Then there was the matter of John’s house. The bathroom was too small, so they would have to add on, and she really wanted to redecorate. She would keep her apartment in DC as an investment…
She planned. She worried through each consideration carefully. She prioritized her goals the way she had been taught in the self-actualization course she had taken the year before, and at last, late one night, tossing in her cool bed, she determined that the first task she must complete would be to become engaged. Of course, the event would have to be planned carefully so that it would be beautiful and exciting enough to satisfy her need for romance. One doesn’t become engaged very often, and the memory should be enough to raise the goose flesh for the rest of her life.
Howard’s proposal, she remembered, had been so disappointing she was barely able to reconstruct it in her mind. There was something to do with a silly argument over who loved whom the most, then some tears on her part. The actual moment of “Will you?” (or was it, “Oh, all right!”) and “Yes,” was rather anti-climactic.
She decided that the best and quickest way to achieve her goals would be to seduce John in a perfectly perfect setting. And it had to be now. If she waited too long, it would be too cold to loll naked in the sunshine, and that’s where the romance was. Waiting for long winter evenings and firelight would be okay, perhaps, but summer somehow seemed sexier to her. He should pick her up and carry her into the dappled shade by a murmuring brook. And the sun would rain down gold, and they would breathe the honeysuckle and hear the wind and the sounds of the wilderness around them.
She gave a happy little sigh thinking about how she would yield to him gently, tenderly. Or would it be passionately? They would thunder on the horses on top of a high mountain, and he would sweep her into his arms, and fire would leap up between them—she remembered the electric fence—and they would cling desperately to each other, yearning, panting… She gave another happy sigh and shivered and began another possible scenario.
Actually, Geneva had very little experience in accomplishing a seduction. Both Jerry and Howard had taken the initiative, though Jerry had certainly had an easier time—actually, effortless time. He had merely handed her a joint and after two tokes she had ripped his clothes off. Poor old Howard had to beg for months and was finally forced to come up with a nice little emerald and diamond engagement ring before she finally yielded. As she remembered each incident, she realized that both men had fallen short in her ideas of what a good seduction should entail. In fact, if it hadn’t been for the aphrodisiacal qualities of marijuana, her affair with Jerry would have been a total disappointment, and Howard had always seemed to be awfully businesslike or in a hurry somehow, perhaps because he always played Vivaldi when they made love. But his satin sheets had been nice, and afterward, they always went out to dinner at the Watergate or watched classic movies. Oh, well, she knew enough to show John how to do it right. She lay very still beneath the white sheet and visualized it. Maybe get him up to Jacob’s Mountain and lie in the long, silken grass and watch the blue sky deepen both above and below them? The image made her head swim, but she rolled over into the arms of sleep, knowing he didn’t stand a chance.
Saturday, she was ready for him. Today, she would begin. The actual event would not happen today. No, she would just make him very aware of how desirable she was, make him wonder what it might be like to taste her sweet, young flesh. Today would be for awakening his desires. She would make him wait another… oh… six weeks? before it got too cold up on the mountain. Besides, she had more practical details to work out, like who would be responsible for protection. If she made him think he was seducing her, he would have to bear that responsibility, and it would make her seem the innocent party. Yes. Make him think he is the one orchestrating the affair.
She bathed and perfumed and dusted and stroked herself into a picture of sleek desirability. She even put on makeup, which she rarely did these days; it seemed so silly here among the horses and rocky trails. But she wanted to be stunning, so she stroked on mascara, then packed a picnic into her saddlebags, tucking in a bottle of wine with a giddy little pat. It would not be Jacob’s Mountain at this point, unless he mentioned it. She knew that he knew that she knew the power of the place, but he did not know that she knew that he knew, so she had the advantage there. The only problem was that where he thought he could suggest it “innocently,” or guide them there without suspicion, she knew she could not. But there was no need to worry about that at this point. He would surely suggest it in time.
They took a high trail, one that John suggested and Geneva remembered from her childhood. She had loved it then, and today it welcomed her like a child again, teasing her through hardwood forests, cool and deep with shade, opening now and then to sunshine and laurel thickets. At one point, the trail narrowed around a rocky outcropping, then widened again into a glen thick with ferns. Ahead of Geneva, John pulled Redneck up without warning.
Fairhope had to sidestep to miss him, and Geneva’s foot brushed against Redneck’s haunch. The horses danced and sidestepped until they both stopped side by side. Twenty feet ahead of them stood a strange, shining figure, dressed in rags, barefoot, but proud and solid. His head and chest were entirely engulfed by a cloud of the white, fluffy hair of his head and beard. He was short and small-boned with the face of an elf or a gnome. Ruddy, blue-eyed, he wore a constant, genetically formed smile upon his gladsome countenance.
“Holy Miracle,” Geneva breathed.
“Well, I wouldn’t go so far as that,” said John under his breath. “An apparition, maybe.”
“No, it’s Holy Miracle Jones. I haven’t seen him for years. He’s grown older,” she said, thinking of long summers past.
The figure, which had not moved, spoke, or rather shouted at Geneva and John with a rusty, high-pitched, nasal brogue, “HAVE YE GOT ANY TERBACCY?”
Geneva gathered her wits quickly. “No. But we’ve got food. Cheese and bread, and some fruit. And some wine. Do you want wine?”
“NO,” hollered the little man. “NO WINE TO POLLUTE THE TEMPLE. KEEP AWAY FROM STRONG DRINK, THE LORD SAYS. I’LL SAVE THE WINE FER THE NEXT COMIN’.” He pointed to a boulder off the trail. “LEAVE IT THERE. THEM HICK’RY NUTS IS YOURN, AND THE HONEY.”
John did not move but looked curiously from the man to Geneva while she dismounted and emptied her saddlebags of the food. “Give me your shirt,” she said in a low voice.
“What?”
“Your shirt. Take it off. I’ll buy you another one. Just take it off and give it to me.”
Without speaking, John peeled off his shirt and handed it to Geneva. Quickly, she rolled it up and placed it and the food on the boulder. She picked up a burlap sack lying there, and without looking in it, she called out, “Thank you, Holy Miracle. I will share these with Rachel. She just had two more little babies.”
“I’M GLAD TO KNOW IT. GOD BLESS THE GIRL AND THE LITTLE ONES, BACH. AND GOD BLESS YE, TOO, GIRLIE. I SEE YE NEED HIS BLESSING, YE GOT A THISTLE IN YER SOUL.”
“I’m sorry. What?” returned Geneva.
“A THISTLE!” came the shouted reply. “A THISTLE, IN YER SOUL. AH, IT HURTS, BUT IT’S SUCH A PRETTY HURT, SO YE ALMOST LOVE IT. BETTER WATCH OUT, BOY!” he shouted to John, “THEM PRETTY HURTS IS SLOW TO HEAL, AND THEM THISTLES CAN PRICK YE, TOO. I THANK YE FER THE VITTLES. GOD MEND YER SOUL AND GIVE YE BOTH YER HEART’S DESIRE.” He stepped off the trail and disappeared.
“What on earth…” began John.
“Don’t say anything, just go on,” interrupted Geneva in a low voice. “I’ll tell you about him on up the trail. Go on,” she urged again.
They rode perhaps a half-mile in silence before John pulled in the reins and dropped back beside Geneva. She was lost in her memory, so he did not press until she was ready to speak.
“Sorry about your shirt,” said Geneva. “I will buy you another one. It just looked like he needed it. His rags looked as thin as air.”
“Forget it,” replied John.
“I was glad to give it to him. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of it. Who is he?”
“Holy Miracle Jones,” she said slowly, feeling very small and far away. “He lives here in the woods. We used to see him quite often when we were children. His father, too. They were both very special, like the pride of these mountains, and we’ve always felt responsible for taking care of them.”
“You’ve known him a long time?”
“Forever. I think one of my earliest memories may be of him and his father. They are… were…” she searched for the right word, “mystics, I guess. I used to think of them as fairies or elves but that was just a childhood fantasy. There is a kind of holiness, or mystery about them, though, and everybody who ever met them thinks so, too. I always associated them with flowers and good, pure things. They had the ability to heal sick animals. Whenever Rachel or I would find a baby bird or a sick squirrel—anything, we’d come up the trail to Jacob’s Mountain and yell for him. That’s where they lived, and most of the time, either he or his father would just appear out of nowhere. Both of them were very shy, and they would stay twenty or thirty feet away, and yell at us, like he did today. We’d put the animal down, and usually some food or clothes, then we’d leave. If we came back later, the animal and the food would be gone, and then, a few days or weeks later, we’d find it on our back porch—the animal, that is—in a beautiful basket made of willow or honeysuckle vine, with the honeysuckle blossoms still fresh on it. It would be all well again, usually sleeping soundly. When it woke up, we’d let it go.”
“Why do you suppose he’d bring it back to you?”
“I’m not sure,” replied Geneva. “I think just to give us the pleasure of seeing it scamper or fly away. And it always did give us such pleasure.” She felt dreamy, remembering those bright moments when she could feel the beating heart of a meadowlark in her hands and the way her own heart lifted with the wings of the creature as it took flight.
“I never got close enough to get a really good look at them,” she said, regretfully, “but once when we were out, up on the ridge near Jacob’s Mountain, Rachel fell off a cliff. She slid and dropped probably a total of thirty or forty feet and was knocked out cold. I couldn’t get to her, so I ran all the way home. When I got there, Mama and Daddy decided to get ropes and a litter before they went after her. You know, they didn’t want to waste time running back and forth unprepared. It took us maybe twenty or thirty minutes to call people and prepare for the rescue, and then, when we stepped out in the back yard, there was Rachel, lying peacefully in the rope hammock, a crown of daisies on her head, and more flowers in her hands, and her arm tied up close to her chest. It was broken, but she said it hardly hurt at all while we were getting her to the hospital.
“Did she know who had brought her home?”
“She said she remembered being lifted up and delicious smells, like violets, but nothing else until we woke her there in the hammock. We’re all pretty sure it was Holy Miracle and his dad.
“What a good story. Who are they? Where did they come from?”
“I don’t know the whole tale, nor how true it is, but years ago my grandfather told me that Holy Miracle’s father was Welsh, his mother English, and their families were bitter enemies. Apparently, his father’s father had been instrumental in a rebellion against the English and had killed someone close to the throne. At any rate, he was caught and executed, and his family, most of them involved in the rebellion, too, either went to prison or escaped the country. Holy Miracle Jones’ father—his name was Pwyll. I’m not sure I’m pronouncing that right—was just a child when he came here with his family, but his parents and his older brothers harbored a hatred for the English because they had grown up in this family that had been always at war with them. They were like the last of the true Celts that had chafed under English rule.
“Anyway, the story goes that Pwyll grew up and fell in love with a girl from an English family. And she was related to a family who had been responsible for some supposed wrongs to the Joneses. Pwyll’s father and brothers all hated her from the get-go, accused her of being an English witch and stealing the youngest son for some vile purpose, and they vowed that Pwyll would never marry her.
“And then, of course, her family got all mad about it, too, and vowed that she would never marry him. But they did marry, in spite of all the animosity. They eloped and came to live on top of a mountain near here, Jacob’s Mountain, and people say that their love was so powerful that when the families came up, all prepared to do battle, they took one look at them and forgot their anger. They gave them their blessings and left in peace.”
Geneva fell silent as she let the memory of this remarkable and almost forgotten family warm her like a live ember. It had been so long since she had seen that joyful face, and there was something stirring deep within her that caused her to yearn very much for those magical summers when she saw broken wings mended and soaring.
“So what happened then?” John interrupted.
“I don’t know how long they lived together, but Holy Miracle was their only child, as far as I know. The mother was injured somehow and delivered the baby prematurely, just before she died. They say that with her last breath, she named the baby Holy Miracle, because he was the result of their miraculous love. And then, they say, Pwyll went kind of crazy. Before, he had been a regular social kind of fellow, but after his wife died, he became very reclusive and wouldn’t allow anyone to see his baby, even though his family and hers came and begged him to bring him in to live with them. They lived in their cabin for a few years, until Holy Miracle was around nine or ten, and then one day, they burned the cabin to the ground and lived in the woods from then on. I don’t know how they survived the winters, but they always seemed pretty hale whenever we saw them. My guess is they found a good cave with a hot spring in it. Did you notice how clean he looked? He’s like that every time we see him, dressed in rags but shining clean.” She smiled at the picture of Holy Miracle standing in a shaft of sunlight on the trail. It had been so good to see him again. She went on. “It’s pretty much certain that Pwyll is dead. I haven’t seen him since Rachel’s accident, and, goodness, Holy Miracle looks ancient, doesn’t he?”
“I’ve heard of Jacob’s Mountain,” mused John. “They say it has magical powers.”
Geneva hesitated. She had no choice but to get it out in the open. “Yes. Legend has it that the spirit of Love lives there and that it will inhabit anyone who goes there. Enemies have been known to make peace, and virtual strangers have fallen in love at first sight. That’s where Rachel and Wayne first decided they cared for each other.”
“I heard that story,” replied John. “I think it’s a beautiful legend. Do you believe it?”
She sighed. No, when she really thought about it, she did not believe it, although she wanted to with all her heart. It would be wonderful if Love were a living thing, could really be pure and simple, would heal all hurts and make the tattered soul whole again. “I don’t suppose I really do,” she said sadly. “The mountain heart loves legends and romance. It would be easy to keep a story like that alive.”
“What did he say to you? That you had a thistle in your soul? What did he mean by that?”
“I have no idea,” returned Geneva. “He often says cryptic things like that. I don’t know what he thinks he sees.” But her heart felt profoundly sad that Holy Miracle had seen something amiss with her. His words brought home her long unhappiness and her futile searching for—What? She only wished she knew. Could the old mystic really see her soul? Could he help her heal it? She shook off the thought. Old mountain hermits could not possibly know the longings of her heart.
They traveled in silence until the forest gave way to grass and sunshine. Before the sun had a chance to crest, Geneva and John found themselves gliding across the grassy bald, opulent with the scent of summer jasmine. Softly, the wind blew away Geneva’s sorrow; she felt her heart lift and brighten, and in response to the new joy overtaking her, she sp
urred Fairhope to a dead run through the long, soft grass, challenging John with one short whoop. He was right behind her, a war cry in his throat. She beat him to the crest of the mountain, then dismounted while Fairhope was still in motion, feeling drunk with power and purpose. She flung her arms out and spun around in the merciful light, then ran and, laughing, leaped into John’s bare arms the moment he had dismounted. It was a perfect day to begin his seduction. She hoped he would do it right.
They had no food except the hickory nuts, which they dipped in honey and ate with their fingers, and they drank Geneva’s wine and talked about how they felt like gods up here above the world, feasting on wine and honey. When the bottle was emptied, Geneva lay back into the grass, feeling languid and full of warm sunlight. He was beautiful, sitting there in long, waving grass, lightly tanned, the light hair on his bare chest glinting gold in the thin, pure light. He was powerfully built, wedge-shaped, made to work with large animals. But his hands were sensitive looking, long fingered and tapered, though callused and work-rough. His hair, curly, longish, and ruffled by the wind, looked very touchable. She remembered it as being soft and smooth in her fingers. She yearned to touch him, but decided to tread very carefully. She would not make the first move. Giving him her best, come-hither smile, she teased, “John, do you work all the time? Don’t you ever go on vacations?” She willed him to say that he had always dreamed of sailing to the Greek islands.
“Oh, sure. The last time I went abroad I went to Serbia. I guess I stayed there for a couple of months.”
“Serbia?”
“In Yugoslavia. You remember back when they had the big earthquake?”
“Why did you go to Serbia of all places?”
The Women of Jacob’s Mountain Boxed Set Page 17