The Book of Lost Friends(51)

The Our Father worked that time, and so I hope it’ll save us now. Never been in the swamps at night. Heard folks talk about it, but I ain’t ever been. Fear walks over me as I balance behind the saddle on the gray, Juneau Jane slumped like a sack in front of me, and Old Ginger dragging along behind by the reins, lagging and stubborn.

I’m scared of the snakes, I’m scared of the gators, scared Ku Kluxers might find us now that I’ve had to go along the road to travel by the strip of moonlight threading through the trees. I’m scared them woodcutters might be on our heels by now. I’m scared of haints and the ol’ rougarou coming up from his watery hiding place, but more than anything else, I’m scared of the panthers.

It’s them you need to worry about most in the swamp at night. Panther can smell you from miles off. He’ll come up without a sound, stalk you quiet, so’s you don’t even know till he jumps on you. He’s got no fear of a horse. Panthers go after folks traveling the road alone at night, and the only way anybody can live to tell about it is to outrun the devil, horse and all. Run all the way home. Panther will chase a man right to the barn door and scratch round, try to get in.

I hear one off in the black woods, the call like a woman’s scream. Cuts into me and drives through the bone, but that one’s far off. It’s what I hear closer, to the left, then to the right—that’s what gives me the all-overs now.

The dog barks, but he don’t go off after it. Seems like he’s scared as I am.

I touch for Grandmama’s beads, then remember they ain’t there to comfort me no more.

Something rustles down the little slope below of us. I jerk at the noise.

Sounds like two legs, I think to myself. Them men…

No, four. Four legs. Something heavy. Black bear?

Comin’ closer, stalking us. Taking our measure. Coming in.

No…farther off now.

Ain’t nothing there. It’s just your mind, Hannie. Plain crazy with fear.

The panther screams again, but he’s way over yon still. A owl hoots. I shiver hard and hold the neck of my shirt closed, even though I’m sweated down underneath it. It’s keeping the mosquitos from sucking me dry.

I push the horses farther, listen into the night, try to think what to do. This old road might stretch on for miles, used for hauling cypress timber out of the swamp and goods to the river, but it ain’t a road that goes from one place to the other. Been on it for a long way, and I hadn’t seen or heard a sign of people yet. Not even a lamp burning in a cabin or a settlement off through the trees, or a whiff of smoke from a cook fire. Just old wagon camps and the tracks of iron tires and horseshoes. That’s all there is showing that folks come and go this way.

Ginger stumbles over a felled branch and falls to her front knees, nearly jerking me over the tail of the gray before I get him stopped. The reins slide through my hands and trickle onto the ground with a soft slap.

“Whoa,” I whisper. “Hooo, now.”

I get down in a hurry, and it’s all I can do to drag Old Ginger back to her feet, without her just laying over on her side and crushing Missy Lavinia, who I guess is still living, but I don’t know for sure. Not a sound comes out of her.

“Hooo, now. Easy,” I whisper and steady a hand on Ginger’s neck. She’s got no more in her. Not tonight.

The smell of wet charcoal sifts up in the damp. I move toward it and find what’s left of a wagon camp against a upturned tree. Roots reach toward the moon like hands with skinny fingers and long, pointed claws. It’s shelter, at least, and the tree’s been dead awhile. I can break off dry timber to start a fire.

My bones complain while I go to work at it, rake the ground to scare off any critters, untie the poke and lay the oilcloth flat to sit on, hobble the horses so they can’t run off if they get spooked. Last thing, I pull Missy Lavinia and Juneau Jane down, drag them over, and pile them against the tree. They smell so bad, at least the mosquitos don’t want them. Their skin’s cold from the night and the wet, but both still draw breath. Juneau Jane groans like I hurt her. Missy Lavinia don’t move or twitch or make a sound.

Dog stays by my side every step, and though I never been easy round a dog, I’m grateful for his company. Ain’t fair to judge all of something by just a few, Hannie, I tell myself, and if I survive this day, I’ve learned something from it. This half-growed pup is a good dog. Got a sweet, kind heart and only needed somebody to be kind back.

A good heart can’t ever let the bad get in, Mama’s voice whispers in my head. You got a good heart, Hannie. Don’t let the bad get in you. Don’t open the door to it, no matter how much it comes knockin’ or how sweet it sounds askin’.

I try to coax some water down Missy Lavinia and Juneau Jane, but their eyes roll back and their mouths hang slack and the water just dribbles out over their swelled-up tongues. Finally, I give up and just lay them against the roots again. I drink and eat and hang the dry meat in a tree a little ways off and hunker down. Whatever else happens to us tonight, it’ll have to be in the hands of the saints. My hands are too weary to fight, now.

I say the Our Father and wait for sleep to come to me. I don’t even make it all the way through.

In the morning, I hear voices. I open my eyes, thinking it’s Tati, and John and Jason, already at the fire, stirring up a meal. Summertime, we cook outside to keep the hot out of the cabin.