The Tale of the Swamp and the Rose
(A Short Story)
Jake Williams
Copyright © 2014 by Jake Williams. All rights reserved.
No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means without the express written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Cover photography and design by the author.
The Tale of the Swamp and the Rose
(A short Story)
Contents
Jason’s Tale
Rose
Ty
Bucky
Jonas
Betty
Who’s the Owl?
The Swamp
It’s Getting Stranger
A Safe Place
A Brave Thing
Shopping Trip
Last Trip to the House
The Witch
Elizabeth and Rose
Jason’s Tale
So, there we were, sitting around a ring of stones in the middle of the swamp, and nobody in our group really knew if we were hunting, or being hunted, or just being stupid in general. The circle of stones had been the scene of hundreds of campfires, hunters sitting in a circle around the flames and telling tall tales. Happy times at a huntin’ camp, nobody worrying about anything other than the next day’s huntin’ prospects. Tonight the fire pit was just a darker patch of blackened soil, like what I imagined a crater on the far side of the moon would look like—absent of any warmth or light or comfort, and way too fuckin’ far away from home. And for all I knew Trey could be crouched on the next small clump of solid ground in the swamp, with my head or Foster’s heart or Billy’s back in his sights.
As the police chief, I felt like I needed to sound in control of the group. I thought about the backpacks and sleeping bags scattered around us. “Okay, we probably should have done this before we left, but let’s go around the circle and take a quick inventory of weapons, food rations, water and whatnot. I have my Beretta, some Pringles, and a flask of vodka.”
Billy spoke up from across the circle. “I brought my best huntin’ rifle, a fire starter, a couple of knives, and some Chex Mix. No water, just a bottle of Wild Turkey.”
I asked my assistant chief of police the same question. “A semi-automatic rifle, my Beretta, three stun grenades,” Sam said. “Oh, and a bottle of Jack and a box of Triscuits.”
“How ‘bout you, John? Any Indian tomahawks or ancient hunting tools?”
“Nope, Jason. I brought a rifle with a laser scope, night vision goggles, four Bluetooth motion detectors with video feed—I’ve already set those up, a satellite phone, and some lethal peach wine my uncle makes. You’ll see all kinds of ancient shit after a few sips of that. If that doesn’t work I brought a fifth of dark rum. Oh, and a bag of Tostito’s.” He passed out something to each one of us. “These are glow sticks shaped like totem poles—they’re a big hit at Burning Man and other festival shit. If you get lost just snap it and it’ll help us, or maybe Trey, find you.”
Foster made a low whistling sound as he took one of the lights from John. “This puts you one step below the tribes who open casinos, it’s shameless capitalism.”
“They’re the bestseller in our catalog, they grossed two million last year,” John protested.
Foster bumped shoulders with me and said, “I brought a rifle I bummed from the police arsenal, the Glock I keep in my shaving kit, and about a half-dozen tightly rolled joints. And y’all, anybody with common sense would know you don’t bring crunchy junk food on a huntin’ trip. Too much noise, it’ll scare the deer or any other critters away. Or in this case it’ll lead a psychopath right to our camp. I was fraternity brothers with Trey, he may have gone crazy but I bet the guy can still hear someone snacking from a mile away.”
“Okay, good ol’ Southern-boy hunting expert,” Sam asked, “What did you bring? Beef jerky, granola bars, some shit like that?”
“Nope.” He said, “I brought Twinkies, Bo. The most efficient, and quiet, delivery system of empty calories and fat this country has ever invented.” There was a murmur of appreciation in the group.
“What,” I asked, “should we be on the lookout for—besides Trey trying to kill us all, what should we be keepin’ an eye out for as far as animals and things?”
“Most of the things out here,” Billy explained, “are hibernatin’ or’ve gone further south for the winter. Now, some of your pit vipers—water moccasins and whatnot, they could be wanderin’ around here. They’d be really sluggish in this cold weather, but a bite would still hurt like hell and might be a little bit fatal. They can sense a warm spot, so make sure your sleepin’ bags are zipped up nice and tight tonight.” He paused and then said, “I’m not sure we should’ve left Pilot back on the island. I mean Pilot has Trey’s scent, and if a dog can hold a grudge against a person then that’s one chocolate lab with an axe to grind.”
“Pilot’s safe and sound on the island,” I said. “Trey’s already hurt him once, the dog’s still recovering from their last battle. And just because he can smell alligators and killers doesn’t make him a trained police dog. He’d probably just run around here splashin’ in the water waking up hibernatin’ shit and catching squirrels and deer—”
Billy groaned. “Dogs don’t ‘catch’ deer, Jason. Foster and I really need to take you huntin’ sometime.”
John spoke in a low and formal voice. “Jason’s right, Pilot’s better off at home. Oh, and I spoke to the tribal council, told them we were headed into the swamp to do something that could turn out to be dangerous. I asked them to have a safe-hunting ritual for us, but they said they’d need your Indian names to do that. I had to think fast—I was already running late, so, they’re a little odd but the elders approved them.”
“This ought to be good,” Billy said. “Go ahead, John. Me first.”
“For this trip, Billy, your name will be Happy Otter. Because of your kindness and willingness to make people smile. And because you’re small and a little on the hairy side—not as small or as furry as Jason, but still otter-ish.”
Billy sounded a little disappointed. “That’s kind of meek, harmless or somethin’ like that. Especially when we’re out here hunting a dangerous criminal.”
“Right,” John agreed. “But the only other thing I could think of was Stumbling Eagle, since Trey shot you out of a tree a few months ago.”
“Ha. Alright, let’s just stick with the otter thing.”
“Well, okay, John.” Sam sounded eager. “What about me? I’m new around here, nobody really knows me well enough to give me a nickname.”
“You’re from Nebraska, and you’re a big grain-fed Midwestern fella. You’ll be known as Wandering Maize. You know, you call it corn, we call it maize.”
I asked John, “Well, what about Foster? He’s spent a total of about a week here, and he hasn’t met anybody from your tribe.”
“Simple,” John sounded pleased. “Foster will be Hanging Bull.”
I heard and smelled a spray of bourbon and Sam spoke up. “How could you possibly know...that, about his...about him?”
“A few of the guys in my frat at Yale had beer can nicknames, that way my first clue.”
Foster sounded amused. “What else?”
“Oh, my cousin’s a bartender at the gay bar—Mo’s, that you fellas were at the other night. He was in the men’s room when Foster caused all the…excitement.”
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Sam jumped in. “I was just at that place for moral support. I’m not gay, I’m as straight as an arrow—not an Indian arrow, John, no offense. I meant just a regular arrow. Never mind. I like women, is all I meant.”
I changed the subject as fast as I could. “And I guess you’re savin’ the best for last, what about me?”
He hesitated. “Well, remember, I was trying to get things set up for this trip, and I felt really rushed, and I—”
“Spill it, John.”
“Well, and it’s just for this trip, Jason—we can change it when we get back, I promise. But you are Chief Bashful Hobbit.”
“What the fuck?”
“I know, I know, I would have said Chief Fearless Hobbit if I’d just had a few more seconds! Bashful popped into my head because when we’d all go skinny dipping at the cove you always kept your underwear on.” Foster chuckled and patted me on the head.
That didn’t exactly calm me down. “But why hobbit?”
Sam said, “I can see why he’d name you that, you are short and kind of furry.”
“And you’re usually smoking a pipe,” Billy added.
“Look on the bright side, Jason.” Foster squeezed my knee. “He did say Chief Hobbit.”
John jumped in, “Right! They’ve been calling you Chief since you became the mayor and police chief of the island. They respect you, Jason. And they’re all about a hundred years old. They probably think Bashful Hobbit means modest mayor or something. It could have been worse, they wanted to stick with your old tribal name.”
John had been a friend for a long time and I knew he didn’t really mean any harm. “This’ll be good. So, what was my old name—Furry Feet, Munchkin Brave, somethin’ like that?”
It took a long time for John to answer and suddenly I had a bad feeling. “You never knew, did you, Jason? I don’t think anyone would have said it on the island or around you. It was...Owl Warrior.”
I panicked and stood up. “That’s not—they couldn’t have called me…that name. That’s just wrong, John. That’s just really friggin’ wrong, plain and simple.”
I walked away from the group and willed my eyes to make sense of the different blacks and grays I was stumbling through. There were old half-rotted cabins, a small dining hall and kitchen kind of place, some outhouses and a few crumbling chimneys choked with vines. I got to a slope that led down to the water and unzipped my pants. The dark had me spooked and John’s words had my skin crawlin’. I had to convince my reluctant bladder that it needed to let go. I had just started when a hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me to the left. I kept turning until the hand stopped me and Foster whispered, “Not on my feet, Bo! And not in the water, either—too much noise. Keep it quiet unless you want crazy-ass Trey to hear you and shoot your pecker off.” That didn’t exactly make me go faster but I managed. “You’re here with all your friends, Chief. Tell us what’s going on—maybe it’ll help.” Foster led me back to the others and as we sat down he spoke to John. “So, what’s this ‘Owl Warrior’ shit about? It’s got Jason a little freaked. Do either one of you want to explain it to the rest of us?”
I took a deep breath and told them all, “I’m not sure this is a good story for right now, for tonight, anyway. It was a clusterfuck that happened when I was in high school—”
“Was it puberty?” Sam joked.
“Shut up, dumbass. I’ll tell y’all, but I don’t think anybody’s gonna sleep very well for a few nights. It has to do with Ty—the ex-psychiatrist we met, his wife, and other…things. One of the other players in this tale is this damn swamp we’re sittin’ in.”
Sam told Billy and John, “We went to that Ty guy’s house because Jason thought he could help us profile Trey.”
I could just make out John in the darkness when he spoke. “Yeah, I heard you paid a visit to Ty. How is he? She hasn’t been back—”
“No!” I snapped and Foster’s arm tightened around me. I knew my voice was too loud and sharp. I pictured a little sonar screen in Trey’s mind glowing and showing him a single blip, leading him in our direction.
Billy spoke in a whisper that made me wince at how loud I had been. “Is that why Ty’s still so...odd? Is he waitin’ for her to come back to him?”
“Yeah, I think he’s waitin’ for her, Billy. Or something to come back, anyway.”
Sam spoke in a low, cautious voice. “I’m not sure what the hell you’re about to tell us, but if it’ll keep me from thinking about sitting here freezing my balls off and jumping at every pine cone falling off a tree, then go ahead. And Billy,” he continued in a voice that carried a good-natured tone of warning, “I know you’re cold. So, I guess a little innocent bromance cuddling is okay, but if your hand moves any further up my thigh you could possibly lose a few fingers.”
“You can’t blame a guy for trying. And I haven’t lost any fingers, yet.” I heard a thwap that sounded like Sam had popped Billy on the back of his baseball cap. “Ouch! Go ahead, Jason. Tell us a good ol’ campfire scary story.”
Foster groaned. “I really wish you hadn’t said anything about campfires. I’d kill to have a s’more, or twenty of them, right now.”
My stomach growled in agreement. “Okay, I’ll tell the whole story. Y’all just understand, appreciate, that Ty’s only told a few people about this...thing that happened. I was around for some of it, and I know somethin’ happened. I’m sure that his wife is gone and she’s not coming back, and Ty’s half the person he used to be because of it. And something changed in me, it made me wonder just how far reality can slip off the tracks before it’s just gone, tumbled over and broken.
“So, here goes, y’all. I was around sixteen or so, and me and my parents would spend a lot of time over at Ty’s place. He was, is, a kind guy, and I always looked forward to cookouts and day trips to the beach and whatnot with them. And even though I knew back then that I was gay I was still fascinated with Ty’s wife—”
Billy cut in with a low voice, almost whispering. “What’s her name? I think I knew it at one time but I’ve forgot it. My daddy, he always said to stay clear of them, he was pissed the one time I went over there on account of...well there ain’t really any easy way of sayin’ it, he was a dumbass racist. But Ty and his wife, they always had a smile or a hello for me.”
Rose
I nodded to no one in the dark. “Rose, her name was Rose, Billy. And I’m sure you saw her on Main St or maybe at Parker’s Grill, they liked going there. If you saw one of them you saw both of them. They were inseparable, holding hands and staring at each other like a couple of teenagers.”
Sam asked me, “You said her name was Rose. Did she die or something? Did she leave him?”
I thought about that. “She left, alright. And I’d lean more toward ‘somethin’ other than dying.”
I could feel John Timber’s eyes on me in the dark. He sighed. “Bits and pieces of this story, Jason, are going to be hard to explain to your friends. Smoking swamp weed might not be enough to get them in a way, in a state of mind, to nudge them into understanding this. If I could cut my flashlight on—just for a minute or so, I could probably find something to ease them into really understanding what happened to Rose. There are a lot of mush—”
“Great idea, John, we can all do some ‘shrooms and sit around in the dark with a psychopath out there somewhere wantin’ to kill us. And how would you know what I’m goin’ to say, anyway?”
Just for a second I could see Billy’s face as he lit a joint with the lighter cupped in his hands. His good ol’ boy grin, his wide and wonderin’ eyes, his innocence—I wondered how much of this shit happening around here was going to stick to him, maybe taint him a little.
“Like I said, I was fascinated by Rose. She had moved up here and was working at the hospital when she met Ty. He was doin’ his psychiatric residency or internship or whatever. He fell for her as soon as he saw her, and I could see why. She was tall—not Foster or Sam freakishly tall.” I got an elbow in the ribs for that. �
�Stunning or beautiful or exotic applied to her, I guess, but didn’t come close to actually describing her. She had come up from New Orleans, but dependin’ on the way the light caught her she could have been from anywhere. She had the skin color and features that I guess most folks would call mulatto, but you could also see shimmers of other history—Italian, French, South American—slivers of a little bit of everything.
“Their backyard garden was her hobby, her pride and joy. She had some specimens of plants she had gathered from other parts of the South—sago palms, fragile ferns, Spanish moss. But her main focus was the island’s treasures—dwarfish white azaleas, a few of the live oaks from the bluffs already stretched sideways by wind and kept small like bonsais, spindly wild flowers from the rise at Kate’s farm, lush ferns from the north end of the island, and other stuff she would find and transplant in her backyard.
“Sometimes she would take me with her on what she called ‘gathering trips’. She would pass up a lot of plants before she would stop and study on a particular sample of a species. She had a small notebook, her plant diary or whatever. She would note the amount of sun and shade in the spot, it’s ‘neighborhood’ of plants and trees surroundin’ it, and she would punch a tiny hole in a leaf or limb that marked the plant’s orientation to North. I was in charge of the large basket that she kept the tools in—the compass, the hole punch, little trowels, pots to hold her treasures, and lots of bug spray. We would stand there without making a sound as she took in the ‘atmosphere’, the feel, of the location. When she was ready she would use her bare hands to sweep away any leaves or sticks that obstructed her view of its base. Sometimes she would hand me a trowel and guide me through the process of removing it from the only home it had ever known.
“When we got back to the house she would prepare a spot for the plant or sapling—always a few inches deeper than the base of the roots, roughly two times as wide as the drip line on it, and facing the direction it was familiar with. She would fill the bottom of the hole with black compost she had mixed herself, and then carefully place her treasure into its new spot in her garden. She had little plastic stakes and would label them with the plant’s common name, its Latin name, and the date and location of its first home—all in careful calligraphy, and protected by small clear plastic sleeves. After the day’s gatherin’ and relocation was done she’d pour herself a small glass of wine and give me a glass of lemonade or soda. We’d sit on the back steps of the house and study the yard with a quiet appreciation, but I’d usually spend as much time appreciating her. I was in high school, wrestlin’ with being gay, not being a jock like the popular guys Foster or Sam probably were. I felt like a fish out of water most of the time, but with Rose I felt like I was special and part of a team.”
The Tale of the Swamp and the Rose (Parker's Bluff) Page 1