Randy White - Seduced

“I bet God hasn’t been here in a thousand years,” Jake had said when we finally broke free into sunlight.

That’s the way I remembered the place: no human spoor; palm hammocks and black mangroves a hundred feet high that shaded basins of clear water; rivulets that dropped off, black and deep, near the bank.

“See that tall stretch of trees?” I said into the microphone. “Head for that.”

We flew low over the water and turned back. When we did, I spotted a twisting scar in the mangroves. The passage my uncle had cut still existed but was visible only from the air.

“This is it,” I said. “See those pods of gumbo-limbo trees? That means high ground, probably shell mounds.”

“Which one?”

There were several pods of gumbos along a series of watery switchbacks.

“I don’t know, but we picked oranges on one of those mounds. All I remember is how thick the brush was hiking in-you couldn’t see the sky for all the thorns and vines. And the birdlife-birds everywhere. There seemed to be egret or ibis nests in every tree. I would’ve never found this by boat. Even if I had, we’d have had to cut our way in. A canoe is what you’d need.”

Roberta replied, “When I’m wrong, I admit it. I didn’t think we had a chance in Hades of finding- Hang on…” She looked at home wearing earphones, one hand on the yoke while she paused to punch buttons on the GPS. “I’m saving these numbers for when we come back,” she explained.

I assumed she meant there wasn’t room enough to land, which was a relief. “I told you it was a narrow stretch of water. How much muck, that’s the big question. I’ve heard of places, you sink to the waist. People can’t free their legs because of the suction, so they-”

“There’s plenty of room to land,” she cut in, her focus back on flying the plane. “What I meant was, you were right. There’s nothing around here but swamp and saltwater for miles in every direction. If the Spaniards planted citrus, there might be clones-and there’s not much chance they’ve cross-pollinated with modern trees. Wouldn’t that be cool?”

We landed.

The first spot we tried was deceptively easy. Roberta stayed with the plane. I slogged in alone, thinking it was the fastest way to check an area where several shell hillocks dotted the mangroves. Muck was ankle-deep for twenty yards before I hacked my way inland for a quick look.

“This might take a while,” I said when I got back. I climbed onto a pontoon and sat for a moment, breathing heavily. “The hardest part isn’t getting through the mangroves; it’s cutting through to high ground. First there’s a wall of catbriers, and there’re so many strangler figs-those prop roots they drop? It was like squeezing through bars. And mosquitoes-my lord, they’re worse than the last place.”

“No signal,” Roberta said, looking at her iPhone. “Why am I not surprised?” She placed it on the dash and looked past me through the open door. “I don’t see any bird nests. In fact… I don’t see any birds. You said there were ibis and egret nests everywhere. I wonder what happened?”

Odd… I had noticed the same thing, but only as awareness that something-I wasn’t sure what-was wrong about this place. No birds. No raccoon scat, or even gopher tortoise holes, had I seen. Their presence would have been dismissed as commonplace. Their absence, however, had registered in my subconscious as shadow knowledge-a potential warning.

A tendril of breeze furrowed the water’s surface. The rented plane swung a few degrees in search of air.

“You’re okay standing on the pontoon,” Roberta said when I was holding on to a strut, then yelled, “Clear!” and she started the engine.

The next low rise was around a serpentine bend. Our prop kicked spray; pontoons flooded a wake ahead of us. Among the flotsam we pushed to the bank was proof that feral citrus grew here. I’m not sure who saw it first, but we both yelled, “There’s an orange!” at the exact same instant, so precisely in synch that we were laughing when Roberta killed the engine. All the while, we stared with affection at that solitary piece of fruit. It bobbed along beside us, just out of reach, then disappeared beneath a wall of leafy green.

“Now all we have to do is find the tree,” I said.

I set a small anchor while Roberta did another search through her bags, her movements quicker because she was excited. “Wish to heck I’d brought that machete. Oh well, doesn’t matter. I’m going in this time. I don’t care how thick it is-I can’t let you get all the credit when we win the Nobel Prize. What do you think it’ll feel like to be rich?”

Here, in this remote place, money didn’t matter. The missing machete did. I had no idea how much-or, perhaps, I sensed the importance, but, again, in the back of my mind. It was a niggling awareness of danger that was signaled not by the presence of wild creatures but by their absence, and by the encroaching gloom of shadows and black water.

I said, “Why don’t you stay with the plane-just until I’m sure it’s okay.”

Roberta’s head reappeared above the seat. “What do you mean, ‘okay’? Did you see something?”

Not one living thing had I seen. “Could be gators around,” I said. “That’s all I meant. We don’t want to both be halfway to shore if a gator surfaces.”

“In saltwater?”

“Sometimes. Or a croc. There’s probably nothing to worry about, but why not be extra-careful now that”-I stopped before mentioning her pregnancy-“now that we’ve found what we’re looking for?”

She didn’t notice my near slip. “Geez, talk about a nightmare scenario. A gun is what I should have brought. Hey”-the girl who had once led show cows into an arena grinned-“are you actually worried or just trying to scare me?”

The words of my friend Birdy, the deputy sheriff, were replaying in my head: Always carry. Always, always, always…

Yet, I said, “A gun’s the last thing we need, flying around in an airplane.”

I slipped off the pontoon and tested the bottom before risking my full weight. It felt as springy as clay. I’d cut a walking stick at the last stop. I speared it ahead of me and took a long, sliding stride, as if skiing. In my fanny pack was a trowel for digging seedlings and a large net bag for storing oranges. In my right hand was a machete I’d taken from my uncle’s toolshed. It was old, with a leather wrist thong, the blade as long as my arm and very, very sharp. After another sliding step, I became more confident. I’d feared the springy bottom was a false crust, but it seemed okay.

“I’ll bring water and the bug juice,” Roberta hollered. “I’ve got that little camp shovel, too, and some other stuff we might need.”

I glanced back and saw that she was already in the water, hip-deep, with the plane floating high on its pontoons behind her. The shoulder pack she was lugging looked heavy. When on foot, I prefer to travel light. Two trips can be faster than one if the terrain is rough, but, outdoors, companions must be allowed to make up their own minds.

I quickened my pace. What I’d said was true: it was unwise for us both to be in the water at the same time. A few steps later, the bottom softened and began to fall away. Rather than resume my sliding technique, I lunged toward shore, which was only a few body lengths ahead. It was a mistake. Beneath my feet, the rubbery crust broke. A step later, I sunk to my knees in a pudding of muck, the first low branches of the mangroves just out of reach.

I turned and called to Roberta, “Go back, there’s no bottom here.”

Too late. She was already bogged down because of the heavy pack on her shoulder. Nor did she have the advantage of a walking stick. I watched her struggle for balance, then she made a humorous whooping sound and fell forward with a great splash. My friend floundered for a moment-more wild splashing-and righted herself, her hair dripping and both arms black to the elbows with mud. “Next time, I’ll learn to listen to you,” she laughed.