DEVIL IN THE SWAMP

THE MAUREPAS SWAMP, about twenty-five miles west of New Orleans, is a mostly flooded cypress hell, consisting of a variety of unremarkable foliage including sugarberry, cattail, and bull tongue, with maple and elm trees shooting upward like a host of decrepit, decaying fingers trying desperately to touch the sky above, their leaves creating a shadow-filled tangled canopy of mystery. Hunting and fishing, a hiking trail and two small tent-only camping areas, which are only boat-accessible, are available for those inclined toward outdoor activities when torrential wind and rain are not tempestuously raging about.

Nestled within the nearly sixty-two thousand acre swampland stood a small, unassuming shack. Moss crept halfway up the stone chimney of the tiny building, and gnarled and twisted vines claimed most of the exterior walls in a macabre embrace masking its presence from all but the most observant of outdoorsmen. One would never find the two-room building mentioned on any tourist map, and even satellite surveillance failed to detect the hovel due to the thick foliage above its black tarred roof. Local hunters and hikers who were actually aware of it, in fact, seemed to make an unconscious effort to avoid the thing altogether. Some local legends hinted of its existence, fewer still ever mentioned anything about the one who supposedly dwelled within. Mysteriously, the little building always avoided ever getting flooded despite its seemingly weather-worn appearance and the often decimating nature of the tidal surges during severe storms common to the region.

Inside the dilapidated shelter, shelf-lined walls of the first and larger of the two rooms boasted hundreds of dust-encrusted bottles, canisters, vials and pouches. The contents of these various containers were known only to the elderly woman who resided there and her great-granddaughter. The place smelled of herbs and roots unrecognizable to most, and ceiling cobwebs danced to the rhythms of the breeze gently blowing in from the open windows.

The elderly woman who owned the modest structure sat swaying back and forth in an antique rocking chair in the far corner, just beside an open window from which a set of rusted chimes hung and softly tinkled in the breeze. She relaxed in that spot daily, dressed in earth colored clothing nearly as old as she, her left eye forever hidden by a small black leather patch. Somehow, her long hair managed to retain hints of its original jet black strands, which weaved through locks of grey and white, these latter giving the impression of shadowy serpents. Her skin, darkened and wrinkled with her advanced years, stretched taut over her bony frame.  Just outside, a wheezing generator stood as the lone source of what little energy was needed for the small reading lamp by the woman’s side and the mini-fridge under the table. A tattered bed sheet nailed to the far wall covered a splintered doorframe hinting to the tiny bedroom beyond.

The woman rocked gently in her chair as her one good eye spied the familiar surroundings, and her ears took in the various swamp sounds from outside. The songs of the nearby osprey, wood ducks, herons and egrets caressed her ears with their natural polyphony. So in tune was she with her surroundings, the old woman could detect the slightest audible change from beyond the confines of her tiny shack. 

The woman then began humming an old tune taught to her by her mother.

 There upon the moss-filled ledge,
The midnight party raged,
Bedeviled by the puppeteer,
They freed him from his cage.
Old Mary tried her very best
To put the Beast to harm,
But very soon she too fell
Under the spell of Lucifer’s dark charm.

 As Vesper sang the old song, she remembered the first time her mother had taken her to the huge lake where it allegedly happened. She had listened intently to the tale woven by her elder, wondering if it were folklore or historical account. Perhaps a bit of both, she had thought. The young Vesper had asked many questions about the event, and her only surviving parent had been happy to retrace every detail that she herself had been told by her own mother in her own youth. Eventually, Vesper and her mother had made their way back home, and the old song had been taught and learned. Later, Vesper taught her own daughter the song, along with all the other things needed to be known, and her daughter eventually taught Vesper's grand-daughter. Hence, it would go on throughout the generations. Vesper had thought her job long finished once the mantle had been passed, but then tragedy struck, and once again, the position of teacher had been hers to embrace.

Remembering her mother brought a sentimental smile to the old woman's face, and she sighed in reflection. Her life had been a hard one, but it wasn't without its tender moments, some of which she hoped were still ahead of her. She continued to reminisce and reflect on her past but after a few moments, the old woman stopped rocking in her chair and listened intently. She noticed that the birds and insects had grown silent. How long ago during her reverie had that happened? Even the calm breeze seemed to die out as the rusty chimes hanging in her window stopped their incessant tinkling. In fact, she couldn’t hear anything at all from the swamp outside, save for the ever-constant hum of the generator. She chastised herself for her foolishness in allowing her guard to slip as she immediately knew something was dreadfully wrong.

She glanced quickly at the covered doorway in the back of the room and made a strange clicking sound with her mouth. The silence seemed to last an eternity. The woman tried to fight back the rising concern of what could have possibly stopped nature's song outside her walls. It seemed as though the sun had suddenly died as the daylight beyond her window was enveloped by a wave of darkness that went beyond the ability of any possible cloud cover. There was a moment when she thought she heard the faint whispering of unfamiliar voices, but they quickly faded as the plywood door at the entrance began to creak open.  Crossing the threshold was a tall, chisel-faced man in a well-tailored dark grey suit, his impeccable appearance a stark contrast to the swamp environment from which he had just come. His light blonde hair, slicked back and extending slightly longer than the collar of his crisp and seemingly starched, white shirt, curled slightly at the ends. The sun-like yellow of his hair was in direct contrast to the unearthly darkness of his eyes. His pale, unblemished complexion appeared almost marble-like.  Despite his civil and even attractive features (Vesper was old, but she was not dead!), when the man smiled in her direction, his steely and penetrating eyes succeeded in striking an icy fear within the elderly woman. 

“Well hello, my dear. Might one assume you’re the Countess, Vesper Diprey?” the man inquired.

 “One might assume I’m the current Miss July centerfold, but that don’t make it true,” the woman countered with more tenacity in her voice than she had hoped she could exude under the circumstances.

The tall stranger flashed a wry grin but did not miss a beat as he continued, “Countess. A title inferring royalty, yet these are hardly the trappings of a noble.”

Vesper started rocking in her chair again. “Nobility is found more so in the heart, not necessarily on the throne,” she said. Impatience began to rise within and replaced her initial fears. “What is it you want of me?”

The man glanced across the walls of wooden shelving and after a moment, turned to the old woman. “Straight to the point, I see. Very well my dear Countess, I understand that you’re a bona fide Bokor. Is this true?”

The woman visibly stiffened and cleared her throat before she spoke. “That is a very old word,” she said.

“I’m a very old man,” he responded smoothly, though his features implied otherwise.

"Well at any rate, Bokor is the masculine," offered Vesper. "The word you are grasping for, the feminine is Caplata," she explained.

“Well thank you for that clarification. It seems my Haitian Creole is a little bit rusty.” He gave a nearly imperceptible bow of his head as he acknowledged the correction before continuing. “I’ve come to enlist your aid in a little project of mine.” He paused for a moment as something suddenly occurred to him. “By the way, I was wondering if you might be related to Marie Laveau in some…”

The woman quickly interjected before he could finish. “My great-grandmother succeeded Marie Laveau’s daughter. There is no blood relation to the Laveaus.”

The man smiled contently, realizing he had struck a nerve within the old woman. He then turned his attention away from Vesper to browse around the shelves as though looking for something specific. Vesper watched him intently.

After a moment the man continued, “I see. If I’m not mistaken the three of them, your great-grandmother included, were all in attendance at Lake Pontchartrain back in, oh, let me think now, June of 1874, if memory serves. You know, for the…” he paused briefly as if trying to find the correct word, “big meeting that you were singing about shortly before I came in.”

The elderly woman slowly reached under the faded shawl covering her legs for the old revolver she always kept there.

“It was June 24th, St. John’s Eve in fact, if you must know,” she replied. “You are a student of local history?”

He did not acknowledge her question but continued, “Over twelve thousand followers were there, with their lighted torches and silver tipped knives, gathered at the lake. Each of them piously reveling in their own fear and ignorance, banded together to persecute one so far above them. Still, a pretty impressive gathering for humans at that time, I must say.”

As the stranger spoke, Vesper could hear his voice echo with strains of contempt as though he were reliving a painful memory. She tightened her grip around the handle of the hidden pistol, which was now at her hip.

“You speak as though reminiscing,” she commented. “Certainly, you’re not that old. I ask you again, what exactly is it you wish from me?”

The tall man ran his fingers gently across several containers along one shelf and turned back to once again face the old woman. Vesper noted that if there had been any semblance of congeniality in the stranger at the start, it was completely gone now.

“Let’s just say it isn’t on the list of one of my favorite days in human history.” His voice was hard and his gaze cold. Then abruptly, he seemed to lighten-up again as he continued, “As to what I want, I certainly don’t know all the ingredients. After all, that’s why I need you, my Countess.” He paused for a moment, and his eyes darted around the room before he added, “We could, however, start with some tetrodotoxin and jimsonweed.”

Vesper Diprey gasped and instantly pulled the gun from under the shawl, unsteadily pointing it at the intruder.

“No! What you seek to do is forbidden! It is my charge to keep such knowledge from people like you,” she asserted.

The man glanced at the ancient gun but appeared completely unfazed. Instead he smiled, and Vesper could detect his unique form of congeniality returning to his voice when he replied, “My dear, Vesper… I’m sorry, may I call you Vesper?” He did not wait for her response. “I assure you that if you shoot me with that relic, I will become very, very cross with you. And as far as things forbidden go, I’m the reason you hairless apes invented the word.”

Vesper then dropped the gun and whispered fearfully, “Ifrit!”

Instantly and without warning, the man lunged forward in a frenzied rage and effortlessly pulled the woman from the rocking chair, bringing her face to within an inch of his own. Vesper winced at the same time as she felt the handgun slip from her slightly gnarled fingers and heard it clatter to the wooden floor.

“It seems we are both well-versed in very old words,” he said calmly and quietly, belying his actions of only a few seconds before.

Briefly, Vesper believed her life was about to come to an abrupt and violent end, but as he released her from his grip and adjusted his suit jacket, the man standing before her was once again the picture of complete composure.

“Now, if you would be kind enough to collect up all the ingredients I need, along with a set of instructions, I can be on my way.”