Cynthia's Attic
Book Three
Curse of the Bayou
By
Mary Cunningham
QUAKE
Cynthia had an attic. Not just an ordinary attic. Cynthia's
attic was magic.
Cynthia and I came into the world, just three months apart.
We grew up on the same quiet, sycamore-lined street, our friendship as close as
our houses. Fifty years earlier, our grandmothers were best friends. However, we
didn't realize the extent of their friendship until after our experience in Cynthia's
attic.
This is the story of one of our great adventures… the way I
remember it.
Chapter One:
1964:
She collapsed onto the bed, face buried in
the crook of her arm. I have to tell her sooner
or later. The young girl agonized. She has a right to know about our last trip through the trunk…how
her great-grandfather's watch ended up in my pocket! I know she's anxious to look
for him, but it won't hurt to wait a few days. I'm so tired…no, it won't hurt to
wait just a…
She fell
asleep in mid-sentence.
1914:
"Don't move."
"Are you kidding? Why on earth would
I move?"
Just another boring trip through the trunk. There we were, hanging on for dear life
to a log in the middle of a swamp.
My best friend and I had been on some frightening
adventures together since discovering time travel through an old trunk in her attic.
But nothing prepared us for a face-to-face encounter with an alligator. No, siree.
Nothing prepared us for this.
"What do we do?" Cynthia trembled.
"Do I look like I know what
to do?" Perhaps patience wasn't my best quality.
"You don't have to yell, Gus. We've gotten
out of worse jams than this. Remember the lions on the circus train?"
"One big difference," I muttered,
thinking back on our narrow escape from Killer, Fang, and Brutus, the laziest circus
act ever. "The lions were in cages. This swamp monster is a few feet away from
deciding whether to eat the tall, skinny morsel, or the short…sorry…plump gator
bait."
I wished the words back into my mouth as soon
as I said them…but it was too late.
I am not plump!" Cynthia briefly forgot
our life and death situation. "I'm just hanging on to my baby fat longer than
most people!"
Cynthia wasn't fat or plump.
It's just that I was so darn skinny that everyone looked a little chunky standing
next to me. But I didn't want perhaps the last words my best friend ever heard,
to be hurtful.
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. But we
have a bigger issue here…and I just might have an idea." If it worked, maybe
I could get back in her good graces.
"It'd better be fast," Cynthia moaned.
"I can't hold onto this log much longer."
Curiously, the alligator wasn't moving toward
us, but his ever-widening jaws revealed razor-sharp teeth and a…was that a smile on
his face? Gus! Get your
wits about you. I tried to focus
on the danger at hand as this monster swished his tail back and forth…back and forth.
This can't be good.
"Cynthia, do you see that small branch
over your left shoulder?" I motioned as inconspicuously as possible.
Slowly turning her head, she looked back and
nodded, then reached for the stick. At the same time, I dug into my pocket and took
out a hunk of bologna I'd saved from yesterday's (was it just yesterday?)
shopping trip with my dad to Cliff's Meat Market, and shoved it onto the end of
the stick that Cynthia now held in her grip. I ignored the incredulous look on her
face. "When I count to three, throw the stick toward the alligator and swim
for the bank as fast as you can."
Stunned that I had actually pulled lunchmeat
out of my pocket, I had her undivided attention.
"Ready?"
She nodded.
"Okay. One…two…swim!"
Cynthia threw the bologna-skewered stick as
far as she could, and we took off, flailing and kicking until we reached land, climbed
the muddy bank, and ran until the swamp was out of sight.
Panting and wheezing until running was no
longer an option, Cynthia bent over and gasped, "I…never thought… I'd say this,
Gus, but…your weird appetite…came in handy for once. But, one…two…swim? Whatever
happened to three?"
"So I got anxious. And about the bologna…
I got tired of you always making fun of my agonizing hunger pains, so I thought I'd pack a snack…and
you'd never find out. Guess now I'll have to find something else to eat," I
grumbled.
Cynthia shook her head and threw her arm over
my shoulder. "Yes, Augusta Lee. I guess you will."
"Oh, now, was that necessary? You know
how much I hate that name."
Okay, might as well get this over with right
up front. My given name is Augusta Lee…after my grandfather, Augustus Leeander.
A handful of people were allowed to call me that. Gabriella, the fortuneteller we
met during our circus adventure, was one…and her father, Thomas, head of the Gypsy
clan, was another. Cynthia's great-aunt, Isabelle who made Augusta Lee
sound like musical notes, was my favorite. I almost didn't hate the
name when she said it. But, make no mistake…everyone else better call me Gus.
Walking side by side through the bayou, our
shoes sqooshing with mud, and Cynthia complaining non-stop about the dirt under
her usually perfectly manicured fingernails, we spotted a weathered, broken down
cabin in the middle of a clearing being shaded by the branches of an enormous oak
tree.
"What d'ya think?" I asked Cynthia.
"What I think is that I need to sit somewhere,
and my choice is either in these snake-filled, bug-infested weeds, or on that poor
excuse of a front porch. You can sit in the weeds if you want, but I'm heading for
higher ground."
We moved toward the shack and stepped gingerly
onto the front porch…if you could call it that. Most of the termite-eaten floorboards
had sunk into the ground, and one side of the roof had rotted to the point that
it was balancing on what was left of the porch railing.
"Man! This place could use some paint."
"This place could use a bulldozer,"
I muttered.
"What you be saying 'bout my home, younguns?"
a voice cackled through the window…a window with most of the panes missing.
We jumped backward off the porch and turned
to run until a hearty laugh stopped us in our tracks.
"Where you goin' so fast? Mud Bug ain't
seen nobody in weeks. Come back on the porch and rest yo'selves," croaked an
ancient, white-haired old man stepping out the front door.
My mother taught me to be polite to everyone,
but I wondered…do good manners extend to fishy-smelling
old people named Mud Bug? No
matter, Cynthia, the perfect, blond-haired, blue-eyed little angel, beat
me to the punch.
"We didn't mean to be rude Mister…er,
uh…Bug. We were running from a very hungry-looking, twenty-foot alligator, and needed a place to rest…just
for a moment, if you don't mind. Oh, and…uh, can you tell us what year this is?"
"Fuh shore. It's 1914, and course I don't
mind if you sit a spell…I invited ya, didn't I?"
He said his real name was Mouton Boudreau,
"But my mama call me Mud Bug from the day I can remember," he drawled,
in an accent I'd never heard in all my twelve years. He said
his daddy was Cajun…"From up north," he explained like we'd know what
he meant. "My mama came from the islands when she was just a pischouette."
Again, I guess he figured we'd understand
that, too.
"Now, don't mind these chairs. They's
a little wobbly, but'll hold ya good enough." He gestured at two wooden crates
that looked like they'd been used to haul angry possums around before they were
converted to chairs.
At least now we knew it was the same year
as the newspaper clipping we'd found in the attic about Great-Granddaddy Beau's
disappearance.
Cynthia and I stepped onto the rickety porch
and eased onto the crates while Mud Bug pulled an old rocking chair out his front
screen door, which, by the way, didn't have any screen.
"So you met up with ol' Gumbo,"
he laughed. "I spec' he'd be right proud being sized up at twenty feet since
he's only ten at the outside. And, I can't imagine he'd want to turn ya into dinner
since his taste is a little more finicky, if ya know what I mean?"
I didn't know what he meant, nor did I want
to! So, I changed the subject. "Just where are we?"
Cynthia's shoulders sagged, probably with
relief that my inquiry had no connection to food…'gator or otherwise.
"Well, now." He stuffed tobacco
into an ornately carved pipe. "You in the Bayou…'bout twenty miles south, as
the crow fly, from N'awlins."
"Na…what?"
"
Mud Bug paid no attention to our little debate,
and kept talking. "Yep. That's where you is―in
Then the laughter stopped, he leaned forward,
and a chill hit the air. "You may think gettin' lost is bad,
but gettin' found might be worse."