The swamp had always been kind to me. Taking shelter beneath the grand willow, I allowed myself a long sigh. Roots like long fingers brushed against my skin.

“Thanks, Mom.”

Bundling myself into the silence, I gazed across the marshland. Many said it was dangerous. It was quiet here, peaceful.

“What do they know, anyway?” I snorted at the thought.

The animals are my companions, the mist my blanket, and the water… ah, the water. Nestling deeper into the comfort of my nook, my eyes closed, feeling the ripples speak to me. The secrets carried beneath the surface; whispers I’ve known for so long now. Here is where I belong.

Was I always here?

No. No… I wasn’t always here. There was a time before the quaint serenity of the marsh. Before the murky depths of the water. Before the densely obscuring fog. A village. A family, maybe? It’s hard to remember, like a fading mirage against a rippling pond. Those days seem like a dream, distant and hazy. Fleeting when they grace the landscape of my mind. I was different. Someone kind, helpful even.

But that was before I accepted the gift. Before I heard the call of Mother. Before I stopped resisting her—my true self.

I’m still me. The swamp hasn’t changed me, not really. It just made me… better. Yes, better.

They say I’m cursed. That I’ve lost my way; become something twisted and grotesque. Become something dangerous. In the shaded corners of their homes, in hushed tones around town, they think I can’t hear them. But they couldn’t be more wrong. The stench of heresy curls like garbage from their mouths.

Their whispers float along the evening breeze like the shrill chirps of the cicada. In the shaded corners of their homes, in hushed tones around town, they think I can’t hear them. But they couldn’t be more wrong. The stench of heresy curls like garbage from their mouths.

“Fools!”

It wasn’t a curse that brought me here, no. No curse can turn a swamp into one’s home. The marshlands of Claris had always been a place of wonder. A sanctuary. It had been here before the settlement and would remain after.

“They’ll never understand.”

But I do. Every breath it takes, every life it creates, every soul it consumes. Watching the flicker of lanterns being lit from across the bayou, a slight tugging memory alights on the still waters of my mind, only to be devoured by the fish swimming in the rage of my heart.

I didn’t ask for these… abilities. I had no choice. I learned to wield them. I take care of the bog, and in return, it provides for me.

A traveler came once. He was tall, I think… It’s hard to recall exactly. The poor soul was lost and wandered near my home. I did what any kind soul would do: I offered him shelter and guidance.

He thanked me, though his voice trembled.

“Why do they always tremble?”

Was the water too cold for his liking? Maybe there was a chill in the air?

He never came back, though. They never come back after I help them. Curious, isn’t it?

“It’s not my fault. I told him where to go. I was being hospitable.”

Shortly after, murmurs of treasonous intent reached my ears. They say I did something to him, the traveler. That I was the reason he disappeared. Preposterous.

The marsh only allows those of pure intention to traverse her domain. Why don’t they see that? Do they not know how dangerous Mother is? She has always been hungry. Long before I answered her call. I only tried to help. To show him the way. To keep him from… the others.

The water was too deep, the fog too thick, and the vines… oh, how they reach for the lost ones.

No, it wasn’t me. It was never me.

The marsh wasn’t always like this. I remember when the air was lighter, more fragrant with the allure of danger and destiny. Then, the water moved with purpose. Now it was stagnant. The silence choked the life out of the noisiest creatures. When did that change? Was it before the curse?

“Gift, the gift!” Pounding the side of my head, I remind myself that Mother has blessed me.

Memories of times before were always muddled. The mire of the bayou, the drifting darkness of the fog… it seems to take more than just wayward visitors. I think it takes pieces of me, too.

But I’m still me. I know I am. The swamp can’t change that. I’m stronger now.

The fisherman… yesterday, I believe. Yeah, it had to be yesterday. I can still remember mossy growth patterns on his boat’s side, the light greens reflecting against the rippling waters. He was struggling with his net. Cursing, he tugged and tugged, unearthed reeds muddying the water. I wanted to help him. But as I moved, the fog… it grew thicker. I tried to save him. Tried to call out to him, but it was too late.

I thought he saw me, heard me. But it was too good to be true. Mother had him.

There are only two rules here in the marsh: “Mother knows best” and “Never, under any circumstances, interrupt Mother.”

I stepped back. I watched as Mother wrapped herself around him, pulling him into her cold embrace. She isn’t always accepting of intruders. I could see her icy stare warning me not to interfere. I could only watch. I never laid a hand on him.

But what else could I have done? If I had tried, Mother might have taken me instead. I can’t risk that. No, I can’t risk that. He should have known better than to come so close.

I’m not responsible for what Mother does. I’m just… one of her children.

Sometimes I wonder—did I try to call out to him? Or did I just stand there and watch, like I always do? I don’t know anymore.

“UGH!”

Again the throbbing in my temple returns. Mother takes memories sometimes. She will twist them into something new before giving them back.

“No, NO! I called out for him. I know I did! I wouldn’t have let him drown.”

I’m still me. I’m still the person I was before all this.

Aren’t I?

The villagers say I’m the reason people disappear. They say I lure them into the bog and let Mother devour them. But they don’t know the truth. They don’t understand who Mother is, how powerful she can be.

But sometimes… sometimes I wonder if they’re right. Could it be me? Could I be the one pulling them in?

“No. No, IT’S MOTHER!”

That outburst was a bit much. Looking around, I make sure she didn’t hear me. Barely audibly, I continue, “It’s always Mother.”

“What of the young one?”

She was different from the others, too young to be wandering near the bog. I heard her before I saw her, calling for her father. A voice so sweet it almost hurt to listen. She shouldn’t have been here. No one should be here. But Mother says nothing. The fog parted, allowing her free reign.

Strange how she chooses who to keep and who to lead astray. The little girl saw me, clear as day, and she didn’t run. She didn’t scream. She walked closer, a smile expanding from one ear to the other.

“Excuse me, ma’am… Can you help me? I can’t seem to find my father.”

I don’t know why, but I agreed to help her. Something was off though; she wasn’t like the others. She wasn’t afraid.

Her innocence reminded me of something I had long forgotten, something I wanted to keep… safe? She kept asking, over and over, where her father was.

I told her I would help find him, but I knew the truth. Mother had already claimed him. There was nothing left of him but shadows in the water.

As we ventured deeper into the bog, the air grew thick, and the mist clung to her small frame. I felt it then—Mother’s pull. Her influence becoming stronger the deeper we went. It wanted her. She wanted her. I could hear Mother calling to the girl, though she didn’t seem to notice.

My hand trembled. Why had I brought her this far? Why had I not told her the truth?

Looking down, the young one beamed up at me, thanking me again for my help.

Why did Mother want her? But then again, Mother always wanted them. And I… I always give her what she wants.

It’s not me. It’s never me. It’s Mother. I tried to save the girl, I think. Or maybe I didn’t. It’s hard to remember now. My memories blur together, like ripples on the surface of the water. I think I tried to direct her away from the fog. No, I’m pretty sure I tried talking her into just going home as we… continued… forward? I know I called out to her as she crossed its threshold. I think…

But she disappeared all the same. The marsh swallowed her whole.

It wasn’t my fault. It never is. It’s always the swamp, it’s always Mother.

The last thing I saw was her small hand reaching out through the mist, her eyes wide and scared for the first time. Then the fog thickened, and she was gone. Just like the others.

I never meant for it to happen. I never do. Mother takes them all in the end, no matter how hard I try.

They came today, the villagers. They shouted my name. A stark contrast from their normal whispers.

Why do they seem mad? Are they trying to scare me off? HA! Who do they think they are? They don’t know me. Even before I answered Mother’s call, they never truly knew me. Why do they think I’m the one stealing their loved ones?

Next, they called for the girl. Hidden, I watched from the shadows as they shrieked with concern and worry. I could have told them what happened, but what good would that do? They’d never believe me. They think I’m a monster here to devour their kin.

sigh

Hour after hour they called, shallowly traversing the swamp’s edge, but never truly coming into Mother’s embrace. After they left, I headed back home, aimlessly wandering deeper into the bog, the weight of their accusations miring my every step.

They say I’m responsible. They think it’s my fault. But I’m not a monster, am I? I only tried to help her, like I did the others. It was Mother. Mother took her, not me.

But the more I think about it, the less certain I am.

Did I coerce them into the swamp? Or did they follow of their own accord? It’s hard to remember.

Tapping my head with the heel of my hand, I stare into the water.

Mother talks to me sometimes. Not in words, exactly, but in whispers carried by the mist. She tells me things, things I don’t want to hear. That I’m her child now. That I belong to her.

But I refuse to believe it. I am still me, aren’t I? I haven’t changed. The waters always seem to muddy my reflection these days. Ripples assist in complicating the view of my visage.

Mother is always hungry though. She’s never satisfied. Always seeking her next meal. And I… I give her what she wants. I always have.

I tell myself that I tried to save her, that I would have if Mother had let me. But the words feel empty now. Hollow. I see her face in the mist, those wide, innocent eyes staring at me. I didn’t mean for this to happen. I never do.

But the villagers were right, weren’t they? I didn’t save her. I led her here, just like the others. I fed her to Mother.

Am I… Mother?

We are the same, aren’t we? The swamp, me, Mother? There is no separation. No perforation of duties where one begins and the other ends. How long have I been lying to myself? How long have I…?

A nauseating anguish washes over me as I realize the horror.

“The hunger wasn’t Mother’s. It was mine. I’ve been feeding myself this whole time, telling myself it was Mother.”

I was kind once. I remember that. But kindness doesn’t live here anymore. Only hunger. Only me.

I hear them again, the villagers. Their torches lighting up the fog like fireflies, lights bouncing off the bayou waters. They think they can stop this by coming for me, that somehow I’m the cause of all their suffering. Fools. Mother was here long before them, and she will be here long after. They can burn all the trees they want, but it won’t change a thing.

They have come to slay the beast. Stupid humans, thinking they can destroy me. Well, perhaps they are right.

But I’m not the monster they think I am. I’m not a monster at all. I was trying to help. I’ve always been trying to help. It’s Mother that’s twisted, Mother who devours. I didn’t choose this—none of this was my fault. Or was it?

There’s a part of me that remembers the hunger, that craves it. I see the faces of the ones I led here, and I realize I wanted them to stay. I wanted to feed Mother, wanted to feed myself.

I feel the swamp’s power coursing through me now, stronger than ever. I not only belong to it; I am it.

The villagers don’t understand. They never understand. I can feel their fear from here, the way they tremble at the edge of the bog, thinking they’re brave to come after me. They haven’t a notion of what I am. What I’ve become.

I smile as the mist thickens around them. Mother is calling. She wants them, just like she wanted all the others. And I will give her what she needs, what I need.

Coyly, I smirk.

“It’s not my fault. It’s never my fault. I only do what Mother commands. It is she who hungers, and I merely serve her bidding. I tried to help them, to keep them safe. If they continue to venture, I will not be responsible. Mother has always been the one to take them, not me. I’m just… a part of it. It’s always been the swamp.”

Who cares if the villagers were right? Maybe it is me. Maybe I’ve been feeding myself all along; maybe I no longer care.

The villagers are close now. I can hear their voices cutting through the mist, their footsteps heavy in the muck. Their scents wafting on the breeze. If they want to reach me, so be it. I will show them the power of Mother. They will feed the swamp.

And when they’re gone, I’ll remain. Mother and I… we’ll remain.

I am far beyond the monster they fear. I am eternal. And it’s far too late to change.