The old and worn engine choked and spluttered before cracking loudly in a fit of defiance, waking up Azariah Brown from his dreamless sleep. He snorted, huffed and rubbed his tired wrinkled eyes, then creakily pushed himself up from his mouldy armchair. He switched off the motor to his floating boat home.
Everything smelled of mould and gasoline, and much of the house was rotted away from the damp. There was nothing much left of what it had been; only faded outlines of lighter wood hinted at furniture and rugs that used to be but have long since gone.
Nothing could withstand the bog and Azariah knew this best of all. He had lived in this remote swampland for as long as he could remember. Half blind, old and suffering from onset dementia, he eked out a slow yet steady existence, living off softshell turtles caught in his traps and rainwater.191Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡF12S6iTG7U
Azariah slumped heavily back into his chair with a loud groan. The folds of the seat and armrests fit snugly to his frame as he nestled deep into his favourite spot. Just as he stretched out his knobbly, wrinkled legs as far as they could go, a soft muffled knock began sounding at the door.
He sat silently in the dark, turning his head one way so that his good ear could hear better. There was the sound of bog water, softly lapping at the sides of his walls, and the buzzing of mosquitoes desperately trying to pierce his mottled old leathery skin. The soft muffled knock sounded again.
With laboured effort, the ancient old man pushed himself out of his comfy, worn out chair, and shuffled stiffly towards the door. Luckily, his home was very small and threadbare with only a small neglected wood fire stove in the corner and a broken stool lying sideways in front of it.
Azariah gripped the doorknob with his thick worn fingers and twisted. The door groaned and scraped the floor aggressively as he pulled it in sudden jerks towards him. He looked out and saw only the haze of the bog, and the dancing lights of fireflies. He heard the distant croaks of wildlife and running water. He smelled the thick heavy air tinged with vegetation and rot.
Squinting to see further into the dark, he took a shuffled step forward and stopped when his bare foot touched something. It started to howl, tones rising and falling like nails on a chalkboard. It was a sound Azariah had never heard before but it struck a chord deep inside his withered soul.
Startled, the frail old man fell backwards and landed on his rump. Pain shot up from his lower back and he groaned, cradling his bruised tailbone. Squinting through the pain, Azariah noticed that the howl was coming from a grey lump, shaped like a giant bean, that trembled on his tiny porch. It was an infant, wrapped in mouldy rags.
A tiny hand emerged from the wrappings, and Azariah leaned forward hesitantly to peer at the creature before him.
He pushed his face close so his eyes could see more clearly through the haze of his blindness. He saw the creature's eyes shut tight; wrinkled grey skin and a mouth opened wide, still howling and screeching.191Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq4WbB2oH7a
Azariah reached out and touched the baby gently, dragging a worn finger around its forehead and tracing a line down to its cheek. The baby stopped howling and opened its eyes wide.
But where Azariah expected to see the eyes of a child, he saw orbs as black as coal and shone like glass. It blinked at him, then cooed happily as it grabbed his still lingering finger and sucked on it.
The old frail man picked up the infant gingerly and cradled it in his arms. His face, like a dried up lake bed, cracked wide into a smile. Happiness poured into his soul and he croaked the words "Little Azariah". Behind him, the little motor by his comfy chair spluttered into life and his little boat home continued its endless journey in the bog.
At first, Azariah found it difficult to care for Little Azariah. His bones creaked and ached everytime he bent over to feed the babe a mushy paste of rainwater and turtle flesh. His hands would shake as he struggled to guide the food into its small mouth, often ending up spilling food on its cheek. But Little Azariah didn't seem to mind.
As days passed, the little baby turned into a little boy and old Azariah began to feel his bones become stronger, his joints less creaky and his hands more sure as he fed and cared for Little Azariah.
The little boy still had his black glassy eyes and grey skin, but other than that, he was no different than any other little boy. Azariah pulled out old moth bitten clothes for the boy to wear and it hung loose on his frame. The sleeves and trousers were far too long and had to be rolled up several times but it was enough to keep the leeches away. Azariah would often find himself watching happily, leaning on the porch railing, as Little Azariah hunted for soft shell turtles.
Days turned into months and Little Azariah grew again. He was now a young man. Old Azariah had grown accustomed to being a father and was helping his son cut timber for the stove.
The small mouldy boat house was now sturdier and vitalised; broken furniture was fixed and new furniture was made. There was now a small table to go along with the new stools and this was the place where both Azariahs would share their daily meals and talk. Old Azariah would learn many things about the bog around him from Little Azariah; it had been a very long time since he had been out in the swamp and exploring. Hearing the stories of Little Azariah's adventures made him feel young and revitalised again.
So, on one muggy morning, Little Azariah invited his father out into the bog. The air was hot and sticky, and laced with the scent of rot. Sounds of birds, frogs and insects swarmed Old Azariah's ears, becoming louder and clearer with each step. His toes clenched the mud and debris as he waded through the water, slowly at first as the water tugged his frail body back. One step, two steps then four, eight and ten; Old Azariah found vitality and speed with each passing moment in the bog and he broke out into a run, shouting aloud with glee.
Behind him, Little Azariah laughed and leaned against the porch railing watching his father grow smaller and smaller as he waded deeper into the swamp.
Old Azariah spun his body halfway around and shouted for his son to join him before he tripped over a protruding swamp root. He fell with a heavy splash and tasted the rotten bog water. It was salty and grainy with plant debris. He spat and shook the water out of his hair, and the bog surface rippled beneath him. Still on his knees and hands, he watched the water steady itself into a foggy green tinged mirror.
Before him stared back a face he recognised but it was not his own. Old Azariah reached up and tugged hard at his grey skin. He could see his eyes staring at his own shocked reflection; eyes like glassy black orbs. His grey lips parted into a scream and the voice he heard was not his own. It was a bestial and raw howl, like a thousand dragging nails on a chalkboard. His breathing quickened in panic as he pulled hard at his skin and ripped apart the flesh that he knew was not his own.
Old Azariah turned and began to run back to the boat, back to the comfort of home, but he faster he tried to run, the slower he became. He felt the weight of his body pull him down into the bog and before he could no longer support the weight of his head, he saw the form of Little Azariah still leaning against the porch of his home.
The bog water splashed his face and submerged him as Old Azariah fell, and it took all of his sanity and strength to turn over. He lay on his back, breathing in short shallow breaths. When he lifted up his hands to try and put himself back onto his feet, he saw that they had become small.
As Old Azariah began to cry, he heard the creak of wood and fading footsteps. The sound of a diesel motor spluttered to life and he felt the water rise and fall against his skin as the boat home began to move. But instead of reclaiming him, the sound of the boat became increasingly distant and the ripples settled into stillness until all that was left was the bog and Azariah's bestial screams.
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