Lost in the Bayou

by Cornell DeVille

  Within a short time, Andy comes in carrying the saddle blankets and the rifle. He leans the rifle against the wall and spreads the blankets out in the center of the room as I carry the lantern to the wooden shelf above the fireplace.

  “Do you still think someone was following us?” I ask as I pick up the satchel, carry it to the blankets, and sit.

  Andy shrugs one shoulder. “I know I heard something behind us when we were riding along the creek, but it could have been anything. It didn’t sound like a gator, though,” he answers. “Don’t worry about it. It was probably nothing. I need to get the saddles.”

  “Need any help?”

  “Nah,” he replies as he walks through the doorway and into the darkness outside. It takes two trips, but within a few minutes he has both of the saddles inside and he’s closing the door.

  Even though we’re in the bayou, surrounded by danger and who knows what else, I feel safer in the shanty right now with Andy than I did in my own bedroom last night. Crazy Conrad is far away, and Warner is probably letting him out of the cellar about now. Ha! When I try to imagine how hungry he must be, I suddenly realize that I’m starving, too.

  I sit cross-legged on the saddle blanket and remove our food supplies from my satchel. I’m thinking bacon and biscuits sound good. Andy sits across from me, and I hand him a biscuit. He pulls it apart, places a couple of bacon strips between the halves, and smiles down at his creation.

  Before he takes his first bite, something spooks the horses.

  Chapter Twelve

  A Shadow at the Window

  The Bayou—Wednesday morning

  NIGHT HAS PASSED. A new day has dawned in the bayou. The dark sounds have hushed now, and a dim gray light leaks through the shanty window. Andy is still sleeping, but he’s starting to wiggle around now and then. It won’t be long before he wakes. He’ll be hungry, so I need to figure out what we’re going to eat for breakfast.

  I gathered up some small branches last night and brought them inside when Andy and I went out to see if we could find what was spooking the horses. We didn’t see anything out of the ordinary. No gators nearby or anything, so we figured they were just nervous about being outside instead of safe in the stable like they usually were. Anyway, whatever it was either left or they got used to it, because they finally settled down. Andy and I fell asleep shortly after eating our dinner.

  The branches dried out during the night, and I use them to build a small fire in the fireplace. After the fire is going pretty well, I pour a cup of water from my canteen into the saucepan I brought from Mrs. Deffenbaugh’s kitchen. When the water’s hot, I sprinkle some of the ground coffee into it. The smell fills the room and reminds me of our kitchen at home. I pull the coffee cup from my satchel and pour the dark liquid into it. The steam warms my nose when I take a sip. It’s strong, but somehow it hits the spot. I’d make some for Andy, but I know he wouldn’t drink it.

  My mind turns to Warner. He’s probably drinking his coffee now, too. I can picture him in the kitchen, sitting in his favorite chair. Mrs. Deffenbaugh is probably standing at the stove, cooking her crispy bacon and her golden brown pancakes. I can almost taste the sweet maple syrup. She always warms it. I wish we were home. But we can’t go back until Conrad leaves.

  He’s probably still asleep. I’m sure Warner let him out of the cellar last night before suppertime. I bet he was angry, especially if he didn’t take a bottle of whiskey into the cellar with him. I think about it as I sip my coffee, and it brings a smile to my face when I imagine how angry he was, probably yelling at Warner through the door, and pounding on it, and everything. I bet he even told Warner to call a locksmith. Ha! That would have been a pretty good trick, since the phones aren’t working. At least they weren’t working when we left. I’m guessing once he gets his coffee and his breakfast, he’ll spend the rest of the day searching the house for us. Good luck with that, Conrad. The joke is on him now.

  I hear the sunrise chorus of the bayou slowly coming to life outside. The night creatures have gone away, or gone to sleep, and those who come out by day are greeting the morning with their songs and chirps and croaks. It’s a varied medley, and it’s a lot less scary than the sounds of the night. I decide to take a look outside to see what I can see. As I near the door, something catches the corner of my eye—a shadow—passing the window now. My heart races as I back up, and I spill my hot coffee on my bare foot.

  Surely, Conrad couldn’t have found us here so quickly!

  I scan the shanty for the rifle. It’s on the far side of the room, leaning against the wall where Andy left it. Before I can head in that direction, the door bursts open like it’s been kicked, and it bangs against the wall with a loud rattling clatter. I drop my cup and the hot liquid splashes on my other foot this time. All the noise and commotion wakes Andy, and he jumps off the pallet as if he’s spring loaded. A heavy silence fills the shanty as we both stare at the figure standing in the doorway.

  The morning sun reflects off something shiny at the end of the intruder’s arm.

  But it’s not a metal claw. And it’s not Conrad. It’s a long knife held by a stranger. I’m glad it’s not our crazy uncle, but I’m still fearful, uncertain what danger this stranger brings with him.

  My senses are heightened because of the strangeness of the situation, and I’m seeing details that I wouldn’t normally notice. Our uninvited stranger is young, probably about my age, but maybe a little older. His leather breeches look worn, and they match his tan leather vest. I can’t help but notice that the vest is open in the front, and he’s not wearing a shirt underneath it. He has dark skin, perhaps from spending a lot of time in the sun but maybe because of pigmentation. His hair is long and dark, almost black. His feet are bare and covered with mud that is just starting to dry and become flaky. The intruder stares back at us for a long moment, then he taps the knife on the door where Andy carved our name.

  “Sherwood?” he says.

  Andy and I glance at each other without replying.

  Tap. Tap. Tap. The knife hits the door again. “Sherwood?” he repeats, a little louder this time. “Dis be you?”

  I nod. “Yes.” My voice sounds hollow.

  “Mmmh,” the reply comes. “Good.”

  The stranger steps through the doorway and inside the shanty. I back away from him and toward Andy. When I brush a stray strand of hair from my face, I notice my fingers are sweaty. I wipe my palms on my jeans as I stare at our unexpected visitor and wonder why he’s here and what he’s planning to do with us.

  Andy’s voice comes from behind me. “This is our property,” he says. “Who are you?”

  The visitor slides the knife into a sheath on his belt and points his thumb to his bare chest. “Michel,” he answers.

  I’m less nervous now that he’s put the knife away, but I still have no idea what he’s doing here. “What do you want?”

  “Fabien Laveau send me.”

  Andy and I exchange glances. Is it possible? Could it be that Fabien Laveau isn’t a legend after all? I wonder if it’s a trick and Conrad has sent this person, this Michel, to fetch us and bring us back to the house so he can finish his game and kill us. As I’m considering the possibilities, Michel speaks again.

  “You come wid me. Quickly.”

  “Come where?” I ask. “And why should we come with you?”

  “Yeah, why?” Andy repeats my question. He’s standing up now and walking toward Michel. “We don’t know you. Why would we go anywhere with someone we don’t even know?”

  Michel reaches inside his vest, retrieves something. He moves toward me, tentatively, and hands it to me without speaking.

  Andy is beside me now, and we both stare at the object. It’s a driver’s license. My breath rushes in when I see Dad’s face smiling up at me from his photo in the bottom corner. It looks like it’s been wet at some point because the ink is faded in spots, but I can still read the name, Jonathan Sherwood. My hand trembles so I can hardly hold it.

/>   “Hey!” Andy says. “That’s Dad’s! Where did you get this?”

  “Fabien Laveau find dat. In da pocket of da flyer.”

  Andy looks at me with a shocked expression on his face. Tears well up in my eyes, and my voice is no more than a crackling whisper when I speak. “Are they okay?”

  Michel ignores my question. He points to Dad’s license. “I see da name on dat ting. Sherwood. Dat’s when I remember.” He points to the door where Andy carved our name and a pleased expression fills his tanned face. “I tell Fabien Laveau I know dis name. He send me. Fabien Laveau waits. We go now.” Michel’s sweaty hand grabs my wrist and starts pulling me toward the door.

  I jerk my arm from his grip and stand my ground, facing him. I repeat my question. “Are they okay?”

  He lowers his eyes and shrugs. “Dey wait for you in da Voodoo Swamp. You come now.”

  Andy is staring at me when I glance at him, waiting for me to make the decision. I raise my brows at him and he nods in reply. “Grab our boots,” I tell him. I carefully slide Dad’s license into the pocket of my jeans before picking up one of the saddle blankets. “And the rifle.”

  A moment later, we’re outside, still barefoot, and running to keep up with Michel. The air is cool and moist as Andy and I run toward the paddock to get our horses.

  “No!” Michel yells. “Dem horses no good for where we go. Dis way,” he says, and Andy and I turn and follow him through the trees.

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Dark and Unfamiliar

  MICHEL LEADS US DOWN the hill for a short distance before we come to the edge of the creek where a wooden pirogue is tied. The boat looks rickety and worn, with only a few flecks of green paint remaining on the wood that’s turned gray from age.

  Michel points toward it. “You get in. We go.”

  The narrow boat rocks when we step into it, and Andy loses his balance. Our boots land on the bottom of the boat with a dull thud when he lets go of them in order to free one hand to grab the gunwale of the small boat. He nearly drops the rifle into the creek during this clumsy boarding process, but he finally manages to regain his stability without losing our only means of protection. I place the saddle blanket under me and sit on the middle seat. Andy sits in the bow.

  Before we’re even settled, Michel has untied the rope that’s securing the pirogue to a small tree, and he’s using a long wooden pole to push us away from the bank and down the narrow waterway. The brownish-green slime on the water’s surface parts as the boat slides through it, then closes behind us seamlessly as if we had never disturbed it, leaving no evidence of our departure.

  Spanish moss hangs from the trees, heavy and wet with morning dew. The branches resemble grotesque arms dressed in ragged shrouds, beckoning to us as we leave them behind. The vegetation is dense, and small limbs slap my arms and face as the boat carries us along the creek. I’m certain there are spiders on some of the plants, but I don’t see any. Still, a shiver skitters up my spine each time a large branch gets close to me—especially if there’s a spider web on it.

  The limbs of the trees hang over us like a fingered canopy. My eyes dart from one branch to the next, keeping a close watch for snakes or anything else that might be lurking above and waiting to drop down on us.

  We continue deeper into the bayou, and before long, the creek has widened out. I breathe a sigh of relief that the spider-inhabited vegetation is no longer a problem. I grab my boots from the bottom of the boat where Andy has tossed them, and I slip them on. When he notices what I’m doing, Andy does the same with his.

  Since the trees are now some distance from the boat and since I’m no longer concerned about the immediate threat of snakes or spiders, and not having to concentrate on avoiding them, my thoughts turn to Mom and Dad. My muscles are tense with worry, and I realize I need to remain calm so Michel doesn’t think I’ve gone crazy. But it’s not easy to control the flood of hope and joy and fear that’s rushing through me.

  I pull the license from my pocket and look at Dad’s photo for a few minutes.

  “Can I see it?” Andy asks, reaching his hand toward me.

  I hand him the license and turn around in my seat to face the rear of the boat. Michel is standing, using the pole to push us along at a good speed. He notices me staring at him and turns his head to avoid my eyes.

  “Michel, please tell us. Our parents—are they okay?”

  Michel shrugs one shoulder. “Fabien Laveau only one who know. He not tell me.” He looks away and concentrates on poling the pirogue down the creek and toward our destination—wherever that may be.

  Andy taps me on the shoulder and when I turn around, he places Dad’s license in my hand. He gives me a confident nod. “They’re all right,” Andy whispers. “They must be, otherwise Fabien Laveau wouldn’t have sent Michel to get us.”

  His comment sounds logical, and his words give me a new spark of hope. He seems so grown-up all at once. I’m usually the one who has to encourage him and tell him everything is going to be all right. I’m the one who gives him a hug when he’s upset and wipes the tears from his eyes. Now he’s the steadying rock I need at this moment.

  I nod back at him as I stuff the license into my pocket and blink back the tears that are trying to escape. “You’re right. They’re just fine. And we’re going to find them and take them home where they belong.”

  The sun climbs higher as we continue down the creek. The light is increasing. A few yards ahead of us, the creek forks. Michel slows the pirogue and points to a tall tree on our right. “You see da branch. Da one dat be broken?”

  I look in the direction he’s pointing. “Yes. I see it.”

  “Dis be where you turn when you come back. Do not forget.”

  I snap a mental photo of the broken limb as Michel turns the pirogue. We leave the creek we’ve been floating on and enter another branch that leads us in a new direction.

  We continue along this waterway for another few hours. The air is hot and steamy, and the channel grows wider the further we go. More gators appear, large and small, sunning themselves on the banks in the noonday sun. A few of the smaller ones slide into the water as we approach, and they disappear beneath the brown scum on the surface. The larger ones, the older ones, are apparently used to seeing pirogues pass. They just smile and ignore us, mostly keeping their eyes closed.

  As we go around a sharp bend in the creek, the landscape changes dramatically. Directly ahead of us, a large lake fills our view and reaches to the horizon. Unlike the scummy brown of the creek we’re floating along, the water ahead of us is a deep sapphire blue.

  “Look,” Michel says, pointing toward the shore. “You see dat rock wid de face on it? You remember dat face. Many creeks feed dis lake. You gotta remember dat face when you come back so you don’t go down de wrong one. You remember.”

  I glance toward Andy to see that he’s staring at something on the shore and nodding. I don’t see the rock Michel is talking about, but I do see a big cypress root, or knee as Dad calls them, sticking out of the water. It reminds me of an eagle’s head, complete with a hole in it that looks like an eye. I decide to remember that instead of “dat rock wid de face on it,” which I still don’t see.

  Once we emerge from the scum-covered creek and onto the lake’s surface, a gentle breeze blows through my hair. The clear sky is high above us and wide open. It reminds me of being inside a snow globe—without the snow.

  I take a deep breath. “This is so pretty,” I say to Andy. “I never knew this lake was here. Did you?”

  Andy shakes his head. “Nope.”

  “Dis be Skullhaven Lake,” Michel says. “Very deep. Cold water. Good fishing lake.”

  As we move further from the creek and onto the lake, Michel pulls the wooden pole into the boat. He picks up a long-handled paddle and begins using it, switching it from one side of the pirogue to the other every few strokes. The only sound is the splashing of the paddle as it dips into the water and pushes us along at a much faster
speed than we were traveling earlier.

  Michel stops paddling long enough to reach into the bottom of the boat and pick up what appears to be a fishing line. There is a hook on one end with something resembling red chicken feathers tied onto it. He secures one end of this line to a metal eye that’s screwed into the pirogue’s gunwale and tosses the line over the side before he starts paddling again. Our progress slows when he pulls the paddle into the boat and turns his attention to the fishing line.

  The sound of splashing fills the air as Michel yanks the fish out of the water and into the boat. He places his bare foot on the glistening scales, reaches down with one hand, and removes the hook from the fish’s mouth. His other hand slides the knife from its sheath on his belt. Within a few minutes, he has the fish cleaned and offers me a large chunk of white meat impaled on the point of his knife. I shake my head and lean back, almost falling off the seat.

  He jabs the knife toward me. “You take.”

  A shudder goes through my shoulders when I pull the flesh from the knife. It feels rubbery and strange in my fingers. A moment later, Andy is moving past me and heading toward the stern of the boat to take the piece Michel is offering him. When I look down at the small piece of raw fish I’m holding, I suddenly wish I had grabbed some of Mrs. Deffenbaugh’s bacon from my satchel before we left the shanty.