CHAPTER 7 GRETA #2
The sounds of the forest filter in. Birds cawing and wind whipping through the tall, dry grass. I can’t identify some of the sounds, low and vibrating. There’s a slithering sound and a breaking of twigs.
“Are there alligators watching us?” I ask Iron Jack.
“Not this close to the edge. They prefer to make cypress domes with deeper water to attract fish as the marsh dries out.”
“It dries out? I thought the Everglades were always wet.”
“Oh, no. By April, the mud will have baked. But it’s not bad yet. The water level is getting low since we’re so far out from the rainy season, but there’s still plenty of space for the fish to move.”
“I thought alligators ate bigger things.”
“They do. But hunting is exhausting. Containing fish in their territory is an easy meal.”
“Will we see alligators today?”
“Probably.”
My belly quakes. Maybe this was a bad idea. “But they’re not hungry enough to go after us.”
He shakes his head. “Not this time of year. We’re big and difficult. The Burmese python, though, that’s different.” He stands and picks up both of our plates.
Christina dashes out and takes them from him, and disappears again.
I follow him to the door. “The Burmese pythons eat people?”
He laughs. “Nah. They’ve taken over the Everglades, though. Decimated the natural population, particularly the raccoons.”
“How did they get so dominant?”
We pass through the kitchen. “They were pets that got released into the marsh, and they have thrived. They grow to be twenty feet.”
I halt as we enter the living room. “Twenty-foot pythons? Will we see one of those?”
“Unlikely.” He gestures toward the hall. “You need anything before we go?”
“Are we bringing protection? Do we need a guide? Are we going on a boat?” Everything about this outing suddenly seems like a bad idea.
“We’ll be fine.” He pushes open the front door. “Let’s ride.”
I narrow my eyes at the bike. I’m going to have to ride that thing again.
But it feels less intimidating in the light of morning. No alcohol. No pitch blackness.
When we take off, I’m less unsteady, as if my brain and body have figured out how to coordinate without setting off all my internal alarms.
My hair flies out from beneath the helmet, and the smells of the swamp are deep and earthy.
We take a back road that starts as asphalt, crumbling on the edges, then drops to gravel, then becomes packed dirt. The cypress trees tower over us, splitting the sunlight into streams as they reach into the swath cut out for us to pass through.
The motor idles down, and we slow, then turn onto what can’t be much more than a hiking trail. Iron Jack moves us slowly into the forest, shifting to avoid any jutting limbs.
I press my cheek between his shoulder blades as the light flickers between trees. I have no choice at this point except to trust him.
Eventually, the forest is impassable, and we stop.
I set my foot on the ground, grimacing at how it squishes. Maybe I should have worn Marietta’s boots.
Too late now.
I swing my leg over the back and step away to pass my helmet to Iron Jack. I peer overhead. The trees are bare for winter, the light so intense that the spindly branches start to disappear into the brightness.
It’s unnaturally quiet, as if all the forest is holding its breath, waiting to see what we are going to do.
Iron Jack turns his gaze to the sky. “It’s humbling, being here,” he says. “You realize how insignificant you are.”
It is, and I’m surprised to hear him say so.
We stand like that for so long that some of the winter birds return to their perches, small and brown, high in the branches.
There’s a splash to my left, startling me. I turn to catch sight of the most beautiful creature I’ve seen. It’s a large bird on tall scarlet legs, its feathered body a bright pink. Its graceful neck is s-shaped, topped by a small head and a long bill with a fat paddle at the end.
“What is that?” I whisper to Iron Jack.
“A roseate spoonbill,” he says, leaning toward me so his voice won’t carry. “It’s a common bird here, especially during the dry season when the fish have to congregate where there is water.”
I slowly pull my phone from my pocket to film the beautiful bird as it wanders out beyond the trees into a deeper, wetter part of the swamp. It reaches down and snags a small fish, lifting its head to swallow it down.
I tuck my phone away. After a moment, two more spoonbills appear. This must be prime fishing ground. “What a great spot,” I whisper to Iron Jack. “Thank you.”
He grins and gives a small nod.
I move slowly with small steps, closer to the deeper water. The spoonbills pay me no mind, either because they haven’t noticed me or because they have decided I’m not a threat.
The ground gets wetter, and I feel the mud sucking at my feet. My shoes might get ruined, but it’s worth it.
When I get close enough that one of them turns to look at me, I stop, holding my breath. We look at each other for a moment, me and the spoonbill, two animals in the wild. It blinks its eyes, opening and closing the big paddle of its beak.
Then it resumes fishing.
I’ve been accepted.
The connection to nature rushes through me, and my heart thunders. I feel utterly alive, standing so close. The three spoonbills continue to feed on the fish.
I could watch them all day, so lovely and elegant. The pinks of each of their feathered bodies are different, varying from pale blush to deep fuchsia. I wish I knew how to paint. I want to keep them in my mind, put them into art.
My body tilts to the left.
Uh oh. I’m sinking.
I shift my weight to try to right myself.
But I can’t seem to move.
I glance back at Iron Jack. He’s kneeling, peering down at a hole in the mud. He hasn’t noticed.
I can’t embarrass myself by getting stuck in the mud. I’ll have to get out of it before he sees what’s happening.
I wrench my leg upward with all my might. This is worse than any stretch band workout, for sure.
It still doesn’t budge.
This is bad.
My feet have sunk well past my ankles. I’ll be lucky to keep my shoes.
I have to get my leg out. I reach for a nearby branch to get some leverage. I can’t quite reach it. Damn!
The birds have paused to watch me. Do they know I’m stuck? Maybe that’s why they don’t care I’m so close. Stupid human, can’t even stand still without putting herself in peril.
The peaceful feeling is completely gone. I try to push off on one leg, but that’s a terrible mistake as I list sideways. I’ve made it worse. As my weight goes more heavily one direction, I sink faster.
I lunge for another branch, but the only one I can reach snaps quickly in my fingers.
Oh, God. Iron Jack is going to see me now.
I try to turn to see if Iron Jack is laughing at me yet, using all my strength to twist in place. I’m so deep in that my legs are stuck in position. I can’t swivel enough to see him anymore.
Is this Florida’s version of quicksand? How far down will I go?
I keep pulling, imagining my body disappearing into the marsh until only my hands are visible.
But the ground has its own ideas. Instead of pulling me straight down, I keep tilting until, finally, I start to fall. As my hand hits the mud, I can’t help but cry out. “Iron Jack!”