The Possum's Anthology

Swamp Friend

The crickets and frogs make a relaxing soundtrack as I lean back on my hands and stretch out my legs, feeling the rough wooden planks of the dock against my skin. The air is humid, but not too hot. Autumn has tempered the heat of the swamp, making it more pleasant and bearable. The water laps softly against the dock, driven by the lazy river and fish. There's a lantern next to me, glowing dimly so as not to draw bugs or interfere with my night vision. The gathering darkness brings out the stars, one by one. I look up, admiring those silver pinpoints of light scattered around a fat, full moon. The air is so still here. Aside from nature's musicians, no other sound disturbs the quiet.

A small sound draws my attention away from the night sky. I don't turn to look as footfalls gently rattle the dock. A dark shape enters my peripheral as the newcomer settles beside me. There's a soft plop as it dips its feet into the water. I wait a moment before speaking. "It's a lovely night," I say softly in greeting.

The thing next to me shifts agreeably. I catch the movement of a dozen eyes peering at me, and several mouths clicking. I don't look at it, content to let the veil of normalcy hang between us. It's a flimsy sheer, but piercing it would not be wise. Uncle Asher looked once. He's never been the same, and Aunt Millie won't let him leave the house on his own after he tried to drown himself in the swamp.

We sit together in peaceful silence. I'm not afraid. Never have been. I know it doesn't seek to harm me. What happened to Uncle Asher was unfortunate, but I know it wasn't intentional. It can't help that it transcends human comprehension. It must be an awful thing, to want a friend and not be able to have one. So I took it upon myself to have some time with it each night, as often as I can, to just sit together and exist.

A tendril of shadow creeps across the distance between us, depositing something in my lap. I look down curiously before smiling, picking up the small gift and holding it up for inspection. It's an opal, the size of a half-dollar. Its pale surface glitters with green, orange, blue, and red as it catches the ambient light. "It's beautiful," I say, "Thank you."

My companion shifts again, and I catch a low hum of pleasure. Then I remember my own gift, and dig it out of my pocket. It's an origami swan I had made earlier that day. "Here, this is for you." Without turning my head, I hold out the swan. I feel its cold tendrils brush against my skin as it takes the gift. There's another rumble, this time of gratitude.

We resume sitting in silence, letting the minutes tick by. I'm never quite sure how much time passes. We could have been sitting there all night, or for just an hour. Eventually, though, my companion stands. I feel it give me a single pat on the shoulder, always just one, before it walks back up the dock. I wait until I can't hear it anymore, before getting up myself and
heading back to the house.