Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [136]
“Well, I… certainly,” said Gregg, slowly recovering from his surprise. “Come in.”
They entered the cool confines of a tidy house.
“Please, sit down.” Gregg still seemed rather bewildered; Pendergast, on the other hand, ensconced himself in the most comfortable chair and threw one leg over the other, looking completely at home.
“Laura and I are not here on church business,” he said, removing a steno pad and a pen from his suit. “But I had heard of your church and your reputation for hospitality, and so here we are.”
“I see,” said Gregg, obviously not seeing at all.
“Pastor Gregg, in my spare time from my pastoral duties, I have an avocation: I am an amateur historian, a collector of myths and legends, a rummager in the dusty corners of forgotten southern history. In fact I’m writing a book. Myths and Legends of the Southern Swamps. And that is why I am here.” Pendergast said this last triumphantly, then sat back.
“How interesting,” Gregg replied.
“When I travel, I always look up the local pastor first. He never fails me, never.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Because the local pastor knows the folks. He knows the legends. But as a man of God, he is not superstitious. He isn’t swayed by such things. Am I right?”
“Well, it’s true one hears stories. But they are just that, Pastor Pendergast: stories. I don’t pay much attention to them.”
“Exactly. Now this swamp, the Black Brake, is one of the biggest and most legendary in the South. Are you familiar with it?”
“Naturally.”
“Have you heard of a place in the swamp called Spanish Island?”
“Oh, yes. It’s not really an island, of course—more an area of mudflats and shallow water where the cypress trees were never cut. It’s out in the middle of the swamp, virgin forest. I’ve never seen it.”
Pendergast began to scribble. “They say there was an old fishing and hunting camp there.”
“Quite right. Belonged to the Brodie family, but it was closed up thirty years ago. I believe it’s just rotted back into the swamp. That’s what happens to abandoned buildings, you know.”
“Are there any stories about Spanish Island?”
He smiled. “Of course. The usual ghost stories, rumors that the place is occupied by squatters and used for drug smuggling—that sort of thing.”
“Ghost stories?”
“The locals are full of talk about the heart of the swamp, where Spanish Island is located: strange lights at night, odd noises, that sort of thing. A few years ago, a frogger disappeared in the swamp. They found his rented airboat drifting in a bayou not far from Spanish Island. I expect he got drunk and fell off into the water, but the local folk all say he was murdered or went swamp crazy.”
“Swamp crazy?”
“If you spend too much time in the swamp, it gets to you and you go crazy. So people say. While I don’t exactly believe that, I must say it is an… intimidating place. Easy to get lost in.”
Pendergast wrote this all down with expressions of interest. “What about the lights?”
“The froggers go out at night, you know, and sometimes come back with stories of strange lights moving through the swamp. They’re just seeing each other, in my opinion. You need a light, you see, to frog. Or it might be a natural phenomenon, glowing swamp gas or something like that.”
“Excellent,” said Pendergast, taking a moment to scribble. “This is just the sort of thing I’m looking for. Anything else?”
Encouraged, Gregg went on. “There’s always talk of a giant alligator in the swamp. Most of the southern swamps have similar legends, as I’m sure you know. And sometimes they turn out to be true—there was an alligator shot in Lake Conroe over in Texas a few years back that was over twenty-three feet long. It was eating a full-grown deer when it was killed.”
“Amazing,” said Pendergast. “So if one wanted to visit Spanish Island, how would one go about it?”
“It’s marked on the older maps. Problem is, getting there’s a whole different deal, with all the mazes of channels and mud bars. And the cypresses are thick as thieves deep in there. During low water, there’s a growth of ferns