping, coughing, gulping. “Angelle!”
The water soon claimed me again, sucking me under. The swamp wanted me, wanted us both, just as it had wanted the woman with the mole. . . I knew the ground was not that far beneath me. Patient . . . patient . . .
My feet soon found ground again, and I forced my body to the surface once more. At this rate, I figured the water to be only about six and a half to seven feet deep. Too deep for my height of five foot five, but shallow enough that I could keep bobbing up for air until I reached the side of the boat. Squat—jump—breathe. “Gelle!”
Squat. . .
Jump. . .
Breath . . .
“Gelle!”
That time as I broke the surface, panic overtook me. Where the hell was the boat? I went down again . . .up . . . and that time the boat came into view, mere feet away, straight ahead. I’d simply bounced in the wrong direction.
Concentrate! You don’t have time to make stupid fucking mistakes. . .
One more hard jump, and I got close enough to grab onto the side of the boat.
“Angelle!”
Hanging on for dear life, for my sister’s dear life, I quickly swiped a hand over my eyes to clear my vision. I’d managed to grab onto the left side of the boat, the side nearest the cypress tree. The side nearest the dead woman. Her head bobbed closer, touching my right elbow,
I screamed in revulsion and frustration, pushed her away. “Get the fuck away from me!” The water reclaimed her, swallowing her whole.
“Gelle!”
Still no answer. Nothing. How long now? Ten minutes? Twenty?
“Angelle . . . please . . . God, please answer me!”
I worked my way along the side of the boat, hand over hand, feet kicking, crying out to the moon, to the only light in this eternal black pit, “Help me find her! Please!”
Pulling into a back kick, my knees suddenly bumped into something solid, then Angelle’s face abruptly bobbed to the surface of the water.
“Jesus, Gelle!” I reached for her, managed to grab her ponytail, pulled her close. Crying, I hugged her to me with one arm. She was as pale as the seven that had brought us here. Her eyes were closed, her mouth partially opened, and blood immediately began to ooze from a large gash in her forehead.
“Don’t you die on me, you hear? Don’t you be dead goddammit! Don’t you fucking be dead!” I let out a sob, clutching my sister tight. I felt her chest move . . .barely. “I’ve got you now. I’ve got you. The water can’t get you anymore. Neither can the dead woman. You hear? I’ve got you.”
Breathing hard, I tried clearing my head. I had to get her to a flat surface . . . get her into the boat. CPR, that’s what she needed, and I knew how to do it. I’d learned while doing research for a piece on rescue workers for the Dallas newspaper.
“Hold on, Gelle. . .”
I couldn’t see any land beneath the clump of trees where the seven had been, just slick tree trunks pressed close together. I had to get her into the boat . . .but how? Jesus, how? Maybe if I used my shirt—tied one sleeve to a tree, the other to her, used it as a pulley? It might keep her head above water until I could get into the boat and hoist her in. No . . . the branches of the cypress trees were too high, their trunks too wide.
How much time had passed now? Twenty minutes? An hour?
“Help!” I hoped against hope that a fisherman might be out working late and hear my screams. Or that there was a God, and that He did in fact send guardian angels. “Somebody help, please!”
No one came. No fisherman. No angels. Just the dead woman’s leg as it resurfaced right beside Angelle’s left hip.
“Get away from her, you bitch!” I screamed, as if she could hear me, as if it mattered. In some rational part of my brain, I knew I should pity the old woman. She was dead after all.Had probably died horribly considering the shocked expression death had locked onto her face. But I didn’t pity her. As far as the woman was concerned, the only thing I gave a fuck about was that she stayed away from Angelle.
I pulled my sister closer; her face was now covered in blood. I had to do something and fast. Driven by instinct and desperation, I lowered my head, stuck a large part of her ponytail into my mouth, then bit down into her hair. I clamped onto the side of the boat with both hands and slid inch by inch towards the back and the boat motor.
Tugging Angelle along slowly, way too slowly, I finally made it to the motor. I ran a hand along its backside, searching, feeling for a chink, a notch, a knob, anything I could attach her hair to that would keep her face above the water.
How much time? A day? A year?
My forefinger tripped over something that felt like an upside down U with a protruding lip, and my heart galloped. I pulled Angelle’s ponytail out of my mouth, pulled her head closer to the motor, then wrapped her hair tight around the protrusion. When I was sure it would hold her mouth and nose above the surface of the black ink, I let go of her body.
In the gauzy moonlight, I saw more blood on her face, so much of it. Another sob gathered in my chest, knotted up into a hard ball that pressed and pushed against my heart, threatening to break it. But there was no time for crying. I kissed her cheek, blood and all, then went back to the business of getting my ass into the boat.
Time passed now? A decade?
A thought pricked at my mind. What if I was already too late? What if Angelle was already gone and there was no chance to revive her? No! NO! I shook the image out of my head. I gripped the side of the boat as though I meant to rip it apart with my bare hands, then let out a growl of frustration so raw and primal, it sent birds shrieking from the trees above us. I pushed, lurched, launching my body until I was folded in half at the waist over the side of the boat. It was all the leverage I needed to tumble my way inside.
I was scrambling to get to my feet when I remember the snake. I froze for a moment, water dripping over my face, my hair, my clothes clinging to me like heavy scabs. Everything in the boat looked the same in the shadows. There was no discerning the towline from the flashlight from the snake from the rubber hose that ran from the gas tank. If I reached for the wrong thing, I could wind up with that moccasin’s fangs embedded in my hand, poison pumping into my bloodstream. I’d be useless to anyone.
But crouching on my haunches and dripping water into the boat wasn’t doing my sister any good, either.
I got to my feet; spread my legs apart to maintain balance, then watched the floor for movement. More than likely the snake had fallen into the skiff from one of the tree branches that canopied overhead. I might not have known swamps, but I knew snakes. The desert had its fair share of the slithering bastards. After falling, it would have remained paralyzed for only a few seconds before coiling itself up for protection. Then, after assessing its surrounding and any potential threats, it would have quickly slid under something to hide. I had to find it and get rid of it. Couldn’t take the chance of pulling Angelle into the boat, only to have it attack her.
Time? A millennium?
I stomped a foot, clapped my hands. “Where are you, you sonofabitch? Come out here!” I stomped again and again, harder and louder each time.
Finally, I saw something move from under the bench seat near the bow of the boat. Without thinking twice, I giant stepped towards it, not caring if it was the rope or the flashlight jostled by the rock of the boat—it was going overboard.
In one swoop, I stooped, grabbed, felt the scratch of scales as it quickly wrapped around my wrist. “Motherfucker!” I squeezed the thick, slimy bastard back hard, then flung my right arm out towards the right side of the boat with al my might, releasing my grip at the same time. The snake sailed, writhing, twisting in mid-air, then it dropped into the water with a loud plooop!
Now that it was out of the boat, I didn’t even allow myself a breath of victory. I got on my hands and knees, feeling about until I found the long, hard handle of the flashlight. I grabbed it, beat it against my left palm, flicked the on-off switch back and forth, back and forth until it finally gave up and shed light. The beam was weaker now, yellow, but it was enough for me to locate the towline. I snatched up the free end of the rope, hurried over to the boat motor, then leaned over the side of the hull to attach the rope to Angelle.
“Hold on, girl, hold on . . ..” But I couldn’t lean out far enough to secure the rope under her arms. The best I’d be able to do was wrap it around her neck, and that simply wouldn’t work.
How much time now? Forever.
Not giving myself time to think it through, I threw a leg over the side of the boat and slipped back into the water. “It’s going to be all right, you hear me?” With a series of tugs, pushes, tucks, and pulls, I managed to wrap the rope beneath Angelle’s arms and secure it with a slipknot over her chest. “All you have to do is breathe now, you hear? Just breathe.”
I clambered back into the boat, making it in on the first try that time. After grabbing the now taut rope, I braced myself, ready to give it a good hoist in order to pull her up, then remembered her hair was tied to the motor. With a growl of frustration, I leaned over and frantically plucked at the knot in her ponytail. Most of her hair pulled free, but a good handful had settled into a rat’s nest that refused to untangle.
“Sorry . . .” I grabbed the base of her ponytail and yanked, ripping the rest of her hair free. Her beautiful hair. She’d kill me. Even so, I’d welcome her anger. As long as she was breathing, she could stay pissed at me forever. Angelle’s head bobbed under water, and suddenly I was the one who couldn’t breathe. “Gelle!”
I grabbed the rope and pulled as hard as I could, leaning back for leverage, hoisting, crying, begging silently for the strength to pull this off. Angelle weighed about as much as I did, but dead weight couldn’t be measured in pounds. I felt like an ant trying to pull an elephant over a mountain. I heaved, cursed, screamed . . . then finally . . .finally her head and shoulders peeked over the side of the boat.
Grunting, straining, I pulled hard, harder, wrapping the rope around my fingers, around my wrists—tugging, tugging until my sister plopped onto the floor of the boat, her head bouncing against the supply bag.
I immediately threw myself over her, stuck a hand beneath her neck, lifted her head—pinched her nose closed, opened her mouth—blew my breath into it. Sister breath was the best. . . . sister breath was the best. Then, after folding my right hand over my left, I placed both over her heart and pressed—pressed—pushed. One—two—three—one, two, three. Back to her mouth, lifting her head, pinching her nose—breathing, breathing.Only she wasn’t . . .
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
I became a machine meant for only one function—make Angelle breathe—breathe.
“Breathe goddammit!” I pounded onher chest—one, two, three . . . “Please!” The next round of chest thumping brought action. Angelle coughed, and water spewed out of her mouth and nose. I thumped the heel of my hand on her chest once more for good measure. More water flew out of her mouth.
I quickly rolled her onto her left side. "Can you hear me? Talk to me. Please, please open your eyes.”
Her eyelids fluttered. She coughed again, spitting more water, then curled into a semi-fetal position.
I reached for the flashlight beside her, stuck the beam directly in her face, and pulled up her right eyelid. All I saw was white of her eye. Blood dribbled from the gash in her forehead. I shook her gently. “Gelle, wake up! Wake up. Look at me, look at me, please.”
Her body suddenly went limp against my hand, and my heart stopped beating. God, was she dead? After all that struggling to get her into the boat, I couldn’t lose her now, couldn’t!
“Gelle!” I wailed and shook her hard. In that moment, Angelle drew in a deep, shuttering breath, then her chest began the slow rise and fall of someone in a deep sleep. I sobbed with relief and pulled her to me, rocking—rocking. “Don’t fucking scare me like that again. Just don’t . . .”
The extent of my medical training had been my research on CPR, by far not enough knowledge to make a true assessment of Angelle’s condition. All I knew for sure was that she needed a doctor. I had to find help.
After laying her head gently on the floor of the boat, I got to my feet and looked about. Water—shadows—trees, no matter which way I turned, it all looked the same. I glanced down and saw the face of the dead woman bobble up again next to the cypress tree. Only then, in that moment of stillness, did I feel sorry for her and wished I could help her. But there was really nothing I could do for her now. There was nothing anyone could do. Right now, getting Angell
e to a hospital was top priority. Later, once she was in good medical hands, I’d let someone know about the woman, tell them where to find her.
Then, it suddenly dawned on me—How would I let anyone know where she was? Not only did I have the challenge of getting out here first, I had to know where I as in order to direct someone else here. It wasn’t like I could say, “Just take across from the grocery store, then a right besides the dry cleaners.” I’d probably have to dowse to find her again. Just the thought of having to come back to these swamps made me shiver with nausea.
Staring at the woman’s pale, wet face, I whispered, “If you know, tell me how to get out of here. Which way do I go? Tell me, and I’ll send someone back for you. I promise.”
The woman, of course, didn’t answer—thank heaven.
Biting my bottom lip, stuck my left hand out in front of me, the sixth digit flaccid and numb. I closed my eyes and concentrated on the landing, on seeing that long concrete strip where we’d back up the car and launched the boat, the grove of trees where Angelle had hidden the car. That’s where I needed to go. That’s where I needed it to lead me.
Show me . . .
I pictured Angelle’s house, pictured Poochie inside, watching GI Jane, focused on the prayer tree and the shoes hanging from it. I thought of the shrimp stew, the thump thump thumping of Poochie’s walker when she made her way down the hall.
Soon, all those images filled my mind with the clarity of reality, and I felt the slightest twitch from my finger. A nugget of hope sent my pulse racing. I focused harder—on the bayou that ran next to Angelle’s house—the night I saw Cherokee out there. I thought of Sook and Vern and the Bloody Bucket. My finger twitched again, then sprang to full alert, overlapping my regular little finger and my ring finger.
Pointing . . . pointing, northeast. Just like it did before. Then the firecracker sensation went off in my finger, and the pain was so intense, I thought for sure it had literally blown off the tip this time. The same fire—burning that occurred each time zeroed in on the children.