Micheal St. James, just barely four years old, sat barefoot and crossleged on the front porch. On his lap, he held a book of Mother Goose's nursery rhymes. Having lost his baby fat due more to poor eating than actual growth, the child was nothing more than a pale waif-of-a-ghost against the dark, damp siding of the house. His brown curls hadn't fallen past his ears, yet, and instead floated above them in wispy clouds. His half-blosomed rose bud lips hung plump, open, revealing tiny teeth within, a habit he'd developed when absorbed in some task. He couldn't yet read, of course, was not in school as the St. Jameses neither valued nor could afford preschool, but the boy had a sincere interest in pictures and words. Micheal had some vague understanding that the markings he saw on the paper before him formed little messages, and he sat tracing the lines with the index finger of his right hand.

Appearing from around the side of the house, Father Marion Hugh approached the child. He wore black slacks and long sleeves, his white collar peeking out in a ring around his throat like some bright noose. He placed his left foot on the first step and leaned on his knee, looked at Micheal, who'd darted him a quick side-eye but otherwise paid him no attention and continued tracing words.

"What've you got there, little one?"

Keeping his chin tucked against her breast, the boy said nothing, only moved his finger across the page. The humid, misty morning atmosphere was the sort that crept beneath clothing and condensed on glass, the sort that stifled sound. Michael's quiet snuffling breaths and a pine warbler were the only audio.

"Nursery rhymes, hm?" Father tried again, unfazed by the boy's quiet. Perhaps Micheal remembered him from all those weeks back when Father Kenyon had brought him and his brother indoors after they'd broken the rectory window. "Do you have a favorite?"

Micheal stuck his tongue out in apparent thought and then, keeping his attention on the book, pointed to an image of a little girl dressed in a pinafore, crying before a tipped wagon and broken doll. The little girl's mother couched next to her in an attempt at comfort.

"That one?" Marion asked, mildly surprised. He took note of the short poem beneath the picture and read aloud, "For every evil under the sun, / There is a remedy or there is none. / If there be one, seek till you find it; / If there be none, never mind it."

At last Micheal turned to stare up at the priest with a childlike expression, but still, he said nothing.

Father Hugh's eyebrows were raised. "Well, that's not one I've heard before, but it's interesting. What about Humpty Dumpty or Simple Simon? Have you heard those? Or Little Red Riding Hood? Well, no, that's a fairytale. I do believe it'd be much more interesting, though."

A clear drop of snot trickled from the boy's nostril, but Micheal didn't seem to notice or care and turned back to his book. Marion continued up the stairs and to the door, on which he knocked.

Glory opened. She was dressed in fitted, waist-high jeans, a cropped tee, and rain boots, and she pushed out the screen door and waved Father inside. The interior of the house was humble but clean. There was enough furniture for furnishings but nothing particularly decorative. The walls were bare, at least in the living room and down the hallway into the kitchen, which was where the woman led him. Her older son, Aaron, sat at the table eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich; when the boy spotted the priest, his eyes widened, but he otherwise gave no indication of minding the man's presence. Father himself, however, began to feel suddenly ill at ease.

"Is your husband home, Ms. St. James?"

"No," she answered directly, filling a plastic cup at the sink and passing it to her son. "He'd be angry if I brought you here."

Marion struggled with what to say. He wasn't sure he should be in the woman's house without her husband present, and yet his curiosity as to the sounds she'd been hearing, the potential connection (no matter how small) to the missing LeBlanc children, kept him where he was. "What about the children?"

"Oh, my neigbor helps out. Miss Mariana. She'll be here any minute. You bring some boots, at least? It gets muddy back in them trees."

Of course he hadn't brought boots. He wasn't sure he owned boots, and foresight was not one of Father's strongpoints. He wore black dress shoes. What had he been thinking? Well, he knew what he'd been thinking. He'd wanted to look as priestly as possible without actually donning a cassock. This woman had made him slightly uncomfortable in the church, and this venture would be no different, he assumed.

"Well, you can borrow Dell's, then, if you want. I'd hate you to get those nice shoes dirty."

As much as he did not want to borrow Dell's boots, Marion caved, and Glory fetched them. They were a bit large on the priest's feet, but they'd do, especially once tied.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Father Hugh laughed, said, "Let's just hope Lindell doesn't come back and find me here in his clothes."

Glory pursed her mouth into a sour grin. "You'd probably look better in 'em than he does."

A strange moment ticked by, during which their eyes met. The woman was young, in her early twenties at the most, and he wasn't much older. The gravity of his position struck Marion, and he was relieved though startled when an old woman's face appeared in the glass window pane of the backdoor. She rapped a few times, and Glory let Miss Marianna inside. Father Hugh recognized the woman as one of his parishoners. He'd not become as familiar with his congregation as he'd like to be, but he'd only been in Surette about a year, and a large portion of that time had been allotted to his recovery from David LeBlanc's murder attempt.

Shriveled as a dried nectarine, Marianna Savoy had always struck Father Hugh as eccentric. She did indeed show up to most of his Sunday Masses but frequently arrived late or left in the middle. The old woman's age was difficult to guess, but she had to be at least in her seventies or eighties, from what Marion could tell. She reminded him of his grandmother—his father's mother—who'd died when he was a little boy. Marianna greeted Glory with a quiet joke between them and hobbled toward the priest. There was something of the Jolly Elf about her, some mystical gnomishness in the way she twinkled when she smiled at him.

"Mornin, Father. Didn't expect to see you here today or . . . ever."

Marion nodded and clasped his hands a bit awkwardly at his crotch. "I do get out on occassion," he responded, "and especially need to now; it's good for my continued recovery."

"Oh, yes, yes." The old woman placed one of her wizened, veined hands on his, studied him in earnest. "What a terrible thing it was, but you're resilient, aren't you? And good thing, too. You're much needed here." She squeezed his fingers so hard Marion nearly snapped at her, but before he could do so, she'd let go. What a grip she had, for an elderly person! "And how's David doing, these days? Do you visit him?"

Father Hugh dare not unclasp his hands for fear they were still trembling from the pain of being crushed together. "I have visited him a few times, once for Last Rites. But the man seems to be tethered to this world, still."

"Oh that's a shame. Such a shame. He can't be living any kind of life, can he? All locked up in that brain of his?"

"It's impossible to know, Ms. Savoy."

"So many evils, so few remedies."

She turned to the child at the table, and Marion found his thoughts turning to Micheal and his nursery rhymes on the porch. If there be none, then never mind it. He sighed.

"We'd best head out before it starts raining again," Glory remarked. "Mikey's on the porch, Marianna."

"Oh, well then, I think I'll join him there."

The old woman started off down the hallway, and Glory turned to Aaron, ordered him to behave in her absence, and then led Father Hugh out the back door and into the unfenced line of grass that served as a backyard. They crossed the dewy grass, their feet bringing up water wherever they stepped, and Marion was immediately glad he'd acquiesced to the suggestion he borrow Lindell's boots. The cypress and tupelo trees were mere yards from the St. Jameses' property, and before the two had even broached a conversation they'd arrived in the forest. Though he'd been in Surette about a year and knew it was right off the bayou, Marion hadn't actually gone near the swamps. He'd had no reason to, until now, but all the reservations he'd felt about the place were immediately given solid form. The tree trunks, shaped like columns of petrified syrup poured from the sky, were black and glistening, playing hide-and-seek in shadowy layers amongst the hovering moisture, a vapor that seemed breathed from massive lungs beneath the loam. Underfoot, patches of pale purple thyme and sedum contended with the marshy grasses, and sheaves of tangled gray Spanish moss hung like ghosts from the branches above. After stumbling more than once an a mossy cypress knee, Father Hugh began to watch his path more carefully, though he found himself wishing to admire the scene before him rather than what was at his feet.

The complete silence in the forest unnerved Marion, as well. Birds—there were birds, to be sure—and monotonous insect humming, but these sounds were muted behind walls of condensation, as if someone had thrown blankets overthe creatures emitting them. So when Glory spoke after several minutes of walking, her voice startled Marion.

"I been back here a few times, with Dell. I don't like it if I'm alone."

"I can see why," Father admitted. He didn't believe in any non-Christian supernature, and yet the current environment gave rise to myriad phantasmic notions.

Glory brushed a braid of moss aside, far more graceful in her movement than was Father. "Dell has his boat back here. I thought we'd take it out on the water."

Lindell's boat? Marion balked. Why hadn't he asked the woman about her plans before he'd showed up? "Won't Mr. St. James mind?" he questioned rather lamely.

"Only if he knows about it, which he won't."

"I hope you aren't relying on me to drive the thing?"

Glory laughed a bit; it was like bells, and it caused the birds nearby to grow quiet. "Don't you worry, Father. I wasn't expecting you to. I know how to do it."

And Glory did, indeed, know how to start up the jon boat and steer it off into the bayou proper. As they wound their way through the trees and into more open waters, Marion again found himself mesmerized by the natural milieu. Though well into the afternoon, very little daylight seemed to reach them, even where there weren't many obstacles in their path. Glory didn't speak much, didn't explain her plans or go on about her kids, didn't complain about the mosquitos or the jarring noise of the boat engine. She did pause to point out a few critters, including a couple of alligator snouts and eyes just barely peeping above the water's surface. For his part, Marion was content just sitting back and letting the woman take control. They both knew he was out of his element on the bayou. His forte were churches and homilies. In fact, Father Hugh had become somewhat reclusive since the attempt on his life and shunned the majority of his congregation's social events, and as a man used to prayer and contemplation, silence came natural to him. He did not feel the need to fill the quiet.

The engine was too loud to talk over, anyhow.

After nearly fifteen minutes on the water, though, Glory guided the boat back into the trees, winding it down a narrow run-off channel. The foliage closed in around them; the near-stagnant duckweedy surface gave the impression of being solid land, and the boat cut a dark path through it. Gloom draped its curtains, pocked by tiny lights whose distances were impossible to place. Fireflies? They must be, and yet why out in the middle of the day? Well, the shadows perhaps attracted them, Father thought.

When she'd reached whatever destination she'd set, Glory stopped the engine. The sudden quiet wrapped thick around them, and for a moment, Marion's head swam as a sense of vertigo took hold. He closed his eyes, placed his hands on either side of the boat in order to steady his mind.

"Dell come out here to trap crawfish, sometimes. Hangs his cages on the trees. I've helped him a couple of times." She sat down on the bench opposite Marion's. For the first time since he'd arrived at the St. Jameses' home, the man noticed how much effort Glory had put into her appearance. He'd been so focused on the other factors of his visit—the children, Miss Marianna, the walk through the forest, the eerie cruise through the swamp, his own anxieties—that he'd paid little attention to the woman he was with. Her face was made up as if she were going to one of his Sunday Masses; her hair was sleek and styled (though the humid air had somewhat undone her efforts); her ears wore sparkling studs, and she adjusted her top as she sat before him, smoothing the sweetheart neckline so it rested right beneath her collarbone.

Marion swallowed his sudden nerves. "Is this where you hear it?"

Glory lowered her brow. "Hear what?"

"Th-the wolf—"

"Oh, the howling? I did tell you that. Yes . . ."

The way she drew out the middle of her "yes" convinced Father he'd made a poor decision. He thought little of his own physical appearance; his profession of choice had taught him to be humble. And yet when he did cross a mirror, he recognized a certain handsomeness in his features. They were narrow, refined, not rugged in a masculine way but somewhat delicate as a man of God and learning might be expected to possess. And in some of his darker moments, Marion suffered the same urges any human male might suffer, at his worst he'd occassionaly capitulate to his base physical needs. The shame that accompanied such reckless and selfish behavior tormented him for days afterward, and yet if Father Hugh was sure of one thing, it was that he was in no way interested in the companionship of a woman.

"Mrs. St. James . . ."

"I have a name," she nearly whispered, her eyes full and gleaming like crystals. "I want you to say it."

"No . . . no. I don't think that's . . . the wolf—you haven't heard it, have you? That—that was a lie?"

Rather than answer his questions, leaned forward as if she were about to cross over to Marion's bench, and the man drew back. "I seen how you look at me in church, Father, and I—I know you're afraid because you're a priest and you're not allowed to, but—"

"Ma'am, I assure you I haven't—"

"It's all right. If you've never been with a woman, I . . . I can show you. Let me show you, Father, what it's like . . ."

Marion fell backward off his seat the same moment Glory moved toward him and a mournful animal cry rent the steamy gloom. The woman paused in her pursuit, met eyes as wide as her own. Both sat in petrified trepidation as the distinctive canine howl sounded once more.

Forgetting the woman's advances, Marion tried to rise, but his instability and Glory's resumed attempts shook the boat, and within seconds Father Hugh found himself struggling in the swamp waters. Once he'd managedto regain his footing, he found the liquid rose only to his waist, and the bank appeared mere yards away. Glory called after him, but now that he was off it, there was no way Marion was getting back on that boat. He must discover the source of the howl, whatever the cost. Somehow, in spite of his cumbersome gait and his terror of whatever creatures might be lurking in the waters, the priest tore through the weeds and reached solid ground, hoisted himself up and disappeared into the moss and mist, leaving the angry and humiliated woman behind.