Treme'

Le conte d'Aristides

"Power resides only where men believe it resides. [...] A shadow on the wall, yet shadows can kill. And ofttimes a very small man can cast a very large shadow."
― George R. R. Martin, A Clash of Kings—

The murky swamp gleamed as the dim flashing lights of red and blue peaked through the shady canopy of the forest. No birds chirped, nor forest creatures scurried about—it was quiet—too quiet. Thick near-dead looking trees lined the bog, creaking and cracking as they swayed in time with the titubation of the watery murkiness. Steam rose slowly from the dank dark waters of the bog bubbling thickly, like gravy on the boil—mixing and swirling with the surroundings, making the trail the officers were on hard to see and even harder to navigate. The dim glow of their flashlights clashed against the otherworldly soft glow of the green swamp gas and, combined, was their only source of light against the otherwise darkness of the abnormally quiet forest. Though not in the bit least magical, they could feel it—an ominous energy shrouded the otherwise peaceful area.

Unable to shake his feelings of unease, he aimed his flashlight towards the swamp, once there was a break in the fog, and gasped. In all his years on the force, the detective had never seen anything like what laid before him—fish, small turtles and other swamp creatures, floated upon the surface of the water belly up. It had to be hundreds of them. All belly up with unseeing eyes and open mouths—all dead. It was like something out of a biblical horror movie. Swinging his flashlight around to the trail before him, he focused his mind on the reason he was in this part of the forest before the crack of dawn—the crime scene. Though he should not have been surprised when the department received a call from a frantic jogger, he had.

Couturie forest was usually a nice family friendly place. Situated on 60 acres, the forest possessed mile long trails, natural waterways and several varieties of birds; offering an escape from the big city for any, and all, nature loving citizens.

However, because of those same amenities it also made Couturie the prime place for the reason detective Kinney and the NOPD were now trapesing around one of its many bogs—it was the perfect location to commit a crime. And from the report he would be walking into something utterly and unfathomably gruesome.

The narrow trail flanked by shallow swamp on either side forced them all to walk nearly single file and though apprehensive of what laid now just beyond the quickly ending trail, Kinney schooled his features with practised ease to show nothing of his thoughts.

The sun began to crest and the once eerily green swamp gas began to thin—flashlights were no longer a necessity. Up head Kinney could make out the bright yellow tape that signified the reason he was here. Sighing, he took a moment to slow his step and in an attempt to stall the inevitable looked down at his clothing. His dark slacks clung to his long lean legs—sticking from the dampness of the bog. He didn't need to see his button up to know that it had suffered the same fate, he could feel it clinging to his skin. Nonchalantly, he made his way to the scene and nearly gagged.

It was the smell that hit him first. Hard and sharply it punched straight and true. Hitting him right in the deepest part of his nostrils until he felt the putrid aroma in the back of his throat. Though the smell itself was not unfamiliar to him the strength of it was and for a moment he wondered if that must have been what the battlefields must have smelled like. Death-sharp and unforgiving mixed with the muskiness of the bog, the earthiness of the dampened forest floor and the beginnings of wood rot. It was unpleasantly heady and he fought with his body's natural reflex to hunch over and heave out whatever was in his stomach.

Once assured that he would remain upright, he slowly forced himself to take a step forward. Then another. And another. Until he was in front of the source of the horrific scent—it was a tree. An enormous tree, he wondered if it was perhaps some sort of willow. It had a hollowed-out center, almost tunnel like in appearance and it loomed in front of him forebodingly. The ground around it was stained in pools of a deep muddy red that trailed in small puddles to the trees opening. The tree's bark had been purposely scorched with etchings. Sigils—he remembered from a previous conversation with Vincent about similar etchings. Crystals laid haphazardly near its base along with two grainy substances. One he could identify as salt while the other was not something he recognized, but instantly understood that he should be cautious nonetheless. Deciding against entering the tree's tunnel and advising the other officers against as well, he took out his flashlight and shined it inside the dark depths. A young officer that had only been on the force for about a year or two pushed past the others and emptied the contents of his stomach in the bog—screaming when he met the lifeless eyes of a swamp turtle floating belly up just beneath the algae of the bog.