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Authors: Joan H. Young
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The Hollow Tree at
Dead Mule Swamp
Black and white stripes filled the
field of my binoculars and I momentarily thought a zebra had invaded Dead Mule Swamp. However, a quick adjustment to the rocker bar revealed the shape of a
lovely black-and-white warbler, closer to me than was expected. I watched,
fascinated, as it walked first up, and then headfirst down, the trunk of a
large tree, searching the crevices of the bark for insects. Without ever
spotting me, the bird fluttered off.
I was seated, somewhat
uncomfortably, on a stump surrounded by poles stacked like a three-sided log
cabin. It was a broken-down deer blind, abandoned by some hunter. I had come to
Dead Mule Swamp about two months ago, but had only discovered the old blind
two days ago. It amazed me that I, Anastasia Joy Raven, had changed in six
months from a suburban housewife to a new divorcee who owned a fixer-upper
house at the end of a dirt road in the Northwoods.
My former husband, Roger, had
exchanged me for a partner named Brian, but I had left with a large settlement,
paid in monthly sums, which should last the rest of my life, if I were careful.
Our only son, Chad, was studying Wildlife Ecology at Michigan Tech. That freed
me to try out the single lifestyle, and I was enjoying it. I was working hard
on the house, presently finishing the living room, although that activity had
been interrupted when an old newspaper found inside the wall had contained
information which led to the murder of a neighbor. Frankly, I was glad that
excitement was over.
I leaned down and lifted the bird
book out of my daypack. Turning to page 243, and pulling my pencil from above
my ear, I placed a check mark beside the warbler and noted the date, May 17. I
returned the pencil to its resting place. My light brown hair falls around my
face in a thick pageboy, and helps keep the pencil in place. Warblers are a bit
of a mystery, but I was determined to learn a few new ones this year. The
leaves were almost fully unfurled, and there wouldn't be many more days of easy
birding.
It was early morning and the birds
were moving about, so I raised the binoculars again and began searching the
branches for unseen singers. As I scanned the trees, I caught sight of a piece
of twine hanging from a large hole about ten feet up a tree. I thought the tree
looked hollow, and wondered if a squirrel had pulled the twine up the tree for
nesting material. However, when I followed the twine to the lower end I saw
that it was looped around a small broken branch. It wasn't exactly knotted, but
it didn't look like the kind of tangle that might have happened naturally. I
went over to investigate.
I pulled on the string, and it rode
easily enough over the scarred edge of the hole in the hollow tree. There was
something with weight on the end, and I pulled until a blue cloth bag popped
over the edge and dropped at my feet.
The bag was crudely made from the
cut-off lower leg of a pair of jeans. Someone had sewed the bottom edge
together with yarn, in uneven overcast stitches. The top had been gathered with
the same yarn by using large stitches, making a drawstring, and the twine was
tied to that. Obviously, whatever was in the bag belonged to some human. I was
only a short distance off my own property, just beyond the west fence line.
After my recent unpleasant experiences with a person chasing me into the swamp,
I thought I'd find out who was using this tree for a safe or a post office.
I opened the bag, and there was a
large white envelope and a small rock inside. On the envelope was a crudely
drawn picture of three crossed twigs. I shook my head. Previously-it seemed a
lifetime ago-I had taught literature at a community college. Although Nancy
Drew was not exactly literature, my love for books extended to all genres, and
I was sure I recalled a Nancy Drew story where envelopes bearing a drawing like
this were placed in a hollow tree, and then someone else would retrieve the
message. I racked
Dead Mule Swamp
Black and white stripes filled the
field of my binoculars and I momentarily thought a zebra had invaded Dead Mule Swamp. However, a quick adjustment to the rocker bar revealed the shape of a
lovely black-and-white warbler, closer to me than was expected. I watched,
fascinated, as it walked first up, and then headfirst down, the trunk of a
large tree, searching the crevices of the bark for insects. Without ever
spotting me, the bird fluttered off.
I was seated, somewhat
uncomfortably, on a stump surrounded by poles stacked like a three-sided log
cabin. It was a broken-down deer blind, abandoned by some hunter. I had come to
Dead Mule Swamp about two months ago, but had only discovered the old blind
two days ago. It amazed me that I, Anastasia Joy Raven, had changed in six
months from a suburban housewife to a new divorcee who owned a fixer-upper
house at the end of a dirt road in the Northwoods.
My former husband, Roger, had
exchanged me for a partner named Brian, but I had left with a large settlement,
paid in monthly sums, which should last the rest of my life, if I were careful.
Our only son, Chad, was studying Wildlife Ecology at Michigan Tech. That freed
me to try out the single lifestyle, and I was enjoying it. I was working hard
on the house, presently finishing the living room, although that activity had
been interrupted when an old newspaper found inside the wall had contained
information which led to the murder of a neighbor. Frankly, I was glad that
excitement was over.
I leaned down and lifted the bird
book out of my daypack. Turning to page 243, and pulling my pencil from above
my ear, I placed a check mark beside the warbler and noted the date, May 17. I
returned the pencil to its resting place. My light brown hair falls around my
face in a thick pageboy, and helps keep the pencil in place. Warblers are a bit
of a mystery, but I was determined to learn a few new ones this year. The
leaves were almost fully unfurled, and there wouldn't be many more days of easy
birding.
It was early morning and the birds
were moving about, so I raised the binoculars again and began searching the
branches for unseen singers. As I scanned the trees, I caught sight of a piece
of twine hanging from a large hole about ten feet up a tree. I thought the tree
looked hollow, and wondered if a squirrel had pulled the twine up the tree for
nesting material. However, when I followed the twine to the lower end I saw
that it was looped around a small broken branch. It wasn't exactly knotted, but
it didn't look like the kind of tangle that might have happened naturally. I
went over to investigate.
I pulled on the string, and it rode
easily enough over the scarred edge of the hole in the hollow tree. There was
something with weight on the end, and I pulled until a blue cloth bag popped
over the edge and dropped at my feet.
The bag was crudely made from the
cut-off lower leg of a pair of jeans. Someone had sewed the bottom edge
together with yarn, in uneven overcast stitches. The top had been gathered with
the same yarn by using large stitches, making a drawstring, and the twine was
tied to that. Obviously, whatever was in the bag belonged to some human. I was
only a short distance off my own property, just beyond the west fence line.
After my recent unpleasant experiences with a person chasing me into the swamp,
I thought I'd find out who was using this tree for a safe or a post office.
I opened the bag, and there was a
large white envelope and a small rock inside. On the envelope was a crudely
drawn picture of three crossed twigs. I shook my head. Previously-it seemed a
lifetime ago-I had taught literature at a community college. Although Nancy
Drew was not exactly literature, my love for books extended to all genres, and
I was sure I recalled a Nancy Drew story where envelopes bearing a drawing like
this were placed in a hollow tree, and then someone else would retrieve the
message. I racked
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