by Bea Bledsoe
“Y’all going camping’?” When the amused cashier met her eyes, and Leigh was surprised to see a tiny bit of eyeliner running under his lid. With a curious gaze, she took in his face and dark black hair, recognizing the same desperate need to escape small town life that she had once had. She smiled kindly at him.
“Something like that. And can you put forty dollars of gas on pump one?” What she wanted to say was I’m sorry I broke your mirror. Henry strolled up next to her and placed a Yellowstone snow globe onto the counter.
“This too. I couldn’t resist.” Leigh glanced at him, annoyed, but her anger wicked off him like rain. The boy nodded and scanned the snow globe before handing it back to Henry with a nervous smile. Henry pocketed it.
“Uh, that’ll be $239.87.” Leigh held her breath as she handed over Imogen’s emergency credit card. Sorry, friend, she thought. With everything that had happened, Harvard seemed like a faraway dream. It would have felt even more distant if it wasn’t for the walking-talking embodiment of East Coast privilege pacing behind her.
“Thanks.” Leigh had turned to leave when Henry stepped up to the counter.
“Hey, man, have you ever heard of a town called Blackriver? Maybe about 150 miles from here?”
The boy shook his head. “Nah, I mean, it sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Maybe look for it on the map?”
Henry began grabbing the bags piled up on the counter. “Sure.”
After throwing their supplies in the back, Leigh hopped in the driver’s seat and motioned for Henry to climb in.
“Okay, what now?” He asked.
Leigh took a deep breath. “I need to go back to Blackriver to do some investigating of my own. We can sleep in the car; that’s why I got the sleeping bag.” When Henry’s eyebrows shot up, she shook her head. “Two of them. Don’t get excited.”
He shrugged. “Just thinking of the problematic logistics.”
“Anyway, there are some things I need to see for myself now that I’m thinking straight.” She pulled the car away from the truck stop. There was silence for a few minutes. When Leigh looked back over at Henry, his head was tilted back against the seat as tiny snores erupted from his mouth. She looked at him for a long second, begrudgingly acknowledging the words that she couldn’t say to him: She was glad he was there. What if she had come alone? She would be the most alone person in the world.
“Henry,” she whispered, just to be safe. He didn’t stir and so Leigh lowered her guard, letting the tears that she had been holding back for twelve hours roll silently down her cheeks.
Dense trees closed around the car as Leigh drove cautiously down the mining trail, thanking God that they hadn’t rolled the first time; that had been lucky. The ground leveled off with a stiff jolt, and Henry bolted awake with a yell. “What’s happening?”
Leigh wiped her face with the back of her hand, though her tears were long dry. “We’re back in Blackriver.” The naked valley lay out in front of her, open land without a town. The peaks above glowed a ghostly silver in the setting sun.
“Where should we park?” Henry mumbled, rubbing his eyes with his fists like an adorable little boy.
“I guess it doesn’t matter.” She said sadly. “We could park anywhere.”
“Well, where was your driveway before?”
Her face softened at his words. “Juniper Lane. More of a dirt trail than a lane, really.”
“Well, let’s park there then.”
After she parked, they both sat silently for second before climbing out into the chilly Wyoming twilight. The sun was tucking itself into the crook of the mountains, and at their feet the valley spread itself wide. Leigh watched dark pines became shadows in the fading light.
Her boots crunched loudly as she made her way to the back of the SUV before throwing open the back. With a grimace, she pulled one of the knit caps onto her head and reached for the shovel. Behind her, she heard Henry inhale.
“What are you doing?” He asked nervously.
Leigh turned, clutching the shovel tightly. “I’m not going to kill you, if that’s what you’re thinking.” She slammed the trunk shut. “I need to know I’m not crazy. You might believe me, but that’s not good enough for me. I need to prove it myself.” She didn’t share how she feared she was becoming that distorted face in the mirror. Instead, Leigh hauled the shovel up and over her shoulder.
“See that tree there?” She pointed about quarter mile from where they were standing, to where an enormous cottonwood tree protruded from the earth in the center of the valley, arms reaching crookedly to the sky. “It’s called Old Sway, and everyone in Blackriver always went out of their way to avoid it at night; it was our town’s version of a haunted house.”
Henry tilted his head. “It doesn’t look that scary to me.” He followed behind her as she made her way towards Blackriver’s most haunted place.
“The tree doesn’t look that scary because all the decaying tombstones are missing from underneath it. The story of Old Sway goes like this: The town’s founder, an ambitious man named Enoch Black, stumbled across this valley with his two Native guides. He had hired them to take him over the Absaroka pass. They say that the beauty of the place overwhelmed him and destroyed his mind. He begged the guides to leave him here, but they were insistent that they move forward on their journey, knowing foolish Enoch would not make it through the winter.” A cold wind slapped past her, and Leigh felt a headache creeping up from the back of her mind. “While they slept, Enoch murdered the guides, convinced he could make it on his own. When the next summer arrived, another group of travelers came through the area and found the remains of Enoch hanging from a tree, wearing the bones of his guides. Some believe that he took his own life out of loneliness, but most say that the guides got their revenge, even from beyond the grave. Hence the name of the tree, Old Sway. There’s even a song about it:”
Leigh cleared her throat and sang in a low, rumbling alto.
“Oh my daughters, oh my sons, everyone
Be careful near the tree.
Old Enoch might be gone,
But when the tree sways, he’s watching you and me.”
Henry’s face paled. “Well, that’s…special. What a charming town you have.”
Leigh let a tiny smile crack over her face. “The Wild West was exactly that. Wild, brutal, and vastly unfair. The town really should be named for the guides, but instead it’s Blackriver, after Enoch Black.” The tree was closer now. Leigh looked back at Henry, her hands clutching the shovel. “Normal folk aren’t buried under Old Sway. That is, except for Carl Bunter.” They walked forward and as the tree spread out above them. The tombstones that had been underneath were missing; but Leigh knew that there was something fresh under those roots.
“Carl Bunter was our mayor for a long time. He only became mayor because the town counsel repeatedly blocked his requests to be buried under Old Sway. Over the course of ten years, he worked to become mayor, and once he was, he changed the laws so that the mayors of the town could be buried next to the founder, Enoch Black.” She laughed, remembering grumpy Carl Bunter riding his horse around town, griping to anyone who passed him about the declining state of the world. “I think Blackriver just eventually decided that if Carl wanted it that badly, the feelings of long-dead men didn’t matter.” She took a breath, inhaling the crisp mountain air. “That’s just the kind of town Blackriver was. We took care of our people, even our crazies. Anyway, Carl died in early December. My mom wrote to tell me about it.” Leigh remembered feeling sad and disconnected at the letter, knowing that she wouldn’t see Carl walking his horse down the road anymore, tipping his hat to anyone who walked by. Leigh straightened her shoulders and clenched her jaw. Now she was going to dig up his body.
Gray clouds peppered the darkening sky as stepped under the tree. Henry stood behind her as thunder crackled in the distance. “Umm..Leigh?” She didn’t even turn around to address him.
“I need to see it with my own eyes. You don’t
, so I would advise staying in the car.” Something was poking out of the dirt at her feet. She crouched down, her fingers prodding at a half-buried burlap sack with a faint pattern on it. The sack was fairly clean, smeared with mud and home to a few wriggling earthworms. She pulled it out and threw it aside. Leigh took a deep breath, raised the shovel, and brought it down hard, aiming for a muddy plot at the base of the tree that had less growth on it than the rest of the area.
“Are you sure it’s there?” Henry asked behind her.
“Not really.” Leigh said, driving the shovel down again. “But if I have to dig up this entire god dammed cemetery then I will.” She started digging frantically, letting the dirt fly past her, piling up beside Old Sway. Twenty minutes passed before Henry stepped up beside her and reached for the shovel.
“You’re exhausted. Let me take a turn.”
Leigh batted his hand away, her breaths coming hard and quick, her newly clean skin now flushed with sweat. “Back up, Henry.” Leigh brought the shovel down with furious intent, her teeth grinding with each impact. Overhead, the sky rumbled as the last light of day was snuffed out. Henry had just returned from the car with their lanterns when it started drizzling a cold, miserable rain. “He has to be here!” She muttered desperately. The rain grew into a storm as she continued to dig. The tree branches of Old Sway lashed back and forth as a howling wind screamed through the valley. Leigh paused, the shovel frozen in her hands as her heart sped up.
That wasn’t the wind that was howling. Those were wolves, she thought. There were several very active packs in this area. They had to hurry.
“Leigh!” Yelled Henry over the wind. “We have to go to the car! It’s not safe out here. You can finish once the storm ends!” Leigh shook her head, water pouring over her forehead. Her hands were cracked and bleeding, tender Harvard skin breaking open to reveal the Wyoming girl she had always been.
“GOD DAMMIT!” She screamed, bringing the head of the shovel down once more. This wasn’t about Carl, or about Blackriver. This was about her, about her sanity, her memories. As she threw the shovel down, something cracked underneath it. Leigh fell to her knees, Henry right beside her. Together, they frantically pushed aside wet dirt, working against the rivers of rain that were now pouring over the sides of the hole. As rain and mud surrounded them, Leigh plunged her hands back into the fresh dirt, now crawling with bugs scattered from cold, dark places.
Leigh saw him first, a brown dome covered in wispy strands of hair poking out of the soil, and at the top, a crack, from the shovel. Carl Bunter hadn’t wanted a coffin. Leigh reached out and touched the tip of Carl’s head, recoiling for just a second to swallow the bile rising in her throat. Then she took a deep breath and pushed aside the mud. The rotting holes that had been Carl’s eye sockets stared up at her, his jawbone poking forward. Large teeth held in a perpetual grimace stuck out from the place that lips used to be, a large worm curling in his open mouth. The light from the lantern lit up the hole that was once his nose. Leigh tried not to look at it as she began pushing aside the dirt that covered his torso. Finally, she saw a flash of color in the lantern light. The rain was coming harder now, pouring over the sides of the grave; they needed to hurry.
“Put the light here!” She ordered. Henry held up the lantern, and Leigh felt a wave of relief wash over her. She was looking at a plaid flannel shirt, mud-stained and full of holes, but there it was: a red and cream plaid; the same shirt that Carl had worn almost every time she had seen him.
“Thank you, Carl,” she breathed, guilt flowing through her as she gently touched his skull. Henry recoiled. “I’m sorry we disturbed you. Rest in peace, friend.” Moving carefully so not to upset anything else, Leigh reached out and tore off a small piece of his shirt. A sad smile passed over her face as she stared at the muddy plaid in her hand.
“This means I’m not crazy.” She said softly, sitting back on her knees. After a minute, she looked up at Henry with grateful eyes, soaked with rain and sitting beside a dead man.
“You just dug up a dead body.” Replied Henry. “I’m not sure I see your argument.”
With a shaking hand, she held up the piece of fabric. “No.I dug up proof. Physical proof that Blackriver was still here in December of this year. This piece of fabric means that Lacombie is lying and that I’m not insane.” Henry reached for her hand, but instead Leigh turned her face to the sky, letting the rain wash the smell of the dead off her.
9
As they walked back to the SUV in the dark, Leigh’s hand never left the piece of flannel tucked inside her pocket. She left the shovel outside before climbing through the back of the car, the inside not much warmer than it was outside. Henry reached out his hand to help her up, and Leigh gratefully accepted as he pulled her up quickly, too quickly. Her feet slid over the bumper and she fell squarely on top of him, both of them wetly sliding into the bed of the car. Leigh immediately sat up and pushed herself off him, a blush spreading across her face when she realized just how much she had enjoyed that.
“You’re soaked. And freezing.” Henry pointed out.
“Thanks for pointing out the obvious. So are you.” Leigh grumbled. She grabbed for her suitcase in the back. “But at least I have a lot of clothes to change into. You’re kind of limited.”
Henry groaned and yanked his wet shirt over his head without warning, and Leigh let her eyes run over his chest before looking away. Rowers had a certain look about them; they were lean and hungry, their muscles carried with pride across their wide back, a physique that spoke of privilege. It was a good look. She turned away, pulling off her soaking wet shirt and jeans before wriggling into a gray hoodie and black fleece bottoms. Over the front seats she draped her wet clothing and reached back for Henry’s. Lighting flashed outside the car and she caught a glimpse of his profile in shadow; back like a carved statue, his expression unreadable. Then he turned back to her and handed her his pants and shirt, unashamed in just boxers.
“Didn’t you buy some clothing at the truck stop?” Leigh asked, annoyed.
Henry shook his head. “I did, but those are my only other clothes. I’m not going to waste them as pajamas. Besides I’ve got the sleeping bag….”
“No way. You’re going to freeze. It gets really cold here at night, even this late in the spring.” Leigh crawled over to her suitcase and popped it open. “Here.” She pulled the Harvard sweatshirt for her Dad out of her suitcase, the one with the tag still with the tag on the sleeve.
He held it up. “I mean, it’s a little big, but I like that you came prepared.”
“It was for my dad.” The words were out of her mouth before she considered how vulnerable they made her. Henry held it out like the emotional grenade it was. “No way. I’m fine.”
“No. Henry, please wear it. He can always wash it. My dad wouldn’t want you to freeze.” If he’s still alive. The thought made her nauseated.
“Please, Henry.” He looked at her face, and upon seeing how much she needed him to take it, pulled it over his head.
“Fine, but I’m keeping the tags on it.” He slipped it on. “Ooh, this is cozy. I feel right at home, like I’m in my bed at school.” He slid across the back seat and unfolded his sleeping bag. Leigh lay down beside him, sliding into her own, utterly aware of each inch between them. She felt mortified that she was thinking about it and immediately turned on her side, shutting her eyes. It was just that she was so, so tired. The headache she had been battling since they returned to Blackriver was on full assault now, and strange, sleepy images danced in the chaotic dark of her mind: Carl Bunter’s skull, a piece of dried skin clinging to his jawbone. Sheriff Lacombie’s face when she called him a liar. The shadow of the mountains slowly creeping over valley. And then…strange images that she couldn’t place, thrust forward from the back of her mind: A room with cement walls and harsh florescent lights overhead. The Saratoga mountain range. A room full of people shouting angrily and then…silence.
“Leigh?” Henry’s voice was so
ft as it broke through the dark. “What do we do now?”
Without thinking about it, her hand found his over their sleeping bags as the images faded from her mind. Her small palm slid easily into his own; a perfect fit. She had no answers to give him, and so slowly they faded into sleep together; Henry first, with Leigh following.
She is sitting in one of classrooms at Harvard. Her favorite professor is speaking on modern social theory, but Leigh can’t hear him since her eyes are glued to the floor to ceiling windows next to her. Outside, a blackish dust begins blowing past the windows. The small trickle quickly turns into a tumbling vortex of sharp, black grains. Leigh watches with horror as the dust begins piling on itself, rising from the ground. It towers over the windows. She looks back to her classmates for protection but sees that she is utterly alone – and always has been. Leigh hears breaking glass and looks back to the window. Outside, a wall of black sand presses against the outside of the glass, and Leigh watches a crack in the window slowly spider its way from the corner. She knows she should run, but she is rooted in place, unable to scream, unable to move. Shapes begin moving in the sand, rotted gray hands that press against the glass. Something is trying to get inside. She watched in horror as Lacombie strolls into the classroom, raises his gun at the glass and pulls the trigger as Leigh finally screams. The glass explodes, and black sand pours out towards Leigh. She opens her mouth to scream, only to have it filled with not sand, but ashes. The sand is ashes, and she realizes in that moment that the thing she was trying to keep out is already inside. Inside of her. Leigh falls to ground as the ashes fill her mouth, drowning in them as the glass breaks all around her, falling like rain.