Bartleby of the Big Bad Bayou (4 page)

“Wait! I'm not the eating kind of present,” Bartleby cried. “I'm too special to eat. I'm a racing turtle.”

With an earsplitting clap, the great gator closed his mouth. “What does Old Stump need with a racing turtle?”

“You can race me against other turtles. It will be fun. Don't you like to have fun?”

“Old Stump doesn't know. He's never had any. Besides, he's eaten all the turtles around here.” Old Stump smacked his jaws.

Bartleby gulped. “How about racing me against alligators, then?”

“Against alligators? No turtle can outswim an alligator.”

“If that's true, you have nothing to lose. But if I win, you'll have to let me go.”

The moldy old giant stopped to consider. “All right. Old Stump can be nice. He can be patient.” He turned his boulder-sized head toward the four alligators on the bank. “Whichever of you wins will get a minnow as a reward. A small one of course. We will hold the race here tonight when the horned owl hoots.” He whirled around with surprising speed, whipping his tail at Seezer, Bartleby, and Grub. “You will wait on the bank across the way where my guards can keep an eye on you. Old Stump wouldn't want Present to decide to leave before tonight.”

“I'm sssorry I ever brought you here,” Seezer groaned as he paced back and forth on the mud bank. “This bayou isn't the sssame place I left. It's not home at all.”

Bartleby eyed the four guard gators across the creek and shuddered in his shell. He was very afraid. But how could he blame Seezer? He'd wanted to come here just as much as his friend. “It's not your fault. Besides, I'm not giving up yet. A turtle is persistent.”

“Little bro', you may be from New York, but you're not too smart,” Grub groaned as he scratched the dirt for a worm or a beetle. “Not even the biggest turtle in the bayou is faster than a hungry gator.”

“I may not be faster than those green goons, but I'm smarter,” Bartleby retorted. “They're starving! If Old Stump keeps all the fish for himself, why don't they just find another home?” He eyed Grub curiously. “Why have you stayed here?”

The scrawny gator hung his head. “Guess I've been afraid that what's out there might be worse than what's right here.”

“If we sssurvive tonight, we'll find a better place,” Seezer vowed. “Come with us, Grub. Family ssshould ssstick together.”

“All right,” Grub agreed. “Although we may end up shmushed together—inside Old Smelly's belly.”

“We haven't much time left to make a plan,” Bartleby said. “I'd better take a nap.”

“A nap, little bro'? Now?”

“Bartleby sssometimes sssees sssigns in his dreams,” Seezer explained. “They helped ssshow us the way to this bayou.”

“Here? Then we're definitely in trouble.” Grub laid his head on the mud bank and closed his eyes.

“We'd all better sssleep. We'll need our ssstrength for later.” Seezer sank down and tucked his tail close to his body.

Bartleby pulled into his shell and waited. Soon he felt a floaty feeling. Little flashes of silver appeared. He strained to see more clearly. The flashes began to form shapes—fish shapes! In Bartleby's dream, the shimmering fish zigzagged teasingly back and forth. They blew bubbles at his snout. They glub-glubbed as if they were trying to tell him something.

He opened his eyes. Although the fish were gone, the glimmer of an idea was swimming around his brain. But he needed help. He needed a friend who could fish and fly—a waterbird like his old duck friend, Mother Wak.

He looked along the bank and gazed at the sky. He didn't hear a single quack. Nothing flew overhead or stirred the leaves in the trees. “I'll never find a waterbird here. They're all afraid of Old Stump,” he mumbled to himself.

“I might be able to help,” called a soft voice from the woods.

Bartleby glanced at Seezer and Grub. They were still asleep. “Who are you?” he asked, craning his neck toward the tangled thicket.

“I'm called Quickfoot.”

“Can you fish and fly?”

“No, but I am very fast.”

“Thank you for your offer, but if you don't have wings, I don't think you can be much help.” Bartleby edged his head back in.

“I have friends that can fish and fly. They might be willing to assist you.”

Bartleby stuck his head out again. “Really?” He looked across the bayou. On the opposite bank, the guard gators were arguing over a crawfish. Suddenly one of them raised his head and stared across the water. Bartleby looked down at the dirt. “Can you come over here?” he whispered.

“Oh, no. If any of the alligators saw me, they'd be after me quicker than a fly can flit.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Bartleby thought he saw the tip of a quivering nose behind a shrub. “What kind of creature are you?”

For a moment, the voice hesitated. Then it murmured, “A swamp rabbit.”

“Oh. My friend Seezer used to tell me about the delicious swamp rabbits in the bayou.” Bartleby took another peek at the sleeping gators. “You'd better go away now.”

For a moment, a furry ear bobbed above the shrub. A shiny eye winked. Then it disappeared.

Bartleby's carapace felt as heavy as if it had turned to stone. He lowered himself onto his plastron. “Good-bye,” he whispered.

“Don't worry, I'll still help you.”

“You will?”

“Yes—I would do anything to thwart that greedy old gator! Once I used to swim and play in this bayou with all of my brothers and sisters. But Old Stump swallowed up every one of them when we were only youngsters. I've been alone ever since.” Quickfoot's nose began twitching faster. “I will ask my egret friends, Billy and Plume, to come. Once, when their fledgling dropped from the nest, I hid him from the Claw, the Paw, and the Jaw. Billy and Plume were very grateful. I am sure they will agree to help now. But first, you must tell me your plan.”

It was a moonless night. The sky over the bayou was as black as the pit of an alligator's stomach. For Bartleby, the darkness was a good thing. It would make it easier for Quickfoot's friends to land on the bank without being discovered by Old Stump and his guards. But the red-ear didn't feel very lucky as he floated behind the row of water lilies that was the starting line for the race. On either side of him, two hungry gators chomped their jaws impatiently. Unless everything went according to plan, he knew he'd soon be in Old Stump's gargantuan gut.

“When Old Stump says ‘go,' you may start swimming,” the monstrous gator bellowed. “He will be waiting for Present at the finish line—with his jaws open and ready.” Old Stump's eyes glowed like flames above the blackness of the water.

“Excuse me, Old Stump, but did you remember the, ah, winner's prize?” asked Number One.

“A tasty minnow for the winner,” added Number Two. He paddled himself slightly in front of the other alligators.

“But not too large,” said Number Three. “I wouldn't want to overeat.”

“Are there prizes for the runners-up?” queried Number Four.

“Old Stump would never forget to reward his loyal friends. The winner will get his minnow.” The old gator flashed his teeth. “And the losers will each get Old Stump's sincerest thanks for trying. Now let's get started. Old Stump is beginning to feel a tad hungry. He will swim upstream to the finish line and wait.” Swishing his great tail, he steered himself toward another row of water lilies near the entrance to his cave.

The guard gators began to thrash their tails, each one trying to get a head start. They snarled and snapped at one another.

“Get out of my way!” growled Number One.

“You slow, stupid thing. You might as well give up now,” jeered Number Two.

“Oh, stop your fussing,” Number Three told them. “You know I'm the fastest anyway.”

“Perhaps, but I'm the hungriest—and the hungriest always wins,” hissed Number Four.

Bartleby took a big gulp of sweet bayou air. Perhaps it would be his last. What if Quickfoot's waterbird friends, Billy and Plume, couldn't find this hidden place on such a dark night? Even if they were late, it would mean the end for him. Maybe they'd decided not to come at all. Why should they risk a creek full of alligators in order to save a single red-eared turtle, anyway? It had been foolish to think that a creature he barely knew, and two he'd never met, would help him. He pulled his head into his shell.

“Bartleby, keep your ssspirits up,” Seezer called from the mud bank. “I'll sssee you at the finish line.”

“Good luck, little bro'. You're gonna need it,” Grub added.

At the sound of his friends' voices, Bartleby poked his head out again. He smacked his webs against the water as hard as he could. “I'll try my best.”

His four opponents snorted loudly.

“Present is going to do his best—I'd better start worrying.” Number One snickered.

“Me, too. Present is going to breeze right by us with his great, strong webs,” Number Two jeered.

Number Three splashed Bartleby with a front claw. “Better watch out for that little stub he calls a tail.”

Number Four yawned. “Maybe we should give up right now.”

“ATTENTION! OLD STUMP IS READY,” the bull gator bellowed from the finish line. “ON YOUR MARKS, GET SET—”

“Wait!” Bartleby yelped. “The horned owl hasn't hooted yet. You said that's when the race would start.”

“Don't be foolish. Old Stump is the one who gets to say ‘go.' Now hurry, Present, while Old Stump's mouth is open. He doesn't want to overtire his jaws.”

“Don't I get a last wish? You're supposed to grant my final request before you eat me.”

“All right, Present. Old Stump can be fair. What is it?”

“I want to hear the horned owl's hoot one more time.”

“So, you are a bird lover. Well, Old Stump loves birds, too—especially plump, tender ones.” The gator smacked his jaws. “We will wait for the owl to hoot.”

Bartleby felt as if he were no more than a fallen leaf as he floated between the other racers. In a little while, he would be free—or else he would be snack food. “I've got to believe in myself,” he whispered. “I can do it.” But the words didn't seem very convincing. He listened for sounds from the woods. Was something rustling in the treetops, or was it the wind? He concentrated on the water beneath his plastron. Did he feel the ripple of something entering the stream, or was that just his body shivering?

“READY, SET, GO!” Old Stump boomed.

Using their long, muscular tails, the four guard gators shot forward. Bartleby took a big breath and paddled after them. He stayed low in the water, spread his webs wide, and stroked as hard as he could. But he couldn't catch up.

“YOU WERE RIGHT, PRESENT. THIS IS FUN!” Old Stump bellowed above the splashing.

Bartleby thought about giving up. “Why should I bother racing? I'll only get eaten sooner that way,” he chided himself. “This isn't even a fair contest.” But something inside him wouldn't let him quit. So he kept on swimming, even though the gators were getting farther and farther ahead of him.

Quag-quog. Quag-quog.
From overhead, Bartleby heard a throaty croak. It sounded like a flying frog.

Quag-quog. Quag-quog.
There was another one.

Without slowing his pace, Bartleby squinted up at the dark sky. Like black on black, two silhouettes dipped down and waved their wings at him. Now he could tell that they were birds. Birds with long, curving necks and wide, graceful wings.

“Plume and I have brought your delivery. As many as our gullets will carry,” the first one called softly. “We'll release them into the middle of this bayou, just ahead of those four brainless beasts. Good luck!”

“Yes. Billy and I are so glad to be able to help a friend of Quickfoot's,” the other added as she wheeled skyward again.

“Thank you,” Bartleby whispered. He felt a new surge of energy. He paddled his webs faster and pushed against the water even harder. Soon the rhythm of his strokes matched the sound of his breathing. “Steady, quick! Steady, quick!” he grunted to himself.

In a little while, the excited whispers of the gators reached him.

Bartleby paddled steadily toward the finish line. He swam right past the four big gators as they searched the water for every last fish. His limbs were beginning to ache, and the warm, gentle water made it tempting to slow down. But he knew he couldn't. At any moment, his opponents might run out of fish to eat and begin the race again.

He focused on reaching the end of the watercourse. In the distance, he could see Old Stump's eerie red eyes. How surprised the old beast was going to be if Bartleby won the contest. The thought made the red-ear swim even harder.

He was almost at the finish line when he heard snorting behind him.

“Ha! That turtle thinks he's going to win.”

“That's funny! One of you should catch up to him. I don't care about winning that measly minnow anymore.”

“Well, I don't feel like rushing, either. I just ate.”