Water Witch (5 page)

As colorful as she was I was beginning to
believe my sister might be right. The old woman’s mind did slip off
the track occasionally. Shoes in trees that had designated
purgatory branches? Okay, maybe it slipped off a bit more than
occasionally . . .

“Anyways,” Poochie continued. “I usually go
out to my prayer tree every day, but las’ week when I went out
dere, you never guess what I saw.”

It took a long pause before I realized she
was actually waiting for a response. “Oh . . . uh, I don’t have any
idea. What did you see?”

“Some of de shoes on de purgatory side was
missin’!” She nodded, wide-eyed. “It’s de trut’! Now how bad you
think dat is when somebody’s gonna steal a dead man’s shoes out a
tree? Den, don’t you know I went back out de very next day, and
boom.”
She slapped her hands together. “Another pair of
shoes missin’. So far now, dat’s prob’bly three-four pairs gone,
and I don’t know where dey went. All I know is since dey been gone,
dere’s been nothin’ but trouble. De chil’ren went missin’, and de
feux fo lais is out in de swamp ‘most every night now. I know, I
seen dem out by de bayou. Dat makes it all kind of dangerous for de
fishermen ‘cause it’s de feux fo lais’ job to make people get los’
in de swamps, you know what I’m sayin’?”

I nodded, not having a clue about feux fo
lais’ or their job descriptions.

“And dat’s not all I seen, no. Dere’s stuff
goin’ on at de house and even at de Bucket. It’s everywhere, I’m
tellin’ you. Just de other day, I got me a glass of water at de
house and put it over here . . . “ Poochie mimed placing a glass on
a table in front of her. “De next thing I know, de glass of water’s
over dere.” She motioned all the way to her right. “And it’s not me
dat moved de glass, no. It’s like it move all by itself. Den,
sometimes I catch something out de corner of my eye, like somebody
movin’ out de room real fas’, but I can’t look fas’ enough to see
who it is.”

“Poochie, let’s give it a rest, okay?”
Angelle said, her face growing much paler.

“What you mean rest? If you tired, you can
take a nap when we get to de house.”

“I mean let’s talk about something else.”

“Oh . . . ” Poochie shrugged. “Okay, but
first I’m gonna finish tellin’ you sister what I was tellin’
her.”

There was something about the hard set of
Angelle’s lips, and the fear that flitted across her face that made
me wonder if she knew more about the story than even Poochie was
telling.

“Mais, like I was sayin’ . . .” Poochie waved
a hand as if to collect all the words she’d spoken so far into one
big pile. “Wit’ all dat crazy stuff going on, I had to wonder me a
couple things. I been wonderin’ if some of de people I been prayin’
for in purgatory didn’t come back for deir shoes. Maybe some got
mad ‘cause I put dem up de tree in de first place. So I go ask God
yesterday, I said, ‘God, what’s going on? I don’t understand all
dis crazy stuff. You need to tell me something.’ Then God spoke in
my head, clear, like I hear me talkin’ right now. He said,
‘Poochie, all de answers not supposed to come right now, but don’t
worry, I’m gonna send somebody to help find de chil’ren.’ So you
see, dat’s how I know why you here. God said so.”

I thought the old woman had not only clicked
off the track, she’d jumped onto a different mode of transportation
altogether.One that could possibly lead to a mental health unit. “I
don’t think I—”

“I know when de good Lord talks wit’ me like
dat, it always comes true. All I got to tell you is be careful. Dis
is nothin’ to play wit’. Dey don’t got no water where you come
from. Dey don’t got no swamps, and you never been in de bayou
before. I think you cuckoo to even go try to find dem babies like
you gonna do, but still what you doin’ is a good thing.” She
glanced over at Angelle then back at me. “But y’all gonna need some
serious prayer. So I’m tellin’ you, first thing when we get to de
house, you need to give me a pair of you shoes. I’ll put dem in de
tree and pray, so de good Lord’s gonna keep y’all safe and—”

“Wait, I—“

“I don’t know if dem babies is still alive
out dere. Me, I can’t tell, don’t have dat in me to see. I don’t
got me no ESPN, you know, like de people dat can put dey hand on
something and tell where you been or where you goin’. All I can do
me is pray. And, Boo…” Poochie paused, cocked her head as if trying
to discern a strange, distant sound, then tsked loudly. “Poo-yi . .
. de good Lord just made Him a little pass in my head right now. He
tol’ me, ‘Pooch, you bes’ pray and pray hard ‘cause dat woman’s
sure gonna need it.”

Her last few words seemed to drill a hole
into the center of my chest. As crazy as they sounded, they held a
ring of truth that scared the shit out of me. What the hell was I
getting myself into? I looked over at Angelle, saw a tear slide
down her right cheek.
God, not a good sign.
Thinking it best
not to draw attention to her crying in front of Poochie, I turned
towards the passenger window and watched as we topped a bridge that
crossed the Mississippi River. I was in sensory overload. So much
green—too much water—so much talk—too little known. What the hell
was I supposed to do with all of this?

Poochie tapped my shoulder again, and when I
looked back at her, she winked, then bellowed, “I-18!”

Oh, yeah, I was definitely in for one hell of
a ride.

CHAPTER FIVE

It took only one bite of dry cereal for Olm
to realize they’d fucked with the Fruit Loops. When he’d grabbed a
handful out of the box, they’d looked and smelled fine. But now,
biting into the colored loops, he tasted the bitter burn of
gasoline instead of sugary fake fruit. Olm quickly spat out the
swill and swatted the box of cereal off the kitchen counter. Fruit
Loops scattered across the floor like confetti.

Over the last two days,
they
had been
slowly and methodically contaminating everything he attempted to
eat. It started with the chicken salad sandwich on Wednesday. He’d
managed to get half of it down before it curved down gasoline alley
and made him puke. Then there’d been the burger and fries he’d
craved on Thursday. He’d barely gobbled down two bites of each
before they turned bitter. Same with the honey bun and milk he
tried eating last night. Now the goddamn Fruit Loops.
They
meant to starve him to death, one food group at a time. Either that
or drive him mad enough so he’d eat a bullet.

Olm walked over to the kitchen sink, loops
crunching under foot, and turned on the faucet. He leaned over and
with shaky hands, cupped water into his palms, meaning to rinse out
his mouth. That’s when he caught movement out of the corner of his
eye. He froze, turned his head ever so slightly and saw a black,
translucent figure peeling itself from the wall opposite him, like
wallpaper that had lost its adhesive backing. It had no distinct
features, only the obscure form of a human—a man. Another figure
quickly followed the first, this one oozing from the wall like gray
smoke.

Forgetting his hands were filled with water,
Olm threw them up protectively and wound up dousing himself in the
process. He swiped at his eyes, whimpering. Until now, the
apparitions had only come at night—whispering nonsensical words in
his ears, touching him everywhere, constant probing, jabbing
fingers he could never see, robbing him of sleep. Of sanity. He
didn’t know what
they
were,
who
they were. Not one of
them
ever spoke, no matter how many times he begged for
answers. All he knew was they couldn’t possibly be his people, not
the Pawnee warriors and priests from his Skidi lineage. They
wouldn’t harm their own. Not like this.

Olm took a step sideways—and the utility
drawer beside him suddenly slid open—the drawer to the cabinet that
once held the cereal slammed shut. On the floor, Fruit Loops
crunched beneath unseen feet.
They
were heading towards him
now, wavering forms that reeked of malice—and gasoline. The
temperature in the room abruptly plummeted to freezing.

“No! Not in the daylight—not in the light!”
Olm shouted. “Go away—go! What do you want from me? What the fuck
do you want?”

A burbling sound—a
glub,
like a pocket
of air breaking through the surface of heavy oil—and the
apparitions moved closer, their forms growing denser though
features no more distinguishable than a moment ago. Thick gray
smoke now thicker—black wallpaper darker—nothing translucent now,
edges curling in as though charred from a long ago fire. The
glubbing, burbling seemed to be the sound of their movement, as
purposeful as footfalls on dry leaves, as the whisper of polyester
rubbing between a runner’s thighs, as the flap of a jacket as one
walked through a brisk wind. It meant movement, movement towards
him.

“Who the fuck
are
you?” Olm yelled,
backing away slowly, slowly. “What do you want?”

Burbling gray, glubbing black—now with
fingers, long reaching fingers. Olm shuddered. Not the touching—he
couldn’t bare the touching. Especially not in the light . . . not
in the daylight.

As if preparing for a dunk underwater, Olm
sucked in a deep breath, then grabbed his car keys off the counter
and ran out of the house through the backdoor. He didn’t look
back—couldn’t look back. If
they
were no longer held to the
night, then anything was possible now, anything. What else awaited
him? What else would they do? What more
could
they do?

By the time Olm reached the blue Impala
sitting in the driveway, he was sure he’d pissed himself because
his pant legs felt warm and wet. He didn’t bother checking, just
jumped in the car, locked the doors, and within seconds had the
engine roaring and the tires peeling through gravel.

Only after he’d swung a hard left onto
Highway 290 did Olm glance down at his pants. He was surprised to
find them as dry and wrinkled as when he’d put them on a couple of
hours ago.He peered up into the review mirror, raked trembling
fingers through his sparse brown hair, relieved to see his house
fading quickly in the distance. There was little doubt he was
losing his shit. Tomorrow night was his only hope. If what he had
planned didn’t work,
they’d
win. He’d be dead. Olm was sure
of it. He would
make
sure of it. No starving to death. No
more jabbing, probing fingers. If he was responsible for bringing
this shit here and couldn’t make it leave, then he’d take himself
out of the picture, permanently.

Three weeks ago, when he’d performed his
father’s burial ceremony and called upon Tirawa, demanding what was
rightfully his, Olm’s life had immediately taken on a new order of
business. One of chaos and terror. Somehow, everything had gone
terribly wrong. Instead of receiving wisdom and strength from his
Pawnee ancestors, he’d grown mentally and physically weaker by the
day and so fearful he often jumped at his own shadow. He’d
obviously done something wrong during the ceremony, but wasn’t sure
what. And even if he did know, there was no way for him to go back
in time and correct it. All he knew to do was try and appease
whatever he’d pissed off and keep calling to Tirawa.

Tirawa . . . seemingly insatiable, demanding
more, always more. Was there truly any way to get the ear of this
great spirit? To get it to manifest itself? Or had his grandfather
just been full of bourbon and bullshit when he’d told him the
stories? Olm remembered the tales sounding so real, remembered
seeing the conviction and passion on the old man’s face as he told
them. It was so raw, so real, it literally transformed his
appearance, brightened it somehow. Olm had to believe they were
true—had to. There was no turning back now anyway. None. He’d
already crossed over a threshold that most men would’ve never even
approached . . .

Thinking the nutria he’d first sacrificed
hadn’t been sufficient, Olm had returned to the knoll night after
night, offering reparation with larger, more intense sacrifices.
He’d trapped a fox, beheaded it while it was still alive, then
doused himself in its blood. When the fox didn’t work, he’d brought
in a calf; ripped its belly open from stem to stern, sliced off its
head, then burned its entrails on a small burial shelf. It, too,
produced no results.

In total, Olm had made six offerings over the
last three weeks, the last one being a horse, one big enough,
strong enough to kill a man with one kick. But nothing happened
after he’d sacrificed it. Not one change. All of his efforts, all
of that blood, and everything only seemed to be getting worse.

The apparitions showing up in his kitchen
squashed any hope that things might be on the mend.
They
were revealing themselves in the light now, which could only mean
they were getting stronger. He only wished he knew what
they
were. What
they
wanted. Other than to destroy his life. Not
being able to sleep, to eat, to walk down a hallway without
constantly glancing over his shoulder. How much more could a man
take? Even the people in town, those he’d once considered friends,
were turning their backs on him, skittering off in another
direction as soon as they saw him approaching. What was he supposed
to do? Just allow himself to fade away as though he’d never existed
in the first place? Let
them
win? Not a chance—not when
there was a chance. . .

Desperate times called for desperate
measures, and Olm was ready to measure desperate any way he had to,
to force things in a different direction. When the horse offering
didn’t work, he’d spent hours peeling through childhood memories,
desperate to recall everything his grandfather had told him about
Pawnee and Skidi customs and the ways of their people. Searching
for something, anything that might turn things around. That’s when
he remembered the ceremony dedicated to the invocation of Tirawa.
As far as he knew, the ceremony had no name . . . only a
purpose.