From The Marsh Mist

It had been a long week, hard and ardous. He had driven many miles and walked too many streets, looking and searching for the man he sought. An evil man, a felon, a hunted man and this man was the hunter. At last, it had ended in a Texas icehouse bar, the man seeing no gain in resistance and surrendered peacefully to the bounty hunter. Now, the criminal behind bars, facing the justice he so richly deserved, and the bounty hunter's job done.

California lay a great distance away but also as close as Hobby Airport in Houston where he would be in Santa Barbara in a matter of hours. He was tired and pleased and felt he was due a reward. New Orleans, a city he loved and its famed jazz music, lay just five hours east. He still had the rental car and three days before he needed to be back. The lure was too strong so he turned the new Chevy sedan's nose for New Orleans and headed east.

The drive was picturesque with Texas's wide east flatlands falling behind and Louisiana's wetlands stretching out. A beautiful spring day, filled with the scent of mimosia, wet rich earth and the sea just fifty miles away. He decided to detour change interstates through Baton Rouge and take I-12 instead I-10. He wanted to drive the old scenic route along U.S. 90 into New Orleans.

He was just fifty miles outside of New Orleans when he stopped along side the road in a parking area to take a break. It was a pretty little road side park that had seen busier days in the past before the interstate. He parked the Chevy under one old majestic, Spanish-moss shrouded live oak and followed the wooden walkway up the ramp to the pier built on the edge of the marsh for people to look at the wetland in its natural and glorious splendor.

He gazed upon the vast silent land for awhile, mesmerized by its quiet somber green-gold beauty. He saw egrets winging in the sky and a chicken hawk perched on one of the top branches of a tall distant pine. Less than a quarter of a mile away, he noticed one of the marsh's many small high ground islands filled with ancient oaks and boarded by white, scarely leafed cypress trees. He had some boots in the back of the Chevy he had used for fly fishing in Colorado so he decided to investigate this small oasis of higher elevation in acres and acres of watery, reedy land.

He returned to the car, gathered the boots along with a plastic covered pad on one side and a deep cushioned plaid brocade on the other. Locking the car, setting the alarm, and grabbing a couple of cold beers from the cooler, he returned to the blond planked walkway. He reached the end of the land-supported pier and climbing through the railings, he lowered himself into the marsh with ease. He felt the pull of the sucking sensation of the mud as he walked but being a man used to rough terrain, he soon adjusted. He had not gone far when he saw the upraised firebreak levee and climbing upon it, he found the going easier and was delighted to see it passed directly by the island.

Once he reached the tree-coppiced area, he felt as if he had entered another world. Bathed in lingering cool shadows, splattered with sunlight like lace, he was awed by the tranquil beauty. He waited for the annoying whine of the mosquitos but none came. Only a cool, sweet breeze from the marsh, bringing with it the scents of jasmine and water lilies. Suddenly all the stress washed away from him and he felt the lull of sleep. He lay the pad upon the thinly grassed area between two huge roots of a massive oak and stretched out upon it. He was almost instantly asleep.

The bounty hunter did not know how long he had slept when a noise suddenly awakened him. He went to reach for the handgun but realized it was still in the car. He lay very still and waited. It was then that he noticed that the whole island was surrounded by a thick low-lying mist as the water evaporating rose to meet the heated air of the setting sun. He was a bit alarmed as he knew mists in such areas could be dangerous if one was not careful but he had confidence in his own experience. He propped his head on one hand and waited to discover the source of the sound.

It soon revealed itself, like a fairytale apparition. From the swirling mist, a horse and rider entered the island.

The horse was a magnificent sorrel stallion with a wide blaze down his face, an Arabian bucket-nosed head, a coat like soft light fire, and two stockings, hock-high on his back legs. He was small, compact and deeply muscled. Upon his bare back sat a woman, dressed only in cut-off jean shorts, a open-throated shirt tied at her waist, and a wealth of dark blond hair. She gazed at the bounty hunter out of blue-grey eyes, the eyes of an old soul, and as she leaned forward, he saw the shirt open to expose a silver pendant on a silken cord, hanging between her breasts.

Without knowing why, he rose to his feet and walked to where the horse and woman stood. He said nothing but held up his arms and she slid easily off of the stallion's back into those arms. He set her gently on her feet and then taking her hand, he led her to the brocade pad.

He leaned down to kiss her upturned face, untying the shirt at her waist. There within the unbroken quiet and hidden safety of natural beauty, they did not speak in words but spoke the lanquage of love known the world over until there was only silence.

Lulled by the relaxed state of their bodies, the warm, scented air of the marsh, and the soft lullaby of the whispering marsh wind, they slept.

An unknown time later, he awakened alone and so he did not know if it had been a dream or not but either way, she and the sorrel stallion were gone. What had come in from the mist had returned to it, leaving him a memory he would never forget