Mr Brisbeau’s magnetic field was distinguished by a misty patch about the size of a walnut behind his right temple, floating amid the fiery arcs like a cloud permanently in place. When Donnell mentioned it, Jocundra dug among the junk and located a pencil and suggested she take notes while he described the process. Each time one of the arcs materialized near the misty patch, it would bend away to avoid contact. On impulse, Donnell began inducing arcs to enter the patch, but they resisted his guidance and tore away from his grip. Rather than the gentle tugging he had expected, they exerted a powerful pull, and the harder he strained at them, the more inelastic they became. After perhaps a half hour of experiment, he tried to direct two of the arcs to enter the patch from opposite sides, and to his amazement they entered easily. The patch glowed a pale whitish-gold, and the arcs held steady and bright, flowing inward toward each other.
‘Damn!’ said Mr Brisbeau, clapping his hand to his head. ‘Feel lak you plug me in or somethin’.’
Within a few minutes the arcs began to fade, and this time Donnell introduced four pairs of them into the patch, setting it to glowing like a little gold spider. But for all his success at manipulating the field, Mr Brisbeau’s sight did not improve. He said, though, he felt better than he had in months, and whether due to the treatment or to his satisfaction with Donnell’s effort, his mood did brighten. He withdrew a bottle of bourbon and a jar of cherry juice from the storage chest, mixed and added sugar to taste, humming and chuckling to himself. ‘Cherry flips,’ he said, handing them each a glass. It tasted awful, bad medicine and melted lollypops, but he downed half a dozen while Donnell and Jocundra nursed their drinks.
His eyes red-veined from the liquor, he launched into the tale of Bayou Vert, the legendary course of green water appearing now and again to those lost in the swamp, which - if they had the courage to follow - would lead them to the Swamp King’s palace and an eternity of sexual delights among his beautiful, gray-haired daughters.
‘Long gray hair lak the moss, skin white lak the lily,’ he said, kissing his fingertips. He scooted his crate next to Jocundra and put his arm around her waist. ‘But can’t none of ‘em shine lak Jo’ here, can they?’ His fingers strayed near her breast, and her smile froze. ‘One time,’ he went on, ‘fool me, I’m sick with the fever, and the hurricane she’s shreddin’ the swamp and I’m out at the traps. That’s when I see Bayou Vert. Jus’ a trickle runnin’ through the flood. But I tink it’s the fever, and I’m too scared to follow.’
It had been drizzling, but now the sun broke through and slanted into the cabin, heating the air, shining off the veins of glue between the pictures on the walls, melting the images of dead presidents and centerfolds and famous buildings into an abstract of color and glare. Mr Brisbeau took to staring at Jocundra, madly doting; his narrative grew disconnected, lapsing in midsentence, and his hand wandered onto her thigh. Donnell was on the verge of interrupting, hoping to spare her further molestation, when the old man jumped up and staggered toward the door, sending avalanches of fragments slithering down the junkpiles.
‘he Bon Dieu!’ he shouted; he teetered on the top step and fell with a thump in the sand.
By the time they reached the door, he had climbed to his feet and was gazing off at the treeline. Tears slithered down the creases of his cheeks.
‘Look there,’ he said. ‘Goddamn and son of a bitch! Look there!’ He pointed. ‘I ain’t seen that chinaberry for tree-four years. Oh, goddamn, jus’ look at that!’ He went a step forward, stumbled, and fell again, but crawled on all fours to the edge of the palmettos and pitched face downward beside a stubby, bluish-green shrub. ‘Indigo,’ he said wonderingly. ‘I tink she’s gone from here.’
‘You can see?’ Jocundra turned to Donnell, and mixed with the excitement, he thought he detected a new apprehension in her face. He looked down at his hands, shaken by the realization that he had done something material to Mr Brisbeau.
‘Firs’ I tink it’s the drinkin’ and mem’ries givin’ me sight of you, girl.’ The old man wiped his eyes. ‘But I mus’ be seein’, ‘cause I lose my good-time feelin’ when I fall.’ He pulled himself up and brushed the crust of mucky sand off his shirt; then, struck by a thought, he said, ‘Me, I’m goin’ to bring ol’ man Bivalaqua so you can touch his migraine.’
‘We can’t have people coming here,’ said Jocundra. ‘We’ll have the police…’
