Every Hill and Mountain

by Deborah Heal

  Several area churches had set up food stands. The Catholic church sold brats along with raffle tickets for a quilt that was displayed behind the volunteers manning the stand. The Church of Christ had fried catfish, the proceeds of which were to go to a missionary in India. And the Social Brethren Church handed out free cotton candy along with gospel tracts.

  The Methodist Church capitalized on its location right on Lane Street by conducting a cakewalk in front of the church. The glassed-in sign indicated their pastor was the Reverend Dwight Henderson and that they were celebrating their 200th anniversary.

  Abby and John looked at each other at the same time. “Surely the building can’t be that old,” he said. “They must mean the entity is 200 years old.”

  “Right. The brick is too new. But if they built this building over the original church then we might be able to pick up enough vibes from it to time-surf.”

  John studied the church. “Maybe. It worked at the Lewis and Clark museum.”

  Ryan and Kate appeared to be giving no thought to any of the sights or sounds of the festival or anyone but themselves as they walked on ahead, holding hands and smiling.

  “Quick, this may be our only chance,” Abby said.

  If they were lucky, Kate and Ryan would stay occupied, the church would be unlocked, and the sign would be right about Shawnee Telephone Company being on the cutting edge of technology—the kind that would allow John, with the help of the app Timmy Tech had given him, to borrow a little band width for time-surfing.

  It was a lot to ask, but if Merri was right about God wanting them to use the program to help Kate…well, after all, nothing was impossible with God. Abby sent up a little prayer and followed John.

  Spectators in front of the church were laughing at one of the cakewalk contestants who was blatantly cheating so he could win his wife’s German chocolate cake. No one appeared to notice when Abby and John walked past them and up to the church’s double front doors.

  They opened easily, and Abby said a prayer of thanks as they stepped into a dim foyer. A bulletin board with photos of missionaries and children’s drawings of Noah’s ark hung on the wall. Under it was a table laden with bulletins, pamphlets, and stacks of hymnbooks. Taking his backpack off his shoulder, John hurried past it all and went through the inner doors that led into the sanctuary.

  Abby liked the simple, spare décor. The walls were a creamy white and the floor a dark oak. Light streamed in from three plain windows on each side. A small round stained glass window glowed high on the back wall behind the pulpit.

  A large painting of Jesus as the Good Shepherd hung on one wall. Another famous painting, one Abby disliked because it made Jesus look like a wimpy whiner, hung on the opposite wall.

  They sat down in the last row on a pew padded in deep burgundy. John took his laptop out and began loading Beautiful Houses. “Do you think this could be the original building after all?” he said. “Maybe they just bricked over it.”

  “I was wondering the same thing.”

  “Don’t get your hopes up, Abby. Even if the church is old enough for Ned Greenfield’s era…”

  “If he wasn’t a member, time-surfing here won’t do us any good. I know. But let’s see what happens. I have a feeling this is right.”

  The program sprang to life

  Chapter 7

  Reverend Farris held his hands up and smiled out upon the congregation. “Receive now the Lord’s benediction.”

  In the third row, John Granger reverently bowed his head and hoped he could get down the aisle in time to catch Lawler before he left the church.

  ‘“Now may the God of peace, our Lord Jesus, that great shepherd of the sheep, through the blood of the everlasting covenant, make you perfect in every good work to do his will, working in you that which is well pleasing in his sight, through Jesus Christ, to whom be glory forever and ever. Amen.’”

  Reverend Farris descended from his pulpit, and, straightening his black robe, hurried down the center aisle toward the church door where he would greet each departing parishioner.

  Granger stood and offered his wife his arm. She took it and rose decorously from the pew. “Hurry along, Martha,” he said. “I need to talk to Michael before they leave.”

  Fellow worshipers crowded into the aisle to leave, but nevertheless he managed to steer his wife on a course that took them to where their son-in-law stood with their daughter Elizabeth and the two children.

  Michael Lawler bent his head and said something to Elizabeth and then stepped away from her side. Martha dutifully went to join Elizabeth and the children.

  “What do you want?” Lawler asked. “If it’s about that scheme of yours to—”

  “Keep your voice down,” Granger said.

  Elizabeth and Martha looked up. Granger frowned at them and they turned away. “Not that. Come out to Hickory Hill this afternoon while the women are napping. I need your legal expertise. I may have a little problem that—”

  “Is there something I can help you with?”

  Abby jolted back to the present. A middle-aged man dressed in black stood in the aisle looking at them and their computer. John shut it and they rose awkwardly.

  “Oh, I was checking—”

  Abby jabbed her elbow into John’s side because it sounded like he was about to break the eighth commandment. In church, no less.

  “E-mail? I check mine a dozen times a day,” the man said, chuckling.

  “The church is beautiful,” Abby said. “Are you the pastor here?”

  “Yes,” he said, extending his hand. “Dwight Henderson. Glad to meet you.”

  They rose and John introduced Abby and himself. “Not e-mail,” he said with a smile for Reverend Henderson and a small discreet jab of his elbow into her side. “I have this program that keeps going on the fritz. Thought I’d see if it was working.”

  “We try to leave the door open as much as we can for folks to come in when they need to.” Reverend Henderson grinned. “Mostly had in mind praying, but still.”

  “Don’t you worry about thieves?” Abby asked.

  “It used to be we didn’t need to worry too much about that. Of course, we’re too young to remember those days. Most every church had an open door policy at one time. But now that crooks have sunk so low as to rob offering plates and loot sanctuaries—so low as to bomb a church in Alabama during Sunday School. Well, anyway, we take precautions nowadays. But that’s a dreary subject. Why don’t you come on by tomorrow? We’d love to have you worship with us.”

  They thanked him for the invitation, saying they weren’t sure what their plans were for Sunday. Reverend Henderson sent them on their way with a smile and God’s blessing.

  “Sorry for the jab,” Abby said when they stepped out onto the sidewalk.

  “I wasn’t going to lie. Give me a little credit, okay?”

  “I said I was sorry.”

  John put an arm around her and pulled her close to his side as they started down Lane Street. “Guess I should thank you for watching out for my immortal soul.” Abby turned her face up hoping for a kiss, but he just grinned and kissed her hair. “That’s the only P.D.A. you’re getting from me in the middle of the street.”

  “If only we’d had a little more time, maybe we’d have found Ned Greenfield.”

  “Yeah,” he said. “Too bad. Just when Hickory Hill came up.”

  “I’m confused,” she said. “That Granger guy owned Hickory Hill.”

  “At least in 1853,” he said. “Maybe he bought it from Greenfield.”

  “Mayor Windham would be so proud to know we met his hero, the famous General Lawler—well, soon-to-be hero, anyway.”

  Kate and Ryan were no longer in sight, and so they hurried past the rest of the craft and food stands on Lane Street, which turned out to be only two blocks long. It ended at the intersection with Calhoun Avenue with a muddy, rock-studded ravine. Abby wasn’t thrilled about going near the edge, but John coaxed her over to see.

  “
It looks like storms washed out the street,” he said. “I wonder why no one ever repaired it.”

  Across the ravine, the road resumed, and Abby saw what looked like a school along with more houses. No doubt there was access via another road, but she couldn’t see it from where they stood.

  “The street must have been very steep. It’s no wonder it gave way.”

  A voice behind them called out, “Be careful there!”

  Abby spun around so fast she nearly stumbled, but John put out a steadying hand and she grabbed it. The police officer they had met coming into town was walking toward them, a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth.

  “You’d better step back,” he said.

  “Sorry, officer,” John said, taking a step away from the edge.

  Abby read his brass name badge and added, “That is, Chief Logan.”

  “Lane Street used to go on down the hill and out to the Half Moon. Equality was a booming little town back in the day when salt was king.” Chief Logan drew on his cigarette and contemplated the washout. “Now, the mines closed down, and there aren’t enough funds to rebuild the street. Ironic, huh? The Red Onion used to be down that way in the old days. It was sort of a—” He stopped suddenly and looked apologetic. “But you don’t want to hear about that. Are you having a good time today?”

  “We are,” Abby answered. “But actually we didn’t come for the Salt Festival. We’re trying to help a friend trace her roots. Do you know of any Greenfields living around here?”

  “I do,” he answered.

  Abby waited for him to go on. When he didn’t, she said, “Can you tell us where they live?”

  “I could.” Chief Logan turned away to blow out a stream of cigarette smoke. “But if your friend’s the young lady with you in the car, I don’t reckon the Greenfields I know are the Greenfields you’re looking for.”

  Abby frowned, but before she could ask more, John changed the subject. “Kate’s ancestor apparently lived at a place called Hickory Hill. Do you know where that is?”

  Chief Logan dropped his cigarette on the pavement and ground it out with the toe of his shoe. “Can’t help you there.” He started to walk away.

  “Who could we ask?” Abby said. “Surely someone around here would know.”

  He turned to study them. “There’s nothing there to see. Why don’t you go on over to the square and learn about General Lawler. Listen to Eagle Creek play. They’re just a local band, but we’re proud of them.” Giving them a little salute, he walked a short way down Calhoun Street, then crossed over and went into the municipal building.

  “What was that all about?” John asked.

  “I don’t know, but it was weird.” Abby took his arm. “Come on. Let’s go find Kate and Ryan.”

  Up ahead they saw the shiny, new water tower that the mayor had bragged about and the band playing bluegrass music in its shade. Most listeners sat on lawn chairs. Others stood in back, including Ryan and Kate, who was busily sketching the scene on her pad.

  Abby started toward them, but John held her back. “Wait,” he said, pointing to the right. “Look at that. It’s got to be old. Really old.”

  The huge two-story building John had spotted was nearly hidden by tall trees. It was made of brick, time-weathered to a beautiful rosy shade, and had seven sets of tall windows across its front. Someone had used black spray paint on a piece of plywood to make a sign that said, “General Lawler Bed and Breakfast Opening Soon.” A wheelbarrow full of remodeling debris stood next to the front door, which was propped open with a length of two-by-four.

  It was surely too large to be an ordinary home and too plain to be a rich man’s mansion. It looked more like a hotel, but whatever it had been, a building that old was sure to have a history.

  “Looks like the perfect place for a little time-surfing,” she said.

  “Not so fast,” he said grabbing her arm. “Obviously, someone’s there.”

  She slithered out of his grasp and went up to the door. “I don’t think so. Look.”

  A yellow post-it note was stuck on the doorframe advising someone named Zeke to put the drywall in the kitchen and that he’d be back at four o’clock. She grinned at John. “This seems to be our lucky day for time-surfing.”

  John stuck his head in the door and then went in, already taking out his laptop.

  “Opening Soon” seemed a little optimistic. Paint cans still sat on drop cloths, and an over-sized ladder stood against one wall where someone was trying either to remove the wallpaper or to re-glue the loose strips of it that hung from the wall.

  They decided the best place to sit was on the stairs. Beautiful Houses took its time to load, and when it did, nothing happened—that is, nothing other than that the houses began scrolling by as usual. The old house they sat in wasn’t one of them.

  “We may be too far from an internet connection,” John said.

  Abby pointed to the indicator at the bottom right of the screen. “No, that’s not it. You’re online. Do you think the program’s broken again?”

  “I hope not,” John said.

  After a minute she said, “If Merri’s theory is right about the program only working when it wants us to learn something it wants us to know…”

  “As crazy as that sounds, I’m beginning to believe it.” John put the laptop back in his backpack and pulled Abby to her feet. “Come on. We might as well go.”

  “Yes, I don’t want to be here when the three bears come home.”

  The crowd was still enjoying the music on the town square, but Kate and Ryan had moved on. In reality, what Mayor Windham had referred to as the town square was no more than a grassy area with Calhoun and Jackson Streets forming a roundabout. There were no buildings there, nothing to indicate Equality’s business district had once extended that far. But Abby could picture a time when it had, when the square was lively with people shopping and horse-drawn buggies and wagons clattering by.

  They found the memorial for Equality’s favorite son at the edge of the square. The brass bas-relief sculpture of Michael Kelly Lawler didn’t do him justice, but then how could an image in stone or metal capture the real living, breathing man? A brass plaque below the sculpture said pretty much what Mayor Windham had already told them.

  Steps led up to a stone platform where visitors could sit on benches flanked by flower-filled urns to contemplate the general and his military exploits. Kate and Ryan were sitting on one of the benches, Kate bent over her sketchpad and Ryan sourly watching the audience. He didn’t seem to be enjoying the music any more than he had earlier.

  “There you are,” Kate said, looking up from her drawing. “Where have you two been?”

  Ryan, arms folded across his chest, turned from scanning the audience to glance at them.

  Abby angled her body away from him. “I’ll tell you later,” she said softly.

  When she turned back to watch the band, she saw that Ryan wore a sneering smile, and she realized that he had overheard her and obviously come to the wrong conclusion about their delay.

  “We struck out with the courthouse,” Abby said. She explained to Kate and Ryan what the mayor had told them. “Also, there are no Greenfields listed in the phone directory, and the police chief was disinclined to tell us where to find the ones he knew.”

  “Or where to find Hickory Hill,” John added.

  “Why on earth not?” Ryan asked. “He seemed like the helpful sort.”

  “He went from nice to weird just like that,” Abby said, snapping her fingers.

  “Makes you wonder what he’s covering up,” John said. “Did you guys find the library?”

  “Not so far,” Kate said. “We kind of got sidetracked here.”

  They had a clear view of the Eagle Creek band from their elevated position. One bald guy played an upright bass in back. A man wearing a black suit and a huge white hat played a banjo. Two guys played guitars. And a young woman stood with a violin at her side. They all sang into microphones, harmonizing
in a way that was unlike anything Abby had ever heard.

  “I love it,” she said. “Different, but I love it.”

  “They’re playing Uncle Penn,” John said over the music. “It’s an old Bill Monroe tune straight out of Appalachia. They’re pretty darn good, too.”

  “Why is that one guy playing his guitar sideways?” Kate asked, pointing with her sketchbook.

  “It’s a dobro,” John said. “Not a guitar.”

  Violin in hand, the young woman stepped forward, and Abby realized it was the Salt Queen they’d seen earlier, still wearing her tiara and sash. She put the violin under her chin and began to play an intricate counterpoint to the other instruments. The guy playing the guitar, a bearded man wearing a plaid shirt, smiled up at her.

  “She’s really good on that violin,” Abby said.

  John put an arm around her shoulders and laughed. “Yes, but don’t let her hear you calling her fiddle a violin.”

  When the song was finished Abby joined in the applause and waited eagerly to hear what they’d play next. But then the musicians began putting their instruments in cases at their feet on the grass.

  She sighed. “I guess we got here just in time for it to end.”

  “Maybe it’s just as well,” Kate said. “If we’re ever going to find the library—”

  “And the funnel cakes,” John added.

  Beyond the square, more vendors’ stands beckoned, and Ryan, with Kate in tow, started toward them.

  At one stand, Abby bought a jar of homemade raspberry jam from a man with nothing much to say and at another a necklace made of tiny woven ribbons from a woman who had plenty to say. Tragically for John, there were no funnel cake stands.

  The little Ferris wheel marked the end of the festival, and John suggested they go up in it, that maybe they’d be high enough to spot the library. But there was a long line of people waiting to ride. To get tickets they’d have to walk all the way back to the mayor’s stand and listen to another spiel, not something any of them cared to be subjected to again. Abby wished they’d asked the mayor for directions right off, but none of them had expected it to be so difficult to find the library in such a tiny village.