Water Witch (27 page)

BULLET
.

Bullet. . . Bullet. The name rolled over and
over in my head, trying to find a home. I’d heard it before,
somewhere . . .
Oh, fuck! That was the name of Trevor’s boat!
No, no, no . . . it can’t be . . .

But I remembered Poochie saying that he’d
gone out with some guy to check traps, only he was supposed to come
home with the boat before going to work. He never did get home. Not
before they’d left anyway. This had to be some sick coincident.
Certainly there had to be someone else in this damn who had a boat
with the same name. One of those bodies couldn’t be Angelle’s
Trevor. It just couldn’t!

I looked back at my sister to make sure she
was still sleeping. Sleeping, not dead. If there was ever a time to
be grateful for her being unconscious it was now.

Jesus . . .Trevor . . . it couldn’t be . .
.

I started the engine again, backed the skiff
away, watched
BULLET
and the two charred
bodies fade into the darkness.
Please, don’t let it be Trevor.
For Angelle’s sake, for everybody’s sake, don’t let it be
Trevor.

With that silent prayer holding constant, I
turned the boat in the opposite direction, and my finger changed
sensations immediately. It went back to the firecracker. Back to
the burning. Right . . . go to the right, Dunny . . .
It can’t
be Trevor!

The weight pressing against my heart and
intuition begged to differ. I forced myself to look away from that
boat, away from
BULLET. . . BULLET. . .
BULLET.
By the time my eyes focused on the direction I was
supposed to be heading, where my finger led, I spotted a round
yellow light off in the distance.

It flickered and swirled, then stretched into
the shape of a pyramid, growing higher and taller by the second.
How could I have missed that light earlier? It was too big to be
coming from a flashlight, and no way it was the moon. I thought
about what Poochie had said about the feux fo lais, balls of light
that led people deep into the swamp so they’d be lost forever.
Although I didn’t put any stock in the whole purgatory end of the
tale, I couldn’t help but wonder if what I was seeing now was in
fact a feux fo lais. Too many weird things had crossed my path over
the last couple of days for me to discount anything.

If this was a feux fo lais, was it a good one
or angry one? Was there a way to tell the difference? Poochie had
said a good feux fo lais sometimes led lost fisherman back to
shore. If I followed it, though, how would I know whether it was
leading me home or deeper into the swamp, where I’d be lost
forever? Fuck that. I was already lost. What more could it do to
me?

Now the light flickered in multiple
directions, like flames licking up from a large, swelling campfire.
A silhouette suddenly danced across the backdrop of flames, and I
felt my mouth drop open.

Wait—that
was a
bonfire! There was
someone out there!

I was about to rev up the motor and shoot
over there at full speed when I thought about the charred
bodies—the dead woman by the cypress tree. There might indeed be
somebody out there, but was it someone who’d offer help—or trap me
in an even bigger hell than I was in right now.

Unfortunately, there was only one way for me
to find out . . .

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Olm opted for a monument of fire; instead of
a wooden alter on which to place the heart offerings. And, oh, what
a monument it was! It was in the same spot his father’s burial
shelf had been located, only it encompassed an area ten times the
original size.

He’d spent hours chopping buttonwood trees
with a short handled machete to start the fire, then dragged in
cypress logs, some almost as big around as his thigh, to build it
higher. Once he had it roaring to the right height, he fed the
flames anything dry he could find to keep them going. Anything to
reach Tirawa. Anything that kept the fire roaring as loudly as his
own spirit.

He’d never known any other time in his life
when he’d felt this much excitement. This much hope. So much power.
The time had finally come. All of the preparation, all of his hard
work would soon be worth it. Moments from now, only bare moments,
all he’d longed for would be his.

With a hop of joy, Olm made clicking sounds
with his tongue and tossed an oak branch onto the fire. The wind
whipped about and sent a shower of embers flying his way. He
shielded his eyes, caught the scent of singed hair, then lifted his
arms above his head and laughed uproariously.

Olm didn’t know why it had taken him so many
years to get to this place, for the revelation of Tirawa to come to
him so he’d understand all that was possible. All things had their
time he supposed. Certainly he would not have appreciated the
fullness of what was about to happen had it been given to him as a
young man, a pup in his teens. Someone unfamiliar with the workings
of his own body and mind, much less the intricacies of
metaphysics.

He had years behind him now, had faced many
struggles in life. Rejection, failure, never measuring up to
others’ standards, the butt of their jokes, ofhaving that brass
ring within reach so many times, only to have it snatched away by
someone quicker, faster, smarter. All of those experiences had
definitely laid a strong foundation for true appreciation,
something he believed Tirawa thrived on. Naked subjects, dependent,
appreciative of his power. Addicted to the vast promises he gave to
all who worshipped and sacrificed to him.

Olm glanced at his watch, noting how brash
the simple piece of jewelry appeared on his naked arm, against his
naked chest. No warrior wore a Timex. But, it was the only way for
him to keep track of time, and he needed to have the timing exact
for the sacrifice.

Five minutes left. Five minutes until the
apex of the moon, and his life would start anew. The anticipation
that had been building inside of him for so long had reached an
all-time high. It pushed from inside his body like a living thing,
an eager animal wanting out of its cage. The feeling brought tears
to his eyes, and he started to dance, pounded the ground with his
feet in the rhythmic beat of the ceremonial Ghost Dance.

He felt fully alive, already renewed. He was
like an olm tree, forcing its branches up from the center of a dead
and hollow cypress stump.

“
Hey-nah-hey-nah-hey-nah-hey
.
Hey-nah-hey-nah-oonah-hey. Hey-nah-hey-nah-oonah-hey.
”Olm
raised his arms over his head as he chanted, beat the ground with
his feet, spinning in a circle. So much had been given to him
already. Bits and pieces of wisdom that had prepared his spirit to
handle much more. First he’d been shown the old woman, told how to
collect her blood to enhance tonight’s sacrificial offering. Then
Tirawa had given him the eyes of an eagle, allowing him to spot the
two boaters who were getting too close to the knoll. He’d seen them
on his way out here. His human self—his old self would have quickly
hushed the motor on his boat, then ran and hid until the boaters
had passed by. But that didn’t happen. He no longer carried the
weighty baggage from his old being.

Olm had spotted the crawfish traps in the
men’s skiff even from a distance. Seeing that, his old self would
have assumed they were probably changing locations, looking for
more productive waters. But the moment he saw them, Tirawa released
to him an astonishing revelation. Serving Tirawa wasn’t about an
annual sacrifice used to please the might deity. It was a state of
mind. It mean grabbing opportunities when he saw them, offering
blood and life to the Great Warrior at every opportunity. The
commander of the Morning and Evening star deserved no less, and for
those who understood that monumental concept, Tirawa’s rewards were
endless.

Attracting the boaters’ attention had almost
been too easy. Olm had faked an injury, then called to them for
help. They’d come to him without hesitation. Once they were in his
boat, checking the leg he’d sworn he’d broken, Tirawa gave Olm the
power of a lion and the speed of a gazelle. Before either man knew
it, he’d ruptured their hearts with his knife. Instead of dumping
their bodies overboard, though, as he’d done with the old woman,
Tirawa had demanded an offering of incense. He’d shown Olm the
metal survey stakes hidden in a nearby thicket. Directed him to the
rolls of wire and flagging in a compartment under one of the
benches in the men’s boat. Told him how to tie them to the stakes,
then Olm had been allowed to complete the offering, using whatever
method he thought would be most pleasing to Tirawa. So he’d taken
the gasoline tank out of their boat, soaked both men until the tank
was empty, then set their bodies ablaze.

No doubt the offering had pleased Tirawa, for
he kept Olm’s eyes sharp and his senses keen. Shortly after that
fire offering, he’d spotted yet another boater. This one, however,
had been outright brazen, having snuck in from the north, then
tying his boat to a tree right on the very knoll where Olm kept the
kids. His old self would have panicked and run off like a
frightened rabbit, petrified at the possibility of being caught.
But once again, he didn’t run. Instead, Olm snuck through the
brush, hardly making a sound, creeping along on the balls of his
feet the way his ancestors used to do during a hunt, bow and arrow
or spear at the ready. Olm didn’t have a spear or bow—but he had a
knife. He’d stayed in the shadow of a tree trunk, held his breath,
not making a sound, waited for his prey, who crunched and clonked
through the brush like an over-sized oaf, begging to be heard.
Begging to be found. Begging to be sacrificed. And Olm had been
more than happy to oblige. He rammed the knife into the man’s chest
up to the hilt, then dragged his body back to the clearing and tied
him to a tree not far from the children. He, too, would be set
ablaze, but only after the hearts of the children were offered.

Lagniappe for Tirawa, who’d been so generous
to him.

Olm glanced over at the tree where he’d tied
the man and smiled. The man’s eyes and mouth were open, paralyzed
in perpetual surprise and fear, which he’d now carry throughout
eternity. Olm wondered if the children’s faces would freeze with
that same expression when he killed them.

He checked his watch again. Another two
minutes had passed. Only three minutes left.

Only three minutes to get the job done.

Olm hurried over to the willow, where he’d
hidden the metal bucket, grabbed it, and took off for the edge of
the knoll closest to the children. Once there, he filled the bucket
to the brim with sludge, then carried it over to the boy.

The boy began to cry immediately. “Please,
don’t Mister! Please! I promise I’ll be good and won’t tell
anybody. I promise I won’t say a word. Just let us go. Please!
Don’t hurt us. Please don’t hurt us!”

Grinning, Olm dumped the bucket of mud into
the hole, which raised the level of silt to just under the boy’s
bottom lip. Olm frowned, pursed his lips. The mud should have gone
higher, to the boy’s upper lip. He must have miscalculated. He’d
have to hurry. More mud. He needed more mud than he thought.

He ran back to the edge of the knoll, scooped
up another bucket of mud, and brought it back to the boy.

“No! Please, I don’t wanna die! I don’t wanna
die! Mama! Mama, please come stop him! Mama!”

Olm dumped the bucket of mud into the boy’s
hole. This brought the level of sludge above his upper lip, to the
bottom of his nostrils. The boy’s eyes went wide. Snot ran out of
his nose and formed little rivers in the silt below it. Olm allowed
himself a second of pleasure, as he watched the boy’s eyes widen
even more, the snot run, remembered his uncontrollable cries.

Now it was time for the girl.

Olm repeated the process of going to the edge
of the knoll, collected another bucket of swamp slop, then carrying
it over to her. He dropped the silt into the center of her hole.
This time the silt level moved spot on, settling just below her
nose, just as the boy’s was now. The only problem was there was no
reaction from her. No fear. No tears. No begging for help. She
simply sat there, head lolled back and to one side, eyes closed as
if she were in a peaceful sleep.

Olm’s pulse quickened as he considered the
possibility that the girl might already be dead. What was he
supposed do with her if she was dead? The whole point of the
sacrifice was the fear, the offering of the fear.

He calmed himself, recalling that the two
kids had been his idea in the first place. Tirawa only required
one. Two had been a matter of convenience, since they’d been
together on the levee, and he’d thought surely two would grant him
graces and benefits far beyond what one might bring.

Resigning himself to the fact that he may
just have one life to offer, Olm scrambled back to the edge of the
knoll and collected more mud. This would be the last for the boy.
This bucket would take the silt level to the bridge of his nose,
high enough so even if he leaned his head back, he still wouldn’t
find air. Only the boy’s eyes would be visible. His terror-filled,
horrified eyes.

Olm’s plan had been to have the girl watch
while he smothered him, or have the boy watch while he killed the
girl, but the point was moot now. If the girl was already dead, the
boy could easily assume as much, and wasting this bucket of mud on
her would bring no extra benefit of fear in the boy. Killing the
boy first, with the girl unconscious or possibly dead, provided no
benefits either. But all that mattered, really, was Tirawa. And to
that end, all he had to be concerned about was making sure the
sacrifice was timed perfectly.

Standing at the foot of the boy’s hole, Olm
held up the last bucket of mud he intended to pour, and shouted,
“Oh, Great Tirawa, I offer you the fruits of my labor, the
sacrifice of fear and youth. Send to me, Great One, the collective
knowledge of my ancestors. Hear me, Great Tirawa. Send to me all
that runs through my lineage so I may stand powerful and prosperous
on this earth. For this, I will become your prophet, forever
singing the praises of your name, one will offer sacrifice upon
sacrifice to appease your great and insatiable hunger.”