The Thing in the Marsh

                                      The Thing in the Marsh
                                          By Jason Muller




I remember it clearly.
We were standing beside our bicycles in the vast countryside, watching as a red sun touched down on the trees. The Louisiana landscape was bathed in orange splendor and the reeds cast thin, quivering shadows which grew against our feet. These were the conditions of the world when we stepped into the woody marsh.
         I am much older now than I was when it happened. I was only ten when my cousin, Ellis Breaux, lured me into that treacherous swamp.  Although he had only been a few years older than me--fifteen, as I recall--that small gap in age often caused me to yield to his intimidation. And I suppose this, combined with my adolescent curiosity, is what encouraged me to go with him one evening into the marsh, where deep within was something he "needed to show me." Something "I'd never believe." All I can say now is that he was right, for what we found was a cruel mixture of death and eternal life.  What I am about to share with you, I've shared with no one.  And though some may perceive my account as being nothing more than myth upon legend or legend upon myth, I can at least die knowing that I've exposed one of the darker dimensions that comprise this world. This is the story of the thing in the marsh.          

It was a summer weekend and my mother and I had come down from Houston to visit my Aunt Sarah and Ellis in south Louisiana. Although we only visited once a year, I loathed going to their old and decrepit house, rotten and warped with decades of heat and humidity, isolated along a dirt road a few miles past  town. Ellis's dad, my Uncle Louis, had died two summers before.  I can't recall much about him, but I know that he was a drunken crawfish farmer, and that he'd died one afternoon while harvesting traps from the fields. Two days after he'd been missing, Ellis found his bloated corpse floating in the shallow, stagnant water. 

I always knew we were close to town when the roads began to worsen and the verdant flatland became spotted with ailing houses.  And when the water tower rose on the horizon, declaring IBERVILLE in black-paint letters, I'd steel myself in preparation for Ellis's antics. Though I much preferred the modern conveniences of Houston, the cultural richness engrained in Iberville was interesting, and the town itself possessed the look that all old southern towns have: the haggard townspeople; the old men who sit outside store fronts, smoking and whispering beneath sluggish ceiling fans.  Like the townspeople, the buildings lining the streets possessed an aspect of classic neglect, with their crumbling brick or weathered cypress, with their pitched, metal roofs orange with rust.  The dialect itself was exclusive to the area.  Many locals spoke a version of French--Cajun French--which, over several centuries, had become influenced by words of the Spanish, the Choctaw Indians, and the Slaves. It was a language crafted by the tongues of the Acadians, whose ancestry painted south Louisiana with song, lore, and mythical beasts.  My mother, a professor of French literature at the University of Houston, had taught me the language, which complemented the French classes I'd been taking in middle school.

When we arrived at the house the afternoon was blue and bright. The yard--as always--was severely overgrown and had an Amazonian quality.  This jungle-of-a-yard was strewn with abandoned appliances, an overturned swing set, and a small, sea-bitten boat which lay upon a pile of rotting timber.  There was also Uncle Louis' old Chevy that Ellis had decided to take out for a drive one afternoon when he was only twelve.  He ended up running it off the road and into the front of an old country store. No one was hurt but the truck never ran right again after that.  When Uncle Louis asked him why he did it, he told him that "the voices in his head told him to." At least that's the story Ellis told me, anyway, along with all his other mischievous adventures: stealing cigarettes, torturing and killing small animals... You know the kind of stuff I'm talking about; he was one of those kids who would've benefited from having an intravenous drip of Ritalin-or Lithium for that matter.
         
I stepped out of the car, stretched my limbs, and noticed him peering through the tattered curtains hanging in the front door window. A moment later he came running out of the house and down the steps, greeting us with wild jubilation. 
         And so it began.
         
        "Cousin Wes.  How you been?" He patted me on the shoulder and looked at my mother. Then ran up and hugged her. "Hey, Aunt Meg, boy am I happy to see ya'll. Here, let me get your bags"
         This unrestrained hospitality alarmed me. This was a huge change from the cousin Ellis I knew. Also, his voice had changed since the last time I'd seen him.  It was now hoarse and raspy; it was puberty I'd later learn. Ellis continued.
        "Aunt Meg," he comtinued, "I want to take Wes down the road to show him something.  Sarah's inside, doing nothing as usual."
        "Just hold on, Ellis," my mother said with a taming smile. "Boy, you're awfully anxious. Just give us a minute to get settled in. Let Wesley say hello to his aunt. By the way, since when do you call your mother by her first name?"
        "I don't know.  Awhile back, I guess." He leaned and picked up her bags.       
        "C'mon, Wes.  Let's get these bags inside so we can go, bud."
Ellis was wearing a black muscle T-shirt and his thin arms revealed bulging blue veins as he lifted the bags.  Although his actions had seemingly changed for the better, his eyes still possessed that queer, unsettling glaze. I kept my eye on him.
         
We brought the bags to the side of the house and in through the kitchen.  Dishes were piled up in the sink and encrusted with moldy food. The place was unkempt and reeked of sour milk.  In the living room, cigarette smoke lingered in the shafts of sunlight, drab and dusty, creeping through the windows. Aunt Sarah was lying on the sofa in her dingy pink robe, watching The Andy Griffith Show, various prescription bottles on the coffee table beside her. She looked up at our entrance and stood wearily. The typical routine followed: she hugged my mother and kissed my cheek with stale cigarette breath. She then furrowed her brow, looked at my mother with a confused expression, and said: "Well...wait a minute... Meg, somebody's missing. Where's Kenneth?" My aunt was not the brightest crayon in the box. Kenneth was my father--he and my mother had divorced five years earlier. 
     
        Watching from the open kitchen door, Ellis shouted, "Okay, Wes, let's go." And then to Aunt Sarah. "Hey, me and Wes are goin' out for awhile, we'll be back whenever."
        Aunt Sarah mumbled and returned to the sofa to resume her state of drug-induced tranquility. My mother meanwhile knelt down to align her face with mine.  She was beautiful. 
      "Now, Wesley, I know you don't care much for Ellis, but he's a good kid inside. He probably just needs a friend."
        "Mom, I don't want to go with him.  He's mean and teases me. Can't I just stay with you...please?"
      "I need time alone with Aunt Sarah so we can talk about some adult things."  She combed her fingers through my hair and smiled. "Why don't you show Ellis your new telescope, hmm?  Maybe you could let him see the moon tonight."
         "I don't know.  I guess," I said with childish dismay. "But I'm not going to let him use it because he'll probably break it."
      She grinned. "Just try to be sweet to him, honey. Try to be a friend.  Now go and have some fun, but be back before dark."
        "Yes, ma'am."
         She smiled and kissed my forehead; I wiped away the lipstick smudge and went to the kitchen door. She waved and I waved back. She looked like an angel in her white summer dress.          

Outside, Ellis was standing beside two bicycles propped up and ready to go. 
        "Ready to go, bud." he said.
          Anxious to be done with this weekend which had no end in sight, I plainly said, "Where are we going, Ellis? We have to be back before dark."
         He glanced at his camouflage wristwatch. "It's only four-thirty. Sun doesn't go down ‘till almost eight o'clock." He snapped his fingers and suddenly changed subjects. "Say, Wes, you hungry? I got some beef jerky, made it myself."
         Reaching into his knapsack, he withdrew a clear plastic bag containing shriveled strips of meat and held it out smiling. I had no intention of consuming anything he'd made, not after considering the array of vermin from which he might have acquired the meat. I made a dismissive gesture and his eyes sank, as if hurt that I hadn't accepted his peace offering.
         "Oh...Okay," he stammered and withdrew the bag.  "But I still need to show you somethin', Wes.  Somethin' you won't believe."
        "Can't you just tell me?"
        "I'd rather show you.  Besides, you'd never believe me if I just told you. C'mon"--he mounted his bike--"follow me."
         
And with that we rolled down the driveway and up the dirt road.  The afternoon was stifling hot and already my shirt was sticking to my back. It was nice, however, to stretch my legs after the long trip from Houston, and the landscape through which we traveled offered a quaint portrait of distant tree lines and scrubby fields that opened up to the blue dome of sky. I tried to remain optimistic.

                                                The Bridge

After pedaling down one dusty road after another, we reached an empty byway lined with sugarcane fields and leaning telephone poles. We crossed over and rode down a narrow path in the field, then emerged awhile later and headed south along yet another dirt road.  Before long, we came to a bayou with a little wooden bridge; it was old but passable. Riding over it, I noticed a couple of old pickups parked beneath a cluster of oak trees on the far left embankment, where a group of men-maybe five or six-were loading up what looked like black duffle bags into a wooden boat.  Ellis skidded to stop.
         "Wait here, Wes. I gotta go talk to somebody."
         
He left his bike on the bridge and descended the grassy bank.  I watched from the bridge as he approached a man--a giant man--who stood above everyone else. He disturbed me, this man, with his thick arms and broad torso, moreover his dark sunglasses, which enhanced his formidable impression.  Although the top of his head was bald, the hair growing over his ears puffed out wildly and sagged like bushels of gray wool.

Though they were a bit beyond earshot, I suspected he and Ellis were talking about me. Why? Well, more than once Ellis pointed at me and the giant man looked up in my direction. And as those mysterious lenses beheld me, as his pudgy mouth smiled oddly, I became mesmerized by his visual grip; it was ethereal. Ellis continued talking and gesturing to the giant while the other men loaded concealed supplies into the boat, but all this occurred in slow motion, for my attention was seized by this man with hair like some insane clown.
         
I was suddenly broken from this trance by the sound of breaks squeaking to a stop behind me. I turned to see a police car, now parked and idling on the bridge.  The driver opened the door and slowly stepped out of the vehicle; his dark mustache was thick and his silver Sheriff's badge gleamed in the torrid afternoon; his sidearm looked firm and solemn in its holster. After removing his hat and running his fingers through the bristles of his flattop, he just stood there with his elbows resting atop the open door, studying Ellis and the group of men, all of whom studied the Sheriff in a frozen posture, as if caught in the act of some offense. After a moment of keen observation, the Sheriff rolled his head over to me and spit a stream of tobacco juice which slapped the ancient bridge like a liquid whip.  When he spoke, his accent was of a thick Cajun aspect.
         
        "Don't believe I seen you around here before." He looked down at my feet and pointed. "Back tire's a little flat, yeah. Need to air it up so you don't damage da rim. Dat wouldn't be good, no."
         I looked down at the tire, then back up at the Sheriff. "It's for my cousin...Ellis." I pointed at the bank to identify him.
         "Ellis?" You're kin to Ellis Breaux?" he said in disbelief.
         "Yes," I said nervously. "He's my Aunt Sarah's son."
         The Sheriff shook his head at me and glared; he spat again and licked his lips.
         "Let me tell you somethin', boy, you just stay outta trouble, you hear?  Dat Ellis ain't nuddin' but a problem child." Again his eyes crawled to the embankment. "Yeah...I got my eye on him. I got my eye on all dem fellas wid him, too."
         I wasn't sure how to respond to his mild threat.  But my knees responded by trembling.          
         The Sheriff said: "Say, where you from anyway? Dallas? Houston?"
         "Houston," I said, impressed at his intuition.
         "Houston, eh? What they call you?"
         "Excuse me?"
         "Your name, son, your name."
         "Oh...Wesley."
         "Wesley what?"
         "Fruge. Wesley Fruge."
         "Hmm, I know me some Fruges," the Sheriff said reflectively.
         Just then static issued from the dispatch radio inside the car, and a voice began dictating police jargon. The Sheriff tilted his head to listen, and then looked up sighing.
          "You just stay clear of trouble, Wesley Fruge, and get dat tire aired up."
         "Yessir."
         He glanced one last time at Ellis and the men, who were still watching intently.  Before I could ask his name, the Sheriff got in his car and backed it up to the road then sped off, sirens blaring, and disappeared behind a trail of suspended dust. I watched until the siren faded to a dull whisper. And then I heard Ellis's voice behind me.
         "Hey...Wes. What did Sheriff Huval want?"
         I couldn't tell whether he looked frightened or confused. Nevertheless I shrugged and said, "I don't know. He just asked who I was and where I was from."
         "He didn't say anything else?"
         "No, not really," I lied.
         "You sure?" Ellis said, doubtfully.
         "Yeah, I'm sure."
         "Good.  Now let's get movin'."
         
While pedaling past the bridge and up the road, I asked Ellis about the man with the crazy hair.  He chuckled and said he was a Mr. Walter Broussard, and that we might be seeing him later.
         
                                                The Field

We rode down lush overgrown trails with old wooden fences.  We went left and right and left again, more fields, more open country.  But there was one dirt road with a strip of grass that narrowed and narrowed still, until at last it ended at a field.
         
And so there we were, standing beside are bikes, nothing before us but a vast meadow and distant tree line. Egrets crept among the expanse with their beaks angled down in hunt.Lonely oak trees, infested with scraggly nooses of Spanish moss shaded the ground.
         Ellis raised his bony arm and pointed toward the tree line; his eyes were eerily ablaze with delight, and his grin revealed uneven rows of yellow teeth that begged to be brushed.
         "There it is," he said. "There's the woods. Inside those woods is Dead man's marsh."

I was uncomfortable in his presence. Dusk was gathering quickly and the sky was red and orange and the clouds looked like decrepit fingers. I was tired after the long trip from Houston and from riding around all day with Ellis. I just wanted to go back home with my mother, for all was unfamiliar and I felt utterly lonely.  The crickets played their fiddles to my sorrow.

        "Why do we have to go into the woods this late, Ellis?  My head hurts and I think I need to go back to the house."
          Ellis raised his chin and stared with contempt. "Why not, Wes? You scared?"
         "Who says I'm scared?"
         "You just did, buddy."
         
I glanced around, surveying the primal land, and saw nothing that had been created by the hands of man. No houses. No public roads. There was only wild vegetation depicting the mysterious desolation of south Louisiana.  Failing to recall how we'd gotten here, I realized that I was completely lost and knew not how to return. I was nevertheless intent on disguising my fear.
         "I'm not scared, Ellis."
         "Sure you ain't, cousin.  Sure you ain't."
         "I'm not. I can make it."
         "Alright then," said Ellis, dropping his bike to the ground. "Let's see if you can keep up." And with that he darted off, blazing a trail through the uncultivated earth.
         "Wait!" I cried, sprinting. "Don't leave me, Ellis."
         Weeds brushed against my bare legs and insects flitted up and away, buzzing. 
         Before long I was at the edge of the woods, where Ellis was waiting with arms crossed.  "Took you long enough, slow poke. Come on."
         
After tearing a curtain of tangled foliage, and after using his foot to flatten twines of blackberry brambles, Ellis stepped forward and bracken crunched beneath his feet. Following close behind, I turned to take one last look at the world. Turning back to the trees, inhaled deeply and stepped warily into the woods.

                                              Enter the Woods
         
I was amazed at the interior beauty of the woods. As we walked the sun flashed in the treetops. Twilight pierced the boughs, spraying fantastic light everywhere. Grapefruit-colored beams fell here upon leafy clusters and danced there upon infant oaks with fresh, green growth. Having never seen anything so vivid, I stared in awe.
        "Don't just stand there like a fool," Ellis said. "We got a ways to go. You're gonna be more amazed at what I'm about to show you, Wes."
         
As we trudged along, the woods grew increasingly sinister in texture.  Towering pines and massive oaks loomed over me and their oppressive girth seemed to weigh heavily upon my chest; their gnarled branches were adorned with Spanish moss which bounced and dangled in the breeze.  Darker and darker the world became, until at last all that illuminated the woods was the ethereal glow of the moon bleeding through the tree-tops.  Not long into our expedition, Ellis reached into the backpack and withdrew a can of insect repellent.
         
        "Can I have some, Ellis?" I said fearing rejection.
         Spraying himself down, Ellis said," What for?" "Skeeters eatin' you up?"
         "Just let me have some. They're biting me all over the place and...."
          "Quit whinin', you wimp.  You're nothin' but a big pussy."
         He marched toward me with dangerous eyes and pushed me, pushed again; his true colors at last. This was precisely the reason why I hated being with Ellis.  Remembering my oath, I tried to speak bravely, yet had difficulty in concealing the fear that tainted my voice. "Don't call me that, Ellis."
          "Don't call you what, Wes?"
         "You know what you said."
         "Say it then. I wanna hear what I called you?"
         He nudged my shoulder...and waited.
         I made the meanest face I could and weakly said: "I'll...I'll fight you."
         He laughed and put his hand across his midsection, exaggerating his glee. "That's hilarious.  Shut up and follow me." He returned the can to the bag-that mysterious bag- and walked away.  I, however, did not move.
         Ellis sensed my stillness and turned. "Well, come on."
         Like the trees, I rooted my feet to the ground; I wasn't going anywhere.
         "Now look," he said, pointing, "don't make me drag your coward ass. Just remember that these Louisiana woods ain't got road signs or street lights like fancy ole Houston does. I can take off runnin' and leave you here for the bears to feast on.  How'd you like that?" He observed the woods thoughtfully. "Matter of fact, I think I saw some tracks earlier." 
         Although Ellis was a compulsive liar, I knew that black bears did indeed inhabit the area. While turning this over in my mind, something in Ellis's eyes suddenly changed and he handed me the insect repellent. Resting his hand on my shoulder, he said, "Aww, come on, cousin. I don't mean no harm.  It's just..." He shook his head regretfully, almost pitifully. "I'm sorry for... Aww, forget it.  I'm just anxious, is all."
         
I must say that this new, sympathetic Ellis was quite uncanny, even for him. Nevertheless, there would be no story to write had I not then taken a step forward-and that's what I did. Upon spraying myself thoroughly I looked up at Ellis, and together we wandered deeper into the marsh.

                                          The Family Cemetery

Blue moonlight guided us along.  Although my eyes had adjusted somewhat to the night, I perceived nothing comforting about the gloom in which I was now imprisoned.  Thin branches clawed my arms and scratched my face like a witch's greedy fingernails. Annoyed, I pushed them away. Ellis stayed ahead of me, his body merely a dark phantom gliding through the woods with enthusiasm, stopping only occasionally to turn and make sure I was still in sight.
         
When I'd become irritated with the impassable terrain, I'd ask him where we were going and he would assure me that we weren't very far away.  Growing impatient, I began to wonder why he refused to tell me about this "amazing discovery" that he so desperately wanted me to see.  But not long before I was about to ask Ellis yet again, he stopped and looked to his left and right, as if looking for something lost. He spoke over his shoulder. "It's around here somewhere." Cursing under his breath, he stepped up onto a knobby mass of oak roots and looked forward, his eyes probing deeper into the woods. And then, "Ah, there it is."
         "There's what?" I said with curious impatience.
         He turned to me and said.  "Come and check this out, cousin.  I want you to meet some of my ancestors."
         Ancestors?
Apprehension accelerated my heart and I could hear it thumping-thumping in my ears. Ellis hopped down from the enormous root and leaves rustled as he got to his feet. "Probably some of your ancestors, too," he added. "Come see, I'll show you."
         
Curiosity began to put my feet one before the next, guiding them across dead and rotten debris which snapped and crunched underfoot.  A moment later we came to a small clearing where the moon could be seen floating in an aerial sea of stars.  But looking below the stars, below the black tree line, I realized we were no longer among the living. No. We were amid jagged rows of brick tombs and stone crosses dark with mildew. Vines crept and twisted like verdant serpents amongst the ghastly real estate. I was perplexed.
         "A cemetery?  Here in the woods? Who are these people? Where..."
         "Why don't you shut up so I can tell you, Wes?" Ellis approached a rectangular brick tomb where a fallen tree lay angled across the top. "Wait here while I check something." He walked behind it and all I could see was his head and long neck. He dropped behind the tomb and disappeared.  I, meanwhile, sidled between the weathered headstones, some of which bore French epitaphs, while others bore the faded outlines of rebel flags. I was sure to note the surnames--FRUGE, BERTRAND, BREAUX...--inscribed on several stones.  A moment later, Ellis poked his head up and tossed a small chunk of brick at me aiming to miss.
         "Psst.  Come check this out, Wes."
         "What is it?" I said, hesitating to move.
         "It's Arnold Bertrand..."
         
Reluctant though alive with intrigue, I went round the tomb and saw that the tree had caved in almost the entire side wall.  Now all that remained was a dark hole surrounded by crumbling brick that reminded me of a gaping mouth with stony red teeth.  I looked inside the tomb and saw shards of moonshine swimming upon mortar and rubble and dead leaves and...a smiling corpse.
         "What the..."
         Ellis sneered, pushed me aside, and leaned inside the tomb.
         "What are you doing?" I said.
         "I want you to meet Arnold Bertrand." He cleared away some rubble, crawled inside the tomb, lay beside the body, and propped himself up on his elbow.  My uncouth cousin then proceeded to handle the poor soul like a ventriloquist would his puppet.
         "Hey, ya'll.  My name's Mr. Arnold.  You boys oughtn't be travelin' these parts of the swamp alone, especially you there Mr. Wesley."
         It was the first time I'd ever seen a dead body; moreover a skeleton.  I turned and dashed away from there and stopped about twenty feet away and stood watching from a safer position. 
         "Okay!" I yelled, terrified and damn angry. "You scared me to death. Why did you have to drag me all the way out here for that?"
         He emerged from the tomb laughing, languidly tossing another piece of brick at me.
         "Oh, lighten up, Wes.  Ain't you ever seen a dead person before?"
         
Right then I felt the bitter pangs of nostalgia. I felt something very sinister about the marshy woods.  I, too, felt shadows breathing against my neck, and I heard the wind hissing and whispering my name--Wesssley--slowing at last to a quite breeze which wafted the moon-silvered coins that were the leaves overhead.  I'd had enough.  My body and mind had had enough. Felling nauseous, I knelt down, closed my eyes, and covered my ears with trembling hands. Even though Ellis had shown me the horrible thing that he'd dragged me out here to see, I wanted no longer to be in his presence. I tried to muster the strength to escape him and take my chances with the woods. Anything would be better than being around him. I could do it. Or could I? I would just turn around and run in the direction we came from. I opened my eyes and stood with renewed vigor-then realized I was all alone. Where had Ellis gone? I panicked.
         "Ellis," I called.  "Ellis!" I cried. "Ellis!" I screamed as loud as I could, looking frantically this way and that, the trees mocking my terror with ancient laughter.
         I heard something click behind me and turned hastily to see Ellis holding the flashlight beneath his chin, face glowing like a jack-o-lantern.  His eyes were carnivals of horror which teemed with hideous jubilation.  His grin was repulsive.
         "Ain't no turnin' back now, little cousin. I still haven't shown you that thing I've been tellin' you about."
         I had not the courage to brave the woods alone. And although we were already at the ends of the earth, I reluctantly went deeper into the marsh.

                                            The Bayou

The darkness was everlasting and spewed forth the dissonant sounds of toads belching, crickets chirping, and owls hooting. More than once I glanced over my shoulder to foreign sounds which scuttled away into the mysterious night.
Eager as ever, Ellis walked ahead of me, bathing the trees with the flashlight.  Lagging behind, I said not a word. And I tried to ignore him whenever he'd drag his eyes toward me and smile into the flashlight. Oh, how I hated him for dragging me into the marsh, that dark and malign marsh.  I was even angry with myself for allowing him to do it.  Nevertheless there I was, along for the ride, optimism long dead.It wasn't long after leaving that dreadful cemetery before the texture of the wilderness began growing soft and impassable, feet sinking into spongy carpets of damp leaf and rotting wood, pungent and moldy in odor. Before long Ellis stopped, knelt beside a shrub, and concentrated on something ahead.
         "Come here," he said, motioning me forward.
         I walked up beside him and traced the object of his gaze down, down an embankment.  It was a bayou, no more than a few car lengths wide.  Ellis bent and lowered himself over the edge. "Down we go, cousin."
          Without a word I followed him down, grabbing roots and digging my heels into the muddy slope. At the bottom, Ellis surveyed up and down the moon-frosted water.  I waited silently for him to speak.
         "There," he said with discovery in his voice, pointing across the river at a small wooden boat-was it the one I'd seen earlier?-resting on the bank opposite us; it was tied by rope to a cluster of cypress knees. Ellis continued. "We're gonna have to cross, Wes. There should be a trail just past them boats. Just be patient, Wes, I promise it'll all be over soon and then we can go back home."
         
I didn't like the way the bayou looked, and I was afraid that deep below the water's surface, lying along the sludgy bottom, an alligator might be hunched in the roiled current, ready to paddle itself up and snap at my ankles with its powerful jaws, and then bring me down below for a death roll.  Oh how I wanted my mother at that moment. It felt as if I were about to cross over to a merciless place-but what was I to do? What I did do was sit upon a cypress stump and cross my arms defiantly.
         
Ellis, meanwhile, grabbed that mysterious knapsack by the handles, and in a one-two-three motion slung it over the bayou; it landed safe and dry on the other side.  As he began wading into the water, he turned and noticed me. "What the hell you doin', Wes?"  He began wading out of the water. "I know you ain't poutin' again."  He walked through the mud and gripped my shoulders and pushed me into the water.  My head went under and I emerged gasping and flailing my arms.
         "Come on, now, cousin. It's nothin' but a little water." 
Ellis waded into the swamp and swam passed me.  I had no choice but to follow him. Swimming across, I felt something that may have been driftwood graze my leg.  Although Ellis was negligent in many respects, I never could've anticipated what he did next. 
         
After reaching the bank and hoisting himself up by beside the boat, Ellis squatted and waited for me to cross, then extended his hand to help me out of the water. I reached up and our hands locked, but he didn't pull me up. Instead he just smiled and said, "Look...over there." He thrust his nose up, indicating some place to my left.  "You see that?"
         
I looked and saw nothing but the moon peering where the trees did not meet.  But when I let my gaze fall upon the moon-dusted water, I saw the shape of a slithering "S" gliding upon the surface only a few feet away.  And when I realized what that sinuous creature was, the fear which had been escalating all evening became ever palpable.
         "Help me up!" I cried, groping and thrashing in vain to pull myself out of the water. "Ellis, help me up...please!"
         Despite my panic, Ellis just smiled and calmly said:
         "Moccasin.  Pretty venomous, too. Few months ago, a boy in town was foolin' around in the pond behind old Mr. Alleman's gas station.  Know what happened to the poor kid, Wes?"
         Ellis's grip grew increasingly strong, the snake meanwhile slithering closer and closer still, so close that I could see its eyes gleaming like moonlit death crystals.
         "I said do you know what happened to him!" Ellis repeated.
         "What? What happened to him?  Hurry, Ellis!"
         "Well... moccasin sunk its teeth into the poor bastard's wrist.  Then his face got all swelled up and he started spittin' blood and his body started shakin' all crazy like on the ground.  No one really knows what happened to the damn kid after that, and do you know why, cousin Wes?"
         "Why, why, why..."
         A few inches away...
         "Because I made the whole story up," Ellis said, pulling me out of the water and laughing as he did. I staggered onto shore and lay there with my cheek pressed against the cool mud, watching the snake swim gracefully downstream.  I am not an ill-tempered person, but there on the shores of that bayou, I allowed myself to become consumed with purified rage.
         
I stood up and clenched my fists and lurched toward Ellis with a savage roar.  We fell to the ground as one and began rolling and writhing and twisting among twigs, leaves, and swamp-slosh.  I managed to free my arms and land a blow to his stomach, whereupon he groaned and I swung again, this time hitting the center of his chest.  I raised yet another fist intending to strike his face, but as I did he parried the blow and wriggled free and my knuckles struck the earth.  He then reached for a vagrant branch, gripped it like an all-star, and swung it across my face with merciless intent. 
         
I can't remember falling, but I do remember lying on my back and staring up at sea of gray haze, in which was my mother's face and her soft, hypnotic voice. I reached up to cup her cheeks and beg her comfort, but when my fingers touched, her image rippled like a reflection in water...and disappeared.  And then I saw Sheriff Huval's face enter the haze, and he said nothing...and then there was darkness.          
         When at last I reentered full consciousness, my jaw ached beyond anything I'd ever felt.  Equally painful was the sight of Ellis, sitting me up against a tree trunk. "Hey, Wes, you alright?  Man you had me all scared.  You've been out for almost fifteen minutes, you."
         Although we had just been fighting with primal enthusiasm, and though Ellis had just put my life at risk of being bitten by a deadly serpent, he now was tending to my wounds and caressing my head, all the while uttering sincere apologies.  I struggled briefly to recall my surroundings.  And when I did I felt weak.
         "Man, I'm sorry things got so outta hand.  I promise that I'll never hit you again, little cousin."
         "Home," I muttered. "I want to go back home."
         "I know, Wes.  We're headed back home.  We're not gonna cross the bayou to get there, either. Your big cousin Ellis knows another way."
         "No bayou.  No snakes."
         He poured water from his canteen over my head and it was cool and dripped over my ears and felt nice.  And he poured some into my mouth.
         "No bayou and no snakes," he assured.  "I'm sorry, Wes. Do you forgive me?"
         Although I didn't mean it, I was willing to say anything that would expedite my return home.           "Yes, Ellis. I forgive you."
         "I forgive you, too, cousin.  Remember that, we'll always be cousins. No matter what."
         I wasn't quite sure what that was supposed to mean...
         Nevertheless, he helped me get to my feet. Despite being drenched, I felt much better upon standing. With Ellis leading the way, we began trekking through the marsh.  More than once along the way, I thought I heard howling in the distance.  I was desperate to get home.