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The Murk

Page 7

by Robert Lettrick


  “Fine!” Tad huffed. “He can come.”

  Creeper threw his arms up like a referee calling a touchdown. “Yes!”

  Piper took Creeper’s bike and chained it to her own while Tad put their backpacks in the trunk. They all piled into Grafton’s car, Piper in the front, the two boys in the back. It was Grafton’s idea to separate the siblings.

  When they were all buckled up, Grafton craned in his seat to face the group. “I’m happy to take you guys to the Oke,” he told them. “As a birder, I’ve been dying to go there ever since people started reporting new evidence for the ivory-billed woodpecker. The bird was supposed to be extinct. It’s kinda like the Bigfoot of the bird world, if you know what I mean. Lots of hearsay, but little proof.”

  “We’ll keep our eyes peeled,” Tad said.

  “So look,” said Grafton, “I hate getting tough, but there’re two things I need to make clear. If you want a ride home, you’d better get your butts back to the car no later than ten thirty P.M. That’ll give me enough time to get you back here and then get myself home before midnight. I just got my license, and I’m not about to lose it. Not for anyone. Miss our departure time and you’ll find yourselves stranded.”

  “No problem,” Tad assured him. “What’s the other thing?”

  “Yeah…the second thing. You’re all related to me.”

  “Huh?” the group asked in chorus.

  “You’re all related to me,” Grafton repeated. He looked as serious as a heart attack. “If we get pulled over by a cop, that’s the story I expect you to stick to. In Georgia, the law for driving with a Class D license says that during the first six months, only immediate family members can ride in the car. So, Piper, you’re my sister, and you two knuckleheads in the back are my bros. Got it?”

  “There’s one obvious flaw to that plan, don’t you think?” asked Tad.

  “Right. So as of now, you’re all adopted. Welcome to the Connor family.”

  Grafton turned the ignition key, pulled out of the parking lot, and with a clunk from the motor and a loud bang from the muffler, they were on their way.

  The fifty-mile drive from Jesup to Waycross, where the north entrance to the Okefenokee Swamp is located, was almost a straight shot on US Highway west. They stopped just once, at a Subway in Blackshear; both Canfields needed to use the restroom.

  While they waited, the two older boys sat on the scratched-up hood of Grafton’s car, ate Subway cookies (Grafton bought a dozen), and talked.

  “I told you not to pursue that girl,” Grafton said. “Didn’t I? Now look, she’s dragging you down to a swamp. What’s the next stop on your honeymoon tour? The sewers of New York? How romantic.”

  “Hilarious,” Tad said, polishing off an oatmeal-raisin cookie. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. I’m excited about this trip.”

  “Yeah, alligators and snakes are way better than dinner and a movie. I hope this pans out for you, dude. My bet is you’ll be getting a glittery pink restraining order by the end of the week. Maybe by the end of this trip.”

  Before Tad could reply, Piper and Creeper appeared. Grafton handed them each a white paper sleeve of cookies.

  “Mmm, dessert for breakfast! I’m starving.”

  “Lucky for you, I packed two sandwiches,” Piper said. “We’ll eat lunch once we get on the water.”

  “Speaking of water,” Grafton said, “you do have a boat waiting for us there, right? I mean, unless you’ve got an inflatable pool raft in your backpack.”

  “We’re covered,” said Tad. “I found a website and hired a tour guide over the phone. From a company called Oke Dokey Boat Tours. I talked to a man named Perch Gentner.”

  “Perch?” Grafton raised an eyebrow. “Like the fish?”

  “I guess so. I didn’t ask.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “I dunno. He had a deep voice. A bit of a Southern accent. He’s probably in his thirties; really friendly type. He said he has a boat that can fit eight people. The Mud Cat, I think he called it.”

  “Mud Cat. Lovely,” Piper snorted. “Sounds like a first-class operation.”

  “The man seemed pretty knowledgeable,” Tad said. “I think we’re in good hands.”

  “We’ll find out soon enough, right, little man?” Grafton fist-bumped Creeper.

  They finished their cookies to the last crumb, then got back on the road.

  The Okefenokee Swamp Park’s entrance was a one-story gray building with a cedar shake roof shaped like an oversize Pilgrim’s hat. Carved on the welcome sign out front was a menacing alligator stalking prey among the reeds and lily pads. Grafton parked the car, and they gathered up their supplies.

  Grafton pointed to the fat, blue pouch secured around Tad’s waist. “Um, did you just put on a fanny pack?”

  “This? No, it’s not a fanny pack!” Tad said. “It’s a utility belt. Like Batman wears.”

  Grafton snorted. “Dude, it’s a fanny pack. You look ridiculous.”

  “Whatever. I like being able to reach down and grab whatever I need. It’s efficient.”

  “It’s a babe repellent.”

  “We’re heading into a swamp. Who cares how I look? It’ll be fine.”

  “If you say so.” Grafton chuckled. “Mr. Fanny Pack.”

  They went inside.

  The welcome center was part gift shop, part information center, part museum. The centerpiece of the room was a glass display case with the skeleton of an enormous alligator skeleton inside.

  “Cool!” Creeper ran over to check it out.

  “That’s Oscar,” a roaming greeter told him. “He was our star attraction while he was alive. Weighed a thousand pounds and was the park’s dominant alligator for the last sixty years. We think he was roughly a hundred years old when he died.”

  Creeper noticed damage to the giant reptile’s head. “What hap­pened to him?”

  “Before the park’s alligators were granted the protection of the state, they were hunted regularly for their meat and hides. You can see here”—the greeter pointed out holes in the skull—“Oscar was shot three times and even survived a shotgun blast to the face.”

  Creeper was impressed. “Wow, he must have been one tough customer.”

  “The toughest in the swamp. He was the dominant predator for most of his life, and no creature has stepped up to replace him since he died peacefully of natural causes. We all miss him. But in a way he’s still with us.”

  “What do you mean?” Creeper asked. “Like his ghost?”

  “Ha! No, as far as I know, there aren’t any ghosts in the Oke, despite what the swamp guides may tell you. Oscar had a lot of girl­friends and spawned hundreds of children. And many of those gators had children too. So, you see, his legacy is all around us.”

  While the greeter gave Creeper a personal tour of the other exhibits, Tad, Piper, and Grafton made a beeline for the information desk.

  “Welcome to the park,” said the cheerful desk worker. She handed them a map of the refuge. “Take one—they’re free.”

  “We’re looking for Perch Gentner,” Tad told her. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  “That scallywag? Sure!” The woman pointed toward double glass doors at the back of the center. “Head outside and you’ll find the boat dock. If the Mud Cat and its crew are around, that’s where they’ll be.”

  “Any new ivory-billed woodpecker sightings?” Grafton asked.

  “Ah, a fellow birder! Glad to have you here.” The woman extended her hand and Grafton shook it. “A couple from Alabama claimed they heard the ivorybill’s distinct double-knock sound a month ago, but it might have been a hunter shooting at ducks in the distance. They couldn’t be sure. The last verified sighting of the bird was in 1944, a long time ago.” She pointed to a painting of the bird hanging high on a wall. “Take a good look. Memorize its markings. There’s a fifty-thousand-dollar reward for concrete proof that the ivory-billed woodpecker is still alive.”

  The bird
was very pretty, with its red tufted head and black-and-white feathers. It would be a shame, thought Piper, if it was really gone from the Earth forever.

  The desk worker added, “The refuge covers four hundred thousand acres. That’s a lot of room for the woodpecker to hide in.”

  Piper’s eyes met Tad’s. They were thinking the same thing. A lot of room for a flower to hide in too.

  “Listen,” the woman said, “if you folks are here for the birds, I’m leading an ornithology tour into the swamp in ten minutes. You can sign up if you want. I’ll take you to some of the most likely woodpecker nesting spots. We’ll follow the clues and see what we find. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”

  Grafton gave the others a sheepish look. “Would you guys mind if I…?”

  “Nah, it’s okay,” Tad said. “You go on your bird tour. We can meet up at the car.”

  The woman handed Grafton some paperwork, and he got busy filling it out. Tad, Piper, and Creeper went out the back doors to look for Perch Gentner.

  The welcome center was set along a canal connected to the swamp. They followed a walk path to a long covered dock. There they found a dozen or more boats moored in the water, parallel against the platform, waiting for tourists to board.

  “Which one is ours?” Creeper asked.

  “Not sure.” Tad scanned the boats for a clue. He pointed out a johnboat toward the back of the flotilla. The name Mud Cat was stenciled in blue letters on the side. “There. That black one.”

  Two people were prepping the boat. A large man with a gray crew cut and dressed in overalls was leaning over the transom, fussing with the outboard motor. His back was turned to them. Flitting around the man was a kid who looked no more than a year or two older than Tad and Piper. Fifteen or sixteen at most. He was busy moving sup­plies from the dock to the boat. The kid saw them approaching and paused to give them a whole-arm wave.

  He was wearing a pair of old jeans and a company T-shirt that read OKE DOKEY BOATS TOURS. It had a cartoon of a turtle in the water with tourists riding on its back. The smiling stranger was tanned, with a messy shag of sun-bleached hair kept in check by a pair of mirrored sunglasses on top of his head. He had an athletic build, the kind earned through hard physical work. Handsome in a not-so-subtle way.

  “Wow, he’s cute,” said Piper, too preoccupied to notice the hurt look on Tad’s face.

  “You think so? I don’t see it.”

  “Why would you?” Piper asked.

  Tad turned red and fell quiet.

  When they reached the boat, the kid held his hand across the water in greeting. Tad walked right past him and on down the dock to the back end of the boat. He tapped the burly boat man on the shoulder. “Mr. Gentner, sir? I’m Tad. We spoke on the phone.”

  The broad-shouldered person with the crew cut turned to face them. Tad’s jaw dropped.

  He wasn’t a he at all. She was a woman in her sixties, with a flat­tened nose like a boxer’s and a faded tattoo of a battleship on the right side of her neck. Her upper lip rose in a slight snarl. If a mama polar bear was ever reincarnated as a woman, here she was.

  “Do I look like a sir to you?” she asked in a thick Southern drawl. “Call me that again and I’ll cancel your birth certificate.”

  The woman shook her head and returned to her work.

  “Don’t mind Macey,” said the handsome kid, leaping easily from the boat onto the dock. His Georgian accent was less pronounced than that of his crewmate. “She’s former navy. Toughest woman I know. Not overly sociable, but she’s the best boat mechanic you’ll ever meet. Out on the water that’s way more useful than politeness.” He leaned in and whispered, “Don’t call her ‘sir,’ though. For some inexplicable reason, she hates that.”

  He winked at Piper and she smiled. Tad didn’t find the kid funny.

  “You must be Mr. Cole,” Perch said, offering his hand again. This time Tad gave it a halfhearted shake.

  “Call me Tad. I didn’t mean to offend anyone. I just didn’t realize there’d be three guides taking us out today.” He looked up and down the dock, searching for the man he’d spoken to on the phone.

  “There won’t be, friend,” the kid said, his voice dropping to a deep baritone. “This is my phone voice. You’d be surprised how many people hang up when I use my real one. It’s funny how folks equate youth with inexperience and will dismiss you for it. My bloodline reaches far back in Oke history, to when Waycross was called Old Nine. I know this swamp better than most. Believe me when I say you’re in good hands.”

  “I don’t understand,” said Tad.

  Piper did. “You’re—”

  “Perch Gentner!” he introduced himself. “Captain of the Mud Cat and professional rascal, at your service!” He grabbed Piper’s wrist and lifted the back of her hand to his puckered lips. Despite the sweltering summer heat, goose bumps appeared on her arm.

  Tad noticed. “You’re a friendly one,” he seethed. He was pretty sure their captain had kissed plenty of hands on the job. If he tried it again with Piper, Perch would be kissing Tad’s fist instead.

  “That’s a sweet fanny pack,” said their young captain.

  Tad corrected him. “Utility belt.”

  Still holding Piper’s hand, Perch said, “Are you three ready to embark on the greatest adventure of your lives?”

  “We sure are!” Piper was keyed up and ready to go. “We’re all yours!”

  “All righty, then!” Perch took Piper’s backpack. “All aboard!”

  The Field Notes of Botanist Dr. Brisbane Cole

  August 8, 1823

  My voyage along the continental coast to Savannah was uneventful; as was my passage by train to Old Nine. (The rather unimaginatively named military outpost is the ninth westward stop of the railroad beginning in Savannah.) There currently exists a cease-fire between the United States government and the Creek Indians, but the soldiers stationed at Old Nine say it’s unlikely to last. They recount skirmishes with the Creeks and paint a picture of a perfidious, savage people. Raids on white settlements occur on a weekly basis, and of course this behavior must be quelled at all costs. It was only five years ago that General Andrew Jackson descended upon the Okefenokee Swamp with five thousand men and drove the Seminoles out. They have since returned, and they have obviously not forgotten. Still, it is my good fortune to have arrived at a moment of peace, fragile though it may be. A soldier named James Cash, a rather unsociable man made memorable only for his grim aura and silver ponytail, accompanied me to Chief Micanopy’s village on the periphery of the swamp.

  I was received there in an unexpectedly cordial manner, which I appreciated all the more when compared to the rather frosty companionship provided by my escort. I was impressed immediately with Micanopy; my observation of the man reveals a gracious host and a benevolent leader. He attends to his people with thoughtful wisdom, ensuring their village is a safe haven not just for his people, but for escaped slaves, as well. In contrast to the horror stories I’d heard from the soldiers at Old Nine, I found the Seminoles and their culture to be warm and welcoming. Their dwellings, called chickees, are open hut-like structures supported by posts, with palmetto thatched roofs and raised floors. During the cold months they hang canvas walls, but come spring, the canvases are dried and hung in the rafters. For most of the year, the chickees are as open as the people who live in them. The Seminoles are an industrious people. During the day, the men hunt and gather while the women tend to the gardens and the children. Micanopy’s village consists of nine chickees set in a circle, protecting a center courtyard where the children learn and play in safe sight.

  Micanopy’s turban is adorned with lovely white crane feathers and is really quite fetching. Had I brought my beaver hat, I would have engaged him in trade for it. Bearing the loyalty of a fallen acorn to its tree, Mr. Cash took his leave directly and without fanfare. I joined Micanopy and the entire tribe in the eating house for supper. The women set a lavish feast consisting of all manner of foods, including a delic
ious stew the likes of which I’d never tasted before. After I had wolfed down two heaping bowlfuls, Micanopy revealed that the mystery ingredient was alligator meat! It was a well-played joke, and I instantly felt right at home. After supper I shared a smoke with Micanopy, and I asked him about the silver flower. He was, to my surprise, quite forthcoming. The chief confirmed the flower’s existence and touted its healing prowess. He claimed the village medicine man used it to snatch back a person from the brink of death on more than one occasion. Apparently, Mr. Cash was among those fortunates. I asked the chief if he would be kind enough to point me in the right direction and perhaps provide transportation for my journey. His generosity is without limit. Tomorrow at dawn, accompanied by two of Micanopy’s men and traveling in canoes equipped with a week’s worth of provisions, I will venture into the swamp. My new friend made only one request: that I not hurt the plant itself in any way, so that it may continue to heal his people in the future. I may pluck the flower, but that is all. This seemed a most reasonable request. I gave Micanopy my word.

  The crickets sing me to sleep.

  The Mud Cat wasn’t the most impressive vessel, but at sixteen feet it was large enough to be comfortable and its sturdy alu­minum hull made Piper feel perfectly safe. “All the boats out here are flat-bottomed,” Perch told them. “They’re designed for stability on placid waters. The greatest danger we swampers face in the Oke isn’t the wildlife. It’s the occasional underwater eruption of swamp gas whooshing to the surface. Flatter hulls keep the bubbles from flipping us over. Oh, I should mention, if any of you folks would feel safer, there are life jackets in the benches.”

  “Do you have one with sequins for my sister?” Creeper joked.

  “Shut it, Creepo,” Piper ordered.

  There were four cross benches dissecting the hull into five sections: bow, bow-middle, stern-middle, back, and the motor well. The motor well was where Macey set her tree-trunk legs while she steered the boat, swiveling the outboard motor by its tiller handle. In boat­ing terms, Macey was called the sternman, which is sort of what she looked like too: a stern man. Perch sat on the bow, facing his guests and making charming patter as they headed out into the vast expanse of the Okefenokee Swamp. It was hard to ignore him, with his tussled hair, square jaw, and unreasonably green eyes.

 

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