BY MARY WANJIRU

By the time the cicadas started their evening song, Ruthie Mae had finished shelling the last of the butter beans on the front porch. The air was heavy enough to drink, thick with the smell of cut grass and honeysuckle. Down the dirt road, heat still shimmered off the blacktop, though the sun was sinking  http://behind the cypress tree

Her grandson Eli was out by the old pecan tree, tossing rocks at a tin can. Each clank rang out sharp against the low hum of the crickets.

“Don’t hit my canna lilies!” Ruthie called, squinting toward him.

“I ain’t, Grandma,” Eli said, though the next rock landed close enough to send a puff of red dust onto the flowerbed.

Ruthie smiled. Boys were like that, she thought—restless as summer storms. She set her bowl of beans aside and rocked slowly, the wooden chair creaking in time with her breath. The porch fan turned lazily overhead, pushing around the same warm air.

From where she sat, she could see the cypress swamp beyond the back field, dark and still, like a secret the land was keeping. Her husband, Henry, used to call it “the whispering place.” He’d spent most of his life in those woods—hunting, fishing, and talking to the Lord when no one else could hear him.

Henry was gone now, buried under a magnolia tree behind the church, but sometimes Ruthie swore she could hear his laugh in the rustle of the cattails.

When the lightning bugs began to spark across the yard, Eli came running up the steps, barefoot and grinning. “Grandma, can I go down to the creek? Just for a bit?”

“You best be careful,” Ruthie said. “Snakes been out thick since that rain.”

“I’ll take the lantern,” he promised, grabbing the old kerosene one by the door. Before she could answer, he was off, his skinny figure darting down the dusty path like a flicker of light.

Ruthie watched until he disappeared beneath the cypress trees. The sound of his footsteps faded, swallowed by the murmur of frogs and the distant call of a whippoorwill.

She sighed, turning her eyes to the horizon. The South had a way of holding on to things—heat, memory, sorrow. Everything lingered here, even the ghosts.

Eli followed the path until the trees closed around him, cool and damp. Spanish moss hung low, brushing his shoulders as he walked. The lantern cast a soft gold circle on the ground, lighting the way between the tangled roots.

He loved it here—the smell of the mud, the ripple of the water, the feeling that the whole world was breathing slow and deep. The creek wound through the swamp like a brown ribbon, quiet except for the chirp of frogs and the occasional splash of something unseen.

Eli crouched at the water’s edge and dipped his fingers in. It was warm, silky with silt. He could almost hear his grandpa’s voice: “You gotta respect the land, boy. It remembers everything that happens on it.”

He missed him—missed the fishing trips and stories about the old days when people bartered eggs for flour and nobody locked their doors. Grandma said the land had taken Henry back, same as it would take them all one day. Eli didn’t quite understand that, but he felt it. Standing there in the stillness, it was easy to believe the swamp was alive.

A breeze stirred the moss. Then, faintly, Eli heard music—soft, like humming. He froze. The sound came from deeper in the woods, near the old cypress road. Folks didn’t go there much anymore. The logging trucks had stopped running years back, and the road was now more roots than gravel.

Curiosity tugged at him. Holding the lantern high, he walked toward the sound.

What he found was a small cabin, nearly swallowed by vines. Its windows were clouded with dust, but through the cracks in the shutters came a thin light—flickering like a candle. The humming grew clearer now, a woman’s voice carrying a tune that was both sad and sweet.

“Ma’am?” Eli called softly.

The humming stopped. The door creaked open, and a woman stepped out. She looked old, though her eyes were bright as river water. Her dress was faded blue, her hair streaked with silver.

“Well, I’ll be,” she said with a smile. “Didn’t think anyone still came this way.”

“I was just—uh—by the creek,” Eli stammered. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“No bother at all.” She glanced at his lantern. “You’ve got Henry’s light there.”

Eli’s heart skipped. “You knew my grandpa?”

“Knew him?” She chuckled. “Lord, yes. He helped build this cabin. Used to come by with your grandma back when they were courting. They’d sit on that porch and talk till the frogs started singing.”

Eli looked around, suddenly seeing the place differently. The porch was half-collapsed, but he could imagine them there—young, laughing, the world still new.

“Your granddaddy was a good man,” the woman said softly. “He respected this land. Always said it talked to him.”

Eli nodded. “Grandma says that too.”

“She’s right,” the woman said. “The land keeps its stories. You listen close, you’ll hear ‘em.”

The lantern flickered, and when Eli blinked, the woman was gone. The door stood open, the cabin empty, only dust motes drifting in the lantern light.

He backed away slowly, heart pounding. Then, far off through the trees, he heard his grandma calling his name.

When he returned home, Ruthie was waiting on the porch, hands on her hips. “Lord, boy, you near gave me a heart attack! I was fixin’ to send the neighbors out lookin’.”

“Sorry, Grandma,” Eli panted. “I found this old cabin down by the cypress road. There was a lady there—she said she knew Grandpa.”

Ruthie’s brow furrowed. “Cypress road? Child, that cabin’s been empty near thirty years.”

“No, ma’am. She was there. She talked about you and Grandpa sittin’ on the porch.”

For a long moment, Ruthie said nothing. Then she sat slowly in her chair, her eyes distant. “Her name was Miss Ada,” she said finally. “She passed not long after Henry built her that place. Sweet soul. Used to sing in church. You say you heard her?”

Eli nodded, clutching the lantern. “She told me to listen. Said the land keeps its stories.”

Ruthie smiled faintly. “That’s right. It surely does.”

The night deepened around them, the air warm and still. Fireflies blinked like tiny stars over the field. Somewhere out by the swamp, a whippoorwill called, and the sound echoed like a memory.

Eli leaned against his grandma’s chair, the lantern between them casting a soft, steady light. He didn’t say anything more, but he listened—to the cicadas, the frogs, the sighing trees—and thought he could almost hear a low hum beneath it all.

The land was talking, just like Miss Ada said. And he was listening.

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