Shadow of the Swamp
Paul Melniczek
Wispy curls of swamp gas rose from the still waters of the bayou, thick and heavy with moisture. Thousands of insects buzzed and droned overhead, some of them grouped together in huge swarms, a singular entity sweeping above the tree tops. The air was oppressive, the dense humidity palpable on the skin of Chet Edwards as he walked towards his weathered skiff which was tied up at a sturdy wooden docking ramp. He looked down the length of the old canal into the deeper vegetation which signaled the beginning of the vast and murky quagmire, a brooding wilderness known and respected by the handful of frontiersmen who lived beneath its watchful eaves. Men who made their livelihood within its vibrant and perilous embrace, surviving the snares which lay in patient silence and existing in many different forms, some subtle, others visible to even the most unsuspecting eye.
The two room shack behind Chet was a modest home, scant on comfort but acceptable as a basic dwelling, built on fairly solid ground. But further along where the canal began, the footing soon became uncertain and treacherous. Chet lived at the fringe of a dangerous region, an area of stunning beauty, ripe with unseen hazards for the unwary and foolish. Native-born, he hailed from the nearby town of Slokine, several miles away, and the swamp had always been his home. A natural loner, Chet preferred the company of the bog’s wildlife over the more-civilized human nuisances anyway. The denizens of the bayou were to be respected, acknowledged at all times, and he felt this deeply within his heart. Such feelings had always been there, ingrained in his very nature - an admiration for the vitality thriving in the dark waters beyond, but such emotions quickly eroded when Chet confronted members of his fellow race.
Greed, dishonesty, apathy, and general disrespect were the main adjectives he used to describe the majority of townsfolk. They didn’t care much for anything beyond the limited scope of their vision. The traditional lifestyles were being replaced by the frantic pace of the younger, reckless generation. Men like Chet were a dying breed. He understood this well, accepted it as fact. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Reaching the dock, Chet unfastened the rope which kept the boat from drifting. Pausing to wipe the sweat from his forehead, his rough hands were insensitive to the soft towel. Calluses and harsh skin were the result of long years on the bayou.
The evening was unusually hot, even for the late summer season, and Chet’s black hair was soaked, the gray flecks prominent in the fading light. He stretched out his long arms, knotted muscles flexing from the movement. He stepped into the boat, which was already loaded with the necessary supplies, and he paddled away down the canal. A blue heron glided upwards, and he watched the graceful expanse of the water bird’s great wings. Nothing unusual, but he always appreciated the splendor and variety of the swamp’s inhabitants.
Working the oars, he frowned, thinking about the coming trip. Chet earned his living by hunting gators, but lately his ventures had been fruitless, returning home only with fresh aches and an empty cargo. He’d been doing this for over twenty years, and couldn’t recall things being worse than they were now.
The bayou normally teemed with the scaled reptiles, but something had abruptly changed everything. Chet needed to go out further with each venture into the deeper swamp in order to find a decent gator. The other few men of his trade complained of the same problem, voices muttering in frustration at The Green Pub in Slokine. Poaching was blamed, although no one had seen any signs of outsiders in the nearby waters. But that didn’t prove anything. Regardless of whoever it was, the hunters all agreed that he must know the landscape extremely well, able to secretly navigate the channels expertly enough to remain elusive.
But arguments were frequent at the smoky pub. Old Rob Stoner blamed it on the sewage treatment plant which was located several miles north of town. He pounded the bar top with knuckled fists in anger, but Chet didn’t believe the notion. If that was true, then there would be more indications of such in the lack of other game, not to mention the smell on the wind. The bayou flourished with a countless number of odors, perfume-sweet flowers, earthy shrubs, rotting vegetation, but nothing unusual as of late. Stinks the same now as it did two decades ago, Chet thought to himself. Nothing different here. No, it wasn’t from the plant.
And besides, there were too many environmentalists poking around in the area for them to overlook something this obvious. Although the lack of gators was affecting the local waters, there didn’t seem to be any similar stories from the surrounding towns. Whatever was going on, it was isolated to their region.
An Indian guide who stopped into the bar on occasion had sat there listening to the hunter’s complaints late one evening. Chet remembered him talking to Rob in hushed tones, his face clouded, the narrow eyes staring dreamily in the dim lighting. The old hunter laughed in contempt when the Indian told him the reason for the lack of gators. Blamed it on the swamp’s shadow, said to be the elemental spirit of the great bayou disturbed from rest, and was known to appear on rare occasion - that is, if the tale was to be believed. Seemed everyone had an opinion on the local misfortune.
Such thoughts swam through his mind as Chet glided the boat along, and the open channel of the canal transformed into a maze of submerged trees, ancient cypresses ringed about with vines and Spanish moss. High tufts of cattails and swamp grass lined the banks and sprawling water lilies emerged from the dank water, plants which thrived in the warm south bayou. A huge splash sounded next to the boat, and Chet snapped his head around in surprise.
He grunted as a monstrous bullfrog plunged into the murky depths, disturbed by the approaching boat. But it was something normal, healthy. And natural. All around him were the sounds of a world that few people ever have the chance to experience. Many could care less.
The swamp amphibians croaked their throaty calls in an endless choir, harsh and deep, the shrill cries of marsh birds piped mournfully as they hunted, and myriad hordes of insects chirped, hidden away in the distance.
Chet was at peace with himself and nature here. It sustained him, kept the grizzled hunter coming back for more each day. A loner growing up, with no siblings and without a mother, he’d been raised by his father who taught him the ways of the bayou - how to survive in it and to be ever vigilant. Here existed magnificence and treachery, both partnered casually beneath the same hazy sky. Poisonous snakes, quicksand, and most of all the dangerous gators. His father had shown Chet all these things and how to avoid them and deal with any situation. Unfortunately, his father had fallen victim to the swamp himself by drowning in a freak accident when Chet was eighteen, forcing the boy to become a man within an accelerated time-frame.
As Chet rowed along, lost in memory, he scarcely took notice of the area where he drifted. Time passed along with the miles. He paused more often now, to confirm his bearings. He reached the edge of where he felt comfortable, and went further. But it didn’t seem to bother him. The foliage overhead became denser, and the light grew dim. About an hour was left until sunset, but here the night quietly encroached already. Shadows lengthened, cracks of twilight spilling between the ancient trunks. The sun had fled, taking its warmth and cheer until the next dawn, leaving the land to fend for itself against the blanket of eager darkness.
Slowing the boat, Chet peered into the gloom, searching for a sign of his prey. He’d not seen a single gator yet this evening. Sighing, he paused for a moment, and lifted up a leather pouch from his feet, pulling out a bottle of whisky. He took a measured swig, wiping his mouth on his bare arm. He knew the limit when out on a hunt, and recalled several gator hunters who’d met with disaster from being drunk on the bayou. That was just damn stupid, he thought. Only a fool hunts while being tanked.
Resuming his motion, Chet paddled between a pair of large cypresses, their roots jutting from the water like gnarled pythons. As he floated along, an open space appeared from ahead. A pond of stagnant water lay in front, and an island loomed in the distance.
"Looks like we found a new hiding hole," he mused. "Maybe this is where all the gators been hangin’ out."
The lagoon was surrounded by more cypresses, the water’s edge ringed by towering grasses. The vegetation was lush and pure, and the area looked almost like an open-roof hall, massive and solemn. He stared ahead, a slight chill tapping along his back. Chet felt in awe, as if he’d entered into an ancient, forbidden sanctuary, sheltered from the hearts and eyes of men. He shivered, unnerved by this extraordinary place. Unused to such thoughts, he shook off the unfamiliar feelings and slowly scanned the lagoon in silence.
He continued, cruising forward and looking for a landing. As he neared the shore, there seemed to be an object partially submerged among several rocks. Drawing near, he saw that the thing was made up of long wooden planks. His curiosity increased and he glided closer, cautious and slow.
Hopping out of his boat he examined the items, and was shocked to see that it was a wreckage. Of a hunting boat. Chet tugged at the pieces, mulling something over in his mind. There was a strange familiarity to the destroyed skiff, and it took him a moment to recognize the debris. Cold hands of fear squeezed his spine as he realized the ship belonged to Rob. Unmistakable. Rob’s boat!
Alarmed, Chet slogged through the mud, working his way to shore. The markings of a swamp cat were visible on several of the planks. Rob’s own handiwork. But what had happened to the skiff, and more importantly, to its owner?
Trouble. The man was competent, a seasoned hunter. One of the best out there. And here was his boat, broken and useless.
Chet looked around, eyes catlike. His skin tingled, instinct nudging him to be extremely careful, for whatever did this to Rob’s boat might very well be in the area yet. But what had caused this? Probably a large gator - unpredictable and deadly. Taking out his double barrel shotgun, Chet scanned the island, but nothing moved. He turned around.
The waters were flat, pristine. Too quiet for his liking.
He didn’t like the feel of this place since he’d entered, an unwelcome visitor. But there had been no sign of any gators. Looking down, he searched for footprints of man or beast. Nothing. Only scattered rocks, moist earth. The dirt looked undisturbed. Certainly no indication of a struggle. Perplexed, Chet realized that something was very wrong here. The air had grown still and silent. No animals, birds, or even an insect called. The silence was utterly profound, and menacing.
The wary hunter crouched down, trying to determine from which direction lay the source of threat. He didn’t need to see or hear it - he could sense it. Only someone who had spent their whole life on the bayou could have acquired such enhanced ability, and Chet Edwards was such a person. He was keyed up, suspicious of anything and everything.
Creeping slowly ahead, the hunter moved up the shoreline and deeper into the island. The undergrowth quickly became extremely dense, tugging at his clothes, tripping his feet. Tall ferns swatted at his cheeks. He stopped as massive spider webs blocked his passage. Poisonous species were not uncommon here. Chet moved to the side, avoiding the entanglement and its unseen creator.
Frustrated, he considered his position. Anything could remain hidden there, invisible to his probing eyes. Chet drew himself up and paused, concerned by the prospect of being ambushed in the brush. He continued in another direction, avoiding the middle part of the island. Keeping an eye on the quiet lagoon, he carefully picked a way around the thicker vegetation, searching for any clue to Rob’s whereabouts.
Sunset had fallen, and the area was swiftly fading into darkness. Chet felt uneasy, and didn’t want to be out in the lagoon late at night, but he couldn’t stop yet - not without discovering Rob’s fate. It was unthinkable to leave without knowing anything, for there would be no other help for the man, alone and possibly injured in the swamp.
Chet trudged along, walking several dozen yards when he stiffened as a terrible scream pierced the air, coming from the front of the island. His hands clenched his weapon and he snapped the barrel around, bewildered and alarmed.
Gone now was all caution, and Chet hurried back towards the agonized cry, retracing his steps, his heart pounding in rhythm to every fall of his boots on the sandy ground. It had been the only noise he’d heard since entering the lagoon, but he shrugged off such thoughts as restless imagination. No time for any nonsense, he told himself. Rounding a small clump of bushes, he slowed, nearing the landing spot. With quiet stealth, the hunter snaked ahead, shortly coming into view of the skiff.
The lagoon was still, the waters undisturbed. Everything appeared the same as before. The boat floated yet, and the remains of Rob’s craft were still as he’d left them. Nothing seemed amiss. And yet there was only a terrible, profound silence. Except for the dreadful shriek, no other sound had reached his ears since entering the lagoon. Logic argued against the fact, but his senses could not be ignored.
It was getting difficult to see, and Chet knew that he had to leave. His own safety was now at risk, and there was still no sign of Rob. He cursed beneath his breath, gripped by uncertainty. Normally a confident man, he didn’t like such feelings. But what else could he do? Chet peered over his shoulder, half-expecting to see the brush part and some wild animal emerge from cover. But nothing had followed him back. He eased forward slowly, silently, until he reached the shore. Striding through the shallow water, the hunter eased into the small skiff, taking a few planks from the broken craft with him for evidence. He tried hard not to think about what had made the scream, but it was impossible.
Paddling again into the slumbering lagoon, his arms trembled, and he found himself fearing the darkness and the unknown. This land was strange to him, even malevolent. Something was not right here. Chet couldn’t put his finger on it, because there was nothing obvious. And the longer he stayed, the greater his own chance of meeting Rob’s fate.
The water lapped gently against the small boat, and for a moment Chet considered calling out, but thought otherwise. As he neared the two giant cypresses, he looked back at the island that was shrouded in mystery, hoping for any indication of the missing hunter. The moon hovered overhead, unblemished by any cloud. Even the reflection which glared off the water seemed wrong, distorted somehow.
Chet scanned the shoreline, gasping in horror, dread clutching his heart.
A large black mass moved near the edge of Rob’s boat, disappearing silently into the lagoon’s murky depths. It had been enormous, like an immense mound of living sludge. Even in the dim light there was no mistaking the monstrous figure that couldn’t possibly exist, and yet prowled the earth in that secluded swamp. Visible for only a few seconds, Chet caught a glimpse of something which defied all understanding, challenged his sanity, and awakened from sleep the darkest demons lodged within his deepest fears. But even more horrific than the very existence of such a monstrosity was the terrible victim which appeared to have been embedded into the thing’s living body -arms, legs, and Rob’s face, the eyes wide and pleading, a voiceless scream lodged within his muck-filled mouth.
The plight of the lost man was too much - impossible, an abomination, and Chet coughed up bile in revulsion, nearly tumbling into the water himself.
The gator hunter paddled away in a frenzy, arms moving mechanically as he desperately tried to leave the lagoon. His breathing was labored as he pushed weary limbs to their limits, too afraid to look back at the nightmare which dominated his every thought. Muscles groaned and limbs quaked. Time ceased to exist in his feverish mind as he journeyed through the shrouded marsh. The vision of Rob and the unspeakable entity raged before his eyes, and could not be washed away.
The grains of instinct carried him onward that hideous night, back once more into waters that were familiar, and he floated along in constant anticipation of an attack which never came.
***
Later on, Chet would scarcely recall the trip back to his home, numb with shock and fright of the ghastly event he’d witnessed. His hair actually turned lighter several days later, and he became sick for over a week, bedridden and weak. The town physician attended to him, blaming his illness on a swamp virus.
No trace of Rob or his boat was ever found, and the lagoon remained mysteriously hidden. The search was minimal, and a killer gator was blamed for Rob’s disappearance, along with the lack of other reptiles in the region. The only skeptics were Chet, who was now considered to be unstable, and the Indian guide, who still whispered in the late night hours about how Rob had fallen victim to the swamp’s shadow.
If one looked deeply into the eyes of Chet Edwards and gazed upon his haunted face, there could still be seen the lasting image of horror etched into his heart and mind, an unforgettable reminder of things which remained beyond the scope of man’s comprehension.
***