Free Alligator Bayou by Donna Jo Napoli Page A

bleeding.”
    “You got those good shoes to thank,” says Ben.
    “We all owe thanks,” says Rock. “The swamp nearly got us tonight.”
    We’re silent a moment.
    “My ’gator!” Charles pushes himself upright, then drops back down limp again.
    “Floating away dead. Can’t hardly see him. Oh, there.” Ben points.
    “Really dead?” I ask.
    “Dead as a hammer.” Rock’s right beside me, still holding Cirone’s leg.
    “How? How did you kill him, Charles?”
    Charles is panting too hard to answer.
    “The spear worked its way into his brain,” says Rock. “Like a charm every time.”
    “Get him,” says Charles in a raspy whisper. “Get my ’gator.”
    Cirone starts to moan and gulps it back. Maybe he’s going to be sick.
    “Let’s get out of here,” I say. “Let’s get out while we’re still alive.”
    “Get my ’gator.”
    “Everybody rock to this side.” Ben waves one arm through the misty dark like the wing of a giant owl. “Easy like. No more turning over.”
    We rock. The skiff moves. We rock more. It moves more.
    “Now stop and lean the other way, but don’t rock. Just lean.”
    We lean, and Ben leans out the opposite way. “Got it. I got a pole.”
    “See the others?” asks Rock.
    “No. But one will do. Here, Rock.”
    Rock stands and takes the pole.
    “Move us this way.” Ben waves that arm again. “Okay, good. Now, you two—y’all sit tight. No helping. Your helping flipped us last time.”
    Cirone and I crawl to Charles, pushing the turtle away. His neck is cut halfway through, so the head hangs crazylike. And he isn’t small. He’s as long as my forearm.
    Ben and Rock pull that ’gator and he slides in on a sheet of moss. He’s longer than Charles. Must be six feet.
    Ben stands in the front of the skiff and stares out. “I lost the lantern.”
    Rock stands at the rear and stares out over the water. “Must have sunk.”
    “We got the ’gator,” says Charles. “Let’s go.”
    “Not without that lantern.” Ben gets on his knees and leans out. He puts both arms in the water and swishes around.
    “Don’t do that!” says Cirone. “You know what’s in that water. Let’s go home.”
    “I can’t go without it,” says Ben, and the way he says it, I understand: that’s someone’s lantern.
    “Let’s go back to where we turned over,” I say. “We can feel with the pole.”
    Rock poles us along, stopping often to swish the pole around the bottom. Ben sets his hands on the rim and looks into the water. Nothing but black there. With the ’gator on board, the skiff rides deep. If anyone makes a sudden move, we’ll take in water over the sides. We must all have the same thought; no one moves. No one even speaks. It goes on like this a long time. My wet clothes stiffen. The night has passed.
    “Hey,” says Rock. “Something here.”
    Ben crawls to him, slowly. “Hold me around the waist.”
    Rock holds Ben, and Ben leans his whole upper half into the water.
    I want to grab him back. His head’s in that water!
    He’s out! One hand plucks moss from his head, the other holds the lantern. “What you waiting for?” he says to Rock. “You so lazy. If you was a dog, you’d lean against the fence to bark.”
    “Ha! You ain’t worth a milk bucket under a bull.” Rock poles us steady.
    The air turns rosy, and I can smell dawn coming. My eyes meet Charles’.
    He lifts his chin toward me. “Glad you came?”
    I don’t trust myself to answer. I can’t let myself think about what could have happened. “That ’gator,” I breathe, holding myself far from it, “he’s not a small one.”
    “Sure he is. See the yellow bands on his tail? A young-un. They grow twice that long, easy. Some grow three times that.”
    I can’t pull my eyes away. The ’gator’s back is all spiked, like armor. Two rows of scales stick up along the sides of his tail. His hind feet are webbed. That head that was huge when he opened his jaws in the water is now flat and