The Women of Jacob’s Mountain Boxed Set

by Hining, Deborah;

  Searching, she could see nothing but a sheer rock face on the opposite bank. “Where? I don’t see anything.”

  “There”, he pointed, leaning his head close to hers so they would have the same vantage. As his shoulder brushed her cheek, she felt it again—that sudden, sweet jolt that shook her senses and made her tremble. She took a step away from him.

  “I don’t see a thing,” she said brusquely. “Let’s just get over there.”

  They waded carefully across the stream, treacherous with uneven, moss-slippery rocks. Howard reached for her arm, but she waved him away, laughing brightly, afraid for him to touch her. Once across, he pointed above their heads and to the right. “Up there.”

  “In that little narrow slit? Nobody could squeeze in there.”

  “Hit’s bigger’n it looks. Here, yew go first. There’s enough toe holds to git ye up all right. Jist be careful.”

  Glad that she was not afraid of heights, Geneva threaded her way up ten feet of the cliff to the small fissure in the rock. As he had promised, it was barely large enough for a man to squeeze into. She stood at the opening, waiting for him to come up behind her with the flashlight.

  “Watch it right here. There’s a little lip jist in the entrance, then it levels out and widens. Jist step careful.” He eased his shoulder through the fissure, then his head and the rest of his body disappeared. She followed immediately, treading carefully behind him until the cave widened out enough for the two of them to stand side by side.

  “Hit’s not far back,” he whispered solemnly, as if they were in some sacred place. “Straight ahead.” He gave her a tiny push, walking beside her with his hand on her back until they made their way through a natural arch that opened into a small room. At the threshold Geneva stopped, uttering a small cry. Howard’s flashlight beam had fallen upon a stunning array of beautiful and intricate paintings, still brilliant and perfectly preserved. There were several scenes ranging from the most simple depictions of warriors hunting strange beasts to large, meticulously drawn patterns that held cryptic meanings indecipherable to Geneva.

  “Beautiful, beautiful,” she breathed. “Howard, this is a real treasure! How did you find it?”

  “I found it years ago, after I came back from Oklahoma. I liked to wander around the mountains, and I found it one day when I was tryin’ to scale the cliff. The man who owned it had never seen it, and one day, I saw him out in his field and I tole ‘im about it. This land had been in his family for over a hundred years, and none of ‘em had ever seen it as far as he knew. After that, we spent a lotta time together, searchin’ for more caves. He wuz sorta like a second father to me. He did the things fathers usually did with their sons, while mine couldn’t. He wuz a good man.”

  “Did he leave it to you?”

  “Yes. He had no younguns, no family at all, so he left me all his land when he died. The land where the mine is wuz his. He wuz a good man,” he repeated.

  They explored the cave for another hour. Geneva found it hard not to touch the delicate paint, but she kept her hands to herself and peered at each picture closely under the light.

  “I think this one represents a marriage,” he commented, pointing to one of the more elaborate drawings. “See, here’s a woman, dressed finer’n anyone else, and over here is a man, the only one wearing feathers.” He moved the light downward. “This looks like the priest or the medicine man, maybe the chief. He looks like he’d perform the ceremony. And all the people—see the streamin’ lines comin’ from ‘em? I think that must be good wishes.”

  He moved closer and pointed again. “And look. See here, floatin’ between ‘em, looks like an unborn baby, curled up like it would be in the womb. It’s like it’s waitin’ to come to ‘em.”

  “It’s marvelous.” She could not believe she was seeing these pictures, perhaps thousands of years old, painted by people so long dead that even their language was forgotten. And yet their art was more sophisticated than European art of only a few centuries ago. How remarkable was this day! “Thank you for showing me this. You know I won’t tell,” she said reverently.

  “I know, Geneva. Now we should go on back. We’ll have us some dinner, then ride on back down. Yew feel all right?”

  “I feel wonderful, thank you. Can I come back here some day?”

  “Yer always welcome.” She could not see his face, but his voice resonated low and husky and held the darkness of a sultry summer night. She caught her breath and felt the flush rise in her face once again. Hesitating, she looked down at the circle of light on the sandy floor of the cave, afraid to lift her eyes, afraid to move. If he could know how she trembled when his hand brushed her arm! She did not know what she would do if he touched her; she feared that he would read her thoughts—that she would leap into his arms and press her mouth against his. Without realizing it, she willed him to touch her. She closed her eyes and lifted her face, leaning toward him until she swayed.

  “Are you comin’?” he asked.

  “What?” She opened her eyes. He was standing at the cave entrance.

  “Do ye want to stay and look some more? Don’t ye think we oughtta git back?”

  “Oh. Yes. We need to get back.” She brushed past him into the brilliant sunlight.

  They hurried back to the cabin, speaking little, just concentrating on the rocky trail until they were in sight of the familiar forest. Several times he reached out as if to touch her or steady her, but he always dropped his hand before he made contact. When the trail grew easier, they walked separately, talking about the domestic issues of lunch and horses and how they would simply forget to tell anyone about the days they had spent there. Geneva was especially mindful of the secrets she held.

  The sky turned blue and the day grew hot. When they reached the place where the mine lay, Geneva stopped to bathe her face and feet in the rocky stream. Howard settled on a nearby rock and looked into the deep woods. His eyes grew brooding, as if he had moved his soul away into a distant place. Out of the corner of her eye, Geneva watched him, wondering what kind of man he was. He seemed so simple, as if there was nothing more to him than what he presented, and yet, she was growing more and more aware that there might be depths of him that would never be plumbed. She turned to the running water and cupped her hand to drink.

  “Ye better not drink that water,” cautioned Howard. Hit’s too far from the source.

  “Oh, I’m not afraid of a little E coli. I’ve drunk plenty of water from running streams, and it’s never hurt me before. We’re not downstream from anything that looks dangerous to me.”

  “There’s wild boar in these parts, and they carry parasites that’ll make ye real sick. Yew think ye had fever the other day, it’ll take more’n boneset ta git ye over Weil’s disease. Come on,” he said, sliding off the rock. “There’s a spring over yonder. We’ll slip on over there and git us a good drink.”

  Dutifully, she followed him into the dappled shade where he brushed through the ferns and led her to a small spring bubbling from a tumble of mossy rocks. The amount of water streaming over the moss was too small for her to capture a drink with her hand, so she held back her hair and laid her cheek into the velvet. The water was cold and pure. When she lifted her streaming face, he chuckled and leaned forward.

  “I usually pick out the critters afore I drink, unless I’m real hungry,” he said, reaching into the moss where she had just put her face and pulling out a snail and a few small beetles. “But I reckon hit’s jist as easy to strain ‘em out with yer teeth.”

  Geneva laughed. “I am hungry. Wish I had known they were there. I’m in the mood for escargot.” She bent and drank again, feeling reckless and a little like a wild creature herself, and she thought about how nice it would be to take off all her clothes and loll around in that deep moss. She plucked a long fern frond and tied her hair back with it, then preened a little while he bent to drink. She felt lightness suffuse her being.

  The sky was still blue when they returned to the cabin, but as
they sat down to lunch, it darkened deep and threatening. A thunderstorm rolled in from the west.

  They looked at each other. “It may let up,” he offered.

  “You think?”

  He grimaced slightly. “I don’t know. May. May not. We’ll jist wait it out.”

  They waited until nearly dinnertime, then, watching the dark rain beat hard upon the earth, Geneva sighed and commented, “Well, we can stay one more night. Is this Thursday?”

  “Friday. When will yer sister be home?

  “Tomorrow night or the next day.” She paused, dreading the growing silences between them and what those silences held. She wondered if he could feel her thoughts when she looked at him. Surely he did. They throbbed nearly palpably to her. She was careful to keep her eyes averted. “We can wait. We’ll go first thing in the morning.”

  They ate an early supper by firelight, then Howard lit the lantern and they washed dishes and settled down to cards. They had played two hands of gin rummy when the rain stopped and watery sunlight lit up the windows. Howard moved to the door.

  “It’s over. Blue sky jist ahead. Yew want to go fer it tonight?”

  She joined him at the threshold. The sun had already dipped below the tree line. “No. It will be dark soon. I don’t want to chance it.” She said it slowly, fearfully. Something bid her to stay. She shivered.

  “Yer right. Won’t be long.” There was a silence; he broke it by asking cheerfully, “Wanna make a pie?”

  They gathered huckleberries in the dying light, then Geneva mixed flour, water, shortening, and sugar together while Howard put the huckleberries and water in the pan and set it on the fire. As soon as the juice was bubbling, they dropped the batter by spoonfuls into the boiling berries.

  They ate it outside on the porch steps. Already the sky was deepening, and a handful of stars began pricking their way through the dark blue.

  “Yew want another hot bath? Plenty of rainwater.”

  “Can’t pass that up. You going for a swim?”

  He shrugged, smiling, “Might as well.”

  He built the fire outside once again, and she helped him set the zinc tub on rocks above it. Then they dipped water from the rain barrel into the tub and waited for it to simmer. Howard mixed up another batch of soaproot and laurel. This time he spiced it with honeysuckle.

  She put the concoction to her nose. “It’s lovely,” she said, smiling, waiting for him to leave.

  Her smile met his eyes. He was looking at her with a quiet intensity that made her heart thump. Almost imperceptibly, he tensed. She saw his jaw go taut in the lampshine streaming from the window, and she was glad that she stood in darkness, for she knew he would surely see the quick rise and fall of her breast. She fought to keep her breath steady.

  “Bet I get cleaner’n you do,” she said lightly.

  He relaxed. “Yew kin try. Enjoy yerself.” He disappeared in the darkness.

  She climbed into the tub, shaking. She washed her hair and her underwear once again, and scrubbed her clothes before she put on the long flannel shirt and brushed her teeth with mint and sweet gum. Restlessly, she hung her clothes on the porch rail and sat down on the steps, her breath unsteady, and waited for Howard.

  The darkness sang its caressing songs, and once again the whippoorwill called to her out of the night woods. She thought of Howard standing on the high cliff, facing the moon, dropping into the water so fearlessly. Her heart rose in her throat, and she found it impossible to rid herself of the image in her mind. She wanted to see him again. The thought burned her brain, and before she made herself think of how wrong this could be, she was making her way toward the creek and the smell of peppermint.

  She arrived in time to see him climbing up the rock and poising his face to drink in the moonlight. Back and neck arched, he looked like a proud stallion sniffing the wind. Then, just like the night before, he stepped into empty air and dropped straight to the water. She heard the splash and told herself to run, but she wanted to see him so beautiful just one more time. She willed her feet to move; they refused. Her eyes searched the boulders, her ears strained for the sound of splashing, but she could hear and see nothing except darkness and the voices of the night until he rose out of the water and stood before her.

  He loomed up large, dark, and silent. Water ran in dark little rivers down his face and body. She thought if she could not touch him, she would suffocate. Very slowly, with a shaking hand, she reached up and delicately traced the line of his collarbone. Water ran over her hand and dripped to the elbow. She wanted her whole hand to caress the wetness, but she stopped, terrified by both his presence and her feelings.

  He stood perfectly still while she touched him, but before she dropped her hand, he caught it in his own, and very slowly, as easy as breathing, he brought it to his lips and kissed the knuckles. His chest convulsed. The trembling spread from her hand to every nerve in her body. Looking at her hand as if it were a rare and delicate creature, he kissed her palm and then gently bit the heel of her hand. He kissed her wrist, nuzzling it softly before he leaned close and brushed her forehead with his lips. Somehow, she was in his arms, and their mouths collided.

  Geneva had often read about passionate kisses, and she even thought she had experienced a few of them. But this kiss was unlike anything she had ever known. She had heard about the earth moving, had thought it was a metaphor. This kiss enlightened her. The earth not only moved, it danced and leaped. She lost her balance and leaned hard against him to stay upright. Small explosions in her brain and in her loins spiraled upward and outward so that she found herself expanding into something large and luminous, like a sunflower blossoming.

  This must be what they call Chemistry, she thought, then her brain simply quit. She became nothing but feeling.

  Howard broke from the kiss and ran his hands over her back and shoulders. Then, seizing her shirt at the collar, he ripped it asunder with one smooth movement. Buttons dropped into the mint at their feet. His hands and his lips pressed hot like a brand upon her, and she reveled in the heat in them, the heat in her own flesh. Again came the explosions, the blossoming. She was in a boiling river, being swept away; she was tumbling over and over in water and fire and drowning passion. Gasping, she pulled him down onto the minty leaves where she touched him worshipfully. He tried to speak. “Oh, God. I feel like I’m in an avalanche,” he choked out. Her kiss silenced him, and they spoke no more.

  Later they picked themselves up and made their way back to the cabin where they slept curled up tightly together until midnight when a caressing hand on her forehead awakened her.

  “Wake up,” he said gently. “I want to show ye somethin’.”

  She reached for him, wanting his kisses, but he slipped from the bed, stripping it of the blankets and throwing them around her shoulders. “Better put yer shoes on. It’s a little ways.”

  Hurriedly, anticipating yet another wonder, she slipped into her shoes, then reached for his hand so he could lead her outside into the redolent, velvet darkness.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Jist up ahead.” He pressed her hand and tugged her gently along until they came to a clearing where the ground was a smooth expanse of exposed granite. There he spread the blankets upon the rock and lay flat on his back. “Come on,” he invited. “Lay down here.”

  She curled up beside him and put her arms around him, but he pointed upward. “Look, there’s one now.”

  She followed his pointing finger and found herself looking at the burning trail of a shooting star. Another one shot off an angle to the first. And then another and another streamed across the sky before her delighted eyes.

  “Oh! A meteor shower! Oh! and it’s such a clear, beautiful night! How did you know?”

  He chuckled. “Yew’ve lived in a house too long, darlin’. I bet yew don’t even know what this is.”

  She giggled. She felt full of little bubbles of happiness. “It’s not a meteor shower?”

  “No. It’s the
tears of Singing Eyes.”

  “Who?”

  “Singing Eyes. A Cherokee maiden who lost her lover and then threw herself off the edge of the world.” He swept his hand toward the sky, alive with falling stars. “These are her tears, and she’s cried ‘em ever year since the earth was new.”

  “Tell me the story.” She snuggled closer to him and pulled the edge of the blanket over herself tightly.

  “There wuz two lovers from neighborin’ villages, and their fathers had once been close friends, blood brothers, but for many years they were enemies. One of ‘em had gone away over the mountains and had come back with a bride he had captured. She was so beautiful that his friend fell in love with her and wanted her so bad he could think of nothin’ else. He found out that she was unhappy with her husband because he had stolen her away from her family and that she often cried at night because she wanted to go back to her people.

  “So one day, the friend came and stole her, and she went with him because he promised her to go live with her and her people if she would be his wife. They made the long journey, but when they got there, they found out that her family and most of her people had been killed by an earthquake, and the rest had gone to live with a neighboring tribe. Since there was nobody left that the woman loved, she agreed to go back home with the man and live with him and take his family for her own.

  “When they got back, her husband was real mad, and he swore that he would forever be enemies with his former brother, and from then on they never spoke or came to see one another.

  “Years passed, and both of ‘em had children. The man who had lost his bride to his friend married another woman and they had a daughter who had eyes so beautiful and lively they named her Singing Eyes. The other had a son, his name was Smoke on the Mountain, and since the two families never visited, the children never met.

  “But one day, Smoke on the Mountain, grown into a young man, wuz huntin’ and came across Singing Eyes as she was washin’ her hair in the river. They fell in love and wanted to marry, but when her father found out, he swore he’d kill Smoke on the Mountain if he came near Singing Eyes again. So they met deep in the forest, where they planned to run away over the mountain together. Her father followed them with all his kin, and they chased ‘em to the edge of the world. One of the men shot an arrow into the heart of Smoke on the Mountain, and Singing Eyes went mad with sorrow, and she threw herself off the cliff.