Earlier, he had tried shooting at the small animals, rabbits, squirrels, possums, but he was a poor shot. He had only one bullet left. He would have to find a larger target, an animal that he could not miss.
He leaned against the enormous tree and waited beside the creek. Waited. He braced himself against the eerie cries of the owls and the deep-throated chorus of bullfrogs. He sat as still as the tree itself.
Finally, just as the sun began to disappear, he heard a rustling to the north. Something large was moving toward the creek from the opposite side. Quick and quiet, he waded across the salty water and tiptoed up the other bank. There, right in front of him, not six feet away, was a white-tailed deer, a buck. The deer turned and looked directly at him. For a full second, neither of them moved. Slowly, Gar Face raised the rifle and lined the deer up in his gun sight. Sweat oozed down his face and burned his eyes, but he dared not blink. The deer shook its head and turned away. The boy panicked. “No,” he gasped. He could not let this animal escape: He squeezed the trigger and fired.
At the crack of the rifle, a thousand birds rose into the air all around him. But he didn’t move. It was a direct hit. He could see the spot where the bullet entered the deer’s side, that’s how close he was. But instead of falling, the deer took flight. As soon as the bullet hit its target, the buck vanished. Alarm rose in the boy’s throat. He could not lose this animal. He could not. He gripped his father’s rifle and took off after it.
He couldn’t see the deer at all, he could only chase the sound of it rushing through the forest. He could hear the snap of limbs and hurried hoofbeats just ahead of him. He ran. Branches swiped at his sore face, tore into his skin again and again. He stumbled over roots. Prickly vines pulled at his ankles and legs, dug into his pants. Still, he ran.
His heart pounded in a drumbeat of hunger, of pain, of want, of furious want. He couldn’t swallow for want of air. Couldn’t see for want of light. Couldn’t stop for want of want. Here was want crystallized in the shape of a damaged boy. He kept running. His sides ached. Still, he stumbled through the darkness, followed the sound of the crashing deer.
How long did he run? He couldn’t tell. An hour? A night? A lifetime? All at once, he hated the deer for running, for taking his last bullet like a thief. Hatred rose in his gut. His insides burned. Once hatred brews up, it spills over. The boy’s hatred for the deer became his hatred for his hard-edged father and his runaway mother, hatred for the city he had left behind, until all of it mixed together and turned into a bargain, a bargain struck upon hatred. If the deer escaped, Gar Face knew, he would die himself, die of starvation. But if he won, then he would stay here and stake his claim. That was the deal.
If he defeated the deer, he would rule this place, this Godforsaken pit of trees and water that tasted of salt, this old and forgotten forest. Yes, this place would be his.
The stakes pushed him, drove him. Find the deer or die. He ran on. The dark deepened. All he had left was an empty rifle, a battered face, and the urgency of his very own bet. He quit feeling his aching ribs, he didn’t notice the blood running out of his nostrils and dripping into his mouth, or the blisters on his heels. He would run until he collapsed or the deer did. What did he have to lose, who would even notice? He ran.
The deer stayed just in front of him. The night spun, the Earth tilted. He gasped for air. But still he ran, ran behind the flying deer, until at last, the boy, this boy, tripped over a thick root and crashed onto his arms, scraping the skin away in a burst of pain. The rifle slid away from him and landed against the trunk of a chestnut tree.
He lay there for a full moment, the blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t hear the deer. It had escaped. A trickle of blood dripped from his dry mouth. Nothing was left. He couldn’t move. He choked up a knot of phlegm and blood and spit it out. Quiet surrounded him, filled his ears. He couldn’t even hear his own uneven breath coming in gulps. Finally his breathing slowed.
He closed his eyes. He would lay here until all that was left was bones and the ragged clothes that draped his skin. But then he heard a soft noise only a few feet away. Breathing. Was it breathing? He lifted himself onto his knees and listened. Silence. He must have been mistaken. He sank down into the thick pine needles. He was done. Every muscle in his body screamed. The night felt thick against his skin. Thick and black.
But no, there it was again. Panting. Not his own. He pulled himself up onto his hands and knees and crawled toward the sound. It had to be the deer. Just feet away, he saw its black shape lying on its side, saw the outline of its body in the deep grass where it had fallen, saw the life running out of it. Gar Face took his knife and finished it off.
Tonight, at last, he could eat. He pulled himself up and raised his arms toward the sky. That’s when he noticed that he was standing not in the thick forest, but rather in an open meadow. The sky made a dome above his hands, and for a moment a million stars blinked down on him, but only briefly, for in the short time that followed a storm rushed across the forest and obliterated the pinprick lights of stars. A soft rain began to fall. Gar Face sank down next to the fallen deer, and for the first time since he had left his drunken father on the living room floor, he laughed, a harsh and wicked laugh that made the trees shudder. The rain fell and fell, soaked into his weary, jubilant skin.
• • •
On the far side of the creek, Grandmother stirred in her deep and lonely prison. She knew all about bargains.
The prrriiiicccccce! she whispered. There’s a prrriiiccce.
22
THERE IS HARDLY anything that grows faster than a kitten. It wasn’t long before their mother’s milk wasn’t enough for them. In addition to hunting for Ranger, the calico cat now had to spend more time than ever tracking down mice and lizards and small birds to feed to her babies, too. While she was gone, Ranger watched over Puck and Sabine. The mama cat never worried when her babies were with the hound. She knew they were safe with him.
Twice a day she slipped out from the Underneath and headed into the surrounding forest. Once during the day while Gar Face slept, and again at night after he drove off.
Her calico coat was perfect camouflage in the brown and gray leaves that carpeted the ground; she took care to duck behind the friendly trees and to avoid any open spots. She did not tarry, did not linger in this Open. She would not leave her kittens for long.
Soon, she thought, I will need to teach them how to hunt on their own.
The idea of it frightened her. When that day arrived, she would have to lead them out from the Underneath, and as soon as she did, they would be perfect prey for any number of hawks, coyotes, and even raccoons. Or worse. Gar Face’s image flashed across her thoughts.
My babies will have to be clever, she thought, clever and brave to survive out in the Open. Until then, she and Ranger told them over and over again. “Stay in the Underneath. You’ll be safe in the Underneath.”
23
BUT BEFORE PUCK and Sabine could be clever and brave, they had to be . . . kittens! Here was Sabine, hiding behind the old wooden fishing traps, the same gray color as her coat.
Then . . .
Quiet. Oh so quiet.
Sabine made herself small. Oh so small. As small as a mouse. As small as a cricket. As small as a flea.
She crouched down low. Oh so low.
Her paws tingled. Her ears twitched. Her tail switched.
Patient. Oh so patient . . . until . . . Puck . . .
Unaware. Oh so unaware.
And . . .
Attack!!!
Here was Sabine the mountain lion! Sabine the snow leopard. Sabine the Siberian tiger. Up on her back legs! Front paws raised!
Hiiissssss!!!
No matter how many times she did it, she always caught her brother by surprise. Puck’s fur stood on end. Then Puck stood on end. The chase was on!
Now here was Puck. . . .
Inside the heavy leather boot, which was deep and very dark, the darkest spot in all of the Underneat
h.
The smelliest spot in the Underneath.
Sabine will not go in there. Too smelly.
Puck waits. Smells Sabine.
She knows Puck is there.
Shhh . . . don’t tell Puck.
Attack!!!
It was Puck the pouncer! It was Sabine the pretender!
Dashes. Tumbles. Electric fur. Hisses and spits.
Whew!
For kittens, life in the Underneath was completely perfect.
24
GO BACK A thousand years and see Grandmother Moccasin, asleep in the afternoon sun, soaking up its warm rays, letting them sink into her large, thick body. Life for her was perfect too. Or at least it should have been. It might have been if she had not been one thing—lonely.
Singular. She had no twin. She had no mother, at least not one that she could recall. She had no close companion except for the old alligator, and he was not the snuggly type.
All this aloneness wore on her. Go back a thousand years and see. See her gliding among the shadows all alone. See her curled up on the flat rocks of the creeks, lonesome.
“Sister,” said the alligator, “your time will come.” She knew that he was becoming impatient with her. But it did not alleviate her loneliness. From the bank of the bayou, she watched him sink.
Once in a while, she picked up the scent from the village, the scent of humans. It did not help to know they were near. At night she heard the beating of their drums and knew they were dancing together. Holding hands together. Laughing and eating together. Together. It had been a long time since she had felt the comfort of together. Then she thought of her long-ago husband, the one who had left her for another, and she swished her long tail behind her, a whip.
Humans!
Ssssssstttttttt!!!!!
She had no truck with humans.
But she was tired of being alone.
• • •
And then one day, while she was basking on the stump of a giant cypress tree, she heard a voice she’d never heard before. “Mother!” Someone was calling her.
She opened her eyes, and there, right in front of her, was a small, beautiful snake, her skin so black it looked blue. She was a carbon copy of Grandmother herself, just as shiny, with eyes as smooth as glass. Grandmother was startled. Was she dreaming? She blinked her eyes. The tiny snake smiled at her. Who was this? Where had she come from?
Grandmother looked back at the little snakelet. She smelled her. Here was such a fresh smell, like clean air after a rainstorm. Here was such a sweet smell, like the foamy waves of the open sea. Here was a different smell from the millions of other snakes that roamed these piney woods. Here was the smell of someone just like her.
Happiness settled on Grandmother’s skin and sank into her shiny scales, down through her bones and into her very middle.
“I’ve been looking for you,” the little snake said. After so many years of believing that she was the very last of her kind, Grandmother’s heart sang.
“Daughter!” said Grandmother. And the little snake wrapped her small body around Grandmother’s chin and smiled.
25
SOME MYSTERIES ARE hard to divine. Where does a lamia come from? What kind of parents can spawn a creature who bears the blood of both snake and girl? The animals of enchantment come from long lines of other magical beings. There are those from the sea: the selkies, the mermaids, the ondines. And from the earth: the griffins and fauns, the minotaurs.
Grandmother herself had never known her own origins, so it didn’t matter to her where the little snakelet came from. All that mattered was that she was here. Here in this ancient piney woods. Together.
It was a happy time, a sweet time. During the day, they floated just beneath the surface of the clear creeks, dove down to feast on fish and crawdads, filled their bellies. In the afternoon, they clambered onto the flat rocks that jutted out over the salty creek and took in the warm rays of the sun. Sometimes they rested on the back of the giant alligator who kept his home in the large bayou that ran through the darkest part of the woods.
Grandmother called this new daughter Night Song, for though snakes are not known for their voices, Night Song had a gift, a gift passed down from her ancestors, the sirens, those enchanted singers who called to the old mariners on their ships and lulled them to sleep in their hammocks at night, to dream their beautiful dreams. Night Song’s silky voice was like those of her great-aunts, lyrical and lovely, and it rose into the air like a bird.
The song of a siren has no words, at least none that anyone can understand, except perhaps the trees, the willows and yaupons and sycamores, but no one else. Likewise, Night Song’s singing contained no lyrics, only a pure and soulful melody that wove itself around the leaves and settled into the listening ears of the other forest denizens. It was a lullaby for the piney woods, for all the beings small and large, furred and feathered, scaled and slick. Night Song’s lullaby.
Listen.
Here it floats atop the bayou’s surface. Here it wafts between the pine boughs. Here, slipping through the damp air.
Listen.
Night Song sang to the crickets and the mosquitoes, to the flowers—the jack-in-the-pulpits, the lady’s slippers, the horse-mint and water lilies. She sang for the foxes and coyotes and beavers and minks and bears and wolves and panthers. She sang for all of them. And in return, the creatures of the forest adored the small, beautiful snake. Each night, when she was done, she and Grandmother curled up together in their nest, peaceful and safe.
For many years the two lived happily, and with each passing year Night Song grew more beautiful. Her song more lovely. They might have gone on like this forever, for a snake’s life is long. Longer still is the life of a lamia, whose blood is both human and reptile.
• • •
Ten long centuries have passed. Now, in the jar, Grandmother hissed, Ssssssttttttt! Her mouth filled up with poison. Her eyes glowed in their deep, dark bed. And not too far away, the Alligator King opened his yellow eyes and blinked. He had not seen her for a thousand years, did not even know where she was. All he knew was that she would return. Someday, he thought. Sooner rather than later.
Then he sank to the bottom of the Bayou Tartine.
26
THERE ARE NO maps of this forest, so thick are the woods, too thick for any cartographer to measure or survey. Only a few, like Gar Face, know the narrow paths of deer and fox and peccaries. Just a handful know the ancient trails of the Caddo, gone now to Oklahoma and Mexico, where the roads are easier to find.
Only those who earn their keep by trapping and skinning the mink and bobcats and raccoons know of a hidden road where a single pickup truck can carry a hard-edged bitter man to an old tavern where the barkeep will offer up something hard-edged and bitter to drink in return for the skins of those forest creatures. Once a trading post for the French, there are still no electric lights, only the yellow glow of kerosene lanterns. In the dark of night, you cannot see this glow from the outside. In the light of day, the bar sits in the shadows. Only those who know it’s there can see it.
Gar Face found the tavern years ago. Night after night, he sits in the darkest corner, beyond the circle cast off by the lanterns, his hat pulled down over his face. He doesn’t join the few others who know this place, the others who laugh at his broken face. Instead he waits at his corner table and listens to their stories, stories of elusive black bears and nearly extinct painters. And always, always stories of alligators.
Now, here in this run-down tavern along a hidden road, he sips the black rum that burns as it slides down his throat, and smiles. The hundred-foot alligator of the Bayou Tartine swims through his thoughts as he empties his bottle. He gazes at the other hunters and knows that soon his story will best any that they can muster. Soon.
27
RANGER WATCHED THE kittens. Here they were, his Puck, his Sabine. He wasn’t their father, true, but he might as well have been. He felt like their father. He did all those father things?
??he helped them with baths, he fussed at them when they got too close to the Open, he told them funny stories. And what else does a bloodhound do? He sings, of course. But instead of singing the blues, Ranger made up a song just for his kittens, and every night before they went to sleep, he lifted his head and bayed. Every night.
Like the sweet moon keeps the sky
Like the wind goin’ whooshing by
When those ol’ sunbeams break the day
I will keep you while you play
Just as ol’ river keeps the fishes
And little stars keep silver wishes
Just as the ocean keeps the blue
I will stand here close to you.
When all around is dark and deep
When them ol’ shadows slowly creep
Even when you’re fast asleep
It’s you I’ll keep, it’s you I’ll keep
No need to cry, no need to fear
I will always be right here.
I will always be right here.
Here was mostly what the kittens needed: A mother cat who fed them, a perfect place to play, and a hound who promised to watch over them.
28
KITTENS ALSO NEED to learn to hunt. The calico cat realized this. Here’s a mouse. Here’s a lizard. Here’s a garter snake. One by one, she carried these home in her mouth, still alive, and set them in front of Puck and Sabine.
A new game!
Sabine knew just what to do. . . .
Chase the mouse. Chase the lizard. Chase the garter snake.
She was Sabine the ocelot, Sabine the panther, Sabine the catamount.
Puck knew what to do too.
Chase Sabine.
29
HERE ARE SNAKES. The brilliant green water snakes, the hognose snakes, the corals and rattlers and massasaugas, the copperheads and rat snakes, the kings and garters. Some are shy. Others will chase you. Of this latter, beware the moccasin, skin so black it looks blue, mouth so white it looks like cotton. Other snakes are known to strike in self-defense. But the moccasin, she will latch on and stay there. The moccasin’s jaws are like a trap. She can snap a small branch in two, can slice an unsuspecting lizard in half, can sever a finger from your hand, or take off a toe. Beware the moccasin with her cotton mouth.