Joseph D’Antoni
Silent Sanction
Dedication
To the men and woman who toil in the preservation of the fragile Louisiana swamps, bayous and wetlands for the next generation.
PROLOGUE
The idyllic night reminded Wade Hanna of long, lazy summer days he spent in the swamp and on the bayous years before. As a child, Wade would bait and retrieve nets of crawfish for the pot of boiling seasoned water and the bright red crustacean feast that followed. His days of fishing and hunting in the swamps gave way to teenage years and life spent mostly in the city.
Early childhood for Wade was not all serene and filled with the natural beauty of his surroundings. He often went to bed stinging with beatings from his alcoholic mother. Wade feared the mystical creatures he was told inhabited the area around his family’s isolated camp in the swamps near New Orleans. He heard tales of Voodoo rituals that cast spells on people’s lives and influenced the future. Wade would often think about these stories when fishing alone in the swamp behind the camp.
For Wade the swamp was an escape from an unhappy home life. He was at peace in the swamp even with all its strange creatures, mystery and danger. When he looked into the eyes of large alligators close to his boat and observed the poisonous cotton-mouth moccasin snakes he understood their world. The swamp was a strange sanctuary filled with unexplained mysteries and humans that practiced old rituals but he had a comfort in those surroundings that he didn’t have anywhere else.
Wade often passed the house of an old lady when he traveled the bayou on his way to the swamp. Wade was told never to stop at the old lady’s house or talk to her. Neighbors insisted she was a Voodoo priestess who practiced rituals. When the old lady was out on her porch Wade would wave from his boat as he motored past her. She would return his wave holding up a carved wooden scepter. She always made the same strange up, down, and circular motion with her scepter as he passed. Wade took her gesture as a blessing of some kind. Perhaps it was the toothless smile of the old lady that gave Wade confidence that her ritual was a positive sign.
Wade thought he had outgrown mystical stories and replaced them with the realism of school and hard work. He no longer believed in Santa Claus, or stories of shadowy swamp spirits influencing a person’s life; he was now in his teenage years and living fulltime in the big city.
It was Monday night at Le Jean’s neighborhood restaurant in New Orleans. Wade and his friend Ed Langer both ordered the special. Both young men were born in New Orleans, and knew from early childhood that red beans and rice are always served on Mondays.
“You want Andouille or a pork chop with your beans?” Paul Boyne, owner and head chef asked.
Both Ed and Wade replied, “Pork chop, please.”
The two men continued their dinner conversation. Ed told Wade about his recent fishing trip and the new location he had discovered not far from the city.
“I found this spot in an outlet canal just off the lake. It was teaming with redfish. They were feeding with their fins out of the water near the bank. We caught a mess of reds on frozen shrimp. They wouldn’t hit on the artificial bait. I’ll take you back there. It was a blast and not far from home.”
“That sounds great. Let’s set up a time.”
Their red beans and rice dishes appeared from the kitchen. The guys were hungry and both dug in. As they ate Ed changed the subject of conversation.
“What do you think about the presidential election?”
Wade considered Ed’s question for a moment pausing with his spoon between his thumb and forefinger.
“It doesn’t much matter.”
Ed quickly reacted in frustration to Wade’s apparent lack of political interest.
“What do you mean it doesn’t matter?”
Wade looked at Ed with a questioning expression.
“All presidents elected in a year ending in zero have been assassinated.”
Ed’s mind immediately flashed to the 1960 election year. He thought about Wade’s response. His mind raced trying to match president’s names with the year they were assassinated. He started with Lincoln. The task was more daunting than Ed first thought. He caught himself staring into space. Realizing he couldn’t complete the task from memory Ed responded.
“What’s the significance of ‘zero’ in all this?”
Wade looked up from his plate and slowly responded.
“Zero is the most important digit we have. It represents a dimension where time and space intersect. It’s the only digit we have that represents the absence of everything material. It is a spiritual symbol and also the source of the ten year presidential curse. Zero symbolizes passages into the unknown where time, space and events cross. It’s not a good time for any new president to take office when the zero is in play.”
“Are you real when you talk like that?” Ed commented.
“Of course, but reality is only one layer of many intertwined within the time-space continuum.” Wade replied.
Ed was pensive about continuing this topic of conversation. He had encountered Wade’s mysterious explanations in the past and thought it would be a good time to change the subject. Ed knew there was common interest and pragmatism with Wade on the subject of race car engines. He thought a discussion of recent changes to the Chevy 350 cubic inch engine block might bring Wade back to reality.
Ed and Wade had recently renewed their friendship after many years of not staying in touch. Ed had known Wade in grade school. He knew Wade always had some strange spiritual beliefs and sometimes spoke in mysterious ways. Ed couldn’t completely understand Wade then or now. Ed thought a change in subject matter might bring the conversation back to the world he understood.
As Ed began his new topic the background music changed. Wade partially lifted his open hand toward Ed signaling a request for silence. The upbeat Dixieland jazz tune had faded into the lyrical, slower beat of “Saint James Infirmary” by Bobby “Blue” Bland. This blues recording stood up well against other recordings by many great music legends, the message, as ever, somber and foreboding. On this night, both men were happy enjoying a good dish of rice and beans as they listened in silence to the rest of “St. James Infirmary”.
After they ate, the two men started walking back to Ed’s car which was parked three blocks away. Wade seemed preoccupied. He could not stop the melody of “St. James Infirmary” playing in his mind. The street lights flickered before broadening their full green luminous glow. The sun was slowly sinking below the horizon as the men walked in the muted evening light.
Wade suddenly stopped in his tracks. Looking down, he saw a bird’s nest a few inches from the toe of his shoe. Another step and he would have crushed it. He carefully picked up the fragile structure, turning it to admire the intricate weaving of twigs and grasses. Any inhabitants had long since vacated.
“Look at this.” Wade said, turning his hand slowly under the street light so Ed could admire the artistry of the woven structure. He continued, “All this was done by a creature whose brain is half the size of a pea.”
“Amazing complexity. Perhaps it’s a sign?”
Wade understood what Ed meant. Bird nests were frequently used in mystical rituals by the spirit worshipers in New Orleans’ early culture. Wade carefully put the nest back in a high crook of the nearest tree.
“Why did you put it back?” Ed asked.
“I don’t know — maybe it can be used by another creature, or perhaps as an offering.”
Wade mulled over Ed’s comment about the nest possibly being a ritual sign. Finding an empty nest would have spiritual significance for the future, for some people. Wade wondered, “Can people’s lives be influenced by mystical signs of things to come? Why was I the person to discover the nest? Why didn’t it appear in front of Ed’s foot? Why hadn’t it appeared in front of a person who passed under the tree earlier?”