Most of the gators were small, a foot or two in length, but a couple of times he glimpsed bigger gators ahead—ten-footers. The big gators never let the boat get close.
Bron's thoughts were a muddle. He tried to imagine his mother. Out here in the swamp, she'd probably be wearing blue jeans and a work shirt.
How old was she, anyway? If the old guy was her husband, she might well be in her sixties. He hadn't thought of that.
But Monique had said that she was a young woman.
What will she think of me? he wondered. Almost he felt as if he were going there to be judged.
What should I do when I see her? Say hello and stand at arm's length? What if she wants to kiss me?
He couldn't imagine kissing the woman who had abandoned him. He resolved that he wouldn't do it. He wasn't even going to touch her. If she hugged him, she'd get no hug in return.
Along the channel, a few cabins on stilts began to rise up from the water. Some houses floated on giant pontoons. Some had motorboats or jet skis parked out front, and he saw a few kids at one. Four children, ages eight through twelve, were swimming in the water. They were diving off the deck of the cabin, while one boy swung on a rope.
Bron wondered where their mother was, or where they'd left their common sense, for he'd seen three or four large gators in the past mile.
Soon a forest closed up around the river, and the channel began to narrow and wind through a swamp. In many places, the ground was dry on either side, and here the cypress trees and forests of alders and magnolia, interspersed with palms, began to darken the channel.
Trumpet vines with flowers of red and yellow hung over the limbs of trees, creating living walls, while dragonflies and linnets, gnats and butterflies and hummingbirds darted in and out of shafts of sunlight.
Bullfrogs croaked in the shadows, while strange birds emitted piercing cries.
Everywhere was the scent of water, mold, vines, and an earthy odor that Bron couldn't name.
As they began to pass beneath the shadows of trees, Olivia whispered, "Watch out overhead. I've heard that sometimes snakes will drop out of the branches into a boat."
Bron didn't have to be warned twice. Almost an instant later, he saw a huge dark snake drop out of a tree and hit the water with a splash. It went twisting through the waves. Suddenly something dark lunged up out of the water, and the snake disappeared in a flash of teeth.
Bron hated to think what might have happened if he'd been in the water. He hoped that the boat wouldn't hit a snag.
Soon the old coot had to slow the boat, skirting submerged logs as he took a narrow path. Every so often, the river would fork, and he would veer to the right or left. He did it so often that Bron felt convinced that he was only doing it an effort to confuse his passengers. He didn't want them to be able to find their way back to his lair.
After a lifetime of dreaming about his mother, wondering what she had looked like, Bron found himself trembling with anticipation. He had never imagined being here, had never envisioned a mother in hiding, out in the deepest swamps.
At last they entered a dead-end, where weeds and water lilies choked the shallows, and the old fellow gunned the engine so that the boat slid up over the foliage under some dark trees.
They got out and stood on the shore, Bron searching the trees above and the grass below for any sign of snakes. He spotted a white egg in the water, and said to Olivia, "There must be chickens around here." He thought that was a good sign. It meant that they were probably close to someone's cabin.
"Dat's a gator's egg, son," the old coot informed him. "Dere be a nest round-bouts."
He climbed out of the boat, and led them through a forest. Vines clung to the ground, and every few yards, some lizard would slink up the trunk of a tree. Bron heard a warning rattle and stopped, but it was just a big snake making the leaves of dried vines shiver as it slithered away.
The woods were baking, oppressive, and Bron found himself opening his shirt, trying to stop the flow of sweat down his front. For three miles they walked over vines, climbing fallen trees, negotiating a landscape that seemed to have no trails. Darkness began to fall, until the only light was a blush on the horizon, and the shadows grew thick. They waded through a bog, where young alligators watched from the rushes, and then finally dropped down into another swamp.
The old man waved the gun at Bron's back. "Dere is da pirogue, unner dem vines. Take care you doan get bit by no bebette."
A thick carpet of vines was draped over a tree, and beneath it Bron spotted part of a boat. He didn't know what a bebette was, and imagined that it was some kind of snake. Since the old man had the gun, Bron pulled the vines off, uncovering a long, flat-bottomed skiff. A pair of colorful black salamanders with red spots lurched away. A millipede trundled about in confusion. A long black snake went slithering under the boat to hide.
Bron checked the boat. A spotlight was attached to a huge battery, and a long pole lay in the boat's bottom. Bron shoved the boat out into the little lagoon. The snake that had taken refuge beneath it hissed and raised its head, displaying fangs and a white throat.
Olivia pulled Bron back a pace, and the snake turned and raced into the water.
They loaded onto the boat, and the old man took a seat in the back, with his flashlight, and pointed the way. "You ken punt da boat."
The pole was light of weight and rough on the surface. It felt as if the wood was rotting away, but it was strong enough to push through the black water easily.
Bron began to pole as night fell completely, with only the thinnest of starlight shining through gauzy clouds. Vines and creepers hung down from the cypress trees. The water could not have been more than two feet deep. Yet with the coming of night, the sounds of the swamp grew raucous.
Frogs croaked everywhere, millions of them. Some he recognized as deep-voiced bullfrogs, but there were several other frogs peeped or emitted high-pitched croaks. Leopard frogs, like the ones he'd dissected in biology class, were everywhere. The sound grew in volume until Bron felt as if he was in a football stadium and crowds were cheering.
The old man shined his light out over the waters, and Bron could see the frogs under the trees, each of them with a bloated sac under its throat, croaking like mad. The males were serenading females, and each of them seemed to be shouting, "Me! Come to me!" with all of his might.
As a musician, Bron wondered, is that what I'm doing when I play?
Yet with the frogs came the gators—many of them newly hatched in the spring, a foot or two long. Their older cousins from last year were out in force, too, and they silently cruised the waters, legs splayed for stability. Bron could see their big yellow eyes, like golden coins, and their toothsome smiles.
He'd hear a frog croaking for attention, oblivious to all else, and then see a gator float up behind it. With a snap the frog would go silent.
There has to be a lesson in that, Bron thought. He understood now why Olivia would not play in public.
So he poled for a long hour. From time to time, green flashed in the bushes as fireflies lit up the night.
They reached some shallows where the boat could hardly get through the mud, and Bron found that the pole sank for two or three feet in the muck. Quicksand, he realized.
They went through a narrow space, where dead cypress trees blocked the way, as white as old bone. Their bark had rotted off long ago, and gaping holes could be seen at their bases, habitat for raccoons.
Bron was just about to push off on a tree, when the old fellow called, "Hop! Watch da han'!"
Bron halted and saw in the wan beam of the flashlight that he'd nearly put his hand on top of a giant spider, a wolf spider with a leg span wider than a tarantula's.