VOICE FROM THE SWAMP
By Jean James
The morning was mine. My husband wouldn’t be back till lunchtime and our two boys, Floyd and Frank, had gone fishing at the small lake where we’d fished the day before. It was less than a mile’s walk from our motel, down a dirt road that dead ended at a fish camp, so I wasn’t worried about their safety. I took my laptop and cup of coffee out onto our room’s screened back porch, determined to indulge in a few hours of writing.
The view was pleasant, with loads of flowers and trees around the motel. A dark swamp, oozing mystery, backed up to the motel’s property. It was a perfect view to inspire a great novel. I’d only been at work a few minutes when I heard what sounded like a distant cry for help from the direction of the swamp.
In the silence that followed I couldn’t help but think of our boys. Could it have been one of them? I’d just reminded myself they were good swimmers, and level headed, when the call came again—a hoarse “Ma-a-awm, He-e-elp!”
It sounded like our older boy, Floyd. The voice came again, and yet again. Surely it was a distress call and it definitely came from the swamp, not from the direction of the lake where they should be fishing. Had they taken a shortcut across the swamp? Had they found another fishing hole—on the swamp side of the road? Visions of water moccasins, gators, and quicksand tore through my mind. I knew the boys were in trouble. In panic I put down my coffee and ran out of the motel, straight toward the swamp.
“Floyd—Frank, I’m coming! I’m coming!” I shouted.
“Ma-a-awm, He-e-elp!” came Floyd’s voice from somewhere deep in the swamp.
I plunged into the murky waters and hollered, “Floyd, where are you?”
“Ma-a-awm, He-e-elp!”
He was straight ahead of me. I charged recklessly through muck and water and rotting debris. I called, “Floyd,” over and over again as I worked my way deeper and deeper into the swamp. Each time I called his name he answered, “Ma-a-awm, He-e-elp!” and his voice sounded more desperate as I grew closer. My heart pounded heavily in my chest and I forgot about any danger to myself. The snakes would have to keep out of my way.
The swamp soon began a subtle change. Thinning cypress trees let in more light and the water grew shallower. I could now leap from root to root. All at once the swamp ended and I plunged out onto a grassy slope. Confused, I stood there for a minute. In the distance, at the top of the slope, was an isolated farmhouse, but there were no people in sight.
Did I pass my sons by? I turned back toward the swamp and shouted, “Floyd.”
“Ma-a-awm, he-e-elp!” The reply came instantly, only not from the direction of the swamp. It came from the slope behind me.
I turned and could see nothing except a small pen under some shade trees about halfway up the rise. A black animal excitedly ran back and forth in its enclosure. Closer investigation showed me it was a large black billy goat. He alertly looked in my direction.
I studied him for a minute as he studied me. Finally I timidly called, “Floyd.” The goat immediately responded with what sounded like a gravelly, “Ma-a-a-aw, e-e-e-elp.” I called a second time and he vocalized again for me.
I slinked back to the edge of the swamp and followed the tree line until I came to a road. But I couldn’t resist hollering, “Floyd,” one last time. The goat didn’t let me down.
Addendum:
When I got back to the motel I was determined to salvage some of my morning. After I’d taken a shower and washed the mud out of my clothes, I hurried out to my balcony and my cold cup of coffee. With my hands perched above the computer keys I started to write my morning’s experience.
After two pages I stopped and just stared out at the swamp. Nobody would believe a grown woman would do something so ridiculous. And nobody had heard my goat. Maybe all billy goats didn’t make a sound like that. Maybe my billy goat had his own special voice. Or maybe I’d just heard what my imagination told me to hear.
Whatever the case, I’d better stick to fiction. People would believe that!
The end