24

 

WALKING WITH NO clear destination in mind, Sara became entranced by her own footsteps; by the ground passing beneath her feet. As she looked down, an emerald shimmer would radiate out a few inches from wherever she stepped, doing a slow fade as she moved on. She was sure the night glow was stronger than ever before.

I wonder if it’s always been like this. Or maybe it really is getting stronger, or the change is in me, and I’m the one who’s getting stronger. She couldn’t help imagining how her sensitivity might increase if she continued to spend time with her grandmother.

Gazing at her own feet assured her a safe path when it came to stepping into boggy spots or tripping over obstacles like twisted roots or mischievous vines, but it didn’t keep her apprised of anything that might be hanging down from overhead. Sara felt something pliant, yet roughly textured, slap against her lowered head with a damp thud. With a grunt of disgust, she froze in her tracks. Instantly aware that whatever had draped itself over her scalp remained still as only an inanimate object could, she batted it away. She wiped her hands on her jeans and was dismayed when the thing swung back, this time hitting her squarely in the face.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake.” Sara’s exasperated voice sounded over-loud against the muted background noises of the swamp at night. Meditative walk interrupted, she retreated several steps, peering up at whatever had accosted her. The first thing she noticed was that no greenish luminescence outlined it. So it’s not growing plant life. It’s not a natural part of the swamp. The next impression was the shape of the thing as it hung suspended before her, backlit by the living, phosphorescent, bayou glow. Thick strands were joined together, leaving vaguely rectangular spaces between them. Sara blinked several times as the pattern finally registered through her surprise at seeing something so . . . so regimented.

“It’s a net,” she murmured in disbelieving recognition. Furthermore, there was something glinting, faintly reflective either embedded in the strands of material or fastened to them. As Sara moved her head from side to side, trying to get a better idea of the structure of the thing in the dim light, she realized that the shiny bits were sporadic, placed at the corners of the rectangular spaces.

She grabbed the bottom edge of the woven strands and yanked downward, trying to bring it closer to her eyes for inspection . . . and immediately regretted having done so as the entire net plopped over her. Spluttering, she flailed about until she’d managed to free herself. The net lay in a limp heap before her. She hitched her jacket, which had slipped a bit, back up onto her shoulders and looked about to see if her struggles had been witnessed by anyone or anything. Anyone who might have set such a clumsy trap. She couldn’t deny the Muckles flashed across her thoughts.

Sara realized she had wandered back to the edge of the clearing where she’d first encountered the swamp-jenny and her tribe. With a soft exhalation, she was struck once again by how lovely this particular little grotto looked at night.

Enchanting, she thought, deciding it really was the only adequate word to describe the beauty before her. She recalled the little swamp-sprite and its game of “bubble-splash,” wondering if she’d ever get the opportunity to be that close to the elusive creatures again. All the legend and lore that Granny had related to her about the jennies and jacks came to mind. Slowly, a suspicion began to form.

Sara looked at the lumpy mass of crude netting piled at her feet, the bits of material embedded in the fibrous strands catching the light and sparkling even in the dim night glow. She remembered Granny telling her how the swamp-jennies and swamp-jacks found anything bright and shiny irresistibly attractive. And then she recalled having seen something similar. When she had been mesmerized by the odd flow of images deep in the recesses of Froggy’s eye, one of the most distinct and disturbing had been a structure like this net. It had begun as a small mesh glittering and undulating, but had swiftly grown large. It had filled the entire field of vision, becoming blurred and huge, then fading and giving way to other shapes and shadows.

Sara regarded the lumpy mass at her feet with distaste. If what I saw were memories . . . experiences . . . then . . . She was almost certain that this was how Saylish and Malora Muckle had trapped Froggy in the first place. It was probably how they had planned to enslave other hapless souls as they traveled toward the Source or waited for the serpentrees to find them, unaware that such a devious trap lay in wait to divert them.

Sara thought it also gave credence to her belief that Froggy might have been the soul of a swamp-jenny or jack. If it was legendary that the creatures favored shiny, bright trinkets, she could well imagine that their souls would, by nature, wander toward a glittering temptation trailed across their path.

And then they’re caught. Sara toed the net, her disgust with the Muckles reaching new levels of outrage. How could they? And how did the net get here . . . this close to home . . . anyway? Wouldn’t something like this best be used in the river?

With the realization that the contraption likely had been transported from the waterway populated by strange, pastel lozenges that Granny had shown her, Sara turned her attention to her surroundings once again. It was now eerily quiet. Water and breeze provided the usual background of gentle sound, but Sara heard nothing to indicate the movement of living things. Usually, there was always something, if she listened and concentrated hard enough. She scanned the clearing from side to side and from top to bottom. A chill shivered its way down her spine and lifted the tiny hairs on her arms and neck.

I’m being watched, she thought. They’re here. They’re watching to see what I do. Did they bring this here? A trap for them, but a test for me?

It felt as though the entire bayou and all its denizens were waiting for her to do something. Somehow, it seemed vital to demonstrate that she was separate, distinct, different from the Muckles and their cruelty.

Sara knelt beside the collapsed net. She felt around the ground and found what she sought: a small, sharp stone. She took it in a firm grip, spread a section of the net before her, and gave vent to her rage, pounding the fibrous strands, trying to severe them. When she hit one of the shiny bits, it shattered with a satisfying crunch. Encouraged by the sense of accomplishment the brittle sound gave her, Sara began a systematic crushing of each fragment of the glittery substance. During the next hour, she worked her way through the entire net. At one point she realized she was accenting her efforts with angry, guttural exclamations, sounding like an enraged mother bear she had once heard on a television nature program.

By the time she stopped, Sara’s arm was limp, the muscles announcing their over-use with a strange sensation that felt as though the limb were rising on its own. She leaned back on her heels, releasing her stone weapon. Her hand was stiff and sore. She looked at the patches of powdery shimmer that were all that remained of the net’s ornamentation. Sifting some of it through her fingers, she grimaced in recognition.

Mirrors! They broke up a mirror and wedged the shards into waterlogged rope.

Sara’s smile was grim. I really hope that old superstition about seven years’ bad luck comes home to them. And I can see why they’d sacrifice a mirror if they had one on hand. Who’d want to see faces like theirs every morning?

She gave a rueful laugh, remembering how she had complained to Granny time after time about needing a mirror. Somehow, it didn’t seem so important anymore.

Sara levered herself up, working the stiffness from her knees, and brushed herself off. Specks of mirror-dust and bits of rope fiber fell from her clothing onto the damp ground. She gazed around the grotto once again. Everything remained unnaturally still, but, as Sara took a deep breath and kneaded the soreness out of her hands, she sensed a change in the quality of silence. She didn’t feel quite so watched. If she had to put a name to it, she would say the atmosphere was companionable, maybe even supportive.

Feeling as though she’d earned a break, Sara picked her way to the leaning cypress where the swamp-jenny had once perched and beneath which she herself had tried to make a good impression by returning the silvery leaf-balls it had been throwing. She recognized the limb where she had left an offering of crumpled foil as an apology for startling the little creatures. She sat on the ground, not minding the moisture that would leave damp marks on her jeans. With a sigh, she leaned back against the cypress’ trunk, surprised that it still seemed to retain some of the day’s warmth.

Letting her head fall backward, Sara relaxed and admired the scene before her.

My night vision is really changing, she mused. I’m seeing more detail and, I think, more colors?

The secluded, little grotto looked more than ever like a fairytale setting. Before, Sara had seen mostly the swamp’s signature green. There had been variations in shade and tone, but if anyone had asked, she would have said that everything was in the emerald family. Now, green was still the dominant color, but she saw tiny effervescent touches of gold, red, purple, and an elusive blue, so deep it was frequently lost against the darkness, but when it flared into sight, it was like a jewel-toned treat. Sara found her eyes seeking that blue, just to reassure herself that it really did exist, that she hadn’t imagined it.

After a while, when the breeze became chilly, Sara knew that the night had passed its mid-point. She closed her eyes for a moment and made a small whimpering sound to herself. In a few hours Granny would row her to meet her mother, and she was no closer to having made any decision about her future. She imagined sleeping in her comfortable bed with all her little luxuries surrounding her. She thought of the pleasures she took for granted; hearing new music for the first time and feeling its melodic message wind its way around her heart, shopping with friends for something silly that they all simply had to have, playing soccer with her school team, sitting down to holiday dinners with her family. But those happy gatherings around the table would never include Granny.

Sara opened her eyes and blinked at the spellbinding beauty that had been hidden from her until just a few days ago. She thought of her adventures with the Muckles and Froggy. She had done something important. She had done something on her own and unimaginable to her before coming to the bayou. Here she was special. Here she was gifted.

You’re special at home, too, she told herself with a stern, mental shake. Just in a different way.

No, a tiny voice argued. You’re ordinary anywhere but here.

Sara stood up, brushed herself off once again and cast a last, longing look around the grotto.

This is useless, she thought, running her hands through her hair in frustration, scraping it back from her face. She turned away from the old cypress and made her way to the point where she had entered the clearing. I’m not getting anywhere. I may as well head back.

As she passed the shredded, ruined net, crumpled into a soggy heap, something hit her shoulder and bounced off to the side of the path. Startled, Sara jumped and then froze her position as she strained ears and eyes to discover what had assaulted her.

Just a few inches from her foot, a lightness, a sparkle twinkled up at her. She widened her eyes. It was a small, silvery orb; its soft gleam beckoning her. With a careful touch, Sara picked it up.

“Oh.” She breathed an exclamation of delight. Holding the tiny ball that was the plaything of a swamp-jenny, she turned back to survey the seemingly deserted grotto.

“Thank you,” she called. “I don’t know if I’ll come again, but thank you.”

Cradling the little leaf-ball carefully in her hands, Sara walked through the delicately-lit terrain toward her grandmother’s cabin and the start of a new day.

Maybe my last day . . .