Free Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli

tight. The animal finally seems to come awake, opens his huge jaws in a roar, and throws his head side to side. Charles jams the spear in his mouth.
    The ’gator snaps his jaws shut. The whole spear disappears inside, his head is that big. He throws his entire body side to side now. Rock and Ben pull together on the rope, tightening it around the ’gator’s throat. But then they stop and let the rope run through their hands, and I don’t know why they’re stopping, because the ’gator is still alive. It hurls itself now. It rolls. And Charles clings to its back, arms locked around its neck.
    Ben stands with the lantern, moving it, trying to keep Charles in sight. But we don’t pole the boat. We don’t move to help. We just watch. I can’t stand this. I don’t want to look, but I have to look.
    That fight between Charles and the ’gator goes on forever. They roll, struggle, go under, come up. Every time I catch a glimpse of Charles, he looks worse. A tangle of moss covers him. His eyes are closed, and the side of his head is pressed against the top of the ’gator’s head. Then he’s gone again, as the animal twists away. Sometimes it seems they must both be drowned, they’re underwater so long. But when that ’gator comes up again, there’s Charles, stuck like a leech.
    Finally, Charles and the ’gator are still. Pinpricks go up my arms and neck.
    “He’s dead,” says Cirone in Sicilian, his voice cracking in sadness. He makes the sign of the cross.
    Then Charles lifts his head and smiles, like it’s all easy fun, like he’s riding on the back of a floating log.
    And Ben is laughing and pointing at Cirone.
    My eyes go to that ’gator, though. He doesn’t move. I wait for the powerful tail to thrash. Charles couldn’t have strangled him. No one could be that strong.
    Rock poles us close, and Ben puts down the lantern and pulls Charles onto the side rim. Cirone and I reach out to help when whap! The skiff flips! We’re in the water. All of us. And the skiff is on top of us. It’s totally dark. The lantern’s gone. The water comes up over my collarbone and I’m standing in soft muck that sucks me down.
    “Push,” shouts someone.
    We’re all trying to turn the boat back over. It’s not that heavy, how could it be this hard? We’re pushing and I feel movement around my ankles. Alive and quick.
    Someone screams.
    The skiff turns and slaps right side up on the water. We’re instantly in moon glow, eerie and quiet.
    “Me first. Then do what I say!” Ben shouts.
    The skiff rocks violently as I hold on to the rim. Ben must have gotten in from the other side. Someone’s still screaming.
    “Rock, get in and pull in Charles,” barks Ben. “Calo, say where you at.”
    The boat rocks hard again, but I hold on. And the screaming is right beside me. It’s Cirone. Oh, God in Heaven, I’ve killed Cirone.
    “Calo!” shouts Ben. “Where you at?”
    “Here,” I manage.
    “I got you.” Ben grabs me under the armpits and pulls hard. I’m in the boat now, lying in the middle beside someone panting hard. Charles. “Cirone!” I call.
    “I got him.”
    The boat lurches at one end; Cirone sloshes in. “My foot,” he sobs in English.
    “Hold still,” says Ben. “Rock, help me. A loggerhead. Small. But it won’t let go.”
    “I still got my knife,” says Rock. “I’ll kill it.”
    I scrabble over to the shadowy figures and my arms circle Cirone from behind. He twists around and clings to me.
    I feel a spurt of cold liquid on my arm. “What was that?”
    “Turtle blood.”
    “Help me, San Giuseppe,” mumbles Cirone in Sicilian. “Don’t let me die a miserable death. Spare me and I’ll pray to you every day. Please, San Giuseppe, please.”
    “Whatever you saying, stop,” says Ben. “That turtle dead. Can you feel your foot?”
    “Hurts like hell,” says Cirone in English.
    Someone laughs. “Some spirit.”
    “That foot got mashed,” says Rock, “but it ain’t even