I see the snake slip out from behind a tangle of cypress knees and come side-windin toward me, head arched up like a softshell turtles, tongue tastin the air.
Its just my luck that hes a cottonmouth. They come out of winter full of poison and cranky as a drunk mans dog.
Hes a big boy, fat as a softball at the middle and close to six foot, which is about as big as they get around here. A spring moccasin that big could kill you quick, though not so quick you wouldnt know you was dyin.
Once again, I aint in a good place, which might not surprise the people who know me. Its not enough that Im runnin from the law or that Ive left my boy, Meely, with a broke leg on the roadside to deal with the police. Im also neck-deep in water, my feet tangled in ooze and a thicket of sunk willow branches.
Runnins not an option.
Swimmin aint either. Stuck up in a low-hangin hackberry branch above me is a wasp nest, bout as big around as a bushel basket, covered in them big ole red swamp wasps. A man could count to a thousand, maybe two thousand, and not count em all, I figger.
You dont wanna get them things after you. You tangle with em out here in a slow, open boat like this one, with no place to run, and you might as well shoot yourself with buckshot.
At least with buckshot itd be over quick.
See, I had me a clever idea. Me and Chilly had been makin pretty good time after we slipped off in the pirogue. Francis Hebert saw our wreck and promised to call the law and get help for Meely and them police that were busted up in that car that was chasin us. Francis thinks us LaBauves are made for trouble, so thats about the one thing—callin the law—he might be happy to do for me. I bet he done it cat quick.
For Meelys sake, I hope he did.
I aint heard no boats or sireens but that dont mean they aint comin.
So me and Chilly paddled away hard till we come upon the entrance of this slough were in now. This cut is a secret to most people, the entrance covered by a thicket of swamp maple, gum, and scrub willow. Papa John Prosperie, a trapper I knew way back when, used to trap muskrats back in these waters, before them muskrats got trapped out and them nootras started to take over. He showed it to me one time maybe a dozen years ago. It zigs and zags in a diagonal clear through the heart of the Great Catahoula and I figgered if we could find it and push on through, wed be hard to spot and save ourselves twenty, thirty miles to where I hope were goin.
Ive got a particular place in mind, though anywhere outta Catahoula Parish will do.
We were doin okay, maybe had put two or three hard miles behind us, when we come upon this wasp nest. The sloughs narrow here and the swamp tangled as a blackberry thicket. That wasp nest aint but about three foot off the water and wadnt no way around it, so I said Logan, just go under it.
I got Chilly to lie down in the pirogue and I covered him up good with a coupla muddy, half-wet gunnysacks and said now, podnah, dont move till I tell you.
Chilly said Mr. LaBauve, what died in these sacks?
I said frogs, I guess. Crawfish, too. But thats the only cover I got.
I shucked my huntin vest and shirt and boots and socks and slipped out of the pirogue and into the water. Its as warm and black as tea and smells old as the world. My feet hit oozy bottom and big swamp gas bubbles rose up tween my toes. My boy, Meely, calls them ghost bubbles, and I can see why. Ive took city people to the swamp and theyve been spooked by them bubbles. Sometimes they just come boilin up from the bottom for no reason.
Well, sometimes theres a reason. Sometimes theres an ole alligator snappin turtle down there, big as a wheelbarrow, sneakin along the bottom, blowin bubbles. Them things got the spiky shells of a dinosaur and could bite a mans arm off.
You wouldnt wanna step on one barefooted.
This slough aint but four or five foot deep. My idea was to slip down with just my head above the water, like them gators do, and push the pirogue in front of me real slow till we cleared that nest. Wasps are mean but they aint clever.
It was a fine plan till that cottonmouth showed its wedgy head.
I whisper to Chilly, I gotta stop for a second. You just keep holdin still.
He says you okay, Mr. LaBauve?
I say I am but I caint talk about it now. Just dont move, okay?
He says dont worry, I aint movin. I wouldnt move for nuttin in the world.
That snakes about ten foot from me now and comin on slow. I freeze and its clear he dont see me. A moccasin generally wont attack less you step on him or corner him.
A man whos still is invisible to a snake.
I hold my breath and hope hell go round the front of the pirogue. And not climb into the boat with poor Chilly.
The cottonmouth slows and raises his head some and then stops, his tongue flickin the air again.
I dont like my position. I got a mosquito on my forehead and an itch in my ear and a crick in my neck and sweat runnin down my nose. Im steppin on a branch thats diggin hard into the bottom of my right foot, and I wonder how long I can stay still. But its too late to retreat.
The moccasin lifts his cussed head up higher then puts it down. Then he waggles that big tail of his and heads in my direction.
Thats when a frog comes kickin right by me, about a foot in front of my eyes. Hes a young marsh frog, about half the size of my hand.
That snake sees the commotion and freezes.
That frog slows down then stops, like maybe he senses somethin.
The frog just sits there.
The snake just lays there.
Im wonderin how I come up with this plan in the first place. I caint just sit here forever.
I suddenly got another plan.
I reach down underwater with my right hand and then bring it up real slow and I poke that frog on the belly.
He jumps high, trailin water, right toward the snake.
On his second jump, the cottonmouth practically lifts hisself out of the water and hits that frog in midair. Lightnin dont strike quicker.
The snake lands with a splash about three feet from me.
Pretty soon were eye to eye.
I know why people think snakes belong to the devil.
Them eyes are empty and dead to anything we feel.
I try not to blink.
Hes got a mouthful of frog and I feel for that poor frog. His hind legs are stickin out of the snakes mouth, shakin like a man with palsy.
I know what this snake wants to do—crawl up on a log someplace and enjoy its breakfast. It comes right at me, thinkin maybe Im the log hes lookin for.
He brushes up against my cheek and smells sour as the swamp.
This wont do.
I snatch at him hard and get him behind the head and I drag his big ole self down under the water and then I go with him.
I got no choice, if I dont wanna be swattin wasps too.
Hes thrashin like a fire hose I once saw get loose. I wonder if I can hold on and I squeeze hard as I can and then I know Ive made a bad mistake and grabbed him too low.
I feel him turn and somethin smashes at my wrist.
I feel the hackles rise on my neck and wait for the burn. When it dont come I suddenly know he aint got me—that his fangs are still buried in that poor frog. I come up quick with my other hand and grab higher, and by the way he whips and shudders I know Ive got him right behind the head this time.
I start to feel the fire in my lungs and I kick hard, swimmin underwater, freein up my left hand and searchin desperate for the boat. When I feel wood, I bring the snake up and rap his head hard three times against the bottom of the pirogue.
He goes limp, though hes still heavy as God.
Poor Chilly. I can only imagine what hes thinkin.
Im about to turn blue but I aint forgot about them wasps. I ease myself along the bottom of the boat and come up slow as I can, my face toward the light.
I hit the surface soft, but blowin about like one of them whales Ive seen at the movie show.
I hear Chilly say Mr. LaBauve, what the hell is goin on? What was that splashin and thumpin all about?
I takes me a while to catch my breath.
Chilly, I know, dont like snakes one bit.
I say oh, nuttin much, Chilly. I just had me a bit of a problem. I got tangled up in some vines down there is all.
For the first time, I look at that snake. Ive broke his neck good. I dont mind snakes much, actually, and usually give em plenty of room. I feel bad he didnt get to enjoy his frog breakfast—that was a doggone good catch.
I hold that ole boy out far as I can from me and let him go. He sinks down into the tea-dark water and disappears.
I reach underwater and wipe my snake hand against my britches and then scratch my cheek where that mosquito bit me. I say, soft, okay, hold on, Chilly. Were movin.
He says, quiet, too, Im holdin on.
I duck under again and get to the back of the boat, then push the pirogue ahead. I slow-walk us past that wasp nest, my feet strokin the muddy bottom easy as I can.
I find a big fallen-over cypress log about twenty yards down the slough and pull myself up on it.
I notice Ive got a coupla nice-sized leeches on me, one on my arm, one on my belly, but I could be worse off. They dont hurt and Im anxious to get goin. When we stop for the night, Ill get em off with fire.
I say were okay, Chilly. Were through.
Chilly rises from under the gunnysacks and looks back.
He says I hope weve seen the last of them wasp nests.
I say well, keep a look out. We dont wanna run into one by accident. I banged into one them things in a palmetto thicket and lost a good Catahoula Cur that day. Them wasps stung him till he swole up like a balloon. Mighta got me, too, had I not made the slough.
He says are you serious, Mr. LaBauve?
I say Id actually like it better if youd call me Logan. And, yes, Im serious.
Chilly says well, maybe we should go round this swamp stedda through it. I dont think its a good idea for you to get in that water. All the money in the world wouldnt get me in that water. Theres snakes in there. Weve already seen two. Could be gators. Them big yellow and black swamp spiders are the size of humminbirds, and for all I know them things can swim. Hell, maybe they fly. They give me the willies.
From the Hardcover edition.