Beware the Wild
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HarperCollins Publishers
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UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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For Tess, who always believes
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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Beware the swampy places, child
,
Beware the dark and wild
,
Many a soul has wandered there
,
And many a soul has died
.
UNCORRECTED E-PROOFâNOT FOR SALE
HarperCollins Publishers
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I
T'S NO SECRET, OURS IS
the meanest swamp in Louisiana.
Regular swamps are dangerous enough. Loud, stinking things, they hide their claws
in the mud between cypress knees, beneath the surface of stale, brackish waters. There are a hundred ways to die all cloaked in the twist of pale treesâgators fast enough to catch a grown man, mosquitoes teeming with disease, stinging plants, hungry black bears, and nasty cottonmouths all filled with spite and patience. Heat so dense it collects in your ears, air so thick it coats the inside of your nose, and plenty of putrid, sucking mud that'll pull you down and fill your lungs with slow death.
But what's in ours is worse.
Ours is a creature all its own. We don't stare into its depths and we don't ever go inside. We live alongside it, tolerate it the way every Southern town tolerates creeping vines of kudzu, and I've done my best to avoid it until today.
It's a million degrees, and I'm baking my butt on the cherry-red hood of Phin's old Chevelle. He's been fixing it up, and he'd get after me if he saw I was sitting on it, but I like the way the heat sears my thighs.
Only one week to go in my sophomore year. I should've been blowing off studying for finals because I was too busy painting my nails or spending a lazy afternoon at the racetrack. But everything changed a few hours ago, and I'm blowing off studying for a totally legitimate reason, hoping Phin will come home just to cuss at me for sitting on his car.
My phone buzzes against the gravel on the ground where Candy Pickens sits. She scoops it up and screens the text. I can't be trusted to answer anything right now. Not without burning a whole host of bridges.
“It's Beale,” she reports. “She's finally done with church and wants to know if she should come over.”
I'm tempted to say yes, but I shake my head. Other than Candy, Abigail Beale's my closest friend. She's nothing if not calm and collected, and if I need anything at the moment it's to stay calm, but having her here won't make me feel any better. She'd only sit as powerlessly as I've been doing all day.
The front door opens. Voices spill into the yard.
Candy takes my cue and we keep quiet to avoid being noticed.
“You're sure you don't want to press charges? He's eighteen now. Not a boy anymore, and there isn't a soul in Sticks who'd think poorly of you for it, Gatty.”
I recognize Sheriff Felder's lazy voice. He's been inside with Mama and my stepdad, Deputy Darold Gatwood, for the better part of the afternoon.
“No charges,” my stepdad says. “It was an accident. Plain and simple.”
“Maybe so, but he could've really hurt Sterling and I don't much like the idea of letting someone get away with hitting one of my deputies. Sets a bad precedent. A particularly
bad one, if you know what I mean. I hope you'll reconsider.”
I'd like to walk right around the corner and tell him to do his job and go find Phin instead of looking for excuses to arrest him, but Darold gets there first.
“Nothing to reconsider. That boy's had enough trouble in his life. It's not for me to add to it.” He pauses. I strain to hear his next words. “He might be in danger, you know.”
It's the sheriff's turn to pause. Then he says, “I can't send any of our men into that swamp. You know it, Gatty. I'm sorry. Let's wait and hope for the best.”
Darold's muffled response is followed by the front door closing hard. Sheriff Felder comes into view, halting his slow stride to tip his Stetson. Sunlight flashes over the star pinned to the brim and he drawls, “Girls,” before pouring into his cruiser like molasses.
“Hope for the best” is his way of saying he won't be looking for Phin, but he might feel bad about it. It's the same approach he uses for hurricanes or flu viruses, anything he feels powerless against. Or, in the case of my brother, anyone who's more trouble than they're worth.
But Sheriff Felder doesn't know Phineas like I do. Maybe he'd feel differently if he'd known Phin as a ten-year-old twig of a boy, willing to put himself in danger to keep me safe. Maybe he'd care if he'd seen Phin standing bare-chested and shaking brave in front of a man big enough to snap him like kindling. Maybe if he had, he wouldn't be ready to give up so easily. Or maybe he'd go on turning his eyes away from the swamp no matter what.
“I'm sorry, Saucier,” Candy says from the ground, her hands pressed to either side of a volleyball. She's more gentle than usual with the syllables of my last name, SO-shurâthe name Mama was born with, and Phin and I took after Dad left.
“Sorry for what?” I'm aware that being snappish isn't kind, but I lost kindness hours ago. “Even if they cared, they'd never have looked in the swamp.”
This entire town would rather believe we're better off without him, that it was only a matter of time before violent Phineas Saucier crossed a line. When the story gets out, they'll care that Phin and I were fighting, and Phin got so mad he nailed the carport by my head. They'll care that when Darold grabbed Phin's shoulder, Phin spun and punched him in the face.
They'll care that Phin did what every man, woman, and child in Sticks knows not to do and crossed the split-rail fence into the swamp. Then, they'll shake their heads and cluck their tongues like it's such a shame, and if they're generous, they'll hope for the best.
I peer over my shoulder at the far edge of my yard where pine trees dust everything in shadow. Their branches bend down in a way they shouldn't, like greedy claws. We all
know better than to cross that fence.
But the only time Phin gets dumb is when he's angry.
And he hasn't come back.
“They know what happened, Candy,” I say. “The swamp ate my brother.”
“Don't be dramatic or anything,” she says flatly.
From beneath the pines, the air somehow winks both dark and bright. On our bit of fence, beads and Christmas lights glitter against the old gray planks. A tradition started by Mama's daddy, Grandpa Saucier, to remind the swamp that there was nothing for it beyond its edges. Mama adds more Mardi Gras beads every year, clearing the oldest and dullest ones to make room for new strings of black-and-red top hats, purple-and-green fleur-de-lis, peppers, gator heads, and whatever else was tossed during the parades. And now, behind that familiar sight, something shines in the dark.
Sweat slides down my spine and I rub my eyes to clear them. When I open them, the air shimmers again.
It's too early yet for fireflies, but the lights I see are unmistakable. They dance above the fence, a hundred glowing eyes.
“Do you see that?” I ask. “What
is
that?”
Candy's face is impassive. “You'll have to be more specific.”
I hop off the Chevelle, my skin ripping from the hot chrome, and stalk to where the unremarkable split-rail fence is ghostly pale against the dark swamp. It's as easy to climb over as it is to scoot beneath, but no one does, and for some reason, the swamp stays firmly on the other side. A few brave plants may reach across the line, but by and large, the swamp keeps as much distance from us as we do of it.
I stop just shy of the fence. It's at least ten degrees cooler here, but that's not what makes my skin prickle. There, wrapping around every other tree trunk and dripping from the underside of broad, leafy plants, are lights as bold as fireflies. They swirl in and around the foliage, hover in the air, and thread through the tangle of Spanish moss. A chill races down my arms.
“I know you have him,” I whisper.
The lights wink.
“What are you on about?” Candy calls from behind, running to catch up.
“What do you see in there?” When I rest my hands on the fence, little lighted fronds reach for me. They brush over my hands like butterfly wings. I snap them away.
“Nothing but swamp,” she says, climbing boldly onto the bottom rung. “No sign of him.”
“Nothing strange? No little lights?”
This time she doesn't even look. All our lives, she's told frightening swamp stories at sleepovers and on camping trips. She'd grin a cat-grin when someone screeched or woke from a nightmare, but now her frown is for me alone. “This is what happens when you starve your brain, Saucier. You get stupid.”