by Ron Rash
Harris folded the paper and slapped it against the seat.
“I knew those bastards were up to something like this. Webb and Kephart came back to the Savings and Loan Friday. They were being damn coy about it, but Luckadoo thinks someone around here is interested in helping them, someone with a lot of money.”
“Who could that be?” Pemberton asked.
“I think it’s Cornelia Vanderbilt and that English fop husband of hers Cecil,” Harris said. “Her fool mother gave 5,000 acres for that Pisgah Forest, so this kind of silliness runs in the family. Plus, they’re friends with Rockefeller.”
Harris paused long enough to sip from the flask, his ire mounting.
“It’s got to be them,” he fumed. “No one else has that kind of money. Why can’t they just play king and queen in their goddamn castle and keep out of other people’s business. All of them, from Webb to Rockefeller, they’re nothing but Bolsheviks. They won’t be satisfied until the government owns every acre in these mountains.”
“When people finally realize it comes down to jobs or a pretty view, they’ll come around,” Pemberton said.
“Jobs or a pretty view,” Harris said. “I like that. We can suggest that as a caption for Webb’s next editorial. I assume you saw his so-called open letter to Colonel Townsend?”
“We saw it,” Serena said, “but Townsend’s a smart enough businessman not to be swayed by Webb’s doggerel or Albright’s threats.”
“I should have stopped this park nonsense in 1926 when it started,” Harris said. “If I didn’t have so much money tied up in new machinery, I’d buy both of these tracts, just to spite all of them.”
“Despite Webb’s flowery description, I doubt this land can beat Townsend’s,” Pemberton said.
“Perhaps,” Harris said, “but it’s worth a couple of hours to check it, especially if some folks in Franklin are nosing around. They tend to have little interest in anything this far north.”
Harris sipped again from the flask and stuffed it back in his coat pocket. The sun broke through the low clouds. Only for a little while, Pemberton suspected, but maybe enough to melt some of the ice on the blacktop, make the return trip easier. After a while, they came to a crossroads. Pemberton braked and checked a hand-drawn map Luckadoo had given him months before. He gave the map to Serena and turned right. The road made a wide curve, and soon the Tuckaseegee River appeared on the left. The water looked smooth and slow moving, as if the cold made the river sluggish. The river began to bend toward the road, and a metal one-lane bridge appeared before them. Another automobile came toward the bridge from the opposite direction. As they got closer, Pemberton saw the car was a Pierce-Arrow.
“That’s that son-of-a-bitch Webb’s car,” Harris spat. “If we meet on the bridge, bump it into the water.”
The two vehicles appeared about to arrive on the bridge simultaneously when the Pierce-Arrow braked. The bridge’s iron frame shuddered as the Packard drove on across.
“Stop,” Harris told Pemberton.
Pemberton eased up beside the Pierce-Arrow. Webb was not alone. Kephart sat beside the newspaperman, looking badly hungover, his eyes bloodshot, hair uncombed. He huddled inside a frayed mackinaw, a pair of soggy boots in his lap. Kephart stared straight ahead, no doubt envying his companion’s expensive wool Ulster overcoat. Harris rolled down his window and Webb did the same.
“Didn’t expect to see anyone else out on the road today,” Webb said. “What brings you and your confederates to Jackson County?”
“Just checking out a tip on some good land,” Harris said. “Not that it’s any of your goddamn business.”
“I’d argue it’s the people of North Carolina’s business,” Webb replied.
“We are North Carolina business, you dumb shit,” Harris said. “When people in this state are grubbing up roots in your parks to keep from starving, they’ll realize it too and start using those trees of yours for hangings. You can pass that on to your friends as well, tell them they’d better get a moat and a drawbridge to go with their castle.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Webb said.
“No, of course you don’t. Just as I’m sure there’s no reason you happen to be in Jackson County this morning.”
“There’s a reason,” Webb replied, and lifted a Hawkeye camera from the seat. “Kephart knew where an especially impressive waterfall was, so he took some photographs. I’m putting one on the front page tomorrow.”
“Looks like he got wet doing it,” Harris said, nodding at Kephart’s boots. “Too bad he didn’t fall and drown.”
“Nice to stop and chat,” Webb said, already rolling his window up, “but we’ve got a busy week ahead.”
Webb released his hand brake and the Pierce-Arrow clattered on across the bridge.
“Waterfalls,” Harris muttered.
They passed a thick stand of hickory and ash, then a pasture where a single birch tree rose in the center, its silver bark peeling from the trunk like papyrus. Beside the tree, a salt lick and wooden trough. The road came to an abrupt end at the farmhouse and they got out. A foreclosure notice was nailed to the front door. Hoover can go to Hell scrawled across it in what looked to be charcoal. A sense of recent habitation lingered—stacked poplar in the woodpile, on the porch a cloth sack of pumpkin seeds, a cane pole with line and hook. A dipper hung in a branch over the creek, reflecting the midday light like a crow-scat.
“They were up here,” Harris said, pointing to a set of fresh tire prints.
Harris reached down and lifted a couple of stones from beside the tire’s indention, examined them a moment and tossed them back on the ground. He picked up a smaller stone and looked at it more carefully.
“Looks like it could have some copper in it,” he said, and placed it in his pocket.
Serena ascended the porch steps and peered through a window.
“It looks like solid oak all the way through,” she said approvingly. “If we knocked down some walls, this could be used for a dining hall.”
“Meet back here at five?” Harris asked.
“Fine,” Pemberton said. “Just make sure you don’t lose track of time contemplating the beauty of Kephart’s waterfall.”
“I’ll make sure I don’t,” Harris said grimly, “though I may piss in it.”
Harris tucked his pant cuffs into his boots and walked up the creek, quickly disappeared inside a green tangle of rhododendron. Pemberton and Serena followed a trail up the ridge. The mid-afternoon sun was out, spreading cold light across the slope. Last week’s snow lingered beneath the bigger trees, and a springhead they stepped over was cauled by ice. Pemberton walked slowly and made Serena do the same. At the top they could see the entire tract, including a section where several towering chestnuts rose.
“Campbell’s right,” Pemberton said. “A good deal at twenty an acre.”
“But still not as good as Townsend’s price,” Serena said, “especially with the expense of building a trestle over the river. That’s slow work as well, and you always lose some men.”
“I hadn’t thought of that.”
Serena placed a hand on her coat where the wool cloth covered her stomach. Pemberton nodded at a boulder smooth and flat as a bench.
“Sit down and rest.”
“Only if you do as well,” Serena said.
They sat and gazed out at the vast unfold of mountains, some razed but many more yet uncut. The Tuckaseegee flowed to the west, low drifts of fog obscuring the banks. To the far north, Mount Mitchell pressed against a low graying sky that promised snow. A skein of blue smoke rose from nearer woods, probably a hunter’s campfire.
Pemberton reached out, placed his hand inside Serena’s coat and laid his palm lightly on her stomach, held it there a few moments. Serena gave him a wry smile but did not remove his hand, instead placed her hand on top of his, her words whitened by the cold as she spoke.
“The world lies all before us, Pemberton.”
“Yes,” Pem
berton agreed, looking out on the vista. “As far as we can see.”
“Farther,” Serena said. “Brazil. Mahogany forests the same quality as Cuba’s, except we’ll have them all to ourselves. There’s not a single timber company in operation there, just rubber plantations.”
It was the first time Serena had spoken in any detail about Brazil since they’d left Boston, and Pemberton now, as then, responded to Serena’s fancy with good-humored irony.
“Amazing how no one else has ever thought of harvesting those trees.”
“They have,” Serena said, “but they’re too timid. There are no roads. Miles that miles that never have been mapped. A country big as the United States, and it will be ours.”
“We have to finish what we’ve started here first,” Pemberton said.
“Investors’ money we raise for Brazil can help us finish quicker here as well.”
Pemberton said nothing more. They waited a while longer, silent as they watched the afternoon wane before them, then slowly walked down the ridge, Pemberton stepping ahead of Serena where the ground was icy, holding her arm. It was almost five when they got to the farmhouse, but Harris was still off scouring the creek and outcrops.
“His being gone this long,” Serena said as they waited on the porch steps. “Surely that’s a sign he’s found something.”
As though summoned by Serena’s words, Harris emerged from the rhododendron. His boots were clotted with mud, and cuts on his hand showed he’d fallen. But as he stepped across the creek an enigmatic smile rose beneath his clipped moustache.
“So what do you think, Harris?” Pemberton asked as they drove back to camp.
“For my interests this tract’s better,” Harris replied. “Not by much, but enough to sway me. There’s definitely more kaolin here. Maybe some copper as well.”
Serena turned toward the back seat.
“I wish we could say the same about this tract, but Campbell’s right. There’s some good lumber but not nearly the hardwoods Townsend’s has.”
“Maybe we can get Luckadoo to lower the Saving and Loan’s price to fifteen an acre,” Harris said, “especially if we offer to close quickly.”
“Maybe,” Serena said, “but ten an acre would be better.”
“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Harris said. “I suspect we can get the price down.”
It was after seven when they got back to camp. Pemberton pulled in front of the office where Harris had parked his Studebaker. The older man departed the back seat slowly, due more to the empty flask than his age.
“Want to eat something before you go back to Waynesville?” Pemberton asked.
“Hell yes,” Harris said. “All the scampering up and down that creek has given me the appetite of a horse.”
Pemberton looked at Serena and saw that her eyes were heavy lidded.
“Why don’t you go on to the house and rest. I’ll get Harris fed, then bring our dinner.”
Serena nodded and left. Though it was seven, the lights were on in the dining hall. From inside the building’s walls, a ragged choir sang “Thy Might Set Fast the Mountains.”
“We let Bolick hold evening services around Christmas and New Year’s,” Pemberton said. “I find it worth a few dollars of electricity to keep the workers Godly, though I will get a less bothersome camp preacher next time.”
Harris nodded. “A great business investment, religion. I’ll take it over government bonds anytime.”
Pemberton and Harris stepped onto the side porch and opened the door. The kitchen was deserted, despite pots left on the grange stove, soiled dishes piled beside the fifty-gallon hoop barrels filled with gray water. Pemberton nodded toward the main hall’s doorway, where Bolick’s sonorous voice had replaced the singing.
“I’m going to get a cook and server.”
“I’ll go with you,” Harris said. “Get my yearly dose of religion.”
The men went into the back of the hall, their boot steps resonant on the puncheon floor. Workers and their families filled the benches set before the long wooden tables, women and children in front, men in the rear. Reverend Bolick stood behind two nailed-together vegetable crates that raised a rickety altar. Laid upon it was a huge leather-bound Bible, wide pages sprawling off both sides of the wood.
Pemberton scanned the closest benches and found his cook, stepped into the makeshift aisle and motioned to the man. Pemberton moved past more tables and finally found a server, but the woman was so rapt that Pemberton was almost beside Bolick before he got her attention. The woman left her seat and made her way slowly through a bumpy aisle of knees and rumps. But Pemberton no longer looked at her.
The boy sat in his mother’s lap, clothed in a gray bundling. He held a toy train engine in his hand, rolling the steel wheels up and down his leg with a solemn deliberateness. Pemberton studied the child’s features intently. He’d grown immensely since the day of the photograph, but that was the least of it. More striking to Pemberton was how the face had become thinner, more defined, what had been wisps of hair now thick. Most of all the eyes dark as mahogany. Pemberton’s eyes. Reverend Bolick stopped speaking and the dining hall became silent. The child quit rolling the train and looked up at the preacher, then at the larger man who stood close by. For a few moments the child stared directly at Pemberton.
The congregation shifted uneasily on the benches, many of their eyes on Pemberton as Reverend Bolick turned the Bible’s wide pages in search of a passage. When Pemberton realized he was being watched, he made his way to the back of the hall where Harris and the kitchen workers waited.
“I thought for a minute you were about to go on up and deliver the sermon yourself,” Harris said.
The cook and server went into the kitchen, but Harris and Pemberton lingered a few more moments. Bolick found the passage he’d been searching for and settled his eyes on Pemberton. For a few seconds the only sound was a spring-back knife’s soft click as a worker prepared to pare his nails.
“From the book of Obadiah,” Reverend Bolick said, and began reading.
The pride of thine heart hath deceived thee, thou that dwellest in the cleft of the rock, whose habitation is high, that saith in his heart, who shall bring me down.
Harris smiled. “I believe the right reverend is addressing us.”
“Come on,” Pemberton said, and took a step toward the kitchen as Bolick continued to read.
Harris grasped Pemberton’s arm.
“Don’t you think we should hear the fellow out, Pemberton?”
“Serena’s waiting for her dinner,” Pemberton said tersely and pulled free from Harris’ grip as Bolick finished the passage.
The preacher closed the Bible with a slow and profound delicacy as if the ink on the onionskin were susceptible to smearing.
“The word of the Lord,” Reverend Bolick concluded.
After Harris had eaten and left, Pemberton went to the house with his and Serena’s dinner. He set the dishes on the table and went to the back room. Serena was asleep and Pemberton did not wake her. Instead, he softly closed the bedroom door. Pemberton didn’t go to the kitchen and eat but instead went to the hall closet and opened his father’s steamer trunk. He rummaged through the stocks and bonds and various other legal documents until he found the cowhide-covered photograph album his aunt insisted he pack as well. He shut the trunk softly and walked down to the office.
Campbell was in the front room, working on the payroll. He left without a word when Pemberton said he wished to be alone. Orange and yellow embers glowed in the hearth, and he set kindling and a hefty ash log on the andirons. Pemberton felt the heat strengthen against his back as he took Jacob’s photograph from the bottom drawer. The fire’s rosy glow heightened and soon spilled over the desk’s surface. Pemberton turned off the lamp’s bunched electric light, thought for the first time in years of a parlor and its wide fireplace. His earliest memory was of that hearth, its warmth enclosing him like an invisible blanket, light flickering on the fireboard’s marble
fonts where strange men with wooly legs played flutes while long-haired women in swaying dresses danced. Whenever Pemberton had watched them long enough, the figures had begun to move in the wavering flames and shadows. As Pemberton carefully opened the photograph album, he had the sensation of entering an attic on a rainy day. The desiccated binding creaked with each turned cardboard page, releasing the smell of things long stashed away. When Pemberton found a photograph of himself as a two-year-old, he stopped turning.
Eighteen
SLEET FELL AGAIN IN THE MIDDLE OF THE night, but by morning the sky rose blue and unclouded. Ice clung to Noland Mountain’s remaining hardwoods like brittle sleeves, a marvel of shifting hues when the sun shone full on them. Most of the workers shaded their eyes as they trudged into the upland, but a few held their gaze until their eyes burned from the glare, such was the beauty of it. By the time the last man made his ascent to the ridge, the warming ice had begun to slip free from the branches. Smaller pieces at first, tinkling like bells as they hit the frozen ground. Then came water-clear downfalls that quickly covered the understory, crackled and snapped beneath every footstep. Men walked through them as they would the remnants of a vast shattered mirror.
Pemberton had just set his coffee on the office desk when Harris called, his voice even more brusque than usual.
“Webb and Kephart made an offer on the Jackson County land,” Harris said. “They came in soon as Luckadoo opened up, and they’re willing to pay him full price.”
“Were the Cecils with them?”
“Hell no. You think they’d deign to come down from their castle for something like this. They’ll wait till it’s over, have that goddamn waterfall named after them.”