Murkmaid and the Swamp Puppy (Part II)
~ There is one thing Tricia wants to know about the Okefenokee: Is it true that if you drink the water from the swamp, you’re cursed?
Read the first installment, if you haven’t yet:
The last time my heart beat so loudly was probably — actually, I couldn’t think of a time my heart beat like that. It seemed to echo and reverberate in the trees. I’ve never done psychedelics, but the way my pulse thrummed in my ears made me feel off-balance. My vision did this funky thing where each time my heart tha-thumped, my eyes switched back and forth out of focus on this alligator that crouched in front of us.
It cocked its head and then, slowly but deftly, turned in the direction of the swamp.
“I think it wants us to follow,” I said.
“Follow the alligator?! Are you trying to get us eaten? Are you crazy?!” Coleman’s voice was an octave higher than normal. I guess he really did only like gators when he was shielded safely behind his camera lens.
“Yup,” my mouth uttered before my sanity could speak. I couldn’t tell Coleman why I thought the gator wanted us to follow. It’s not like I fancied myself Dr. Doolittle and I could hear our uninvited guest talk or anything. Some instinct said to do it, like a fight or flight in reverse. Go or get screwed.
The swamp puppy started walking. Our flashlights bounced with each harried step as Coleman and I tailed the reptile. For something that size, it sure could get a move on. It led us deeper into the woods for who knows how long, looking back every so often to ensure we were still there. Coleman kept up a constant stream of grumbling beside me. At some point on our trek, the ground changed. My footsteps softened against something mossy and cushioned, like a playground cover. Our pace slowed; the world took on a tilt that I shifted my weight to counterbalance and keep from tipping over.
“The Land of the Trembling Earth,” I said sagely. Or, well, as sagely as I could, given the circumstances that we were following an alligator into a wild swamp after dark and couldn’t see where our feet would land. Coleman just kept cussing me out under his breath, his vocabulary more colorful now that every step had us catching our balance. Eventually, the light from our flashlights was joined by a warmer glow in the distance. A fire, maybe?
No, I figured out a few yards later, not a fire, but an entire tiny house with those old-fashioned oil lamps burning in two windows! My cousin ceased his grumbling and asked, “Who in their right mind would want to live buried in the Okefenokee Swamp?”
The gator paused next to a narrow, well-worn footpath lined on both sides with sturdy sticks stuck feet-deep into the peaty bed underneath us. At the end of the footpath, which I guess was more of a bridge, was the house. It was built log cabin-style out of thick cypress and other trees, with a roof made from branches and leaves that over the years became stabilized and strengthened by growths of moss.
I led Coleman onto the footpath. The sticks’ purpose was immediately evident — handholds so we didn’t fall over. Our guide, meanwhile, eased itself into the mirrorlike black water and swam alongside us. The front door swung open just as the swamp puppy emerged, glistening wet, and Coleman and I took final, shaky steps onto the far more stable island.
A woman, silhouetted in the backlit doorway, put her hands on her hips and glanced from the gator to us.
“I wasn’t sure he’d find you again,” she called out. “Come on in, then.”
Her voice reminded me of Forrest Gump, with its lilting but staccato cadence. To my surprise, she held the door open for the gator after Coleman and I crossed the threshold.
Inside, it was a little warm and stuffy. A fire was going, or had been, anyway, because I could see glimmers of red glow in the low embers. She must’ve been cooking recently, judging from how it smelled like herbs and maybe chicken.
Neither my cousin nor I had spoken yet. I redirected my gaze to the woman and instantly wished I hadn’t. In the light, she could’ve been any age from seventy to ninety. Her skin shriveled in prune-y rivulets and creases from the edge of her forehead to what I could see of her too-thin arms and legs, visible under a threadbare gray tank top and cut-off Levis. The shorts were a size or two too big, so she’d hauled them over her bony hips and secured them with a belt that was more like a length of nautical rope. Frizzy white hair streaked with darker grays looked sun-bleached compared to her tanned skin. She was tall, too, and barefoot, thin lips pursed as she appraised us with the one good eye situated atop her gaunt cheekbones. Both her eyes were a cranky shade of brown, but only one was eagle-sharp in its stare. The other eye, clouded with cataracts, swiveled and wandered like it wasn’t attached right.
It was hard to tell if she was a hippie or a hedge witch.
“I’m Tricia. This is Coleman,” I introduced us, not knowing what else to do. But I did know that on the off-chance Mom and Daddy found out I hadn’t been on my best behavior for an elder, I’d never hear the end of it. Coleman nudged my shoulder, his way of silently cursing me for dragging him into whatever the hell this was.
“Edna,” the woman said. She jerked her head toward the gator. “That there is Sharptooth.”
Apparently, Edna had been expecting us, though I couldn’t determine how or why.
The gator brushed my leg as it moved toward the fire. I watched it stretch out on the smooth wooden floor, in a spot more worn than the boards around it.
“Is there a reason Sharptooth went looking for us?” I asked, finally thinking of something to say. The good eye fixed on me and I felt too vulnerable to weather its gaze.
Edna’s pursed lips cracked into a smile. “Is there a reason y’all came looking for me?”
“Looking for you? I’m sorry, ma’am, but I’ve never heard of you,” I stammered. “We were just — I mean, there’s this story — I wanted to touch the water. That’s all. We didn’t know anyone lived here.”
Her smile became a beam. “The Okefenokee knows. And because I am the water and so are you, that makes us kin. Family’s always gonna find each other.”
“I think I’m missing something,” I replied.
“Then sit,” Edna directed. She pointed to the middle of the room where a rickety table and chairs stood. “Y’all want a Co-Cola?”
For some reason — maybe it was the oil lamps in the windows — I thought we’d time-traveled during our walk. Her offer of Cokes, which felt too modern for this cabin, threw me for a loop.
“Uh, sure,” I answered for us. “But how do you have Cokes?” There wasn’t a refrigerator in sight.
“I may be the Murkmaid of the Okefenokee, but that don’t mean I don’t like a little store-bought treat every once in a while.” She opened a cabinet and hauled out an old ice chest, from which she pulled two cans of brand-name Coke. “Where y’all from?”
Astonished, Coleman and I drank and made the usual small talk for a couple minutes. We learned Edna got the Cokes on her twice-monthly store run. She lived here and either grew, fished for, or trapped most of what she ate, living a lifestyle older and more primitive than even Granna’s childhood.
“Do the park rangers know you’re here?” I blurted.
She chuckled. “‘Course they know. Wouldn’t be much of an Okefenokee left if I wasn’t.”
“What do you mean?” Coleman asked.
Edna looked at us like we each had two heads. “‘Cause I’m the Murkmaid.”
This woman was off her rocker. “What’s the Murkmaid?” I inquired. She’d mentioned it twice now, like we should know a lot more about her than we did.
“Are y’all really telling me that you came looking for me by accident?” Her multi-directional gaze was again intense.
I closed my eyes to block out the embarrassment as I admitted, “Yes ma’am; we’re only here because I wanted to know if the water was cursed. A girl I know said it was.”
“Shew,” Edna laughed. The hardness of her gaze lightened. “You do know the story, but your friend skipped some details.” She settled further into her chair. It creaked under her weight, as if Edna herself might’ve barely topped a hundred pounds, but she carried some invisible burden that could only be seen when she interacted with another object.
“Murkmaid is what they started calling me when I stopped milking cows and devoted my life to protecting the magic of this place,” she said. “Folks say I ain’t right in the head, which is on account of my eye from the time I got kicked in the face, but also ‘cause it didn’t matter how much money those big wigs want to shell out. I was gonna keep the Okefenokee intact.”
“So the water’s not cursed?” Coleman asked at the same time I gasped, “The legend’s about you?!”
Sharptooth tapped its front paws like we’d made it laugh so hard it’d slap a leg if it could.
“The story’s about me, sure,” Edna allowed. “‘Cept I’m not sure I’d go calling it a legend. Seems like it took on a little life of its own. I’m not legendary; I’m right here.” She opened her arms wide.
“So, what’s the whole story?” Coleman, to my surprise, pressed her. “How did you really come to live here?”
It took a long minute or so before Edna replied. She turned her good eye first to Coleman, then to me, then to a spot on the far wall behind us. The other eye’s spinning became, for what it could, more focused. I couldn’t break my own gaze from it, even when Edna started speaking …
A musty, salty-sweet smell ran up my nostrils. Manure. The barn looked old, but — I leaned in the dim light to read a label on some robot-looking thing hanging on the wall — the milking machine appeared to be a more recent addition. No cows to speak of; it was oddly quiet. Cobwebs fluttered between rails and boards, but there was no breeze except for my breath. No cows, I observed again. What was I doing here?
I ran a finger across the dusty board closest to me. It left a brown stain. I wiped my hands against the heavy-duty dungarees that shielded my legs. Wait. Dungarees? I’ve never in my life worn dungarees. Whose clothes was I dressed in?
Shadows increased. I glanced up at the dirt-crusted window in the dairy parlor. Sunset. I should go now, get out while it was still light, when I could see where I was going. I knew I was alone, but I couldn’t shake the hair-on-the-back-of-my-neck feeling that some sort of energy was urging me on, pushing me out the barn door and into dusk. Making sure that I didn’t stick around, inflicting me with a sense of anxiety about this timeline I was now operating on.
Outside, a sky-blue Schwinn was propped up against the barn’s exterior. I turned a full circle. Nothing about my surroundings looked familiar, but instinct said I’d been here before. There was an awareness of recognition. It argued in my subconscious with the urgency, part of me wanting to remain in this safe, silent space and another part bleating to go, go now, before it’s too late!
“Too late for what?” I had no one to ask.
I yanked the bike upright and climbed on, riding a path that, like the barn, was something I recognized despite logic telling me I’d never been here before. The pedals swirled under my feet. I was wearing rainboots, burgundy colored like they’d once been red but darkened with age. They didn’t bend easily or well as I moved my legs.
The air was sticky and slow, biking through butter. It was hard to tell if I was moving. There was still no breeze to break up the humidity. Longleaf pine and slash pine, pond pine and spruce pine, cedars and pignut, cottonwood and overcup oak — endless shades of greens, browns, and grays that blurred together in the periphery of my tunnel vision as my pedaling picked up pace. It was like the backdrop of trees I suddenly knew all the names of was part of a movie set; as if the Schwinn was a Peloton and some Hollywood handyman was in the wings pulling a great painted tapestry to give the illusion that I was going somewhere. Might as well have been. I biked on impulse, following this road on this bike with no idea how I got here or where my destination would be.
My mindless ride became meditative. No cars on the road, same as there had been no cows in the barn. I was isolated, alone —
— and sprawling, spinning, colliding first with asphalt then gravel road shoulder and finally, ditch. The sky-blue Schwinn lay abandoned, front wheel rolling in midair, slowing down. Click, click, click … click, click … click.Silence.
An owl hooted. My head throbbed.
The world righted itself as I stood and brushed dirt off someone else’s dungarees. Dusk was quickly turning into dark, and as I squinted my eyes in the fading light, I learned the reason I went flying across the road was the bike chain had snapped. I knew less about bike maintenance than I did about why I wore a stranger’s clothes on a strange road.
No cows. No cars. No bike. No — I dug in every pocket — phone.
I should start walking, a part of me understood. My feet in those rainboots picked up where the bike pedals left off. I was guided again by some wild notion of destination. I let my feet move and my head, still hurting, rest. I thought no thoughts, only let myself back into that meditative trance or dissociation I’d been on during the bike ride, outwardly focused on where I was walking. Inside, though, I was a vast expanse of blank canvas, willing and ready to absorb all the wildness of this place, this journey. Why? I couldn’t tell you. It felt right and so I went with it.
As the dark settled in and sun found itself replaced by moon and stars, I found I needed no flashlight. My route was guided by more than two eyes could have ever shown me. In the absence of sight, I smelled and touched and listened my way, feet guided by a sixth sense or a ghost (How else could I explain that voice I wasn’t really hearing, the one that kept speaking in the back of my mind?). Each breath tasted like pine sap and creek water and something floral.
Fellow living things stepped alongside me, creatures I could not see, but rather sensed, their curiosity at my presence not unlike being the new kid at school. I should’ve been scared, but I felt comforted instead.
Who is she? I could almost hear them whisper.
One of us, I knew others whispered back.
My journey was divinely led. As we walked, I and this growing cadre of guardians, the certainty of this notion cemented in me. A water snake slithered beside me for a time. Then the delicate tiptoe of a deer, the near-hushed wings of birds and bats. Each leaf that brushed my arms was as familiar to me as a photo in my childhood bedroom. They were telling me, “Hello!” and “We knew you’d come!” This was a family reunion. Chosen kin, but kin nonetheless.
Our arrival was preceded by the proclamations of a thousand insects, indicating the true regality of this night-blessed procession. I may have been wearing dungarees and rainboots and this atrociously flowered short-sleeved blouse (which until now, when the moonlight streamed just right through the interlaced tree branches, I hadn’t realized I had on), but I felt like a queen.
No. “Queen” wasn’t right. “Queen” indicated a form of ownership and subversiveness of others. The word, which had come so quick to mind, felt wrong almost as instantly. I was no queen. I was one of them. One with these beings that picked their way through the soft land with me. The sense of place I felt was belonging, walking up a moonlit driveway lined by trees and things unseen.
I would die for this place. I would speak for this place.
It had a voice. A cacophony! Songs and hums, buzzes and cries and screeches and hushes! And yet, no matter how loud the noise, not enough listened.
How could anyone want to harm my family? How could anyone aim to erase this place? It wasn’t magic like in the fairytales, but magic like an unexplainable force. People had tried to hurt it: by forcing Black folks to dig channels for capitalism; by uprooting ancient bald cypress for their own greed; by running off and murdering the original inhabitants because of fear and racism and entitlement.
No more.
That — as my moonlit footsteps pressed into soft and malleable earth — was where I came in. Me. Someone who spoke in the way language would be understood. Someone who could serve as a translator for the majesty of this place. Not a queen. Not an emissary. An equal.
This land that trembled under my feet, under the rolling thunder of determined dance, was too full of riches and history and wonder to be harvested, bought, and sold by any entity outside itself. It had always welcomed all who dared to care for and not covet the unknown. To visit was to be enchanted, to become my now-distant cousin of swamp kin; our family tree borne not of branches but of knobby cypress knees around which would grow bogs and lilies and homes for soft-shell turtles larger than supper plates.
I was me and I wasn’t me, all at the same time, lost in a state of dissociation. That sense of urgency in my bones made another appearance, so onward I walked. Sweat ran down my neck and I heard mosquitoes, yet I knew they wouldn’t do anything to me. After all, if it wasn’t for me and my kind, there wouldn’t be much of a swamp for them to live in, would there? The thought made me smile.
I wondered how far and for how long I’d been walking, greeting my brethren and burying my toes in mud and peat. Someone else’s rainboots had been shucked off some time ago; I carried them in one arm after they got stuck on something. Shivers of glee arced their way up now as my bare toes touched the cool, forgiving ground.
The pace had slowed. I no longer went with such tenacity, as though I’d passed some sort of test, but I couldn’t stop. Not yet.
“I will know my stopping point when I see it,” I assured myself.
I didn’t fully understand it, this trust that was placed in me. How could I? I was just a girl who heard a legend about a place. I was nobody. Not really. And yet here I was. Feet moving. Heart beating. Head, unfortunately, still throbbing. Throbbing, though, in tandem with the echo of wherever I was. Pulses connected. My heartbeats thrust blood to my brain that moved in conjunction with wingbeats and croaks, cricket song and padding paws. An hour or two ago, I might have called myself “lost”, but in reality, I’d only been journeying home.
My siblings and kin began to drop off, fading into the woods and night. They were still following, though not as close, letting me approach alone. Moonlight streamed onto one of the Okefenokee’s many islands in front of me. The most apt word I could think of to describe what danced before me in the looming cypress shadows was spirits. Spirits of other guardians, those like me who were called here in some way. The incredible journey I’d spent the last few hours undertaking suddenly made utter sense: Once you got in the water, the water was liable to get into you.
No cows. No cars. No curse. A gift. I knelt to cup my hands as the sun began to rise.
The moonlight shifted from silver to the gold of a fireplace, and I blinked to clear my eyes. My hands were cupped around empty air, dangling awkwardly above my lap.
Edna stood in front of me and Coleman, whose hands were positioned like mine. “That’s the real story,” she said, “of how they quit calling me a milkmaid and decided being the Murkmaid suited me better. Reckon now y’all might understand.”
She held cups of khaki-hued water out to each of us.
I met my cousin’s eyes. “I reckon we do,” I said, and accepted the glass.
Just like she had done all those years ago, just like Matthew did just a few hours before, we raised the swamp water to our lips, and drank.
For more information on how you can help protect the Okefenokee from proposed strip mining and preserve its magic for generations to come, visit the Georgia Rivers website.
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