The sun rose higher and began to heat the swamp. The rising columns of mist were replaced almost instantly by pale humming swirls of mosquitoes above the water. The Zodiac entered a bayou where the brilliance of the morning sky was almost entirely obscured by overhanging branches of trees so stout and tall they’d proven invulnerable to the winds and the flood. The waterway became a tunnel enclosed by dense vegetation.
The current in the bayou slowed as they advanced. Eventually they found themselves in a wide, shallow, virtually stagnant lake. Bull stopped the motor and raised it to keep the propeller from catching the underwater growth. On the far side of the lake, stunted trees populated the marsh, a thick forest so dense and wide, it hid everything beyond. Aerial roots snaked above the water to form the intricate knotted network of a mangrove forest. Amaia caught a flicker of movement in the shadows and reached for her sidearm. A feral hog and half a dozen of its offspring emerged from the brush and peered at the Zodiac.
One of the Cajuns raised his rifle, but Dupree stopped him. “Don’t even think about it. The last thing we want to do is let them know we’re here.”
The dark deathlike figure in the prow twitched. Her wrapping slipped down and revealed a skeletal shoulder. As the sheet slid to the bottom of the craft, they saw the splint and bulky wrapping the traiteur had applied to reinforce the metal rod and dressing from the hospital. Médora leaned forward, stretched, and clamped her bony hands on the bow.
Dupree raised a hand to caution the others not to intervene. He needn’t have bothered. Collectively, they held their breath, eyes fixed on the bizarre figure. They were repelled but fascinated by the raucous gasping breath she emitted with each tiny movement. Médora raised her rigid injured leg, pushed it across the bulky side of the Zodiac, and let it drop with a sluggish splash. Dupree nodded, lowering his hand, and signaled them to follow her.
The narrow hoofs of a feral hog could canter fearlessly through this marshland maze, but the roots jutting crazily across the swamp offered human limbs no easy purchase. Médora slipped and slid across their knotted, twisted surfaces. She advanced quicker than any of them, her splinted leg lurching perilously. The traiteur followed close behind.
Amaia glanced at Dupree, remembering his comments the previous evening. Scrambling after Médora across that twisted structure of branches and roots, they were literally pursuing a zombie. The tangle that resembled glistening, shifting black bones threatened to send them headlong into the muck at any moment.
The intense stench of wet wood, mold, and water both fresh and stagnant filled their nostrils. She tried not to think about the snakes or alligators lurking in these black mangroves. The tree trunks teemed with fire ants and poisonous caterpillars. She did her best to keep her gloved hands close to her sides. This place was hell on earth, and anyone not born to the swamps would never survive them without a guide. She’d lost all sense of time, distance, and direction, because she had to focus on every step she took. The path ahead seemed identical to that behind. She felt a stir of panic at the thought Médora might lose them.
She looked back several times for Dupree. He waved her onward. How had they ever decided to follow a nearly blind woman through this wilderness? Were they going to be trapped here forever?
Fate answered her silent plea. The mangroves thinned and revealed a broad meadow brilliantly illuminated by the intense morning sun. Médora stopped at the limit of the mangrove maze and stood unsteadily looking around. Breathing hard, they stopped to watch her. Amaia was grateful for the sudden gust of perfume from fresh flowers that unexpectedly evoked memories of another meadow in another time. She put those out of her mind and concentrated on their bizarre guide. Médora awkwardly stepped away from the knotted roots and sank knee deep into the green surface that stretched as far as they could see.
Fragrant red flowers swayed above the emerald-colored swamp grass of that wide expanse. At first Amaia thought they were some rare species of orchid, but then she realized they were water lilies, the fleurs-de-lys that symbolized New Orleans.
Progress was slow as they waded after Médora. Dupree advanced to the traiteur’s side and conferred with him in a voice the others couldn’t hear. The water was thick and lukewarm, an organic slime repugnant to the touch. And then the first thunderclap sounded. It boomed loud and immense, almost on top of them.
Here it comes.
Amaia scanned the sky. A heavy fog hovered some distance overhead. Visibility across the swamp was still unimpeded, but a dense layer of churning low clouds was closing in. What kind of sky was this? The scent of flowers became more pungent and rose around them in a perfumed surge, sweet and hypnotic. As they advanced, the water gradually became shallower. The thick mists closing overhead refracted the brilliant sunshine behind them in a strange, dazzling display that hurt their eyes and nearly blinded them. Another long, rolling burst of thunder shattered the air and continued: one—two—three seconds.
The Lady is coming. The warning echoed so loud in Amaia’s mind that for an instant she thought the others could hear it too.
She heard raised voices and turned to look. Dupree had caught up with Médora and now stood in front of her, blocking her advance. She avoided his eyes but sluggishly moved from side to side and peered about as if aware of her surroundings. Confused by the human obstacle in her path, she hugged herself and started rocking back and forth.
The shrimpers had planted themselves at the rear. Bull was talking with them. He turned to beckon to Dupree. Johnson went back to join them.
“We not going any more,” the older one insisted. “We finished!”
“But why?” Bull complained. “I don’t understand!”
“We not going more, ’cause it too dangerous.”
Johnson looked them up and down. “Don’t give me that crap. You two are tough swamp Cajuns. You knew we were looking for Le Grand. What’s the matter now?”
Clive looked behind them, wanting to backtrack, while the other man replied. “That thunder.”
“Thunder?” Johnson exclaimed, amazed. “You fellows are afraid of a storm?”
The older man appeared to take offense. “Not just a storm! The thunder. You call that normal? Look up at the sky!”
They did, and the harsh glare forced them to squint.
“Where the black clouds?” the man challenged. “Where the big old cloud full of water?”
Bull interrupted. “The storm’s still far away!”
“No, that storm right here. You not hearing the thunder? The last one make the ground shake!”
“Okay, then, it’s right here,” Bull conceded. “But so what?”
“That one a bad sign,” Clive declared earnestly. “Everybody know that.” He turned to the traiteur, who said nothing but did nod in confirmation.
Bull couldn’t believe it. “Thunder is a bad sign?”
“That thunder . . . ,” the man said emphatically and pointed up. “The sky ain’t dark, not one raincloud. When thunder come out of a sky like that, you better watch out.”
His companion confirmed it. “You see and hear a sign like that, you best not go on.”
“Ha! And why is that?” Bull mocked them. “What’re you scared of?”
The men looked at one another. “They say if you go through the swamp and you hear thunder in a sky with no storm, you turn back. The swamp spirits are in a meeting; you bother them, you cross their land, they put you to sleep for a hundred years. Maybe more.”