The River Knows Her Name

The River Knows Her Name

By Kateb Nuri-Alim Shunnar

In the belly of the South, where the cypress trees stand like sentinels and the Spanish moss hangs like tired secrets, there lies a crooked lil’ town named Baycross, Louisiana. Ain’t on most maps, and folk who know better don’t go pokin’ their noses too far into its business. ‘Cause Baycross got a memory long as the river and a tongue sharper than a gator’s grin.

Now this here story? It ain’t no bedtime tale. It’s a gumbo of mystery, murder, and miracles with a roux made of scandal, seasoned heavy with sarcasm, and served with a side of spiritual reckoning. So sit a spell, sugar. Pour you some sweet tea with a little somethin’ extra if you need, ‘cause it’s gon’ get real.

Her name was Elzora Mayfield, but folks in Baycross just called her The Stray. Raised by no one but the wind and whatever spirits haunted the swamps. Dropped on the doorstep of a broke-down church one foggy night with nothin’ but a name scribbled on a napkin and a necklace that looked like it came outta somebody’s forgotten dream. Folks said she was trouble. Weren’t even ten and already folks was crossin’ themselves when she walked by like she had the devil in her shadow.

But bayou girls got bark and bite. Elzora ain’t no wilting magnolia. She got sass for days and a stare that could make a grown man flinch like he just saw his mama’s ghost. She worked odd jobs, caught catfish barehanded, sold swamp herbs to them same folks that talked behind her back, and carried herself like she knew God personally and he owed her a favor. She'd say things like, "Lawd, if I had a nickel for every lie told ‘bout me, I could buy myself a church and start collectin’ tithes!"

Then came Jude Ellington. Lord have mercy. That boy walked into town lookin’ like sin in Sunday clothes. Hair slicked back, voice like a hymn, and eyes that could part fog. Rich family. Cotton money. Church pew reserved every Sunday for the Ellingtons since Reconstruction. He saw Elzora one day down by the riverbank, and instead of lookin’ through her like the rest, he smiled. Called her Zora. Said it like a prayer with honey on his breath.

They got thick, fast. Too fast for a town with eyes everywhere. Sneakin’ kisses behind the sugarcane. Whisperin’ secrets in moonlight. But secrets got a way of not stayin’ secret, ‘specially when you live in a place where folks treat gossip like communion. Baycross folks’ll judge you on Sunday and borrow sugar from you Monday.

Jude’s mama clutched her pearls so hard they turned to dust. Daddy Ellington? Threatened to disown the boy. And Jude’s older brother, Clay, that snake in seersucker, started makin’ trouble. One night he pulled Elzora aside at the general store, told her, “You ain’t nothin’ but a bayou rat tryna play dress-up. My brother don’t need no gator-baitin’ hoodoo witch messin’ up his bloodline.”

Elzora just smiled, leaned in close, and whispered, “Honey, I was born in the swamp. I know how to handle snakes.”

But spite is a venom that don’t sit still.

One thunder-soaked night, Jude went missin’. Bayou was boilin’ with rain. Three days later, they pulled him outta the marsh, cold as a crawfish on ice, clutchin’ that locket Elzora gave him. Town didn’t even blink. Sheriff slapped cuffs on her faster than you can say "she did it." Trial happened so fast it gave folks whiplash. Preacher even showed up just to fan the flames of hellfire. Called her a Jezebel and a swamp-born curse.

Now Elzora? She ain’t flinch. Stood barefoot in that courtroom, chin high, eyes higher. When they pronounced her guilty, she didn’t cry. Just said, “One day, y’all gon’ learn that you can bury truth, but it don’t stay dead. It come back bloomin’ like a weed through concrete.”

And baby, didn’t it just.

They threw her in Black Hollow Correctional, where dreams go to die. But Zora? She started writin’. Poems. Prayers. Letters to Jude. Her words crawled through the cracks of them cement walls and into the hands of Reverend Hale, a man with a heart bigger than his church. He read her story and knew somethin’ foul had been served up.

Turns out Jude had uncovered some dirty dealings land grabs, shell companies, and bribes that would make a televangelist blush. And who was behind it? That sweet older brother Clay, hidin’ behind his Bible and his daddy’s money. Jude found out and Clay made sure he stayed silent.

And Zora? She was the scapegoat, the sacrifice.

Reverend Hale got them papers filed, shined light on that darkness, and baby, the truth came tumblin’ out like a drunk uncle at a fish fry. Elzora was freed. Clay was found with a self-inflicted bullet to the head and a Bible in his lap — opened to the page that said “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord.” The town acted shocked, but everybody knew they just didn’t wanna say it out loud: they’d been wrong.

Zora came back to Baycross, not in chains, but in glory. Walked straight through the center of town in a white dress like she was floatin’. Folks pretended not to notice, but they saw. Oh, they saw.

Then came the brawl. That’s right Miss Alma Jean, the Ellington family matriarch, came stormin’ down to the swamp with a bottle of gin and a blade in her purse. Said Elzora ruined her family.

Elzora laughed so hard it echoed like thunder rollin’ off the trees.

“I ain’t ruin nothin’,” she said. “Your family been rotten since before I could spell my name.”

Well, they scuffled. Mud flyin’, curses slingin’. Alma Jean tried to stab Zora, but slipped and fell into a nest of fire ants. Got baptized in pain right there in the swamp. Zora grabbed a stick and swatted the ants off like she was fightin’ off the devil himself.

Zora helped her up.

That’s right. Helped her. Wiped the blood and the spit and said, “Ain’t no power in hatin’. Not no real one. You gon’ die mad or live free. Pick one.”

And that, baby, is the gospel of Elzora.

Now she runs a lil’ retreat out by the water for the broken, the betrayed, the banished. Folks come to her with tears and stories, and she listens like the wind listens to the trees. She tells ‘em, “Pain is a teacher. But don’t let it raise your kids. And don’t you let bitterness season your soul ain’t nobody want gumbo with poison in the pot.”

Elzora Mayfield The Stray the girl who shoulda died in prison, now speaks life over folks like a preacher with a tambourine and a flask. She don’t call herself holy, don’t pretend she perfect. Says all she got is a past full of shadows and a soul that kept walkin’.

She says, “God don’t live in stained glass and chandeliers. He walk the marsh. He cry with the outcasts. He wrestle with the raggedy. And baby, if you listen real quiet, He’ll whisper your name back to you cleaner than the world ever said it.”

So when you feel cast out, wronged, or like the swamp of life done swallowed you whole, remember Elzora. Remember Baycross. And remember the river knows your name.

It might take a storm, a scandal, and a fight in the mud but truth always floats.

And grace? Grace swims. And sometimes, she cusses like your Auntie Bea and dances like nobody’s watchin’.

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Elzora

The name Elzora is a given name, likely of Hebrew origin, and is a variation of the name Elezra, according to some genealogy sites. The name is thought to be a combination of "El," meaning "God," and "Ezra," meaning "help" or "helper". Therefore, Elzora could be interpreted as "God is my helper" or "God has helped".