The True Blue Scouts of Sugar Man Swamp

by Kathi Appelt

  As he opened the door, he flipped on the yard light and stepped outside. There and there, just a few steps away, sat the raccoons.

  “Thieves,” he said.

  As soon as he said it, the pair vamoosed, disappeared into the woods. Like ghosts, thought Chap. Like ghosts.

  100

  FIRST, CHAP WALKED DOWN THE familiar trail to the canebrake. He paused long enough to sing the rattlesnake lullaby. Even though he had no plans to chop cane just then, he didn’t need a chance encounter with the snakes. Once there, he shined his flashlight all around.

  Sure enough, he found plenty of tracks. There were the obvious snake tracks. Plenty of those. He even saw his own tracks, made by the same pair of muck boots that he had on his feet just then. Once again he saw raccoon tracks. Of course he saw some alligator tracks. But in all of the muck, he only saw one discernible track that could have been made by the Sugar Man. And even that was fuzzy. As fuzzy as the Sugar Man himself.

  Standing there behind the beam of his flashlight, he wondered if he had really seen the big guy. Or had he dreamed him? How, he wondered, could a creature so large leave so little evidence? He scanned the banks of the Bayou Tourterelle with his flashlight. Nothing. As far as he could see, the Sugar Man had not left any distinct tracks.

  Chap’s heart sank. Proof. There was no proof. Just a single fuzzy print. He reached into his pocket for the camera. He could at least take a photo of that. But when he pushed the button on the slick glass of the phone, nothing happened. He pushed it again. Nothing. The screen was as blank as could be.

  “Jeepers creepers!” he said right out loud. (Okay, that’s not really what he said, but it’s close enough.) It had been days since Steve had forgotten his phone, and in all those days nobody had charged it up. How could they? Steve had the charger. Chap felt like throwing the phone into the bayou. And he might have, but then he remembered that it wasn’t his to throw. He slipped it back into his pocket.

  Defeated, Chap turned around. He might as well go back to the café now to help his mother start the pies, he thought. Without a camera, what was the point of finding the Sugar Man? The sky was turning deep blue. He knew his way without the flashlight, so he clicked it off. As soon as he did, with the silhouettes of the tall trees surrounding him, and the quiet hum of the swamp just waking up, he realized that he wasn’t quite ready to go back.

  He could stay out for a little while longer. But which way to go? East? West? North? South wasn’t an option because that would lead him straight into the bayou. Unlike Jaeger Stitch, he had no desire to wrestle an alligator. So he licked his finger and held it up to the sky. There was a slight breeze coming from the west, so he turned in that direction.

  He decided to stick to the banks of the bayou. The sky above the water offered a little bit more light than the darkness he would encounter in the thick woods.

  He didn’t go very far, however, before he came upon a small ditch. He barely caught sight of it in the growing light. If he had worn his waders, he might have just sloshed across it. So, instead he went around. He only took a few steps back toward the bayou when he realized that he was going uphill. If he had been paying close attention, that might have seemed a bit odd, but his thoughts had turned to the café again. He was going to have to head back soon to help his mother. Besides, he had not left a note for her, and he knew she’d be worried.

  Plus, there were only a couple of hours before they would open the doors, and it took that long to set everything up.

  He was just about to turn around when the baby sun splashed a ray onto something bright in the corner of his eye, something that glimmered. Probably a can, he thought. It made him downright mad the way trash floated up the bayou. But this splash of light did not seem like a can. And besides, it wasn’t in the bayou. Then he realized that it also wasn’t on the ground. Actually, it was lodged in a big thicket of brush.

  A big thicket of brush.

  Chap drew closer. But as he moved, his body blocked the sun’s light and the object disappeared. He stepped to one side and waited. There it was again. He focused on the exact spot, and even though he couldn’t see anything, he crept toward the thicket. All of his grandpa’s years of teaching rose up inside of Chap. One step. Two steps. He took care to raise and lower his feet as quietly as he could.

  Then he stopped. What if the glow he had seen was actually a reflection from a wild animal’s eyes, caught momentarily in the sun’s beams? He felt the warm handle of the machete in his hand. Three steps. Four steps.

  He straightened up. Six feet plus. Surely no animal, aside from the Sugar Man, would match his height, would it? Five steps. Six steps. He moved forward toward the spot where he last saw the glimmer.

  Seven steps. Eight steps. He gripped his machete in his right hand and took another step. His hand started to shake. To steady it, he gripped the heavy knife with both hands and gently, oh so gently, raised the blade to shoulder level and moved a vine. The light splashed right into his eyes.

  He jumped back.

  “Ooohhhhh,” he cried. He rubbed his eyes and blinked. Could it be? Was it true? He could feel his heart pounding in his ears, his nose, his whole body. Staring right at him was a tiny face with a helmet. It was a chrome bust. Of a conquistador. Not just any conquistador. Hernando de Soto. Chap’s heart went kaPow kaPow in his chest. He looked over his right shoulder. He looked over his left shoulder. He looked straight ahead. Then, he couldn’t help it, he let go of the machete and raised his hands over his head and spun in a circle. He spun and spun and spun until he spun himself into a mad whirling dervish. He couldn’t stop the crazy spinning of his whole six-foot-plus-some being. He didn’t want to.

  And while he spun, he called out, “Grandpa!” At the top of his voice, “Grandpa!”

  The whole woods echoed with his cries.

  “Grandpa!” bounced from one tree to another, skimmed atop the water in the Bayou Tourterelle, flew between the branches and vines. It even settled between the ears of the snoozing Sugar Man, who rolled over in his sleep and smiled.

  Joy. Yes. Joy.

  In that very moment of Chaparral Brayburn’s young life, the name “Grandpa” was another name for “joy.”

  And Chap, grinning from ear to ear, finally stopped his mad spin and with both hands reached right into the brush and pulled. Then he pulled again and again and again. He paid no attention to the stinging pricker vines that dug into his palms and stuck to his pants. He pulled and yanked and tugged, until at last, there it was.

  In all of his trampings and stampings through the swamp with Grandpa Audie, he had never noticed it, that’s how well it was hidden. He and his grandpa had probably walked right by it a thousand times without ever seeing it. They had surely drifted by it on the bayou and never noticed it from their pirogue. And yet, there it stood.

  Chap walked around it. Then walked around it again. The only thing that shone was the hood ornament. The rest of the car, what he could see of it, was so rusty that it blended right into the red dirt underneath it. He pulled away the vines from the front grille and stood back.

  He couldn’t help it. He had the unmistakable feeling that it was smiling at him.

  “The DeSoto,” he said. Wonder settled over him. All of the stories that his grandpa had told him, the ones about taking the photograph of the ivory-billed woodpecker, the one about getting lost in the swamp and suddenly finding the DeSoto in the light cast off by a bolt of lightning, how it was warm and dry and the seats were just as comfortable as a soft bed, all flooded back to Chap.

  Then there was the one about stumbling out onto the highway, where a kind stranger picked up a sick camper and took him to the hospital in Port Arthur, where it took him several months to recover from the flu, and by the time he returned, the car was gone.

  “The DeSoto,” Audie had said, “saved my life.” And then his soft voice would trail off. “But I never could find it after that. No matter how many times I looked, I could never find it.”

&nbs
p; Chaparral Brayburn stepped forward then and rubbed his hand along the hood. Flakes of rust sifted onto the ground. He curled his hand into a fist and rubbed away the dust from the old windshield and peered inside, but in the dim light of morning, it was difficult to see. He pulled on the door handle of the driver’s side. It was rusted shut, so he tried the passenger door. He pulled and pulled, and finally, after one extra-hard yank, the old door creaked open. Chap looked inside. He expected it to be filled with dust, but instead it was neat and tidy. He also saw that the glass on the inside of all the windows had been rubbed until it sparkled. Yep, it was nice and clean. Mostly. On the surface anyways.

  Wait! Paw prints. Some critter’d been in here. He took a closer look at the seat, then he turned around and examined the back of the seat. He also noticed the hole in the floorboard, an entryway. There they were, the unmistakable tracks.

  “Raccoons,” he said. This was their home. He looked around again. It was dry and sheltered and cozy—perfect for raccoons. He couldn’t help but wonder if the two raccoons he had seen in the yard lights just an hour ago were the same ones who lived here.

  If they were, he reckoned . . . then they were probably also the same ones who had broken into the café. Robbers! But Chap’s enormous feeling of joy over finding the car dashed all thoughts of anger. That same joy made him reach inside his pocket and pull out the pies. They were a little smushed and also a bit stale, but he didn’t think the raccoons would mind. However, as he placed them on the dashboard, he saw something else, something unexpected: three thin squares of old paper. Three thin squares propped up against the windshield. He shook his head. It couldn’t be. But there, right in front of him, was the old photograph of the armadillo, and the second, of the ivory-billed woodpecker, and one other.

  He stared hard at the one of the bird; he examined it as carefully as he had ever done anything in his whole life. It was a little faded, but there was no mistaking what it was. He started to pick it up, but before he did, he stopped. The three photos were lined up in a neat row. Chap could tell that care had been taken. It was hard to believe, he knew, but it was apparent that someone, the raccoons, had purposefully placed the pictures on the dashboard in a way that seemed like . . . well . . . like art.

  Then Chap thought, There were two raccoons and one of him. Three. It only seemed fair that each of them should own a photograph. As much as he loved the photo of the bird, it was the third photo that he needed most. He would leave the other two for the raccoons.

  You might recall that Audie Brayburn, in his feverish state, snapped an accidental photo on his Polaroid Land Camera. A photo of a fuzzy face. Remember that?

  What Chap held in his hand was the third photo, a photo of the Sugar Man.

  Proof.

  Holding it as gently as he could between his fingers, he stared at it. The photo was as clear as it was the night his grandfather had snapped it more than sixty years before. It was just as lovely as it had been when Audie had slipped it into the .30-caliber ammo can, where it had remained in this old car. The DeSoto. His grandpa’s beautiful car. It had saved his life.

  And now? It could save the whole darned swamp.

  101

  WITHOUT SONNY BOY’S SUPPORT, JAEGER Stitch had no reason to stick around. Instead, she yanked her alligator out of the azaleas by its tail, hitched her trailer to a passing eighteen-wheeler, and headed for South America. We’ve heard that she is dazzling folks in the alligator-wrestling world and is quickly rising to become World Champion Gator Wrestler of the Southern Hemisphere. We wish her well. And the alligator, too.

  As for Sonny Boy, once he got back to the Homestead, he made Leroy start a big bonfire. As soon as the chauffeur got the blaze to roar, Sonny Boy threw in the bloody deal made and signed by Alouicious, and then he tossed the specimen of the woodpecker on top of it and watched as it burned to a crisp.

  But while he stood there, watching Leroy stoke the flames, he heard a very loud KABOOM.

  “What was that?” asked Leroy, but before the echo from the first KABOOM stopped ringing, it was followed by another equally loud KABOOM, pursued by fifteen smaller but equally as startling KABOOMs.

  It seems, junior birdmen, that whatever goes up must come down. Yep, once our hogs hit the outermost apogee of their stellar orbit, they reentered Earth’s gravitational field and crashed right through the porch roof of the old Homestead.

  That was it for Leroy. “Pigs are flying!” he cried. And for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, he hopped into the Hummer and peeled out down the road.

  Every cell in Sonny Boy’s body hummed. He pulled his socks up and started to shake. There wasn’t a single hair on his yellow-gray head that wasn’t sticking straight out. Nobody had to tell him who’d tossed those pigs into the sky. A creature full of wrath. The Sugar Man. A quick image of Sonny Boy’s father, Quenton, dead in the top of a tree, blazed through his brain. And his brain told him, “If you don’t get out of this swamp, a similar fate awaits you.” The proof was in the details, or rather the hogs’ tails. Right then, he drew up a deal and signed it . . . in blood.

  I, SONNY BOY BEAUCOUP,

  TURN OVER THIS WHOLE DARNED

  SWAMP TO CHAPARRAL BRAYBURN.

  GOOD RIDDANCE.

  SIGNED,

  SONNY BOY BEAUCOUP

  He nailed it to the front door, where someone would surely find it. And as if the swamp itself wanted to seal the deal, when Sonny Boy ran his hands through his hair, there, tucked just behind his right ear, was a beautiful black feather with a white tip.

  Last we heard, Sonny Boy was living in a desert area, someplace like Phoenix. Do we care? Not a whit.

  102

  AS FOR BUZZIE AND CLYDINE, word on the street is that as soon as they brushed themselves off from their trips to outer space, they gathered up their brood and hightailed it to Arkansas, where they hired themselves out as mascots for some of the local high school football teams.

  We’ve heard that none of them will ever again put one bite of sugar into their porky little mouths.

  It’s not out of the range of possibilities.

  103

  WE’RE ALMOST TO THE FINISH line, sports fans, so hang in. When Bingo and J’miah, their bellies full of crawdads, wandered back to the DeSoto, rain was beginning to fall, so they scampered in through the entryway of the passenger side. They were pooped. It had been a long few days, and both of them were ready for a nice summer snooze.

  As soon as they entered the car, they noticed three things.

  First: “Breaking and entering,” declared J’miah.

  Quickly, he looked around to see if anything had been taken. He checked his beloved photos. He loved the surprised look on the armadillo’s face. He was also glad to see the photo of the bird, even though it wasn’t a bird he recognized. And still in its place stood the photo of the Sugar Man. All three photos were right where he had left them. Whew!

  The second thing they noticed was the distinctly human smell in the air, which explained the breaking and entering.

  But the third thing they noticed was the other smell—sugar pies! Sure enough, there they were, two sugar pies, resting on the dashboard.

  The brothers looked at each other in surprise. Bingo started laughing.

  “Blinkle!” he said. “Our wishes came true!”

  104

  NOW, ALL IS WELL IN Radioland, so far as we know. The cane has grown back. The rattlers are just as spicy as ever. The armadillos are surprised. J’miah has learned a song or two on the Marine Band music thingie. He’s no Snooky Pryor, but he’s getting there. Sweetums has finally come out of the closet. Steve got his phone back. Once the porch was repaired, the Old Beaucoup Homestead was turned into the Museum of Natural Swamp History. And the pies kick booty.

  As for the ivory-billed woodpecker, since those old trees were left to stand, and the Sugar Man Swamp is safe from marauding hogs and merciless Beaucoups, maybe that woodpecker will return someday and bring her family with he
r. We’re hoping. Lord God, we are.

  There is only one unanswered question . . . the one about the photo of the Sugar Man. The moment Chap saw it, he knew . . . it could save the swamp.

  And it might have, even without the flying hogs. But while Chap sat there in his grandpa’s beloved car, staring at proof of the Sugar Man, he also realized that the photo could stir up that swarm of hornets that Audie had warned him about.

  When word got out that the Sugar Man was still extant, the thrill-seekers would flock to the swamp. A gazillion rattlesnakes would not keep their kind away. Nothing would be safe from their ropes and axes and shotguns.

  How, Chap asked, could he do that to his grandpa’s swamp? Wait. How could he do it to his swamp? An image of the drawing his grandpa had made of the greater roadrunner flashed into Chap’s head. And when it did, he heard Audie’s voice, Nosotros somos, paisanos!

  Taking care not to bump the other two photos, Chap set the one of the Sugar Man back on the dashboard, right next to the sugar pies. Then he stepped out of the car and with his back, leaned against the door until it closed. He stretched his arms out wide and declared, “This is paradise.” And with that, our man of the household walked away. It was, we can safely say, a very good idea.

  Acknowledgments

  OFTEN, WRITING A STORY FEELS like a wade through a swamp. I might still be mucking about were it not for the kind assistance of my fellow paisanos: Debbie Leland, Laini Bostian, Jeanette Ingold, Rebecca Kai Dotlich, Kimberly Willis Holt, Marion Dane Bauer, Janet Fox, Donna Cooner, Diane Linn, Rose Eder, and Dennis Foley.

  Right in the middle of the deepest, darkest lair, my agent, Holly McGhee, sent me a heart when my heart was breaking.

  My editor, Caitlyn Dlouhy, was never afraid to wrestle the alligators, even when they gathered in the margins and lurked between the lines.