Fat Tuesday(80)

He considered turning back at least mbhundred times during those first few anxious minutes in the water. Ultimately, however, he feared Basile more than he feared the swamp. He'd chosen an unknown terror in which he might perish over Basile, whom he knew for certain was capable of killing him.

After about a half hour, he allowed himself to believe that Basile hadn't punched holes in the boat and that he wasn't going to sink into the miasma. The boat had no motor, so he propelled it through the water with an oar until his shoulder and back muscles burned. Every strange sound spooked him. Each moving shadow struck terror in him.

He wanted to surrender to tears and despair, but he kept rowing, blindly pushing the boat through the alien waterways, without destination or direction, telling himself that he would become oriented as soon as dawn broke.

But sunrise only heightened his anxiety. Daylight revealed all the hazards kindly concealed by darkness. Each ripple in the water caused him to envision poisonous serpents and malevolent alligators watching him from beneath the surface. Birds with monstrous wingspans swooped low, squawking in vexation.

And the constancy of the terrain was enough to drive one mad. He moved forward in the hope that just beyond the near horizon he would find an alteration in the infernal sameness. But he put what seemed like miles behind him, and saw no change in the landscape, only slight shifts of light and shadow.

By noon the first day, he acknowledged that he was hopelessly lost. He was exhausted from not having slept the night before. He felt the effects of the beating more than right after it had happened. One of his eyes was swollen almost shut. His breath whistled through displaced nostrils that every once in a while dripped fresh blood. A tentative exploration of his lips with his fingertips assured him that they were grotesquely swollen.

Bruised inside and out, he would have given a million dollars for an aspirin tablet, but even if he'd had one, he would have had to swallow it dry. Thinking that within an hour or two he would find a place to go ashore where he could revive himself with food and drink l and then hire transportation back to New Orleans, he hadn't brought along any provisions, including water.

Nor did he have any food, although that seemed of little consequence when compared to the misery of knowing that he was going to die alone and unloved in the wilderness. What an ignoble end for a boy who'd grown up with every advantage America afforded its rich and beautiful.

Even when he happened upon what appeared to be solid ground, he never even considered disembarking. The most horrible time of his life prior to this past week had been a summer camp he'd been forced to attend to toughen him up. He had failed to master even the most elementary camping skills. After two weeks, the frustrated camp faculty called his parents and promised to rebate the tuition if they would come and get him.

Even seasoned hunters and fishermen had become victims of the swamp, killed either by the hostile terrain or the beasts that inhabited it.

He'd read accounts of appalling deaths. Some luckless souls had disappeared without their families ever knowing exactly what brutal fate had befallen them. If Gregory James couldn't hack it at summer camp, he certainly wasn't equipped emotionally, mentally, or physically to survive the swamp, and it would be suicidal to attempt slogging through it on foot.

As long as he remained in the boat, he might stand a chance. It wasn't much of a craft, but it served as a floating island of relative safety.

It protected him from direct contact with the elements, and carnivores, and poisonous fangs.

But as the hours stretched out, his chances for survival became slimmer and his meager hopes faded. He didn't remember at what point he surrendered, set the oar aside, and lay down in the foulsmelling hull of the boat to wait for Death. It might have been yesterday, because he vaguely remembered passing another night. Had the low clouds finally produced rain today or was that the day before? He'd lost track.

Now it was night again. The weak moon was trying to penetrate the clouds. That was nice. A va10rous moon contributed a touch of romance to his demise. If he went back to sleep, maybe he would dream again that he was in the spotlight, starring in the hottest new play on Broadway, performing to rave reviews before audiences that adored him and gave him hour-long standing ovations.

Suddenly Gregory's dreamy doze was shattered by a light so bright it seemed to pierce his skull. Reflexively, he threw up a hand to shade his eyes. Words were hurled down at him, but he didn't understand them.

He tried to speak but discovered he had no voice.

Huge hands reached from beyond the glare of light and caught him beneath his arms, hauling him up and out of the boat, then unceremoniously dumping him onto spongy, wet earth. The mud felt blessedly soft. He wanted to lie in the mud, pillow his cheek against it, and return to his dream.

But he was rolled onto his back and yanked to a sitting position An object was thrust against his lips, and he cried out in fear and pain.

Then a trickle of water filled his mouth and slid down his throat Greedily, he began drinking, until he choked.

When his coughs subsided, he tried again to speak."Th ... thank you." His lips felt large and rubbery, like he'd spent the day in a dentist's chair. He ran his tongue over them and tasted blood.

The light that had awakened him had thankfully been extinguished, but there was enough natural light for him to see that his good Samaritans wore mud-caked boots that came to their knees. The legs of their pants had been stuffed into them. Nonsensically it occurred to him that he'd never worn his pants tucked into boots of any kind.