Water Witch by Deborah LeBlanc

them into the truck, then kept lying when
he transferred them from the truck to the boat. The performance he
gave as he drove them out to the knoll and the sacrificial circle
deserved an Oscar, in his opinion. Considering the circumstances,
all had gone amazingly well. Quiet and orderly—well, until he’d
bound their hands and feet anyway. Then the screaming began.
    The children’s shrieks didn’t worry him, for
the knoll was so far back in the swamps, God Himself couldn’t hear
them. If anything, their cries for help encouraged Olm. It meant
their fear had already started. To encourage and feed that fear
even more, he’d tied them back to back against a cypress tree and
made them watch while he dug two holes, both three feet wide by
three feet deep—a hole for each of them.
    As soon as he reached the appropriate depth
for each hole, the rich, black earth beneath his shovel grew
spongy, just as he’d suspected it would. That had given Olm hope,
for it was just another step in the plan that had gone without a
hitch.
    The only real hiccup had come when he’d
grabbed the boy to put him in the first hole. The brat bucked and
wiggled and refused to keep his legs outstretched. It was only when
Olm threatened to bash the girl’s face in with a shovel that the
boy quieted down. The girl gave him no problem at all. In fact, she
seemed almost paralyzed with fear.
    Once the children were settled in their
individual holes, Olm had moved on to the next part of the plan. He
collected silt in a metal bucket from the edge of the knoll, then
dumped that silt over their legs. It had taken several trips to
bury both children waist deep, but once that was done, all he had
to do was stay mindful of the schedule he’d set, the one that ran
in conjunction with the waxing moon. From there, it was only a
matter of waiting.
    Waiting—simple—simple pimple.
    But it wasn’t simple. The waiting drove Olm
mad. He wanted to move on with his new life now, wanted
whatever he’d fucked up to be fixed now. But only so much
silt could be added now . Too much too soon, and the whole
schedule would be thrown off. He had thirty-one hours and
twenty-two minutes left before he could bring the ceremony to its
climax. That was a lot of time—for fear.
    Olm imagined the horror raging in the
children’s minds as they felt bucket after bucket of silt dumped on
their bodies, the level of muck rising higher and higher, pressing
against their chest and back. He wondered what their reactions
would be once the mud reached their shoulders and inched up to
their chin—covered their mouths. Then what terror, what glorious
terror might fill them as the ceremony rolled to its conclusion.
The last bucket poured—pushing the silt past their noses—finally
suffocating them in mud. What could possibly generate more fear
than that? Then to join that apex of fear to the fullness of
Brother Moon—the entire plan was pure genius.
    After the fear element was offered to Tirawa,
all he’d have to worry about was the blood, something so easily
remedied. He’d make certain the children were dead, then dig them
up one at a time and wash their bodies with swamp water. Once
cleaned, he’d cut out their hearts and place them on a burial
shelf, where they’d be burned in honor of Tirawa. Then it would be
done.
    Olm felt no guilt or regret for anything he’d
done or would do to the children. It was simply the way of his
people, something he accepted wholeheartedly. Besides, it was
either them or him, and which offered more by way of societal
contribution? The children were simply two brats on an already
overpopulated planet. Kids understood little more than take, take,
and always wanted more. He, on the other hand, not only had the
wisdom of additional years, he had a bloodline that had led an
entire nation of people. Yes, who contributed more, indeed.
    All he had to do was survive the next
thirty-one hours and a handful of minutes. And he would, no matter
what it took.