Lost in the River of Grass (15 page)

“I know.”

We both doze off while the storm blows itself out. It's the sun coming out again and its heat on my arm that wakes me.

Andy saws off two chunks of his belt, one of which I take just to keep my mouth from feeling so dry. We plunge out of the saw grass and start east again.

It's probably four-thirty when Andy holds his hand up. I close the gap between us.

“What?”

He's shading his eyes and squinting at the sun.

“Look over there.” He points west.

I'm resting, bent over with my hands on my knees. I glance where he's pointing. “I don't see anything.”

“There's a plane on the horizon. They've started looking for us.”

15

“That dot's a plane?” Only the sunlight off its wings when it banks catches my eye. “How do you know it's looking for us?”

“Because it's flying back and forth. I was watching it before the storm hit.” I'm thrilled. “Why didn't you tell me?” “What for? No sense getting excited.” “How long do you think it will take them to get here?” He snorts. “Next week.” “Be serious.” “I am serious.” “Well, let's head that way.” “No. We have to stay on this course. They aren't going to find us today. It will be dark in a few hours.

Unless someone finds the flight bag, they aren't going to get this far north tomorrow either. We'll be on the levee and headed home long before they spot us.”

The ray of hope that the sight of the plane brought drains away, taking what little strength I have left with it. “I need to rest, Andy.”

“I know. Me, too. Let's head for that cypress stand. There might even be a bit of dry land there to dig another scratch well.”

While we were watching the plane, I'd let Teapot out for a swim and a snack. I guess I turn my head too quickly when I glance around to see where she's gone, because I'm suddenly dizzy. I put my hand out for balance but tip sideways and fall over.

“What happened?” He comes back to help me up.

“I feel really light-headed.”

“Blood sugar,” he says.

“Thanks, doc.”

“Want me to carry the duck?”

“She'd probably be safer.” I hand the pack to Andy.

We reach the cypress head just before dark. There are no large trees and no dry, open ground, at least not on this side—just plenty of mosquitoes.

I know I used too much of the bug spray last night and after the storm, but when I take the can out of the pack, it feels empty. I shake it, then take the lid off.

“Wait,” Andy says. “Save that for tonight.”

“This is tonight.”

“No. For later, after we've found someplace to sleep. Give me your bandana.” We're waist-deep in a swampy pond surrounded by a dense circle of skinny cypress trees.

“Where are we going to sleep? Is there another rookery nearby?”

“Not that I know of, and I haven't seen any birds fly by except ones headed in the other direction.” Andy rinses the bird poop out of my bandana.

“What are we going to do now?”

“Rest for a while. If we get on our knees the water will cover us to our chins, and if we put our heads together, I think the bandana will cover both of our faces.”

“What about Teapot?”

“She can get under there with us.”

“Where's the owner of this hole?”

“This isn't a gator hole. Too shallow. It's a natural pond.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, and even if it was a gator hole, it could have been dug years ago. There's no reason for gators to be in them this time of year.”

“We chased a gator out of nearly every other hole we've seen. Why is this one the exception?”

He ignores me and sinks into the black water. “You coming?”

Mosquitoes are biting my ears, lips, and eyelids, which is worse than the thought of being eaten by a gator, though I can't say I feel the same about being squeezed to death by a python. I sink to my chin in the water, which means sitting on the mushy bottom. I call Teapot, and Andy covers our heads with the bandana.

We stay like that a long time, cheek to cheek with Teapot, her head lodged between her wings, floating at the tips of our noses. Every breath fills my lungs with her wet-pillow smell.

Maybe an hour passes—it's hard to tell—when Andy suddenly jerks the bandana off.

“What?”

“Look.” He points through the trees at a small sliver of light.

We both stare for a minute. It seems to be moving closer, but I can't tell if the leaves flickering in the breeze just make it look like it's coming toward us.

“Do you think it's a search party?”

“No. I think it might be someone out frogging, or . . .”

“Hello,” I call.

“Shhhh,” Andy whispers.

“Why?”

“It might be a poacher.”

“What would he be poaching?”

“Gators. Bears. Panthers. Orchids. Who knows.”

“Orchids?”

“Keep your voice down. They get big bucks for ghost orchids. Or they could be hunters.”

“I thought the season hadn't started.”

“It hasn't. That's the point.”

“Let's just sit tight until they're close enough for us to see what they're doing.” We cover our heads again. Through the material of the bandana I can see the light getting brighter, coming closer.

“If it's a poacher, would he kill us?”

“Who knows? They ain't Boy Scouts.”

Whoever they are, they're approaching in total silence, no sound at all. By now I think we should be able to hear the pole hitting the side of their boat or at least the drip of water as the pole is pushed into the muddy bottom, brought out, and pushed in again. Instead, nothing disturbs the never-ending whine of mosquitoes.

“We could tell them our parents will pay a reward,” I whisper against Andy's ear. “We could call to him, and if it turns out he's poaching, we'll tell him about the reward.”

“It's easier to see gators at night, not quite as simple to catch them. Poachers usually work in pairs, so it's not likely that it's just one person in that boat.”

There are the usual night calls: frogs croaking, the barred owls, crickets, Teapot's sleepy little peeps; none are much comfort as we wait for either rescuers or poachers.

“What if they're headed right here?” I whisper.

“Shhh. Even whispers carry over water.”

“Then why can't we hear them?”

The bandana moves when Andy shakes his head.

A few more minutes pass. “Damn,” Andy says out loud.

My heart skips. “Poachers?”

Andy takes the bandana off. “See for yourself.”

The trees are dense, young, and spindly. It takes me a moment to realize that the sliver of light we've been watching is the moon rising. Tears come. I can't help it. I had let myself hope that even if they were poachers, they'd want to help us.

“Are you crying?” Andy asks.

“No.”

“Your face is wet.”

“I can't take another step, and I know we have to.”

“I feel the same way, but we can't stay here.”

“You think I don't know that?”
If I ever get out of this . . .
The memory of Mr. Vickers standing at the screen door of the cabin, his face full of concern, comes to me. The guilt and regret I suddenly feel are crushing. It had been a tiny little lie, just because I wanted a couple of hours of fun and maybe to make a friend. Now look at us.
Up to our asses in alligators. Isn't that the expression?
If I had an ounce of humor left, I might have smiled.

Andy scoops a sleepy Teapot up and packs her away.

It's a beautiful night, with enough breeze to keep the mosquitoes thinned out once we're away from the trees. The night is the most beautiful I can remember, and I realize, as I traipse along in Andy's wake, that I've let go of some of my fears. Every step the first day was terrifying. Now, even with the moon, there are stars. More stars than I've ever seen in Miami, where sometimes Orion, the Big Dipper, and Venus seem alone in the sky. In an odd way, I'm beginning to feel a part of this place. The birds, frogs, turtles, snakes, bright green chameleons, even small gators fleeing at our approach makes me sad—like I'm a monster.

By moonlight, we work our way up the east side of the cypress head, looking for a tree with a sturdy trunk and low branches. We've almost reached the tip when Andy lets out a whoop.

All I see is a dead tree with a few bare branches—a stick figure with bony arms held up in distress, as if someone has a gun stuck in its ribs. At the very top is a coffeepot like the ones in old westerns. The bottom's rusted away, and someone has jammed it over the tip of the main trunk. The tree is tall. With the coffeepot on top, it looks like a long-faced cowboy: the spout is a small nose, and the lid up looks as if his hat is pushed back on his head. I think it's creepy looking in the moonlight, but Andy's excited to see it.

“What's with the pot?”

He turns and grins. “That pot's been there since before I was born. It marks where the main east-west, north-south airboat trails cross.”

“Will airboats be by here in the morning?”

“No. It only means I know where we are.”

“Why won't airboats come by?” “For one thing, tomorrow is Monday. All the weekenders have gone home. Hunting season don't start for two weeks, we're too far north for the tour operators, and in water too shallow for fishermen.”

“All right. All right. You can't blame me for asking.”

“What it does mean is that we're only about two or three miles from the levee.”

“How far did we come today?”

“Five. Six, maybe.”

“Wow.” Even I have to smile. “We could be on the levee by noon tomorrow. Right?”

“Maybe.”

“So why wouldn't we be out tomorrow instead of Tuesday?”

“We'll get there tomorrow, but there's no telling what time, or how far we have to walk once we are on it. If it gets dark before we reach the trail, we can't sleep on the levee. Either way, if they don't find us before dark, we'll have to get back in the water.”

“Why can't we sleep on the levee?”

“Pygmy rattlesnakes.”

“Don't tell me there are so many rattlesnakes that it's not safe to sleep on the levee.”

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

He looks at me. “I won't tell you.”

“So there are?”

“Like worms.”

“God, Andy.”

He turns and smiles at me. “Worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”

 

…

About thirty minutes later, we come to a small hammock with a big, strong pond-apple tree growing at the edge. Andy uses the butcher knife like a machete to cut away the smaller branches along its multiple trunks, swinging the blade like a samurai warrior and grunting like de-twigging the tree is the heat of battle. There are palmettos growing nearby, and he cuts a bunch of the big, fan-shaped leaves, layering them into the crotch where three limbs split off and making what resembles a chair.

“That's nice. Where are you going to sleep?” I'm kind of kidding, but there really isn't room in the tree for the two of us.

“Lying down,” he says, making his hands into a stirrup.

I put a dripping boot in his hands, grab a branch, and let him boost me into the palmetto nest.

“How's that?”

“Like my dad's old recliner.” It isn't, of course. My butt's pinched between two limbs, and the one behind my back will be like sleeping against a lamppost. “What do you mean lying down?”

He hands me Teapot in the backpack. “There.” He points to the thick mud at the edge of the hammock.

“You're kidding?”

“I am not.” He wades across mud, which makes sucking sounds and smells rotten. Once he's ashore, he starts whacking away at the palmetto again. When he has about a dozen more leaves, he spreads them out across the mud and lies down.

“What if a python comes?”

He holds the knife up and turns it so the moon reflects off the blade.

I hang my boots on the tips of two branches, pull my socks off and drape them nearby. Both my feet show white in the moonlight, with fissures and cracks. They sting in the cool night air, and when I accidentally get bug spray in the broken blisters, my eyes tear with pain.

16

Teapot's alarmed peeping wakes me just before dawn. I'm frozen in place and so confused it takes a second for me to realize a snake is moving up the branch the backpack hangs on.

“Andy!” I scream; then at the snake, “Get away!” I flip my hand at it. The snake's tongue tastes the air as it moves up through the straps and around the pack.

“Andy.” I twist to look over my shoulder. He's gone, but he must have slept there; mud has oozed through the seams of the palmetto leaves. I surprise myself by not assuming he's been eaten. Of course, there are no signs of struggle.