Fleetie's Crossing

by K. Bruce Florence

  “If they handled snakes that far back, why did Coburn think Mr. Ben would help now?”

  “Coburn told Pap that he promised himself he would go see Ben and Sarah after he locked up. He had figured that they probably still knew where some of the old group was living. He heard tell there was a new snake-handling preacher living somewhere across the mountain near Coxton.”

  Leatha kept on telling me the story almost like she was reading it from a book. There was nothing quite like Leatha’s stories. I would swap a movie ticket any day to listen to her tales and yarns.

  “As he walked up on the porch of Ben’s old store, long since closed down, he tried to make some noise so as not to startle either of them. Ben heard the steps and made his way slowly to the door. As Coburn stood there, he marveled at the porch posts. Since he was a child, he had never stopped being amazed by the tall, round columns completely covered with bottle caps. Ben figured that bottle caps would keep his posts from rotting out. For about three years, he used his ball peen hammer and carefully placed each cap in a mosaic of prevention. It worked, and the posts were still standing in all their commercial glory some sixty-five years later.

  “As Coburn told it, Ben’s height filled the door. Even stooped at eighty-seven years old, his six-feet-eight was impressive. Coburn wondered what it might have been like for him to have stood so tall above everyone when he was young. Towering over everyone was bound to have caused considerable commotion all his life. Wherever Ben put his feet down in his long life, stories were repeated about his shenanigans. Being a foot taller than everybody else was a good place to start for a man as full of the dickens as Ben. He built the best stills, stole away, and married the prettiest Cherokee girl in the hills. He could shoot the eye out of a turkey at two hundred paces. He followed Captain Llewellyn all the way to Cuba. He traded for furs and panned gold. He planted more apple trees in Kentucky than Johnny Appleseed, and with little to no help, he built schools wherever he lived for more than just a few months.

  “He taught himself and his Cherokee wife to read and write and never allowed any settlement he inhabited to be without a school and a teacher. He was a lawman, an outlaw, a friend, and a bitter enemy, all in the same six-foot-eight frame almost at the same time. In a different time and place, he could have been a leader of men. As it was, there was no one who knew him that did not admire and respect Mr. Ben.

  “‘How are you and Sarah gettin’ along, Mr. Ben?’ Coburn asked.

  “‘Tolerable, Coburn. Come in and set a spell. How about some beans and cornbread? Sarah and I just ate,’ said Ben.

  “‘Thank you, no. Cora will have supper hot, and she’ll preach my funeral if I don’t eat after she cooked it.’

  “As he told Daddy, they talked about first one thing and then another for nearly an hour before he got around to explaining how a revival with a few handlers might give the Ross’s Point folks something to do besides worry about the strike.

  “‘Mr. Ben, do you reckon where any of the bunch that use to hold revivals around here might be?’

  “‘Coburn, as I recall, you never was much in the way of supportin’ the meetin’. I’ve heard tell it was you that brought the law down on them last time. What’s really eatin’ at you?’

  “Coburn would have known better than to lie to Mr. Ben. For all his eighty-seven years, he is as sharp as ever. You play right into his hand if you tried to fool him. Coburn wanted him to help, not stub up and back off because of a lie,” said Leatha. “He said he went on to explain that they’s been nothing much happening around here since the strike but worry and misery. He pointed out that the preaching and singing at a revival gets people happy. He agreed with Mr. Ben that he didn’t hold with handling, but the danger adds to the meeting, and more people come. The more people that comes, the better the meeting will be. Coburn asked him straight out if he would help talk to the new preacher over at Coxton and see if they’re ready to take to the road again.

  “Ben fell quiet for a long minute. He looked far off, his thoughts reaching deep behind his pale blue eyes. ‘Wouldn’t hurt the store none either, would it, Coburn?’

  “‘No, Mr. Ben. Truth is, I’ve fell behind with my McComb’s bill. I owe Chappel Dairy and the bakery too. If I don’t come up with some decent payout pretty soon, I’m gonna have to close,’ said Coburn.

  “‘Quint Helton. That’s the preacher’s name, Quint Helton. Get ahold of him. Tell him I told you to ask. They’ll be here directly. Probably just about the time it takes to get the old store cleaned out and benches put up. Mind now, Coburn, be careful and plan good. I’m not tellin’ you this for nothing. Everybody around here needs the store. If you are going to sell, be sure you have enough goods on hand. No use wasting all your good schemin’. Remember, I’m gonna be watchin’. Don’t you never once think about calling the law down on them. They do what they do ’cause they believe, and by their conviction, they have to. You doin’ what you’re doin’ ’cause you believe in keeping your store open. They’s not much difference,’ said Ben.

  “Coburn went on to tell Daddy it could have been a lot worse. Mr. Ben seemed almost good natured about the plan. At least he was willing to help him save the store. One storekeeper to another, he guessed. Anyway, that’s the way Coburn told it to us.”

  “Leatha, we have to go. We’ve never been to a snake handling.”

  “I was too, once’t. ’Pint near scared me silly. Them snakes is not calm like you see ’em out in the garden. They’s all riled and ugly,” said Leatha.

  “You gonna go?

  “No way.”

  “Come on, let’s go. We won’t be anywhere near the snakes. We can stand on the porch and watch all the ruckus.”

  “What ruckus? It ain’t no carnival. Just a bunch of hollerin’ and rollin’,” said Leatha.

  “There’ll be a crowd of boys struttin’ around, acting all brave about how they’s not scared of snakes or hellfire.”

  “Lordy, Rachel Grace, even if I was dying to go, Mommy would have a fit.”

  “Well, of course. Nobody is going to up and say they think we ought to cross the river for a snake handling. Let’s just say we are going to the settlement to see Mary Rose and her new baby. We haven’t seen her since her water broke when she was walking to church. We can take some of the kids and let them visit your cousins. We can slip over to the store to watch the excitement. You’re kin to half the settlement. It’s not like we’d be wandering in some foreign land.”

  “I’d be better off in a foreign land. You’ll keep pushing till we get deep in hot water. I can feel it coming. You have to tell Mommy. You lie better’n I do,” said Leatha.

  I stuck my tongue out at her, but she was right. My “convincing” was slicker than hers.

  I guess the day was so hot that Mother was not in a mood to argue about what sounded like an innocent trip to the settlement. Permission settled, we decided to take my little sister Jane and Leatha’s cousin Peachy. About three o’clock, we launched Burl’s leaky rowboat and began poling across the shallow stream. The August water gave us no resistance as if it, like the dogs, had gone limp under the fierce sun. The humid air launched every flying insect right at us, and even on the water, the heat seemed to bubble from the inside of our skin as much as it glinted off the brackish creek. Jane and Peachy leaned over the side and let their hands and arms trail in the water. Leatha and I splashed ourselves with the poles, but with no breeze to cool our skin, relief was short.

  “The snakes will be too hot to fight, I bet,” I said.

  “Not likely, but the handlers don’t always get in the spirit enough to ‘take up serpents.’ It takes one of the deacons to know when it’s right. There has to be a passel of singing, praying, and preaching. Speaking in tongues has to bloom, or the spirit is not strong enough to protect the saved no matter how many times they’ve handled,” said Leatha.

  “How do they speak in
tongues? What is that?”

  “It’s some ancient language, and nobody, even the person speaking it, don’t really know what it means, I reckon.”

  “Lordy, Leatha, you’re making gooseflesh all over me. If you don’t hush, Jane and Peachy will be screaming to go home in a minute.”

  We shuffled up to shore and tied the leaky boat to a sycamore tree. Moving from shade tree to shade tree, we made slow progress to the settlement and the Roses’ house, but she and the baby weren’t home. We spent a couple of hours with Leatha’s aunt Susanny and cousin Dolly, drinking Kool-Aid and hearing stories about the stir in the settlement over the “handling.” After we finished our drinks, we slid off the porch and ambled out of the yard. We said nothing about where we were going, but as soon as we were out of sight, we began to make our way to the store. There were already at least twenty people milling about, goofy half-grins hiding their curiosity as the handlers filtered past them.

  Acting braver than I felt, I propelled myself to the door with the other three trailing behind me. The heat inside the door flung itself over us as if the devil himself was warning us to stay out. We shot across a bench and grabbed the nearest window seats. We spoke to the women sitting on our side of the aisle, front and back. Leatha asked about the new babies and ailing relatives and told them Fleetie sent her best. Trickles of sweat slid down my back, and Jane’s hair was plastered in Kewpie-doll curls all over her head. As the room filled and the crowd began to settle, quiet spread one by one across the gathered congregation.

  The song leader stood up and led us as we sang hymns, moved the hot air in rhythm with our funeral home fans, and watched the crowd grow outside the window. As the music faded, Preacher Helton began a preaching chant, a rhythmic listing of the sins of man that got louder and louder until his voice was roughened and coarse and sounded something like he had swallowed road grit.

  Each phrase was followed by a deep gasp for breath that punctuated his sermon until his words and breathing were so tied, you couldn’t really tell which was which. Heads nodded to the rhythm of his delivery. From the back, soft humming began, and all of us began rocking first to one side and then the other as we caught the sermon beat that carried us deeper in the beat, word, and melody. Men and women around us rose and began weaving up and down the narrow aisles, waving sweaty arms, seeming to lift their very souls up for God to inspect. Two of the men exhorted the congregation from their knees in a language that, while totally new to me, somehow seemed to make sense to the other folks there.

  One by one, women I had known all my life threw themselves to their knees, hypnotized by the surrounding frenzy. The “took” women were so violent, other women jumped to protect them from the agitated spirit that flung them back and forth. Sweat streamed from their faces and matted hair. Without even being aware of it, tears tumbled down my face. They were demonstrating a commitment far beyond what I had ever experienced in the neat, carved pews of my prim and proper town church.

  The rumble in the converted store was deafening. At the very peak of noise and hysteria, when I was sure it was as wild as it would ever be, the door flew open, and in walked three men swinging rattling, hissing cages. The muscles in their clenched jaws quivered as they stationed themselves on the narrow platform. No one moved. The room went silent as a cave. The rattlesnakes didn’t seem to care except for the rattlesnakes.

  A long slow moaning rose around us—part song, part dirge—and the room filled with the din of hymn and the rhythmic slap, slap of hands crashing around us in crowning waves of sound. Brother Helton walked to the man behind each cage. He laid his hand on his head and whispered. The deacons went to their knees and placed flat hands on the top of each cage, faces turned upward, lips moving in fevered prayer. Brother Helton moved from cage to cage and turned each over, freeing three piles of tangled, coiling snakes. He bent over one pile and, with no hesitation, swept a serpent up and over his head. He began a slow turn as the snake slipped down and circled his arm just above the elbow. Helton spoke quietly, breathing deeply and letting his words ride the stream of air onto the snake’s head.

  Following his lead, one after another of the men and women reached down and brought up a writhing snake until there were twelve of them holding snakes. Some wrapped the serpents around arms, some around the neck, and some let them coil over two hands. Each of the twelve went into a slow spin and wove in and out as they moved down the center aisle. I forgot to breathe as snakes and handlers passed close enough to touch. Some snakes seemed placid, wrapped around an arm or neck; others darted sharp eyes in every direction and struggled to slither out of the grasp of the handler.

  “Praise God, brother,” voices cried out.

  “Save me.”

  “Pray for me, brother.”

  “Save them.”

  “Praise God for the sisters.”

  “God be with them.”

  The feeling of power in that crowded room rose from the floor and seemed to float just above each head. We didn’t have a dry stitch on, and the air seemed suspended just beyond our noses as every eye stayed glued on the handlers.

  Brother Helton moved to each of the handlers, placed his hands on their heads, and shouted, “Deliver the faithful. Praise God for the believer.”

  As each received the blessing, they moved with measured steps as if in a wedding march to the cages and, as gently as one would handle a baby, placed the constantly coiling reptile inside.

  As they stepped away from the cages, sounds of joy rose from the family groups, but in the midst of the pandemonium, we were jolted by a piercing shriek.

  “She is bit. Oh my god. It got her on the face. Oh god, help her, save her.”

  The voice rang out louder and louder. Preacher Helton knelt by the woman and whispered into her ear. Her eyes rolled back in her head, and a trail of spit spilled over her chin as she captured air in choking gasps. Her face was already beginning to swell, distorting her earlier expression of rapture.

  Leatha grabbed my arm. “Where’s her snake? Where did she drop the snake?”

  The escaping rattler, moving like blue lightning, and probably because of the window, picked our row for escape. As it moved in front of our bench, I lunged for Jane and gave her a shove out the window. All I saw were her scuffed sandals as they disappeared through the window. Leatha and Peachy followed Jane out the window, and I turned around to look for the snake just as Deacon Howard moved down the bench and swooped up the snake and dropped it into the cage sitting in the aisle.

  A cluster of worshippers singing and praising the Lord followed as the victim’s husband carried her out the only door. Wild to find Jane and Peachy, I jumped out the window, and just as my feet touched ground, a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder, and I was face to face with Daddy.

  Thinking faster than ever before in my life, I immediately tried to swing his mood around to the astonishment at what we had seen. I needed something quick, or the punishment for this adventure could last the rest of the summer.

  “Daddy, did you know? Did you know they believe so much, they are actually changed right there in that dirty old storehouse? Did you see what happened?”

  “Yes, Rachel, I was standing in the back row, and, young lady, this is no place for Jane and Peachy. If you and Leatha are going to go gallivanting around, looking for excitement, you know better than to drag these kids with you as cover.”

  “Lordy, Daddy, if I had known what really goes on, I would never have brought them. Did you feel all that back there? What happened in there? These people are our neighbors. I’ve known them all my life. How could they lose themselves in a trance and pick up snakes? They had to be terrified. How could they?”

  “They are terrified, and without the trance, the self-hypnosis we all fell under, they probably couldn’t. These people have a deep, unshakable belief that this is right for them. Gawkers like you and the crowd outside should know better th
an to push in where you aren’t needed. Now get in the Plymouth, all of you. It is way past to time for you to be home where you belong.”

  Jane and Peachy were more than willing to jump for the safety of the old Plymouth, but Leatha and I stopped. The ambulance rolled in, and we watched as Mrs. Slone was whisked away so quick, it felt more like a movie than the front yard of Mr. Ben’s old storehouse.

  “Do you reckon she’ll die? She has kids at home, and Bert will sure be lost without her.”

  “They mostly don’t die, I hear, but they get awful sick, and no telling how they are going to pay the hospital,” said Leatha.

  Daddy was about to lose patience, “Girls, get in the car. It is time I get all of you home before your mothers come after me.”

  The revival continued for the rest of dog days, sustained by its own momentum. The handlers controlled the delicate internal timing for tongues, song, snakes, and moving on, all a part of the mystery of the tiny sect’s survival. As we walked in the orchard in what was left of the summer, we could hear the music echo across the valley and almost smell the intensity of faith and fear that led men and women to do a thing so contrary to their nature.

  Chapter 23

  PICKETS AND SCABS

  One morning, not long after the snake handling, Daddy and I were on our way to town, and we drove past a line of pickets at the mouth of the holler about two miles on the upper side from Baxter. All over the county, union recruiters were working hard to sign up all the miners, and on the other side of that argument, the owners and operators of the mines were pushing just as hard to keep the union out. A strong union organization could demand and get better wages, safer working conditions, shorter work hours, and time off. The owners knew this would cost more money with less direct control. The result at most coal fields in Kentucky and West Virginia there was a bitter fight—union against owners.

  Daddy slowed down as we passed, and I could see the miners’ drawn, tired faces, and you didn’t have to look hard to see the men were agitated. They were restless, and rather than the slow, measured walk, carrying their signs on their shoulders, they were walking fast with no place to go, round and round but without picket signs as if speed would help make their side stronger.