Sister and Shaker walked fifteen couple of hounds, thirty hounds single, on foot. Hunting hounds are counted in couples, a practice dating back to ancient Egypt. Sometimes after a rousing hunt, huntsman and master would walk out those hounds that had not hunted the day before, as well as a few who had. Mostly, the hunted hounds relaxed while the others enjoyed some exercise.
Pookah and Pansy had hunted, but their youth invited a bit more instruction from their trainers. Hounds being pack animals, as are humans, need to learn to work together. Veteran hounds, Dragon, Diana, and Diddy also walked out to give the youngsters some ballast.
It was 31°F under clear skies at nine in the morning on February 8 as they headed for Hangman’s Ridge.
Sister liked long walks. She felt they worked out the kinks. Also, walking didn’t pound her feet as did running, although she and Shaker would trot with the pack in bursts. Fearing old age was not in her nature, fearing laziness was.
Dragon led, Diddy’s nose on his flanks.
“If I’d been out yesterday, we would have brought down that coyote,” said Dragon.
“Right.” Diddy agreed, although she didn’t believe him.
“He could run,” Pansy exclaimed. They hadn’t been there, how could they be so confident?
“I’m faster than any ugly coyote.” Dragon puffed out his chest.
Raleigh chortled. “Dragon, you’re a conceited ass. I’m faster than you are.”
The house dogs accompanied the pack walks, serving as canine whippers-in. Hounds knew the Doberman and harrier would enforce the huntsman’s commands.
“If I didn’t have to walk with everyone, I’d take you down,” the well-built American hound threatened. Dragon followed that with a low growl.
“You and what army?” Raleigh laughed, as did Rooster on the other side of the pack.
“Shut up, you miniature foxhound,” Dragon snarled at Rooster.
Medium-sized, Rooster did appear to be a smaller version of the foxhound, but then most scent hounds bore some resemblance to one another, even a beagle, an especially engaging animal.
“That’s enough.” Shaker quietly reprimanded Dragon, who shut up.
The hounds behind Dragon wished the huntsman would have smacked the braggart hound with the butt of his crop, but Shaker rarely struck a hound, and he wouldn’t do so for chatter. Dragon would push in front of other hounds, most of whom ignored him. Sooner or later a young, strong male would gain enough confidence to challenge him. The fight would no doubt be ugly.
The slippery and steep climb to the top of Hangman’s Ridge had everyone puffing. Minks, on their hind legs to observe the humans and hounds, scurried into their dens.
“All these minks. Years ago there wasn’t a one,” Shaker noted.
“There were always a lot at Pattypan Forge,” Sister recalled. “Small though they are, they can be ferocious. They’re weasels.”
“Apart from dinosaurs, I reckon we have just about everything in our territory.”
“Give it a few years. The elk released in the reclaimed mining lands in southwest Virginia will be here, too.” Sister swept her eyes over the long flat ridge, the hangman’s tree moaning in the breeze. Up here, there was always a slight wind, even on a calm day.
“Repent,” a ghost whispered, but only the hounds and dogs could hear.
“Don’t they know there are spirits up here?” Twist shivered.
“I think they can feel them,” Rooster answered the youngster. “They deny it.”
The tricolor, Twist, was surprised. “Why?”
“Quirk of the species.” The harrier stuck with the humans, covering the large expanse of ground.
“Coyote tracks,” Shaker called out. “Fresh. Not from yesterday.”
Sister walked over and took a look. “Very fresh.” She put her gloved hands on her hips. “The coyotes are using this as a crossover. Pop over Hangman’s Ridge and hit up Foxglove or us. At least they can’t get into the feeder boxes. We’ve got plenty of fox tracks by the feeder boxes, which is a good thing.”
“No, but they can stick their paw in and pull out food.” Shaker pulled his scarf tighter around his neck. “It’s always colder up here. I’ve read too many horror books. Spirits. Makes it colder.”
“Well, who knows what’s in this world that we can’t see?” asked Sister. “But we sure can see coyote tracks. Shaker, if there’s one, there’s a family and probably a couple of families.”
“Yep.” He took a deep breath. “The air’s good though, isn’t it?”
“ ’Tis.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if the coyote found Carter Weems first. Didn’t Gray say there wasn’t much left of the doe?”
“Meat gone. Then the carcass collapsed. But if the coyotes ate the deer, you’d think they would have pulled out the second corpse.”
“I don’t know.” Shaker headed toward the path down. “It’s funny. You don’t think about stuff like that. Something happens and I try to come up with answers based on what I know. As to why he was killed, I’m not going to figure that out.”
Moving to the other side of the pack, Sister stated, “Doubt I will either. You know, Shaker, I have this feeling more’s to come or something. I don’t know why. It’s probably this place giving me the willies. God knows, there are, what, eighteen unquiet souls up here?”
“You really believe in ghosts?” he asked.
She thought about this, then said, “Of course, no one can prove an afterlife, but throughout history so many inexplicable events have happened. What about the apparition of Joan of Arc to the French soldiers in the trenches of World War One? Thousands saw her and described her the same. Was that her spirit? Was it some mass delusion? Sometimes when I come up here to check for tracks or to see if there’s a new fox den, I could swear I hear whispers from that tree. I’m just suggestible, perhaps.”
“I don’t want to hear them,” said Shaker.
“Who does?” Raleigh sensibly said.
Shaker, unusual for him, murmured to Sister. “Are you afraid to die?”
Without hesitation, she replied, “No. I’m more afraid of not living, I mean really living: full gallop, devil take the hindmost.”
He laughed. “You have nothing to fear.”
“Want to hear something really silly?” She patted the left side of her chest. “I stick that cigarette case from World War One over my heart when I can. Makes me feel good.”
He brightened. “Well, if you believe in spirits, then each man who signed that old cigarette case and the officer to whom it was presented, they’re all watching over you.”
Back at the kennels, each hound eagerly received a treat as his or her name was called, then the happy animal walked into its particular run.
Raleigh and Rooster needed a treat, too. After all, they whipped-in.
Raleigh dropped his treat upon hearing a vehicle. “Stranger.”
Rooster considered stealing it, but then thought, “Perhaps not.”
Hearing the vehicle later than the dogs, Sister glanced out the kennel office window. “Shaker, Tariq Al McMillan is here.”
He looked up from checking Thimble’s paw. “Did he drive up to the house?”
“Did. Let me get on up there. All’s well here.”
It was in the kennel, it wasn’t at the house.
Sister trotted up there as Tariq turned back to his car after knocking on the door, Golly bitching and moaning inside about the noise.
“Tariq! Hold up,” she called to him as though he were a hound.
“Sister.” He smiled. “Forgive me for coming here unannounced.”
She opened the back door and took his coat, hanging it up on a peg as well as her own. “Please come in. I can offer you all manner of libation.”
The dogs checked him out as he gingerly stepped inside while Golly turned her back on the kitchen counter. Her morning beauty rest had been disturbed.
“I don’t want to put you to trouble and I should have called or emailed,” said Tariq.
“Sit down. You look a little peaked.”
“Beg pardon?”
She motioned to a chair. “You look a bit pale. Peaked. How about if I make you some coffee, tea? It’s early in the morning, but I can rope coffee with the best of them.”
Tariq again looked puzzled. “Rope coffee?”
“An old Southern expression for when people lace their morning coffee with whiskey, bourbon, or scotch. God knows, you can’t use gin or vodka for that.”
“People really do that?” He sat down, amazed.
“Every day. I don’t, but I rarely drink. I actually like the taste, but I never saw that it did me or anyone else much good.” She paused. “How stupid of me. Tariq, if you’re Muslim, please forgive me.”
He smiled at her. “I’m not. I’m Coptic Christian.”
She put up the pot of water for tea, placed bone china before him, and quietly remarked, “Egypt can hold an election each year. It can bounce between the Muslim Brotherhood and the former regime, but you’ll always lose, right?”
He appreciated her insight. “To a greater or lesser degree. It’s not easy being a Christian in Egypt.”
She put out various sugars and honeys. “It’s not easy being a Christian here either, but for vastly different reasons. Have you ever considered what a difficult religion it is to practice?”
He nodded. “That I have.”
“What can I do for you?” She sat down, waiting for the water to boil.
“I suppose you read about the attack on me by Congressman Dave Rickman, where he accuses me of being a member of the Muslim Brotherhood, stating he will protect America from the likes of me.”
“I did,” said Sister, concerned. “There’s no trouble at Custis Hall, is there?”
“No, though I must go up to the embassy in Washington.”
She rose to pour the tea. “Why?”
“Well, for one I’ll need their help if Rickman keeps this up. He’s made more recent statements about municipalities refusing to allow permits for mosques.”
“It appears he has found his issue.”
“Yes.” Tariq gratefully accepted the tea. She put out cookies, too.
“It’s a cheap shot,” Sister forthrightly declared as she sat down.
“I still must present myself at the embassy because I have been personally named. I received a call yesterday from our vice-ambassador. My father knows I have a good relationship with the embassy and the New York consulate. I hope they will help me.”
“Is there a possibility they won’t?”
“Yes.”
“But why?”
“I am a citizen of Egypt. I’m here on a work permit. The government doesn’t wish any embarrassment. There are enough”—he paused—“sensitive areas with your government.”
“I see. You could be recalled?”
“I don’t work for Egypt’s government. They can’t recall me, but your government can cancel my work permit and deport me. The reason I have come to see you is that I have been promised help. Help that, uh, insults you.”
At this, Sister’s eyes opened wide. “What do I have to do with the Muslim Brotherhood?”
He smiled at that response for a moment. “Crawford Howard buys up elected officials like, what do you call them, ah, jelly beans?”
Sister was getting the picture. “Yes, he does. He is a shrewd man and he pulls many strings.”
“I sought his help. He knows Congressman Rickman and he promised to neutralize him—I don’t know if that’s the right word, but he promised to get him off my back. In exchange for which, I must hunt with him and not you.”
“You have no choice.” She instantly replied, knowing she had said the same thing to the DuCharmes.
“I am deeply embarrassed.”
“Don’t give it a second thought. Your Middle Eastern studies course at Custis Hall is so important. Young people—well, old people, too—need to learn about this misunderstood part of the world. All we ever hear are the bad things.”
“There are many bad things and many good people. One of the reasons I came to America was to learn about religious tolerance.”
She exhaled through her nose. “This may not be the ideal time to learn it here.”
“It is so much better than in my country or other places. I love history, I study it all the time. Whenever a person or a group comes to power with the idea of cleansing the human race, not only is there failure and bloodshed, there is long-term economic suffering.”
“More unrest.”
“And bloodshed. I suppose bloodshed can be justified if it ultimately brings stability and a modicum of freedom. I’m thinking about the two world wars. We aren’t short of examples.”
“No. But then I think of the Inquisition.”
He nodded. “We can justify anything, but I’m not sure that the Inquisition brought long-term economic damage. Now, Edward the First running the Jews out of England? Long-term damage.”
“You do read your history.” She noticed a soft pack of cigarettes in his shirt pocket. “I didn’t know you smoked.”
“I don’t at school. The girls are ferocious about not smoking, but I’ll smoke off campus. Most Egyptian men smoke. It’s considered effeminate not to do so.”
“Used to be that way here until the twenties when women smoked as a badge of liberation.”
“Odd.” He leaned back in the chair, glad to be able to speak with her. “It’s somewhat the same in my country. It’s considered improper for a woman to smoke, especially if she’s from the lower classes. But educated women, rich women, they do it. Perhaps not in public, but they do it and it is considered daring, rebellious.”
“Maybe because it’s easy to take out a little stick and light it up as a form of protest. I suppose it is a badge of bravery despite the harm it ultimately does.” She finished her tea. “More?”
“Oh, no thank you. I am grateful for your understanding and I don’t look forward to hunting with Crawford. I think only his wife, Sam’s brother, and possibly one or two other people do so.”
“Yes. He’s a generous man, but a weak one. No matter how smart he is, how rich, he’s weak. He wastes a lot of time and money propping up his ego and it’s a full-time job for his wife. However, if he promised to, Crawford will put the screws to Congressman Rickman. He’ll enjoy that.”
Tariq changed the subject. “I did not expect you to be a student of tobacco.”
“Virginia, it’s a tobacco state. But when I found that gentleman, Adolfo Galdos, murdered in New York City, the tobacco shop owner, I became intrigued. Since then, there have been more murders.”
“Yes, I read about that.”
“And each murder occurred in an area where cigarettes are highly taxed. As you know, Illinois raised its tax another dollar—and that’s where the last murder took place. I have to believe there is a connection.” She threw up her hands. “Not that I can or would do anything about it. Who is going to listen to a Virginia countrywoman?”
“I am.” He smiled. “Thank you again.”
As she walked him into the mudroom where he put on his coat, she asked, “Please don’t take any Custis Hall girls hunting with Crawford.”
“I will not,” he promised. “Also, I don’t think their coach would allow it. You mentioned that Crawford will put the screws to Rickman. He’s also putting them to you.”
She nodded slightly. “He is, but Tariq, never underestimate a foxhunter, a real old-time foxhunter.”
CHAPTER 22
The huge waterwheel at Mill Ruins gently slapped the stream that ran strong in the deep mill race, ice at its edges. As the hounds cast behind the mills, Sister and the field waited by the impressive structure built in the late eighteenth century. Generations of Virginians had driven their wagons to the mill, left their grain behind only to return later. Though no longer in use, the waterwheel still demonstrated to visitors how much could be accomplished without electricity. Hunting here at Mill Ruins had inspired Cindy Chandler t
o build her own much smaller waterwheel.
Filling up the field were Cindy, Gray, Donny Sweigart, Kasmir, his best friend High Vajay, Ronnie, Xavier, the regular hardcore hunters, of course, along with the Saturday folks. Sister counted twenty-three in First Flight. Bobby shepherded a bit more than thirty in his.
The chill settled into their bones as they waited by the water. Walter Lungrun—on Clemson, his most reliable horse—was glad he could help out this Saturday by having the Jefferson Hunt at Mill Ruins. It was to have been at Mousehold Heath. Although established in 1807, Mousehold Heath was a new fixture owned by a nice young couple, the Jardines.
Unfortunately, a sinkhole opened up in the Jardines’ driveway, followed by more caving in. Jim and Lisa frantically called Sister at eight on Friday night. She drove over. She stood on one side of the hole, the Jardines on the other. It was too late in the evening for road work from a paving firm. She called Kasmir on her cell, as he was always repairing, building, doing something handy. By ten that night, Kasmir and a few of his men brought over two dump trucks filled with riprap. Afterward, the Jardines’ drive was still relatively impassible, although Jim could jolt over with his old Land Rover. Kasmir would finish up on Monday, and then the Jardines could call a paver to cover it up, smooth it over.
Lucky for all, Walter stepped in with Mill Ruins. On every Jefferson Hunt fixture card, the club member had been directed to go to Mousehold Heath. A last-minute change meant everyone would need to be notified. The hunt club secretary, Adelaide Merriman, sent emails. However, a few members did not get Adelaide’s emails, so Walter and Sister divided up the names and called to make sure everyone got the message.
Being a master meant one handled events both on and off the field. Most clubs did their best to help landowners, too, and Kasmir actually would have been upset if Sister hadn’t called him to help out the Jardines. This was one of many reasons why Sister loved her people and why she loved being a master. She liked to solve problems.
Next to High, the Bancrofts and Kasmir watched the water spray off the wheel. As the sun hid behind clouds, it looked like diamonds instead of rainbows.
Damn, I hope they hit soon. Sister thought.
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