I wanted to hug her I was so lifted up. But when I turned to thank her, she had already started back down the mountain. There was tears in my eyes, and my throat was sore with feeling.
EVERY DAY I worked on the foundation, and I worried about Moody. In the cold winter wind, and in patches of sunlight and cloud shadows, I carried rocks and set them in place. I smoothed and pointed joints with my trowel, lifted rocks and put in more mortar. Sometimes a rock had to be shifted around to make it plumb. Sometimes a rock had to be pushed to make it line up with the rocks around it. I wondered what I could do to help Moody. It seemed all I could do was work on the church.
I was working harder and faster than ever on the fourth day when somebody else called out to me from the edge of the woods.
“Brother Muir,” they said. I looked around and seen Preacher Liner. At first I thought I wouldn’t speak to him, and then I remembered my terrible pride and my repenting.
“Hello, Preacher Liner,” I said. I stood up with the trowel in my hand.
“The deacons have asked me to talk to you,” the preacher said.
I didn’t say nothing. It didn’t sound good if the board of deacons wanted to send a message to me. I dipped more mortar and slapped a tongue on the wall.
“We just want to ask you some questions,” Preacher Liner said.
“What kind of questions?” I said, and spread the wet mortar like butter on the rock.
“Questions about your intentions,” the preacher said.
“My intention is to build a church,” I said.
“Questions about Baptist discipline,” the preacher said.
“I’m not standing to be ordained,” I said. “I’m going to build a church.”
“I didn’t come here to quarrel,” the preacher said. “Only to invite you to meet with us on Saturday at three.”
I picked up another rock and set it in place on the wet mortar. All the good spirit I’d felt before was gone. Anger come into my breath.
“What if I don’t want to meet with you all?” I said.
“The church is not just rocks and planks and window frames,” the preacher said. “The church is the membership. That’s Baptist doctrine. The least you can do is come talk to us about your plans on Saturday.”
AFTER THE PREACHER left I worked harder than ever. I reckon anger helped give me strength to work. I stirred mortar and slapped it in place and I heaved rocks up and worked them into the perfect position. I measured and placed the level against the wall. I was building foursquare and firm. I was building a wall that might last a hundred years. I was building a high altar on the mountaintop. I remembered that’s what Peter had said when he was talking out of his head at the Transfiguration: Let’s make an altar up here to remember what we have seen.
But as I worked that day and on the sunny days that followed, and wondered where Moody was, and wondered if I was going to talk with the deacons on Saturday or not, I also thought again about how the church was going to look when I got it finished. If I built a tower for the bell that looked like a castle tower, it would appear old and powerful. But a white steeple that reached up and up and up, pointing to heaven, would be the most beautiful of all, the most inspiring.
I’d seen pictures of churches in Charleston and in New England where the steeples rose through many stages, squares and octagons, round and six sided, with arches on one story and windows on the next and columns on the tier above that. Nothing was better than a high steeple for a church. And no color was better than white.
I seen how I was going to build the steeple, and it was going to have to rise in stages far above the roof of the church and far above the trees. With Mama helping I could afford the materials. A steeple is like a chimney sending thoughts and prayers and sight up toward heaven. A steeple would be the hardest thing to build, for I would have to raise a scaffold. A steeple would have ornaments and scrollwork and fancy cabinetwork. The steeple I had in mind would go up eighty, ninety, a hundred feet. The pedestal would be of rock, but the higher levels would be white wood, white to catch the early sun and the late sun, white to be seen from Pinnacle or Tryon Mountain. The white would shine in the sky.
ALL WEEK I argued with myself about whether to go look for Moody and whether to meet with the deacons. I imagined things I would say to them, and things they’d say to me. I thought about just going to look for Moody and taking him some rations. I thought about ignoring the preacher’s invitation. I thought about just working until dark. But as it got close to three on Saturday I decided to go down to the church after all. I’d go in my work clothes caked with cement, in my boots spotted with gritty mortar. I decided to go because I wanted to tell them what I planned to do. I’d never explained to anybody except Mama the vision I had of the church.
But stepping into that room and speaking to those men would take my breath away. I remembered how bad I had preached, and how in school I’d stood up to debate and found I couldn’t say a thing. It was like my throat locked and my mind was empty when I got up in front of people. I couldn’t remember my name, and I couldn’t have said it if I had remembered. It was like my tongue was still tied down and had never been snipped free.
They’ll be asking the questions, I thought as I walked down the hill toward the church. All I’d have to do was answer them. And U. G. would be there. And Hank would be there. And there was nothing they could do to me. Would they try to throw me out of the church for building a church on my own property? The church hadn’t give me a cent toward the building, not a nail or stick of wood.
They was all there in the church when I arrived, setting in the amen corner. There was six of them besides the preacher, as well as Riley, who was chairman of the board of deacons. I set down on the bench behind them.
“You come on up here, Brother Muir,” Riley said, and pointed to a chair in front of the altar. Riley was married to my great-aunt Catherine. He raised cattle and had the best bull in the valley. I guess Riley thought of hisself as a kind of squire.
“I don’t need to set up there,” I said and swallowed. But I went up anyway.
I nodded at U. G. and Hank as I walked to the front of the church. My face already felt hot. Maybe I was windburned from working at the top of the mountain.
I set down and seen how dirty my shoes and pants was. They looked like they’d been smeared with cement. The preacher set on the front bench, and Riley stood up beside me like a lawyer in court. “I was sorry to hear your brother, Moody, was in trouble with the law,” he said. I couldn’t think of nothing to answer and just nodded. Riley cleared his throat.
“This quarterly meeting of the deacons of Green River Baptist Church will come to order,” Riley said. “We have met here today to discuss one major item of business.”
Most of the deacons was looking down at their laps and at their feet. They seemed a little embarrassed to be there.
“It’s said that Brother Muir is building a new church on top of the mountain,” Riley said. “Is this true, Brother Muir?”
“It is,” I said. I glanced at U. G., but he was looking away to the side of the church.
“By whose authority are you building a new church?” Riley said.
“By my own,” I said.
“A decision to build a new church has to be made by a vote of the whole congregation,” Riley said. “And the motion has to be recommended by the board of deacons. That’s in the bylaws of the church.”
“I’m building on my own land and doing all the work myself,” I said.
“Was you authorized by the board of deacons?” Riley said.
“No, sir.”
“Did you ask the board of deacons for authorization?” Riley said.
“No, sir.”
“Then you’re building it for another congregation?” Riley said.
“No, sir,” I said. “I’ll give the new church to this congregation.”
“But this congregation has not been consulted,” Riley said. “The thing you’re doing is outside the bylaws of the church
and contrary to church discipline. It has nothing to do with this church.”
“It’s for this church,” I said.
“You have broke the discipline and bylaws of the church,” Riley said. “By a vote of the congregation you can be dropped from the rolls of the church.”
“You didn’t build this church!” I hollered at Riley. “My grandpa built this church when he come back from the Confederate War.”
U. G. raised his hand.
“Brother Latham,” Riley said.
“We’re only meeting today to ask questions,” U. G. said. “We didn’t meet here to threaten or throw Brother Muir out of the church.”
“Hear, hear,” Hank said.
“I’ll build the church whether you authorize it or not,” I said.
“Why would you do that?” Preacher Liner said. “Why would you go against Baptist discipline?”
“Because I’d never get you all’s approval,” I said.
“That’s right,” Riley said. “We’d never approve such a foolish scheme.”
“I’m building for the future,” I said. “In a hundred years people will worship on the mountaintop. And a hundred years after that too.”
“Are you doing this work out of pride?” Preacher Liner said.
I told them I had tried to conquer my pride, but Riley warned me the devil works in mysterious ways. I said I wanted to build an altar on the mountain where everybody could see it. Riley said then it must be for my own greater glory. But I told them the church was not for me but for them, and for their children and grandchildren.
“Do you have the funds sufficient for such a building?” Preacher Liner said. “Do you have the permission of your mama to build on her land?”
“It’s not any of your business,” I said. “But she does want me to build the new church. And she’s helping me.” Anger rose like little bubbles in my blood. My bones was feeling light. I knowed that getting mad was the worst thing I could do. But I couldn’t help myself.
“You think building a new church is none of our business?” Riley said.
“Whether Mama approves or not is none of your business,” I said.
“You mama is a member of this church,” Riley said.
“And you throwed her out too, her and Grandpa,” I said. I told him I hadn’t asked for their help and I didn’t need their help.
“Is that the Christian spirit?” Riley said.
I stood up. I wasn’t going to be talked to like a little schoolboy they could scold. I was going to get out of there.
“Set back down,” U. G. said to me. I waited for a second and then I set back down in the chair. “Everybody knows you’re trying to help the church and the community,” U. G. said. “You’re not doing this for your personal gain. It’s just that most people don’t see the need for a new church. This is a country congregation, and we don’t need some big church house on the mountaintop.”
“I think we should hear Brother Muir out,” Hank Richards said. It was the first time he had spoke, but nobody paid him any attention. He was the newest member of the board of deacons.
“It’s good to have big plans,” the preacher said, “as long as they don’t divide the church.”
“I can see you all are against me,” I said.
“Let’s hear more about your plans,” Hank said.
“A church is made up of its members,” Preacher Liner said. “In a Baptist church all authority is vested in the congregation. Nobody, not the deacons, not even the pastor, has any more say-so than the rest.”
My blood was humming behind my ears. There was sweat on my forehead and around my temples. “If people choose to be stupid, what’s the point of getting together with them?” I said.
“The church is the Lord’s institution in this world,” Preacher Liner said.
“This community does need a new church,” Hank said. “I move we put it to a vote of the congregation.”
“We get strength from fellowship and working with each other,” the preacher said.
“I would rather set out in the woods and listen to the birds sing,” I said.
“Brother Muir, we want you to be a part of us,” U. G. said. “But we want you to be reasonable.”
“Reasonable means doing nothing,” I said.
“We appreciate your zeal,” Preacher Liner said. “We only wish your ambition could be channeled to more practical goals.”
It was no use to talk to them. I stood up again. “You can kick me out of the church if you want to,” I said, “like you kicked out Mama and Grandpa.”
“That was a long time ago,” Riley said.
I walked out of there with all of them staring at me. My humiliation and my defeat was so complete I felt almost triumphant. They had destroyed everything I’d tried to do. Or I had destroyed everything. I didn’t know which it was. Moody was running from the law because of my church. The community and the preacher and the deacons and the forces of nature was against my work. The law of gravity was against my work. And the rain and freeze and thaw was against my work. Only Mama, and maybe Hank Richards, didn’t seem opposed to what I was doing.
My defeat was so total I felt freed by it as I stepped down the aisle toward the back of the church, opened the door, and slammed it behind me. I felt bathed with anger. I was stripped to the bone and humiliated and there was nothing to do but start over again. Anger and defeat made me feel light as I walked down the steps and across the churchyard. I hoofed it down the road by the spring feeling naked as a baby.
I decided to go look for Moody. He was in trouble and I should go find him and help him. He was my brother, and I should offer my help whether he wanted it or not.
At the house I loaded my packsack with cornmeal and bacon, with shoulder meat and a box of raisins. I put in matches and extra socks and a pair of gloves.
“Where are you going?” Mama said.
“You will lead the deputies right to Moody,” Fay said.
I done the milking and I eat supper. I waited until it was good dark before heading out. Mama handed me a ten-dollar bill to give to Moody. When I left the house I went east, like I was walking toward the highway. I stopped and listened to see if anybody was following me. In the pines I turned to the river and followed the river, as I’d done so many times in the dark, all the way to its head at the edge of the Flat Woods.
By the time I got to Pinnacle it was way past midnight. I knowed Moody could be anywhere, even over in South Carolina toward Caesar’s Head, or in the Long Holler beyond the Sal Raeburn Gap. But I tried to think where I would go if I was Moody. And I kept thinking of the cave on the other side of Ann Mountain, beyond Pinnacle. It was a cave where outliers and deserters had stayed during the Confederate War. It was a cave far under the mountain with a rock crevice above it that reached up hundreds of feet and served as a kind of chimney.
I felt my way in the dark through the trees around the side of Pinnacle. There was no trail, and limbs scratched across my face. I walked sideways with my arm outstretched, and stepped in branches and sinkholes from time to time. When I thought I was lost, I stopped and listened to the wind on the high ridge to my right.
The woods was just beginning to get gray when I reached the foot of Ann Mountain. It had been years since I’d visited the cave. It would take a little poking around to find it. I crossed the branch where rocks had spilled down the mountain, and started climbing. Something stung the air like a mouth organ or hornet above my head. I ducked and then heard the crack of a rifle. I dropped to my knees and listened. There was bootleggers in the Flat Woods, but I didn’t think there was any still on the side of Ann Mountain. I hadn’t seen any fire up there.
If it was Moody shooting at me, how could I call him? What if some deputy had followed me in the dark, like Fay had said they would?
I crawled toward the biggest rock nearby. Another bullet sung through the air with a sick twang. “It’s Muir!” I hollered. And rolled behind the rock. I listened for a voice or movement farther up t
he mountain.
“I have brought you something!” I shouted. Pulling the packsack off, I held it up above the rock. A bullet whined like a banjo string had broke, and knocked the pack out of my hands. A hole the size of a fifty-cent piece was tore in the flap.
I set there trying to think what to do. I am my brother’s keeper, I said to myself over and over. I must do what I can. It could be anybody shooting at me. But I knowed it was Moody. Moody was mad because he had told me not to come looking for him. I wanted to tell him I had come to help him any way I could. I was sure nobody had followed me in the dark.
“I want to talk to you!” I yelled.
I expected another shot to sing through the air and crack a tree nearby, but none come. I waited and listened for a shout, but the woods only dripped their morning dew. The branch below murmured through its rocks, and a hawk whistled somewhere way up on the mountaintop.
“Won’t you talk to me?” I hollered.
There was some kind of movement farther up the ridge, and I strained my eyes to see better. It was getting daylight by then, and the woods was gray and brown.
“I come to help you!” I hollered up the mountainside, and there was an echo from the ridge beyond the branch: help you, help you. But that was all. The woods and the mountainside was quiet.
“I will leave the pack here,” I yelled.
• • •
WHILE I WAS walking down toward the head of the river, I thought somebody was watching me or following me. It was an itchy, prickly feeling. I spun around and seen somebody way back behind me. They jumped quick into the laurel bushes, but I got a good look and seen it was one of the Willards; Sam or Stinky it was, I think.
“What do you want?” I hollered. But they never stepped out from behind the laurels.
“Do you want to shoot me?” I yelled. But the woods was dead silent.
When I walked on I looked back from time to time, but I never seen them again.
THE NEXT MONDAY I was hammering the old mortar off a rock when a voice behind me said, “You have your work cut out for you.” I turned and seen Hank Richards. He had on his carpenter’s overalls and he was carrying a toolbox.
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