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ENRY D AVID T HOREAU
    T he little Boston Whaler bounced across the harbor, leaving a narrow trail of white
     foam in its wake. Flecks of salt water speckled Olivia’s face, hair, and hands, but
     she didn’t mind. Neither did Haviland, who licked at the air and smiled widely. The
     poodle enjoyed a boat ride even more than a car trip because he could stand on the
     deck. He was so content that he appeared to have forgiven Olivia for strapping him
     into a canine life jacket.
    For her own part, Olivia had refused the boatman’s offer of a life jacket. She wanted
     to feel the wind ripple her clothing and gently chafe her skin. Besides, the harbor
     was calm today and the man working the shift and throttle levers handled them deftly,
     his alert gaze constantly sweeping from east to west in search of approaching vessels.
    She’d found her ride to the creek that ran alongside the eastern boundary of the Croatan
     National Forest by asking questions at the docks on Friday afternoon. After the shrimp
     boats had tied up their trawlers for the day, she purchased a generous amount of fresh
     seafood for both The Boot Top Bistro and The Bayside Crab House and then made subtle
     inquiries on how to reach a recluse named Munin.
    The shrimpers knew Munin only as “the witch” and none were interested in taking Olivia
     within a mile of her swamp, but one of the captains knew someone who would.
    “Fellow by the name Harlan Scott knows how to find her,” the grizzled seaman said.
     “But look out, girlie. There are wild things in that swamp. Things you won’t see comin’,
     things that’ll creep out of the shadows like a shark risin’ from the deep water. Bring
     a big stick. Maybe even the kind that fires bullets.”
    Olivia had disregarded the fisherman’s advice and left her Browning BPR rifle in the
     coat closet. Instead, she’d packed insect repellant, a canteen of water, Haviland’s
     travel bowl, a granola bar, a bag of dried beef strips, and something that was precious
     to her into a sturdy knapsack.
    Yesterday, she’d felt prepared to face the witch, but now, as the sun-bleached shore
     of the parkland grew closer and Harlan eased off the throttle, dulling the motorboat’s
     roar to a low rumble, she wasn’t so sure.
    She and Harlan hadn’t exchanged a single word during the crossing, but Olivia suddenly
     wanted to speak with her guide. She stood and moved next to him, her body close to
     the steering wheel. “How did you come to know Munin?” she called over the sound of
     the engine and the wind.
    Harlan kept his eyes fixed on the water. “I used to be a park ranger. Knew every inch
     of this place.” He encompassed the land before them with a sweep of his arm. “I was
     clearing one of the trails when I lost my footing and stepped on a fallen log. The
     eastern diamondback rattlesnake hiding underneath didn’t appreciate the intrusion.
     He bit me twice before he ever made a noise. Couldn’t radio for help because I hadn’t
     bothered to check my battery before heading out that morning. I hollered as loud as
     I could, hoping against hope that someone would hear me.”
    “And Munin did?”
    He nodded. “She saved my life.”
    Olivia hadn’t expected this. “How? I thought the venom from an eastern diamondback
     was lethal.”
    “She had antivenom. She’s got vials of the stuff from a bunch of different snakes.
     We’ve got copperheads, cottonmouths, and rattlers in the forest. Munin milked all
     of the poisonous ones and injected a bit of venom into her goat. Don’t know how that
     works, but without that goat I’d be six feet under.”
    “Antibodies,” Olivia murmured, impressed by Munin’s ingenuity. “The goat produced
     antibodies as a response to the venom.”
    Harlan shrugged. “Yeah, I guess. Anyhow, I make deliveries for her now and then and
     I’ll run folks out to see her if they want to go. It’s the least I can do.”
    “How often do people seek her out?”
    The shore