In the approximate center of a damp and dismal, waterlogged piece of land was a small rise of high ground, which had managed to provide a safe Eden amidst the paludal terrors surrounding it.
And on this small hump was a tiny shack, formed ages ago from swampbrush and rotting popple trees, home to a relatively gregarious fellow named Mudd.
Theodore Mudd was his full name, but with no one with whom to speak to but the endless callings of frogs and crickets, he had no one to tell his name to. Long ago he had even managed to stop thinking of himself as Theodore, but instead, simply “Mudd.” After a little while, his ingenious (or so he thought) mind came up with the following thought. “There’s nothin’ here but mud. That is, nothing but me and the swamp. Mudd and the endless mud. I am so bored.”
Now, it is an obvious statement to suggest that living in the swamp will do things to your mind. Take Mudd, for example. Every morning, he took his daily walk around the perimeter to see if anything new had washed upon the shore. Usually, this meant an occasional tree had fallen and hit his spot of high ground, or an animal had been killed and its bones lay on the greenish earth. If the former occurred, he would be glad that he had a new log to add to the side of his flimsy dwelling. Whenever the latter happened, he winced at the thought that there could be a caiman prowling nearby.
All in all, however, he did feel that the swamp reminded him of an ocean- one covered by a thin layer of mud and trees, leaving him alone on a deserted isle. Except that deserted isles should have deserts on them. His isle was more of a one-step-above-waterlogged-isle. He’d even named it: “The Isle of Despair.” Sometimes, Theodore would attempt to create bridges to nearby high spots, or jump from little ridges to see if there was more to the area around him than his one little habitation. What he really wanted was to find another person to play cribbage with.
One Monday morning, Mudd was on his daily walk around the shack, when his eyes lit upon something shining on the ground. How it had possibly washed up from the viscous depths of the swamp, he didn’t know. But it certainly was enough to prompt the beginning of this tale.