Back in 1942.
The oldest Cottonwood trees in the Louisiana swamp lands seem to bow down, lowering their stems in servitude to the traveling creatures. Owls perch on the limbs of strong branches with closed eyes that open as the day shuts to an end.
During the day, squawking birds spread their wings, landing on a limb to look out at the overview of the marshy terrain. The smallest bird carries sharp whistles heard through the area, and most sing songs that fill even the most dreary with hope. The lazy gator sits out in the hot sun, awaiting a squirrel to come near, the deadly snakes slither, passing bumpy roots and leaving behind their textured skin in trails along their journey.
Walking upright and conscious, humans in the area run through the varmint's habitat, protecting themselves from those vicious creatures. Both are the same, searching the soil for nurturing food, gaining vitality from the rich soil, and seeking shade from the shared overhead star shining brutally in the southern hemisphere.
Those rattlesnakes and alligators live and die, and so do people, replaced with new generations. The same new beings, growing and grooming for change, crave more than the previous earthlings, wanting riches, nourishment, and love.
Whether that is the hope for the lowest mosquito will forever be a mystery. But humans crave control and power over other beings, creating a deep passion and devotion for each other and themselves.
The want for more has never changed throughout humanity. There will always be a want and desire for something other than the past we've known. It's more than unruly children escaping their parents' mild understanding of the vast world before them. It's more than a longing instinct to find their way and put tradition aside for a thrill.
Some find the answers in the past, following a path set for them. Others learn that in search of a good life, you can not believe the ancient riddles and wise antidotes passed down for generations. If you do, you may end up like the old twisted trees, forever bending to the world's limitations.
Robert, Rob, or Robbie, to the community of Crawl Rock in Iberville Parish, was trekking through the mud with a similar thought. As an only child, the dying legacy of his forefathers crossed his mind with each step he took.
His great fathers died out before his adulthood, one of which was a civil war hero almost a century ago. One great-father had even fought against the British government's rule on the American colonies long before Rob was a reflection in heaven. Even his father, the man named before him and the cause of his tall, robust physical condition, had served in the first great war, coming home a shell of a man.
Rob had fed him a spoonful of oats the day he closed his eyes to this cruel world. His spirit, Rob believed, went somewhere peaceful. Whether it was only a traditional tale, it healed his dismay from losing his last remaining family member.
Like his forefathers, Rob had thought about going overseas, leaving the small town outside Baton Rouge to see the world and fight for his country. But over there, he didn't know anybody worth saving. His sort of people were right here in America, and they needed just as much protection as the foreigners that called the second great war.
Rob stayed in Crawling Rock and joined an organization he believed was as powerful and honorable as wearing camouflage in the trenches he'd heard so much about. He was a policeman.
Rob enjoyed his job for the most part, regardless of the sketchy folks roaming around threatening his life daily. He had something they didn't have: a badge that gave him respect and pride to pin on his shirt each morning.
Rob flung a hunk of Spanish moss off his collared shirt. The once white material was dirty, along with his polished shoes. He stepped into a puddle and cursed the wetlands, shaking the dense mud from his heels.
The shack a few yards away looked abandoned, but that wasn't the case. Wooden logs marked the windows, keeping the candlelight in and the sunlight out. Some short-winged birds flew around the house, landing on the dull furniture on the porch.
Mosquitos roamed around his head, and Rob swatted at their silent attacks on his reddened skin. He had never been this far out of town. It was a haunted location, even with the sunlight poking out from the gaps in the sky. A loud croak of a bullfrog caused him to flinch. Another biting creature squealed in the distance, unnerving him so severely that he developed goose bumps that pierced his covered arms.
He was several yards away when someone retreated from the hollow opening of the shack. Despite her small stature, her voice rang out in a blare across the patch of soil, "What you want?"
Rob paused and steadied himself in the thick mud that swallowed his feet. At a loss for words, he was amazed to see her in person. There she was, the epitome of fragile, barely a dot on the slight stoop, but he had heard otherwise.
Rob had grown up hearing stories of the respect and fear she won from the locals. He knew a few fellow white people, none very religious, that visited the woman weekly for elixirs to cure their desires for more.
His desire came in the form of lineage. Rob had tried, and his wife had labored, but the pair had yet to conceive a child. Rob didn't blame himself. He was a strong man with vigor. If he wanted to, he thought, he could run around and litter the town with bastards. But Robert Campbell Jones wasn't one to cheat.
That is why, as Rob looked across the marsh at the tiny negro lady and her depleted shack, he felt the need to turn around. His father, God rest his soul, would have beaten the tar out of his only son for coming out here. But he had come this far, and running away seemed like a coward's move.
Believing himself valiant, Rob stepped up and reached his neck out to yell, "I need some assistance from ya, Mama Opie."
Holding her hand up to her brow, she yelled, stomping her foot, "What the hell do you want, boy?"
A black woman wouldn't dare talk to a man of his profession like that, but this was no ordinary woman. Mama Opie wasn't a woman at all; in his opinion, she was wiser than most he knew, kin to outer space. A sister of the dark arts, Mama Opie, was a voodoo queen.
Her authority and confidence rang out in her loud voice, "Who is you, boy?"
Another step into the muddy soil nearly made him slip, but Rob dragged his leg out and jumped over the waterhole before answering.
The minor delay followed by his quick movement caused Mama Opie to get her shotgun. She was hoisting it up for a good shot.
Opie knew good and well that the man was an officer. His authoritative tone, slicked-back hair, and creased pants gave him away from yards off.
"Go on back to town! We don't want no trouble!" Mama Opie blared, improving her stance, "Don't move another inch!"
Rob stopped his challenging tour and removed his hat to show he was a peaceful visitor, "No trouble at all, ma'am. I need your help if you're willing to assist me."
"Hell no," Mama Opie announced, pointing the shotgun at his muddy leg.
She knew better than to kill a lawman, but if he was here to start trouble, she didn't mind injuring the man. If he came for bloodshed, indeed, she wouldn't hesitate to shoot him dead and add his body to the collection of parts buried deep in the wet soil. Anyone heroic enough to try and arrest her had to battle her bullets first.
"What that sheriff sent you here for, huh? You came here to arrest me, boy?"
"No, ma'am," Rob called out, digging his feet out of the mud, his heart was pounding, but he stepped closer, "I came-"
*Boom*
The yell of the shotgun caused him to crouch, but the blasted mud was too thick and pulled him down like moist quicksand into the damp earth.
*Boom*
"Goddammit, woman," he mumbled, crawling to his feet, "Don't shoot, Mama-"
*Boom* *Boom* *Boom*
Dropping his face into a muddy puddle, Rob prayed none of the shots would connect to him.
After another round, he rolled over and yelled, "Damnit! I don't want any trouble. Don't shoot!"
"You got till I load these bullets to get off my property," Mama Opie shouted.
Rob heard the jingle in the distance and jumped up to his feet. He hauled through the mud, not caring about building up the dirt on his starched tan pants. He didn't stop rolling until he reached a nearby land clearing. There, Rob threw himself on the ground and took several deep breaths, trying to calm his haggard nerves.
He swiped at his beard, damp and dirty, with his palm and vowed right there that he would never do something so idiotic again.
"Mister."
Rob jumped back to his feet and reached for the gun in his holster when he heard a silky voice behind him.
"You dropped somethin', sir."
"Aye! Don't shoot!" Rob barked, retrieving a perfect stance to blow whoever had come after him.
His wide eyes focused on the young girl's sights, and a confused expression crossed his dirty face.
Swamp native Inabelle Tracy stood at five feet, looking up at the giant man aiming his gun to blow her away. She noted his body shook, holding the gun with trembling hands. Realizing the scared man wasn't anything to fear, her long dark lashes flashed as she scrutinized him with a slowly forming smile.
"I ain't gonna shoot you, sir," she responded, "So, don't shoot me. I haven't got a gun."
