The Hills Remember

by James Still

  “That’s Razor all over,” Elvy had said.

  Father’s teasing had done no good. As we sat at supper that late afternoon, listening to Elvy sob behind the stove, Morg began to stare into his plate and would eat no more. He believed Elvy. Tears hung on his chin.

  Father’s face tightened, half in anger, half in dismay. He lifted his hands in defeat. “Hell’s bangers!” he blurted. Morg’s tears fell thicker. I spoke small into his ear, “Act it’s not so,” but Morg could never make-like.

  Father suddenly thrust back his chair. “Hurry and get ready,” he ordered, “the whole push of you. We’re going to Biggety Creek.” His voice was dry as a stick.

  Elvy’s sobbing hushed. Morg blinked. The room became so quiet I could hear flames eating wood in the firebox. Father arose and made long-legged strides toward the barn to harness the mules.

  We mounted the wagon, Father and Mother to the spring seat, Elvy settling between; I stood with Morg behind the seat. Dusk was creeping out of the hollows. Chickens walked toward the gilly trees, flew to their roosts, sleepy and quarrelsome. Father gathered the reins and angled the whip to start the mules. “Now, which way?” he asked Elvy. She pointed ahead and we rode off.

  The light faded. Night came. The shapes of trees and fences were lost and there were only the wise eyes of the mules to pick the road when the ground had melted and the sky was gone. Elvy nodded fitfully, trying to keep awake. We traveled six miles before Father turned back.

  The Sharp Tack

  Standing Rock, Kentucky

  March 2, 1946

  Mr. Talt Evarts

  Wiley, Ky.

  Dear Mr. Evarts:

  I wouldn’t know you from Adam’s off-ox, and I’m not the pattern of a man to butt into the affairs of others. Say I, Let every man-jack attend to his own affairs and stay out of the shade of the next fellow. What’s not a body’s business, play deaf and dumb to it. But lately strange tales have been drifting from Wiley Town, lies strong enough to melt the wax in a body’s ears. They concern the Man Above, and what concerns Him concerns me. As his disciple, whoever steps on His toes mashes mine.

  For half of a lifetime I’ve preached amongst the hills and hollows of Baldridge County. I’ve served more folks than you have reckoning of. Married them, buried them, and tried to save their souls betwixt and between. There isn’t a church-house or oak bower in Baldridge County in which I haven’t trod the pulpit and preached the Book. It’s my burden on earth to be watchdog to the sheep, unfrocker of the world wearing the lamb’s clothing, scourger of the wicked. Well, sir, I’m writing to you on your behalf. I take my pen in hand to say that you are within singeing distance of hellfire and eternal damnation.

  Our soldier boys have come home telling a mixture of things. Most handle only the truth and if wonders they viewed grow a mite big in their mouths I lay it to high spirits. Didn’t they fit the good fight across the waters, risk their necks to slay the heathen? Didn’t they send money home? To their reports I’m all ears. I grunt and I say “Oh!” and “Ah!” A grandson of mine climbed a tower in Italy called Pisa, and to hear him tell it, it was out of whanker, leaning on air, against nature and the plan of the Almighty. Plumb si-goggling! An anticky falsehood, I figure. Trying to see how big he could blow the pig’s bladder before it busts. But your tale—yours is humbug of a different character. I’ve had it direct you’ve returned bearing a mortal untruth. And some are believing it. To learn of it jarred my heart.

  People inform me you are claiming to have been to the Holy Land. They say you’ve brought a cedar sprout from Lebanon where King Solomon cut his temple timber and aim to plant it in Baldridge County soil. Upon my word and deed and honor! This cross-grains my fifty-one years of ministry in His Name. It sets to naught my long and weary labors.

  Now, listen, mister boy. I’m a Bible worm. I’ve read it lid to lid. I testify only the dead and the saved ever journey to that Country—those risen from the grave, and that’s not to be until Resurrection Day. The Holy Land is yonder in the sky and there’s no road to it save by death and salvation. The fashion you spout lies, any minute I expect to hear of you passing through Jericho on an ass visiting Zion. As for the cedar bush, where you hooked it is not where you claim. Our hills and hollows have as much need for it as a boar has for tits. Jump on it. Tramp it into the ground.

  I have a sermon which fits you like bark fits a tree. But it would use up a horn of ink to pen it. Besides, writing it I’d have to leave off the singing. My text would be on sharp tacks who twist Scripture to confound people and abet the Serpent. For one particular, they declare the world is round as a mushmelon, while the Book says plainly it has four corners. They start new congregations to peddle their corkscrew religion. They can quote you chapter and verse, aye-o, but they bear no fruit. They preach, and Old Horny reaps the benefit. I say, There’s just one sect—the True Church. The rest are insects.

  My advice to you is to hush your wild talk and line up behind common sense. You’re riding a horse with the blind staggers. Saddle a fresh mount, say I. If you’re bound to foam at the mouth, tell of seeing twenty-foot snakes as a soldier boy hereabouts vows he saw in Africa. Or of a people with lips the size of saucers. Or of a tombstone in the land of Egypt covering thirteen acres. Tall stories of that sort are evil, yet not fatal to the soul. Hark my counsel, or you’re going as straight to hell as a martin to its gourd. And hell is not a haystack.

  Jerb Powell

  Standing Rock

  March Eleventh

  Talt Evarts

  Wiley, Ky.

  Let you open your mouth and out jumps a toad-frog. What further demon-gotten claims are to leap forth? The news comes you are now showing a chunk of marble you say was dug from King Solomon’s quarry under the city of Jerusalem. Dug where Old Sol got his building rock for the Temple’s foundations. Great balls of thunder! Can’t you learn to separate heaven from earth?

  Why didn’t you follow the pattern of other soldier boys and bring home fighting knives and German guns and Jape swords? There are enough brought-on weapons in and about Standing Rock to wage a battle. Aye gonnies, the Silver War might of come out different did our side have them then. You should have latched on to honest relics. Cephus Harbin’s Rufus had a chip off the rock of Gibraltar. A couple more wars and Gibraltar won’t be of a size to strike a match on. My grandnephew sports a watch charm made from a toe he knocked off of a statue in France. Yet you couldn’t be satisfied unless you fetched something fiendish. Hasn’t a bloody war contented your mind? What else will it take to satisfy your lust for chicanery?

  Your falsehoods are spreading like the Spanish grippe and some dumb-heads are believing them. It appears you could paint goose manure and sell it for gold. You’ve already caused me two run-ins. Our plug of a postmaster said I ought to crawl out of my terrapin shell and join the universe. Said I hadn’t done my “home work”—whatever that means. I fixed the jasper. Told him did he swap brains with a jaybird it would fly backward. And I’ve tilted with our ignorant schoolteacher. He’s a round-earth believer. Oh they’re scratching under rocks to find schoolmasters nowadays.

  The teacher started it. Said, “Reckon you’ve heard about the soldier boy from Wiley visiting the Holy Land.” Says I, “I’ve heard the world is the shape of a crab apple, but that’s not speaking I’m believing it. It’s contrary to the Teachings. If I swallow that I’ll have to agree water runs uphill and Chinamen walk with their heads hanging.” He insisted, “The boy was on the very spot. No two ways talking.” Spake I, “A host of the righteous will rise from the grave on Judgment Day and fly there. None now treading the earth has passed through the gates of pearl and retuned to tattle about it.” You ought to of seen his countenance when I wised him up. His jaws sagged like a gate.

  In olden time Noah sent a bird flying the waters. He sent a dove on particular business. But hey! Who sent you? Old Scratch? Lucifer incarnate? Old Gouge? The Book speaks of the behemoth. Why didn’t you snatch a behemoth whisker? And I ask
, Has any other traveler matched your claim of visiting Up Yonder? Now, no. A thousand counts no.

  I’m not scorning the miracles of the age. Some truths are evident, known without witnessing. Joab Gipson’s eldest son flew over Germany and dropped bombs down the throats of the enemy. Roan Thomas’s son bore no gun in the fray. He fit with balls of fire spouted from a nozzle. Dial Roberts was an underwater sailor, traveled the bowels of the seas in a vessel. I fling my hat to the boys who punished the followers of the crooked cross.

  Harken. Cease your blasphemy. Quit baaing on the order of a broken-mouth ram. Destroy the cedar sprout as you would a copperhead snake. And hey! A chunk of marble makes the best sort of hone to sharpen razors.

  Jerb Powell

  March Twenty-First

  Talt Evarts:

  A dunce I was to even mention a behemoth. I hear you are declaring them hippopotamuses, critters that live somewhere on this earth. Hell’s bangers! Are you in cahoots with Beelzebub? Aye, your tongue is a viper which continues to wiggle even after its head is cut off. I’m here to announce you are shoving yourself into a picklement. When you die, my opinion, there won’t be a preacher worthy of the name willing to hold a service over your carcass.

  A thought keeps itching my mind. While you were soldiering how did you manage to traipse all over the map. Why weren’t you busy pumping bullets into the gizzards of the adversary? Throughout the war I had my ear glued to the news. As I recollect, no armies shot lead mines at each other in a country called Holy Land. Wheresoever it was you journeyed, did you sneak away to it from the battle? Upon my honor, I believe you white-eyed.

  I’m a preacher, bear in head. The promise of Hereafter is a rapture to my heart, reckless tidings such as you bear a pain and a sorrow. Had I half a suspicion you had been to the real On High, a yoke of oxen couldn’t of held me here at Standing Rock. To Wiley Town I would have hied. On hands and knees if necessary. Crawled if no other way. A peck of questions I would of asked: How wide the streets of gold? How sounded the trumpets of Tomorrow? How fared the blessed where ten thousand years is but a day? Being in my right mind, I stayed at home. Naturally. I wasn’t born yesterday.

  Talt Evarts, I’ve strove earnestly with you. I’ve written you letters you never answered, licked stamps and wasted paper trying to purge your stony heart. To no profit. You’re buckled to the Devil. I’ve cut out toe-holds for you on the down-road, still you insist on sliding toward perdition. The time is short. My patience has worn thin as a dime. I won’t struggle with you eternally.

  Jerb Powell

  April Second

  Mr. Talt Evarts:

  I would have bet my thumbs I’d not again black paper in your behalf. I had capped the ink bottle. But I’ve met with something which puts a different cast on matters. It came out of another argument with the Standing Rock teacher. I learnt a speck. I’ll admit it. Aye, I aim to keep learning till my toes turn up. The teacher stayed mired in his own folly while I began to spy a ray of daylight. The teacher—you might know him. I won’t handle his name. I wouldn’t want to dirty my tongue.

  Well, sir, this jasper pulls a geography on me. He opened her up to a map where a dot stood for Jerusalem, a dot for Tiberius, a patch for the Dead Sea, a streak for the river Jordan. Printed up plain as my nose. For the split of a second I was stumped. What were these precious names doing in a book taught scholars at the tender age? Had the sharp tacks been at work? Then wisdom struck. It knocked me like the bolt which hit Paul on the Damascus Road. The whole thing came as clear as a baby’s eye. I said, “Anybody two inches wide between the ears ought to be able to figure how these names got into a geography. I still say the soldier is bad wrong. To this I stick.” More I wouldn’t argue. I left the teacher with his eyebrows crawling.

  So I’m back to declare there may be hope for you yet. You can plead ignorance. Ignorance pure and simple. The Creator is not stingy with His mercy. Witties are granted compassion, lackers of knowledge given a season to catch up. Is it your fault you missed the wagon? I count it my obligation to set you aright.

  Jerb Powell

  April Thirteenth

  Dear Talt Evarts:

  I’m in the worse calamity ever was. The Standing Rock schoolteacher and his bunch are low-rating me amongst the people. They’ve started a mud ball rolling. They say I vilified you when I pronounced your trip to the Holy Land a snare and a delusion. They howl I’m blaming you for keeping your eyes wide while serving your country. Our transgressor of a postmaster badmouthed me with, “All he knows is a chew tobacco.”

  A sorry come-off for a man to have dirt slung on his name after a life of snatching souls from the Devil’s paws. I’ve strayed seldom from the straight and narrow. I married one woman and clung to her. I never sold my vote. No man has ever been skinned by me, except in a horse trade, and that doesn’t count. Aye, the jaspers deserve to swallow their tongues and gag to death.

  Pick your ears. Mark me well. I’m not claiming now you didn’t go to a country bearing the name “Holy Land.” I’m a fellow with brains enough to turn around when I’ve learnt I’m heading a wrong direction. What lodges in my craw is the mixing of Up Yonder with a place in this world. I’m willing to allow you visited a town called Jerusalem. I hold it was labeled after the city On High—like Bethlehem, Nebo and Gethsemane here in Kentucky. The Holy Land on earth is the namesake of the Country Above. That you didn’t actually go to Glory Land was what I was trying to drive into skulls.

  To show I’m of a notion to forgive you, I’ll say I hope the cedar lives. Shovel barnyard dirt to it. That will make it walk. It promises to become the hurrah of the mountains, a living sermon, a foretaste of eternal life. I wish I had a sprig of it as a token.

  I’ve been spying into your army record. You were a brave soldier by all my hears. You held your ground square in the whiskers of the foe.

  Respectfully,

  Jerb Powell

  April Seventeenth

  Dear Brother Evarts:

  The cedar sprig you mailed reached me as green as the olive branch Noah’s dove fetched to the ark. I dangled it before the schoolteacher and he threw up his hands and said, “I’ve hushed.” And our postmaster allowed, “If the soldier can overlook your views, I reckon I can.” Yes, sir, it takes a while to hammer straight warped minds. I’ll hang the sprig over the door where it will feast my eye.

  The next occasion I’m over to Wiley Town I’ll stop by and shake your hand. I’ve heard you brought a gill of water from the river called Jordan. Not the real Jordan, of course. A river named after it. I aim to beg a drop or two. And I have a host of questions to ask. A country named for the heavenly one ought to be a pattern for folks living everywhere.

  Eternally,

  Jerb Powell

  Maybird Upshaw

  To the day I perish I will recollect Maybird Upshaw being hauled into my yard on Shepherds Creek in a wagon. She was my wife’s kin, widowed by her second husband’s death at the mines; she was the largest woman ever I set eyes upon.

  The threshold creaked as Maybird pushed into the house. She sat on a trunk as we had no chair of a size to hold her. She dwarfed my wife and made a mouse of the baby. I recollect she sighed, “I’ve come to visit awhile,” and breathed deep with satisfaction. “I aim to rest me a spell.”

  “You’re welcome if you can live hardscrabble,” said Trulla, fastening cold eyes on me, eyes blue as gun-metal. I knew she was thinking Maybird might be on our hands for life.

  “We have only old-fashioned comforts,” I spoke, brushing a hand behind my ears, for I stood in mortal need of a haircut. My eyes roved the log walls, coming to rest on Maybird, her large fair head with tresses rich as fire, the drapes of flesh hanging from her arms, knees dimpled as the baby’s cheeks. I tried to figure her weight. She was as big as a salt barrel. She had the world beat.

  A smile caught Maybird’s face. “I’m not picky,” she declared, “and anywhere’s better than a coal camp.” She made a book of her hands. “I’ll stop of
f here awhile, then be moving on. I don’t intend to burden.”

  “You’ll miss the camps,” I reminded, feeling Trulla’s stare boring my skull. “Credit at the commissary when you’re of a notion to buy, green money on payday, picture shows and circuses. They say when you’ve breathed gob smoke you’re ruined for country air. And Shepherds Creek is as lorn a place as a body can discover.”

  “I’m not of a mind to stay long in any single spot,” Maybird said. “I can’t live content in a valley for wondering what’s yonder side of the mountain. Ah, I’ve lived in a lot of camps—Blue Cannel, Hardblock, Alicecoal, Oxeye. And if I had my rathers, I’d not stick my feet more than once under any table. During the days of my life I aim to see the whole of creation.”

  “A widow-woman would starve,” Trulla argued, “traveling here and yon.”

  Maybird’s face lit. Gold freckles shone on her nose. “My mother taught me to make wax blossoms when a child, window bouquets, mantel dressing and funeral wreaths. Why, I’ll earn my way selling false flowers. The Turks-cap lilies and roses I pattern would fool butterflies. One sight of a blossom and I can shape a match to it.”

  “I’ve never yearned to travel,” Trulla said, snatching up the baby and jouncing it nervously. “My longing is for a house with high ceilings and tall windows. But here stands the log pen of a homeseat I married. I’m tied to a man who is satisfied to live the same as his grandsire.”

  I let pass Trulla’s complaint, being proud of the old-timey log dwelling which had been in the family more than a hundred years; I kept feasting my eyes on Maybird, and rousing courage to ask her weight.

  “It’s not my notion to settle down,” Maybird went on. “I weary of viewing the same things over and over. Soon I’ll be wandering along.”