Down to Earth

by Betty Culley

  “You got hurt, but you’re getting better.” Wendell steers James toward the door. “Let’s head home now, James. It’s only your first day out of the hospital.”

  “How’s your rock doing?” James asks me.

  “Good. I’ll tell you all about it next time you come. There’s a lot to tell. But it’s safe there in the field. I also went drilling with Lincoln and he let me do the dowsing.”

  “I always knew you were a dowser,” James says, even though I didn’t tell him how the dowsing turned out.

  On his way out, James gives Mom a hug.

  “I think you sang to me,” he says.

  “You’re right. I did.” Mom hugs him back.

  “I remember.”

  James stops in the doorway. With a hat over the shaved part of his head, you can’t tell that he was hurt.

  He might not remember everything, but he remembers the Honor Box and Mom’s singing and the big rock. He’s different and the same.

  “It’s good you’re at the top of the hill now,” James says. “The wind is really strong up here and that’ll blow the mosquitos away.”

  I watch James walk out the door. I think Miles Morgan would be very happy to hear that even though he got hit by a brick, James is still an optimist.

  You must face up to the fact that dowsing will put a strain on your ability to admit and accept what you can do and will soon be doing. At the same time you must be prepared to treat this faculty of dowsing with respect and always make use of it in a responsible manner.

  —Raymond C. Willey, Modern Dowsing: The Dowser’s Handbook

  “VELMA CALLED. She wants a new well drilled. Lincoln and I are headed there this morning,” Dad says at breakfast.

  He’s making ployes on Nana’s cookstove. The wind must have blown the ploye smell down the hill, because Braggy shows up just in time to try the first ones out of the cast-iron skillet. Lincoln is down by the water, filling up the tanker truck.

  Nana opens the jar of maple syrup James rescued from the house before it flooded and dribbles it over Birdie’s ployes. Since her high chair got washed away, Birdie sits in a regular chair. She’s propped up on the X and Z encyclopedias from the box Mrs. Kay gave me.

  James would have come for breakfast, too, but he has to see the doctor today and get his stitches out.

  When Dad says that about drilling a well for Velma, I know what I need to do.

  Ever since I dowsed the town’s water and lost the little stone from Miles Morgan, I keep thinking,

  I’m a dowser.

  No, I’m not, not really.

  I gave the water back.

  No, it was the stone that did it, not me.

  “Can I do the dowsing for Velma’s well?” I ask Dad.

  Braggy looks up from his ployes when I say that.

  “If you want to. I don’t see why not.” Dad nods.

  “Great! She’s the lady with the pony named Dreamer, right?” I remember the day we unloaded the barrels of water and saw the black pony and the tilted barn.

  “I go see the pony, too.” Birdie bounces on the encyclopedias.

  “Birdie, sweetie.” Mom smooths Birdie’s hair. “Dad and Lincoln can’t watch you when they’re drilling.”

  “I pet the pony.” Birdie lifts her hand and shows us how she’d do it.

  “I’ll take you, Birdie,” Braggy says. “You and I can pet the pony while these guys do all the work.”

  “You can pet, too,” Birdie agrees.

  “Was it the big rock that made Velma’s well go dry?” I ask.

  “No, she’s had trouble with water for a long time,” Dad says. “She used to haul it from the town well. Her land sits on ledge and all she has is a dug well.”

  A dug well is a lot cheaper than a drilled well. All you need is a shovel and plenty of time, or someone with a backhoe. But a backhoe and a shovel can’t dig through ledge because ledge is solid bedrock that’s under the dirt and you don’t know it’s there until you hit it. You could hit it at five feet or fifteen feet and that’s how deep your dug well will be.

  An hour later five Bowers pull into Velma’s driveway in three different vehicles—me and Dad in the drilling rig, Lincoln in the tanker truck, and Braggy and Birdie following behind in his pickup. If I can’t find water, there will be six people, including Velma, to see it.

  It’s like Lincoln said, it’s fifty percent whether I can or I can’t, but even if I can’t I’ll still be one hundred percent Henry.

  Now I also know you can’t explain everything with percents.

  You can’t measure the percents for all the great things that happened after the rock from space fell in our hayfield—the sandhill cranes, meeting Miles Morgan, Braggy finding out he’s an artist, bringing back the water. Even getting to know Fiona and Mr. Ronnie and Velma. Then the bad things—losing our house, the town well drying up, James getting hurt, Dwayne going to jail.

  The other thing I figured out—good things can make bad things happen, and bad things can cause good things. You can’t calculate percents for how that works, either.

  When we pull into the driveway, the black pony with the white half-moon on her forehead gallops over to the pasture fence. Velma waves to us. She’s wearing the same black barn boots, but her brown hair is loose instead of in a braid. A yellow puppy runs next to her.

  Where the tilted barn used to be is a pile of crisscrossed boards and beams. I roll down my window and lean my head out. Velma sees where I’m looking.

  “Yup. The barn finally collapsed. Half a foot of wet snow did her in.”

  “Wow!” I say. I try to imagine the sound the barn made when it fell.

  “I’ll rebuild in the spring. Just a small barn with one stall and a feed area.”

  Velma taps the dowsing stick I’m holding. I cut another perfect branch from Nana’s tree before we left.

  “You’re going to dowse my new well, Henry?” she asks.

  “I hope so.”

  The dog runs around Velma’s legs.

  “I didn’t know you had a puppy,” I say.

  “I just got him. He’s good company for Dreamer, and for me, too. Even if he chews everything in sight.”

  Velma goes over to Lincoln and Braggy and Birdie. Birdie sits down in the snow and lets the yellow puppy lick her face.

  I turn to Dad.

  “I might not be a dowser,” I warn him. “It could have been Dr. Morgan’s little stone that helped me find it last time.”

  “That’s okay, Henry.”

  I jump down from the rig. My boots make footprints in the snow as I walk across Velma’s front lawn.

  “Didn’t the boy bring a hat?” I hear Velma say.

  “He dowsed bareheaded last time, too,” Lincoln tells her. He and Dad follow me. Lincoln carries the steel rod and a hammer.

  The dowsing stick feels familiar in my hands. The forks of the V rest in my upturned palms, and the long end points ahead. I grip the forks enough to feel the wood, but I don’t clench my fingers around them like last time. It will happen or it won’t.

  Think of the water, Lincoln said.

  I don’t know if the stick is leading me or I’m guiding the stick, but I find myself walking across the snow to the back of Velma’s house like I’m being pulled by an invisible magnet.

  There’s a row of sunflower stalks, corn stubble, and wooden stakes sticking out from a square that must be Velma’s kitchen garden. Next to it stands a trellis of grapevines.

  Suddenly, like the last time I dowsed, there’s a vibration and a warmth in my hands.

  I slow my steps, and the stick bends down just past the trellis.

  I look up. Dad and Lincoln are both smiling. With three big whacks of his hammer, Lincoln pounds the rod into the ground in the place where the stick pointed.

  “Time to go to work,” Dad says, “and see if we can ge
t that pony some water.”

  It is known to often pass from grandfather to grandson, from mother to son, from father to daughter. As many women can dowse as men.

  —Raymond C. Willey, Modern Dowsing: The Dowser’s Handbook

  BIRDIE AND BRAGGY and Velma are in the pasture. Dreamer has her head bent down and Birdie is petting her nose. The puppy is lying next to Birdie’s feet.

  “Braggy,” Velma says, “I’ve seen some of your paintings. When I get my new barn built, will you paint a picture of Dreamer on her stall door? I’m not sure what you charge, but maybe I could pay you off over time.”

  “Sure. I’m not worried about getting paid,” Braggy answers. “I know you have HORSE SENSE. C-E-N-T-S.”

  “Pet the pony, Henry,” Birdie says.

  “Yes, I see you’re petting her.”

  “YOU pet her, Henry.”

  I stroke Dreamer’s mane. It’s rougher than I expect, like the unraveled ends of a rope.

  Dad and Lincoln start up the rig and the tanker truck and drive behind the house.

  Birdie reaches for my dowsing stick.

  “I do it, too. Like you.”

  She holds the ends of the V in her hands and walks across Velma’s lawn in the same direction I did. The yellow puppy runs along next to her. I can’t tell if Birdie’s following my footprints or if the stick is leading her the way it did for me.

  She heads around the house toward Velma’s garden, then stops.

  “It’s shaking me.” Birdie laughs and throws the stick in the air. When it lands, the puppy runs over and picks it up in his mouth.

  Did Birdie feel the vibrations like I did?

  Would the dowsing branch have led her to the same spot it led me to?

  Dad backs the rig up to the spot where the stick bent. The pounding begins as the drill rotates its way into the ground, pulverizing the rock. Dad adds drill rod after drill rod and Lincoln pumps in water from the tanker truck.

  Birdie chases after the puppy, grabs the stick back, and throws it again.

  All I see coming up is clay dust.

  Velma calls to us.

  “Henry and Birdie, come inside and warm up. You can watch the progress from my back window. It may take a while for them to get through the ledge. I’m heating up apple cider for your uncle Braggy, if you’d like some.”

  “I drink apple cider,” Birdie says. “Come, puppy.”

  The puppy follows Birdie and me into the house with the stick in his mouth.

  Velma is right. There’s a window that looks out on the garden and the trellis. I never sat in someone’s house and drank hot cider while I watched Dad and Lincoln drill. Especially not for a well I dowsed myself. It isn’t as noisy as it was outside. I can hear Birdie blowing on her cider and taking little sips. Braggy drinks his cider and narrates what’s happening outside like we’re watching a movie.

  “That drill is going through bedrock like butter.”

  “Don’t look away. We’re gonna see water coming anytime now.”

  When the water does come, I’m not looking out the window. I’m drinking my cider and watching the puppy, who’s lying under a table chewing up my dowsing stick. It’s funny because he acts so excited about the stick, but the more he plays with it, the shorter it gets. I don’t mind, because I’m done with it. I’ll need a fresh green branch the next time I dowse.

  Braggy hollers, “Get your water jugs, get your buckets, get your bathing suits!”

  It’s not a gusher, but clear water steadily pumps out into the runoff ditch.

  Velma claps her hands.

  “I never thought I’d see the day! It’s going to be so easy to water Dreamer now.”

  “That depends,” Braggy says. “You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make ’em drink.”

  Velma laughs at Braggy’s joke, then comes over and gives me a hug.

  “Thank you, Henry, for finding the water. I really appreciate it. When your father and uncle get the line connected to the house, I’m going to spend a week in the bathtub.”

  I think Braggy’s exaggerating is rubbing off on Velma, but I don’t say that. Braggy could be right that if you look at things a certain way, they seem bigger. After all, if a millions-of-years-old rock lands in your hayfield, how could you ever think the world was small?

  “You’re welcome,” I answer, and go outside. I want to see it up close and put my fingers in the second water I dowsed for.

  Meteorites are not cut into thin segments just to make them more beautiful, however. Scientists often remove small pieces of meteorites to distribute this rare research material among many laboratories, ensuring wide access to the samples. In addition, nearly all scientifically important characteristics can be seen best by cutting into meteorites.

  —American Museum of Natural History, New York City

  IT’S FORTY SUNRISES and forty sunsets and forty full Earth rotations since James got hit by the brick.

  I read in the S encyclopedia that the solstice marks the turning point, and after that, the days begin to grow longer. But I can tell that without looking at a calendar. I see the tiny black flecks Mom calls snow fleas appear in the few melting puddles of snow left in the yard. I feel the heat in the sun that rises over Bower Hill Road.

  The meteorite is also the same, but different. It’s camouflaging itself the way wild hares turn white in the winter and brown in the spring. Old, dead leaves blow up against it, filling in around the crater. The big rock is a favorite perch for the sandhill cranes, and the stone is spotted with bird poop. Squirrels run up the rock and eat the seeds out of scavenged pinecones, leaving the rest in little heaps. When I rub away the dirt and poop that collect on the rock, I can still see the shine of the surface, but from a distance the stone blends into the field and woods around it.

  It’s warm enough that ladybugs hatch in the house, and the sap runs in the big sugar maples. Cool nights, warm days, Mom says, make the sap move. She’s boiling it down on a potbelly stove on Nana’s porch. The stovepipe juts out so the smoke rises away from the house.

  “Fly away, Babygirl,” Birdie tells her baby doll, and throws it up in the air. Its yellow dress puffs out for a second and it drops to the ground.

  James adds stovewood to the fire. His shaved hair is growing back.

  “Henry, did you ever memorize that scientist’s phone number?” he asks.

  “No, I didn’t, but I still have his card,” I say, and that reminds me I’ve been wanting to call Dr. Morgan.

  James surprises me with the things he forgets and the things he remembers. I think part of his memory is like the dark side of the moon. Forty-one percent of the moon, the dark side, is impossible to see, but we know it’s there. I know there’s no way to figure out a percent for James’s memory.

  I go inside and find my notebook. It opens to the page of questions where I tucked Dr. Morgan’s card.

  Is the meteorite the core of a destroyed planet?

  Or is it a little piece of the core?

  If there was ever a way to see and touch a part of Earth’s core, would it look anything like the meteorite?

  I study the phone number below his name on the card.

  2-1-2-7-6-9-5-1-0-0

  I dial Dr. Morgan’s number. A woman answers on the second ring.

  “American Museum of Natural History, how may I direct you?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not going anywhere. I’m calling for Dr. Miles Morgan, the curator. This is Henry Bower.”

  “One moment, please. I will try to put you through to his extension.”

  There is silence, then the phone rings once, twice, and a familiar voice comes on and says, “Miles Morgan speaking.”

  “This is Henry,” I say.

  “Henry! I am so pleased to hear from you. How have you and your lovely family been faring?”

  It’s hard to k
now where to start.

  “We are good. Birdie says sentences now. She still likes red but she likes yellow, too. Also, Nana’s hands are better, so she’s going to pick dandelions greens to can this spring.”

  “Excellent. Please send my warmest regards to your grandmother,” Dr. Morgan says.

  “A bad thing happened, though. James got hit in the head with a brick and didn’t wake up for a long time. Then I visited him and dripped some of what you called the rainbow water in his mouth and poured it on his head and he woke up that night. He’s better, but he doesn’t always remember everything the way he used to.”

  “Those are extraordinary developments indeed. I hope your mate James continues to improve.”

  “Me too. He’s homeschooling with me now, but we might both go to school in the fall. Also, a flock of rare sandhill cranes are living down by the water. Braggy painted a sign on a wooden door with a picture of a crane, and now all these people are paying him to paint cranes on their front doors. He even got his picture in the newspaper. They called him a natural wildlife artist.”

  “Your uncle Braggy is indeed a man of many talents!”

  “There’s another bad part. I’m really sorry, but I lost the stone you gave me, the one from Nottingham. I put it on the drill bit of the drilling rig, and when the bit came up it was gone. I think it drew up the water, because we hit the biggest gusher my uncle Lincoln ever saw, and now the town has all the water it needs. I dowsed for it myself.”

  “I wouldn’t call that lost, Henry. You used the stone for a good cause. In fact, I would call it a very successful scientific experiment. And it doesn’t surprise me that you have the gift of divining.”

  I remember the main reason I called the curator.

  “I decided I want you to take pieces of the rock to study at your museum. Maybe you can find out how it brings the water. So you could help places that have no water and make sick people better. And you could do that experiment you told me about, where you figure out how old a meteorite is.”

  “That’s a very generous offer. We’ve had good success lately cutting meteorites with lasers. I don’t expect we would need more than a small fraction of your stone, and we would leave the rest of it where it fell. First, though, I would like to invite you and your family to come to New York City and meet the team of scientists here. You could see the laboratory where we would take the pieces of your stone and see the equipment we use to study and test them. You would also get a private tour of our meteorite collection, including several rare specimens from the moon and Mars.”