Requiem by Fire

by Wayne Caldwell

  “So there goes your income from beef cattle,” said Jake. “Let’s sum this up. You can’t make money off cattle. You’ll freeze to death of a winter with no wood to burn. You’ll starve to death because you can’t kill game. About all that’s left is die and leave it.”

  “That’s another restriction. One may not bury in the cemeteries without a permit.”

  “Even if we stay here?” asked Mattie, springing to her feet.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so.”

  “Listen here.” Despite four children and forty-four years, Mattie Banks, standing straight and proud, could still turn a man’s head. “Zeb and I had already decided to take their price—if it’s fair—and leave. But now you say Zeb might couldn’t lay me to rest beside Mama and Papa? Because if that’s true, I’ll stay and caretake that graveyard. Come to think of it, if they want this to be wilderness, how can we know they won’t get shed of the cemeteries once we leave? Or what if in thirty years it’s so growed up we couldn’t find them? And could they turn a body down for one of those permits?”

  Oliver shoved his hands deep into his pockets. “Mattie, they tell me the cemeteries will be protected. And I cannot think why they would prohibit a family from burying a loved one as long as there is room.”

  Mattie’s reddened eyes watered. “Mr. Babcock, I—we—can’t give up our dead like that. We have to know we can come back to tend to their graves. We got to be able to rest beside them when it’s our time.” Oliver noticed many heads nodding.

  Mattie plucked a handkerchief from her apron pocket and wiped her eyes. “You see, leaving our dead ain’t like leaving a barn, or even the house where we was raised, hard though that is. Either one is abandoning a part of yourself, same as if you left a leg or an arm. But deserting your dead? That’s sacrilege. The children of Israel toted Joseph’s bones all over creation until they came to the promised land. Is that what we’ll have to do? Dig them up and bury them somewhere else?” Mattie put away the handkerchief. “Our parents gave us life. Along with kinfolk and neighbors they raised us to fear God and help our fellow man. They are our blood and flesh and bone—and when we die, we want to lay beside them so at the last trumpet we can rise together and meet our Jesus.” She got more amens than Brother Noland normally received during an hour’s sermon.

  Oliver nodded. “Mattie, I will clarify all that. I can’t imagine burial in the park would be denied, even to a miscreant with a lost lease. But I will ferret that out.”

  “Get it from somebody besides that dern Pendleton,” said Jake. “That man’s a liar. While you’re at it, get it in writing.”

  “I will. Any other questions?”

  Cash Davis unfolded himself and stood. “That little lady’s speech makes me think to make one, too. Mr. Babcock, bear with a man nearer ninety than he likes to think about.”

  “Of course, Mr. Davis.”

  Cash slowly scanned the crowd. “Folks, I fought under Colonel Love in the Sixteenth North Carolina. From Seven Pines to Antietam, we was going to win that war. Then they sent us over the mountain yonder, to Strawberry Plains, and made us defend a front that really didn’t exist. It was plain stupid. It was like government said, ‘Well, sir, instead of fighting and winning, we’ll set around and lose this war.’ After that came reconstruction, flatland Republicans ever dern where. You never seen the like of stupidity. Then we had that Spanish War. I never did see any need to fight them people, and then, aye Godfrey, we had us a world war, and mark my words there’ll be another’n before long.

  “But this park beats any of that. We’ve minded our own business for a hundred years, living quiet and peaceful, like democracy says to do. That’s a big word, ‘democracy,’ a word they said that Great War made the world safe for. Democracy? Did they let the first one of us vote on this park? What in heaven’s name kind of democracy is that?”

  He sighed. “But I’m old. If they offer something reasonable, I’ll go over the mountain—for the last time. I won’t come back. Because when government gets through ruining this here paradise, I won’t want to see it, not even if I’m dead. They can bury me wherever I fall.”

  “Anybody else?” asked Oliver. No one said anything. “Okay, folks. Your farms have been surveyed and appraised. I have the offers. I’ll meet with you privately at that table. You can decide today, but you don’t have to. I would appreciate hearing from you all by the end of next week. And I will report on burial regulations.”

  Within twenty minutes folks shook their heads or privately congratulated themselves. Neil LeClerc was happy at a five-hundred-dollar offer for land for which he had paid Ezra Banks two dollars. Jake and Rachel’s seventy-five acres appraised for five thousand, and Hannah’s inheritance from Ezra, the largest parcel in Little Cataloochee, thirty-five thousand. The only man lingering at Oliver’s table was George Banks, whose arrogant swagger not even his father, Ezra, had managed to beat out of him. George’s greasy, pointing finger smeared Oliver’s paper. “What if I don’t like that figure?”

  “You think it’s too low?” asked Oliver.

  “No, Mister Fancy-Pants lawyer. I think I’ll buy myself eight or ten aeroplanes with it. ‘Too low.’ What the hell did you think I meant?”

  “There’s no cause for profanity, Mr. Banks. You can go to court over the price. That would involve a lawyer. You’d have no guarantee a court would agree with you, although historically courts tend to favor plaintiffs in such matters.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Yes, Mr. Banks. That’s all.”

  “Why don’t you and me negotiate it man-to-man?”

  “That is not what I’m here for, Mr. Banks. Any changes have to be decided by a court.”

  “And you damn lawyers work on shares?”

  “An attorney would get a certain portion of the settlement.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “Excuse me, Mr. Banks?”

  “You heard what I said.” George stomped out of his brother’s house.

  As Oliver gathered papers, Velda appeared at his side. “Oliver, did he threaten you?”

  “No, Velda. He’s just upset over the price.”

  “He’s been what you call ‘upset’ ever since I’ve known him. Be careful. His temper’s as bad as his late lamented father’s.”

  Oliver smiled. “Don’t worry your pretty head about that.” He looked her over. She had intrigued him when they’d met, as he was preparing for Zeb’s defense, and had positively fascinated him at the party after the trial. “May I visit this afternoon?”

  “If you didn’t, I’d feel slighted.”

  He picked up his briefcase. “Then ‘Let me not to the marriage of true minds/Admit impediments,’ as the poet says.”

  “Marriage, Oliver? Is that on your mind?”

  “Miss Velda, I’m only quoting Shakespeare.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Don’t Know What You’re Talking About

  Horace Wakefield usually stayed with Lige and Penny Howell at their boardinghouse in Big Cataloochee. He left Oliver in Little Cataloochee on Wednesday afternoon and drove the twisty road to Big Cataloochee. Coming down the hill past the Bennett house, he forded the creek, and a left turn soon brought him to Lige’s, where several fishermen vied for trout behind the house. Penny had sent a card saying his usual room would be ready, so he parked, reached for his bag, and crossed into the dogtrot.

  In the downstairs left-hand bedroom something gleamed in the corner. He picked up an ivory-colored tooth sporting a golden banner with BPOE in raised letters, and walked to the porch, where Lige sat whittling, in the exact spot Horace had last seen him.

  Lige Howell was a large man with a shock of long white hair and a beard reaching his waist. His prominent nose and sapphire-blue eyes made both men and women take notice. Preachers who met him remembered prophets such as Elijah, his namesake, or Moses. Southern romantics thought of an aged Robert E. Lee.

  “Afternoon, Horace. Have a good ride?”

  Horace pulled up a chair. “Fin
e, Lige. Good day to travel. This was in the corner of my room.”

  Lige squinted at it. “Ain’t that Pendleton’s elk tooth?”

  “Could be. He hasn’t worn his in some time. I’ll be happy to take it to him.”

  Lige laughed. “It’s a dern sight safer’n asking him to come get it. The way local folks took a dislike to that man, they might bring him some tar and feathers.”

  Horace put the pin into his pocket. “I dread going to see Silas Wright, but if I have a pile of different jobs to do, I like to do the worst first. Then the rest seem easier.”

  Lige nodded. “I’m the same way. Or used to be. Now I take it all easy. Like this park. Getting too old for the boardinghouse business. Give us enough money to buy a one-story bungalow, with central heat, we’d be set. Do my children right and that’d be copacetic.”

  Horace smiled. “I wish everyone had that attitude.”

  “Son, anymore, things go through me like a dose of salts through Sherman. I’m an old man, born in 1845. Fought in the war. Wounded, got over it, they put me back in. Somehow came home in one piece. Hard times after that, Lord. But we managed to make a good life. Raised ten young’uns, didn’t have but two die on us. We’re just running this house to do something till the Lord takes us, and if He comes today, I’m ready. They’re going to have this park in spite of what a doddering old man thinks.”

  “What do you think about the park, Lige?”

  Lige scrutinized the piece of cherry, trying to figure what manner of creature lurked inside. “I haven’t told anybody this, and if you tell it, I’ll deny it to my last breath, you hear?”

  Horace nodded. Lige motioned Horace to lean in closer. The old man smelled like a dog in a pile of leaves.

  “You folks are doing us a favor.”

  Horace looked around to make sure the world wasn’t about to end. “Really?”

  “Look around, Mr. Wakefield. Only people doing any good is folks like Silas who have enough land. Everybody else either struggles on too few acres or hires themselves out. And another thing. Young men is running out of women to marry. Everybody’s practically first cousins. Won’t be long before Cataloochee young’uns’ll be so cross-eyed, when they cry, the tears’ll roll down their backs. But if you tell I said this, I’ll call you a liar. I got to live here a little while yet.”

  “It’s safe. I’m honored you spoke frankly.” He watched Manson Carter’s automobile chug by the house. “Well, I got to get going. Silas won’t be as friendly as you are.”

  “Let Silas puff and blow. He talks mean but he likes you. He told me so one time. But I’ll deny saying that, too. Matter of fact, so would he.”

  Silas Wright farmed the last place on the western end of the valley, hundreds of acres of pasture, fields, and, on the higher slopes, virgin forest. His gruffness was appreciated by those who liked to know where they stood with him.

  He and his late wife, Rhetta, could hardly have been more opposite. Silas was quiet, but Rhetta would talk to a fence post. She had the idea to keep boarders, which he tolerated to preserve peace. After Rhetta died, only a few regulars remained. His niece Ethel and her husband, Carl, kept the boarders happy, while he and Harrogate minded the farm.

  Horace drove slowly, rehearsing his speech. At the last turn the barn loomed on the left, along with a full corncrib and woodshed. Horace wondered how a man would fill such a shed with deadfall. Behind the barn several head of Hereford steers picked grass, and a fine black mare snorted in a separate enclosure. Fifty yards from the west-facing barn a two-story frame house with a three-columned porch across the western half faced the road. Close by stood a springhouse, a smokehouse full of curing hams, and an apple house. He cut the Chevrolet off and heard roosters crow and guinea hens holler. He waved at Silas, who emerged from the barn with a shovel. Silas propped it against the barn and walked to the house. On the porch they shook hands. “Mr. Wright, it’s good to see you again,” said Horace.

  Silas pulled two cane-bottomed chairs from the wall and sat in one. “Mr. Wright was my daddy. My name’s Silas. Have a seat, young fellow.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “I imagine you’re here for that damn park.”

  “Yes, sir, if you have time this afternoon.”

  “Don’t know as I’ll ever ‘have time’ for such foolishness.”

  “Silas, let me put it straight. My job is to lay out your choices and explain the rules. If you’ll let me do mine, then I’ll let you do yours, which is figure what you want to do.”

  The old man’s eyes were wary. “Fair enough.”

  Horace explained choices and restrictions. He took a deep breath. “Now, Silas, here’s the commission’s offer for your property: twenty thousand five hundred dollars.”

  Silas’s eyes widened like he was in a revival meeting hearing someone rip a sloppy fart. “Horace, I know I agreed I wouldn’t tell you how to do your job, but I do think you looked at that figure wrong. I own near about three hundred acres.”

  “Silas, this property surveyed at two hundred and four acres. That price is a good one, a little over a hundred dollars an acre. Have you ever had the property surveyed?”

  “Why would I spend money for that when I got deeds?”

  “Silas, your deeds are like all others over here. The metes and bounds are often vague—if they’re there at all. One corner refers to a tree that became firewood fifty years ago. So you make judgments about the corners.”

  “That won’t make us disagree ninety acres’ worth.”

  “No, Silas, it won’t. But surveying it will. A deed based on a proper survey will show less acreage in the mountains than one based on just walking the property, you know.”

  “I don’t know any such thing. Land’s land, straight up or flat. Fifty foot’s fifty foot whether it goes up the side of the hill or sets off down the road.”

  “In a sense it is, but in another it isn’t. You studied geometry, didn’t you?”

  Silas fished in his overalls for pipe and tobacco. “Yep. But I’ve slept since then.”

  “Let’s say this table is your property. May I?” Horace pulled a small stick-built table between them. Silas generally kept a flyswatter and a pack of matches on it. This morning there was also an apple.

  “When we draw it up, it’s on a piece of paper, flat like this table, right?”

  Silas hooded his pipe with his left hand and lit it, nodding almost imperceptibly.

  “That’s how the surveyor looks at it, too, except he has to render elevation onto it. Just across the creek there, there’s about enough level ground for a man to stand, then the mountain goes straight up for fifty feet. That’s like the relation between this tabletop and this apple. If you could walk from the spot across the creek to the top of the rise—or from here on the table to the top of the apple—you’ve gone up fifty feet, sure, but you haven’t gone forward but four inches.”

  Silas shook his head quickly. “That don’t make a damn bit of sense. Listen here. Since you’re taking this table as my land, and this apple as the mountainside, don’t it make sense that if I peeled that peel off the side of that apple and laid it flat, that’d be my fifty foot instead of your four inches?” Silas looked like he’d laid down a full house to Wakefield’s three fours.

  “No, Silas.” Taking a notepad and pencil from his breast pocket, he drew a straight line. “Let me try again.

  “Let’s say this inch represents a hundred feet, and it’s perfectly flat, like on the coast. Okay?”

  Horace drew another line. “Now, this is the same inch, the same hundred feet, but at a twenty-degree angle. Now I’m going to drop a line perpendicular to the first hundred feet, and you can see we haven’t gone but eighty feet in a straight line even though we’ve walked a hundred up the hill.

  “I don’t know how to explain it any clearer than that. Everyone’s acreage is less than old deeds call for.” A nuthatch perched upside down on the juniper trunk in the front yard.

  Silas looked a h
ole through Wakefield. “Is that shit-fired figure based on my going or staying?”

  “Going.”

  “I ain’t going.”

  “Then they reduce the amount ten percent. Eighteen thousand four hundred and fifty.”

  “I get to stay until I die?”

  “Yes, sir. As long as the stipulations are met.”

  “And that’s all that foolishness you talked about—firewood and fishing and such?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Silas stood. “Sir, I reckon this talk is over. If I didn’t like you, I’d throw you off the porch. This land’s worth double that, and if I have to get a damn lawyer to prove it, I will.”

  Horace gave Silas a straight sale agreement and a lease contract. “If you want a lawsuit, Silas, that’s your right.” He handed Silas a card. “Here’s where you can reach me in Waynesville. Or I’ll be at Lige’s place weekday evenings.”

  “Much obliged.”

  Horace stepped into the yard, stopped, and turned. “Silas?”

  Silas had taken off his hat, showing a bald, gullied forehead. He said nothing.

  “Did you put the Blackwell boy in that barrel?”

  Silas put his hat back on. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Luck and Happiness

  Velda Parham grew up tall and thin, quite unlike anyone else in her family. Nonetheless her apple did not fall far from the tree. Equal portions of Parham hair-trigger temper and Cagle stubbornness, mixed with her grandmother Brown’s sunny disposition and her grandmother Sutton’s head for figures, created a woman easy to get along with, at least if one decided to let her have her way.

  Velda did not inherit the meanness that nipped the heels of her particular branch of Parhams. That trait skipped erratically among her father’s siblings. Her father became a faithful Baptist, even in time eschewing strong drink except on Saturday, but his brother Tine never trod a church floor after he grew too big for his father to beat him into attendance.