Now it was time for the girl.
Olm repeated the process of going to the edge of the knoll, collected another bucket of swamp slop, then carrying it over to her. He dropped the silt into the center of her hole. This time the silt level moved spot on, settling just below her nose, just as the boy’s was now. The only problem was there was no reaction from her. No fear. No tears. No begging for help. She simply sat there, head lolled back and to one side, eyes closed as if she were in a peaceful sleep.
Olm’s pulse quickened as he considered the possibility that the girl might already be dead. What was he supposed do with her if she was dead? The whole point of the sacrifice was the fear, the offering of the fear.
He calmed himself, recalling that the two kids had been his idea in the first place. Tirawa only required one. Two had been a matter of convenience, since they’d been together on the levee, and he’d thought surely two would grant him graces and benefits far beyond what one might bring.
Resigning himself to the fact that he may just have one life to offer, Olm scrambled back to the edge of the knoll and collected more mud. This would be the last for the boy. This bucket would take the silt level to the bridge of his nose, high enough so even if he leaned his head back, he still wouldn’t find air. Only the boy’s eyes would be visible. His terror-filled, horrified eyes.
Olm’s plan had been to have the girl watch while he smothered him, or have the boy watch while he killed the girl, but the point was moot now. If the girl was already dead, the boy could easily assume as much, and wasting this bucket of mud on her would bring no extra benefit of fear in the boy. Killing the boy first, with the girl unconscious or possibly dead, provided no benefits either. But all that mattered, really, was Tirawa. And to that end, all he had to be concerned about was making sure the sacrifice was timed perfectly.
Standing at the foot of the boy’s hole, Olm held up the last bucket of mud he intended to pour, and shouted, “Oh, Great Tirawa, I offer you the fruits of my labor, the sacrifice of fear and youth. Send to me, Great One, the collective knowledge of my ancestors. Hear me, Great Tirawa. Send to me all that runs through my lineage so I may stand powerful and prosperous on this earth. For this, I will become your prophet, forever singing the praises of your name, one will offer sacrifice upon sacrifice to appease your great and insatiable hunger.”
With that, Olm tilted the bucket so only some of the mud slopped into the hole. The boy’s head wiggled, his eyes growing so wide they looked like two stained moons.
Another tilt of the bucket. The plop of more mud. “Ahna-hah-na-hey-nah-hey. Hey-nah-hey-nah-oonah-hey.” Though no one had ever told him a chant was required, Olm felt its necessity. When one lay with a lover, one felt compelled to say, I love you. To Olm, there was no difference. He was offering all, as he would to a lover. This sacrifice—his hard work—his heart—his soul—his voice—the fire. The raging fire, it crackled and popped, its flames soaring ever higher. Surely it had to be sweet music to Tirawa’s ear. How could it not?
He glanced at his watch.
Thirty seconds remaining.
Olm lifted the bucket once more, held it steady, and counted backwards from thirty. As the numbers decreased, something pricking at the back of his mind. Something didn’t quite feel right . . .sound right. . .
Still holding the bucket steady, Olm counted silently now. He listened carefully . . . past the crackle of the fire . . .past the nocturnal noises of the swamp . . .then he heard it. The sound of a boat motor.
And it was coming up on him fast.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The closer I got to land the farther my mouth dropped. The fire I’d noticed earlier was no ordinary bonfire. It was a mountainous inferno that appeared to consume everything within reach, as if the entire island had been torched. The orange-red flames didn’t just light up the night they shocked the darkness from it.
I found myself so mesmerized by the height of it, the roar and thunderous rumble from it, that I didn’t realize until it was too late that I was barreling towards the island’s bank, which was now only mere feet away. Instinctively, my right foot sought a brake, my brain rolled its inner eye at the stupidity of the gesture, and the boat slammed into the bank. In an instant, the propellers ground to an abrupt halt in sludge and dirt, and I went flying headfirst over Angelle, who was still lying on the skiff’s floor, towards the bow. My right side caught the edge of the bench seat, my head the aluminum abutment of the bow. White and silver lights burst into a sparkling fireworks display before my eyes.
Groaning, I waited until the fireworks dissipated, then grabbed the side of the boat and struggled to my feet. I held onto the skiff for a moment, catching my breath, waited for my legs to stop shaking. I glanced over at Angelle, clearly visible in the floodlight created by the fire. Although the jolt from the boat’s impact had caused her body to slide sideways a foot or two, she looked no worse for the wear. A quiet peacefulness rested on her face, and I saw the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her eyes moving left to right beneath her eyelids like she was in the middle of a pleasant dream. Satisfied that she was okay and feeling stability return to my legs, I stood up and took stock of my surroundings.
As far as I could tell, the island was shaped like a horseshoe, and I’d plowed into its south end. The fiery monolith stood over a hundred feet ahead, and even from here, I felt the intensity of its heat. The belly of the inferno consisted of a pyramid of logs, which told me that this blaze was no accident. Someone had purposely set it. But who would set up a bonfire out in the middle of nowhere? A camper might build one to cook, but certainly not one that big.
Dread began to grow and squirm in the pit of my stomach, seep into my bones. The images of the two charred bodies came to mind, but instead of seeing them as I had a short time ago, both unidentifiable save for the name on the boat that caused me to suspect one to be Trevor, the bodies belonged to Angelle and me.
Shivering, I peered over at the fire, watched it send giant gray clouds of smoke billowing, swirling, belching towards the sky. I felt hypnotized by the size and power of it all, the flames, the whirling, curling smoke. I had to force myself to turn away from it.
With the motor dead and the skiff all but cemented in mud, I didn’t have the option to turn tail and run. I could either hunker down in the boat with Angelle or get out and see if there were any answers to getting us out of here. With Angelle needing medical attention, the decision was a no-brainer.
I got out of the boat and walked tentatively towards the fire, circling to the right. “Is anybody here? I need help. My sister’s been hurt, and I need to get her to a hospital.”
The only response was the crackle and pop of wood roasting in the flames.
“Hello? Anybody?”
Still no answer. I wasn’t sure if that was a good or bad thing. I circled the circumference of the fire, which was so big; it seemed to take forever to get to the other side. There was definitely no need for a flashlight here. No need for the moon. The flames did all the work, illuminating, defining every branch, every blade of grass. As I drew closer, smoke whipped across my face, curled up my nose.
“Is anybody here? Hello? Is any—Oh, Jesus!” A dead man tied to a tree, fifty feet away, if that, damn near sent me into cardiac arrest, paralyzed my feet. The world suddenly turned into a silent movie. I no longer heard the roar of the fire. Even in my shock, I realized I felt nothing from my extra finger, nothing cold to acknowledge the dead, which he most certainly was.
His arms had been pulled backwards around the trunk of the tree, his hands obviously tied behind it. His head was slumped forward, his shirt and pants stained with volumes of blood, which, judging from the knife protruding from the left side of his chest, had come from his heart.
That knife . . .
Of all the things my eyes decided to settle on in that moment, it chose the handle of the knife. Something about it….
Without thinking, I stepped forward, drawn closer to the dead man, to the k
nife. A red handled knife . . . shaped like an exclamation point. My mouth went dry. I wanted to call out to Angelle, remind her where we’d seen it, then remembered she was back in the boat, unconscious. Remembered she hadn’t been there to see it in the first place. She’d been sitting in the car, eyes snapping with anger.
I was the one who’d seen that knife earlier today. It had been stuck in a wooden cross at Woodard’s church. It had to be the same one because it was too oddly shaped for it not to be. Even the policeman who’d pulled it out of the cross, that Beeno guy, had mentioned how rare it was. The memory of that incident jittered in my mind like faulty reel-to-reel film.
The knife . . .the church . . .the cop . . . how he’d shaken the knife at Woodard . . . and something . . . something else. . .
I was close enough now to the dead man to reach out and touch him. Although his head hung chin to chest, a sense of familiarity washed over me. I tilted my head slightly to get the advantage of an angle and inched up a step . . . then another. Who was this man?
Suddenly familiarity became horrid, absolute recollection. I gasped, threw a hand over my mouth. The dead man was Vern Nezat, Sook’s husband. “Oh, God,” I muttered through my fingers. “God . . . Vern, no . . . not . . . Oh, God . . .
Someone must have fixed that faulty reel-to-reel because sights and sounds abruptly flowed into one smooth motion. The blood—the knife—the crackle, roar, pop, snap of fire—flames rising, falling, undulating, giant steeples in a perpetual state of rebuilding—dancing, whirling, billowing smoke—all of it now an IMAX of terror with surround sound.
Amidst the horror, my ears latched onto a new, odd sound, the hrsshh, hrsshh, hrsshh of someone running through dry brush. And the sound was getting louder, heading towards me. I peered tentatively over my shoulder, saw nothing, then turned slowly, fearfully to my left, where it sounded like the noise was coming from.
I saw no one running towards me, only a large clearing a short distance away. It looked like a dirty moon with two dark eyes set in the center. I squinted, took a step towards it.
Dark eyes? Dark . . . Fuck! Those weren’t eyes at all. They looked like freshly dug graves with two small heads poking up near the front of each. The sight took my breath away. The kids? Sweet Jesus, the kids! But their heads weren’t moving . . . Trembling, I inched closer. Don’t let them be dead . . .don’t—
The hrsshh, hrsshh, hrsshh sound was suddenly louder than ever, and it was followed by a primal growl of fury so loud, it stopped me dead in my tracks, sent every hair on my arms, the back of my neck standing at attention. I whirled about and saw a man racing towards me. Bare-chested, eyes wild and filled with fury, teeth bared, arms raised with one hand wielding a short-handled machete. He screamed something, but I couldn’t understand him. Adrenaline sent my heart flying to my throat and my pulse tripling in rate, but my brain wouldn’t command my legs to move. It was too busy trying to figure out what was headed towards me.
The man looked and sounded like a charging animal, one unrestrained in its fury and focused on its prey. But he was a man . . .someone I knew . . .my brain rapidly sought and sorted. . . The knife . . .the cop . . .the cop shaking the knife at Woodard . . .the cop taking the knife with him . . .taking the knife with him! Sonofabitch, this wild man was the cop from Bayou Crow, the one they called Beeno! What the fuck . . .
“You bitch!” Beano screamed, his legs gathering speed.
Instinct sent me spinning on my heels, ready to run. But I had no where to run to, no place to escape. The kids . . . Sarah . . . Nicky . . . the boat grounded, Angelle in it, helpless . . .Vern . . . I couldn’t just leave them here. . .
I whirled back around to face Beeno—just as he launched and dropped me in a flying tackle.
Breathless, I waited for a cutting blow from the machete, but he must have dropped it because the next thing I knew he was on top of me, pummeling my face, my chest, my arms, my shoulders with his fists. I threw an arm up in defense, turned my head from side to side to deflect the blows.
“You goddamn bitch!” He screamed, spittle flying from his lips. His face was a red mask of hatred and rage, his lips curled up like a feral beast. “You ruined it all!” He grabbed me by hair, forced my head up, pointed skyward. “Do you see that? Do you see that moon? You fucking wasted it. All my hard work, gone!” He swung down hard with a fist, plowing it into my right cheek. “ Tirawa will get revenge, you’ll see. He’ll get revenge on my behalf.” Then he screamed something incoherent and punched the top of my head. “You ruined it! Everything I’ve done . . “
Suddenly his voice was lost to the roar of the fire, which sounded like it had been amplified by a thousand times. A rush of wind whirled about us—hot, so hot it made it hard to breathe. Gray smoke gathered, pushed against me, got into my eyes, my nose, my mouth. Hot—fire—smoke—dancing smoke and flames.
Beeno slapped me again, again, and the sound of his voice abruptly returned. “— manipulative, conniving, fucking bitch! How dare you interfere!”
“Get the fuck off of me!” I screamed and swung at him with both hands. He pinned them immediately, dropped his right knee on my chest, nailing me to the ground. He threw my arms out on either side of me, then immediately jabbed a fist into my face, my nose. I heard something crunch, felt a blast of pain, tasted blood in my mouth. I bucked beneath him, spat a bloody wad of mucus on his chest. “Get off me!”
Beeno howled with laughter, then his lips settled into a snarl, and he swung his right fist, catching me on the ear. I felt his weight shift, like he was ready to stand, and felt myself coil up inside, preparing to twist, roll out of his reach. But he lifted up for only a second, and only to drop down again with a scream of fury, his knee slamming into my chest. Then his knee slid off, and he grabbed the front of my shirt in a fist, started shouting something in a language I didn’t understand, had never heard before.
I tried pulling into a ball . . . couldn’t breathe . . .my vision blurred . . . Gelle . . .Sarah . . .Nicky . . .Gelle . .Sarah . . . Their names became my mantra for strength. I had to stay alive, had to remain conscious or God only knew what this maniac might do to them. Air . . .needed air. It felt like my lungs had been split open, like I was back in the water, drowning, everything turning inky black. Gelle . . .Sarah . . .Beeno . . .
In that moment, Beeno threw a left hook, catching me under the jaw. The world exploded into a million stars.
From a distant place, I heard him howl, like a wolf baying at the moon. Then he began to chant, his voice hoarse, his tone furious and determined. “Oonah-hahna-hahna-hey-nah-hey. Oonah-hanah-hanah-hey.”
Through eyes nearly swollen shut, I saw him towering above me, one foot on my chest . . .gray smoke, curling, whirling, dancing . . .flames . . . chanting, chanting that sounded like it came from the bowels of the swamp. . .
“Oonah-hahna-hahna-hey-nah-hey. Oonah-hanah-hanah-hey.”
I felt the weight of him leave my chest, tried to roll . . . couldn’t move. Saw him lift his arms above his head, the machete now glistening in his right hand. And as he continued to scream unintelligible gibberish, the smoke surrounded him, like ghostly shapes curling themselves about his body, flowing into his ears, his nose, his mouth. Through his very pores, flowing in and out.
Eyes. . .eyes everywhere now. No . . . not eyes . . .embers from the fire. I watched them settle over him, saw him swing the machete up, watched it swoop down and across. It missed my face by an inch. No doubt the backhand was coming. I felt it deep in my gut. Knew the next time he’d connect for sure. The next time it would all be over.
I saw the momentum of his body shift, heard the call of the blade in motion. With what little strength I had left, I lifted my left hand, putting up the only barrier I could between the blade and my face, stretched my fingers to block as much of the blow as possible.
Whoosh! The machete swung by . . .white-hot pain seared through my hand, raced down my hand and into my chest. My heart shuttered in its fury. I screamed, eyes opening as wide a
s the swelling allowed. So much blood pouring from my hand . . .from . . .from . . . my extra finger was gone! Gone! God, he’d cut it off! My screams turned into horrified shrieks that raked my throat raw. Oh, God . . .god . .. I dropped my wounded hand at my side
Over my own screaming, I heard Beeno roar in fury again, heard him start up the chant, saw that the smoke had almost obliterated him from view, curling around him.
I caught sight of the blade as he lifted it high He wasn’t going to come down at an angle this time. He was aiming straight down, right for my head. He was done with me. Through. Ready for me to die. I saw it in his eyes. In the snarl on his face. My mantra would be useless against such madness. Not even Poochie’s god could stop him now.
I tried lifting my arms to cross them over my face, but they felt weighted with hundred pound blocks of concrete. Tears stung my eyes. Gelle, I’m so sorry . . . Sarah, Nicky . . . so sorry. I felt something relax inside me, a giving way of sorts. I fought against it, didn’t want to give up, wasn’t supposed to give up. But the night was filled with a billion stars and a giant moon. I turned my head every so slightly towards that moon and kept it in my line of sight, focusing on it, willing away the sound of Beeno’s rage, the hefting grunt in his voice that told me he was lifting the machete higher. I didn’t have to look to see what was coming. I didn’t want to see.
Any second now . . .Keep your eyes on the moon, Dunny. You hear, Gelle? Sarah? Nicky? Keep your eyes on the moon . . .
As I watched, the moon’s soft white face began to darken . . .like the water I’d nearly drowned in . . . like the dark found deep in the swamp . . .just when I felt it ready to envelope me, bright light flashed in my periphery. The darkness paused then, waiting for me. . .
Although I no longer saw him, I heard Beeno screech in fury . . . heard the BLAM!of a shotgun blast, the loud thud of something hitting the ground hard.
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