The Hills Remember

by James Still

  “I’d be scared of a night, with holes cut,” Fern complained. “Robber men might come.”

  “I saw tracks,” I blurted. My words were drowned under Mother’s chopping. She hewed a crevice to give the sawblade lee.

  “It’s Father’s work,” Fern whined. She squeezed her eyelids, trying to cry.

  I recollect Mother worked that day through, cutting four windows, true as a sawyer’s. The hours crawled turkle-slow. Fern and Lark and I longed for shouting children; we longed for the busy noises of the camps. We could only mope and look at the empty road. Nobody passed upcreek or down, nobody we glimpsed from daybreak to dusk dark. Oft when Mother took a little rest she’d glance the hills over. Oh she was lost as anyone. Loneliness swelled large as mast-balls inside of us.

  When night came we heard the first lorn cry of a chuckwill’s-widow. The evening chill was sharp. We ate supper huddled to a mite of fire. “One spark against a shingle,” Mother explained, “and we’d have to roust a fox from his cave house. That chimley begs fixing.”

  The dishes were washed and put away. We sat quietly, our faces yellow in the lamplight. The peent of bull-bats came through the window holes. Spring lizards prayed for rain in the bottoms.

  Mother saw how our eyes kept stealing to the window. The darkness there was black as corpse cloth. “Sing a ballad or play a game,” she urged. “Then hap baby will go to sleep.”

  “Play Bloody Tom,” Lark called. “I be Tom, coming for a coal to tetch my pipe. You be sheeps or chaps.”

  “Now, no,” Fern said, “that ’un’s scary.”

  “Let’s do a talking song,” I chose. “Let’s sing ‘Old Rachel,’ and me do the talking.”

  We sang “Old Rachel”; Old Rachel nobody could do a thing with; Old Rachel going to the Bad Place with her toenails dragging and a bucket on her arm, saying, “Good morning, Mister Devil, hit’s getting mighty warm”; and I spoke, after every verse, “Now, listen, Little Rachel, please be kind o’ quiet.”

  We hushed suddenly. Beast sounds rang the hills. Crownover’s stallion had trumpeted afar, and our mare had whinnied.

  “Sing ahead,” Mother coaxed, “the mare’s stall is latched. I saw to it. Sing what the Devil done with Rachel when he couldn’t handle her.”

  We had no heart to sing more. “I propped the stall door,” I said. Fern’s eyes were beaded upon the black window. “Wisht it was allus day,” she said.

  “Ah, now,” Mother chided, trying to comfort us. “A body gets their growth of a night. I’d not want the baby a dwarf.”

  “I saw a low-standing man in the camps once,” Fern recalled, “not nigh tall as me.”

  “I saw tracks in the draw—” I began, and hushed. They grew in my mind. They seemed to have been made by the largest foot a man ever had. The thought held my breath. “Wisht Poppy was here,” I said.

  The baby sat up, round-eyed, blinking.

  Mother spoke, making talk. “I wonder what name your father’s going to bring this chap. I promised him the naming.”

  “He’ll fotch a sour ’un,” Fern grudged. “Ooge, Boll, Zee. One like smut-face little ’uns wear at the mines.”

  “I told your father, ‘Name him for an upstanding man. A man clever, with heart and pride.’ ”

  “Hope it’s a rhymer,” I said. “Whoever named them fourteen Crownovers was clever. Hit tuk a head full o’ sense to figure all o’ them.”

  “Once I knew a man who had a passel o’ children,” Mother related. “He married two times and pappied twenty-three. After there come sixteen, he ran out o’ names. Just called them numbers, according to order. Seventeen, eighteen, nineteen, twenty—” She paused, watching baby. He slept, leant upon nothing, like a beast sleeps.

  “If Poppy was here,” Fern yawned, “I bet he’d laugh.”

  “You’ll all be dozing on foot before long,” Mother told us. “Time to pinch the wick.”

  The lamp was smothered; we crawled between covers. Once the light died the window hole turned gray. You could see the shoulders of hills through it. Fern and Lark hushed and slept. I lay quiet, listening, and my ears were large with dark, catching midges of sound. The shuck mattress ticked, ticked, ticked. A rooster crowed. Night wore.

  In my sleep I heard the mare thresh in her stall, pawing the ground with a forefoot. I raised on an elbow. From behind the barn came an owly cough, and a voice saying, “Hold!” Someone stood inside the window, tall, white-gowned. It was Mother. I sprang beside her, looking. Fellows topped the ridge as ants march, up and over. Their heads were like folks’ heads, but their backs were humpty.

  “Six walkers with pokes,” Mother said, “carrying only God knows what.”

  I recollect walking with the sun in my face; I recollect thinking Father would come home that day, bringing the frames to set against robbers and bloom winters. Lark was asleep beside me, and Fern and the baby lay in Mother’s bed with their heads on a duck pillow. I recollect glancing through the window and seeing Mother run out of the fields.

  I stood in my shirttail as Mother swung the door. Her hair fell wild about her shoulders. For a moment she had no breath to speak. “The mare’s gone!” she gasped. “Gone.”

  Fern roused, meany for being awakened with a start. Lark’s eyes opened, damp and large.

  “I propped the stall door,” I vowed. “Hit was latched and propped too.”

  “Had Poppy been at home,” Fern quarreled, “stealers wouldn’t a-come.”

  “I’d have figured she broke the latch of her own free will,” Mother said, “hadn’t it been for where the tracks led. I followed.”

  “Was they brogan prints alongside?” I asked. They grew immense in my mind. “Bigger’n anything?”

  “Just bare mare tracks. I followed within sight o’ the Crownovers’.”

  Of a sudden I scorned the Crownovers. I could hear blood drum my ears. I said, “If I met one o’ them chaps, I’d not know him from dirt. I’d not speak a howdy.”

  Fern twisted into her garments. “I bet them girl-chaps wear old flour-sack dresses, and you kin read print front and back.” She wrinkled her nose, making to cry. “I’m wanting to move to Houndshell.” She flicked her eyelids, but not a tear would come. She got angry, angry as I. “Ruther be dust in a grave-box than have to do with them folks. Be my name theirs, I couldn’t hold up my head for shame.”

  “Don’t lay blame for shore,” Mother warned. “The mare’s tracks went straight, yet they might o’ veered a bit this side. There’s nothing we can settle till your father’s here, and he aimed to stop by Crownovers’ anyhow.”

  Fern stamped her feet against the floor. “I wisht this house would burn to ashes. We’d be bound to live at the mines where they’s girls to play with, and hain’t no robbers.”

  “Ramshack house, a-setting on a rock,” I mocked.

  Mother turned hurt eyes upon us. She stood before the cold fireplace and began to lay off with hands like the Houndshell schoolteacher. “Fifteen years we lived under a rented roof, fifteen years o’ eating out o’ paper pokes. We were beholden to the mines, robbed o’ fresh breathing air, robbed o’ green victuals. Now, cellar nor neighbors we’ve got here, but there’s clean air and ground and home. I say this house hain’t going to burn. That chimley’s to rise higher.”

  “Poppy ought to be a-coming,” Lark sniffled.

  “The land not grubbed,” Mother lamented, “no seeds planted, the mare stolen. Oh it’s Houndshell for us another winter.” She turned away, her shoulders drawn and small.

  We children ate breakfast alone, one of us forever peering through the window hole toward the way Father would come. Fern held the baby, giving him tastes of mush. We scraped the pot; we sopped our plates, for Mother had gone into the far room. But she came as we pushed the chairs aside. We stared. She wore Father’s breeches. The legs were rolled at the bottom. “I can’t climb a ladder or straddle a roof in a dress,” she said. “Allus I’ve wanted to take a hand with this house. Here’s my chance, before your father’s
back. He’d tear up the patch if he knew.”

  “It’s man’s work,” Fern said grumpily.

  Rocks were gathered, clay batter stirred, a ladder leaned against the roof. Up Mother went with a bucket of mud. I climbed, lifting the rocks in a coffee sack, reaching the poke’s neck to her on gaining the tiptop. Mother edged along the hip-roof, balancing the sack and bucket. Her face went dead white. Traveling the steep of a roof was not as simple as spoken.

  Fern began to whimper, and the baby cried a spasm. “Come down!” Fern called. “Come down!”

  Mother buttered two rocks with clay, placing them on the chimney. They rolled off, falling inside. She was slapping mud to a third when a voice roared beside the house. A man stood agape. A stranger had come unbeknownst. Mother jerked, and the bucket slipped, and the coffee sack emptied in a clatter across the shingles. The fellow had to jump limber dodging that rock fall. He roared, laughing, “Come down, woman, afore you break yore neck!” Mother obeyed, red-faced, ashamed of the breeches she wore.

  We studied the man. He was older than Father, smaller, and two hands shorter. His eyes were bright as new ten-pennies. An empty pipe stuck out of his mouth, the bowl a tiny piggin carved from an oak boss. “When a woman undertakes man’s gin-work,” he spoke, “their fingers all turn to thumbs.” He didn’t stand back. He hauled rocks and a new batch of clay up the ladder; he fashioned that chimney to a fare-you-well.

  Lark and Fern and I whispered together.

  Fern asked, “Who be this feller?”

  Lark ventured, “Hit might be Old Bloody Tom, come for a coal o’ fire.”

  I mouthed words in their ears. “I’d vow he’s not a Crownover. His feet hain’t big enough.”

  “We’re obliged,” Mother said when the stranger descended. She wore a dress now, though she was still abashed.

  The man bowed his arms, tipped the pipe, discounting. “A high perch I’ve needed to search about. A horse o’ mine broke stable last night. I’m looking for him.”

  Lark raised on his toes, straining to tell of our mare. Mother hushed him with a glance.

  “Animals are apt to go traipsing with another nigh,” the man continued, eying the barn, “but they usually come home by feeding time. Like as not, they’ll bring in a furrin critter, and it’s a puzzle to whom they’re belongin. I allus said, men and beast air cut from the same ham.” He bent his knees to glance under the house, and grunted knowingly. He shuffled to go. “Yonder atop the roof I beheld you’ve got a sight o’ grubbing to do. Hit’d take Methuselum’s begats to ready that ground for seed.” He started off, speaking over his shoulder, “If you had fittin neighbors, they’d not fail to help.” He went downhill and upcreek, and we watched him out of sight.

  We set a steady lookout for Father. As the hours crept into afternoon Mother complained, her voice at the rag edge of patience, “Your father ought to come while daylight’s burning.”

  But Father arrived when the bull-bats were flying and night darkened the hollows, and he came alone and empty-handed. No windowframes he brought. I recollect he smiled on seeing our glum faces in the light of the great fire Mother had built. Even baby sulled a mite.

  “What bush did you get them pouts off of?” he asked.

  Mother lifted her hands in defeat. “I’m a-mind we’ll have to endure the camps a spell longer.”

  “Hark!” Father exclaimed. How strangely he looked at Mother, at us all. The mulligrubs were writ deep upon our faces.

  “The mare stolen, no chance for a crop. Oh the sorriest of folks we’ve moved nigh.”

  “Hark-o!”

  “Them Crownovers hain’t fittin neighbors,” Fern scoffed. “A man come a-saying it.”

  I spoke with scorn, “They’ve got rhymy chaps. Their names sound like an old raincrow hollering ‘cu cu cu, cucucu.’ ”

  “A man come a-saying—”

  “Even if the garden and crop were planted,” Mother despaired, “there’d be no place earthy to store winter food.”

  Father grinned. “Why, we’ve got a cellar dug by the Man Above. Old Izard Crownover says it’s yonder in that brushy draw—a cave hole in solid limerock that’ll keep stuff till Glory. Now he ought to know.”

  Our mouths fell open. We could scarcely believe.

  “Ah, ho,” Father chortled, swinging the baby onto his shoulder. “They’s another thing we’ve got for sartin, and that’s a name for this little tadwhacker. He’s to be named for a feller proud as ever walked. I’m going to call him Zard, after Old Izard.”

  “A man come a-saying—”

  “Old Izard himself,” Father said. “Why, them Crownovers are so proud they dreaded telling us o’ using our cave for a cellar. They called hit trespassing. Walked their stuff out in the black o’ night.”

  “The mare might o’ broke the latch,” Mother admitted, “but her tracks went straight as a measure.”

  “Come morning,” Father chuckled, “you kin look up Shoal Creek, and there’ll be the mare and Crownover’s stally hauling windowframes in a wagon. And there’ll be Old Izard and his woman and all his rhymers a-walking, coming to help grub, plow, and seed. Such an ant bed o’ folks you’ll swear hit’s Coxey’s Army.”

  Father halted, remembering what Izard had told him. He eyed Mother and began to laugh. Laughter boiled inside of him. He could barely make words, so balled his tongue was. “From now on,” he gulped, “thar’s one thing for shore.” He threshed the air, his face fiery with joy. “I’m the one wearing the breeches.” He struggled for breath. He choked.

  Mother struck the flat of her hands against his back. “The nature of a man is a quare thing,” she said.

  The Stir-Off

  “Come Friday for the sorghum making,” Jimp Buckheart sent word to me by Father. “Come to the stir-off party, and take a night.”

  Father chuckled as he told, knowing I had never stayed away from home. Father said, “Hit’s time you larnt other folks’ ways. Now, Old Gid Buckheart’s family lives fat as horse traders. He’s got five boys, tough as whang leather, though nary a one’s a match to Gid himself; and he’s the pappy o’ four girls who’re picture-pieces.” He teased as he whittled a molassy spoon for me. “Mind you’re not captured by one o’ Gid’s daughters. They’re all pretty, short or tall, every rung o’ the ladder.” He teased enough to rag his tongue. I grunted scornfully, but I was tickled to go. I’d heard Jimp had a flying-jinny and kept a ferret.

  Jimp met me before noon at their land boundary. Since last I’d seen him he had grown; and he jerked his knees walking and cocked his head bird-wise, imping his father. He was Old Gid Buckheart over again. He didn’t stand stranger. “Kin you keep secrets?” he asked. “Hold things and not let out?” I nodded. Jimp said, “My pap’s going to die death hearing Plumey’s marrying Rant Branders tonight at the stir-off. Pap’ll never give up to her picking such a weaky-looking feller.” His face brightened with pride. “I’m the only one knows. Rant aims to hammer me a pair o’ brass knuckles if I play hushmouth, a pair my size. He swore to it.”

  “Hit’s not honest to fight with knucks unless a feller’s bigger’n you,” I said.

  “I’m laying for my brother Bailus,” Jimp explained. “He’s older’n me, and allus tricking, and trying to borrow or steal my ferret. I’d give my beastie to git him ducked in the sorghum hole.”

  “I long to see your ferret,” I said. “I’m bound to ride the fly-jinny.”

  “Bailus wants to sic my ferret into rabbit nests,” Jimp complained. “Hit’s a ferret’s nature to skin alive. Ere I’d let Bailus borrow, I’d crack its neck. Ruther to see it dead.”

  We walked a spell. Roosters crowed midday. We topped a knob and afar in a hollow stood the Buckhearts’ great log house, and beyond under gilly trees was the sorghum gin.

  Jimp pointed. “Peep Eye’s minding hornets off the juice barrel, and I reckon everybody else’s eating. We’ve made two runs o’ sirup already, dipped enough green skims to nigh fill the sorghum hole, and cane’s milled for the
last.”

  Hounds raced to meet us. We halted a moment by the beegums. On bowed heads of sunflowers redbirds were cracking seeds. Jimp gazed curiously at me, cocking his chin. “You and me’s never fit,” he said. “Fellers don’t make good buddies till they prove which can out-do.”

  We waded the hounds to the kitchen, spying through the door. Jimp’s father and brothers were eating and his mother and three of his sisters passed serving dishes; and in the company chair sat Squire Letcher, making balls of his bread, and cutting eyes at the girls. Jimp told me their names. The squire I knew already; I knew he was the Law, and a widow-man. “Hardhead at the end o’ the bench is Bailus,” Jimp said. “Plumey’s standing behind Pap—the one’s got a beauty spot.” Plumey was fairest of the three girls, fair as a queeny blossom. Her cheek bore a mole speck, like a spider with tucked legs; and a born mole it was, not one stuck on for pretty’s sake. Jimp told me all of the names, then said, “I wonder what that law-square’s a-doing here?”

  We clumped inside. Old Gid spoke a loud howdy-do, asking after my folks, and Mrs. Buckheart tipped the cowlick on my head. A chair was drawn for me, and victuals brought to heap my plate. Bailus leaned to block Jimp’s way to his seat on the bench, so Jimp had to crawl under the table. He stuck his head up, mad-faced, gritting his teeth. “Ho, Big Ears,” Bailus said. The older brothers sat with eyes cold upon Squire Letcher. The squire was a magistrate and bound to put a damper on the stir-off party.

  Gid pushed back his chair and spiked his elbows, watching the foxy glances of Squire Letcher. “We’re old-timey people,” he told the squire, his words querulous. “We may live rough, but we’re lacking nothing. For them with muscle and backbone, Troublesome Creek country is the land o’ plenty.” He swept an arm toward gourds of lard, strings of lazy-wife beans, and shelves of preserves; he snapped his fingers at cushaws hanging by vine tails. “We raise our own living, and once the house and barns are full we make friends with the earth. We swear not to hit it another lick till spring.”