chalk stone and shuffle across the mound and into the swamp. Cotton led the way, guiding the cat and Charlie over logs and around trees, toward the row of small collapsing shacks that he’d pointed out to Charlie at their first meeting.
Charlie had his arms hooked beneath the cat’s front legs, its large head lolling against his stomach, tracing swirls of red onto his shirt. When they reached the most intact of the shacks, Cotton turned his back to the cockeyed door, and the two pallbearers pushed inside.
In the light that filtered between the boards of the tiny half-collapsing space, Charlie could see rows and rows of buckets and jars and jagged halved soda cans lining the walls, all of them full of bones—full of the dead collected from the white stone and entombed by his cousin.
Together the boys lowered the panther to the ground.
“Biggest thing to ever die on the stone,” Cotton said. “Do you think it could be this cat’s blood on the church? I heard the cops say it wasn’t human blood. Or maybe the Stanks killed the other one, too.”
“Stanks?” Charlie asked. “I just saw one.”
“Me too,” Cotton said. “But there were footprints all around my bike when I went back. Three bare feet and one shoe. I’ve heard stories about Stanks in the deep swamps, Charlie, and there’s never just one. Crazy Carl who sleeps in the street says there’s a whole haunted tribe back in there. I always thought that was just campfire spook, but not anymore. Of course, the stories aren’t all true. Even Crazy Carl says the Stanks stay out of the cane. And that’s obviously wrong.”
“A haunted tribe?” Charlie shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Whatever they are,” Cotton said, “I don’t think they much care what you believe.”
Cotton raised his hands over the panther’s body like a minister, but he didn’t seem quite sure what to say. Charlie knew it involved dust and ashes, but he couldn’t remember the order.
“Into the valley of the shadow of death,” Cotton finally said, “rode the six hundred.”
“What?” Charlie asked.
“It’s from a poem,” said Cotton. “And six hundredpeople live in Taper.” He shivered and stepped over the panther toward the door. “I need the light to show you this.”
Charlie followed Cotton out of the shack and over to a fallen tree covered with moss, where he tugged a packet of papers out of his waistband and began unfolding it.
“Map,” Cotton said. He dug a broken pencil out of his pocket and circled a spot for Charlie. “You are here,” he said.
Charlie stared at the paper. Black ink lines on white. The edges and creases of the paper were yellowed with age. The swamp was represented by zigzags. The cane wasn’t marked at all, but there were more than a few canals, all labeled. But the real point of the map was the mounds. They had been traced in slow curves through the swamp, ending in solid circles or squares, running straight through what could only be cane and even dead-ending against a curved line labeled
Lake O
. The church was on the map, right on a mound circle. The town of Taper was nowhere to be seen.
A row of holes dotted one unfolded seam.
“You tore this out of a book,” Charlie said.
Cotton shrugged. “No one had checked it out in thirty years.”
“Except you?”
“Including me. I just borrowed it some. Doesn’t matter. Point is all these mound lines were painted onto theside of the church. Some others, too, that aren’t on here. But right where we’re standing—where that white death stone is—well, on the church wall it’s marked with a circle. It’s not on this map.”
“Okay …,” Charlie said.
Cotton looked at him. “And there were other circles just like them. More death stones, probably. I didn’t count them. But at least two way, way back in the swamp. And even one”—he tapped the emptiness on the map, labeled as the lake—“out here.”
“In the water?”
“Maybe water,”
Charlie had his arms hooked beneath the cat’s front legs, its large head lolling against his stomach, tracing swirls of red onto his shirt. When they reached the most intact of the shacks, Cotton turned his back to the cockeyed door, and the two pallbearers pushed inside.
In the light that filtered between the boards of the tiny half-collapsing space, Charlie could see rows and rows of buckets and jars and jagged halved soda cans lining the walls, all of them full of bones—full of the dead collected from the white stone and entombed by his cousin.
Together the boys lowered the panther to the ground.
“Biggest thing to ever die on the stone,” Cotton said. “Do you think it could be this cat’s blood on the church? I heard the cops say it wasn’t human blood. Or maybe the Stanks killed the other one, too.”
“Stanks?” Charlie asked. “I just saw one.”
“Me too,” Cotton said. “But there were footprints all around my bike when I went back. Three bare feet and one shoe. I’ve heard stories about Stanks in the deep swamps, Charlie, and there’s never just one. Crazy Carl who sleeps in the street says there’s a whole haunted tribe back in there. I always thought that was just campfire spook, but not anymore. Of course, the stories aren’t all true. Even Crazy Carl says the Stanks stay out of the cane. And that’s obviously wrong.”
“A haunted tribe?” Charlie shook his head. “I don’t believe it.”
“Whatever they are,” Cotton said, “I don’t think they much care what you believe.”
Cotton raised his hands over the panther’s body like a minister, but he didn’t seem quite sure what to say. Charlie knew it involved dust and ashes, but he couldn’t remember the order.
“Into the valley of the shadow of death,” Cotton finally said, “rode the six hundred.”
“What?” Charlie asked.
“It’s from a poem,” said Cotton. “And six hundredpeople live in Taper.” He shivered and stepped over the panther toward the door. “I need the light to show you this.”
Charlie followed Cotton out of the shack and over to a fallen tree covered with moss, where he tugged a packet of papers out of his waistband and began unfolding it.
“Map,” Cotton said. He dug a broken pencil out of his pocket and circled a spot for Charlie. “You are here,” he said.
Charlie stared at the paper. Black ink lines on white. The edges and creases of the paper were yellowed with age. The swamp was represented by zigzags. The cane wasn’t marked at all, but there were more than a few canals, all labeled. But the real point of the map was the mounds. They had been traced in slow curves through the swamp, ending in solid circles or squares, running straight through what could only be cane and even dead-ending against a curved line labeled
Lake O
. The church was on the map, right on a mound circle. The town of Taper was nowhere to be seen.
A row of holes dotted one unfolded seam.
“You tore this out of a book,” Charlie said.
Cotton shrugged. “No one had checked it out in thirty years.”
“Except you?”
“Including me. I just borrowed it some. Doesn’t matter. Point is all these mound lines were painted onto theside of the church. Some others, too, that aren’t on here. But right where we’re standing—where that white death stone is—well, on the church wall it’s marked with a circle. It’s not on this map.”
“Okay …,” Charlie said.
Cotton looked at him. “And there were other circles just like them. More death stones, probably. I didn’t count them. But at least two way, way back in the swamp. And even one”—he tapped the emptiness on the map, labeled as the lake—“out here.”
“In the water?”
“Maybe water,”
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