Black Mangroves – Part Two
A Myles Moore Story
If you missed Part One, read it here.
Myles took the front seat of his canoe as the sheriff and deputy did in theirs. Something felt awry, an itch in the back of his brain. That itch had kept him alive on the job that led him here, and it usually meant he was missing something important. Myles reckoned that at this point he was missing a few somethings.
Nodding at the men behind him, he took up a paddle and pushed off from the dock. The boats fell into single file, with the sheriff and Jasper in the lead and Myles in the back. The town sat at a convenient junction in the swamp. An easy journey downstream would eventually lead to Parish-by-the-Sea, and a strong paddle in most other directions would find good hunting and fishing in the wilderness.
The sun was high overhead as they set out but dense weavings of branches and vines mostly hid it from view. The beams of light that did pierce that canopy glittered where they struck the gentle waters. Birds sung and the buzz of dragonfly wings muffled the air. Casual conversation between paddlers continued for a while, but faded off as they settled into the rhythm and effort of propelling the boats through the heat of the day. Myles kept a constant eye on the water beneath him as he steered, watching for gators and snakes. He made no conversation.
After about an hour, the twelve’s labor led into an old and untamed region of the forest. Gnarled roots, half-submerged in mud, choked the waterways and slowed their pace. Reeds sprouted wherever enough sunlight consistently reached the swamp-bed and loose mud congealed around them. Paddling close to those patches stirred up the dirt, clouding the water and obscuring Myles’ lookout. Though he did his best to steer around those clusters, the two boats before seemed unconcerned with visibility and often kicked up the mud before he had a chance to prevent disruption.
That itch in Myles’s brain returned, prompting him to take fresh stock of his surroundings. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, clearing his mind. When he opened them again, anyone watching closely might have noticed that his irises had turned to mirrors, reflecting the bayou before him in perfect inversion before fading back to their normal deep brown. What was different? The itch persisted as the wanderer took in the swamp with new eyes. It struck him, not the sight, but the sound. The perpetual chorus of birds and frogs and buzzing things, so constant it had faded into his mental background after a half-lifetime in this watery part of the world, had fallen silent some time ago,
They had crossed a threshold some time back. Myles cursed himself silently for not noticing. It had been some time since he’d dealt with such deep-rooted magic, woven through the trees like creeping vines. This was not the work of a hedge witch, some bandit with a spell or two bought off a priestess in the graveyard district of Parish-by-the-Sea. No, this was true stuff, the work of a serious magician. Without slowing his paddling, Myles shrugged his shoulders, checking the weapons at his back. Still there, of course, as they had been for years. They only left their places to be cleaned. Or used. Nonetheless the confirmation of their presence reassured him and he moved forward with renewed vigilance, keeping one eye on the water and another on the trees. The forest was darker now. Branches just a bit more gnarled, bark a bit paler. Perhaps it was the shifting light but the canopy overhead seemed more black than green.
A signal went up from the lead canoe, after a while more paddling through the hot, silent swamp. Full stop. The sheriff circled his boat around to face the rest of his men.
“We’re getting close now. According to Jasper, there’s a clearing up ahead. The house is right smack in the middle of it. We’ll go ahead and scout out with Mary here. If there’s any lookouts, she can take them down quiet-like.” Mary hefted her bow and nocked an arrow. Jasper sat in sullen silence between her and the sheriff. “Y’all stay here for just a few minutes.” With a confident nod, the sheriff turned his canoe and led it out of sight into the moss-colored darkness ahead.
The remaining eight sat quiet, save the occasional scratch or cough. Myles kept a careful watch while the rest fidgeted. He knew a few of them, had encountered them on his previous business or shared a drink in town. Good folk, hardened by life near the edge of civility but kind and generous with their friends. Few of them had ever used their weapons on anything human or nearly human, but they all know how to use them. This far up the Delta, plenty of things were deadly. Those who couldn’t handle themselves didn’t last long.
Finally, the sheriff’s canoe reemerged from the deep shadows ahead. “Good news and bad, folks. No hide nor hair of any lookouts, so we can get into position. But that means they’re likely all holed up inside the house, so be careful, alright? We’ll bring the Carsons home yet.” The sheriff spoke with conviction as the radii of sweat constantly expanded across his shirt. “Now, the clearing looked kinda circular, so think about it like a clock. Deputy, if you’ll loop to the right, about two o’clock, Mister Moore can make his way left to ten. Jasper and I’ll go right up the middle. Sound good?” A chorus of nods and “yessirs”, but the sheriff only looked to Myles. Myles gave him a nod but kept his thoughts personal. The plan wasn’t exceptional, but if this turned out to be something darker than bandits, and that itch sure made him think it was, he figured it gave them a chance at escaping.
Literally me when these drop: https://i.kym-cdn.com/photos/images/newsfeed/001/852/210/260