Demise at Bog Walk Basin
by
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Chapter 1 (
The cashew ridge and the pinewood forests were several miles away. There the terrains were solid and with few obstructions. Something chased, or scared them. The leader of the pack sweated profusely as he stood by and keenly watched another buck as he herded the exhausted flock along a narrow strip by the edge of the pond. Alligators were the assailants. Silent and swifter than a rattler, they struck with savage jaws.
Many matured bucks were in the pack. Males released musk odors from glandular sacks under the skins of their abdomen, and hunters trailed the scent to track them down. The musk deer was similar in size to small goats without horns. Ten bucks and ten doe made up that group. Hunters carried their kill in canvas bags. The doe tasted good, but the matured buck was—like its smell. Young bucks were good venison when bagged before their glandular sack developed.
Alligators reduced the number of bucks yearly, since they were the first to drink from the pond. Once one is caught and the alligators feasted, the rest drank unconcerned.
The wind carried the scent of musk deer to the camp of hunters who waited for the signal. They caught the strong smell and figured that they headed for ''grassy patch'' to feed. Two days of patience rewarded them. The three men ventured into the night with loaded rifles. Eager for the hunt they took a route that was shorter, but one they hadn''t used before. They had to reach grassy patch before dawn broke and the direction of the wind changed. They left the cook to guard the camp.
A plot of submerged land drained every day season and acres emerged. Green grass grew in weeks. The musk deer fed there and the hunters waited with loaded guns. They bagged their ill at "grassy patch."
Songs were made about grassy patch, but none about the tree hunters who never returned. Dozens of stories were woven, but the truth came five years later as Old Dave told it. He climbed the same tree as the unfortunate hunter and found the rusted rifle with decaying butt, cradled in a crotch. The cook identified the rifle, and said that he cleaned and loaded it that day when they went hunting.
No one knew of that nest of crocodiles and those who might have known were devoured. The crocodiles averaged eight feet from nose to tail and could stand on their hind legs—or so it appeared. They lived in the quagmires and in mounds of marsh and debris. Their skins blended with wherever they were and they were rapid runners.
Old Dave and his partner headed for grassy patch that day. They figured it was risky, but the day was bright and sunny and they calculated where they were. The scene wasn''t familiar though—A solitary large tree amongst debris, cast its shadow over marshes and stumps that were everywhere. That was when Old Dave saw strange movements and lingered uncertainly. His partner, unconcerned, hurried ahead.
The mounds and objects mistaken as piles of debris and rotted logs, moved, rose, and surrounded them. They had never seen crocks that stood on hind legs before. These were fast and they were many. The crocodiles formed a tight circle and closed in. Old Dave quickly climbed the tree and watched them devour his partner. He stayed all night and in the morning notice that they slept under the tree.
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About the Book
The Communal Wetlands though only ten square miles, harbored, mysteries yet unfurled. Hunters who came from it alive remembered the musky dampness, its dewy dawn, and the misty aura that followed the thick heavy fog everywhere, like a spirit
The fungus was a hybrid of plant and animal, yet it bore the semblance of neither. It was a black tarry gook. It remained in the pond where the scientist threw it, and in twenty years it grew and filled up five acres. It willed animals to enter it, and then it fed as they walked into its slimy consistency. It even captured the minds of strong willed men and subjected them to its hunger.
Time passed and they strategically planned for a second term in office, but the helicopter that transported one million dollars, as gift for their needy voters, was shot down in the communal wetlands by a sniper with high-powered rifle.
A hunter found the attaché case with the money and hid it. The disappointed people swayed towards the opposition party and supported them. A hurricane struck, and murders and schemes, and corruption in government offices were exposed.
Tales of a shipwreck, and buried Spanish and Mayan treasures, were found to be true, and stability was regained.
About the Author
The Author was born in the
The settings and plots were taken from real locations and from factual events. Fantasy was introduced so a to embellish the tale and to quicken the imagination. The story was not true, and the names of the people used, were fabricated.
The author was guided by his personal experiences and by folklore. Through the years he served as, secondary school teacher, Police Constable, Certified Telecommunications Technicians, and as a US Postal Service, Equipment Mechanic.
He played the guitar, the banjo and the keyboard.
He heartily thanked Mrs. Gladys Arthurs, who read the manuscript, and recommended suited revisions. She gave life to the story.... "Thanks."
Special thanks to the Writer''s Digest Novel Writing Workshop, and to his instructor, Mr. Robert Grover, the best selling author, whose instructions, and tactful prodding propelled his imagination, and earned him his Renowned Writer''s Digest Novel Writing Diploma.