by Vicki Lane
Lilah studies on it some and decides we can get along without a Bible. So we go to the deep place in the creek and I start to take off my nice dress which she ain’t said nothing about, she has been so busy saving me. She sees me start to undo my buttons and draws up her mouth.
“Oh no,” she says, “you got to keep your clothes on! God don’t like nekkid people.”
That don’t make sense to me for she has told me that God, who is really Jesus and also the Holy Spirit, made the first man and the first woman along with all the animals and everything else there is. (This was back when He was just called God—the other two names come later, Lilah says.) Anyhow, what I wonder is, if God don’t like nekkid, why didn’t He just make people with their clothes already on them, like He done possums and coons and birds and such?
But I hold my tongue and wade out in the cold running water in my new dress. The water is up to my knees and the hem of the dress is dragging and wet.
“Am I saved now?” I ask her, but she shakes her head and says I got to get wet all over, even my head.
“I’ll come in and do like the preacher does,” she says and walks right into the water like it weren’t there. She stands behind me and with one hand she pinches my nose shut and with the other she pushes me under.
My eyes are open and I can see that there is a whole other world under the water—a green world with more Little Things that I had never known of—Little Things that squirm and wiggle and give off light and tiny sounds. I begin to feel quare like there is someone calling me and I try to shake off Lilah Bel’s hands so I can follow the voices that sing in my ears.
But Lilah Bel holds tight to my nose and my head and then I am back up out of the greeny dark into the light and the air. Lilah Bel lets go of me and she is praying so hard that the words all run together and don’t make no sense. I leave her standing there and climb up on the bank and begin to wring the water from my new dress.
When Lilah finally gets done, I ask her am I saved. She says that I am and at last I get to tell her about Brother and his girl going off to Detroit and about the old lady who is coming to live with us.
Chapter 9
The Gifts
Dark Holler, 1931
(Granny Beck)
I knowed the first minute I seen the child Least that she had the Gifts—could read it in her eyes—though it was likewise clear she hadn’t no idea of what the Gifts are and how she might use them. But she is nearing the age when they’ll be at their strongest, whether for good or bad, and the most like to do her harm. Perhaps that’s the reason that things has worked out this way—so that I might be here to help her through this time—to teach her of the Gifts and of the Threefold Return, as well. Lord knows I fought like one thing against coming to live with Fronie, but now that I’ve seen the child, I know it was meant.
Not a one of my young uns had the Gifts—folks say it often skips a generation. There was a time, though, when I thought that Fronie might—but ever when I tried to tell her about the Gifts, she’d sull up and scowl at me like I was crazy. Finally I seen she was one who could have had them, but had turned away. It may have been that her refusing the Gifts is what has soured her, making her discontent so that she is always hungering for what she’s missed.
Me and Fronie never could agree. She was my oldest girl and seemed like, as the babies kept a-coming, I just didn’t have the time to ever get to know her. Looking back in my memory, I see her a lap baby and then I see her when first her monthlies come on—that was when I thought I saw the signs in her face. And then I see her riding off behind that feller she married—off to his home on the other side of the county. I don’t remember no in between—though reason tells me that she was in our home for sixteen year. Why I can’t recall her face during all that time, I couldn’t say. I know that she was there helping with each new baby—but I can’t call to mind her face, except for them three times.
After she married, a year or more might go by without me seeing her or hearing aught of her and her family. I did send word that I would come help when the first babe was born and again with the rest but each time she made it clear that she didn’t want me there.
And after so many years, to be dumped on her like an unwanted dog.
This morning Bevan brung me in his truck with my plunder about me and my old Delectable Mountains quilt over my legs. It is my legs that have give out on me, not my eyes or ears, and I could hear ever word Fronie and Bevan was saying. And I could see her face, so much older than I remembered and with deep furrowed lines down either side of her mouth to where I doubt she could smile if she tried. Bevan was standing on the bottom step to the porch and she on the top like she would bar him from coming up, but he had his say nonetheless.
“Fronie, you agreed to it and I told you we’d be here today. Me and Emma Ray’s had the care of her ever since she got so crippled up. We never asked aught of you in all those years. But Emma Ray’s mama and daddy both are in a bad way. The bank has took their farm and they got nowhere to go but to us. We can’t look after three old folks. Emma Ray has done for Mama like a daughter all this time—I reckon you can take your turn now.”
I knew and she knew that she would have to give in—it’s just her nature to be hateful. Between them, her and Bevan managed to get me up to the porch. I can make out to hobble a little but I can’t do no good with steps.
“She’ll have to have Least’s bed,” Fronie said, looking at me like I hadn’t got no sense. “I can fix the child a pallet for now.”
Her and Bevan hauled my few bits and pieces into the house and I could hear them still squabbling. She hadn’t spoke an actual word to me yet but finally she come out and give me a pie pan with some cornbread on it and a glass of buttermilk.
“Me and Bevan is going out to the barn. I want to see can he help me hang that stall door the bull broke down.”
“Thank you, Fronie,” I said, hoping that things between us might begin to improve, “I always did love cornbread and buttermilk. And I thank you for taking me in—I’m right sorry to be a burden.”
Her mouth bunched up like a hen’s behind and then she said, “It don’t matter; I’m used to burdens.”
She turned to go and then, recollecting herself, asked me did I need to use the chamber.
That’s the worst of old age—coming round after so many years to where you’re weak and useless as a little baby again. Fronie helped me back to the room I’m to have and pulled the pot from under the bed. She stood there waiting, tapping her foot as I did my business.
When I got done and started back for the porch, Fronie grabbed up the pot.
“I’ll dash this out in the branch,” she said and made for the back door, calling over her shoulder, “If Least decides to show herself, tell her I got a job for her. Tell her she’s not to go wandering off till I talk to her. The child ain’t got much sense but I reckon the two of you’ll get along just fine.”
When I got back to the porch, I went to studying the yard and what all I can see of the place where I am like to be spending the rest of my days. The road runs close to the house and I’m glad of that—it’s right pleasant, when you can’t do nothing but set, to watch folks in their comings and goings. Not that the road appears to me in much use, but you can’t tell—someone might come up this way now and again.
I seen there was some big boxwoods over to one side and a straggly yellow bell bush but not another flower in sight. Most women would make a flower bed or maybe have some in pots on the porch but there ain’t nothing of the sort here.
Oh, the pots of flowers that lined my porch railing back when I had my own house—and how proud I was of the show! Bevan’s Emma Ray loves flowers—law, in springtime her thrift is a sight on earth—the way it lays like a blanket over that old stone wall—purples and pinks and a white that most burns your eyes when the sun hits it. And the peonies …
But ain’t no use thinking on that. Emma Ray has her children to help her and Bevan does his part too. Maybe when
her man was alive, Fronie had more time for flowers. Still and all, I believe she’d be a happier somebody could her eyes light on a rosebush now and again.
I wish I could help her someways—instead here I am, taking up more of her time and making things harder. Bevan has said he will try to send money every month to help out—I don’t eat much; maybe the money will ease her load. And I can still snap beans and suchlike—
There was a rustling in the boxwoods and I could just make out a shape slipping along behind the leaves. At first it worried me but then I figured it must be the child—Fronie’s least un and the only one still at home. Bevan told me he’d heard the poor little thing is simpleminded and bad to take fits. Another worry for Fronie.
I called out soft, “Come here, child,” hoping she’d not take flight. “Come see your Granny Beck.”
The sounds in the boxwoods hushed and I called again. “Come here, honey, I got a pretty for you.”
She was like a half-tamed woods creature—poked her head out the bushes a little ways and looked at me with great blue eyes in the midst of a dirty sun-browned face. Her hair was a greasy snarl and the dress she had on weren’t much better than a feed sack with holes in it. I can do something about that, I thought.
I dug into the pocket of my skirt for my charm. “Look here, honey, what I got,” I said and she come out of the bushes and up the steps slow, her feet just a-dragging.
But when she got up close, her eyes went to mine before she looked to see what was in my hand and that was when I knew.
“Oh, honey,” I said, feeling like I could bust out crying any minute, “there is so much I have to learn you and maybe not a lot of time left. But I’ll make a beginning right now and tell you of the fairy crosses and how they come to be. Put out your hand.”
When I give her the little rock charm, she studied it close and a smile started across her face, turning her from a wild thing into a pretty child. She touched the cross real gentle, running a finger all along it, tracing it up and down.
Her eyes got real big, then she whispered, “This is from the Little Things, ain’t it?”
Law, they was a catch in my heart at them words. I begun to answer her but the tears come on me all to once—tears of joy that I have found her.
THE LEGEND OF THE FAIRY CROSS
Fairy crosses, also called fairy stones or fairy tears, are composed of staurolite, a combination of silica, iron, and aluminum. These minerals often crystallize into a cross-like form. Traditionally, fairy stones have been carried for good luck. They are believed to protect the wearer against witchcraft, accidents, sickness, and disaster. It is said that three U.S. presidents carried fairy crosses.
The Cherokee Indians have a legend that fairy crosses are the tears of the Little People (Yunwi Tsunsdi), tiny, reclusive creatures known for their ability to find lost people. As the story goes, the Little People were singing and dancing and drumming near the town of Brasstown when a messenger arrived with news of the Crucifixion. The terrible news made the Little People cry, and as their tears fell to the earth, the drops hardened into tiny crosses which may still be found in that locale.
An extensive collection of fairy crosses is on display at the Cherokee County Historical Museum in Murphy, phone (704) 837-6792.
Chapter 10
The Story of John Goingsnake
Dark Holler, 1931
(Least)
Now see can you read that next part to me, honey.” Granny picks up her rug machine and begins filling in the background on the bottom part of the big rug we have on the frame. I take up the book and begin.
“He was too … young, this little … elf. Granny, what’s an elf?”
Granny Beck is helping me learn to read! It is our secret, for Mama don’t hold with me learning. She says it will bring the fits on if I work my head too hard. But I have been reading and reading and reading and still not had ary fit!
We started with the Baby Ray book Fairlight gave me when she left, and I can read it all now, every word—all about Baby Ray’s one little dog and two cunning kitty-cats and three white rabbits and four yellow ducks and five pretty chicks.
Baby Ray’s mother sings a go-to-sleep song to him that I have learned for myself. It is this:
I see the moon,
And the moon sees me.
God bless the moon and
God bless me.
Granny Beck says that this is a pretty good song but when I am a little older she will teach me songs that will help me do things—songs of power she calls them.
“Go on, child,” Granny says, “I ain’t for sure but I think an elf is a right small person.”
I read some more—this is a poem. Which is like a song but you just say it instead of singing. This poem is all about a little boy who wants to know when tomorrow will come. And his mama says,
When you wake up and it’s day again,
It will be tomorrow, my darling, then.
The book I am reading out of is called McGuffey’s Fourth Eclectic Reader and it is much harder than Baby Ray. But I go on reading the poem and now the little boy goes to bed, and when he wakes up, he kisses his mother and asks is it tomorrow. But she says no; now it is today.
Which is aggravating but I have studied on it and there ain’t no way it could be any different. Another thing I have studied on is how all the mothers in these books are so loving to their children, especially at night. I would like it if Mama put me to bed. But she is too wore out, I reckon. And anyway, now I have Granny in my room and that is as nice as can be.
I have never kissed my mother.
“You read that real good,” Granny Beck tells me when I am done. “But I reckon you best get back to the rug lest your mama be ill at us when she comes home. I know Fronie—she’ll have it calculated to the inch how much we should’ve hooked today. Go on now, child; put the book back in the hidey place. And iffen you don’t care, bring me a sup of water when you come back. Then I’ll tell you some more stories while we work.”
I do like she says but instead of water I run quick out to the springhouse and pour off some buttermilk for us. There is cornbread from breakfast and I get that too and fix us each a bowlful. Granny don’t eat much, especially when Mama is watching, and she has gotten thinner since she’s been here.
We have had the whole day to tell stories and practice reading, for Mama has gone with a neighbor all the way into Asheville. She has taken every one of the rugs we have made to sell for top dollar at a place called The Treasure Chest and she won’t be back till after dark.
Me and Granny Beck are sitting on the porch, hooking on a big round rug that is black with red flowers called poppies all over. It is the prettiest thing—I wish we could keep it but Mama says that would be foolish with times as hard as they is—that we will need every cent we have to pay our taxes this year.
Mama is a lot happier about having Granny to live here for now Granny and me are turning out the rugs like one thing. Granny says she likes to do it but I know it hurts her hands and she sometimes has me to bring her a bowl of hot water to soak them in.
I am so glad Granny Beck is living with us. Her and me are Best Friends. Which is good, since Lilah Bel has got religion so bad, she don’t hardly ever come up to play, and when she does she still won’t play nothing but revival. Iffen I try to talk about the Little Things, she sulls up and says they’s likely demons and I will go to the bad place if I keep on messing with them.
Granny knows about the Little Things. She don’t think they’s demons either. She says their real name is Yunwi Tsunsdi. She told me all about them when she gave me the little cross made from their tears—and she told me about them crying when Jesus died. I thought Lilah Bel would like that story for it had Jesus in it but she put her fingers in her ears and said she would go home if I said any more about the Little Things.
Granny Beck’s papaw was full blood Cherokee and it was her papaw who told Granny Beck about Cherokee Magic, which Granny is teaching me. She says it has to b
e passed on by kin, knee to knee, and it can’t be learned from a book.
There are lots of good stories and some scary ones—I hate the one about the Raven Mockers that eat the hearts of dead people. Another bad one is Old Spearfinger, a dreadful kind of a witch with one long finger made of bone and she will stab people with that finger and kill them and eat their liver. The worst is that, being magic, she can make herself look like someone you know and then, when you aren’t paying attention, she will stab you with that finger. Sometimes I have bad dreams about Old Spearfinger and think that she is standing in our room at night, just staring at me and Granny Beck and biding her time.
But Granny says I must learn all the stories, every bit, so I will know how to use the Gifts. I had thought maybe the Gifts was things like the fairy cross she give me, but Granny says no, the Gifts ain’t things you can see. She says I will understand better later on.
I know all about the Yunwi Tsunsdi now—how they live away up on the mountains in caves or under big rocks or in the places some call laurel hells on account of how the laurel grows so close and twisted a man or dog can get hung up in it and never get out. Back when I told Granny that I had seen the Little People dancing and playing their drums, she scowled and looked at me hard.
“Best not go lookin for the Yunwi Tsunsdi, child. People who see them are like to be bumfuzzled all their lives,” said she, and I wondered was it the Little People who made me take spells. I asked her but she wouldn’t talk no more of them just then for, she said, night was coming on fast and it’s reckoned unlucky to talk of these things after dark.
It’s not all that late now but the sun is down behind the trees, so when I take Granny her bowl of buttermilk and bread I don’t ask for no Cherokee Magic stories; instead I ask her to tell me the story about John Goingsnake and the Trail of Tears.
“Law, child, I reckon you could tell it to me by now, you’ve heard it so many times.” She sops a piece of cornbread and bites into it.