by Diane Noble
I launched into the third verse, joined by Billy Butler and Ruffy Hill on their fiddles. Poppy sat to one side, grinning and clapping as I strummed. He cocked his head as if to better hear my voice and watch my dancing fingers.
“More, more,” Dearly shouted at the end.
Without missing a beat, I began “The Old Gray Goose Is Dead,” followed by a rousing “Paddy O’Doyle.” Most of the folks stopped their dancing and lifted their voices in song. When it was quiet once more, I sang “At the Foot of Yonder Mountain.”
When the play party was done and people had drifted away from their dancing squares, the room fell still in anticipation of the storytelling time.
“Tell us the beggar story,” Dearly said before anyone else could get out their requests.
It was indeed a favorite of mine, and I put down the dulcimer and stood to begin.
“An old couple had invited the Lord to supper, and he was late acomin’. They kept the supper hot and waited and waited, but still he didn’t come.
“Directly a beggar came to the door and asked for something to eat. The woman thought, ‘Well, I’ll let him have my part.’ But they were so poor they had scarce enough for the three of them. She went ahead and fed the beggar, and he thanked her and left.
“They still waited and waited and kept looking out the door. Then a little ragged boy came along. He looked cold and starved, so they took him in. The man told his wife, says, ‘I’m not much hungry. He can have my supper.’ So they fed the boy and let him sit and get himself warm. Tried to get him to stay the night but he said he couldn’t, and before he left the man got a coat and wrapped him in it so he’d keep warm.
“The old people kept the fire going and kept Jesus’ supper ready. And finally they looked out and saw him coming. They went to meet him at the gate, and said, ‘We waited so long! We were afraid you’d never come.’
“The Lord took their hands, and said, ‘I’ve already been here twice.’ ”
At the story’s end, Zebulon hurried across the room and stood before me. His eyes were damp, and I thought it was from my story, for it seemed to cause tears each time I told it.
He shook his head in wonder and said, “The story is ancient, from a region of the world I hadn’t considered would have an influence here. This is an even greater discovery than anything yet.” I felt my heart sink in disappointment.
He caught my hands, smiling as happy as a wee chap chasing swallowtails, and looked deep into my eyes. I was only vaguely aware of the hush that had fallen over my kinfolk and neighbors as they stopped talking and turned to stare.
He leaned closer, and for an instant I thought he might kiss me, the old maid of Sycamore Creek, right there in the crowded barn. But instead he whispered in my ear, “Tolstoy tells a similar folk tale. It’s Russian, Fairwyn! And I discovered it right here in the Great Smokies!” He leaned back and hooted like a screech owl, raising his joyous fists toward the rafters.
From the exchanged looks and instant murmurs of young and old around us, I knew everyone thought I had caught myself a beau at last.
I met Zebulon’s triumphant gaze, unable to stop smiling.
Three
Zebulon Deforest walked me home in the light of a harvest moon as round as a big brass pot. Poppy stayed behind to help the rest of the men with the shucking.
“Why is the husking done by moonlight?” Zebulon reached for my hand to help me down a steep section of the trace. “I’ve heard of it, but I don’t know the reason.”
I laughed. “It does seem simpler to do it in the daytime. But it’s always been done this way—at least as far as I know. Always by the light of the first harvest moon. Same with planting. It’s always done during a new moon.” I decided not to tell him about the other legend about corn growing healthy and strong if sweethearts strolled among the rows, right after the planting, whispering of their love and dreams and the babies to come.
We walked along without speaking. The crunch of our feet on the damp, leaf-covered trace, a soft drip of moisture from the barren tree branches, and the voice of a hoot owl in the distance carried through the chilly air. Wood smoke from nearby cabins lay low to the ground, mixing with the mushroom scent of the loamy soil.
When the cabin I shared with Poppy was visible in the moonlit distance, Zebulon halted and turned to me. A tuft of his hair, looking almost silver in the light, had fallen across his forehead. I wanted to reach up and comb it with my fingers.
“May I accompany you again?” His eyes locked with mine.
I pondered whether he meant to go walking with me or whether he just needed me to introduce him to others in Sycamore Creek, others who might help him find connections to the legends and songs so important to his work. He didn’t seem to notice that I didn’t answer, for he rushed on, now looking heavenward as if gloriously happy for what he’d discovered in our mountains. “The keys are here!” He shook his head slowly. “They’re here!” Then he looked back to me.
“Fairwyn, I can see by the expression on your face that you understand the importance of what I’m doing.” He reached for my hand and held it between both of his. And as we stood there, he began to tell me of the English-American heritage of folk tales, folk songs, and folk dances. He said the lore was not static, it was ever-changing and needed to be recorded now before any more time passed.
We started to walk through the meadow, the moon creating a gemlike sparkle on the heavy dew. With each step, the fragrance of crushed autumn grasses rose. Zebulon kept hold of my hand, squeezing it with emphasis from time to time as he spoke.
I was drawn into a wider world than I’d ever imagined, even in my dreams. He spoke softly out of his passion for study, explaining each detail with great patience. I listened, enchanted.
“Our American usage of the English language—in our literature, ballads, and folklore—comes from the North of Europe,” he was saying when we reached the cabin’s porch. “Each region has kept its distinct identity in its folk traditions.”
He took both my hands again, gazing into my eyes. “Even the scale you used to sing your songs tonight is part of your heritage. There are four such modes, or scales—each reflecting the spirit of the heritage. Most singers have never heard the name of their mode …” He raised a brow, and I shook my head. “But they use these modes in their music.” He went on to explain the Mixolydian, Dorian, Phrygian, and Lydian scales. “Tonight you were singing in the major or sol-fa scale. As in do, re, mi, fa, sol, la, ti.”
I stared up at him, my heart catching. How I ached to learn more. “Hum the Mixolydian scale,” I demanded with a smile.
He grinned and gave me a rusty hum. “Do, do, sol, sol …”
“Now the rest …”
Still looking immensely pleased, he complied. I joined him tentatively at first, then boomed out the scales. He threw back his head and laughed. “Your quick mind is second only to the glory of your voice.” Again, high regard shone in his eyes, and I felt my cheeks warm.
“I’ll come back to see you tomorrow,” he said.
“I would like that.” His gaze met mine, and I wondered with awe about his knowledge of a world I hadn’t yet discovered. I felt drawn to the riches of such a mind as his.
“Tomorrow then,” he said with a slight nod. And he turned to leave me.
October 4, 18 and 82
My dearest Welsie True,
Oh, how I wish you were here beside me to listen to all I have to tell you. I suppose I must be content with writing to you, knowing you will soon read these words and rejoice with me.
Zebulon Deforest did indeed return! I thought he would never arrive, so great was my anticipation. But he came striding up the trace and across our meadow to stand before me, tall and handsome and—dare I say it?—seeming almost enchanted with me.
Imagine such a thing! Here I am, twenty-seven years old, and someone like Professor Zebulon Deforest travels all the way from Oak Hill, North Carolina, to see me.
Now that I have said wha
t my heart dreams, I will tell you what my mind tells me is the real truth. I can see you smiling at the mention of the battle between my heart and mind—you have spoken of such a battle within yourself! My mind says that he has returned to find out more about our mountain culture, not to see me. Or that, if he has come to see me, it’s merely to further his studies.
O Welsie. My heart is drawn to him. I have never known love, so I feel inadequate to judge what it is or isn’t. All I know is that I love listening to him talk about the world I hunger for, about the knowledge he has gained from deep study and years of reading.
I have never known anyone could be so full of information. His brain contains riches such as I long to have as my own.
When I am with him, he treats me as if I have the capacity for such learning, that I’m not a backward mountain girl, but almost … his equal. He makes me think that my dreams of an education can come true.
Is this love, Welsie? ’Tis utterly confusing. How I long for you to sit beside me and tell me what love truly is. Please write soon and tell me what you know of love.
Until then I remain
Your friend,
Fairwyn March
That afternoon, right after I rode Blinken down to Caudill’s Store to post my letter, I took my dulcimer deep into the wood near Quicksand Creek. It was cool beneath the bright crown of chestnut trees and stands of pinwheel poplars, the air sweet with ferns and moss and decaying leaves. I fairly skipped along the deer path as my music called me forward.
I settled against the carcass of a hollowed-out log and strummed, eyes closed and fingers dancing along the neck of my instrument, the taps along the fretboard and the soft zing of the strings filling the mountain air.
The song was one I had scribed, from tune to words. For now, I kept my lips silent and entered that room in my heart where music lives. I do not know how long I stayed within it—for when I enter the glory of the place, I forget even my own given name. Poppy will call me from the top of the hollow and I scarce can hear him. No sun rising or sun setting, no seasons, no longings or heartaches. It is only me and the music of my heart.
But today a sense of coming change swept like a whirlwind through my heart, causing me to sing of love and courtship and marriage. My voice dropped as I pictured Zebulon standing before me, and I sang to him, daring to imagine him asking me to go with him to Oak Hill to become his bride.
“Fairwyn?” A voice interrupted my reverie and song as Poppy touched my shoulder. My face flamed.
I laid the dulcimer in my lap as he sat down beside me. “I figured ye’d be here, lass.” He jingled something sounding like stones in his left hand, but he didn’t open it for me to see. “When a lass fancies a lad,” he said, “ ’Tis thoughts of love that draw her like a ha’nt. I knew ye’d be here strummin’ and dreamin’ o’ the professor.
“Yer own momma did the same,” he said, letting his gaze drift away from mine. “Came here after she figgered herself in love with that polecat da of your’n. Came here and sang ever song she knew about love.”
It pleased me to hear that my mother loved so much, no matter the outcome. “Tell me about him.” I tried to keep the note of pleading from my voice, but it still filled my tone. “I’m a woman grown, and it’s time for me to hear the truth.”
He met my eyes again, his as hard as flint. “Ye’ll make the same mistakes as her if ’n ye hain’t keerful.”
“Poppy, didn’t ye hear me? I’m a grown woman. Tell me what Momma did that was so wrong?”
He spread his fingers open, dropping the pieces into my palm. “I fashioned these for ye.”
I stared at the tiny carved tuning keys, then looked back into his worn, lined face. Poppy was known for his dulcimer making and repair all through the Great Smokies. I studied the small round keys, wondering how Poppy’s big, callused hands could carve something so delicate and sturdy. I looked up into his piercing eyes.
“Aye, they’re for ye.” He looked away at the leaf-moldy ground. From a poplar branch above him, a phoebe dived for a beetle that skittered toward a toadstool, then lit on the ground and looked at me. “Poor little critter,” Poppy muttered. “Picked the wrong froggystool.”
I wondered if I would ever know the mystery surrounding my mother’s death and my father’s identity. I clutched the tuning pegs near my heart and, with my other hand, reached for Poppy’s.
“I know ye’re hankering to leave this place something fierce.”
“I can’t deny it.” I tried to laugh, but found the music of it would not leave my throat. It came out more like a cry.
“As sartin as summer follers spring, lass, this professor of your’n will try to take ye away from me.”
Another beetle crawled across a dead maple leaf propped against the toadstool. The same brown phoebe cocked its head, watching, waiting.
Poppy stood, looking down at me until I finally raised my face to his. “Yer ma turned no good on me. Fergot ever thing I ever larned her about love and loyalty. I loved her—yer Granny Nana and me both did. We never figured she’d be so bereft o’ her senses.”
Without another word he turned and walked back down the damp leafy path, making no sound, almost seeming to float above the trace. Floating, just like folks always said I did. I had not thought of it until this minute, but I must have learned my way of walking from Poppy.
Professor Zebulon Deforest did not return that afternoon as he promised, and I was sorely disappointed. After my chores were done, I waited at the top of the hill and sat beneath the stand of maples, playing my music, while the leaves fell and the cold mists blotted away the sun.
That night, I read out loud from the Shakespeare volume with the fire crackling behind me, popping and sizzling, almost in rhythm with my heart as my fears and hopes rose and fell.
At length, Poppy waved away my Shakespeare. “Read a shepherd’s song,” he said. “I expect I’d like to hear the forty-second.”
I leaned deep against the slatted chair and, balancing the big book on my knees, turned the wrinkled pages to the place marked The Psalms, my finger tracing along the numbers until I found the one Poppy intended, then began to read. “As the hart panteth after the water brooks, so panteth my soul after thee, O God. My soul thirsteth for God, for the living God: when shall I come and appear before God?”
I paused, looking into Poppy’s face, craggy and soft in the firelight. He nodded, telling me without words to continue. I finished reading verse number eight: “Yet the LORD will command his lovingkindness in the daytime, and in the night his song shall be with me, and my prayer unto the God of my life.”
Poppy held up his hand to halt my reading. “There now, lass. This’n is the onliest song that should be in yer heart.”
“Perhaps God’s given my heart room for more than one song,” I said, looking into the fire. I folded shut the big Holy Bible and walked across the room to place it near Great Expectations before returning to my chair. “You’ve always said he created all of me, even the song in my heart. Wouldn’t that song—no matter where I sing it—always belong to him?”
He stared into the firelight for a good long while. Outside, a hoot owl called from someplace deep in the hollow. Another answered from the edge of the meadow.
Poppy turned his face to mine. His voice was low and soft when he spoke. “Ye have the will to do as ye please—jes’ like yer ma.”
I nodded, swallowing against a bone-dry spot in my throat. Before I could speak, he went on, “Furriners are different than us. Once’t I was down in Dover Town to see a man about my fiddle makin’, and I saw how folks there look on mountain folk. Like mockingbirds, they were, mimickin’ my way of speakin’. And they laughed, they did, right in my face.
“Yer furriner,” Poppy said, “if you follow him to that fancy school of his, he’d change ye like a prize piece of sassafras wood. Same as I carve and plane and sand to fashion a dulcimer, Zebulon Deforest would fashion ye into something ye aren’t.”
Hot tears stung my ey
es. “Think of the music your dulcimers make once you finish. A block of sassafras could not make such a sound.”
Poppy’s sorrowful eyes peered hard into mine. “That’s why ye must listen for God’s song in the night, lass.” His voice quivered, and for a long while only the hoot owls and the sizzle of flame filled the quiet of our old homeplace.
“ ’Tis his song rightly belongin’ in yer heart. No other.”
Four
The sun had just begun its rise above our hollow the next morning when Zebulon Deforest emerged through the mists at the top of the trace, paused a minute, then headed into the brown meadow grasses. I was standing on the porch shaking out my counterpane when he spotted me. He stopped and stared. Then he galloped like a red-gold coyote across the distance between us and bounded up the porch stairs.
For more thuds of my heart than I could count, he stood staring at my face, the blaze of his smile filling me with joy. He leaned closer and took my hand in his. “I’m sorry to have stayed away yesterday, Fairwyn. I got caught up in my writings, trying to decipher the notes I’d made from the night before.”
I couldn’t speak, so overcome I was with how he studied my face. He laughed as if he knew my heart’s ponderings, my desire to draw him closer. “Did you miss me?” he said, his voice soft and gruff at the same time.
The sunlight cut across his forehead, and he combed his flaxen hair back with slender fingers. It seemed his eyes fairly shimmered with book learning, and I longed to sink into their depths to see what they had seen.
“I have something to ask you.” He pulled me down from the steps toward the meadow, and we ran into the tall grasses.