Your pa-paw gets the engine running while me and Tyler chop the houseboat loose from the milfoil. Tyler unwinds the docking ropes, then jumps back onboard as the boat eases out of its slip. The green and gray land passes in a shimmering heat-haze like a daydream. As the marina drifts away, Tyler takes the wheel from your pa-paw. Grown-ups can’t find Swallow’s Nest Bluff.
This river is so old. When the Nephilim walked the land and men were like grasshoppers at their feet, it was flashing as thin and quick as a minnow. The Mississippians came and built cities along its banks. They raised earthwork pyramids into the cool air and let the spring floods fertilize their fields with rich black silt. They carved images of eagle-beaked bird men and a monster called the underwater panther into clay. They believed animals able to move between the land, water, and sky—salamanders, turtles, ducks—and maybe catfish too?—acted as messengers of the gods, moving between our world and the spirit worlds above and below us.
The Mississippians lived and worshiped here for five hundred years, then disappeared. Nobody knows why. They vanished before Columbus came, leaving their warriors decaying within great burial mounds, surrounded by crumbling symbols of strength and wealth.
Hernando de Soto came through Muscle Shoals, exploring the New World. He forded the shoals heading into Tennessee and never came back down again. The Indians thought he was an immortal sun god. After he died of fever, his men were afraid of what the Indians might do if they discovered he’d just been a man. They weighted his body down with stones and tipped it over the side of a boat, letting the river swallow one more secret.
English and Irish settlers came and built a port on top of the Mississippians’ great burial mounds, grown lush with wildflowers by then. During the Civil War, soldiers came. They’re still here, too. From the highway, people have seen their ghosts marching, deaf and blind to the roaring cars.
It’s all still here, Holly. People built the dam, tried to tame the river, let the lake cover up the Indian mounds, but it’s all still down there. I can feel them all underneath us—curses of the Nephilim, the underwater panther, Hernando de Soto’s bones clanking around in rusted-out armor, fevers disguised as frogs—one layer of mysteries on top of another on top of another. And you’ve sunk down, down to the lightless bottom and can’t escape.
Thinking about it makes my stomach tighten; it makes breathing hard. But I won’t be afraid, Holly. There is no fear in love, but perfect love casteth out fear.
Nine
Tyler scans the shoreline through his Aviators. Sitting on the deck, I try to pray for protection and guidance, but it’s hopeless. I close my eyes, but all I feel is the river’s long centuries, stretching back to the start of the world.
The bluff comes into view, a fist of striated limestone. I haven’t been here since you died, Holly. Suddenly, I can’t feel the lake anymore, only the hot, hard sadness swelling in my throat.
It was the height of summer. You were out of school, and Tyler just got his license. We went mud-riding across his cousin’s land, bouncing up and down hills, spraying dirt. He let me drive some, and I fishtailed the truck just to feel the delicious whip-crack momentum bounce us against the doors.
We should have stayed out there, or just gone home. I’m sorry, Holly. But it felt like the start of everything. It was so much fun to go fast and be loud, we didn’t want to stop. Tyler suggested we drive out to the bluff.
The water below us was pea-green and restless. We’d swing and jump, dangling in the air for a moment before gravity grabbed us by our stomachs and yanked us down. Flung hard to the water, the sting and cold-shock of it, making every nerve yowl at once, reminding us how alive we were.
Remember how excited you were about the Halogen concert? Since Tyler could drive now, you could go to shows in Huntsville, Birmingham, anywhere. Stretched out on the stone ledge, soaking in the sun, I decided to ask my parents if I could go to the concert with you.
While we talked, Tyler walked to the truck, then came back. “Hey, I got you something,” he muttered, nervously pressing the ring box into your hands. When you opened it, your grin grew huge. “Oh, it’s gorgeous!” you said, slipping the ring onto your finger. “Thank you, thank you!”
Tyler was grinning too. “Well, I didn’t want you forgetting about me since we aren’t seeing each other in class every day.”
“Awww … I will never forget about you. Ever, ever.” Wrapping your arms around his neck, you kissed him twice, quick little pecks. “Come on, let’s jump together.” Both of you holding the tire swing, you backed up and ran for the edge, planting a foot in the tire just as it sailed out over the lake. Holly, when you jumped, your ring winked in the sun. You hit the water with a massive double splash, then popped back up laughing. The swallows swooped down from their mud nests clumped across the bluff’s stone face, crying and wheeling above your head.
Now, Tyler cuts the motor and we coast toward the bluff. Your pa-paw drops the anchor from the aft deck. The anchor chain rattles down through the hawsehole for a long, long time, dropping all the way to the drowned forest. The swallows dive at the boat, scolding us, slicing the air a few feet above our heads. At the crucifixion, swallows screamed at the Roman soldiers, trying to warn them of the terrible crime they were committing, trying to stop them. That long, hot afternoon, they kept trying to warn us too, didn’t they, Holly? I know that now.
But you and Tyler treaded water together, holding each other, giggling and kissing in the shade of overhanging pines. Swinging lazily on the tire swing, watching the two of you below, it struck me that my cousin had been about my age when she forgot about Swallow’s Nest Bluff. We might not remember it either by next summer. I would have to bring Tim and his friends out here soon, before we lost the way.
But that day, with the cool breeze rolling off the lake, it was still our secret place. I called down, “Hey, Holly! Can you still do a backflip?”
You laughed. “Haven’t done one in years.”
“So? You still got it in you.” I stuck a foot out and caught the earth again to stop the tire from swinging. “Come on, don’t be a scaredy-cat. I’ll do it with you.”
Tyler joined in. “Come on, I want to see.”
“Fine, okay. And just one, then we go home. The water’s already getting too cold.”
The bluff is steep. The only place to climb out of the water is a natural staircase of algae-slick stone. You climbed carefully, with Tyler close behind. The swallows cried and wheeled, but we ignored them. We stood inside the old rubber tire as Tyler dug his heels into the dirt and pulled it back. I remember the great branch overhead groaning, he pulled us so far. Then he let go. We whooped as emptiness rose up around us like a whale, swallowing us whole. We plunged down its throat, jumping high and fearless, scattering the shrieking birds. Our feet kicked the blue out of the sky.
We speared the water, and I lost sight of you. Momentum drove me down, down, until the black branches of the drowned forest licked at my heels. I started kicking back to the light, breaking the surface with a gasp that turned into a laugh. Tyler stood high on the bluff cheering. The water was getting cold, so I climbed out quick. By the time I reached the top of the bluff, though, Tyler had turned quiet and nervous. He was shielding his eyes from the glare of the setting sun.
“Holly? Holll-yyy!”
There was just the bull’s-eye of ripples spreading out from where you’d vanished. Soon, they vanished too. The ancient water forgot you’d ever been there. That was when the knowing—even before I dared say it out loud—felt like gravity grabbing me by the stomach. The swallows never stopped screaming at us.
Your pa-paw steps onto the deck, startling me back to today. “Well, guys?”
“Guess we just play,” Tyler says.
Nodding, your pa-paw swings his Dreadnought around. He picks out “Shave and a Haircut,” then says, “I know. This one, Holly always liked,” and teases a butte
ry-smooth melody from the strings.
Your pa-paw plays for the swallows and the bass boats slicing along the channel. An hour passes in drowsy stillness, in sweltering heat and the damp stink of river muck. Tyler climbs to the roof of the boat’s cabin to see what he can see from there.
Dear Lord in Heaven, please help Holly. Please give us the strength to face whatever we must face.
Kneeling—the hard rubber deck hurts my knees—I try to pray. But every time I glance over the side, the milfoil has gotten a little thicker around us. I go back to the aft. Plant stalks wrap around the anchor chain and are tangled in the propellers.
“Stupid seaweed has us snagged again,” I call out.
On the roof, Tyler nods. “Good. Means Holly is listening.”
“But we need more than this. We need to know what to do.”
“Give her time, Jane. We have to give her time.”
I glance over the side again, trying to peer past the swaying weeds and murk. You dove down and got tangled in something on the bottom. The trees down there made it too dangerous for rescue divers, so we all just left you there. We had a funeral and said the prayers and buried a box full of letters and photos, but we left you down there, all alone inside the drowned forest. Is that why you can’t rest, Holly?
“Come on, Holly,” I whisper into the lapping, muttering water. “We’re here. We’re waiting. Tell us how to help you. Just tell us.”
The last ember of sun burns down. It’s dark but still sticky hot. Needing a break, your pa-paw calls Tyler down to take over playing. I duck into the cabin to get sweet tea for everybody. Tyler starts playing “The Drowned Forest,” since that one already called you once. Bo must have talked to his parents by now. Tyler must be worried but doesn’t let on.
Crunching an ice cube between my teeth—it tastes like pure, delicious cold—I sit with your pa-paw and listen to Tyler play. “You really think Holly’ll know it’s us?” I ask. “I mean, it’s just music. It could be just a radio somebody left on.”
Your pa-paw shakes his head. “Two people can’t play a song the same way, even if they wanted to. Everybody puts their own style into it. I’d know Holly’s style anywhere. She knows mine.” Moths mob the deck light, creating a fluttering lace of shadows across his face. He adds, “My momma’s been dead twenty years. Sometimes I hear songs in my dreams, and I’ll know it’s her playing them just from the way she played.”
“Your mom played guitar?”
“Oh, goodness. She played fast and hot like a string of firecrackers.”
I chuckle. In my mind’s eye, I see the old woman from American Gothic rocking out, doing huge windmill strums.
“What’s so funny? Everybody knew how to play a little down in the holler, or at least dance some. There wasn’t any other way to knock the dirt off your boots. And Momma, she played like you thought the house was burning … down.” He turns.
A soft splashing comes from the stern. We all turn, but the deck lights blind us, turning the darkness beyond them construction-paper black. Something rattles up the anchor chain. It’s climbing out of the water and over the railing.
“Pa-paw?”
Dashing, crowding the gangway, we yell over one another. “Holly, we’re here!” “It’s okay!” “Holly, Holly!”
Crawling into the light, you’re thin, thinner than I could imagine. Your skin is dusky red like a newborn’s. It’s the color of dried blood. “Pa-paw? Help.”
Dropping to his knees, he holds you. “I’m here, Little Bit.”
“Pa-paw, I’m cold.” Arms hug his neck. You cling to him like ivy.
Your skin is … clay. It’s damp red Alabama clay. It splits when you move, and pale spikes of milfoil grow between the cracks.
But your pa-paw is crying and doesn’t notice. He sobs, “It’s okay, Holly. We’re here. Tyler, get a towel or something.”
Tyler doesn’t move. His mouth opens, but he can’t speak. Where your fingers clutch your pa-paw’s shoulder, gnarled bark breaks through his skin. The cloth of his shirt rots and blackens with blood.
“Mr. Alton, you need to get—”
“A towel, Tyler! Get a towel!” As he twists around, your fingers dig deeper. Hickory twigs tremble up from his back, the leaves already yellow and orange.
“Mr. Alton, get back! Get away!”
He fights to break free, dead leaves rattling. More branches sprout along the curve of his collar bone. His eyes bulge and veins in his neck turn purple as he suffocates, but then the creature cries, “Pa-paw!” and he stops trying to get away. Still struggling to breathe, he reaches for the thing that has your voice.
“Pa-paw, I don’t know where we are.”
He holds the creature until roots split his elbows and wrists and between his fingers, swallowing his arms in squirming white clumps. His face and chest are mostly gone, but the creature still whimpers and hugs the stunted hickory tree that’s sinking its taproot into the boat deck. Nut husks break open and spill their dry brown fruit.
We run away. Moving is hard. It’s like running through mud. It’s like in my nightmares. Duck through the hatch, down into the cabin. I trip and fall, twisting my wrist. It doesn’t hurt even though I know it should.
“Tyler?”
He slams the hatch and locks it.
“Tyler, what is that thing?”
“I don’t know.”
“Why did it kill Mr. Alton?”
“I don’t know!”
“Tyler?” the monster croaks from outside. “Tyler, let me in.”
It starts scratching at the hatch. Black-eyed Susans and wedding-white hydrangeas sprout through the varnish. I yank the curtains shut so it can’t see us. “We have to go. Get to shore, then we can run.”
“The anchor is down, Jane. The milfoil has tangled the propeller. We’re stuck.”
I turn the key anyway, listening to the engine groaning rarr … rarr … rarr … as it struggles to turn the propeller. We’re trapped. The thing lured us here, trapped us, and then killed Mr. Alton.
The wooden hatch rots away, and a breeze carries the pungent smell of river muck into the cabin. The mud-thing, coughed up from the drowned forest, moans as it pushes through. “Jane?”
I crumple to the floor, crushing myself between the captain’s chair and the steering console. It finds me, though, and the crooked gash of a mouth opens into a smile. It reaches for me. I scream, and it pulls back.
“Jane? Wh—what’s the matter?” It’s your voice. Wet and weak, but it’s your voice.
“Holly?”
“Jane.” Sunny yellow dandelions blink open. “I got lost. We—we were diving off the bluff, but then I got lost somehow. I’ve been wandering around for … Pa-paw was here, but then he … ” You search the cabin, confused, then look back at me. The horrible smile widens, displacing your jaw. “I knew you’d come. Just like the time with the church flower gardens, remember? Remember?”
This monster is you, Holly. Dead and come back to life—back to some ramshackle version of life—clumps of mud and weeds matted together—but it’s you. I shut my eyes and whimper. Fingers clutch my shirt, scratch my skin. The reek of your sludgy skin chokes me. “Stop, Jane. Please, I can’t find my way—”
Tyler puts his full force into the kick, knocking you off me, knocking off half your face. He grabs me by the arm, yanks me up, screaming, “The aft hatch. C’mon!”
The floor buckles underneath us. The hull has already rotted where you were crouched. Cold water swirls in around our ankles.
“No, don’t go! Jane!”
“Holly … I’m … ” But there aren’t any words. I turn and run. The boat is listing to one side, but we get past the sleeping berths and through the aft hatch, jumping for the shiny black water.
Ten
The river swallows me. It slurps me down a throat of bubbles and swirling
noise, down, down into water as silent and dark as a womb.
I kick at the blackness, kicking back up toward the air and Tyler’s wail. “—aaaane! Jaaaane!”
“Over here!” I wave until he sees me.
“You okay?”
I don’t know how to answer that. “Where’s Holly?”
“Still onboard, I think. You hurt? Can you swim?”
I’m not hurt, so we start to swim. The houseboat—and you—squat between us and the bluff, so we make for the north shore. I focus on the downtown lights crowding along the embankment. Cars speed across the dam. From a concert in the Veterans Park amphitheater, brassy notes carry out across the lake. Behind us, the houseboat slips lower and lower, then vanishes with a great sploosh and waves that ripple out beneath me. For a few seconds, cabin lights shimmer under the water. I turn and watch it sinking down. Then the generator shorts and the hull goes dark.
Treading water, I look for you, but nothing moves.
“Jane! Come on!”
I start swimming again, muscles burning. Where are you? Under the water? Trapped in the houseboat or chasing after us? Can the thing you’ve become swim? Do you have to come up for air? I keep going, waiting for you to grab my ankle and pull me down. As we cross above the drowned forest, I can feel it below us, barren branches reaching up like hands, waiting to embrace me.
But it doesn’t happen. We make it to the park, down from the shining amphitheater. Years of lapping waves have licked a hollow below the walking trail. Tyler tries climbing up but doesn’t have the strength. He slumps back to the soft red clay, catching his breath, holding on to an exposed root. “Okay. Okay. We’re okay,” he pants.
I’ve lost my flip-flops. I rub the scratches you left on my arm and hand. They’re swollen and angry red, and there’s a weird sort of pressure from under my skin, like it wants to pucker open.
“My truck’s still at the marina. We have to—”
“Tyler? J-Jane?”
We whip around, but there’s nobody—no body. Just your thin voice in the dark.
The Drowned Forest Page 7
