Sadie's Mountain

by Shelby Rebecca

  “I’m from Ansted,” I yell, defiantly, taking a step forward and grasping Dillon’s hand. I force myself to take Donnie out of my peripheral vision.

  “Most of us are the descendants of coal miners who lived and breathed in these coal mines. How many of you believe that Appalachia can be saved?” I hear a rumble of applause. The group who I’d met at the church the night my momma died are holding signs that say, “Save our Mountains.”

  “The industry claims that rallies like this one are started by outsiders, by tree huggers. Well, that’s just not true.” Tears are forcing themselves down my cheeks and my fist is in the air before I even know it.

  “None of us want the dust of coal pollution getting in our lungs or our children’s lungs,” I yell, and the people rumble, clap, and boo. “No one wants our beautiful rivers and creeks to disappear, to turn to slime. And no one wants to watch our mountains ripped to shreds, raped and emptied when there’s other ways to keep the lights on!”

  With that the crowd erupts upon us like hot lava. There are people crying, people up in each other’s faces. I see hands becoming fists. Horns are honking when Reverend Morris’ voice comes blossoming into the dimly lit scene like silken cloth. He speaks slowly, calmly, patting down the air with his hands.

  “We are not here to fight with anyone,” he says. “We only want to protect what’s been given to us by the grace of God. For the Lord said in Numbers thirty-five verse thirty-four, ’Defile not therefore the land which ye shall inhabit, wherein I dwell: for I the Lord dwell among the children of Israel.’ Please, Lord,” he starts to pray and the crowd begins to hush in waves of shushing and silence. “Bless this day in your name, Lord. Please send calming spirits to help us see eye to eye. We ask that you give us the resolve to continue to stay peaceful with our brothers and sisters who believe differently than we do. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”

  Someone begins the sing, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...” and like putting ointment on a burn, collectively we all take a breath and begin to sing along. “I once was lost, but now I’m found...”

  “Let’s go get the horses,” Dillon says, into my ear. But when we turn toward the car, Donnie is standing in our way.

  “Leavin’ so soon?” he laughs. His hand is still on that gun. I squeeze mine into my ribs to remind me I’m safe.

  “Excuse us,” I say, and grab Dillon’s arm pulling him right past his brother.

  “You can try, Sadie. But you ain’t gonna break it,” he says behind our backs, and I wince.

  “Just ignore him,” I say, when we get our fingers under the lip of the door handle. I stumble inside.

  As Dillon folds himself inside the car next to me, he hands me his phone. “Call your brothers and have them saddle the horses for us,” he says, curtly.

  So, I do. And then I sit tight as we drive home in silence.

  “What did that mean? You won’t break it?”

  How do I explain this to him? “He said it to me after the shed burned down,” I say looking at my knotted fingers. “He said I might be able to keep him away, but I’ll never break the link between us,” I say, peering up from my lashes.

  “Like, because of what he did, you two are linked?” he says, tightening his grasp on the steering wheel.

  “Yes.”

  “You don’t believe that, do you?” he asks, his voice steel-plated, confused.

  “What he did changed everything for me.”

  “Yes, but...,” Dillon tries.

  “And he’s right,” I interrupt. “It’s like a virus in my brain. It tainted my life up until I came back here and you forced me to deal with it. Every time I stand up for myself, every time I don’t do what he says, I feel that link getting weaker.”

  He squeezes the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. I know he’s angry with Donnie, but it feels like my fault.

  “I don’t want him to be any part of you,” he says, putting his fist to his mouth. “I wish I could erase him from the face of the earth.”

  “Him being gone won’t change it.”

  “What do you mean?” he asks.

  “I was all the way across the continent and he still caught me in my dreams.”

  “But when he’s arrested, it’ll change,” he says, optimistically.

  “I have to change. I have to learn to live my life. To not let him or what he did affect everything I do. Once I can make those changes, I’ll be free.”

  He shakes his head to acknowledge he’s processing what I’ve said. We crumble up Momma’s driveway and hop out of the car. I see that my brothers have Monty and their brown horse saddled and ready to go.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes to help you get through this,” he says, taking me into his shaky arms.

  “Why do you always say the right thing?”

  He smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen his smile in a long while. It warms me, sustains me.

  “Just a sec,” he says, with his finger up so he can deal with the vibrating phone in his hand. When I walk up to them, my brothers hug me one at a time. It surprises me, but in a good way. When I turn back, Dillon is pacing.

  “So you guys are heading up there on your four wheelers? We’re taking the horses up the back trail...meet us there...yep, the spot we agreed on last night by the clearing...Okay. See you in a bit.”

  I look Monty in the eye as I rub his muzzle. “Can’t be nervous on a horse,” I say and Jake chuckles.

  “You’ll do fine,” he says.

  “Thanks, Jerky Jake.”

  “Jerky Jake?” Seth asks.

  “Yep. That’s his new nickname.”

  “It’ll work,” Seth says, jabbing his brother in the ribs with his elbow.

  I run my fingers through the black fur speckled with silver. “Be good to me, boy. I really need you,” I whisper to my horse. He makes the blowing sound and neighs. I stick my foot in the stirrup and swing my other leg over. I take a moment to feel connected, to make it real.

  As Dillon walks effortlessly toward us, he stops, tilts his head to one side, and blows his nervousness out in one breath.

  “It’s not too late to change your mind,” he says.

  “I have to do this,” I say, looking down. When I look up Jake hands the reins into Dillon’s outstretched hand.

  “I know,” he says. “Let me see your gun,” he says, swinging his leg over. I show him again, the unyielding metal that protects me, and he clicks his heels into the horse’s flank.

  “I’ll follow you,” I say, as he takes off.

  I wave to my brothers, click my tongue and nudge Monty with my heels just before we disappear under the dense canopy of the trees.

  We are silent for the thirty-minute ride up the back side of Gauley Mountain. It’s ironic that this place seems so peaceful, but if the coal company has their way, it’ll be a warzone soon. All the trees, animals, native plants: gone, gone, gone.

  I force myself to think about the mission. I need to let the media know where we are.

  “Can I see your phone?” I ask.

  “Here,” he says, reaching it over to me from atop his horse.

  I scroll through the recent calls and find Jenny’s number. I hit send and listen to the buzz before she answers.

  “Sadie?” she says.

  “I need you to put out another press release.”

  “What should it say?” she asks.

  “The road was blocked by the coal company and by the police. We’re coming up on horseback. It’s possible some really good reporter might make it up the mountain to cover this.”

  “Will do,” she says. “What about the blog post?”

  “Just hold onto it,” I say. “If you don’t hear from us in an hour, give us a call.”

  “Be careful,” she says.

  “Okay, thank you. Bye,” I say, with nerves taking over my voice.

  “I’m going to call Reverend Morris,” Dillon says, so I give him back his phone.

  He uses the speakerphone so
he can hold the reins. The phone buzzes loudly before Reverend Morris’ voice comes through as if he’s yelling into a cone.

  “Dillon!”

  “Where are you guys?”

  “We ran into a couple’a officers from Fayetteville waitin’ for us coming up the trail,” he says. “They sent us back down but we’re looking at the map so we can take another trail,” he says. “The coal company’s suspended demolition while all these people are protesting, and some of us are up here and they don’t know where we are.”

  “Alright Reverend. We’ll be waiting for you. How many are still coming?” Dillon yells into the phone.

  Far off, I hear the buzz and rumble of a four-wheeler coming up to my right but I can’t see anyone. “Did you hear that?” I ask. This feels all wrong. I wish we could turn around, but it feels like it’s too late.

  “There’s still ‘bout ten of us,” he says, out of our speaker.

  “Did someone make it past the cops?” Dillon asks.

  “Not that I know of.”

  “What were the cops riding? Motorcycles? Four-wheelers?”

  “Four-wheelers,” he responds out of the speaker.

  The buzz and rumble sound of a four-wheeler is getting louder. Monty stops and flings his head up in fright. He’s always hated loud noises. Dillon looks at me in a panic.

  “Let’s get off this trail,” he says and he yanks the reins to the left. I duck under a branch as Monty follows Dillon’s lead. He’s doing such a good job. An old horse running uphill at this pace. I pat his neck.

  “Sadie,” he says, “we’re up here alone. We don’t have the group to protect us. I don’t want you yanking that gun out on cops, but just keep it in mind. I have mine, too, remember.”

  I bristle.

  It’s right at that moment that I know I’ve made a mistake. A mistake that I can’t take back, when a four-wheeler carrying Chief Donnie McGraw rumbles up out of the shadows of the forest.

  It’s so loud it spooks Monty. He bolts forward to get out of the way, when a loud bang shouts through the trees and leaves. Dillon’s shirt puffs up, and I’m trying to figure out why as he grabs his chest. His eyes are wide like at the windowsill and I finally understand.

  He’s been shot.

  I jump down off my horse, feel the shock as my ankles protest the jolt, and run toward him screaming his name.

  “Dillon!”

  It’s a guttural scream. One that asks to go back in time and change everything. One that regrets. One that begs for mercy.

  Before I reach him, I’m yanked backward by my hair. I feel an intense blow to my back. I fall forward and roll, kicking and punching as hard as I can, making contact with some part of Donnie’s stone dense flesh.

  My cheek stings as he swats me with the back of his hand so hard I taste metal in my mouth. I’m dizzy and out of breath as he yanks me up and flings me around so that I’m facing Dillon. He presses up against my back with his chest—just like before.

  I want to run. But then I feel it. The cold end of his gun as it’s pressed into my temple. “I’m sorry, Dillon,” I say, closing my eyes. “This is all my fault.”

  “Let her go, Donnie!” Dillon yells into the chilly mountain air. My eyes open and face reality.

  The look on Dillon’s face at this moment will never leave me. He’s off the horse, holding his chest as his blue sweatshirt is gathering a darker color around his left hand.

  “Dillon!” I cry. At the end of his outstretched arm is his weapon pointed straight at me—wishing I wasn’t in the way.

  He squints his eyes, obviously in pain. His breathing is too fast, too shallow as blood comes out and moistens his lips a deep shade of crin. “Dillon! Go get help,” I say. My voice shakes. The knot in my throat is the size of a golf ball.

  “I’m not leaving,” he says, clear, resolute. He coughs, wicking blood to the surface of his lips that he wipes with his shoulder. The dark spot around his hand is widening, and my knees feel about as sturdy as water.

  “Drop your gun, Dillon,” Donnie says, in his booming cop voice. “I don’t got no problem shootin’ her right here, right now. Cept’, I was plannin’ on some alone time with ‘er first. But, hey, I’m just livin’ out the last moments ‘a my life right now, too. Think I’m gonna let y’all send me to prison?”

  “If you’re caught, Donnie, why do you have to take her with you?” Dillon says, ignoring his demands, buying time. He keeps his gun up and takes a step backward. It doesn’t look planned. He’s stumbling, forcing himself to stay upright.

  “Because she’s mine!” Donnie screams through my eardrum. With his right hand, he starts running his bear paw up my ribs under my right arm. I squirm in aversion to his touch.

  Think strategy, I tell myself. He doesn’t know I have Daddy’s gun strapped up under my other arm. I push it into my ribs until it hurts.

  As his hand moves upward, I writhe in revulsion and he leans into my ear, whispers, “I’ll shoot ‘im again. This time it’ll be in the head. Hold still.”

  I hold my breath. I’m helpless like a groped statue as he moves his hand up my coiled stomach. He stops just under my breast. I know what’s coming, but there’s nothing I can do to protect myself.

  “You see this,” he says, louder, directed at Dillon who’s just as helpless as I am. I blow out a pained breath as he begins to knead at my breast. I cannot look at Dillon. I’m so ashamed as forceful tears stain their way down my face. It makes me sick to my stomach, but my fear keeps everything down.

  “Keep your eyes open, boy,” he says, as he squeezes at me so hard that I cry out.

  “That’s how she likes it,” he says, as he lets go, and slowly moves his hand down my stomach, surely toward the apex of my thighs. “This is how I felt watchin’ you with her, all these years!” he hollers.

  “Donnie!” Dillon says; it’s a demand to stop.

  Just go numb, I think. I can’t do this again.

  “I told ‘er she needs a real man,” he says, rubbing up against me with the sick arousal he has growing between his hips.

  “Stop, Donnie!” Dillon yells through the pain, through the panic. He stumbles again and nearly falls, but keeps his gun straight and takes a step forward.

  “Just remember who was here first,” Donnie says into my ear, relishing me as he starts to put his hand down the front of my pants. “And the last.”

  Those words again just like in the shed. The feeling of being pinioned, being forced, being used by him again, now, right in front of Dillon, fills me with a rumble of adrenaline.

  I look at Dillon directly in his eyes; will my thoughts into his brain. I nod slightly to where my gun is under my left arm as if I’m asking him for permission. He nods his head yes. ‘Do it,’ his eyes say as he points his gun, steady.

  But Donnie is nearly all the way down the front of my pants. I squeeze my thighs shut. I can’t let this happen—not again. It’s at this precise moment when I know it. I will not let him turn me into a numb victim again.

  I will not let him push me into the sickness that is his world. My hand moves across my chest, under my arm— just like in front of the mirror.

  I feel the handle of the gun, and with the boots still harboring the evidence of the last time he tried to take my life, I stomp down making contact with his foot, turn and knee him in his groin.

  I was quick enough, I realize, as he cries out and bends at the waist, trying to ease the aching pain I’ve induced upon him for the first time in my life. I step back, widening my stance and cock the gun, my Daddy’s gun. The one he taught me with and I know is as precise as a thin piece of thread.

  “You’ll never touch me again,” I say, my arm steady as I point my weapon at the teeth he uses to mask the demon hiding behind them. “Drop the gun!” I demand.

  “Bitch, I ain’t droppin’ my gun,” he says, trying to straighten his back.

  “Sadie,” Dillon wheezes from behind me. “I’ve got this. Just call for help,” he says, and coughs.
>
  “Yeah, Dillon’s got this, Sadie.” Donnie laughs; it echoes all around us. “We’re all gonna die today,” his voice bounces around the trees like a demon. “It’s just a matter ‘a who I’m gonna shoot first.”

  How many times have I wished him dead? How many times have I visualized the look on his face as he realizes I’ve killed him? He’s straightening his back, as his hand squeezes around his gun. Dillon needs help right now. And Donnie is just in the way.

  I move my gun slightly to the left and close my left eye to take aim with the right one—just like Daddy taught me. Donnie sees it in my eyes. Just like I did in the mirror last night. These eyes are alive again. These eyes are proof that I’m a survivor. He straightens his back and begins to lift his arm.

  I squeeze the trigger.

  The vibration of the golden bullet sliding against the metal gun barrel reverberates through my arm, through the air like I’ve let lose my fears in that one crush of my finger against the curved metal trigger. Donnie’s arm flings backward as the bullet rips through his forearm causing him to let go of his gun.

  With my arm still outstretched, I walk toward him, relishing the stunned, terrified look on his face as he holds his arm. I kick his gun, slamming it into the trunk of a tree. As I stand here, my feet are firmly planted to the ground—the ground of my ancestors, the ground that he chased me from but I’ve reclaimed again.

  I feel the crisp air as it passes by the skin on my face, my outstretched hand. I hear the cooing of doves; Dillon’s pained breaths from behind me. Everything is suddenly so very clear.

  As Donnie’s eyes line up in front of my gun, I know what I have to do. I have every reason to; no jury in the world would convict me for it.

  But, I don’t want him to die. Dying is too easy. He needs to pay for what he’s done. He needs to be penned up like an animal. He needs to feel it—what he’s lost, every day. He needs to rot.

  “What are you waitin’ for?” he asks. “Just do it!”

  “Dillon, please call for help,” I say, clearly, but resolute. That’s when I hear him fall. It’s a soft thud. An emptiness in the air where he should be standing. “Dillon?” I yell, frantically, never taking my eyes off Donnie.