by Diane Noble
His elbows resting on his knees, his fingers dangling between, he seemed keen for me to continue.
“Poppy says it was his granddaddy Anwar March who came to our land first. He was a smithy in Wales, a seaside village called Aberystwyth. He took a wife from Fairlight—the same we were just talking about—a lass who was orphaned and who’d come to work as a maid in the big house where my great-great-granddaddy lived. She was the first to be called Fairwyn, from Poppy’s recollection.
“Anwar and Fairwyn came to the new world by sailing ship, then moved deep into Virginia, gradually making their way across the mountains to Sycamore Creek. It was here they bore nine babies, all named for places in the old country.” I laughed. “That’s why we are all related, it seems, here in Sycamore Creek. I have more cousins than you can shake a black birch stick at. Poppy can tell you more about such things when he returns from his hunting trip.”
The professor seemed to be puzzling something. “March,” he said after a time. “There is a legend of a warrior in ancient times named Meirchyawn.” When I frowned, he went on, “It has the same meaning as March. Have you ever heard of such a legend?”
Such a string of related family going back through the generations caught my imagination. “Meirchyawn,” I said quietly, pondering the strange word. “I’m sorry, but I haven’t heard it before.”
The professor nodded. “For my book,” he went on, “I’m studying the genealogies connecting the Appalachian people to England, Scotland, and Wales. Legends such as the one about Meirchyawn that have been carried from the old country and how they connect to tales and folk songs here.”
I thought of the books on my shelf, the authors I’d long held in high esteem. I’d already decided that this man was fairer than I’d ever seen, and now I knew his mind was sharper than a scythe at harvest. I met his eyes, imagining the storehouse of knowledge behind them. A flush warmed my cheeks at the nearness of such a one.
“You will be famous for your book someday? Perhaps another Mister Dickens?”
He laughed lightly, shaking his head. “I’m hoping for acclaim, of course. But fame such as Dickens …?” He chuckled again. “I hardly think so.” His face was glowing, and I could see that my admiration pleased him.
He was studying my face when he again spoke. “About your playing …” he said gently, “excuse me for not saying so earlier, but the others are right. Your songs are surely the best example of mountain music in this region.” He paused. “They’re lovely.”
My music was a part of my very soul and had been so since I was a small girl. There was no separating my heart from my dulcimer, my fingers, or even my voice. My cheeks flushed again. Too often this afternoon they had turned crimson. I felt like a schoolgirl.
“Please,” he said, “play something else.”
“ ‘Dabblin’ in the Dew’!” Dearly shouted.
Grinning, I let my fingers dance through the beginnings of “Dabbling in the Dew.” The rhythm flowed from my heart straight to the tapping of my toes.
Oh, where are you going, my pretty little dear,
With the red, rosy cheeks and the coal black hair?
By the time I got to the last of the four verses, Dearly was singing at the top of his lungs. And surprise of all surprises, this sophisticated furriner had picked up the tune and joined in.
What’s a ring on the finger if there’s rings around the eye?
For it’s dabbling in the dew makes the milkmaid fair.
His gaze was bright when we stopped, and I knew it was his mind working that caused his joy over the song. “It’s Elizabethan,” he whispered reverently. “Elizabethan. Imagine such a find.”
“My grandmother taught it to me, and her mother before her …”
He smiled with his eyes of undecided blue. Then he stood abruptly and began to pace the porch, his brow furrowed, each step causing the planks to creak. Dearly looked up at him with a puzzled frown, then back to me and rolled his eyes.
Zebulon Deforest stopped and stroked his smooth face. “Think of it,” he finally whispered, his voice quivering with emotion. “This is a thread that may lead to some monumental discoveries.”
He strode back to the rocker and sat, again bending toward me. “Have you heard of Chaucer?”
I nodded. “The name, yes.”
“Fairwyn, he was born in 1342 in London. A poet like none other—perhaps even greater than Shakespeare who came after him.” He leaned even closer, narrowing his eyes in thought. “You must read The Canterbury Tales. You must.” He seemed to consider me an equal. My heart skipped into a dance. Before I could comment, he hurried on, “It’s truly one of the greatest poetic works in English. I will see that you get a copy.” He went on to tell how our mountain language matched that of Chaucer and that he wanted more time to explore this new find.
By and by he pulled out a chain-watch, an elegant gold disk with flowery engravings, studied its face, and then placed it again in his trouser pocket.
Queer disappointment washed over me at the thought of his leaving. I wanted to speak more about Shakespeare and Chaucer, letting his words fill my mind with new ideas and wisdom from the past. As we stood, Dearly hopped down the steps behind us, but Zebulon met my gaze as if he had nothing else in the world to think about but me.
“I must see you again.” His pale eyes bored into mine, and my heart danced as surely as my feet would the minute he left. “Please tell me I may.”
“Yes, please come again,” I managed.
“Good then.” He smiled, dazzling me again with those strange pale eyes.
“Surely, you can come again tomorrow,” I said when I could breathe.
Just as the mountain shadows were inching toward our house, Poppy strode up the path from the woods. Squirrels hung from both ends of a strap slung across his shoulder. His yellow hunting dogs followed along, nosing the ground. Leaning against the door, I watched him prepare the critters for cleaning on the rough oak tabletop at the far end of the porch. He had barked them, I could see. Shot the tree trunk close to their heads to bring them down without a wound.
While he skinned the squirrels, I told him about Zebulon Deforest. But the more I told, the deeper the lines creased around his mouth.
“A furriner, eh?” Poppy frowned as he slit open the second squirrel’s belly with his hunting knife.
I dropped the first skinned critter into the iron pot hanging over the fire where the wild onion broth was simmering. I came back to the porch just as Poppy pulled the entrails from the second squirrel, tossing them away from the house for the yellow dogs to finish. Then he skinned the animal clean to the muscle.
“Sometimes I can’t help but wonder …” I said mostly to myself as I stared at the lavender hills above the meadow. Just before nightfall they reminded me of a giant, magical flower, its petals fading into the sky. “Sometimes I wonder what life might hold outside Sycamore Creek.” I laughed lightly. “Even for an old maid like me.”
Poppy looked up. “Lass,” he said, “ye canna keer about what canna be. ’Tis a useless chase.”
“The professor says our songs and tales come from ancient legends in the old country. He told tales about books and poets like as I’d never heard.”
“He’s fillin’ yer head with folderol same as Welsie True.” His face darkened at my friend’s name. “Same entirely.” He looked down at the bloody mass of squirrel fur.
“He’s planning to write a book about the connection of our kinfolk to those in the past.” I hesitated, already knowing Poppy’s reaction. “He wants to see me again,” I said finally.
Poppy looked hard at me. “Ye need to stay away from this furriner, lass. He’s already fillin’ yer head with nonsense. Next thing I know ye’ll be hankerin’ to leave.”
“My heart aches for more books,” I said as I went to the fireplace to stir the pot of stew. While moving the big iron spoon in a slow circle, I looked back to where my grandfather stood leaning against the doorjamb. “Sometimes I think I’
d near sell my soul to fill my head with the wonders of this world.”
His face softened to a look of sorrow. “I ken yer hankering, girl. I ken.” He turned to head to the creek to wash up. At the top step, he looked back. “But ye’re mountain borned, and ’Tis here ye’ll stay.”
Blackberry Mountain
August 24, 18 and 82
My dear Welsie True,
Oh, what a joyful thing I have to tell you. A professor came striding across our bald mountain today. My heart danced when I saw him. Truly he was easy on these old-maid eyes, but truer still was the treasure of his mind. Never had I been more grateful for all the books you’ve sent through the years than I was today. Considering that I never once spent a day in a schoolhouse ‘twas a glory to understand the least possible bit of his ponderings. He’s coming back tomorrow. I scarce can wait for his visit!
Whenever I sit down to pen a letter to you, I think how far this scrap of paper will travel. I try to picture the route from all you have told me. I see the mail train traveling across wide fields of tall grass called Great Plains, across the jagged Rocky Mountains, on to salt deserts so flat you can see forever, and finally to where you live in California. Sometimes I dream about your little cottage by the sparkling sea with your flower garden and picket fence. I can almost hear the mission bells in the distance. And it makes me long to come see you.
Today again, I thought of leaving. But Poppy says I will never leave, and I know he’s likely right. Sometimes I think my heart will twist in two at such a thought. I am resigned that I likely will never wed. But oh, how I want to see the world, to truly live! I want to experience life beyond these hills, glorious as they are. Sometimes I think my heart is like unto a stagnant pond—no pure waters bubbling in to renew my life.
I will tell you more about the professor after he visits next.
Until then I remain
Your devoted friend,
Fairwyn March
The next morning, just as the eastern light caused the dew to dance on the laurel leaves, the professor helloed from the top of the trace.
I stood at the doorway, watching as Zebulon Deforest made his way through the meadow grasses, his leather poke bouncing with each step, the silver knob of his walking stick twinkling in the sun. He smiled as his gaze caught hold of mine, and he bounded up the porch stairs. Off came his hat, and he bowed at the waist as if I might be a queen.
“Miss Fairwyn,” he said. My heart caught at the sound of his voice.
“Mister Deforest,” I said with a tone of awe.
“Please call me Zeb,” he said, which pleased me no end. His smile spread wider across his smooth face. “Mind if I sit with you?” He nodded to the rocking chairs at the end of the porch.
“I have some cross-vine tea brewing. Would you like a cup?”
He nodded his approval, his eyes not leaving mine, and settled into the far rocker. The porch boards creaked beneath his weight. I listened to the rhythm of his rocking while I poured two cups of tea, then returned to join him.
Zeb took a long draw, looking satisfied with the taste. He now fixed his gaze over the slope of land at the top of the trace, pondering something in the distance. He turned to me after a time. “I must return home,” he said, “but I would like to come again to Sycamore Creek.”
Pleasure settled into my heart. Without comment I sipped my tea and cast a shy glance at him above the rim of the cup.
“I would like to bring you some books in exchange for your help.” Setting his cup on the nearby porch handrail, he sat back in the chair and studied my face. “Besides Chaucer, what would you say to a few volumes of Shakespeare?”
I didn’t hide my pleasure. “That would be a treat indeed,” I said, a smile spreading wide across my face.
“What I would like, if you wouldn’t mind …” He pulled a notepad from his leather poke. “If you could write as many family tales as you can remember, I would be much obliged.”
Now I couldn’t stop smiling. “ ‘Twould be an honor. Truly.”
“This help … with my book, I mean … is invaluable. Your self-taught education …” He seemed to be having trouble finding the words. “Finding someone like you in these mountains. It’s like finding a rough-cut jewel.”
I blushed at the compliment and tilted my chin downward, peering at him from beneath my lashes, feeling suddenly shy, too stunned to speak.
He laughed, a low pleasant sound. “I’m sorry if I spoke too intimately. What I meant was that you’re not like the others I’ve met here. You’re better read than most of the women I know in Oak Hill.” His eyes were bright with admiration. “With a little push in the right direction …” He let his words fall away.
Embarrassed, I stared at my brogans while I took another sip of tea.
“I’ll be back before long—perhaps before winter,” he was now saying. “I’d like it if you could travel with me into the hollows and coves of this area. I’ll need your help gaining the trust of the people.” I met his gaze again. “After all,” he laughed, “I’m a ‘furriner.’ ”
He swallowed the last of his lukewarm tea, and, with the lift of a brow and a smile of promise, he stood. Too soon, he walked toward the trace, his stride strong and sure, like that of a happy razorback heading to steal from the corncrib.
Two
By harvest Zebulon Deforest indeed returned to Sycamore Creek, but he didn’t come up Blackberry Mountain to my cabin. Most of our mountain folks weren’t as standoffish as they had been before. But there were still some who met him with expressionless faces, rifle-guns at their sides, and refusing to answer even the simplest of questions.
All this Dearly Forbes reported to me with glee. The boy always seemed to be the bearer of news both good and bad, and he told me every detail over a tall glass of goat’s milk and some warm corncakes. I didn’t let on to Dearly, but when I discovered how long the professor had been in our mountains, I was fearful he had changed his mind about bringing me the Chaucer and Shakespeare tomes. Each night as I lay upon my corn-tick, I thought how it would be when he came again across our meadow. My spinster’s heart beat fast at the thought of seeing him coming toward me. I imagined how his eyes would seek out mine, his keen affection clear as our gazes met. I could almost see the sharp sunlight falling slantwise across the grass, turning his hair to gold, his face to bronze. I dared to dream that someday in that shimmering glint of light, his arms would open to draw me into their embrace.
Stronger than all the images I conjured was that look of admiration for my self-taught book learning, for my gift of dulcimer playing and singing, that I’d seen in his eyes.
I waited. And waited. And more often than not I allowed myself my outlandish daydreams, hoping and praying that Zebulon Deforest would soon return.
The morning was bright and rain-fresh when I saw him rise above the trace at last. Pine smoke hovered low to the ground, lacing among the chestnuts, maples, elms, sycamores, willows, beech, and birch trees that formed a half-circle behind the cabin.
I’d just come around the side yard, propping a bushel of corn against my hip as I carried it toward the weathered narrow sled out front. There was to be a corn-shucking party at Selah Jones’s this very night. Poppy and I had been working since dawn picking the late ears and carrying them up the mountain since our field was a ways behind the cabin on a terrace as steep as a cow’s face, and the road was too treacherous for a wagon.
Poppy had just left for Selah’s when I spotted Zebulon. I stopped dead still, my heart soaring on wings as sure as a hawk’s riding the wind into the sky.
At first, he didn’t see me, so intent was he on weaving his way through the rain-puddled meadow. Had I not been so caught up in the romantic sight of him, it might have been amusing to watch him dart and hop, his leather poke bouncing against his shoulder with each step.
A few steps from the cabin he seemed to remember his manners and halted to hello the house. He’d barely uttered the word when he spotted me standing there. Hi
s eyes studied mine—almost as if looking for something he’d been searching for, and for the briefest moment I thought he might make my daydreams come true, that he might open his arms so I could fly into them. But instead, he stood there without saying a word.
Finally, he swung his hat from his head and strode toward me. When he was an arm’s-length away, he stopped again. And glory of all glories, I saw that same admiration as before in his pale eyes—the same I’d been conjuring for weeks. But it hadn’t been my imagination. Truly, it hadn’t.
A small grin started—I couldn’t help myself—and spread across my face. “Good morning, Zebulon Deforest,” I said. “Welcome back to Blackberry Mountain.”
He laughed, a low and warm rumble, making my heart thud faster. “I’ve brought you what I promised.” He swung the poke from off his shoulders, letting it drop to the ground.
“If you’d like, you can come in,” I said, nodding to the cabin door and thinking that I couldn’t wait another minute to feel the new books in my hands. “ ’Tis too cold out here to stay unless you’re willing to work to keep warm.” I glanced at the sled half piled with corn.
“I heard about the corn-shucking and play party tonight.”
Queer disappointment filled me for an instant, thinking he’d come just so I’d invite him along. But before I could ponder it further he walked to the bushel I’d set down, and with a heavy grunt, he hefted it and set it onto the sled. He rubbed his hands together and shook his fingers as if they ached from the cold.
“About the play party and husking,” I said.
His eyes brightened. “May I go with you?” Then he hesitated, a warm smile spreading across his face. He gave me a slight bow. “Forgive me. I should have said, ‘Fairwyn March, may I have the pleasure of your company this evening?’ ”
As he straightened, I laughed softly and inclined my head. “It would be my pleasure, kind sir.” I thought my heart might never stop its dancing.