Arriving at my house that stormy Saturday morning to sit on the patio and have a cup of mint tea, I found that Miss Nikita had moved my houseguest Eddie to the upper floor.The sky looked ominous, and she was worried about flooding.
I secured a seat next to Eddie on the balcony and sipped my tea, watching the rain come down now at an increased rate. The tin-roofed houses on Shotgun Row were sounding a crescendo of rattling from the torrent of rain. Miss Frannie offered a few sandbags and suggested I place them strategically on the doorstep. When Miss Mirri offered me a water gauge, I quickly nailed it to the side of the building and wondered what I should be anticipating.
I wandered across the street to the shore between the closest two shotgun houses. I saw Mr. Pestana in bright yellow rain gear aboard his tugboat, ferrying a resident to the shore, and he called me to board to see for myself the rising waters. The shoreline where I normally take my walks had disappeared. Buildings and their foundations now were being threatened by water.
Mr. Pestana turned the tug back toward the bayou, focusing his concerns on the whereabouts of his prize hogs. I could not believe my eyes as we passed by shacks with no visible land beneath. At one property two large farm horses stood atop a houseboat in the pelting rain. Mr. Pestana spotted his hogs anxiously trotting on the rail siding some distance from his house. I gripped the rail of the boat tightly as he swung the vessel around to take me back to New Toulouse.
Since the city ferry dock had disappeared underwater, I was deposited on the old wooden steps along the levee. Mr. Pestana then sped away to remedy his hogs’ predicament, shouting as he left that he would be placing them up on the roof of his house and hoped to avoid possible zombie agitation.
I walked quickly through the streets of New Toulouse, anticipating that soon there would be nowhere dry to walk. My day had begun with enthusiasm and the planning of a personal venture. What a turn of events. I arrived home to secure my dairy goats on the upper floors of my house. The goats were cooperative but did not appear to sense my urgency for their relocation to drier ground. My houseguest Eddie assured me that he would stand guard against goat exploration. I decided to get out my pirogue and paddle back to the bayou to see if I could pick up any stray animals or people.
Taking my pirogue to what was left of the steamboat dock, I lowered the dugout into the swirling waters. It was hard to control the boat with my one wooden paddle in the wind-driven current. I was paddling blind, feeling my way across the waterway to the outer canal nearest my launch site. The footbridge that I had passed under with Mr. Pestana much earlier was now closer to the surface of the water, forcing me to pull onto the bank. I dragged my wooden boat up high, distrusting the unpredictable water.
The sounds of the water were unusual, even for the present storm. The wood of the footbridge was slippery. I gripped the rail tightly, and my eyes fell upon an odd sight that froze me in place. It was hard to see with the wind rubbing rain into my eyes. I dared not let go of the handrail. There were long, waving, thick protrusions arising from the water north of the bridge. It looked very unnatural, and I backed up slowly. Stepping off the last board, I purposely slid down the graveled bank on my backside before grabbing the side of the pirogue. Hearing splashing coming closer, I turned to see movement in the dark waters that engulfed the base of the bridge. In one movement I heaved myself into the boat and, using the paddle as both a weapon and means of propulsion, I pushed off from the bank into the choppy water.
When I got back to my launch site beside the steamboat Mama Cree, I noticed that the water flowing in the streets appeared to join in solid formation with the water from the river. I picked up the pirogue, balanced it over my head, and walked with an emphasis on steady footing back to the house.
At home I found a canvas bag sitting on top of the front door’s sandbags. I got inside the house and sat down next to one of my goats to open the bag, which contained a note and a photo of the mayor standing on the footbridge. The real subject of the photo was not the mayor but what appeared behind him—long, dark tentacles snaked about, too numerous to count, coming up out of the swirling waters. The anonymous note stated that the mayor had reassured the citizen that nothing unusual had been encountered in the mayor’s survey of the bayou and the hurricane’s progression. The note did not say whether the mayor had seen the photo. I placed the note and photo back into the waterproof bag, since I was not sure of anything that day, including keeping myself dry and safe.
The safest thing is to stick to home, sip mint tea, read, and wait. I just hope the supplies keep dry and last out this very unusual turn of events.
Nnara Fenstalker lives in New Toulouse, where she operates a dance studio and keeps goats.