Carl Hiaasen - Nature Girl

Shreave dimmed the light, slumped low in the canoe and waited for the sound of the motorboat to fade away. Then he picked up the paddle, cursed under his breath and went back to work.

Sister Shirelle was bent over at the waist, bracing her arms against a storm-toppled pine, when she saw the light.

“Look there!”

Brother Manuel was deeply absorbed-gripping her by the hips, thrusting from behind while breathlessly invoking a deity. His robe was undone and his chest beaded with perspiration. The other moaners were well out of earshot, dancing and spinning around the fire pit on the beach.

“Brother Manuel, there’s a man on the water!”

And indeed there was a man, pale and spectral, wading across the shallows and pulling a fruity-colored canoe. A harsh pinhead of light shone from the stranger’s brow.

“Help me!” he called out.

Brother Manuel withdrew from Sister Shirelle and hastily tucked his unholy wand.

“Is it Him?” Sister Shirelle rose upright, tugging at her undergarments. “Is it our Savior, home at last from His divine voyage?”

“Hush, child,” whispered Brother Manuel. “Compose thyself.”

The man sloshed ashore and, after removing a canvas satchel, flipped the canoe to drain the water. He was garbed in a flower-print shirt and an alarming green pouch of a swimsuit, to which Sister Shirelle’s gaze was wantonly drawn.

“Are you ailing?” Brother Manuel inquired.

“Freezin’ my cojones off,” the man said. “I’d kill for one of those bathrobes.”

“What’s your name, brother?”

“Boyd.”

“And how long have you been at sea, Brother Boyd?”

“Too damn long,” the man replied through chattering teeth.

“We’ve been waiting for you!” Sister Shirelle exclaimed.

“You have?”

“Tell him, Brother Manuel!”

The self-anointed pastor of the First Resurrectionist Maritime Assembly for God was skeptical. His sermonizing to the contrary, he’d never seriously expected to run across Christ the Almighty during a camping trip in the Everglades. However, not wishing to dampen Sister Shirelle’s spiritual fervor-which often overflowed rather lustily-Brother Manuel kept his doubts to himself.

“We’ve been faithfully awaiting a visitation,” he acknowledged to the stranger, “or any holy sign from the Father.”

“Know what? I just wanna go home. You folks got a boat?”

“The hands! Behold the man’s hands!” Sister Shirelle began to hop, her formidable and unbound breasts jouncing in tandem.

With impatience Brother Boyd directed the headlamp toward his own pudgy palms, which were raw and oozing as a result of his tumble from the tree. He failed to behold the stigmata resemblance.

“I had a fall,” he explained.

Brother Manuel nodded. “As have we all. Come.”

They led the stranger down the shore to the campfire, where the other moaners ceased their dancing and fell quietly into a half circle. The women were eyeing Brother Boyd’s bathing attire in a manner that made him uncomfortable.

“Can I borrow one of those robes?” he asked. “How about a beach towel?”

Brother Manuel steepled his long pink fingers and began: “Sister Shirelle and I were praying together in the woods, communing most strenuously, when we saw a mysterious light-like a star descending from the heavens-and then, lo, this weary mariner appeared on the water. Show them your hands, Brother Boyd.”

The moaners gasped at the sight. “It is He!” exulted one of the women.

“No, wait!” one of the others interjected. “He could be that poacher-the lawless heathen we were warned about by the visitor with the boy. He was said to have a damaged hand, remember?”

Brother Boyd looked stricken. “I’m not a poacher. I’m in telemarketing!”

Sister Shirelle hastened to his defense. “But there are wounds on both His hands, not just one. And He has arrived alone by sea, exactly as foretold by Brother Manuel, bearing a cargo of forgiveness and salvation for all worldly souls. His long, lonely crossing is over.”

Another female moaner raised an arm. “What’s up with the Speedos?”

Sensing that doubt was coiling like a serpent amid his flock, Brother Manuel sidled close to Brother Boyd and whispered, “I’ll take it from here, dog.”

“Hey, are those rib eyes on the fire?”

“Sisters, brothers, listen and be joyful!” Brother Manuel commanded. “Tonight He appears to us just as He departed this world more than two thousand years ago-nearly naked, wounded and pure of soul. Instead of thorns He is crowned with light, the symbol of hope and rebirth!”

Here Brother Manuel spread his arms to righteously welcome Brother Boyd, who appeared to the other moaners as somewhat lacking in serenity.

“What are you goony birds talkin’ about?” he demanded.

Sister Shirelle gently spun him by the shoulders, the beam of his headlamp falling upon the stark wooden cross that was planted on the dune.

Brother Boyd stared and said, “You’re shitting me.”

Sister Shirelle put her plump lips to his ear. “See? We’ve been expecting you.”

“Rejoice! It is Him!” a bearded moaner crowed.

“No, He!” corrected the woman who had earlier commented upon Brother Boyd’s swimwear.

Sister Shirelle pressed the case: “Can there be any doubt that He is our Savior? Is today not the Epiphany?”

The moaners murmured excitedly, and then one spoke up: “But wait, sister-the Epiphany was, like, last Thursday.”

“Close enough!” boomed Brother Manuel.

Whereupon a spontaneous frolic broke out, the moaners twirling and gyrating euphorically around the fire. Bottles of cabernet were passed around, and before long Brother Boyd worked up the nerve to ask Sister Shirelle if they intended to nail him to their homemade cross. She laughed volcanically and tweaked his chin and said he was an extremely cute Messiah.

“I’m in sales,” he whispered confidentially.

“And a carpenter, too, don’t forget.”

“C’mon, sis, tell me-where’s your boat?”

“As if you needed one,” she said with a wink.

His headlamp illuminated the blue stenciling on the front of her white robe. “Four Seasons, huh? Not bad,” Brother Boyd remarked. “That’s my kinda religion.”

“Are those goose pimples on your arms?”

“Duh, yeah. It’s cold as a well digger’s ass out here.”

“Well, we definitely can’t have our Savior catching pneumonia. Here-” With an operatic flourish, Sister Shirelle shed the plush hotel garment and presented it to him.

“God bless you,” said Brother Boyd, liking very much the way it sounded. “God bless all of you.”

Honey Santana said, “Don’t die on me, you big bonehead.”

“Slow it down.” Perry was laid out and breathing hard in the bottom of the skiff. She’d given him Louis Piejack’s last Vicodin but he was still in monstrous pain.

He said, “You’re gonna hit an oyster bar, and this ain’t my boat.”

“Is Fry asleep?”

“Can’t you hear him? He snores worse than you.”

“Not nice.”

“Slower, Honey. I promise I’m not gonna die.”

She eased off the throttle. “Me and my two sick boys,” she said. “You with your hip shot away, and him with a concussion. Knuckleheads!”

“See the channel markers?” Perry asked.

“Sure do.”

“Remember, stay left of the red ones and right of the greens.”

“I heard you the first time, Captain Ahab. You’re still bleeding, aren’t you?”

“I got a pint or two left. Is your jaw broke?”

“It looks worse than it feels.”

“I doubt that. Was it Piejack?”

Honey nodded. “My own dumb fault. I tried to be Wonder Woman.”