Come Back to the Swamp

This Book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

ISBN (ebook) 978-0-9997423-5-8

Cover design by Najla Qamber

Edited by Melissa Ringsted

Interior design layout by Rebecca Poole

Published by Black Spot Books

An imprint of Vesuvian Media Group

All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

DEDICATION

For Stephanie

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Thanks and love to my family: Will, Anna, Julia, Pat, Steve, Katie, Niko, Nick, Ben, Stephanie, Mike, Stella, Holly, and Bill.

Thanks to Melissa Ringsted for her editing expertise and for making me look like a pro at the technical  aspects of writing, to Najla Qamber for the beautiful cover art, to Rebecca Poole for the lovely interior layout, and, of course, to Lindy Ryan for reading Swamp and thinking that it would be a good fit for Black Spot Books. I’m thrilled beyond belief that Come Back to the Swamp found such a great home.

Thanks to Jennifer Flath for being a thorough and thoughtful first reader. Thanks to the Fish Climbing Trees for being such great and supportive writer friends. Thanks to my pals at Spaceboy Books.

To Margaret Atwood, Kurt Vonnegut, and PG Wodehouse for inspiring me with their amazing writing.

And thanks to all the people I haven’t mentioned but who have helped to make me the writer I am by your support or just by teaching me something about human nature. Friends, extended family, every writer I’ve ever read, and random strangers on the street whose quirkiness or awesomeness stuck with me.

CHAPTER ONE:

FIGHTING THE GOOD FIGHT

They didn’t belong.

They came from other countries, moved in, and displaced the natives. It was wrong. It was depressing. It was unfair. And, regrettably, there was no beating them. It was one of the sad downsides of globalization.

Fighting them was a losing battle, but that wasn’t going to stop Bernice from trying.

Step by step, she trudged onward.

Sweating, parched, and weary, she trudged onward.

Fueled by an idealistic fervor to cleanse the landscape of the encroaching menace, she trudged onward.

Armed with her trusty steel hedge clippers, Bernice sallied forth to do battle with the invasive species threatening to overtake Cleary Swamp. The biodiversity of the swamp would not get shot to hell on her watch. No, sir. As long as she had any say, this wetland would be a haven for swamp rose mallow and shumard oak.

Too bad she didn’t have a say in the welfare of Cleary Swamp for much longer; she was soon to get her master’s degree and move on to a different university for her PhD. After that, the invasives would be free to commence their bloody (chlorophyll-y) march across the wetland, their roots feeding off the dead bodies of the poor natives lacking the evolutionary defenses to compete. Brutal. Sad. Perhaps inevitable.

But at least, at the end of this, she’d have a nice, shiny degree and a glowing recommendation from a professor who liked her a lot. Silver lining.

From out of her backpack, Bernice grabbed her water bottle―stainless steel. No BPAs for Bernice. She took a swig, glanced at her GPS, reoriented a tad to the left, and slogged through the mushy swamp to her worksite. So many Japanese barberry and autumn olive were going to meet their maker this hot summer afternoon.

She marveled at the unnatural heat. The air was thick with humidity. That was the problem. The humidity. And the complete lack of a breeze. Bernice slapped a mosquito, thought about West Nile and the Zika virus, took another swig of water, and stuck her bottle back in her backpack.

At last, up ahead, she saw a red flag tied around a scraggly little willow―the southern border of Professor Zimmer’s research plot. Bernice made her way to the willow and hung her backpack on the usual branch.

Getting her headphones out, she queued up some twangy bluegrass, thought about how Kentucky bluegrass was an invasive species in Michigan, pondered irony, put on her gloves, and got down to business cutting barberry.

Japanese barberry was pretty horrible. It was covered with thorns, which necessitated wearing long sleeves even in the stifling heat. As she chopped away at the bases of the stems, Bernice asked herself why on earth it was that she felt she enjoyed this work. Glorified weeding, and for what? Nothing was going to stop the advance of invasive species. What was the point?

Cynic-Bernice’s answer was, Job security! It was nice to know that her field was not going to become obsolete.

Idealist-Bernice’s answer was, We owe it to nature! Humans created the problem, so humans should jolly well try to fix it, even if it wasn’t technically all that realistic a goal.

Bernice was throwing some twigs into a pile when she caught movement out of the corner of her eye.

Something big.

She turned to look, but saw nothing other than willows and grasses. Slowly, warily, she turned back to her work.

But then, there it was again. Movement.

She turned, fast.

Again, she saw nothing.

Whatever it was, it had looked big. Her impression had been of a person, but that might have been her imagination. Being a lady all alone in the middle of nowhere, she tended to freak out about that kind of thing.

Taking off her headphones, she hung them around her neck. If it was a person, she’d hear them. People were rotten at sneaking in swamps. She knew this all too well from undergrad hijinks.

Bernice got back to work, but remained wary, ready to turn at the slightest sign of movement. There had definitely been something there. Person? Bear? Mountain lion? She wasn’t sure which she’d least prefer. What kind of person would sneak around a swamp on the outskirts of Detroit? Did anyone non-insane do that kind of thing? Well, anyone besides ecology students and birdwatchers.

She wished her phone had reception. Why did the GPS have reception and the phone didn’t? Technology was stupid.

She sighed and commenced her gallant battle, fiercely wielding her noble hedge clippers―named Anduril, Flame of the West. Which made Bernice the King of Middle Earth, and made the invasive species the orcs. Anduril had Lord of the Rings stickers on the handles.

Bernice heard a snapping branch behind her.

She glanced around again for her mystery stalker. She wasn’t too concerned about bears and mountain lions since there wasn’t any reliable evidence that they even lived in the area. Just a few blurry photographs taken by random locals. And as far as bears were concerned, black bears (the only variety that might be in the metro Detroit area) were really pretty wimpy. If she’d been a raspberry or a fish or a trash can, she’d have been more concerned about bears. Mountain lions, on the other hand, were plenty creepy. She’d heard somewhere that they only attack from behind; she had been advised to wear a hat that had eyes on back of it in order to fool them. But no way was Bernice wearing a stupid hat with fake eyes painted on the back of it. At least, not until reliable evidence indicated mountain lions might actually be in the area. How unutterably lame would it be if she became a mountain lion mauling statistic out there in the middle of the swamp, just because she didn’t want to wear a dorky hat?

She was thankful for the stillness in the air. No large mammal was going to sneak up on her unawares. Not with all the twigs and squelchy mud. No way.

Again. Movement.

Bernice whirled.

Who’s there? she yelled in as huge and threatening a voice as she could manage. If it was a black bear, huge, threatening sounds would scare it away.

If it was a person, they’d probably just laugh, since Bernice was the exact opposite of huge and threatening.

If it was a mountain lion, it’d probably be like, Whatevs. Save your breath, human. I’m gonna kill you now. Rawr!

Silence answered her holler. No black bears ran off, no people laughed, no mountain lions mocked and killed her.

Utterly freaked out, Bernice was just considering calling it quits for the day when a hand gripped her wrist and whirled her around.

She let out a hearty scream and swung Anduril at her assailant―a gray-haired woman with matted hair and an alarming grip. The old woman grabbed Andruil, tugged it out of Bernice’s hand, and sent it twirling out into the swamp as though she was the queen of her AARP shot put club.

Bernice tugged against the old woman’s grip and gaped at her weathered old face. The woman watched her with cold, green eyes, not even seeming to notice how hard Bernice was trying to pull out of her grasp. Then, the old lady pulled her close―just a few inches from her wrinkly, sunburned, mud-crusted face. She rasped into Bernice’s face, Get out.

Bernice swallowed and opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She found herself looking away from her assailant’s eyes, and fixating on the plant matter stuck in the lady’s hair. Yikes. What a mess. Twigs and leaves and a few yellow flower petals.   

The old lady hissed at