When he asked Nadya to grab her things and leave with him, she did just that, never questioning, simply trusting him.
Within minutes, they had gathered what they could carry and descended via the fire escape so as not to be seen. Once they’d reached the alley below, they scurried away from the dingy building toward the bus station. Hank bought two tickets on the last bus out of Omaha bound for St. Joseph, Missouri. They arrived just before dawn and changed buses en route to Kansas City.
By afternoon, they’d caught a train bound for Washington, Missouri, the closest spot to Walnut Ridge that Hank could find on a map.
By the time they arrived, the light of day was exhausted, the plum of dusk slowly staining the once-blue sky. With a bit of cajoling, they begged a ride in a hay-filled Ford pickup and were jostled atop the bales for several miles until they reached the outskirts of Walnut Ridge. The fellow dropped them off beside a decrepit wooden mailbox on the shoulder of the unpaved rural route.
“You sure this is the old Hansen place?” Hank asked the man, who gave him a solemn nod.
“It was, at least until a decade back when the Hansens died off and left it to some distant cousin. You the new owners?” he asked, squinting at them.
“Yes,” Hank said, “I guess we are.”
“Well, good luck then,” the fellow grunted. “You’ll need it if you aim to bring this place back to life. It’s been nigh on dead for years.” Then he took off, the thin tires kicking up a cloud of dust.
Hank carried their bags as they trudged down a weed-choked gravel drive on the patch of land that now belonged to him. From what he could see through the dusk, it wasn’t much. The beams of a full moon showered gauzy light enough to discern a tiny house, barely more than a shack. Beyond stood the gnarled shapes of trees in what had to be the walnut grove. Why did everything look so sad and overgrown? Was it merely the night and fatigue warping his view? Or had nothing been cared for or loved in so long? Either way, he would find out in the morning, when the light of day showed him the truth about the farm.
He heard a series of soft clucks and wondered if any chickens had been left behind to fend for themselves, turning as wild as the rest of the farm.
“So this is ours?” Nadya asked.
“All twenty acres of neglect,” Hank replied and tried not to wince, hoping she wasn’t too disappointed.
When they reached the end of the private lane, when they stood at the foot of the broken-down steps leading up to the ramshackle porch, Hank felt gripped by a horrible panic. Was there still a working well so they’d have water to drink and cook with and clean themselves? Was there a chair to sit upon, a bed on which to sleep? He doubted there were electric lights or even rudimentary plumbing, at least not any that worked properly.
Though Nadya nudged him forward, Hank couldn’t move. He set down their bags, truly wanting to weep.
“I didn’t realize what kind of shape the property would be in. I didn’t even think to ask—” he started to say, so disheartened he could barely breathe, only to stop short at the touch of Nadya’s hand on his arm and the sound of her sigh.
“But it’s yours and mine, yes?” she said again.
And he nodded, giving her a definitive “Yes.”
He could see her smile through the dark. She reached for his hand and set it on the slight swell of her belly, holding it there. The warmth of her skin seeped into his. “It’s our home, the three of us,” she told him. “No matter what it looks like now, there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”
Hank sighed, too grateful to speak.
“Come on.” She drew him up the creaking steps and through the unlocked door, batting at cobwebs and bumping into the shadows.
Nine
Hank did the best he could that first night to make the place habitable. With only the glow of an oil lamp to guide them, he cleared debris and removed discolored sheets from the few pieces of furniture that remained. He beat the dust from the straw-filled mattress that sat atop the creaky springs of a paint-chipped iron bed.
Neither of them slept much. Instead, Nadya rested her head on his chest, and he put his arms around her as they whispered in the dark.
Once the day finally dawned, they got up quickly and dressed. While Nadya plundered cabinets in the kitchen, searching for anything canned to open for breakfast, Hank did a cursory walk around the grounds, poking his head into the broken-down barn, assessing the battered chicken coop, and taking stock of the barren-looking walnut trees before he headed the five miles into town on foot. Once there, he found the nearest church with a breadline and hired the first three men he met who said they were willing and able to work with their hands. Then he went to the general store and bought nonperishable foodstuffs for delivery to the farm, enough to last them several weeks. He purchased tools at the hardware store and wire to mend the chicken coop. Hank even found a donkey for sale, one that he was sure could pull the old buggy he’d spied half buried behind moldy hay bales in the barn.
On that day and every day after, he and Nadya labored from dawn to dusk: she scrubbed and sewed while he hammered, repaired, and painted. The small crew that Hank had cobbled together became indispensable, so much so that they set up bunks in the barn once that building got patched up so they could stretch their working hours.
Several months after, with the tiny house finally livable and bright and the barn nearly ready for livestock, the only trouble spots remaining for Hank were the walnut trees themselves. No matter what kind of advice he got—no matter that he pruned the old trees and planted seedlings to grow new ones—nothing seemed to flourish in the grove. The only thing he could see growing day to day was Nadya’s burgeoning belly.
When he told her what he had to do, she tried to talk him out of it at first.
“You can’t perform another ceremony,” she said point-blank, pacing the newly sanded floor of their sparsely furnished parlor. “Every time you do, it drains the life out of you. What if you don’t recover this time around?”
“I’m not going to leave you, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he assured her as he wove an eagle feather into the single plait of his hair. “But I need to ask for help, more than anyone in Walnut Ridge can give.”
“I don’t like this,” Nadya murmured, hands rubbing circles on her belly. “I don’t like it at all.”
“One last time, and then I’m through,” he promised and finished fastening the strand of turquoise around his neck, giving her a thin smile.
“One last time,” she repeated sternly and didn’t smile back.
The deep purple of dusk filled the windows as he kissed her and left the farmhouse, his doeskin moccasins quiet on the patched porch steps, his movements blending into the shadows. He avoided the barn, where the laborers had settled for the evening, skirting the chicken coop as well to avoid unsettling the birds, which might in turn wake the hands. He didn’t need the men spying on him and tattling in town that Hank Littlefoot was prancing around after dark, performing mystical mumbo jumbo, or whatever they might call it. He knew folks were already gossiping about the “pregnant gypsy woman” and the “long-haired Indian” who’d taken over the Hansen farm. For the most part, he seemed to get on well enough with those he encountered. No one in Walnut Ridge recognized him from his vaudeville days, and the last thing he needed was to draw attention to himself.
Hank moved unseen through the falling dark until he was amidst the gnarled walnut trees with their peeling bark and twisted limbs. For a while, he merely walked amongst them, touching their trunks with gentle hands and whispering reassurance, telling them not to be afraid.
“You will be reborn tonight,” he promised them, and he didn’t let himself believe otherwise.
What Hank desired most wasn’t a heavy rain or winds. He needed lightning to hit the grove, not just once, but many times. His goal was not to burn down the barren trees but to give them a rebirth. He’d often heard his grandfather say that a lightning strike worked magic on the soil, causi
ng plants to thrive and become greener and stronger. Hank figured the walnut grove was as good as dead, the earth unyielding as if it had been poisoned. If he and Nadya were going to support themselves on the farm, they needed a crop to harvest. It was up to him to make it happen, and he was determined that this was the path.
So Hank did what he had done dozens of times before. He began to chant and rhythmically shuffle in a circle beneath the stars, calling on the Great Spirit to send down lightning upon the land, to enrich the dirt and make the walnut trees flourish. He made an oath that he would care for the earth as if it were his own child, until he had no breath left in his body.
Please, he begged, let me have this one last thing, and I will ask for no more.
The chanted words and familiar motions soon put him into a trance so that he was unaware of the passage of time. He felt only the beat of his heart through his veins and the pulse of every living thing around him. The moon had risen high above and suddenly tugged at the air like a fierce ocean tide.
Hank ceased his dance at the first ripple of tension that whipped through the sky. As he looked up, sweat dripped down his brow and stuck the turquoise beads to his flesh. He swayed, so exhausted by his efforts he was sure his knees would buckle beneath him. But, somehow, he stayed upright.
In the heavens above, he saw brilliant veins of light pulse and disappear against the dark. Faint at first, their silver forks quickly lengthened and deepened, the electricity snapping and arcing, creating such a fierce illumination that Hank was temporarily blinded by the sight.
Thrown by an unseen hand, jagged spears of electricity shot to earth, hitting spots all about the grove, knocking Hank off his feet. He fell to the dirt just as a bolt split the gnarled tree nearest him and set its dry limbs ablaze.
The world seemed on fire around him, the air so alive that it breathed, brushing his cheek, tugging his hair, scattering sticks and twigs. A shadow winged its way past, and he blinked at the sight of an eagle, swooping down from the sky, eyes as yellow as the lightning.
“Grandfather,” he said, and he smiled, sure the old man was there with him.
Hank could do no more. Now it was up to the spirits to finish the task.
He closed his eyes as the lightning strikes ceased and it began to rain, softly at first and then in earnest. He lay still as the water soaked through to his skin; he was too tired to move.
You have done your piece, he heard a voice say in his ear. Now you are free.
A heaviness washed over him, numbing his limbs and his mind, and Hank slid into a sleep so deep that three days slipped past before he awakened.
It was the noise of hammers driving nails that roused his senses, that and the smell of lemon and bleach, causing him to wrinkle his nose before he’d even opened his eyes. The bed springs creaking beneath him, he forced himself upright even though the fog had not completely lifted from his brain.
He ached something fierce, from his fingers to toes, and he realized the cause soon enough. Both his hands and feet were tightly bandaged in white cotton, salve oozing from the edges. Had he been burned?
“Hello?” he called out, his voice a mere croak. He tried again, hoping to be louder, but his dry throat merely turned the word into a whisper. “Hello?”
He momentarily panicked, heart racing; his gaze darted past the iron bed’s foot-rail to the butter-colored walls and the simple oak dresser with the pitcher and basin atop it. Nothing seemed familiar. He had no clue how he’d come to be there or even who he was.
“Can anyone hear me?” he tried again, willing his aching body to move, but it didn’t want to cooperate. Sitting up made him dizzy, and his shoulder throbbed. Grimacing, he turned his head to see a cloth bandage wrapped beneath his armpit and around his shoulder blade. The faintest tinge of pink seeped through the pale cotton. Had he been wounded there, too? “Please, is anyone here?”
It’s okay, he told himself. Someone’s clearly taken care of you, dressed your injuries, and put you to bed. Wherever you are, you’re in no danger.
The thought calmed him down, and he eased back against the pillows. A creak at the doorway caught his ear, and he looked up to find a dark-haired woman approaching. She was barefoot and wore a simple cotton shift that did little to disguise the fullness of her belly.
Her face brightened at the sight of him. “Hank!” She said the name joyfully as she hurried over to the bed. “How do you feel? The doctor wasn’t sure you’d pull through. He claimed your heartbeat was barely detectible and your blood pressure was frighteningly low.”
Hank touched the bandage on his shoulder with similarly bandaged hands. “How was I hurt?” he asked.
“You were burned,” she told him frankly, “on your palms and the soles of your feet. You were struck by lightning, we think. The doctor said it will be painful for a while, but your skin will slowly heal.”
“And my back?”
“Oh, yes, that.” The woman’s sweet expression turned stony. “I told him to cut off the mole, the one shaped like a raindrop. It was so swollen and pus filled, and he was afraid it was infected.” Her eyes narrowed. “I wanted it gone so you wouldn’t be tempted to call the rain again.”
“Call the rain?” he repeated, furrowing his brow. “Was I some kind of magician?”
“Yes,” she said, “in a way, you were.” She crossed her arms below the round of her belly, hugging herself tightly. “But I’m sorry, Hank, you’re not anymore.”
“So I am Hank, and I made the rain,” he repeated, wondering why that didn’t strike him any too oddly. It was as though it all made sense.
“You are Hank Littlefoot, and you have a gift like no other. You were out in the walnut grove three nights ago, summoning the lightning,” she told him, cocking her head and watching him. “You don’t remember?”
“It wouldn’t seem like I should forget something like that,” he said and gritted his teeth as he drew his legs over the edge of the bed. “Or that I’d forget a woman like you.” He met her dark eyes. “You’re my wife, I assume?”
“I will be,” she told him, “whenever you get around to finding a justice of the peace willing to do the deed, hopefully before our baby arrives.”
His gaze dropped to her swollen belly. “We’re having a child, then.”
“We are.” She gave him a most tolerant smile. “I am Nadya, and this”—she placed her hands on her abdomen—“is Lily.” Before a second passed, her smile vanished, and she sighed, impatient with him. “Try harder, Hank. You will remember us. You never forget for very long. Once you’re up and about, the past will trickle back. It always has.”
He nodded, wanting to believe her. Gingerly, he tried to move off the bed, but every muscle winced. Even his bones objected, aching at the marrow. Still, he forced his legs to bear his weight, his arms to push as he rose.
When he stood on the soles of his bandaged feet, he bit his tongue to keep from crying out. The pain was greater than he’d realized.
She had mentioned lightning in the grove, suggesting that he had summoned the spirits of nature and begged for aid to coax the walnut trees back to life. Perhaps if he could see, he would remember.
“Will you help me to the window?” he asked, wobbling.
She caught his arm, holding on. “Go slowly,” she advised and held fast to him as he took an unsteady step forward and then another. “I was afraid you might not awaken this time,” she confessed, not letting him go. “You should see yourself. You could be a man of eighty. These ceremonies have aged you terribly.”
He felt like an old man, one with atrophied muscles and brittle bones. He leaned on Nadya more than he would’ve liked, but it was the only way he could keep moving. His brow was slick with sweat, his heart racing, by the time they’d crossed the room. She let go of him to part gingham curtains from the window.
“I can stand,” he assured her, and she nodded, backing off.
Hank leaned forward, catching his reflection in a pane of glass. It took all his might
not to stare at the face looking back at him. The weather-beaten features, the white hair falling on either side of gaunt cheeks: all seemed to belong to someone else.
He was so certain he was staring at a man far older than he.
Ignoring the ghost in the glass, he gazed out, squinting past the thick grass and shrubbery. He glimpsed the side of a barn with bright red boards and, sloping away from that, the first few rows of trees.
Rather than seeing what was there, at first, he visualized the walnut grove, full of gnarled branches and skeletal limbs bare of growth, crooked toward the sky. They looked neglected, abandoned.
Dead.
He blinked to clear his eyes and realized that, in reality, the trees appeared anything but dead. “They are green,” he remarked.
“Yes, very green,” Nadya said, and he heard the gladness in her voice. “The morning after the storm, they were covered with buds and, by the next day, they had leaves. You performed a true miracle, Hank. I’m not sure what gods you pleaded with, but they obviously listened.”
His legs began trembling, and a question that seemed important popped into his head. “Are there walnuts?” he asked.
She nodded. “I saw them myself just before you awoke. They’re ripening in their husks but they should be ready for a fall harvest, I’d think. Though what I know about walnut farming could fill a thimble.”
He closed his eyes as a host of emotions and vignettes ran through him: elation at the rain falling down on him; awe at the silver flash of lightning against the black of night; bursts of orange as a tree was set on fire; warmth and affection as he held the hand of the dark-eyed woman who made his heart beat faster. He gasped for air as his forgotten past filled him up in a sudden rush.
I am Hank Littlefoot, grandson of a shaman, maker of rain, and I am right where I belong.
His knees began to tremble, and he bent forward, pressing his brow to the glass. “I remember,” he breathed.
“How much?” Nadya asked.
“Enough to know that I am home.”
The Truth About Love and Lightning Page 9