Water Witch

Prologue

After soaking his father with three gallons
of gasoline, Olm lit a match and tossed it onto the old man’s body.
With a loud
WHOOSH
, blinding orange heat towered towards the
night sky. Olm took a few steps back, watching in fascination as
clothes and hair disintegrated instantly. Soon the pop and sizzle
of burning flesh out sang the chorus of nocturnal swamp life that
had deafened him for the last two hours—clicks, whines, buzzes from
insects too vast in species and number to count, the croaks and
whomp
from frogs and alligators, snakes with bodies wider
than the circumference of a man’s arm. All of them raising their
voices to Brother Moon, to one another.

Skin and thin layers of fat slipped away from
bone, the flames licking across the scaffolding that held his
father’s body, and Olm hoped the wooden beams would hold until the
ritual was completed. So much work had gone into making this
happen. He’d cut thick cypress branches to just the right length,
soaked them in water, hoisted the weighted logs by himself into a
wobbly skiff, then transported them through the dead of too many
nights. Through sloughs and flats clotted with water lilies that
eventually led to a u-shaped, ten-acre knoll in the farthest corner
of the Atchafalaya swamp, far away from prying eyes. Although it
had been difficult to lift, hammer, and construct the burial shelf
without any help, Olm's greatest challenge had been to steal his
father’s body from Sasaint’s Funeral Home before it was embalmed,
and to do it without getting caught. The struggle and hard work had
been worth it, though, for now that everything was in place, Olms
life could truly begin.

Although this wasn’t the traditional Pawnee
burial his father had requested before he died, it was the fastest
way for Olm to be rid of the body, which he needed to do if he was
to follow through with a crucial, albeit extinct, Pawnee custom.
One his father never embraced.

As legend had it, in order for a son to
acquire the knowledge of all the leaders in his ancestral line, he
had to offer his father’s body to the elements at the time of his
passing. When only bleached bones remained, the father’s spirit
would then be released, and all a son had to do was call upon what
was rightfully his. To Olm, acquiring that knowledge meant ultimate
power. For surely in the roll call of his ancestors, there had to
have been medicine men, chiefs, warriors, and mighty hunters, those
whose dance offerings and sacrifices, human and animal, changed
weather patterns, and produced bountiful harvests. Olm had no
intention of planting anything. He figured the same wisdom that
created abundance in fields and swamps throughout past generations
would adapt and supply the needs of a leader in the twenty-first
century. Waiting for his father’s bones to bleach might take weeks,
though, even in the ruthless Louisiana heat.

He’d already spent thirty-seven years waiting
for this moment, and Olm didn’t want to wait a second longer than
was necessary. Since his father was only one-third Pawnee, and from
the Skidi tribe, Olm didn’t think the alterations he’d made in the
burial custom would make a difference. As far as he was concerned,
he’d followed more than half the custom by bringing his father’s
body to the swamp and building the burial shelf. How the bones were
exposed shouldn’t matter.

As the fire roared, and flesh and muscle
slipped away, Olm walked towards the ritual circle that lay two
hundred feet away. Even from ground level, it looked like a
monstrous, unblinking black eye staring up towards heaven. He’d
made it after building the burial shelf, using only a hoe, a
shovel, and a few ragged memories. The hoe had worked well for
marking out the three-hundred foot circumference and for clearing
the swamp grass, vines, and bramble from its surface. Once the
black earth lay naked, save for a few earthworms, he’d used the
shovel to dig the inside of the circle to a three-inch depth. The
memories were the only tools that gave him problems.

When he was a boy, Olm's grandfather had told
him stories about how the Pawnee, especially the Skidi, used annual
sacrifices to assure bountiful harvests on land and water. He told
how they’d danced the Ghost Dance, pleading with Tirawa, the god of
the spirit world, for the return of their dead ancestors so the
tribe would be strengthened by their collective wisdom and, of
course, how a son offered up the bones of his dead father. So many
stories, but all of them told so long ago, the details of the
rituals were hazy and overlapped. Once again, Olm took the route of
improvisation, trusting that he’d be granted dispensation since his
father hadn’t bothered to teach him much more than how to chug
twelve-ounce bottles of Budweiser without belching.

At the northern perimeter of the circle sat a
small wire-mesh cage Olm had brought along with his father’s body.
Inside the cage lay a fat nutria, which he’d captured a week ago
and had been caring for since. The rodent appeared mesmerized,
small black eyes locked onto the fire. It didn’t even twitch as Olm
approached. Once beside the cage, Olm pulled a buck knife out of
the back pocket of his jeans, opened it, and flicked his thumb over
the six-inch blade. Confident it was sharp enough; he leaned over,
stuck the blade into the ground, then righted himself and began to
undress. He couldn’t remember a time when he felt more excited.
Just thinking about the new life that lay ahead made him giddy,
almost lightheaded. No more being laughed at or the brunt of
anyone’s joke. After tonight, he’d harvest money, women, knowledge,
and strength in abundance. He’d finally be the one to have the last
laugh.

Wearing nothing but gooseflesh and a smile,
Olm squatted, opened the back of the cage, and quickly pulled the
nutria out by its tail. He held the squealing, writhing rodent at
arms length, pulled the knife out of the ground with his free hand,
then stood and stepped into the circle. After he reached the center
of the sphere, he glanced over at the burial shelf. The fire was
receding—his father’s bones were exposed.

It was time.

Olm faced west, lifted his arms high above
his head, and shouted, “
Tirawa
!” The nutria clawed and bit
at his forearm, but he ignored the pain, concentrating instead on
the few Pawnee words he’d learned from his grandfather. The ones
that called upon Father Sun, Brother Moon, Mother Earth, Sister
Water. He’d practiced for weeks, stringing the words together into
a chant, reciting them over and over until they rolled off his
tongue with little effort. The words might not have been the same
as the ones used by his forefathers during their rituals, but
surely these held enough power to gain an ear from the
netherworld.

With the nutria’s teeth buried in his arm, its body
twisting and slapping against him, Olm closed his eyes, pictured
himself at the head of a tribe of thousands, and began to
chant.

“Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh—Piita.
Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh—Piita…” Olm repeated the words again and again,
louder each time, until his mind held nothing but the rhythm of the
chant. His feet followed that rhythm, stomping the ground, first
with his right foot, then with his left. A breeze kept time with
him, as did the trees, their leaves rustling a soft percussion.

Right--
stomp
. Left--
stomp
.
“Kiitsu—Sakuru—Poh . . .”

Right, left.“Piita—kiitsu . . .”

Right-left, right-left, right-left—circling,
circling.“Sakuru—Poh—Piita!” The vibration of the words ran through
Olm’s body, and his vision as leader grew sharper, clearer.

It was then Olm opened his eyes, stilled his
feet, lowered his arms, and rammed the knife into the belly of the
nutria, ripping it open from groin to neck. As the animal screeched
and writhed in its death throes, Olm held fast to its tail and
covered his body with its blood, letting it splash over his
shoulders, down his chest, his back, his groin, his legs. When the
nutria finally fell limp, Olm tossed it aside, dropped the buck
knife, lifted his arms above his head once again.

“Great Warrier Spirit, I call upon you to
give to me what is rightfully mine. You have promised through the
voice and heritage of our people, that a son only has to ask and
you will provide. I not only ask you for the fullness of all that
made the leaders before me powerful—I command it! Morning Star and
Evening Star will testify to my worthiness, as will Brother Moon,
Mother Earth, and Sister Water. Listen to their cry. Hear their
testimony of all the years I have suffered, waiting patiently for
this moment, enduring hardship after hardship. Do not turn your
face from me, oh, Great One. I call upon you and all your minions,
those from the North, South, East and West and command that the
promise be fulfilled quickly. You must obey . . . Kiitsu, now!
Sakuru
,
now! Poe, now! Piiti—“

Before he finished the command, a gust of
wind slammed into Olm's back, nearly knocking him off his feet.
With it, came the maddening chitter of insects, the croaks and
whomp
from frogs and alligators, only their calls sounded
louder than before. Shivering, he glanced about. The fire had died
from the burial shelf, making the night darker; the stars above him
appeared brighter, bigger. He heard the loud lapping of water
against the shore of the knoll. The fecund scent that had
surrounded him earlier seemed more concentrated now. Everything
appeared the same, only magnified, amplified. The air was charged
with something
different.

He peered from left to right, turning in
small, slow circles, looking, searching for what he felt, but
couldn’t see. Then, just off to his right, through an eastbound
slough, he spotted something odd. At first, it looked like a
million fireflies headed towards him from a great distance. Olm
watched, curious, fearful, feeling very naked.

As the pinpoints of light drew closer, the
air grew thicker, charged with an electric current that filled him
with dread. The specks of yellow light no longer looked like
fireflies, but like eyes. Thousands—no, a million eyes coming
towards him—for him.

And in that moment, Olm instinctively knew
that he had somehow managed to summon a hell of a lot more than
he’d bargained for.

CHAPTER ONE

I don’t know which gave me indigestion first,
writing a check for twenty-three hundred dollars made payable to
the Internal Revenue Service, or the sound of Fritter scratching on
the back door. Not that it really mattered. Both were bad news.

Wanting to delay the inevitable as long as
possible, I hesitated signing my name. Hell, the IRS got its due
whether I waited until the last minute, barely making the April
15
^th
deadline, something I did every year, or not.There
was a point to my procrastination.

For some reason, working as a freelance
writer and being an heir to a few interest-bearing accounts not
only made me a target for regular audits, but also a test subject
for new and useless tax forms. I always imagined some governmental
toad eagerly counting off five cents from every ten cents I earned,
with a Post-It note stuck to the side of his or her computer that
read,
Reminder: Fuck with Dunny Pollock, the freak who lives in
Cyler, Texas
. As far as I was concerned, the bastards didn’t
deserve my money any sooner than was mandated. Reluctantly, I
scribbled my name on the appropriate line, then stuffed the check
into the envelope.

As much as I despised the IRS, at least I
knew what to expect from them. Fritter’s scratching was a different
story. Experience had proven more times than not that the small,
wiry-haired mutt had an internal
oh shit
meter worth
noting.

Fritter had shown up about six months ago,
pawing at my door and staring through the screen with large, watery
brown eyes. Judging by the prominent show of ribs and the lack of a
collar, I figured he had no home and wanted food, so I’d tossed out
the only leftovers I had at the time. Half an apple fritter. He’d
sniffed it and looked at me as if to say,
What, no kibble? No
beef?
Then, after batting the stale pastry around a couple of
times with a paw, he’d wolfed it down. No sooner had my offering
disappeared, than he resumed scratching at the door until I went
outside to shoo him away. That’s when I noticed a reddish sheen
rising over the eastern horizon. It had taken a few seconds for me
to realize it was far too early in the day to be a sunset, and I
was facing in the wrong direction to boot. I blinked, took another
look. The azimuthal glow shifted and wavered, as if west Texas had
suddenly been awarded its own version of the Northern Lights. It
turned out to be a brushfire so large it took three county fire
departments to put it out.