Debbie Herbert - Siren's Call

Without turning around, Sam spoke. “Heard the shot. You get that coyote?”

“I did.” Nash settled on the ground close by after making sure he was clear of fire-ant mounds. Their sting was like being poked by flaming hypodermic needles. “Sorry I haven’t been to see you in a couple days.”

“You’re busy. Besides, I went years without seeing you. Two days is nothing.”

Guilt made him defensive. “You were always welcome to visit me . Why do you stay here all the time? There’s a big, wide world outside this backwoods.”

Sam stared ahead at the black water. “True. But there’s also a whole world here you’re missing.”

“Hardly. I’ve hiked every inch of this area over the years.”

“Ah, but you haven’t swam all over it.”

Nash gave him a sideways glance. “And if I did, what would it matter? I’ve swam in all the seven seas.”

The tip of Sam’s cigar glowed brighter as he took a draw.

“Should you really be smoking with your heart trouble?”

“I’m not forsaking my little pleasures. I’ve lived over eight decades, you know.”

“Yeah, but if you want to make another decade, you need to give up those things.” He pointed to the cigar with a jab of his finger.

Sam tipped his head back and exhaled a smoke ring within a smoke ring.

“When do you go back for another doctor’s visit? I want to go with you.” Guilt lashed him; months ago when Sam had undergone a triple bypass operation, Nash had been on an African safari assignment. His grandfather had recouped alone until he’d finagled an assignment nearby. Nash had sent a paid home health care assistant, but his grandfather had dismissed her before two weeks were up, claiming he could take care of himself.

“At least think about giving up frying everything in bacon grease,” Nash urged.

Sam didn’t respond and Nash frowned at the grey tinge that underlaid Sam’s olive skin. The fishing pole trembled slightly in his grandfather’s unsteady hand.

A rush of nostalgia overcame Nash. As a child, his grandfather’s cabin had been a haven of peace from his parents’ tumultuous marriage. He’d missed the summer visits after Mom had whisked him away to her home state of Massachusetts. His grandfather could have visited them, but he refused to leave the bayou. Nash doubted he’d ever been north of the Mason-Dixon line his entire life.

The pole jerked and Sam smiled, face crinkling. He detached a good-sized brim and placed it in a rolling ice chest with several others. “Fried fish dinner tonight.”

Nash shook his head. He’d suggest baking the fish but knew his grandfather wouldn’t go for the healthier option. “Ready to get home and eat? It’s getting dark.”

“I can see well enough, plus I have my flashlight.”

A knowing look passed between them. They could each sense their way in darkness. His grandfather had some of the same supernatural senses that he did, although not as strong. By agreement, they seldom spoke of it.

Sam closed the lid of the small cooler. “Let’s sit a spell afore we go. Have I ever told you the story—”

Nash almost groaned. Not another story.

“—of the Okwa Nahollo?”

“No,” he said, surprised. He thought he’d heard every Choctaw tale a thousand times, but this was new. “Does that translate to ‘pale water people’?”

“White people of the water,” Sam corrected. “Extremely white.”

An image of Lily’s soft-hued face flashed through him. He hated admitting it, but he’d missed her the past two days he’d stayed on the island.

“With skin the color of trout because they lived undersea,” his grandfather continued.

Talk about a tall fish tale. Nash refrained from grinning. “Like mermaids?”

Sam shook his head. “No. They aren’t half fish and half human. They have human form except their legs are almost twice as long as ours. Their fingers and toes are webbed and their eyes glow like some deep-sea fishes do.”

“Of course, so they can see better in dark water.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, as if suspicious Nash was amused. “Exactly.”

Nash wrapped his arms around his bent knees and stared out over the marsh. “Go on.”

“Whenever you find patches of light-colored water in the bayou, that is where they live. If you swim near them or fish near them, they’ll grab your ankles and pull you under.”

The theme from Jaws played in his mind. “So don’t worry about sharks. People should fear capture by mermaids.” Death by mermaid.

Not even a ghost of amusement lit Sam’s eyes. “Yes. Except, like I said, they aren’t exactly mermaids, although they must be closely related.”

“C’mon. I’m not a kid anymore. You don’t really expect me to believe that tale. Surely you don’t either, do you?”

“It’s passed down from our ancestors.” Sam’s eyes flashed and his spine stiffened. “Every word is true.”

Nash kept his face blank and his tone neutral. “I mean no disrespect.”

“Of course you do. You think I am a foolish old man.” Sam eased up out of the chair and stood, looking out to sea.

Nash reached up his hand and touched his grandfather’s knee. He might be a skeptic and occasionally amused at his grandfather’s ways, but he would never think him foolish. “Not foolish. Please sit.”

Sam stayed rooted, as if debating. Finally, he sat. “I’m an old man. I’ve kept in shape by walking these woods for years, but my time’s short. So while you’re here I need to explain more of your heritage.”

“I’m listening.” He felt chastened like a small child. “I respect my people and their ways. Nothing will ever change that.”

“I know it makes you uncomfortable when I speak of the spirit world. But it’s there. It’s real. Just as you are sensitive to nature and its creatures, my gift is seeing the spirits around people. They can be human, animal or plant spirits, sometimes all three.”

“Father said you chose my name because you saw a wolf spirit near me.”

Sam nodded. His serious, deeply lined face rearranged to an unexpected, wistful smile. “When you were born, I fasted three days and went on long walks, seeking guidance. The first time I held you in my arms I heard a wolf howl. I envisioned a pack of wolves celebrating your birth, tails wagging, the males wrestling one another in a show of affection.”

“So you named me Nashoba—Choctaw for wolf .” He’d heard this before, remembered Mom rolling her eyes at Dad’s insistence on naming their children with traditional names. “So how did you end up with a name like Sam?”

“My parents did it to honor a gentleman named Samuel who was good to them. He hired my father as a laborer and paid him a decent wage for the times. But my middle name is Chula.”

“ Chula means fox ,” Nash said, combing through his memory of their native language.

Sam fixed his gaze back to the water’s expanse with an absorbed look Nash remembered from childhood. He would stay in this same spot for hours in deep contemplation, the fishing pole loose in his hand like an afterthought.

“Do you think about grandmother out here?”

She’d died decades ago from a boating accident. The one memory of his grandmother was of her shucking corn in the kitchen. The room was cozy and warm, smelling of fried goodness, fresh vegetables and herbs. When he’d entered, her dark eyes sparkled in greeting. She’d dropped to a knee and held out her arms and he’d run into them. The safest, most loving, secure spot in the universe. And it was but a thirty-second memory.

“Yes. And all the others that have passed before and since.”

It was a shame he’d never remarried. Nash struggled for words to convey sympathy while not sounding like a condescending jerk. “I wish you would leave this place. At least for a few vacations. You should see new things, meet new people.”