Nature Girl

It took Ski

He planted the double-pronged foot of the pole in the mud and, with slow tentative strokes, began pushing the skiff across the bank toward the island where the campfire burned. Backcountry guides made it look easy, but Ski

Fry said, “You’re the one who needs a football helmet.”

Ski

“Where’s the gun anyway?”

“Just relax,” said Ski

Fry felt like hurling, he was so anxious. He kept flashing back to the moment when Louis Piejack’s pickup had nearly run him down at the trailer park, and he wondered what he could have done to stop the guy from pursuing his mother. Fry had hated Mr. Piejack for groping her at the fish market, but he’d pegged him as just some twisted old turd-not a mad stalker.

The boy drummed his fingers on the gunwale and thought: Relax? No way.

“I hear somethin’,” his father said from the back of the skiff.

Fry stopped tapping and listened. “Sounds like…like a funeral or somethin’. People cryin’.”

“Where’s it coming from? Can you make out anything?”

“Just shadows.” Fry balled his fists to keep from shaking.

By now his dad had pushed the skiff close enough for them to see the orange flames dancing and to smell the woody smoke. At first the shapes around the fire had looked like small pines, bowing and shaking in the breeze. Now Fry wasn’t so certain. The moaning chorus swelled and faded, making him shudder. His father poled faster.

“We’ll go ashore here,” Ski

Fry hopped out and was beset with dizziness. “It’s gettin’ cold,” he murmured to himself.

His father jumped down and with both hands hauled the skiff farther up on land, so that the rising tide wouldn’t carry it away. Then he tossed Fry a sweatshirt, which the boy absentmindedly attempted to put on without removing his bulbous helmet.

“Dad, I’m stuck,” he said sheepishly.

Once extricated, he jogged after his father as they hurried away from the shoreline, into the trees. He felt like he was five years old again.

Ski

“Yeah, but where?”

“The other way, son. Opposite of me.”

“But-”

“Don’t be lookin’ back, either-I’ll come find you later.”

“I can’t go fast with this stupid thing on my head.”

“Pretend you’re Mercury Morris.”

“Who?”

“Pitiful.” Ski

Watchfully they moved through the scraggle and scrub, keeping parallel to the beach. The eerie keening sounds grew louder as they neared the campfire. Ski

Fry counted five hooded shapes twirling and dipping around a crudely dug fire pit. They wore white robes and weren’t actually crying; it was a strident, wailing chant, with no discernible melody. A tall wooden cross had been planted on a dune overlooking the campsite.

“It’s the Klan!” Fry whispered.

“They’re a long way from home,” said Ski

Fry saw him reach beneath his sweatshirt and adjust a gun-shaped bulge in his waistband. It was possible he clicked off the safety.

“What’re you go

“Be my usual charming self.”

Nervously Fry followed him out of the pines. Ski

“Howdy,” Ski

“Who are you, brother?” It was the tallest one; a man’s voice.

“State wildlife commission. I’m lookin’ for a man named Louis Piejack-he’s wanted for poachin’ shellfish.”

“Don’t know the si

“How ’bout losin’ those hoods?” Ski

The hoods turned out to be part of their white robes, each of which bore a breast emblem that read FOUR SEASONS-MAUI.

Definitely not the KKK, thought Fry with relief.

“We’ve nothing to hide,” the tallest moaner declared. He and the others obligingly revealed their faces. There were two men and three women, all shiny-cheeked and well fed. Neither Fry nor his father recognized them from Everglades City.

“I’m Brother Manuel,” the tall one volunteered, “of the First Resurrectionist Maritime Assembly for God. We believe that Jesus our Savior has returned and is sailing the seven seas”-he paused to acknowledge the lapping surf-“preparing to come ashore in all His glory and inspire the worldly to repent. We will welcome Him with prayer and rejoicing.”

Ski

“Zolfo Springs, sir, and we’re up to no mischief. We’re here upon this blessed shore to baptize our newest sister, Miss Shirelle.”

She identified herself with a perky wave.

“You folks been drinkin’?” Ski

Brother Manuel bridled. “Wine only, sir. I can show you the passage in the Scriptures.”

“I’m certain you can. See anything strange out here tonight? We believe Mr. Louis Piejack is in the vicinity.”

One of the female moaners asked, “How might we know this man?”

“One of his hands is taped,” Ski

“Ah!”

“Plus he stinks like dead mudfish,” Fry added, quoting his mother.

One of the male celebrants revealed that they’d heard gunshots earlier in the evening. “From over there,” he said, pointing across the waves.

“How many shots?” Ski

“Two rounds,” the man said.

“Sure it was gunfire? Sometimes campers bring fireworks.”

“Brother Darius is a deer hunter,” Brother Manuel explained. “God’s bounty, you understand.”

Sister Shirelle, the stoutest of the moaners, asked, “May we invite you to stay for the baptism? Join us in the divine waters where our Savior sails.”

“Some other time,” Ski

Another woman called out, “Sir, may I inquire about the boy?”

“That’s my son.”

“I couldn’t help but take note of the headpiece. Is he afflicted in some way?”

“Yeah, he’s afflicted with one motherfucker of a migraine. He crashed his skateboard into a truck.”

Brother Manuel clasped his hands. “Then let us pray for the youngster’s healing. Come, brothers and sisters!”

The moaners re-hooded and commenced a new chant, as dissonant as the others. Sister Shirelle, dauntingly braless, led the group in improvisational writhing.

Fry jerked his father’s sleeve and whispered, “You think they really heard a gun?”

“Vamos ahora,” Ski

They’d gone about fifty yards down the beach when Brother Manuel broke from the dance ring and barreled after them, yelling, “Friends, wait! Whoa there!”

Away from the firelight, Fry could no longer see his father’s expression. Not that he needed to.

“A-hole,” he heard him mutter.

“Should we run?” the boy asked hopefully. He was aware of Ski

“See, this is the problem with religion, son. They can’t keep it among themselves, they gotta cram it down everyone else’s throat.” He’d hurried his pace, but the long-legged moaner was gaining on them. “It’s been a long time since I looked at the Bible, but I don’t recall Jesus makin’ a damn nuisance of Himself.”