by Avi
“Remember the skipping stone?”
“I suppose.”
“Same as that. We’ll skip from one isle to another.”
I gazed into the dark swamp. I could see very little. “How long will it take?” I said.
“Not sure it matters.”
“Why?”
“Oliver, I’ll say it once and not again; we’ve got but one chance. Because we can’t go back, can we?”
Knowing he was right, I looked but could no longer see the fire. Instead, I turned and faced the darkness. The darkness would be all the light we had.
Chapter Fifty-Five
In Which We Move through the Swamp, Where a Frightful Thing Happens.
It took no time for us to cross to the far side of the little island, after which we returned into the swamp waters, the level coming up to my waist. It sent a scissoring chill through me, but not so much from its temperature, as from dread.
We began to walk. Impossible to say who led, who followed, or even where we went. Often, to reassure myself, I reached out and touched Bara. He did the same to me. We exchanged no talk, save muffled reassurances passing back and forth. The loudest noises were the soft, steady plashing water and the constant chirr of insects. Our splashing must have kept the snakes and animals at bay—at least I never heard them.
As we pressed on, the water was sometimes low, sometimes high, always slimy underfoot, one place firm, another soft. Thus we stumbled on, bumping into logs, roots, branches, hardly knowing where we were going. Where one went safely, the other followed. We often slipped and fell with a splash. When Bara sank, I pulled him up. He did the same for me. He had been right: neither of us could have gone unless there were two.
I cannot tell you how long it took before we stumbled onto another island even as there was some small morning light. With a weariness that went beyond words, we crawled upon it and sat on damp earth. It was hard to know if we had traveled twenty yards or a mile.
“I don’t know if I can go any more,” I said.
Bara, by my side, said, “Nor I.”
Feeling only half alive, we decided to stay where we were until the day was full. Our clothing, such as it was, was sodden, cold. We agreed to take turns sleeping, both of us in great need of rest. Bara put the knife down on the ground between us, so it was in reach of both.
“Touch it,” he said. “So you’ll know where it is.”
Then, while one slept, the other kept watch over whatever might be out there.
When awake, I listened to endless sounds—chirps, barks, snaps—but never knew the cause. Though the noises told me we were hardly alone, and I knew not what made them, nothing seemed close enough to threaten. I often thought of that bit of lace and wondered if its loss was an omen. I confess, I had a deep-rooted sense that Charity was slipping away from me.
Toward full day, though it was my turn to stay awake, I fell into a deep sleep—a dangerous thing to have done. And indeed, not long after, I was pulled into a vague wakefulness by a most peculiar sensation; it was as if some heavy thing were being dragged over my chest. Thinking I was merely sensing an unhappy dream, and too sluggish to move, I opened my eyes partway. In the vague light I saw a large black snake moving over me.
In an instant, I was fully awake, but somehow had the wits—or more likely just gripped by terrifying fear—so I dared not move, though my heart was hammering harder than it had ever done.
The snake paused, lifted its large head, and opened its fanged mouth and hissed, so I could see whiteness therein. It was a cottonmouth. Poisonous.
As I lay there it slithered on, moving off me and toward Bara.
As slowly and silently as I dared, I reached to where I recalled the knife lay and let my hand settle round the handle. When I was sure I held it tightly, I braced myself and in one rapid movement bolted up, and with all my strength, lunged and brought the knife, point down, on the snake. I missed its head, but pierced its tail. Just as quickly, I rolled away while yelling, “Bara!”
He woke, saw the snake, sprang up and away.
Since I had struck hard, the snake was pinned to the ground. It writhed in pain, twisting and turning like a rope trying to tie itself. Openmouthed, it spat and kept trying to strike.
Somehow Bara found a long stick and thrashed down on the beast. Under the repeated blows, the snake finally ceased moving and lay in a tangled twist of blood.
Bara and I stared at it.
“It went over me,” I said, struggling for breath. “It was going toward you.”
He nodded. “Guess you know now,” he said, “why we needed the knife.”
After making sure the snake was dead, he drew the knife free and offered the bloody thing to me. I shook my head. Though I had learned its value, I would not touch it.
I turned from the dead snake and looked about, still shivering from fright. The air was dim, gray-green, and still. I tried to make sense of where we were.
The island was two or three feet higher than the water, crowned with bushes and grasses. Here and there old twigs and branches lay about. Odd, moss-covered logs, in a state of rot, lay half submerged. A pale white flower grew among the moss. I may have seen a fish flit by, but it might just as well have been the shadow of something else. Insects hummed and invisible birds chirped. In places the murky water bubbled up for reasons I chose not to imagine. I drank the swamp water; so did Bara. There was no choice.
High above us, the upper branches of the towering trees were interwoven, while their fingerlike roots reached into the ruddy waters below. Low shrubbery and plants grew everywhere, and sharp roots poked up. Save for us, it was a world without any sign of human life. That said, I could have no doubt that animal dangers lay hidden, though at that moment, I saw no more snakes. Nor did I see people. Some—like Fitzhugh—we were trying to flee. Others, the ones called maroons, we sought. But where either was, close or far, I could not even begin to guess. Since Bara believed the maroons—and safety—were to be found deeper in, I had no choice but to believe him.
Bara must have guessed my thoughts. “We’ll get there,” he said.
While the incident of the snake had shaken us, no more was said. It was part of where we were. For the moment I only wanted to get away from that island.
Chapter Fifty-Six
In Which We Continue Our Flight through the Wretchedness That Was the Swamp.
Since we wished to travel west, our first task was to gain a sense of direction. It was not easy. We could only do it by the sun’s placement, but with the tight mantle of cypress branches and needles above, there were only slanting bars of sunlight, so finding west took time.
At length, we came to an agreement: West was that way. Well enough, but how to move? After further study, we decided there was another island some thirty or so yards off in the direction we wished to go. In that same direction, we supposed, were the maroons. But precisely where? We had no idea.
Bara said, “Let’s hope they have sentries so they’ll challenge us.”
I found two sticks, one longer than the other. I gave Bara the longer one and kept the shorter. “We can poke our way,” I said.
I glanced back, thinking of Fitzhugh, but saw nothing to distress me. “If Fitzhugh’s alive,” I said, “maybe he’s given up.”
Bara snorted. “If he’s alive, he’ll come.”
We eased ourselves back into the water and resumed walking. Once we reached the island we’d seen, we climbed on and rested for a brief time. The island was no different than the one we’d been on earlier, but we spotted animal footprints we hadn’t seen before.
“Raccoon,” said Bara. “You can eat them.”
We continued, wading to the next small island, and pressed forward in that fashion all day, slow, unsteady, soaking wet, island to island, like skipping stones.
Once when I was in the lead, I would have sworn I
saw eyes looking out at us. Some beast.
“Bara,” I said, and pointed.
Bara, seeing it, halted. A stick lay on the surface of the water. I picked it up and threw it toward the eyes. There was a rustle of leaves, a splash, and it was gone.
“What was it?”
“No idea.”
Sometimes we walked on logs. Sometimes, while wading in the water, we sank deep.
No matter how far we went, it looked the same as where we had started. What did change was my hunger, which grew as the day progressed. It had been two days since we had last eaten, in Annapolis.
At some time—I believe it was the afternoon of the second day—Bara suddenly stopped and raised his hand. His head was cocked so I knew he was listening hard.
I halted and listened, too.
Splashing noises were coming from behind us.
No need to speak. We knew its meaning. Someone was coming after us, perhaps many. There was no choice but to assume it was Fitzhugh.
Much alarmed, we looked for a place to hide. I pointed to another small island farther on. Bara moved that way.
As we advanced, I could only fret about what kind of visible trail we might be leaving and kept peering back over my shoulder. How many and who might be coming after us? Though I could see no one, I continued to hear sounds of water splashing, and now and again, shouts.
We crawled onto the island, which was covered with dense foliage. Bara pulled me up and shoved me before him, then spun around. On hands and knees he worked to smear over those muddy places that bore our footprints.
That done, we crawled dirt low through bushes and grasses, continually turning about to erase any signs of our passage. Reaching what we presumed was the island’s center, we halted, lay down, and pressed ourselves into the dark, moist earth. In all this effort, we exchanged not as much as one word. We waited and listened.
What are the sounds of being chased? Voices shouting, sometimes loud, sometimes close. Now and again cries. “Here!” “There!”
But as if all the swamp creatures united with us in hiding, they ceased their random noises. The only sounds we heard were our own rapid, shallow breathing, and our pursuers.
We waited a goodly while—some hours, I think. No talking. Just painful listening, knowing only too well that if caught we would be put to death at once.
After I don’t know how long, the birds, insects, and other swamp creatures resumed their buzz, chitter, and chirps. How sweet to hear. The message was clear: We were no longer being chased. The swamp that I had so much feared had become the place that protected us.
Bara and I stood up. Mud-covered from head to toe, our clothing was reduced to less than rags. No shoes. Cold. Though I could not see myself I suspected that Bara and I, equally filthy with mud, looked much the same. Misery makes people alike. We might as well have been God’s first creations, pulled and newly made from the mire of this murky Eden.
“Do you think they’ve gone?” I asked Bara. “Are we free?”
He did not reply. Instead, he turned from me and faced the direction from which we—and the ones chasing us—had come. For a while he just stood there staring, listening with that deep stillness he sometimes had. It was even more time before he finally shifted round so I could see his face.
I can hardly describe what I saw: His face was a mix of joy and sadness both. Even as his dark eyes were bright with tears, a shy smile was on his lips, albeit given cautiously, as though not yet ready to erupt into joy.
“He’s gone,” he whispered, by which I knew he meant Fitzhugh. Next moment, as if suddenly building on newfound strength, he repeated the same words louder. “He’s gone.” Then he spread his sinewy arms wide, long fingers extended, as if to grow wings, or embrace the whole world, or draw a new universe into his heart.
For the first time since I had known him, Bara laughed. It must have come from a deeply buried place, as if stored in his heart forever and only now released. Next moment he burst into tears.
I leaped forward to give him a hug, which he returned. Thus, we clung together. In that moment, I learned a great notion: that my brother being free meant I, too, was free.
The two of us—betattered, cold, mud-laden, and hungry boys—simultaneously weeping, whooping, and laughing, performed a prancing, wild dance in a celebration of our freedom, as we laughed and cried together.
Chapter Fifty-Seven
In Which, Within the Swamp, We Make a Huge Discovery.
For the rest of that long day we continued to wade through the swamp until darkness kept us from seeing what lay ahead. As was now our way, we took refuge on another island. Near ravenous, we found some berries and here and there mushrooms to nibble, and could only hope they’d do us no harm. We also drank more ruddy water. Thankfully finding the island a somewhat dryer place than the one before, we settled among the greenery as much as we could for the night. While it might seem strange to say, we had a great need to dry our feet after walking through mud and water for three days.
“Do you think we’ve truly gotten away?” I asked Bara.
“Think so,” he said.
“But—are we lost?”
“If I’m free,” he said, “how can I be lost?” But the joy I had heard before was dimmed.
I wished to think us free, and kept reminding myself that we had successfully escaped, Bara from slavery, I from convict bondage. Surely, we must soon reach the maroons—if they were truly here. Let it be admitted, I had begun to doubt.
We went to sleep hungry.
In the morning, frail sunbeams woke us to greater hunger. We found more mushrooms and berries and those plants called cattails, whose roots we ate. The mushrooms were bland, the cattail roots bitter. We ate them anyway.
We caught some fish—Bara called them bullheads—by surrounding them and grabbing them with our hands in a pool of sunlight, where small fish gathered. Such was the extreme sharpness of our appetites that we tore the fish apart and ate of their sweet flesh.
We went back into the swamp, plodding on step by step, going from one little island to yet another, each one much the same as those we’d already passed. The word “endless” never seemed so real.
That said, the travel was not so hard as it was tedious. My iron collar chafed. Our feet, constantly in water, ached and grew swollen. By day we broiled; at night we were chilled. Itching insect bites covered our skin. I was grateful to have a stick to prod my way, and sometimes to support my weariness. Bara claimed the same. But mind, we barely talked.
For a good part of that day we went on and took our night’s rest on yet another small island.
In the morning, the air was clotted with a thick, cool mist. It billowed up from the swamp waters, as if a cloud had descended from the sky, making the world that much more obscure. When Bara woke and looked about, he announced, “I have no idea where we are.”
“None?”
“None.”
“How far do you think we’ve come?”
“Miles, hopefully.”
“Any idea how we could find those people?”
“The whole thing is,” he said, “they don’t want to be found. That’s the reason they hide. If they were easy to find, they wouldn’t be there.”
“Where’s there?”
Bara waved a hand, which seemed to suggest anywhere and nowhere all at once. The gray-green mist rolled around us.
“Could we have passed them?”
“Possible.”
“Maybe,” I offered, “they’ll find us.”
“I pray.” He did not sound encouraged.
We climbed off the island, got back into the water, and continued going in what we believed was the right direction. The miasma meant we could not see far.
We waded on all that day, island to island. The green mist remained thick. The world had become simultaneously small, y
et endless.
It had turned to twilight, and I was in the lead, both of us exhausted after a day of trudging, when I heard a severe crack. The sound came so abruptly and sharply, and different enough to what we’d become accustomed, it made us halt at once.
Bara came up close. “Where?” he whispered.
“There.” I pointed to the island toward which we were aiming. We could barely see it.
“Don’t move,” said Bara.
We remained still, gazing into the billowing mist.
Moments later we heard a splash.
We stared in the direction from which we thought the sound had come. Then, as if it were being fashioned whole from the vaporous green and shadowy air, something vaguely human emerged. It was moving in our direction and in shape appeared large, with a head and long arms.
Bara, who had the knife, lifted it.
I was not raised to be superstitious, to be a believer in demons, witches, or hellish spirits. Yet, to see the form of a man—if that is what it was—in all that dull green obscurity, to hear the steady plash of water as he strode deliberately through the swamp toward us, was not just alarming, but so disquieting that we could only stand and gawk.
As he drew closer, I saw that the creature was bulky, crouched over, with massive arms and a fierce, dark face. In one hand—if it was a hand—was a stick, a musket, a spear—I could not tell.
We began to back up.
As the creature advanced slowly, he must have reached a point where he could see us clearly for the first time, because, even as we began to retreat, he halted and then leaned forward, as if he was as uncertain of us as we were of him.
In the gloom, then, the three of us—this swamp man, for so I considered him, Bara, and I—gazed at one another as if mutually disbelieving.
“Are you . . . boys?” the man suddenly cried out in a deep voice. It was as if he doubted his senses.
“We are,” returned Bara. “Are you a man?”
“I am.”
