Late summer. The smell of dog fennel wafting upward in moist air. Debilitating, endless, crushing heat. Nightfall brings no relief. A promise of rain sung out in distant thunder. Lightning flashed constantly, pausing only briefly, perhaps to inhale more fire. I slept too soundly in air-conditioned abandon, rolled up like a cat in winter. Then, I awoke suddenly disoriented and thirsty. It was 3:15 A.M. Shadows crept across the walls. Red wine dreams blended into reality. I struggled into consciousness and found the floor. Into the kitchen for water and a grape or two to fill the void of my stomach. Sleep did not return to me right away. Fitful bits of slumber rolled in and out.
Somewhere in the nearby swamp, a night bird was calling. I went to the back bedroom window, wondering where the moon was hiding. Continuous throbbing of the sky illuminated mountainous cloud formations. Trees seemed to gyrate in rhythmic harmony, becoming strange hypnotic creatures of the wetland. A round, greenish light appeared, then wavered and vanished. My first thought was that someone with a flashlight was out there poking around in the bushes. But there it was again, this time floating upwards before disappearing. Perhaps it was the little people - swamp fairies come to dance! As a child, I had believed in the elves and fairies, and somewhere in the back of my mind, still did. Watched those lights waltzing around here and there for a short time, then fell into deep, uninterruped sleep.
Oyster boats leaving out early woke me. I wondered about that weird phenomenon of lights I had observed during the night. Asking around the neighborhood the next day did no good. Folks looked at me like I was crazy or drunk or both, making smart replies that told me nothing. A few nights later, I returned home from work around midnight. There, right in the dark woods, the curious orbs floated and disappeared. This was no dream or imagination gone wild. This was real. Several times during that month, when the sky strobed and blinked, and heat waves rose from the earth like lost souls, I saw the lights again.
Finally, fate decided to reward my persistent inquiries. I met a man from the bayous of Louisiana. He had stopped by a seafood house in Eastpoint to enjoy a freshly smoked mullet. My habit was to frequent these places in search of fishing stories and other tales of interest. We struck up a conversation and I eagerly repeated my experience with the lights. He smiled crookedly and told me about the ‘foxfire’. Down in the bayous, this was more common. As the deep, smoking peat of the swamp gives off gas from rotting vegetation, it ignites briefly as it is released, but only when the air is full of electricity. Intense summer heat keeps it cooking until a natural light show begins. Also called ‘wil-o-the-wisp’ and ‘ghost lights’, it is the basis of many mysterious superstitions and old stories passed down for generations. The earth breathes.
Some days later as I was walking through the wet forest, I noticed a new flower blooming and went over to take a better look. It grew in the muck of a ‘sometimes’ stream. White and delicate, it trembled in the breeze. I bent down to get a closer look and noticed something else in the smooth, black mud. Perhaps it was only a vision from some long ago fantasy, but right there, imprinted perfectly and outlined in sunshine, were three sets of tiny footprints. Perhaps the swamp fairies - come to dance across my dreams forever.
