The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp

by Kathi Appelt

  “Howdy there, east Texas. Hope everyone is in a nice, dry spot while these storms pass through.”

  Bingo cocked his ears. So did J’miah. Then blip . . . blip . . . blip . . . blip. The Voice came back on, “Fishing should be good down on the bayou. . . .” That made Bingo happy. He loved fish. He’d go fishing first thing.

  “Fishing,” said J’miah.

  The radio kept going . . . ooooowwwweeeee . . . weeeeeoooo . . . and then they heard words like . . . “terrible” . . . “horrible” . . . “no good”. . . “very bad” . . .wwweeeeoooo . . .

  Bingo’s tuft stood straight up.

  “What?” asked Bingo.

  “Who?” asked J’miah.

  They both waited.

  Sure enough the worst words of all, “. . . HOGS! . . . they’re heading directly toward the Sugar Man Swamp. . . .”

  Bingo and J’miah looked at each other. “The Farrow Gang!” they said together.

  Then . . . blip . . . blip . . . oooweeeee . . . The purple lights dimmed and the message faded, but right before it ended, there was a crackle . . . pop . . . pop . . . “Arrroooo!”

  Raccoon fur went poof, poof!

  Bingo and J’miah looked like stripy puffer fishes. They had never heard the Voice howl before. But the howl was not nearly so unsettling as the news that the notorious Farrow Gang was heading their way.

  Buzzie and Clydine’s reputation had preceded them. Our Scouts, with their open eyes, sniffing noses, and ears to the ground, had seen first-paw the devastation wrought by the Farrows. Over the past several months, lots of critters had sought refuge in the Sugar Man Swamp to avoid being mowed down by the hogs. Bingo had seen the whitetail deer hobble in, their legs battered and bruised. He had witnessed a cattle egret with its wing torn and tattered. He remembered the small flock of cottontail rabbits, their paws sore from running too many miles in their efforts to get away from the gang.

  They were the lucky ones, the ones who made it to the welcoming domain of the swamp. Until now it was believed that the swamp meant safety, but . . . rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble . . . Bingo swallowed hard. If the Voice of Intelligence told the truth (and it always had), the Sugar Man Swamp, and all the critters who dwelt there, would soon be under siege.

  All at once, our Scouts knew what they had to do. They didn’t particularly want to do it. They’d never done it before. But it had to be done.

  Together, Bingo said to J’miah and J’miah said to Bingo, “We have to wake up the Sugar Man.”

  39

  IN A SMALL BUILDING THAT sat directly underneath Bingo’s blinking red star, Coyoteman Jim watched the rain pouring outside his studio window. Of course, like most radio stations, it was soundproof, but he could still see the flashes of lightning in the distance. He looked at the clock on his desk. Midnight. He pushed away from the microphone, took the headphones off, stood up, and stretched.

  He had just finished the weather report and the unsettling news about hogs, and had lined up a long set of his favorite songs. He only halfway listened to them as they spun from one to another in the automatic player.

  He was looking for some inspiration. The previous morning, when he had stopped in for his fried sugar pie and mug of milk, Chap Brayburn had asked him to make a commercial for Paradise Pies. But right now he was stumped. There was a blank pad of paper and a pencil on the desk in front of him, but all it had on it were some doodles and scribbles, nothing else.

  He knew how important this advertisement would be. If the Brayburns could get some more customers, and make some extra cash, they might be able to slow down the plans being hatched by Jaeger Stitch and Sonny Boy Beaucoup. It was a long shot at best. He knew that. He also knew he needed to make a humdinger of a commercial if they were going to convince customers to drive all the way down the Beaten Track to eat sugar pies.

  Coyoteman Jim rubbed his eyes. The station felt lonely, what with the rain and all. This was usually about the time when his old friend Audie would have called him, just to say hello, and maybe to tell him a story.

  Audie wasn’t his only caller. Because Coyoteman Jim worked the graveyard shift, people tended to call in after everyone else had gone to bed. It was downright surprising what folks felt like they could tell him in the wee hours of the morning. Some things were worth repeating, like when Sissy Morton won the baton twirling competition in Baton Rouge; and when the Whites had their new baby girl, Emma Kathleen; and the time that Brother Hadley at the Little Church on the Bayou got bit by a copperhead and lived to tell about it. Those things were happy news, and Coyoteman Jim was totally down with sharing them.

  But there were a lot of things that weren’t necessarily meant for the public at large, like when Billy Willy Curtis called to tell him that his big sister Mae Rae Curtis sat under the tanning lights for so long, she turned completely orange; or when Cousin Ida called to say that her mother Aunt Erla had dropped the Thanksgiving turkey on the floor but didn’t let on, so everyone ate dirty turkey and didn’t know it; and the time when Maynard Douglas called to say his youth pastor at the Little Church on the Bayou drank so much Mountain Dew, it snorted out of his nose when he laughed.

  These were items that Coyoteman Jim kept to himself.

  Which is the reason that he ended every graveyard shift with a major howl. Instead of saying all those things that shouldn’t be said, he just cut loose with a big ol’ Aaarrroooooo!

  So there wasn’t much happening in the KSUG listening area that Coyoteman Jim wasn’t aware of, even though there were a few things he wished he didn’t know. Like the invasion of the hogs, for example. Yet another introduced species, thought Coyoteman Jim. And that included those other introduced species: Sonny Boy and Jaeger.

  As he slipped his headphones back on over his ears, the strains of the last song zipped into his head. Shake, shake, shake . . . Wait! He turned up the volume. Shake, shake, shake . . . Yes! There it was—the inspiration for his commercial. Shake, shake, shake . . . It was perfect. He listened to the tune one more time, put his pencil to paper, and started writing.

  40

  BINGO AND J’MIAH WERE WORRIED. From the safety of Information Headquarters, they could feel the rumble-rumble-rumble-rumble as the invasion approached. They knew they needed to wake up the Sugar Man to tell him that the swamp was under attack. And they also knew that they didn’t have much time. These things they knew.

  What they didn’t know was how they were going to go about waking up the Sugar Man without getting snip-snap-zip-zapped by Gertrude.

  And as if all of that wasn’t enough to worry about, they weren’t even sure where to find the Sugar Man. No one had actually seen him in years, maybe decades. Not even the famous Great-Uncle Banjo had claimed to have an encounter with the Sugar Man.

  It wasn’t like there was a sign on the door somewhere: “Here Lives the Sugar Man.” It wasn’t as if there was a neon arrow pointing to his secret lair: “Sugar Man’s Hideaway.” It wasn’t as though there was a map with a big, fat circle around “Sugar Man Villa.” Nope.

  All they knew was that they would have to head toward the deepest, darkest part of the swamp, where the trees blocked out all the light, where the underbrush was so thick that even noises couldn’t penetrate the thick vines and leaves.

  “Brrr . . .” Bingo shivered just thinking about it. He looked out at the driving rain. J’miah shivered too.

  And even though it goes against the grain for raccoons to move about in daylight, they decided to wait for the morning, when hopefully the rain would stop and they could use the sun’s rays to help them find the Sugar Man’s deep, dark lair.

  To keep himself busy, J’miah decided to resume Mission Clean-Up Headquarters. Raccoons in general are similar to pack rats. They collect all kinds of odd items, and over the years, the backseat had become something of a pit. It bothered J’miah. He liked for things to be tidy and neat. Especially when he was nervous. Like now.

  All at once, Mission Clean-Up Headquarters turned into a disinfec
ting frenzy. First, J’miah wiped down the insides of all the windows with some fresh leaves. He rubbed and rubbed until each window was sparkly. Of course, he couldn’t see through them because the outside was pretty much covered with vines, but at least he could see the vines better.

  Next, he used a small branch as a broom to sweep off the old leather seats. It was surprising how much clutter had accumulated back there over the years.

  Bingo did his best to stay out of his brother’s way. He decided to do some chin-ups from the rearview mirror so as not to get swept up with the debris. J’miah ignored him and kept sweeping. Soon he had a whole collection of rubbish piled up on the floorboard behind the passenger’s side. It was like a small landfill between the seats.

  Bingo clung to the rearview mirror. He decided then to reverse himself and hang upside down. It gave him a different perspective on the inside of the DeSoto, not to mention a unique view of his brother. Watching J’miah in all of his industriousness made Bingo wonder if he shouldn’t feel just a tad bit guilty for hanging out and not joining J’miah in the cleanup? Then again . . . nah . . . That wonder fleeted.

  J’miah continued to sweep, pausing every now and then to adjust his invisible thinking cap. It was during one of these cap adjustment breaks that he decided that he simply couldn’t live with that landfill of rubbish. So he made a declaration. “We’re going to shove this stuff through the entryway.”

  “Huh?” said Bingo, still hanging upside down.

  “Yep,” replied J’miah. The plan was to cram the garbage underneath the seat so that it could then be shoved through the door. The instructions were perfectly clear.

  So he set his broom down and began to shove . . . and shove . . . and shove. But the landfill did not move.

  Bingo continued to do his bat impersonation.

  J’miah shoved some more. The pile of rubbish shifted, but it did not move.

  “There must be a blockage,” said J’miah. And seeing that Bingo was no help, J’miah climbed over the seat and crawled down to the floorboard and peered underneath. Sure enough, there was something large and square. He reached for it with his nimble paws. It was cool and smooth to the touch. He grabbed it by the corner and tugged, but it wouldn’t move. Whatever the large square thing was, it was wedged tight.

  J’miah pulled on it again, but there was no getting it to move. He shoved his head under the seat to get a closer look. First he examined the front of it. He noticed that there was a handle. He grabbed hold of it, but no matter how hard he pulled, the blockage stayed put. Then he moved to the right side of it. Nothing.

  By now Bingo was feeling the effects of being upside down, so he let go and dropped to the floorboard and peeked underneath the seat. Sure enough, he saw the blockage too. “Why haven’t we ever noticed this before?” he asked.

  J’miah said, “Because we never swept out the garbage before!” Did we detect a note of testiness coming out of J’miah? Why yes, we believe we did. But Bingo decided to ignore it.

  Still, the blockage was a mystery. He was just about to crawl under there too when he heard a distinct pop! Bingo’s tuft stood straight up. “What was that?” he asked.

  J’miah had discovered a wire spring on the side of the box, and when he pulled it forward, for the first time in more than sixty years, it popped open with a rush of sixty-plus-year-old air. But because the hinges were a little rusted, our raccoon could only get the lid to open a tiny crack, only wide enough to stick his curious little paw deep inside it.

  At first, he couldn’t feel anything. Nothing. Just the cool, smooth interior of the metal box. So he reached a little farther.

  Nothing.

  Farther.

  Noth— Something!

  Sure enough, he felt something.

  A leaf? It felt like a leaf. Only not exactly a leaf. It was thicker than a leaf. Stiffer than a leaf.

  He gave it a tug. Out it came, a piece of square white paper, but it wasn’t like the paper that he had found wrapped around soup cans, or the rough paper that turned into mush when it got wet. This was a different kind of paper. It was slick and shiny. J’miah lifted it to his nose and sniffed. It had an odd smell, not like the grass or the flowers or even the bayou. Rather it was something pungent and a little sticky. Then he turned the papery object over and discovered that the other side wasn’t white at all. Instead, it was gray with a darker gray and black shape on it.

  An armadillo! J’miah brushed his discovery off on his fur, and the image grew shiny.

  “Art!” he exclaimed. The square papery thingie was art! He crept out from under the seat and held it in front of Bingo’s face. “Look!”

  “Hmm . . . ,” Bingo said. He looked at it closely. The image was clearly an armadillo. He had never seen an actual rendering of an armadillo before, and frankly, he had never found armadillos to be all that attractive. They were in the possum category, so far as he was concerned, and they had very squinty eyes and rather ratlike tails.

  Nevertheless, there was an armadillo in two dimensions. Yes, he thought, it must be art. Then he watched J’miah gently place it right on the front dashboard so that both of them could admire it.

  J’miah sat back and studied it. Every home should have some art, that’s what he had always believed, and just because he and Bingo lived in Information Headquarters did not mean that they couldn’t have some art. He squinted his eyes and focused on the armadillo. It was way better than the occasional bottle cap or gum wrapper that he had found on the banks of the bayou.

  He loved it even though it was just an ordinary armadillo. And the more he studied it, the more he thought that the armadillo looked a little surprised, as if the artist had caught it off guard.

  While the rain poured all around them, the raccoon brothers stood side by side and admired their new decoration. It was a happy moment in Scoutville.

  41

  LET’S RECALL ANOTHER EVENING OF driving rain, when someone else waited in the DeSoto. Yep, Audie Brayburn. Can you remember how he had just taken that photo of the Lord God bird? How he had stumbled, exhausted, into the swamp and finally found his way back to his car? How he fell, into the backseat, into a deep, deep sleep? How he felt a bump in the night?

  Can you recall all that? It was way back in 1949, more than sixty years ago. Well, while he slept, there were three things that Audie Brayburn, Honorary Swamp Critter, didn’t know.

  A. There was so much rain that night that the water came out of the banks of the Bayou Tourterelle. It pushed its way across the bottomlands of the swamp and eventually poured underneath the 1949 DeSoto Sportsman and began to carry it away. The big whitewall tires let the car float, sending it directly toward the overflowing bayou, which was rolling faster than ever.

  Audie was in a boat that was doomed to sink. The DeSoto weighed a ton and a half, and even with four large floaty tires, the weight would take it to the bottom soon enough.

  B. Audie Brayburn wasn’t only tired from lack of food and water. He was burning up with fever. He had a serious case of swamp flu. We’re talking dire straits, sisters and brothers. The rocking of the car by the water did not wake him up. It only made him sleepier.

  C. The Sugar Man Swamp Scouts were on the job. Over the previous days, Bingo and J’miah’s great-great-greater-greatest-grandparents had kept an eye on the young man as he’d wandered through their forest, and they could see that he seemed to love the place as much as they did. Plus, they absolutely adored those tunes he played on his Hohner Marine Band Harmonica. They did not want him to end up at the bottom of the Bayou Tourterelle.

  For now we’ll leave the rest of Audie’s escape from certain death to your imagination. What we know is that the DeSoto came to rest on a small knoll along a high bank that overlooked the bayou, and after a day or two, Audie woke up and tried to turn the car on, but the engine was so soaked with water, it refused to start. So Audie, still spacey from his flu, stuffed his ammo can with its one-of-a-kind photos underneath the passenger seat, stumbled o
ut of the car, and weakly tramped his way to the highway, where a passing motorist spied him and rushed him to the hospital in Port Arthur.

  Later, much later, after he recovered from the flu, even though Audie looked and looked and looked, for the rest of his life he looked, he never could find that Lord God bird or the old DeSoto again.

  42

  CHICHICHICHICHI. GERTRUDE SHOOK HER LONG rattly tail. Despite the cool relief of the rain, she felt itchy again. Those fleas were driving her crazy. She decided she needed to scratch. But how does a rattlesnake scratch? She doesn’t have any hands or fingers or paws, after all. Nope. So she wrapped herself around and around and around a big cypress tree, and rubbed and rubbed and rubbed. She rubbed so hard that she came right out of that itchy skin.

  “Ahh,” she said. “That’s better.”

  She scanned her beautiful new golden skin, with its dazzling black diamonds. She wished her snoozy companion would wake up and help her admire it. She gave him a nudge with her nose.

  Nothing.

  She gave him another nudge.

  Again, nothing.

  She knew she could probably wake him up with a little snip-snap-zip-zap, but that would make him cranky. Who needed that? She could cook up a batch of cranky all by her lonesome. Nope, snip-snap-zip-zap wasn’t the answer.

  She looked at her beautiful new skin again. The diamonds were gleaming in the darkness of the lair. It seemed a waste that there was no one to show it to.

  She shook her tail as loud as she could. CHICHICHICHICHI.

  All Mr. Sleeper did was reach over and give her a gentle pat on the head and roll over. Alas. Time for the last resort. Sugarcane. She knew that if he got one whiff of that canebrake sugar, he would wake right up. She looked in the knothole where she kept her supplies. There was not one single bit of sugarcane left.