by Cara Hoffman
Tubs sighed. “I guess it’s time to tell everyone what Pythia said.”
“Good luck,” said Gloria.
“Won’t you come with me?”
Lila looked up from her papers. “Sorry, Tubs. We have to get to the bottom of this, and besides, last time I saw Beau and Billy, they were yelling that I wasn’t from the swamp, that I ate a duck, and that I caused the mysterious illness. So . . . you go on without us.”
Tubs went to the sink and washed his dishes, then rummaged through his instruments until he found his bow and fiddle. Then he strode through the door, out into the waiting darkness.
8
The moon was still low, close to the horizon, and the sky was pale blue like the heart of a flame. Billy the duck bobbed in the water and Beau sat in his boat. The peepers stopped their calling, and the owls and birds stopped their restive evening songs; a hush fell upon the creatures as they waited for Tubs to speak.
Tubs listened to this silence. It was so beautiful. And he thought about how the notes of songs are separated by short or long silences, and how silence is sometimes the best part of a song.
The silence didn’t last, though.
“What did the witch say?” yelled Beau.
“Tell us!” cried Billy.
Tubs lit the lantern that hung from the side of his house and then sat on the dock with his feet hanging in the water. All the creatures gathered closer. As the light shone upon them, Tubs could see many of them were shivering and had blankets thrown over their shoulders, their faces looked pale, and some of them had an itchy, uncomfortable-looking rash. They gazed up at him with great hope and anticipation.
“Tell us everything she said!” called a swallow from her mossy nest. “Is there a curse on the swamp?”
“What?” said Tubs. When did they come up with that crazy idea? he thought.
“Pythia said there’s a curse on the swamp?” called a bullfrog from the mud.
“There’s a curse on the swamp!” Beau yelled.
“Who cursed the swamp?” said Billy. “Was it Lila?”
“My friends,” Tubs began, “there is no curse on the swamp. I wish I could tell you why some of you are not feeling well. But the alligator witch doesn’t know.”
Tubs heard the sound of many creatures gasping at once. How could he explain that Pythia couldn’t answer their questions? That she was just a hungry alligator, drinking mushroom tea in a shack beneath a willow tree? Honesty seemed the best way forward. His neck felt itchy and he reached up and scratched it with a toe. He cleared his throat.
“Pythia is just a hungry alligator drinking mushroom tea beneath a willow tree,” Tubs said. There was another gasp. “But,” he said, “Lila might have an answer.”
“What did Pythia say?” Beau yelled again.
“She didn’t have a reason or a cure,” Tubs said. “She just said that I should leave the swamp. That everyone would be miserable if I didn’t.”
“Then it’s you!” cried Billy the duck. “You’re making everyone sick. She’s trying to save us from you!”
“Billy,” said Virgil, “that don’t make no sense. Why would you think an alligator, who is our natural predator, is trying to save us?” He shook his head. “I’m afraid that’s a logical fallacy.”
“Maybe if we figure out what she means,” said Beau, “we’ll get to have what she has!”
“She has a broken-down shack in the worst part of the swamp,” said Virgil.
“And we don’t have any shack!” cried Billy.
“What else did she say?” called a young frog from the roots of a mangrove tree.
“She said I was going to have a marvelous life and creatures would sing my songs if I got on a train and went to the city,” said Tubs. “But I already have a marvelous life. And that doesn’t answer our question.”
“Maybe you have to go to the city to find a cure for us,” called a woodpecker from the top of a willow.
“Maybe if you leave, that will break the curse Lila put on the swamp!” called a bullfrog from the reeds.
“Why would Lila curse the swamp to make people sick when she lives in the swamp?” said Virgil.
There was a moment of silence as the creatures seemed to be considering this. Tubs watched a cloud drift slowly over the gleaming crescent moon.
Finally, someone shouted, “Maybe when Pythia said marvelous life, she really meant we would have marvelous lives after Lila’s curse was broken.”
“That’s right!” yelled Beau.
Tubs sighed. “Friends,” he said. “I don’t know what Pythia meant. But there is no curse on the swamp and an alligator doesn’t make decisions for what we do. We all make those decisions together. Lila and Gloria are trying to figure out why people are sick,” said Tubs. “And they need to know what we’ve all been eating.”
“I’ll tell you what Lila’s been eating!” yelled Billy.
Virgil shook his head, stuffed a clump of swamp moss into his pipe, and began rowing home.
“Tubs,” said a small yellow tree frog quietly. “I think you would have a marvelous life in the city. I think you should go. Like Elodie did. No one was sick back then. Maybe there is some magic at work. And if there isn’t, at least you can bring our songs into the world, so they won’t die here in the swamp with us.”
Everyone was quiet then, and Tubs felt like he might cry.
“No one is going to die here,” said Tubs. But he knew it wasn’t true. Not one fish jumped to catch an insect as it skimmed the surface of the water. He knew that most of the fish had died. He knew that some of Virgil’s cousins who worked on the docks had died, too.
He looked out at his friends. They were sitting or treading water or floating or perched in trees in the most beautiful place in the world. But they looked haunted now, dark circles under their eyes, toads with dry skin, sparrows losing their feathers. And Gloria sitting back in the kitchen, feverish, her raw skin covered in a rash, trying with all her might to find a cure. She must feel so horribly frightened, Tubs thought, getting sicker with no cure in sight. And for the first time, he wondered how long it would be until he became sick, too.
In his heart of hearts, all Tubs wanted was to write a song that could make everyone well. If there was any magic in this world, he thought, please, please let that melody come to him.
9
Gloria and Lila stayed up all night reading patient reports and trying to figure out if there was something all the animals had been eating or drinking to make them sick. In the morning, instead of playing his fiddle or clarinet, Tubs went with them from house to house asking their patients what they’d put in their bellies that month. Gloria was weaker now. The rash on her talons made hopping and walking painful, but she was determined to go with them, flying when she could muster up the energy.
The three friends talked to nearly everyone in the swamp except for Billy, who slammed the door in their faces, and Beau, who said he didn’t believe Gloria was really a sparrow.
“You look like a wren,” he said.
After talking to dozens of different creatures, they collected samples of water and algae and bugs, then Lila and Gloria took their papers and notes and collections of specimens and went straight to the lab at the hospital. Tubs went home to make lunch for everyone.
They had learned that most animals in the swamp ate bugs, even other bugs. Some ate them by mistake; some, like Tubs, made fancy fly soufflé. Birds and frogs—who were the first to get sick—ate the most bugs. But in the end, not everyone ate bugs.
They also learned that most animals ate plants. And very nearly everyone ate the delicious green algae that covered the swamp.
All animals drank water and ate microscopic creatures—creatures too small to see.
Water was the thing that connected everyone. He thought again of the fish. How he had come across some while he was swimming, bumped right into a whole school. They were floating, dead, just beneath the surface of the water, their round eyes still staring at the sky.
He shivered at the memory.
What if Pythia was right? Would there be more animals dying if he stayed? Would there be only misery like she had told him? All animals had to die someday, he thought, but not all at once, and they shouldn’t have to suffer.
Tubs went first to give Gloria her lunch in the lab, but she was nowhere to be found. He assumed he would find her in Lila’s office.
The halls of the hospital were crowded—with sick patients lying in cots. The hospital was too full for them to stay in rooms.
Tubs let himself into Lila’s office and was surprised to find her alone.
“Where’s Gloria?” he asked.
“She had a fever,” Lila said. “Virgil came to pick her up in his boat and take her home.”
“Will she be all right?” Tubs asked.
“Of course she will,” said Lila. She turned away quickly. “We’re getting closer. We know that eating algae or bugs or plants is making us sick, but what are the algae, the bugs, and the plants eating that’s making them poisonous to us? The things that the smallest creatures eat still get into our bodies and can make us sick. Once we know what they are . . .”
“How do we avoid eating things that make us sick if we can’t even see them?” Tubs asked.
“We find the source of the problem,” Lila said. “We find where the poison is coming from. Where do the creatures who are sickest live?” she said. “Creatures like Gloria.” Her voice caught in her throat, and she looked away again.
Tubs put his hand on Lila’s shoulder. “She’s going to get better,” he said.
Lila nodded, and he took her lunch out of his bag and put it on the table. Neither of them felt much like eating after that conversation.
He’d brought her fresh baked cricket bread and mealworm butter. “You still have to eat,” Tubs said. “And you still have to sleep.”
Lila nodded.
“Hey, Lila,” said Tubs, imitating Gloria’s melodic voice. “Why do hummingbirds hum?”
Lila broke into a little smile and wiped her eyes. “Why?” she said.
“Because they forgot the words.”
Lila laughed and shook her head. She sniffed and then blew her nose. When she bit into the sandwich, her eyes grew wide. “This is delicious. It’s just what I needed, Tubs. Thank you.”
“Gloria is going to get better,” he told her. “I’ll do everything I can to make sure.”
Lila nodded. “Me too.”
“I didn’t get a chance to play my fiddle last night,” said Tubs, reaching into his sack and pulling out the bow and violin. “Would you like a little lunch tune?”
“Of course,” she said.
Tubs put the fiddle to his ear and raised his bow, drawing it across the strings. It was a pleasure to play. The sound was rich and full of life like the voice of someone who was about to laugh. As he drew the bow across the strings, he thought about all the things that Lila knew, and he thought about how a song was like a dream, how sometimes you didn’t know where it would go because it had a life of its own.
Tubs wondered if Lila’s studies and observations had a life of their own—if they moved through her like the song moved through him. Maybe songs and ideas floated free in the air—and sometimes they caught a body that could bring them into the world. Maybe Gloria’s jokes caught her so she could tell them.
This is a song of dreams, Tubs thought, and as he played, he watched Lila’s tired head droop. Then she leaned forward and rested her head on the desk. By the time the song was done, her golden eyes were closed, and she was adrift in sleep.
Tubs packed up his bandanna and fiddle, then headed home to plan a going-away party.
Things were going to get better, he knew it. As long as there was music in the world. He just needed to find the right song. And play it in the right place.
As Tubs walked, he hopped up and clicked his heels together, humming the refrain of his newest song.
It’s not for meeee,
It’s not for meeee,
I don’t want this misery.
He couldn’t let anything happen to Gloria. He couldn’t let her suffer. If there was any chance Pythia was right, he’d have to take it.
10
The first song Tubs ever wrote was called “Baby Owl.” He still had a tail then and his family still called him the tadpole. The song was a lullaby and went like this:
Up above the world so magic and free
I love you, baby owl, I hope you have a good rest
Up above the world, up above the sky
Magic surprise
He sang the song sitting on Elodie’s lap and Lila sang harmony, and the old frogs laughed and played fiddle and piano. Later, while he and Lila were sitting in the red-and-white boat, his uncle, an ancient bullfrog with a large downturned mouth, came out to the dock.
“You children got a gift of voices,” his uncle said. “But you gotta be careful singing songs to owls. They’ll come down straight outta the night sky and carry you off, eat you up in one gulp. You be careful who you sing to,” he said.
Tubs shook the memory away. He hadn’t seen an owl in the swamp since Lila had left for school. He would love to see a baby owl now.
He looked in the mirror while he brushed his teeth and pulled the collar of his plaid shirt up to cover the bumpy red rash on his neck.
Out in the kitchen, Tubs had prepared a feast using all the reserves from the pantry: jars of pickled sea lettuce, fiddlehead ferns, mealworm butter on tiny round crackers, a steaming spicy stew. He’d cooked all afternoon through the heat of the day, and sent word around for everyone to arrive before sunset. For dessert he had made a cinnamon cake with green and gold icing.
Now Tubs busied himself tidying the house, mopping the floor, and dusting the windowsills, straightening the paintings on the walls. He wanted everything to be perfect for his last day in the swamp. He didn’t want any more sadness. Tubs went to his room and folded his clothes—packing some of them up in his bandanna.
He washed the dishes, standing below the portrait of Elodie, and he wondered if he could write a song that would last two hundred and sixty-five million years. What kind of song would he sing? What would he want to say in a song that would be around for so long? Would it be a song to keep everyone thinking about the swamp? No, he thought—a song to make everyone feel the swamp, feel how it feels on a summer night or early in the morning with the mist rising—a song for a day when there might not be a swamp. A song to carry the swamp into the future. He could feel that song out there in the world, waiting for him. And this must be what the alligator witch had meant.
Tubs dried his hands and scratched his itchy skin and looked up at the portrait of Elodie. “What should I sing?” he asked her picture.
A woodpecker and her husband were the first to arrive. They made themselves comfortable in the living room, sitting in rocking chairs. They were followed by a family of water rats whose children stayed outside and took turns jumping off the dock into the water. Frogs began to show up, each bringing good things to eat and drink, which they set on the kitchen table. They went on through the house and picked up instruments and began to sing. A long-fingered bullfrog sat at the piano and started to plunk out a tune. Soon after, Virgil rowed up in his boat. His beard was scraggly, and white hairs showed in his brown coat, but his black eyes sparkled as always.
The sun was setting, and the sky was turning deep orange and gold and reflecting on the surface of the water. Dark shapes of trees and reeds rose in the distance like silhouettes. It was a fantastic display of color and light. The house wasn’t full like it had been back in the old days—but it was a proper party. And the proper place for his newest song.
Once he’d eaten three pieces of cinnamon cake, Tubs jumped up on the piano and began to dance wildly and play the washboard. His friends cheered. Frogs and salamanders picked up more instruments and soon there was a band—with Tubs leading them all.
“Look at him go!”
“That Tubs sure can da
nce!”
Frogs and birds and water rats began dancing in the living room and on the dock. Fireflies flickered above their heads out among the mangroves and trumpet vines.
Tubs threw the washboard into the sink and someone handed him his trombone. He played smooth loops and short squanks, and the bullfrog with the long fingers hammered on the piano keys. Tubs handed the trombone to a young toad in a straw hat and flipped up into a handstand.
“Go, Tubs, go!” his friends yelled over the music.
“It’s true,” said the woodpecker. “He really does belong in the city playing with the greats!”
“Just like Elodie!”
“Play that zydeco, Tubs!”
“Sing, Tubs, sing!”
Tubs hopped back onto his feet and began to sing.
“A yellow frog told me what to do
She said, are you in the swamp or is the swamp in you?
Do you shine like the water, do you shine like the stars?
Do you reel around the willow trees for hours and hours?
Can you live in the sun, can you live in the rain?
Can you save a grizzled water rat by getting on a train?
How do we know, do we know, do we know?
When it’s time to go, when it’s ever time to go?
A yellow frog told me what to do
She said the sky is green and the trees are blue
We live for a moment and then we’re through
You are in the swamp and the swamp is in you.
I live in the sun, I live in the rain
I am an animal who wants no more pain
I can save a grizzled water rat by shouting out his name
In a thousand-year-old song from the windows of a train
And now I know I know I know
That it’s time to go, that it’s really time to go”
Tubs jumped off the piano, clicking his heels, and landed before his friends with his arms outstretched, smiling the brightest smile, crumbs of cinnamon cake still stuck to his face. His friends were laughing, and the music of the night was all around.
