by Ron Rash
The older security guard looks at Ruth and then at the woman and child. He seems unsure what to do next.
“Ma’am,” he finally says to the woman, “if you could show me some ID for you and your child we can clear this up real quick.”
“You think this isn’t my child?” the woman asks, looking not at the security guards but at Ruth. “Are you insane?”
The woman shakes as she opens her purse, hands the security guard her driver’s license, photographs of her family, and two Social Security cards.
“Momma, don’t let them take me away,” the child says, clutching his mother’s knee more tightly.
The mother places her hand on her son’s head until the older security guard hands her back the cards and pictures.
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says. “I apologize for this.”
“You should apologize, all of you,” the woman says, lifting the child into her arms.
“I’m so sorry,” Ruth says, but the woman has already turned and is walking toward the exit.
The older security guard speaks into a walkie-talkie.
“I was so sure,” she says to the younger man.
“Yes, ma’am,” the security guard replies, not meeting her eyes.
Ruth debates whether to meet her appointment or go home. She finally starts walking toward Dr. Timrod’s office, for no better reason than it is downhill, easier.
When she knocks on the door, the voice she heard on the phone tells her to come in. Dr. Timrod sits at a big wooden desk. Besides a computer and telephone, there’s nothing on the desk except some papers and a coffee cup filled with pens and pencils. A bookshelf is behind him, the volumes on it thick, some leatherbound. The walls are bare except for a framed painting of long-tailed birds perched on a tree limb, their yellow heads and green bodies brightening the tree like Christmas ornaments, Carolina Paroquet emblazoned at the bottom.
Dr. Timrod’s youth surprises her. Ruth had expected gray hair, bifocals, and a rumpled suit, not jeans and a flannel shirt, a face unlined as a teenager’s. A styrofoam cup fills his right hand.
“Ms. Welborn, I presume.”
“Yes,” she says, surprised he remembers her name.
He motions for her to sit down.
“Our jaguar hunt cost me a good bit of sleep last night,” he says.
“I didn’t sleep much myself,” Ruth says. “I’m sorry you didn’t either.”
“Don’t be,” he says, and smirks. “Among other things I found out jaguars tend to be nocturnal. To study a creature it’s best to adapt to its habits.”
Dr. Timrod sips from the cup. Ruth smells the coffee and again feels the emptiness in her stomach.
“I talked to Leslie Winters yesterday before I left. She’d never heard of jaguars being in South Carolina, but she reminded me that her main focus is elephants, not cats. I called a friend who’s researched fieldwork on jaguars in Arizona. He told me there’s as much chance of a jaguar having been in South Carolina as a polar bear.”
“So they were never here,” Ruth says, and she wonders if there is anything left inside her mind she can believe.
“I’d say that’s still debatable. When I got home last night, I did some searching on the computer. A number of sources said their range once included the Southeast. Several mentioned Florida and Louisiana, a few Mississippi and Alabama.”
Dr. Timrod pauses and lifts a piece of paper off his desk.
“Then I found this.”
He stands up and hands the paper to Ruth. The words Florida, Georgia, and South Carolina are underlined.
“What’s strange is the source was a book published in the early sixties,” Dr. Timrod says. “Not a more contemporary source.”
“So people just forgot they were here,” Ruth says.
“Well, it’s not like I did an exhaustive search,” Dr. Timrod says. “And the book that page came from could be wrong. Like I said, it’s not an updated source.”
“I believe they were here,” Ruth says.
Dr. Timrod smiles and sips from the styrofoam cup.
“Now you have some support for your belief.”
Ruth folds the paper and places it in her purse.
“I wonder when they disappeared from South Carolina?”
“I have no idea,” Dr. Timrod says.
“What about them?” Ruth asks, pointing at the parakeets.
“Later than you’d think. There were still huge flocks in the mid-1800s. Audubon said that when they foraged the fields looked like brilliantly colored carpets.”
“What happened?”
“Farmers didn’t want to share the crops and fruit trees. A farmer with a gun could kill a whole flock in one afternoon.”
“How was that possible?” Ruth asks.
“That’s the amazing thing. They wouldn’t abandon one another.”
Dr. Timrod turns to his bookshelf, takes off a volume, and sits back down. He thumbs through the pages until he finds what he’s looking for.
“This was written in the 1800s by a man named Alexander Wilson,” Dr. Timrod says, and begins to read. “‘Having shot down a number, some of which were only wounded, the whole flock swept repeatedly around their prostrate companions, and again settled on a low tree, within twenty yards of the spot where I stood. At each successive discharge, though showers of them fell, yet the affection of the survivors seemed rather to increase; for after a few circuits around the place, they again alighted near me.’”
Dr. Timrod looks up from the book.
“‘The affection of the survivors seemed rather to increase,’” he says softly. “That’s a pretty heartbreaking passage.”
“Yes,” Ruth says. “It is.”
Dr. Timrod lays the book on the desk. He looks at his watch.
“I’ve got a meeting,” he says, standing up. He comes around the desk and offers his hand.
“Congratulations. You may be on the cutting edge of South Carolina jaguar studies.”
Ruth takes his hand, a stronger, more calloused hand than she’d have expected. Dr. Timrod opens the door.
“After you,” he says.
Ruth stands up slowly, both hands gripping the chair’s arms. She walks out into the bright May morning.
“Thank you,” she says. “Thank you for your help.”
“Good luck with your search,” Dr. Timrod says.
He turns from her and walks down the pathway. Ruth watches him until he rounds a curve and disappears.
She walks the other way. When she comes to where the river is closest to the walkway, Ruth stops and sits on the bench. She looks out at the river, the far bank where the Columbia skyline rises over the trees.
The buildings crumble like sand and blow away. Green-and-yellow birds spangle the sky. Below them wolves and buffalo lean their heads into the river’s flow. From the far shore a tree limb rises toward her like an outstretched hand. On it rests a jaguar, blending so well with its habitat that Ruth cannot blink without the jaguar vanishing. Each time it is harder to bring it back, and the moment comes when Ruth knows if she closes her eyes again the jaguar will disappear forever. Her eyes blur but still she holds her gaze. Something comes unanchored inside her. She lies down on the bench, settles her head on her forearm. She closes her eyes and she sleeps.
WHERE THE MAP ENDS
They had been on the run for six days, traveling mainly at night, all the while listening for the baying of hounds. The man, if asked his age, would have said forty-eight, forty-nine, or fifty—he wasn’t sure. His hair was close-cropped, like gray wool stitched above a face dark as mahogany. A lantern swayed by his side, the twine securing it chafing the bullwhip scar ridging his left shoulder. With his right hand he clutched a tote sack. His companion was seventeen and of a lighter complexion, the color of an oft-used gold coin. The youth’s hair was longer, the curls tinged red. He carried the map.
As foothills became mountains, the journey was more arduous. What food they’d brought had been eaten days earlier. They f
illed the tote with corn and okra from fields, eggs from a henhouse, apples from orchards. The land steepened more and their lungs never seemed to fill. I heard that white folks up here don’t have much, the youth huffed, but you’d think they’d at least have air. The map showed one more village, Blowing Rock, then a ways farther a stream and soon a plank bridge. An arrow pointed over the bridge. Beyond that, nothing but blank paper, as though no word or mark could convey what the fugitives sought but had never known.
They had crossed the bridge near dusk. At the first cabin they came to, a hound bayed as they approached. They went on. The youth wondered aloud how they were supposed to know which place, which family, to trust. The fugitives passed a two-story farmhouse, prosperous looking. The older man said walk on. As the day waned, a cabin and a barn appeared, light glowing from a front window. Their lantern remained unlit, though now neither of them could see where he stepped. They passed a small orchard and soon after the man tugged his companion’s arm and led him off the road and into a pasture.
“Where we going, Viticus?” the youth asked.
“To roost in that barn till morning,” the man answered. “No folks want strangers calling in the dark.”
They entered the barn, let their hands find the ladder, and then climbed into the loft. Through a space between boards the fugitives could see the cabin window’s glow.
“I’m hungry,” the youth complained. “Gimme that lantern and I’ll get us some apples.”
“No,” his companion said. “You think a man going to help them that stole from him.”
“Ain’t gonna miss a few apples.”
The man ignored him. They settled their bodies into the straw and slept.
A cowbell woke them, the animal ambling into the barn, a man in frayed overalls following with a gallon pail. A scraggly gray beard covered much of his face, some streaks of brown in his lank hair. He was thin and tall, and his neck and back bowed forward as if from years of ducking. As the farmer set his stool beside the cow’s flank, a gray cat appeared and positioned itself close by. Milk spurts hissed against the tin. The fugitives peered through the board gaps. The youth’s stomach growled audibly. I ain’t trying to, he whispered in response to his companion’s nudge.
When the bucket was filled, the farmer aimed a teat at the cat. The creature’s tongue lapped without pause as the milk splashed on its face. As the farmer lifted the pail and stood, the youth shifted to better see. Bits of straw slipped through a board gap and drifted down. The farmer did not look up but his shoulders tensed and his hand clenched the pail tighter. He quickly left the barn.
“You done it now,” the man said.
“He gonna have to see us sometime,” the youth replied.
“But now it’ll be with a gun aimed our direction,” Viticus hissed. “Get your sorry self down that ladder.”
They climbed down and saw what they’d missed earlier. “Don’t like the look of that none,” the youth said, nodding at the rope dangling from a loft beam.
“Then get out front of this barn,” his companion said. “I want that white man looking at empty hands.”
Once outside, they could see the farm clearly. Crop rows were weed choked, the orchard unpruned, the cabin itself shabby and small, two rooms at most. They watched the farmer go inside.
“How you know he got a gun when he hardly got a roof over his head?” the youth asked. “The Colonel wouldn’t put hogs in such as that.”
“He got a gun,” the man replied, and set the lantern on the ground with the burlap tote.
A crow cawed as it passed overhead, then settled in the cornfield.
“Don’t seem mindful of his crop,” the youth said.
“No, he don’t,” the man said, more to himself than his companion.
The youth went to the barn corner and peeked toward the cabin. The farmer came out of the cabin, a flintlock in his right hand.
“He do have a gun and it’s already cocked,” the youth said. “Hellfire, Viticus, we gotta light out of here.”
“Light out where?” his companion answered. “We past where that map can take us.”
“Shouldn’t never have hightailed off,” the youth fretted. “I known better but done it. We go back, I won’t be tending that stable no more. No suh, the Colonel will send me out with the rest of you field hands.”
“This white man’s done nothing yet,” the man said softly. “Just keep your hands out so he see the pink.”
But the youth turned and ran into the cornfield. Shaking tassels marked his progress. He didn’t stop until he was in the field’s center. The older fugitive grimaced and stepped farther away from the barn mouth. The farmer entered the pasture, the flintlock crooked in his arm. Any indication of his humour lay hidden beneath the beard. The older fugitive did not raise his hands, but he turned his palms outward.
The white man approached from the west. The sunrise made his eyes squint.
“I ain’t stole nothing, mister,” the black man said when the farmer stopped a few yards in front of him.
“That’s kindly of you,” the farmer replied. The dawn’s slanted brightness made the white man raise a hand to his brow. “Move back into that barn so I can feature you better.”
The black man glanced at the rope.
“Pay that rope no mind,” the farmer said. “It ain’t me put it up. That was my wife’s doing.”
The fugitive kept stepping back until both of them stood inside the barn. The cat reappeared, sat on its haunches watching the two men.
“Where might you hail from?” the farmer asked.
The black man’s face assumed a guarded blankness.
“I ain’t sending you back yonder if that’s your fearing,” the farmer said. “I’ve never had any truck with them that would. That’s why you’re up here, ain’t it, knowing that we don’t?”
The black man nodded.
“So where you run off from?”
“Down in Wake County, Colonel Barkley’s home place.”
“Got himself a big house with fancy rugs and whatnot, I reckon,” the farmer said, “and plenty more like you to keep it clean and pretty for him.”
“Yes, suh.”
The farmer appeared satisfied. He did not uncock the hammer but the barrel now pointed at the ground.
“You know the way over the line to Tennessee?”
“No, suh.”
“It ain’t a far way but you’ll need a map, especially if you want to stay clear of outliers,” the white man said. “You get here last night?”
“Yes, suh.”
“Did you help yourself to some of them apples?”
The black man shook his head.
“You got food in your tote there?”
“No, suh.”
“You must be hungry then,” the farmer said. “Get what apples you want. There’s a spring over there too what if your throat’s dry. I’ll go to the cabin and fix you a map.” The white man paused. “Fetch some corn to take if you like, and tell that othern he don’t have to hide in there lest he just favors it.”
The farmer walked back toward the cabin.
“Come out, boy,” Viticus said.
The tassels swayed and the youth reappeared.
“You hear what he say?”
“I heard it,” the youth answered and began walking toward the orchard.
They ate two apples each before going to the spring.
“Never tasted water that cold and it full summer,” the youth said when he’d drunk his fill. “The Colonel say it snows here anytime and when it do you won’t see no road nor nothing. Marster Helm’s houseboy run off last summer, the Colonel say they found him froze stiff as a poker.”
“You believing that then you’re a chucklehead,” Viticus said.
“I just telling it,” the youth answered.
“Uh-huh,” his elder said, but his eyes were not on the youth but something in the far pasture. Two mounds lay side by side, marked with a single creek stone. Upturned earth sprou
ted a few weeds, but only a few. The youth turned from the spring and looked as well.
“Lord God,” he said. “This place don’t long allow a body to rest easy.”
“Come on,” Viticus said.
The fugitives stepped back through the orchard and waited in front of the barn. The farmer was on his way back, a bucket in one hand and the flintlock in the other.
“Why come him to still haul that gun?” the youth asked.
The older man’s lips hardly moved as he spoke.
“Cause he ain’t fool enough to trust two strangers, specially after you cut and run.”
The farmer’s eyes were on the youth as he crossed the pasture. He set the bucket before them and studied the youth’s face a few more moments, then turned to the older fugitive.
“There’s pone and sorghum in there,” the farmer said, and nodded at the bucket. “My daughter brung it yesterday. She’s nary the cook her momma was, but it’ll stash your belly.”
“Thank you, suh,” the youth said.
“I brung it for him, not you,” the farmer said. The older fugitive did not move.
“Go ahead,” the farmer said to him. “Just fetch that pone out the bucket and strap that sorghum on it.”
“Thank you, suh,” the older fugitive said, but he still did not reach for the pail.
“What?” the white man asked.
“If I be of a mind to share . . .”
The white man grimaced.
“He don’t deserve none but it’s your stomach to miss it, not mine.”
The older fugitive took out a piece of the pone and the cistern of sorghum. He swathed the bread in syrup and offered it to the youth, who took it without a word. Neither sat in the grass to eat but remained standing. When they’d finished, the older fugitive set the cistern carefully in the bucket. He stepped back and thanked the farmer again but the farmer seemed not to hear. His blue eyes were on the youth.
“You belonged to this Colonel Barkley feller too?”
“Yes, suh,” the youth said.
“Been on his place all your life.”
“Yes, suh.”
“And your momma, she been at the Colonel’s awhile before you was born.”
“Yes, suh.”
The farmer nodded and let his gaze drift toward the barn a moment before resettling on the youth.