Chapter 1
The cypress trees swallowed the sun, left the swamp cold and dim the way it always do when night start creeping. I knelt by the water, still as cattails, waiting on the voices. They always come at dusk, thin and trembling, rising out the ripples. Each one carry a story. Some beg, some cry, some moan like the pain ain’t never left.
I been hearing them since I was five, right after Baba went on to heaven. That’s when silence left me for good. Sometimes I even hear Grand Baba among them, his voice low and thick like honey poured slow.
“Mi gal, you’s chosen. Hold yah head up like so.”
And I do it every time, tilt my chin just the way he showed me, smiling even when the ache in my chest heavy as stone.
The brush rustled behind me. Mama come walking slow, one hand pressed to that big belly of hers. She near ready now. Sweat shining on her brow though the air was cool and damp.
“Naima,” she called, her voice soft, “go on into town for me. Milk and butter. The craving won’t let me be.”
I wanted to stay by the water, wanted to listen a little longer, but I knew better than to argue. Mama’s cravings was sharp as spells themselves. And Daddy, he still out there on that oil rig, been gone for months. Working the water, sending money when he can. We been making it without him, holding on, but Lord I missed his voice. Some nights I press my ear to the wind, hoping it carry a piece of him back to me.
The path out the swamp twisted narrow before spilling onto cracked road. It always feel strange, leaving the trees behind, stepping into a world that don’t hum with spirits. The city stretched wide and noisy, full of cars and folks’ voices.
That’s when I saw him.
A boy about my age, maybe older, standing in front of a wall that bloomed with color. Paint on his hands, paint on his shirt. Bright strokes of fire and faces stared back at me from the brick, alive under his brush. He painted like a man in prayer, each line bold, unashamed.
I stopped, hid in the shadow of a store awning. I ain’t never seen anyone move like that before, so sure of theyself. Something stirred in my chest, a pull I couldn’t name.
Then he turned. His eyes caught mine.
“What you starin’ at?” His voice cut sharp, hot with attitude. “Don’t you got somewhere else to be?”
Heat rushed up my neck. I clutched the basket tighter. “I… sorry,” I whispered.
He smirked, like I was nothing, then bent back to his wall, throwing colors without a care in the world. I lowered my head and hurried on, cheeks burning. I hated how small he made me feel.
But even when I pushed through the corner store door, his face stayed with me. The boy with paint on his fingers and fire in his eyes.
The store smelled like old sugar and bleach. A weak fan clicked overhead, making more noise than wind. I kept my eyes on the list in my head—milk and butter—then drifted to the back cooler. Cold air kissed my cheeks when I opened the glass door, bottles sweating like the swamp in July.
“Evenin’, baby,” Miss Eloise called from the register. “Your mama doin’ all right?”
“Yes ma’am,” I said. “She asked for milk and butter. The craving strong.”
Miss Eloise chuckled. “That baby gon’ come out slick as a biscuit, the way she want butter. You tell her I said put her feet up.”
“Yes ma’am.” I set the milk and butter on the counter, counted out crumpled bills from the knot in my skirt, tucked the change in the same knot. Careful with my hands. Careful with everything.
The bell over the door jingled when I stepped back outside. Heat wrapped around me, thick and impatient. I adjusted the basket on my hip, walked fast, thinking of Mama’s breath and the way it catch sometimes like a screen door. I ain’t even see him till we bumped.
We collided hard. Milk slapped against the glass, butter skidded near his shoe, left a bright mark like paint.
“Watch it,” he snapped. His eyes hit me like a thrown rock. “What the hell you doin’, runnin’ blind?”
“I’m sorry,” I whispered, bending quick for the butter. My fingers shook. The street was louder now, laughter somewhere, a horn blaring, a bus rattling past.
“Keep your eyes open, country,” he scoffed.
Heat climbed my throat, bitter and quick. I stood, basket pressed tight against me. Paint flecked his knuckles, yellow streaks on his wrist, blue dried along his thumb. Behind him the mural burned with faces and fire. He painted like he wanted the whole wall to scream.
I swallowed what I wanted to say—that the world already spoke if you just listened. Lowering my eyes, I moved around him. A voice in my chest told me keep going. Sounded just like Grand Baba when storm clouds stacked high. Move, mi gal. Don’t feed trouble.
I ain’t look back.
The road shifted from concrete to cracked shell, then to packed dirt. City noise fell away, swallowed by cicadas. Cypress rose tall as old men, beards of moss swaying. The air cooled, deepened. The swamp took me back like it always did, soft and sad and full of memory.
The plank bridge creaked under my steps, the same one Baba built. Dragonflies skimmed the water below, wings shining like bottle glass. Somewhere a frog barked. Then it stopped.
Our little house waited between two trees, porch low, roof patched with tin that flashed like fish scales when the light hit right. A blue bottle tree stood to the left, necks pointing skyward. Bottles was empty today, clear throats catching nothing. Mama said they trapped bad spirits when the wind fussed. I trusted ’em most on nights when the air stayed still.
I stopped. The red brick dust I laid that morning ran thin across the doorway, broken near the jamb. A clay dish that usually held water for passing spirits lay tipped on its side. The water inside had turned cloudy and gray like river mud.
My stomach tugged. The voices at the water been louder today. I tried not to notice.
“Naima?” Mama’s voice floated from inside. “That you, baby?”
“Yes ma’am,” I called, stepping quick. “I got the milk, I got the butter.”
She lay on the narrow couch, feet propped on a quilt, belly round under her dress. Hair wrapped in a red scarf for good luck. Sweat shined her lip though the window was cracked. She looked tired, more tired than she let on.
“Thank you,” she said after a sip of milk. “Your brother kicked all day, greedy thing. He gon’ come out asking for a biscuit and a story. Your daddy gon’ kiss him first when he finally home.”
I smiled, though my eyes stung. I missed Daddy too. Missed the way he used to lift me high, call me his good girl. He’d come back. He always did. But the waiting hung long and heavy, like moss on the trees.
Quiet slid into the room, too still for evening. It settled on my shoulders. I thought of the broken brick dust, the tipped dish, the frogs falling silent. The silence pressed down, heavy as a hand.
I swept the threshold clean, laid a fresh line of dust. Tight and neat, like a stitch. I filled the dish with water from the pail. The surface showed the sky in a crooked oval. For a moment I saw something move under that skin, darker than dark. I blinked. Just my reflection staring back.
From the far bank, reeds rustled. Not wind. Not a raccoon. Slow and wet, something heavy dragging close. The cicadas stopped. The bottle tree made no sound.
A baby cried.
Thin and high, like a throat brand new to the world. The cry came from the cypress, from the water, from everywhere and nowhere. My arms prickled. Another cry came, closer. Then silence.
“Naima?” Mama called. “You all right out there?”
“Yes ma’am,” I answered, though the word felt borrowed. I locked the door, the click sharp like a bone. I wanted to tell her about the cry, the dust, the gray water, but her face had softened. The pain gone for now, a cloud blown off. I wouldn’t bring it back.
I set the butter in a pan. The stove caught slow, then flamed. Butter melted gold. For a breath the house smelled like Sunday, warm and easy.
Something tapped the window. Once, soft as a fingernail. Then again, harder. I turned. The curtain shifted the smallest bit. I lifted it and froze. Black mud smeared the glass, five streaks like fingers. Each line ended in a hook.
I let the curtain fall, slow, like the air had thickened.
Later, when Mama was asleep and the quilt rose and fell like a tide, I sat on the porch with sweet tea in my hands. Fireflies stitched the dark. An owl called far away. The bottle tree stayed still, listening.
“Grand Baba,” I whispered. “If you hear me, speak.”
The water rippled though no wind moved. The boards under me cooled, then cooled more, like something pulling heat out.
And then I heard it. Not a cry. Not a tap. A word. It rose up through the ribs of the house, old and careful, shaped by mouths long gone.
Hungry.
The fireflies dimmed. My cup rattled in my hands. I pressed my fingers together till my knuckles ached. I didn’t answer. I just listened. Somewhere far off, a dog barked and barked and wouldn’t quit.
Tomorrow I’d walk back with salt and prayer, fix the line of dust, pretend the bottles still sang. I’d think of the boy with paint on his hands and a mouth sharp as a blade. I’d tell myself none of it mattered.
For now the house breathed slow, counting. For now the swamp held its breath.
The word stayed with me, in the glass, the boards, the dark behind my eyes.
Hungry.
