Water Witch (6 page)

As legend had it, the two most prominent star
powers in the universe were the Evening Star in the western sky,
also known as the goddess of darkness and fertility, and Morning
Star in the eastern sky, known as the god of fire and light. The
supernatural controlling authority at the zenith of the sky where
these forces met was known as Tirawa. And, according to Olm’s
grandfather, there was only one way to capture Tirawa’s complete
attention, to call upon his absolute power so that it might be
infused into the tribe. And that was through a human sacrifice. Not
just any human sacrifice. It had to be a young girl.

According to the story, in the days of old,
Skidi men would raid an enemy village and capture a girl,
preferably one between the ages of seven and thirteen. At the
moment of her capture, the child was dedicated to the Morning and
Evening stars, then brought to the camp and ritually cleansed in
preparation for a three day ceremony. During those three days, the
girl was fed, bathed, the entire village celebrating through song
and dance, everyone focused on the girl’s needs. But all that
changed in the last hours on the final ceremonial day.

On that last day, the child was stripped
naked and tied to a scaffold that held her upright and
spread-eagled. Once secured, two tribal leaders would walk towards
her from the east, each carrying flaming brands. When they’d reach
the girl, one would burn her armpits with his brand, while the
other used his to sear her groin in honor of the Evening Star, the
goddess of fertility. While the child screamed and writhed upon the
scaffolding, four warriors from the tribe were called upon, and
each had to approach the girl and lightly touch her on the head
with his war club. Touch her—prepare her for the coup de
grace—which normally followed immediately.

Amidst the girl’s screams and the zealous
chanting from the tribal members, the man responsible for the
child’s actual capture ran towards her from the west—ran towards
her with a bow and sacred arrow—ran towards her and shot her
through the heart. The moment the arrow impaled her, the four
warriors began beating her on the head with their clubs, and they
continued beating her until the officiating priest approached the
scaffold.

With much pomp and circumstance, the priest
would make his way to the girl, then circle the scaffold four
times, all the while calling upon Tirawa. After his last round,
when he faced the girl for the last time, the priest would slice
open her breasts with a flint knife and smear his face with her
blood. The man who’d captured the child and shot her in the heart
was made to collect some of her blood on dried meat, and that meat
had to be shared with the rest of the tribe. Once this meal of
dried meat and fresh blood was consumed, each male member of the
tribe, no matter his age, had to shoot an arrow into the girl’s
body. Then the entire tribe circled the scaffold four times before
walking away, leaving the girl’s corpse to the elements. Only then
was the ritual complete.

As far as Olm knew, this was the most
powerful sacrificial ceremony ever performed by the Skidi. If this
didn’t get Tirawa’s attention, nothing would. It was his last
hope—his only hope.

CHAPTER SIX

Olm knew from the beginning that recreating
the ceremony wouldn’t be easy. Not only would he have to perform it
alone, he had no sacred arrows or war clubs. That meant he’d have
to improvise, again. This time, though, instead of jumping ahead
like a zealous idiot, Olm had made certain to think things through
carefully. He considered the possible reasons a young girl was
chosen back then instead of a boy. Why she was branded and clubbed
on the head? If blood was the only sacrifice needed for Tirawa, why
not just slaughter her immediately? Why the torture?

The only answer that made sense to Olm was
fear. The whole ceremony, even the part where they fed her, cared
for her, was a build up towards the inevitable. Surely the victim
had to have known that. Certainly her fear over those three days,
particularly during the last, had to be near mania. It had to be
more than just about the blood. It had to be—blood
and
fear.
That had to be the answer to it all.

And if blood and fear were indeed the keys
that unlocked the powers of Tirawa, then Olm wanted to do
everything possible to amplify their affect. No more pansy-ass
nutrias and foxes. This time there’d be no slipups. He not only
wanted to make sure the ceremony worked, he wanted to force it to
greater heights, beyond what his ancestors had accomplished. Surely
that would please Tirawa, make him banish the shadow people that
tormented him, cause the great spirit god to shower him with gifts
for years to come.

All of this made sense to Olm, the reasoning
behind the fear and blood, the ceremony, why he should push it to
greater heights, why that would please Tirawa . . .

The problem was figuring out
how. How
was he supposed to take a ceremony of that magnitude and make it
greater?

The solution came to him a couple days later,
while sitting in his truck, waiting behind an off-loading school
bus. As he watched a half dozen or more kids scamper from the bus
to their respective homes, it dawned on him; if one child’s fear
and blood had worked for his ancestors, then the blood and fear of
two children should work twice as well—right?And—what if he changed
the way they were sacrificed? Maybe slow it down instead of the
quick kill to the heart. Wouldn’t that heighten the fear factor
significantly? Quadruple it possibly?

Keeping all of those things in mind, Olm had
set up his plan. He carefully calculated the time, date, and work
that needed to be done so the climax of the sacrifice would occur
at the very moment the moon waxed towards its apex. It was crucial
to have all things culminate at this time, for Brother Moon sitting
full-faced in the heavens was a major power in and of itself. It
would be his failsafe against failure. Olm was convinced of that,
and he worked meticulously through every detail, making sure
everything was measured down to the minute of that crucial
juncture.

When it was time to gather the children, Olm
envisioned himself entering an enemy’s camp, just like his
ancestors, and seeking the perfect offerings. He found them easily
enough. A boy and girl about the same age, height, and weight. Both
had light brown hair and brown eyes. From behind, they could’ve
easily passed for brother and sister, only their facial features
told different stories. The girl’s face was round, rosy-cheeked,
and had a wide forehead. The boy had a narrow face, pointed chin,
and a pug nose that tipped up at the end. Both were beautiful in
their own right, and Olm had had little trouble luring them away.
He’d simply lied to get them into the truck, then kept lying when
he transferred them from the truck to the boat. The performance he
gave as he drove them out to the knoll and the sacrificial circle
deserved an Oscar, in his opinion. Considering the circumstances,
all had gone amazingly well. Quiet and orderly—well, until he’d
bound their hands and feet anyway. Then the screaming began.

The children’s shrieks didn’t worry him, for
the knoll was so far back in the swamps, God Himself couldn’t hear
them. If anything, their cries for help encouraged Olm. It meant
their fear had already started. To encourage and feed that fear
even more, he’d tied them back to back against a cypress tree and
made them watch while he dug two holes, both three feet wide by
three feet deep—a hole for each of them.

As soon as he reached the appropriate depth
for each hole, the rich, black earth beneath his shovel grew
spongy, just as he’d suspected it would. That had given Olm hope,
for it was just another step in the plan that had gone without a
hitch.

The only real hiccup had come when he’d
grabbed the boy to put him in the first hole. The brat bucked and
wiggled and refused to keep his legs outstretched. It was only when
Olm threatened to bash the girl’s face in with a shovel that the
boy quieted down. The girl gave him no problem at all. In fact, she
seemed almost paralyzed with fear.

Once the children were settled in their
individual holes, Olm had moved on to the next part of the plan. He
collected silt in a metal bucket from the edge of the knoll, then
dumped that silt over their legs. It had taken several trips to
bury both children waist deep, but once that was done, all he had
to do was stay mindful of the schedule he’d set, the one that ran
in conjunction with the waxing moon. From there, it was only a
matter of waiting.

Waiting—simple—simple pimple.

But it wasn’t simple. The waiting drove Olm
mad. He wanted to move on with his new life
now,
wanted
whatever he’d fucked up to be fixed
now.
But only so much
silt could be added
now
. Too much too soon, and the whole
schedule would be thrown off. He had thirty-one hours and
twenty-two minutes left before he could bring the ceremony to its
climax. That was a lot of time—for fear.

Olm imagined the horror raging in the
children’s minds as they felt bucket after bucket of silt dumped on
their bodies, the level of muck rising higher and higher, pressing
against their chest and back. He wondered what their reactions
would be once the mud reached their shoulders and inched up to
their chin—covered their mouths. Then what terror, what glorious
terror might fill them as the ceremony rolled to its conclusion.
The last bucket poured—pushing the silt past their noses—finally
suffocating them in mud. What could possibly generate more fear
than that? Then to join that apex of fear to the fullness of
Brother Moon—the entire plan was pure genius.

After the fear element was offered to Tirawa,
all he’d have to worry about was the blood, something so easily
remedied. He’d make certain the children were dead, then dig them
up one at a time and wash their bodies with swamp water. Once
cleaned, he’d cut out their hearts and place them on a burial
shelf, where they’d be burned in honor of Tirawa. Then it would be
done.

Olm felt no guilt or regret for anything he’d
done or would do to the children. It was simply the way of his
people, something he accepted wholeheartedly. Besides, it was
either them or him, and which offered more by way of societal
contribution? The children were simply two brats on an already
overpopulated planet. Kids understood little more than take, take,
and always wanted more. He, on the other hand, not only had the
wisdom of additional years, he had a bloodline that had led an
entire nation of people. Yes, who contributed more, indeed.

All he had to do was survive the next
thirty-one hours and a handful of minutes. And he would, no matter
what it took. He’d hide out if he had to, do without food or water
until this was over. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this
ceremony and getting his new life started. He was willing to do
whatever needed doing to turn the universe in his favor.

Having calmed considerably, Olm pulled his
truck over to the side of the road and stared out at the bayou that
ran parallel to the road. Down those murky waters, through the
sloughs and channels, across the flats, down into the darkest parts
of the Atchafalaya, where the cypress tress grew so thick their
branches seemed conjoined, sat his two aces—in the hole. He
considered the wild game, snakes, and alligators that populated the
swamp. There was always the chance the children might wind up as a
meal before ceremony time. That thought sent a slight flutter of
concern through Olm, but he quickly squelched it. In truth,
collectively or independently, mud, alligators, spiders and snakes
bred fear. Wasn’t that what really mattered, the fear? If nature
got to the kids before he did during the full face of the moon,
there was nothing he could do but accept it as fate. Surely Tirawa
would take everything into consideration.The children’s fear would
still be a part of the ceremony, even if he didn’t get to witness
it.

Olm smiled. It felt good to have a plan come
together, especially one this intricate and of his own making. He
wished his grandfather was around to witness the ceremony, maybe
take part in it. He imagined the elderly man standing tall, chest
stuck out with pride over the work of his grandson.

With a contented sigh, Olm turned, ready to
tap the accelerator and pull back onto the highway when he heard
someone call his name. A deep, raspy sound that sent dread rumbling
through him.

Not wanting to look but unable to help
himself, Olm glanced in the rearview mirror. The sound had come
from behind him—the backseat—the back—behind. He saw it
immediately. A black, translucent
thing,
wavering, bobbling
as though having difficulty maintaining its shape. It looked
similar to the ones he’d seen in the kitchen—the ones that haunted
him night after night, the one that touched him, kept him from
sleep—the ones that contaminated his food.

Only this time . . . this one had teeth.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bayou Crow gave me a new appreciation for the
term small town. Although it held the standard one red light, one
main road attraction of most rural blips on the U.S. map, it was
the first one I’d seen with a levee wall flanking its entire east
side. Beyond that wall was nothing but swamp, which wasn’t
surprising. Most of southern Louisiana appeared to be swamp, a
giant fertile womb always giving birth. It kept its offspring
close, nurturing it with an exotic amniotic fluid that created
beauty out of dark and foreboding. The population of Bayou Crow
might have only numbered six hundred, but what lived and thrived in
and on these waters was countless. I felt it, saw it as we traveled
near its banks. So many birds—reptiles—animals—insects . . . To
someone whose total wildlife adventures consisted of running into
an occasional jackrabbit or groundhog, maybe even a scorpion or
rattler, and, of course, kept company with a mangy mutt, it was all
a bit intimidating.