Walk With Us (#Wattys2017)

The Water is Hungry

A man and woman hover over the marsh water. They are the first thing I see as I jog around the bend in the slender gravel road. My eyes glide over them. Their pale coloring blends with the grayish marshland. In my peripheral vision, all I pick out is their paleness, two white figures with something odd about their faces.

Once my mind separates them from the frost-tipped branches all around, I grind to a stop, pebbles flying from under my worn tennis shoes. By then, I've passed the clearing, and they are no longer in sight. In my mind's eye, they stare at me. Did they stare at me the whole time as I ran by? It seems to me they did.

Curiosity bids me go back.

But any two people who'd come out here and traipse off into the marsh aren't looking for company. I moved out to this area for privacy myself over a month ago. And what I've noticed is that, though you rarely meet others, the ones you do... well, people seek privacy and seclusion for a reason.

I figure the two out on the water were more disconcerted by me than I was by them. I'm just a man struggling to get in shape with a morning jog, and they are up to some business which requires seclusion.

I do them the courtesy of running on along the road toward town. Though to call it a road is stretching the truth, a single car can, and occasionally does, make the journey, but the plants constantly threaten to encroach on the gravel, and tufts grow up from the most recent tire tracks.

The scraggly trees appear demonic through the fog of my breath, and the wan sunlight struggling through the marsh does little to dispel the illusion.

It is an hour jog into town from my cabin, formerly my uncle's cabin. I've come over halfway already. I spend most of the jog pondering the couple out on the swamp. A few things occur to me.

First, how were they so pale? The only logical explanation was that they had been wearing all white. But who wears all white out in a swamp? The second was how very still they were. Then last, in the moment... I could have sworn they were hovering over that water. But that wasn't possible. So what had I seen?

The sight of town is a welcome relief, and after the monotony of the winter marsh even the brick and drab stone buildings seem lively. Most houses around here are hidden off in the woods or at the edge of the marsh, so the town itself is composed of a small industrial section, a strip mall, three churches, a school, and a coffee shop/café.

I trot through the empty parking lot next to the café and wipe the sweat off my brow with the hem of my shirt. I smooth the fabric before I enter. The bell on the door jingles as I push it open. At this time of day, the place is in coffee shop mode—the menus are tucked away somewhere behind the counter. The scent of coffee and scones fills the air. Wooden tables press against the walls in a way that makes me imagine that the building would fall in without them.

As I head toward the counter, against the far wall, I spot the only other customers in the place, an elderly couple who wear matching sweaters. They whisper behind their hands while looking at me.

It's fun being the new guy in town.

A blonde waitress, Elisa, steps out from the back room and up to the chipped counter. She grins at me.

"Hey there, cowboy," Elisa says.

She always calls me this, I assume, because my Uncle Dewey lived most of his life in the South. Everyone in town was expecting a small-town type of guy with a Southern accent when I showed up. I didn't fit, but Elisa didn't let that stop her.

"Same as usual?" she asks. Elisa's front tooth is crooked, a flaw I find endearing. That smile was most of the reason I jog all the way into town every morning.