by Mary Saums
The #2 box is one of many I inherited from Cal Prewitt. I keep them stacked in an extra room. No furniture there, only boxes. They contain information about Cal’s land in the form of notebooks and scribblings on many loose papers compiled throughout his life.
Each box contains notes on one important aspect of the forest, according to Cal, all things I should know about and could find by using the crude maps he drew and included. He numbered each box according to importance. The first one, which I went through not long after my arrival in Tullulah, provided a treasure hunt of sorts, one that led to a more beautiful place than I ever imagined I might find here.
I had hesitated in the subsequent weeks to begin exploration of the next box. For all the joy brought by box #1, events related to it had turned to tragedy. I consoled myself with my daily walks since then, immersing myself in the forest and its everyday wonders. Now, as those bad memories began to fade a bit and life returned to normal, my curiosity about the remaining boxes returned as well.
Cal originally ranked this box as one of lower importance. He changed his mind somewhere along the way, using a black marker that almost obliterated the “#8” underneath. He moved it up to the number two spot before he died, printing with bold red strokes and question marks on the box’s side.
It rattled a bit as I moved it. I unfolded the cardboard flaps to peer into the musty interior. On top, a large used mailing envelope contained loose papers and photographs. I set the envelope aside, for below it, I saw a sheet of yellow legal paper covered with Cal’s familiar scrawl. I smiled at its loops and trailing letters. How I missed him. As I read the words, they became his slow, scratchy drawl in my mind, spoken as clearly as if he were there with me.
“This in here may be more than I thought it was at first,” he began. “Inside are some pictures I want you to look at and a map of how to find the place. Take Homer, he knows the way. I go there quite a bit, to ponder on it. There’s some books in here, more on the shelves with general things about Indian writing, but these in here are ones with the closest markings.
“There’s rocks and cave walls with old writing on them similar to this all over the woods. So me and Daddy and Granddaddy always figured this was just more of the same. The last few years though, I’ve realized that may not be so. Not sure. Have a look yourself.
“What I’m thinking is it is the work of some sister tribe to the Cherokee or Creek or maybe one we don’t know about—so many different ones came through here since this was good hunting grounds. There’s not too much to go on in books I’ve been able to get ahold of, but you might have better luck. With the trouble we’re having now, I’ve gone and put some brush and limbs around the place to be sure nobody would find it. But the map has got clear directions so you won’t have no problems finding it.”
The map was next, a crude but clear diagram drawn on the back of a paper grocery sack. In the bottom of the box, the contents that had rattled together were not as interesting as I had hoped. In fact, on first glance, they were rather disappointing. I set the two small objects side by side on the table.
The first was a large arrowhead. I didn’t know much about arrowheads, only that there were many types and that they were easily found here in the hills that surround the Tennessee Valley. In this area, numerous tribes shared hunting grounds over the centuries. What little knowledge I had of arrowheads in general made me believe that, no matter how much I researched, little if anything conclusive might ever be known about this specimen, other than a general time period in which it was most likely made or used.
The second object wasn’t so ordinary as the previous one. It puzzled me. I had no idea what its use might be, only what it looked like. It was a stick. When I centered it in the flashlight’s beam and turned it this way and that, it became more intriguing. Some sort of cutting device had shaped it. The cutter had used a planing motion to make four flat sides so that it looked something like a squared dowel rod. Each side measured probably an inch wide, with the whole stick about four inches long.
Then I saw something interesting. On two sides, faint markings had been carved that could barely be seen or felt, symbols of some type. Cal’s library had several books about native symbology used to mark trails in the forest or to leave as messages. Some are found in artwork in rock carvings. I could use one of his books for comparisons. Perhaps if there were a match or two, I could ascertain the stick’s meaning or use.
I ran my finger over the strange symbols. A little shiver went up my spine as I imagined many other hands doing likewise, probably the reason they were worn almost invisible. This was something I could dig into, something to research. The arrowhead, though ordinary looking, might also yield up some information.
I leafed through the dozen or so sheets of loose paper in the used manila envelope. Cal’s notes were nearly illegible. Even those I could read were hard to understand. I put them down and turned my attention to the photographs.
“Drat,” I said. Homer raised his head. “Sorry, dear. Didn’t mean to shout.” He blinked his acceptance of my apology. “It’s just that these are no better than the trinkets.” Homer touched his nose to the photo as if he might make sense of it if only he could get close enough to see it more clearly.
“You see? Cal has gone to great lengths to provide us with pictures of bushes. Ah, here we have dirt. And another nondescript bush. What a lovely close-up of a rock. And here…”
I stopped. The next shot showed a rock with markings. At least, I thought they were. The shadows and light in the photo could be fooling my eyes. But why else would he have taken the picture? I glanced through the few remaining photos but none were any better.
“In that case, my dear friend,” I said as I lay my hand over Homer’s head and scratched, “we shall have to have a look ourselves, eh?” He seemed to smile, his mouth open and a happy look in his eyes, probably thinking of Cal.
I kept reading the jumbled, incoherent notes. In one of the notebooks, Cal said that the arrowhead and the stick were found in an old bowl. This is why he kept them, he said, because their placement seemed to indicate an importance or a relationship he had yet to figure out. Another small thin object had been present at one time but had eroded to nothing more than a rusty ridge at the bottom of the bowl. The bowl itself had broken. Cal had discarded the broken bits. He said the bowl had no special markings as some of his other native keepsakes did. My heart sank. How I wished he had kept the pieces. There might have been something helpful there.
I sighed. Next to having those bits, it would’ve been nice if any other information could have been passed down as to the exact location of the bowl when it was found. I didn’t blame Cal, of course, for putting the objects in the box this way. They probably had been long removed from their original places. Cal and his forebears did the best they could, with no knowledge of how digs worked, of the importance of preserving what they found.
Even so, Cal may have inadvertently left me something useful as to the bowl’s original location. In the box, a number of older black-and-white photographs with dates on them as far back as 1955 showed a half-buried object that might be the bowl in question. I couldn’t tell in such bad lighting and without my magnifying glass. With any luck, that was why Cal included these particular photos. And, with quite a bit more luck, I would actually be able to find this place if I could decipher Cal’s scrawls that passed for a map.
In the photos, it looked to me as if water erosion had caused a furrow to form at the side of the rock overhang that contained carvings. Water must have run down the little gully, then it appeared to have caused a wide circular indention in front of the rock that would have flooded and become a pond whenever it rained. Over many years, the water must have washed the soil and underlying rock away, perhaps six inches or so into the earth, as best I could tell from the picture. That might account for the sudden appearance of the bowl in that spot.
I picked up Cal’s letter once again. Bless him. He said he believed I might have a s
pecial expertise in these particular objects. Wishful thinking on his part, I’m afraid. It’s unlikely I would know anything at all concerning any native subject that Cal himself wouldn’t have known much better.
I’d been so involved in these new puzzles, I forgot I was in the basement. The storm had given way to a much lighter pattering of rain against the high windows. I decided to go upstairs for a look.
Homer jumped down from the couch when I gathered the chenille throw and stood. I put it in the box then put the box on my hip, got the flashlight, and blew out the candles.
Upstairs, Homer and I ventured out to the porch. The winds and rain had all but stopped, and left a nice evening breeze, wet and fresh, as well as a dramatic drop in the temperature. Now true fall was in the air with the coolness usually associated with October weather. Just as Phoebe had told me some weeks ago, it would be summer in Tullulah until Halloween. She was only a few days off.
Homer and I made a circuit of the yard with my flashlight in the near darkness. Leaves and small branches covered the property. I half-expected to see large broken limbs hanging down from the trees in the yard. What a relief that none had been struck.
We crunched over the fallen twigs and branches, circling the entire house. I saw no damage, thankfully, to the roof or gutters. The rockers on the porch lay overturned, along with the geranium pots and the small table they usually sat on. Once I was satisfied that no telephone wires were down nearby or within sight on the road, we went back inside. Tomorrow we would walk through the woods across the road for further inspections.
I tried to reach Phoebe to make sure she was all right, but to no avail. Neither landline nor cell phone services worked. I took a short but very nice hot shower by candlelight, using as little of the water heater’s reserves as possible, and went to bed.
The night sounds of the forest, once unfamiliar and distracting when I first moved to the outskirts of Tullulah, had become a wonderful lullaby. As I settled into the down comfort of my bed, I realized the storm made the woods much more quiet. I sat, enjoying the rare treat of almost total silence. A paperback mystery kept me company for the next hour or so, thanks to a book light I had received as a gift. When my eyelids would stay open no longer, I drifted toward sleep, snuggling under the cover with the thought I’d soon need the housewarming gift Phoebe had given me, an electric blanket for the coming winter.
As I crossed through the in-between world, a silly dream of rocks dancing in a ring came to an abrupt end when a sound downstairs brought me fully awake. Not a loud noise. Something small and light, like a dropped coin. I stared into the darkness. Had I really heard anything or was it merely a part of the dream? I lay still and listened for some time. Whatever it was, it hadn’t roused Homer from sleep. I relaxed. The wind continued its song, wrapping around the walls and traveling on through the countless leaves of the surrounding forest.
THE MORNING DAWNED WITH A COOL CRISPNESS IN the air. as I took my morning run, I watched the sun come up behind the nearer mountaintops, sparkling still with water from the storm. A thick fog shrouded the road, allowing only glimpses of empty fields and stands of trees as I passed.
Homer, who had taken to accompanying me on my run of late, stood up ahead in the road, listening, his strong black body framed in mist. It pleased me so to see him healthy. Not long before, he’d given me quite a scare. He had escaped death, but his owner and my dear friend, Cal, did not. How we both missed him. Homer looked fully mended now. Our daily run strengthened us both. Going through those terrible days, the importance of keeping myself in tiptop shape became a priority. I hoped no more confrontations of a dangerous nature would ever occur again. Yet I knew the possibility was there. I needed to stay strong for that, just in case.
We raced the last hundred yards or so to the house. As always, I finished second. We caught our breath on the patio then walked to the right boundary of the yard to a small clearing between several tall oaks. It had become a ritual to do a tai chi routine there where the ground was flat. It was a place of great serenity. The vista of rolling green mountains and morning clouds streaked with the sun’s first rays was a lovely way to start each morning. I breathed in the cool air with gratitude.
Once done, Homer and I made our way inside for our breakfast. I started a pot of coffee. Homer walked to the center of the room to inspect a bit of dirt or perhaps a bug. While the coffee brewed, I gathered eggs and cheese from the refrigerator for an omelet then walked across the kitchen floor to the pantry closet where I kept potatoes and onions, with the thought of making hash browns.
I stopped. Homer sat in the middle of the floor, his front legs stretched out as far as they would go. He was staring at me and, now that he had my attention, he gave a soft woof, moved his head downward, and touched his nose to the floor a few inches from a small dark object that lay there. He raised his head and gave another softer woof. He sat still, continuing to stare at me as if waiting for orders.
“Good boy,” I said. I stroked the wide stretch between his ears. “Now, what have we here?”
Just beyond the black ends of his claws, the small gift glinted on the kitchen floor. I picked it up. And smiled.
“How lovely. I wonder what it is.” I bounced the little blue piece of glass in my palm. It weighed hardly anything.
There was no doubt that my housemate had left it for me. I looked all around, though I didn’t actually expect to see my benefactor. “Thank you, Boo,” I said to the air. “You’re a dear.”
Boo, my resident ghost, is a shy teenage boy who died in the house many years earlier. I frequently find lightweight gifts from him here in the kitchen.
I turned the blue object this way and that in the light. It most resembled a button in the shape of a flower, only it had no holes for thread. I placed it in the center of the kitchen table where the low-hanging overhead light cast a circle around it. From there, I could frequently ponder its use and where it might have come from. I resumed my plan for hash browns and made our breakfast, much to Homer’s relief.
I used my cell phone to try Phoebe again when I thought she would be awake. Her home phone was still out as well. I called her cell number and was relieved to hear her say the storm caused no major damage there. She and Rowdy came through it unscathed.
“Are we still on for a walk later?” I said. “I’ve found another of Cal’s maps. I’d like to follow it to see what he was on about.”
“Sure,” Phoebe said. “I’ll bring an apple danish ring. I baked four yesterday. Actually, I baked quite a bit of other stuff to take around this morning, too. I’ll make my rounds and then come over. So don’t fix anything much to eat, okay?”
We agreed on a time and I hung up without telling her not to bother with the pastry. I couldn’t. She takes such pleasure in her baking and in giving her creations to everyone. I hadn’t the heart to tell her I rarely eat sweets. I only indulged when she brought me something on such an occasion as this. It would hurt her feelings so, if I refused on any grounds.
She doesn’t particularly care for nature. I sense that she only tolerates my ramblings about this or that historical connection on my land. I’m afraid she doesn’t share my enthusiasm for the unique plants and other natural wonders of the woods. She walks with me out of friendship, accompanying me in the forest when I ask, though she much prefers being in town.
If she had not wanted to come with me, I would have understood. I thought she might be helpful, however, in assisting me with photographs. I have to admit, as much as I love exploring on my own with only Homer, I also enjoyed sharing the little discoveries on my property with Phoebe, even if she was less enthusiastic than myself. This she also understood and tolerated. I’m so lucky to have such a friend.
Ten
Phoebe Goes to the Library
The morning after the storm, after I talked to Jane on the phone, I pulled the food I made from the refrigerator and wrapped it all up to take around to the workers. I always do that when the power goes out. Even a fe
w hours without electricity makes me appreciate it more. What I do is, I bake up something that carries well, and then I go down to the police station and the electric department to pass out goodies. Sometimes, I stop on the road and hand things out to the ones on duty. Those poor guys and gals work hard in awful conditions, all through the night sometimes, to get things back to normal.
Oh, don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I think I’m Florence Nightingale or Mother Teresa. All I want is for folks to know I appreciate their work. Plus, it would not do to let Rita Underwood and Gladys Orr and several others of the better cooks in Tullulah show me up. We have what you might call a friendly competition.
Like for instance, what a coincidence that Jody Wilkes suddenly decided to join Grace Baptist, right when they announced they were putting together a cookbook so they could buy choir robes. Especially when everybody knows Jody is a hardcore Methodist from way back. And then there’s Shelby Ferguson, who moved here from Meridian, Mississippi, where Joe Ferguson found her after his first wife died. Shelby was used to winning cooking contests before she got to Tullulah, and honey, let me tell you, the Gillispie women, seven of the South’s finest cooks, didn’t like it a bit when Shelby swooped in and stole first place in a pie-baking contest.
Several instances such as that have made some friendly rivalries among the ladies. That’s why none of us pass up an opportunity to try a new recipe on somebody, preferably several somebodys who can talk amongst themselves about which dish they liked the best. So that next morning, when the power came back on, I jumped into cooking mode to add to what I’d already fixed the day before. What I do is I make up two recipes, one with some kind of meat, and one dessert, and I do several batches of each.
While they were in the oven, I went out in the yard. The mutt came with me. He didn’t try to run away at all, but stayed fairly close while I picked up sticks. He explored, sniffed all over the yard, and every now and then would look at me to make sure I was still there.