Water Witch

by Deborah LeBlanc

  “No, no, not the kids. I have to get to the landing, get help for Angelle . . .”

  The pleading did nothing to change its direction. If anything, it intensified the pain. Experience had taught me that the heightening of any sensation usually meant I was close to finding whatever I sought. If that still held true now, we were closer to the kids than ever. What the fuck was I supposed to do? Angelle needed help in the worst way, but I didn’t know how to get her to that help. If I tried going back to the landing without the aid of dowsing, there’d be no saving anyone.

  “All right, come one, you’ve gotta get your shit together,” I said, shaking my hands out like a boxer before a fight. I sorted through my thoughts, trying to find a logical solution.

  My finger decided it wanted to be the only one with answers and spiked the pain to an all time high. I doubled over, clutching my left hand to my chest. “Shhiiiit!”

  Moments later, when the worst of the pain had passed, I leaned over and checked Angelle’s breathing.

  In—out—in—out. Good, nice and steady.

  I stood up, sweat dribbling down the sides of my face, and gave thanks to the universe that she was still alive.“Gotta start the boat,” I muttered, stepping over to the motor. “Can’t do anything without starting the boat.” I grasped the red bulb, squeezed it—squeezed it, the way Angelle had done. Then I pressed the start button and twisted the throttle.

  Nothing. Of course nothing happened. Nothing but dead air and the smell of gasoline. Thinking I hadn’t primed it enough, I grabbed hold of the bulb again and squeezed it a few times. How many times had Angelle done this? Five? Ten? Fifty? I added three more squeezes, then pressed the start button and twisted the throttle for all it was worth. The engine sputtered, coughed, then died, and a white plume of smoke filled the back of the boat. Shit, I was flooding the damn thing. I tried the start button once more, the throttle. . .This time the engine roared to life—which was all well and good, but now I didn’t have a fucking clue about what to do next.

  Eventually, by trial and error, I got us away from the bank and into the open stream. I soon puttered up to a cut-off and pushed the throttle back, intending to take a left. The waterway looked much wider there. A lake maybe? The Atchafalaya River? Logically, if it was the river, the waterway would eventually lead us to civilization. It had to. The bigger the water, the bigger the boat needed to navigate it. The bigger the boat, the bigger the chance there’d be channels leading to large loading docks, not small boat ramps like the one Angelle and I had used. There’d be buildings and people. Doctors. Lights.

  The logic seemed plausible, so I steered left. Immediately, it felt like someone had yanked the extra finger out as far as it would go, then began sawing on it with a rusted, serrated knife. I screamed in pain and held my left hand up to the night sky. “What the fuck do you want from me? What?”

  The only answer was more pain, more sawing from the rusted knife . . . burning, stabbing pain. I had to turn around. It was telling me in no uncertain terms that I had to comply or else. Or else the pain would get so severe it might actually stop my heart.

  It had taken over. It, that which I’d seen as a curse all my life. That which Angelle called on for help. That which had brought me years of embarrassment, seclusion, isolation, and fear. After all that pain over so many years, how dare it try to control me this way, making me go in a direction I didn’t want to go. I slumped from the weariness of it all. From the pain. It took all I had to turn the boat around. As soon as I did, the pain dropped to a level just below excruciating.

  Although forced into submission, the direction clear, I didn’t know what I was supposed to do with the kids if . . .no, when, I found them. Two kids who’d been missing for . . . what? Three days now? Maybe without food and water? How was I supposed to deal with them and an unconscious sister? It was all so overwhelming and answerless that all I knew to do was pray that Poochie was standing at her prayer tree right now, calling upon her god, or anyone else’s god,to help that dumbass desert rat who knew nothing about swamps or swimming, boat motors or kids. The dumbass who got herself stuck in the middle of it all anyway.

  With my right hand still on the throttle, I dropped down to my knees, then leaned over and grabbed the flashlight. Its beam had faded to little more than a fog lamp, but at least it was something. I aimed it ahead of me, saw nothing different than what I’d seen before, then moved the beam down to Angelle and watched the steady rise and fall of her chest. Good.

  Left to the call of my finger, I got back to my feet, twisted the throttle, and got the skiff moving again. The wind shifted to the south, and with it came an odd scent—a mixture of burning wood, cooked meat, and something rancid. The tail end of that aroma was so sour it seemed to stick to the hairs in my nostrils. In that moment, the electrical fire in my finger abruptly turned to ice, and instead of overlapping my other fingers, it aimed straight ahead, towards an inlet that appeared darker and narrower than any we’d traveled so far.

  Knowing better than to resist, I slowed the boat down a little more and inched the skiff towards the mouth of the inlet. I aimed the flashlight ahead, but its beam was so weak, I could barely see the nose of the boat.

  Creeping along, I soon spotted an odd shape near the bank about fifty feet on my right. Thinking about the dead woman back by the cypress, I hesitated getting any closer, but the boat seemed to insist, nudging me nearer.

  Closer . . . the odd scent growing stronger . . . closer, until I could make out a boat. It looked like it was tied to a clump of skinny trees. Instinctively, I released the throttle, let the engine die, and the skiff drifted on its own towards the object.

  It was a boat. My skiff’s nose touched it’s bow, which was close enough for the meager beam from the flashlight to illuminate the biggest nightmare I’d ever seen in my life. Beyond the boat, in an opening no more than ten feet away from where I stood, two bodies—or what remained of their bodies—had been tied to metal rods that protruded from the ground, then burned beyond recognition. Brown, melted wax mummies with empty eye-sockets. Both mouths were frozen in perpetual screams. I opened my own mouth . . . and puked over the side of the boat. Jesus!

  When my stomach was empty, I chanced another look at the bodies. I couldn’t tell if they were male or female. What was this place? Where the waters belched up bodies, lost children, housed gators and snakes bigger than Buicks? What the hell was going on here?

  The boats tapped noses again, and the hollow ka-thunk of aluminum hitting aluminum drew my attention to the moored boat. It looked similar to the one we were in, same color, same length. Same descriptive registration numbers. The only difference was the name painted in large black letters along its left side.

  BULLET.

  Bullet. . . Bullet. The name rolled over and over in my head, trying to find a home. I’d heard it before, somewhere . . . Oh, fuck! That was the name of Trevor’s boat! No, no, no . . . it can’t be . . .

  But I remembered Poochie saying that he’d gone out with some guy to check traps, only he was supposed to come home with the boat before going to work. He never did get home. Not before they’d left anyway. This had to be some sick coincident. Certainly there had to be someone else in this damn who had a boat with the same name. One of those bodies couldn’t be Angelle’s Trevor. It just couldn’t!

  I looked back at my sister to make sure she was still sleeping. Sleeping, not dead. If there was ever a time to be grateful for her being unconscious it was now.

  Jesus . . .Trevor . . . it couldn’t be . . .

  I started the engine again, backed the skiff away, watched BULLET and the two charred bodies fade into the darkness. Please, don’t let it be Trevor. For Angelle’s sake, for everybody’s sake, don’t let it be Trevor.

  With that silent prayer holding constant, I turned the boat in the opposite direction, and my finger changed sensations immediately. It went back to the firecracker. Back to the burning. Right . . . go to the right, Dunny . . . It can’t be Trevor!


  The weight pressing against my heart and intuition begged to differ. I forced myself to look away from that boat, away from BULLET. . . BULLET. . . BULLET.By the time my eyes focused on the direction I was supposed to be heading, where my finger led, I spotted a round yellow light off in the distance.

  It flickered and swirled, then stretched into the shape of a pyramid, growing higher and taller by the second. How could I have missed that light earlier? It was too big to be coming from a flashlight, and no way it was the moon. I thought about what Poochie had said about the feux fo lais, balls of light that led people deep into the swamp so they’d be lost forever. Although I didn’t put any stock in the whole purgatory end of the tale, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I was seeing now was in fact a feux fo lais. Too many weird things had crossed my path over the last couple of days for me to discount anything.

  If this was a feux fo lais, was it a good one or angry one? Was there a way to tell the difference? Poochie had said a good feux fo lais sometimes led lost fisherman back to shore. If I followed it, though, how would I know whether it was leading me home or deeper into the swamp, where I’d be lost forever? Fuck that. I was already lost. What more could it do to me?

  Now the light flickered in multiple directions, like flames licking up from a large, swelling campfire. A silhouette suddenly danced across the backdrop of flames, and I felt my mouth drop open.

  Wait—that was a bonfire! There was someone out there!

  I was about to rev up the motor and shoot over there at full speed when I thought about the charred bodies—the dead woman by the cypress tree. There might indeed be somebody out there, but was it someone who’d offer help—or trap me in an even bigger hell than I was in right now.

  Unfortunately, there was only one way for me to find out . . .

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Olm opted for a monument of fire; instead of a wooden alter on which to place the heart offerings. And, oh, what a monument it was! It was in the same spot his father’s burial shelf had been located, only it encompassed an area ten times the original size.

  He’d spent hours chopping buttonwood trees with a short handled machete to start the fire, then dragged in cypress logs, some almost as big around as his thigh, to build it higher. Once he had it roaring to the right height, he fed the flames anything dry he could find to keep them going. Anything to reach Tirawa. Anything that kept the fire roaring as loudly as his own spirit.

  He’d never known any other time in his life when he’d felt this much excitement. This much hope. So much power. The time had finally come. All of the preparation, all of his hard work would soon be worth it. Moments from now, only bare moments, all he’d longed for would be his.

  With a hop of joy, Olm made clicking sounds with his tongue and tossed an oak branch onto the fire. The wind whipped about and sent a shower of embers flying his way. He shielded his eyes, caught the scent of singed hair, then lifted his arms above his head and laughed uproariously.

  Olm didn’t know why it had taken him so many years to get to this place, for the revelation of Tirawa to come to him so he’d understand all that was possible. All things had their time he supposed. Certainly he would not have appreciated the fullness of what was about to happen had it been given to him as a young man, a pup in his teens. Someone unfamiliar with the workings of his own body and mind, much less the intricacies of metaphysics.

  He had years behind him now, had faced many struggles in life. Rejection, failure, never measuring up to others’ standards, the butt of their jokes, ofhaving that brass ring within reach so many times, only to have it snatched away by someone quicker, faster, smarter. All of those experiences had definitely laid a strong foundation for true appreciation, something he believed Tirawa thrived on. Naked subjects, dependent, appreciative of his power. Addicted to the vast promises he gave to all who worshipped and sacrificed to him.

  Olm glanced at his watch, noting how brash the simple piece of jewelry appeared on his naked arm, against his naked chest. No warrior wore a Timex. But, it was the only way for him to keep track of time, and he needed to have the timing exact for the sacrifice.

  Five minutes left. Five minutes until the apex of the moon, and his life would start anew. The anticipation that had been building inside of him for so long had reached an all-time high. It pushed from inside his body like a living thing, an eager animal wanting out of its cage. The feeling brought tears to his eyes, and he started to dance, pounded the ground with his feet in the rhythmic beat of the ceremonial Ghost Dance.

  He felt fully alive, already renewed. He was like an olm tree, forcing its branches up from the center of a dead and hollow cypress stump.

  “Hey-nah-hey-nah-hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey-nah-oonah-hey. Hey-nah-hey-nah-oonah-hey.”Olm raised his arms over his head as he chanted, beat the ground with his feet, spinning in a circle. So much had been given to him already. Bits and pieces of wisdom that had prepared his spirit to handle much more. First he’d been shown the old woman, told how to collect her blood to enhance tonight’s sacrificial offering. Then Tirawa had given him the eyes of an eagle, allowing him to spot the two boaters who were getting too close to the knoll. He’d seen them on his way out here. His human self—his old self would have quickly hushed the motor on his boat, then ran and hid until the boaters had passed by. But that didn’t happen. He no longer carried the weighty baggage from his old being.

  Olm had spotted the crawfish traps in the men’s skiff even from a distance. Seeing that, his old self would have assumed they were probably changing locations, looking for more productive waters. But the moment he saw them, Tirawa released to him an astonishing revelation. Serving Tirawa wasn’t about an annual sacrifice used to please the might deity. It was a state of mind. It mean grabbing opportunities when he saw them, offering blood and life to the Great Warrior at every opportunity. The commander of the Morning and Evening star deserved no less, and for those who understood that monumental concept, Tirawa’s rewards were endless.

  Attracting the boaters’ attention had almost been too easy. Olm had faked an injury, then called to them for help. They’d come to him without hesitation. Once they were in his boat, checking the leg he’d sworn he’d broken, Tirawa gave Olm the power of a lion and the speed of a gazelle. Before either man knew it, he’d ruptured their hearts with his knife. Instead of dumping their bodies overboard, though, as he’d done with the old woman, Tirawa had demanded an offering of incense. He’d shown Olm the metal survey stakes hidden in a nearby thicket. Directed him to the rolls of wire and flagging in a compartment under one of the benches in the men’s boat. Told him how to tie them to the stakes, then Olm had been allowed to complete the offering, using whatever method he thought would be most pleasing to Tirawa. So he’d taken the gasoline tank out of their boat, soaked both men until the tank was empty, then set their bodies ablaze.

  No doubt the offering had pleased Tirawa, for he kept Olm’s eyes sharp and his senses keen. Shortly after that fire offering, he’d spotted yet another boater. This one, however, had been outright brazen, having snuck in from the north, then tying his boat to a tree right on the very knoll where Olm kept the kids. His old self would have panicked and run off like a frightened rabbit, petrified at the possibility of being caught. But once again, he didn’t run. Instead, Olm snuck through the brush, hardly making a sound, creeping along on the balls of his feet the way his ancestors used to do during a hunt, bow and arrow or spear at the ready. Olm didn’t have a spear or bow—but he had a knife. He’d stayed in the shadow of a tree trunk, held his breath, not making a sound, waited for his prey, who crunched and clonked through the brush like an over-sized oaf, begging to be heard. Begging to be found. Begging to be sacrificed. And Olm had been more than happy to oblige. He rammed the knife into the man’s chest up to the hilt, then dragged his body back to the clearing and tied him to a tree not far from the children. He, too, would be set ablaze, but only after the hearts of the children were offered.

&nb
sp; Lagniappe for Tirawa, who’d been so generous to him.

  Olm glanced over at the tree where he’d tied the man and smiled. The man’s eyes and mouth were open, paralyzed in perpetual surprise and fear, which he’d now carry throughout eternity. Olm wondered if the children’s faces would freeze with that same expression when he killed them.

  He checked his watch again. Another two minutes had passed. Only three minutes left.

  Only three minutes to get the job done.

  Olm hurried over to the willow, where he’d hidden the metal bucket, grabbed it, and took off for the edge of the knoll closest to the children. Once there, he filled the bucket to the brim with sludge, then carried it over to the boy.

  The boy began to cry immediately. “Please, don’t Mister! Please! I promise I’ll be good and won’t tell anybody. I promise I won’t say a word. Just let us go. Please! Don’t hurt us. Please don’t hurt us!”

  Grinning, Olm dumped the bucket of mud into the hole, which raised the level of silt to just under the boy’s bottom lip. Olm frowned, pursed his lips. The mud should have gone higher, to the boy’s upper lip. He must have miscalculated. He’d have to hurry. More mud. He needed more mud than he thought.

  He ran back to the edge of the knoll, scooped up another bucket of mud, and brought it back to the boy.

  “No! Please, I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna die! Mama! Mama, please come stop him! Mama!”

  Olm dumped the bucket of mud into the boy’s hole. This brought the level of sludge above his upper lip, to the bottom of his nostrils. The boy’s eyes went wide. Snot ran out of his nose and formed little rivers in the silt below it. Olm allowed himself a second of pleasure, as he watched the boy’s eyes widen even more, the snot run, remembered his uncontrollable cries.