The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  “Fuck you, Cleo,” Buzzy said through tears.

  “You remember what I said, boy.” He shot out of the barn, finger still pointing.

  Tears were flowing freely down Buzzy’s face now, and he made no attempt to hide them. “Fuck you, Cleo,” he said as a whisper.

  “I’m not going to tell, Buzzy. Unless you want me to.”

  He wrapped his arms around his chest, holding himself so tightly it looked like he was trying to cling to the remains of an older brother who had suddenly shape-shifted into something unrecognizable. He seemed to be clinging to the old reality because this new bend of things left little for him to grasp, left no one for him to look up to. He just kept staring at the beams in the barn ceiling and at the air in between and at the floating dust specks in the air, caught for us by the sword of light slashing through a dislodged plank high on the barn wall.

  Chapter 24

  JUKES HOLLOW

  The key to packing for the Tramp, if rain is likely, is to seal your clothes in ziplock bags. Keeps em dry and compressed. Last thing you want up there is wet clothing.”

  The remnant of a slow-moving hurricane had dropped four days of heavy rain on eastern Kentucky, with more forecast over the next week, and we were prepping for the marginal weather.

  I was giddy at the idea of hiking up into the mountains with Pops and living off the land mountain man–style. Almost two months in the cotton embrace of 22 Chisold Street combined with finally telling the truth about Josh had broken a sluice of dammed-up emotion in me. I was actually starting to feel a new way of being, as if I had finally hit on the hint of a trail leading out from the dark forest.

  Pops placed his folded boxer shorts in a two-gallon ziplock bag, pushed out the air, and sealed the bag. He tossed it to me.

  “Looks like freeze-dried underwear,” I said and laughed.

  “You laugh now, but when I’m high and dry and you’re soaking wet for not taking an old man’s advice, I’ll be the one laughing.”

  “You mean you wouldn’t lend me your freeze-dried boxers?”

  “Nope.”

  “You are a nasty old coot.”

  He pulled out five or six bags and gave them to me. “Go ahead and try it. Works a charm.”

  I took the bags and did as he suggested, taking my clothes out of the backpack and repacking them compressed and sealed in the ziplock bags. The new technique allowed the same amount of clothes in half as much space.

  “We can use the rest of your pack space for my mash supply,” he said with a chuckle when he saw my progress. He picked up the old aluminum-framed canvas backpack and assessed its condition. “This was your mom’s, you know. I first took her on the Tramp when she was about ten. She used this every year until college. After that, tramping with her daddy stopped being quite so appealing. She found other interests, like tramping with your daddy.” He chuckled. “Held up pretty well, I think.”

  The pack was faded green and smelled of mushrooms and mold. Mom’s earlier use of it gave the rucksack a special meaning for me. It was as if I could see her as a teen, hiking up the mountain with Pops, the many pockets filled with live-off-the-land gear, the straps wearing runnels into her shoulders from the weight of it all. I imagined them sitting side by side at the lake in a silence brought by simpler times, white-and-red fishing bobs floating on the water, shifting with the light breeze. “She became quite good at setting snares, you know,” Pops finally said, as if he had secretly read my thoughts.

  “Can you teach me how to do that?”

  “Most certainly. It’s a skill that will serve you well as a starving college student.”

  I smiled and unpacked my rucksack again to try and make even more space. Pops sat in the chair in the corner of my room chewing on his pipe end and watching me with a wistful smile.

  “You haven’t mentioned Buzzy much lately. What’s he been up to?”

  “I’m worried about him,” I admitted. “He hasn’t been up to the tree house for two weeks, and when I walked down to his house they said they hadn’t seen him around.”

  “He’s probably off on a tramp of his own. We holler kids do enjoy our tramps.”

  But I knew better. I knew that the secret Buzzy was carrying had millstoned him. “When I asked his grandfather where he was, he didn’t even seem to care. He just said, ‘He’ll turn up… always does.’ I really think he may have run away or something. The whole Mr. Paul thing has him really upset.”

  Pops chewed on his pipe end, thinking. After a while he stood and said, “Let’s finish up packing and get a good night’s sleep.”

  We brought all of his camping equipment down from the attic into the living room—sleeping bags, fishing gear, tent, cooking utensils, hammocks—and laid it out along with our packs. Audy Rae was in the kitchen with Mom preparing food for our journey.

  “We should be able to make it to Glaston in two days. It’s only about twelve miles a day, but it’s a hard twelve. When I was a kid…” His voice trailed and I looked up at him. His eyes were fixed intently on the doorway. I turned. Mom was standing in the arch, cupping her elbows with the opposite hands. The edges of her mouth turned up almost imperceptibly.

  “Annie, you remember your first Tramp?”

  The upturned edges became more pronounced. “I do,” as a whisper.

  “You caught the grandaddy of muskies, as I recall—must have weighed as much as you.”

  She smiled in full now. “I remember.”

  “You had it on the line for, what, about a half hour? You just were not gonna give up, no matter what shenanigans it tried. You had more fight in you than that dang fish—and muskie are known fighters.”

  She stayed in the doorway, smiling faintly, saying nothing, just watching me as I checked supplies.

  “We’ll bring two weeks of coffee and cooking spices,” Pops continued as he loaded up a box full of fixings. “And just enough food to get us up there. Then we are on our own.”

  “What if we can’t find any food?”

  “Then we go hungry. Maybe eat bugs and roots.”

  “Have you ever had to do that?”

  “Never. Food is abundant up there. I doubt we’ll have much trouble, but I do make a tasty grub-and-dandelion salad.”

  I laughed, then realized he wasn’t joking.

  As we stowed all the gear in the packs, I could feel her gaze on me and on her old rucksack. I didn’t look up for fear of pulling apart the moment, but instead watched her from the corners as she went to a time when love was unconditional, loss was unknown, and she had more fight in her than a monster fish.

  The storm slashed and the wind howled and I fell asleep to horizontal rain pelting the old house like a thousand miniature drummers working out a beat on the siding. I woke just as the first flush of morning began to fill the dark spaces of my room. There was a gray form on the floor in the middle of the rug. It looked as if Pops had brought the packs upstairs and covered them in a blanket. It made no sense. I put both feet on the floor to investigate. The boards creaked and the packs moved. I pulled off the blanket.

  It was Buzzy Fink, soaking wet and filthy and looking as if he hadn’t eaten in a week. A purple-and-yellow bruise spread from his left eye down to his cheek—a half-healed scab on his lower lip. He was shivering.

  “What are you doing here?” I threw the blanket back to him. He yawned, sat up, and wrapped it around himself. “How did you get in?”

  “This is Medgar. Nobody locks doors here.”

  “Pops does, every night.”

  “Well, he dint last night.”

  “Where have you been? I’ve been looking all over the mountains for you.”

  “Tellin Cave. Then Tilroy came, so I left.”

  “Tilroy? Did he see you?”

  “Yup. Saw me as I ran outta there.”

  “Why didn’t you just sleep at the tree house?”

  “That’s the first place Cleo would look.”

  “You mean Tilroy?”

  Buzzy sho
ok his head. “I ain’t afraid a Tilroy; it’s Cleo who’s after me. Tole everyone in the holler that I’m jealous a him so I accused him a beatin up Mr. Paul.”

  “Is that how you got those bruises?”

  He nodded but didn’t look at me. “Cle caught me in the barn an jus pounded on me. I got away an tole him I was goin to the sheriff. Then I grabbed some stuff an jus lit.”

  “Did you tell the sheriff?”

  “Naw, I jus said that cause the beatin.”

  “Look, me and Pops are leaving this morning to go up to that lake he likes. Up in the mountains. You gotta come with us.”

  “I don’t know, man. I may jus head south. Maybe go to Florida.”

  “That’s bullshit. You can’t just run away like that.”

  “Ain’t got a better option.”

  “Come with us. We’ll be gone two weeks. All this crap will blow over by then.”

  “I don’t know. I think I better jus head out.” He stood up and collected his saturated pack. There was a light tap at the door; it opened slowly. Pops was standing with a steaming coffee cup.

  “Looks like you’ve been living rough, son,” he said softly.

  Buzzy looked out the window at the coming blue sky and the first glint of sun in a week coloring the valley. “It ain’t rough, really. Jus a little wet.”

  Pops studied Buzzy for a few moments and took a sip of coffee. “Why don’t we all go down to the kitchen and drink something warm?”

  We followed him down the steps and into the kitchen, where he had a pot of coffee at the ready. He poured two cups, refilled his, and joined us at the table. Buzzy fidgeted with his drink. Pops said nothing, just watched him intently with his wise old eyes. More silence and fidgeting.

  Finally Buzzy spoke. “He dint do nuthin.”

  “Tell me what you saw, son.”

  “You gotta swear you ain’t gonna tell no one.”

  “Buzzy, I can’t make that promise. A man has been beaten to death.”

  “I’ll deny everthin.”

  “Lying is no way to go through life. I’d rather you not tell me, then.”

  Buzzy looked into his coffee and rubbed the side of the cup. Pops continued to fix into him, his forehead creases deepening as the silence stretched seconds to minutes.

  “It was Tilroy what done it,” Buzzy said without looking up from the black coffee.

  “What?” Pops sat back, as if pushed there by the rapid acceleration of a car. “Tilroy’s just a kid. He and Paul were friends. You sure it was Tilroy?”

  Buzzy nodded quickly. “Cleo was there too… an some others. He tried to stop it all. I seen him try to stop it.” He was pleading to his cup now. “It ain’t like theys gonna take away his ride for this. He tried to stop it all.”

  Pops raised his chin slowly on the understanding of things. He rubbed his neck with his hand. “And that’s why you’ve been staying up in the mountains this past week. So you wouldn’t have to deal with any of this at home.”

  “I think Buzzy should come on the Tramp with us. Give all this time to blow over,” I interjected.

  Pops put a hand up to quiet me and just kept looking at Buzzy. “First thing we need to do is call your parents to let them know you’re okay. Then we’ll see what our options are.”

  Pops excused himself, went into his den, and closed the door. Five minutes later he came out and sat back down at the table. “Your mom was starting to worry over you.”

  “Did you tell her bout Cleo?”

  Pops shook his head. “We need to think this all through first. One thing is for sure: you are gonna have to talk to Sheriff Binner.”

  Buzzy finally looked up from his drink and grimaced as if the brew was poisoning him. He nodded and whispered, “I know.”

  “But maybe not right away,” Pops said. “Who else knows about this?”

  “Petunia Wickle, Skeeter Bight, Levona Stiles. Tilroy’s been big talkin round town, actin like a regular man-killer.”

  “Boy might as well put an ad in the newspaper. Sheriff Binner is competent law. I suspect he’ll have Tilroy in for a talk in the next few days.” Pops thought for a moment more. “Let’s all head out on the Tramp, relax up at Glaston, and reevaluate when we return. I think this whole business will come out while we are gone. Secrets this big don’t stay kept.”

  I smiled at Buzzy. He managed a slight grin.

  “Let’s go put your clothes in the dryer,” I said. “You don’t want wet clothes up there.”

  We threw our packs into the back of Pops’ truck and piled into the cab. Pops pulled out to Chisold and turned onto Watford, then Main. “Need to get a couple pounds of fatback from Hivey’s. When you’re tramping, nothing beats crispy fatback with strong coffee in the morning.”

  “Hey, I thought we were living off the land,” I said with mock disappointment.

  “We are. I just fry it up for the smell. Call it redneck aromatherapy.” He pulled into an empty parking spot in front of Hivey’s. Inside, Jesper, Lo, Bobby Clinch, and Grubby Mitchell were at first coffee by the woodstove. Pops went to the freezer and pulled out a white-wrapped parcel of fatback, then walked toward them. “Morning, ladies.”

  There were replies all around.

  “We was jus arguin bout you, Arthur. An now you walk in to settle it,” Lo said.

  “Make it quick, boys. We are off on the Tramp and two hours behind schedule.”

  Jesper spoke first. “Heard you sold Jukes to Bubba for two hundred thousand dollars cash money.”

  “Who told you that?”

  “Bubba’s permit man, Wall Fratz, was up Glassville applyin to widen Jukes Holler Road so they can get the big stuff up there.”

  Pops froze and looked at Jesper hard. His scowl unnerved the man. “I’m only sayin what Clarice tole Alison.”

  “What part of Jukes did he apply for? The front part or the hollow part?”

  “Not sure. I can ask Alison to ask Clarice.”

  “I’d appreciate that. And to settle the argument, I’m not selling Jukes for two hundred or two million. I will see you gentlemen week after next.” He nodded, turned, and walked down the aisle to the cash register. At the counter he patted his pants pocket. “Kevin, I left my wallet in the truck. Can you run out and get it? It’s on the dash.”

  I hurried out the front just as a blue late-model Ford pickup jerked and heaved into the parking spot next to Pops.

  “Don’t be pumpin the brakes when you’re turnin. Just push down on em easy.” It was Sen Budget instructing the newly licensed Tilroy in the finer points of pickup-truck driving. They exited the cab. Tilroy seemed to have grown a few inches in the last weeks. He moved easily to the sidewalk, chin in the air, chest pushed out in front of him. A slight grin as if he was sporting expensive new clothes. He looked over at me. “What are you doin here, faggot?” His father guffawed and kept walking to the door.

  “Buzzy and I are going up to Glaston Lake with my grandfather.” I scowled inside myself at the solicitous tone, but the last thing I wanted was a run-in with crazy Tilroy. I opened Pops’ truck door and grabbed his wallet from the dash. At the mention of Buzzy Fink, Tilroy pulled up and peered anxiously into the front window. His face went white. “Daddy, you go on in. I’m gonna check the oil.”

  Sen grunted and opened the door. I followed him inside. He brushed past Pops without a word. “Tilroy’s outside,” I whispered to Buzzy as Pops paid for the fatback. Buzzy shrugged and we followed Pops out into the late morning. The sidewalk and parking lot were empty of people. Buzzy and I scanned the area for Tilroy, but he was nowhere around. “Let’s go, boys. Ten cents holding up a dollar.”

  We scrambled into the cab and Pops pulled out into the empty street and turned toward Route 32. As we passed the side of the building, we saw Tilroy crouched behind a Dumpster watching us. “That is one messed-up mutha,” Buzzy said under his breath.

  “Does he know you know?”

  Pops looked over at us. “Who are you talking about?”

/>   “Tilroy. I saw him outside, and as soon as I mentioned Buzzy he got all freaked and went and hid.”

  “He don’t know that I know. Less Cleo tole him, but I doubt he’d do that. Cle’s gonna pretend Tilroy never even existed. You watch.”

  “Why is Tilroy so freaked-out by you?”

  Buzzy went silent.

  We rode that way out to Route 32. As we pulled up to the stop sign, Cleo Fink, on his daily road-work routine, jogged in front of the truck. He waved at Pops, then pulled up suddenly when he saw his brother in the cab. “Oh, man,” Buzzy said and slunk in his seat. Cleo stood at the bumper, hands on hips, staring in at Buzzy.

  Pops put his head out the window. “Cle, you’re holding up our Tramp. You’re in danger of getting run over.”

  He stepped to the passenger side and Pops waved as we passed. Buzzy tried to slide even lower as Cleo locked on him. He stood there for a moment more, watching us pull away, then turned and headed back toward town.

  Buzzy stayed slunked, staring into the dashboard for a mile down 32. Pops looked over at him. “It’s all gonna pass, son.”

  We were quiet for the next few miles until Pops spoke. “We’re going to take the old Jukes Hollow Road up the hollow, then park. The trailhead is on top of the plateau above Jukes. We follow that up over Bridger Mountain, across Six Hollow Ridge to Sadler Mountain, or what’s left of it after Bubba Boyd got to it, then down Prettyman Hollow to the back of Old Blue National Forest. From there things get interesting. Blue is one of the last truly wild places left in the Appalachians, and help is far away, so we’ll all need to keep our wits about us.” He looked over at Buzzy and me with a seldom-seen seriousness. “There’s an old game trail that runs up Prettyman Hollow to Irish Ridge. We follow the Irish Ridge Trail for about eight miles, then camp. Tomorrow we’ll get down to the Blackball River and follow that for another eight miles or so, then cross over for the trail up to the summit of Old Blue. Glaston is on the other side of the mountain. It’s hard to get to, and that’s what makes it so special.”