That settled the matter.
TWENTY-FOUR
There is no solid ground in a mangrove swamp, only a gauntlet of rubbery roots and muck. “Give me a minute before you start,” I said, and headed into trees with a shoulder pack and the same machete I’d used before.
Martinez understood. Even with the leather thong, the machete might slip out of my hand. Low branches were also a problem in dense cover. Follow too closely, they could slingshot back and put an eye out. A shotgun, fired accidentally, could do worse.
No one walks through mangroves. You climb, and straddle, and monkey-bar your way through. Twenty yards in was an elevated area comprised of big whelk shells and horse conchs, all bone-white with age. A thousand years ago or more, Florida’s first people had lived here. They’d feasted on the meat and shaped the shells into tools.
At my feet lay a whelk the size of a gourd. Four symmetrical holes had been drilled through the spire. Nearby were whelks with similar patterns. I’d seen many shell tools, but none like this. I knew it was wrong to disturb such an artifact, but I picked it up anyway. The holes didn’t serve any obvious practical purpose. Perhaps it had been used in religious ceremonies; a vessel to sprinkle incense, like a censer used by priests. If so, it might bring me luck.
Absurd, the hopes we cling to when afraid.
I made a place for the shell in my pack, and continued on.
“See any oranges?” Martinez called to me. While securing the boat, he had reasoned the tree must be near the water if we’d found a floating orange.
“It might take a while,” I hollered back. “You’ll understand when you clear the mangroves. There’s a shell mound here… really steep, from what I can see. You can come on now.”
Behind me, I heard the splash of a big man kicking water. Ahead, the pile of shells angled upward into a curtain of vines. I cut my way through. Every few steps, I slashed a trail marker on the landward side of a tree so I could find my way out.
“Mosquitoes,” Martinez grumbled. I couldn’t see him but guessed he wasn’t far behind. “Cold as it is, you’d think these bastards would give us a break.”
Without my bug jacket, insects were tormenting me, too. They hovered in a frenzy as if mammalian blood was a rarity here.
No doubt, it was.
Up a steep embankment, through a coil of catbriers, I saw the remnants of a game traiclass="underline" an earthen indentation that tunneled through the brush. No tracks, no animal scat, no signs of recent use. The report I’d read about the Everglades came to mind. Pythons had killed ninety-nine percent of wildlife, from raccoons to white-tailed deer, in areas where they were “well-established.” This evoked more details. The snakes were ambush hunters that chose hiding places based on the habits of their favorite prey. On land, in water, or in the tree canopy.
I looked up (not for the first time) and saw a rare patch of winter sky. That’s how dense the trees were. No nesting birds, just a lazy pinwheel of vultures circling high above. I patted my bag to communicate with the ornate whelk. Hopefully, the birds had scented a monster python that lay dead on a distant part of the island.
This is insane, I thought. At the first sign of trouble, I’m out of here.
For a moment, I hoped an excuse was provided, when, somewhere downhill, I heard branches crack, then the stumbling crash of Martinez falling. “Hell’s blazes… Shit…”
“Are you hurt?”
“Damn mosquitoes; I’m sweating like a pig. Does it thin out up there?”
“Sabin, answer me. What happened?” It felt okay using the man’s first name. “I heard you fall.”
“Just tripped a little… Don’t worry…”
“If you’re hurt, just say so. It’s not going to spoil my day, if that’s what you’re thinking. Did you sprain something?”
“My ego… Is it as thick up there as it is here?” Before I could respond, his voice dropped in pitch. “Hey… you hear that?”
“What?”
“Probably nothing. Yeah… there it is again.”
Backcountry silence is a shrill subtext of cicadas and frogs and wind. Not here. Aside from hearing mosquitoes, my ears strained in a vacant abyss. I held my breath for as long as I could, but no results.
Martinez said, “My imagination, I guess. Thought I heard limbs breaking; something coming through the woods, but a long way off. Guess it could have been a boat… maybe a plane. You know how sound plays tricks.”
“From which direction?”
“Hang on, let me catch up. Wish to hell I’d’ve brought some water. You were right about these-ouch-these damn mangroves.”
I cut a walking stick and waited. When I got a glimpse of his red sweater, I continued up the mound, trying to avoid the game trail. On both sides, though, briars were so dense, I was forced to follow its course. Every few steps required effort. Ficus trees grow by dropping vertical limbs to expand their radiuses. The limbs were spaced like latticework and dominated the lower regions where gumbo-limbos towered. Again and again, I swung the machete, advanced a few yards, then swung again. The air was crisp but warming. I, too, began to sweat.
The mound leveled off. Ancient shells breached a carpet of loam so thick, it was spongy. Over every square foot of earth, plants or moss or saplings competed for sunlight. None flourished, but all reproduced in a relentless effort to prolong the struggle.
The game trail curved inland. Movement in the low branches caught my eye. I stopped. A patchwork of colors created a slow, gelatin spiral that rustled among the leaves. I approached cautiously. It was a snake, no longer than my arm. A checkerboard of buckskin yellow and brown told me it was a young python. I did a full turn, concerned something bigger was watching, then moved close enough that I could have prodded the snake with my walking stick but didn’t. Better to wait and confirm the creature had been affected by the cold snap.
It had. The python moved as if anesthetized onto a branch. The branch gave way and the snake thudded to the ground. I feared the impact would awaken the thing. Instead, it lay motionless for several seconds, then muscle contractions began to spiral its body into a slow coil.
I used the walking stick to poke it a few times. The python did not respond. It might have been dead.
After one swing of the machete, it was… or soon would be.
Whether fish, fowl, or reptile, I am reluctant to take a life. This was different. The animal I’d just killed was killing the Florida I love, choking the life out of her, one native species after another.
If not for my doubts about Martinez, I might have called him over, let him see that my confidence had ballooned after the encounter, which was true. If a small python was comatose because of the weather, a snake with a much larger body mass would be the same, or more so.
The game trail became a more comfortable path but no easier. It curved inland, where I stopped again. In the distance, a dusty column of yellow light suggested there was an opening to the sky. Suddenly, I craved air. Using the machete, I hacked my way toward it, so fixated I almost failed to notice what lay on the ground nearby.
An orange.
I made certain of what it was before hollering, “Found one!”
“You found the tree? That’s… Shit, I can’t keep up with you. Give me a minute. Geezus… these bugs.”
Downhill, to the right, the muted crackle of branches told me he had lost my trail. I yelled, “Follow my voice,” and said it again as I knelt to pick up the orange. Its skin was knobby, which was typical, and the fruit was firm. Juicy, too; deliciously sour when I split it open.
I looked up, scanned the canopy but saw only a cavern of leaves. My eyes moved toward the column of dusty light. It drew me like a magnet. The machete provided the means. When I was closer, I stopped and marveled: there, suspended in a high haze of green, clusters of oranges asserted their right to sunlight. They glowed above a darkened stage. More lay on the ground near the trunk of a massive fallen tree.