Water Witch by Deborah LeBlanc Page A

He’d hide out if he had to, do without food or water
until this was over. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but this
ceremony and getting his new life started. He was willing to do
whatever needed doing to turn the universe in his favor.
    Having calmed considerably, Olm pulled his
truck over to the side of the road and stared out at the bayou that
ran parallel to the road. Down those murky waters, through the
sloughs and channels, across the flats, down into the darkest parts
of the Atchafalaya, where the cypress tress grew so thick their
branches seemed conjoined, sat his two aces—in the hole. He
considered the wild game, snakes, and alligators that populated the
swamp. There was always the chance the children might wind up as a
meal before ceremony time. That thought sent a slight flutter of
concern through Olm, but he quickly squelched it. In truth,
collectively or independently, mud, alligators, spiders and snakes
bred fear. Wasn’t that what really mattered, the fear? If nature
got to the kids before he did during the full face of the moon,
there was nothing he could do but accept it as fate. Surely Tirawa
would take everything into consideration.The children’s fear would
still be a part of the ceremony, even if he didn’t get to witness
it.
    Olm smiled. It felt good to have a plan come
together, especially one this intricate and of his own making. He
wished his grandfather was around to witness the ceremony, maybe
take part in it. He imagined the elderly man standing tall, chest
stuck out with pride over the work of his grandson.
    With a contented sigh, Olm turned, ready to
tap the accelerator and pull back onto the highway when he heard
someone call his name. A deep, raspy sound that sent dread rumbling
through him.
    Not wanting to look but unable to help
himself, Olm glanced in the rearview mirror. The sound had come
from behind him—the backseat—the back—behind. He saw it
immediately. A black, translucent thing, wavering, bobbling
as though having difficulty maintaining its shape. It looked
similar to the ones he’d seen in the kitchen—the ones that haunted
him night after night, the one that touched him, kept him from
sleep—the ones that contaminated his food.
    Only this time . . . this one had teeth.
     
     
     
     

CHAPTER SEVEN
    Bayou Crow gave me a new appreciation for the
term small town. Although it held the standard one red light, one
main road attraction of most rural blips on the U.S. map, it was
the first one I’d seen with a levee wall flanking its entire east
side. Beyond that wall was nothing but swamp, which wasn’t
surprising. Most of southern Louisiana appeared to be swamp, a
giant fertile womb always giving birth. It kept its offspring
close, nurturing it with an exotic amniotic fluid that created
beauty out of dark and foreboding. The population of Bayou Crow
might have only numbered six hundred, but what lived and thrived in
and on these waters was countless. I felt it, saw it as we traveled
near its banks. So many birds—reptiles—animals—insects . . . To
someone whose total wildlife adventures consisted of running into
an occasional jackrabbit or groundhog, maybe even a scorpion or
rattler, and, of course, kept company with a mangy mutt, it was all
a bit intimidating.
    Aside from its swamp, Bayou Crow didn’t offer
a hell of a lot. A few beat up mobile homes and weathered
clapboards lined its west bank, along with a beige metal building
that held a large red and white sign which read: DALE’S TRADING
POST. Just below that sign were notices that DALE’S now carried
live bait, served frozen daiquiris, and had a thirty-percent sale
on Blue Bell ice cream. One block past Dale’s was a squat,
pale-brick building that, judging by its sign and the crooked cross
on the roof, was the Unified Kingdom of Christ Church. It looked
more like a post office with a broken weathervane.
    Angelle took a left on a side street that ran
alongside the church, her foot still heavy on the