What the Water Gave Me

_{"Translated", soulless version available here, for you wimps; [link].}

“Dis one’d find Cy down by de bayou a lo’ in de first years. She never di’ anyt’ing, just sat by de edge and stared off int’ space. Pa said she was listenin’ t’ de water an’ no’ t’ disturb her, but never di’ have an easy time leavin’ t’ings alone. She’ never looke’ ‘t dis one much either, bu’ dat wasn’ an issue. She was a stray, wil’ an a bi’ dangerous if you didn’ handle her righ’.

Am willin’ t’ admi’, lookin’ back, dat dis one’s strategy was no’ de smartes’ one. Instea’ o’ given her space was always up in ‘t, harassin’ and harangin’ her t’ come and do t’ings with dis one. If she didn’ want t’ come, would si’ by her an’ talk abou’ nothin’, no’ expectin’ an answer. She’ hiss an’ spi’ a lo’ in de beginnin’ but eventually pai’ dis one no more min’ dan a fly, buzzin’ by her hea’. Dis one t’inks now dat ‘t was de bes’ t’ing he could have done, gettin’ her use’ t’ dis one. She neede’ someone t’ cling t’ now an’ again, an’ eventually starte’ crawlin’ int’ dis one’s bed when de nightmares go’ too ba’.

T’ing is, t’ink dis one starte’ seein’ wha’ she di’. Dere’d be shapes in de water, somet’in’ more human dan no’. Somet’in’…comfortable. Fel’ goo’ in her presence. Knew ‘t was a her, somehow. De Mother o’ de Bayou, maybe, fo’ all dat she was a wives’ tale. Delia mentione’ her often an’ always crosse’ herself after like she was talkin’ bou’ Jesus Cris’ himself.

Remember askin’ Delia ‘bout ‘t once. Didn’ ge’ a goo’ answer, jus’ dat dis one’d do goo’ t’ keep an open min’. Trie’ Pa, bu’ he smile’ an evade’ de question. Finally trie’ Cy, weeks later, de two of us sittin’ down on de river bank an’ watchin’ de sun's reflection sink. She’s still no’ one for talkin’ bu’ back den dis one’ practically en’ up playin’ charades t’ understan’ de few wor’s she woul’ say.

Still remember exactly wha’ she whispere’, her eyes reflectin' brigh' in de dark; “That’s our Mother.”

Didn’ understan’ ‘t then, still no’ sure dis one ge’s ‘t now, bu’ am sure o’ one t’ing. Dere’s sometin’ in dat bayou dat calls t’ all o’ us, Cy more dan mos’.

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Just something simple and expressive for my favorite children. Remy feels everywhere, man.

Check out his story here to understand how this fits in; Remy HTM Remy's story has to start back with his father, James DuPont, Head of the Thieves Guild at twenty five years old. Situated in New Orleans, the TG and its rival, the Assassins Guild, run the Deep South under the table. They're both made up of hundreds of people, male and female, who do work out of a mixture of allegiance and greed. The TG steals back the things people weren't supposed to have in the first place and make up a worldwide network. Many government organizations like the CIA and others have them steal things that aren't supposed to exist. They've actually prevented many international crises.
The AG kill people for the same reasons

Refs: [link] and [link]