I knew then who it was I had seen walking away down the road that I had thought was Granpa.
Granpa said when he come out of the office and seen me, he knew at the time I was to be given up; but he didn’t know if I was more taken with being around young’uns … or wanted to come home … so he let me decide.
I told Granpa I seen right off what I wanted to do the minute I got to the orphanage.
I told Granma and Granpa about Wilburn. I left my cardboard box under the oak tree and I knew Wilburn would find it. Granma said she would send Wilburn a deer shirt. Which she did.
Granpa said he would send him a long knife, but I told Granpa more than likely Wilburn would stab the Reverend with it. Granpa didn’t send it. We never heard nothing more of Wilburn.
When we went to church that Sunday, I was first across the clearing. I run way ahead of Granma and Granpa. Willow John was standing back in the trees, where I knew he would be; the old straight-brimmed black hat settin’ on top of his head. I run as hard as I could and grabbed Willow John around the legs and hugged him. I said, “Thankee, Willow John.” He didn’t say anything but reached and touched my shoulder. When I looked up, his eyes was twinkling and shining, black deep.
The Passing Song
We wintered good; though me and Granpa was put to it to keep up with the wood cutting. Granpa had got behind and said that if I had not come back, they would more than likely have froze that winter. Which they would.
It was a hard freeze winter. We most times had to set fires and thaw out our running lines at the still, when we run off our wares.
Granpa said hard winters was necessary occasional. It was nature’s way of cleaning things up and making things grow better. The ice broke off the weak limbs of the trees, so only the strong ones come through. It cleaned out the soft acorns and chinkapins, chestnuts and walnuts, and made for a hardier food crop in the mountains.
Spring come, and planting time. We upped our corn planting, figuring to make the run of our wares a little bigger in the fall.
It was hard times, and Mr. Jenkins said the whiskey trade was picking up while everything else was going down. He said he reckined a feller had to drink more whiskey to fergit how bad off he was.
During the summer I come up to seven years. Granma give me the marriage stick of my Ma and Pa. It didn’t have many notches on it, for they was not married long. I put it in my room across the headboard of my bed.
Summer give way to fall, and one Sunday, Willow John didn’t come. We come across the clearing that Sunday but we didn’t see him standing under the elm. I run far back into the trees and called, “Willow John!’’ He was not there. We turned back and didn’t go to church. We come home.
Granma and Granpa was worried about it. I was too. He had left no sign, for we looked. Granpa said something was wrong. Me and Granpa determined to go and find him.
We set out before day, that Monday morning. By early light we was past the crossroads store and the church. After that, we commenced to walk might near straight upward.
It was the highest mountain I had ever walked. Granpa had to slow down and I kept up easy. It was an old trail, so dim you almost couldn’t see it, running along a ridge that sloped upward and onto another mountain. The trail sidled up the mountain, but always it went up.
The trees was shorter and more weathered. At the top of the mountain a little fold run into the side; not deep enough to be called a hollow. Trees grew on its sides and pine needles carpeted the floor. Willow John’s lodge was there.
It was not built of big logs, like our cabin, but of smaller lodge poles and set back in the trees against the bank of the fold, sheltered.
We had brought Blue Boy and Little Red with us. When they saw the lodge, they raised their noses and commenced to whine. It was not a good sign. Granpa went in first; he had to stoop to go through the door. I followed him.
There was only one room in the lodge. Willow John lay on a bed of deer hides spread over spring boughs. He was naked. The long copper frame was withered like an old tree and one hand lay limp on the dirt floor.
Granpa whispered, “Willow John!’’
Willow John opened his eyes. His eyes was faraway, but he grinned. “I knew you would come,” he said, “and so, I waited.” Granpa found a iron pot and sent me for water. I found it, trickling from rocks behind the lodge.
There was a fire pit just inside the door and Granpa built a fire and put the pot over it. He dropped strips of deer meat in the water; and after they had boiled, raised Willow John’s head in the cradle of his arm and spooned the broth down him.
I got blankets from a corner and we covered Willow John. He didn’t open his eyes. Night come on. Me and Granpa kept the fire going in the fire pit. The wind whistled on the mountaintop and whined around the corners of the lodge.
Granpa set cross-legged before the fire and the light flickered over his face, changing it from old, to older … making it look like rock crags and clefts in the shadows of his cheekbones until all I could see was the eyes looking at the fire; burning black, not like flames, but like embers going out. I curled around the fire pit and slept.
It was morning when I woke. The fire was beating back fog drifting in the door. Granpa still set by the fire; like he hadn’t moved at all, though I know he had kept it burning.
Willow John stirred. Me and Granpa went to his side, and his eyes was open. He raised his hand and pointed. “Take me outside.”
“It’s cold out,” Granpa said.
“I know,” Willow John whispered.
Granpa had a hard time getting Willow John into his arms, for he was total limp. I tried to help.
Granpa carried him out the door and I dragged the spring boughs behind them. Granpa clambered up the bank of the fold to a high point and we laid Willow John on the spring boughs. We wrapped him in blankets and put his boot moccasins on his feet. Granpa folded hides and propped up his head.
The sun broke through behind us and chased the fog into the deeps, searching shade. Willow John was looking west, across the wild mountains and deep hollows, as far as you could see; toward the Nations.
Granpa went to the lodge and come back with Willow John’s long knife. He put it in his hand. Willow John raised the knife and pointed to an old fir-pine that was bent and twisted. He said, “When I have gone, put the body there, close to her. She has dropped many young and warmed me and sheltered me. It will be good. The food will give her two more seasons.”
“We will,” Granpa said.
“Tell Bee,” Willow John whispered, “it will be better next time.”
“I will,” Granpa said.
He set down by Willow John and taken his hand. I set on the other side and taken his other hand.
“I will wait for you,” Willow John told Granpa.
“We will come,” Granpa said.
I told Willow John that more than likely, it was the flu; Granma had said that it was going around practical everywheres. I told him I was might near certain that we could get him on his feet and down the mountain where he could stay with us. I told him the whole thing was to get on his feet, and then he could more than likely make it.
He grinned at me and squeezed my hand. “You have good heart, Little Tree; but I do not want to stay. I want to go. I will wait for you.”
I cried. I told Willow John reckin if he couldn’t figger on staying a little longer, maybe he could go next year when it would be warmer. I told him the hickor’nut crop would be good this winter. I told him you could might near see right off that the deer would be fat.
He grinned, but he didn’t answer me.
He looked far out over the mountains, toward the west; like me and Granpa was not there anymore. He begun his passing song, telling the spirits he was coming. The death song.
It begun low in his throat and rose higher and commenced to get thinner.
In a little while you couldn’t tell if it was the wind, or Willow John that you heard. His eyes got dimmer as his throat m
uscles moved weaker.
Me and Granpa saw the spirit slipping away farther back in his eyes and we felt it leaving his body. Then he was gone.
The wind whooshed across us and bent the old fir-pine. Granpa said it was Willow John, and he had a strong spirit. We watched it, bending just the tops of the trees on the ridges, moving down the side of the mountain and raising a flock of crows into the air. They cawed and cawed and set off down the mountain with Willow John.
Me and Granpa set and watched him move out of sight over the rims and humps of the mountains. We set a long time.
Granpa said Willow John would be back, and that we would feel him in the wind and hear him on the talking fingers of the trees. Which we would.
Me and Granpa taken our long knives and dug the hole; as close to the old fir-pine as we could get it. We dug it deep. Granpa wrapped another blanket around Willow John’s body and we laid it in the hole. He put Willow John’s hat in the hole too, and let the long knife stay in his hand, where he gripped it tight.
We piled rocks heavy and deep over the body of Willow John. Granpa said the ’coons must be kept away, for Willow John was determined the tree was to have the food.
The sun was setting in the west when I follered Granpa down from the mountaintop. We had left the lodge as we had found it. Granpa carried a deer shirt of Willow John’s to give to Granma.
When we reached the hollow, it was after midnight. I heard a mourning dove far back, calling. It was not answered. I knew it called for Willow John.
Granma lit the lamp when we come in. Granpa laid Willow John’s shirt on the table and did not say anything. Granma knew.
We didn’t go to church after that. I didn’t care, for Willow John would not be there.
We was to have two more years together; me and Granpa and Granma. Maybe we knew time was getting close, but we didn’t speak of it. Granma went everywhere now with me and Granpa. We lived it full. We pointed out things like the reddest of the leaves in the fall, to make sure the others saw it, the bluest violet in the spring, so we all tasted and shared the feeling together.
Granpa’s step got slower. His moccasins dragged some when he walked. I toted more of the fruit jar wares in my tow sack and taken to handling more of the heavy work. We didn’t mention it.
Granpa showed me how to curve the down swing of an axe, so you moved through a log fast and easy. I pulled more of the corn than he did, leaving the ears easiest to reach for him; but I didn’t say anything. I remembered what Granpa had said about ol’ Ringer feeling he was still of worth. That last fall, ol’ Sam died.
I told Granpa reckin we hadn’t better see about another mule, and Granpa said it was a long time ’til spring; let’s wait and see.
We taken the high trail more regular; me and Granpa and Granma. The climb was slower for them, but they loved to set and watch the mountain rims.
It was on the high trail that Granpa slipped and fell. He didn’t get up. Me and Granma sided him down the mountain and he kept saying, “I’ll be all right d’rectly.’’ But he wasn’t. We put him abed.
Pine Billy come by. He stayed with us and set up with Granpa. Granpa wanted to hear his fiddle and Pine Billy played. There in the lamplight, with his homemade haircropping hanging over his ears, and his long neck bent over the fiddle, Pine Billy played. Tears run down his face onto the fiddle and dropped on his overalls.
Granpa said, “Quit crying, Pine Billy. Ye’re messing up the music. I want to hear the fiddle.”
Pine Billy choked and said, “I ain’t crying. I catched a c-c-cold.” Then he dropped his fiddle and flung hisself at the foot of Granpa’s bed and laid his head in the bedclothes. He heaved and cried. Pine Billy never was one to hold hisself in about anything.
Granpa raised up his head and hollered—weak, “Ye damn idjit; ye’re gittin’ Red Eagle snuff all over the bed sheets!’’ Which he was.
I cried too, but I didn’t let Granpa see me.
Granpa’s body mind commenced to stumble and sleep. His spirit mind taken over. He talked to Willow John a lot. Granma held his head in her arms and whispered in his ear.
Granpa come back to his body mind. He wanted his hat, which I got; and he put it on his head. I held his hand and he grinned. “It was good, Little Tree. Next time, it will be better. I’ll be seein’ ye.” And he slipped off; like Willow John had done.
I knew it was going to happen, but I didn’t believe it. Granma laid on the bed by Granpa, holding him tight. Pine Billy was bawling on the foot of the bed.
I slipped out of the cabin. The hounds was baying and whining, for they knew. I walked down the hollow trail and taken the cutoff trail. I was not follering Granpa, and then I knew the world had come to an end.
I was blinded and fell and got up and walked and fell again; I don’t know how many times. I come to the crossroads store and I told Mr. Jenkins. Granpa was dead.
Mr. Jenkins was too old to walk and he sent his son, a full-growed man, to go back with me. He led me by the hand, like I was might near a baby, for I could not see the trail, nor know where I was going.
Mr. Jenkins’ son and Pine Billy made the box. I tried to help. I recollected Granpa said you was obligated to pitch in when folks was trying to do for you; but I wasn’t much account at it. Pine Billy cried so much, he wasn’t neither. He hit his thumb with the hammer.
They carried Granpa up the high trail. Granma leading, and Pine Billy and Mr. Jenkins’ son carrying the box. Me and the hounds come behind. Pine Billy kept crying, which made it hard on me to hold myself in, not wanting to trouble Granma. The hounds whined.
I knew where Granma was taking Granpa. It was to his secret place; high on the mountain trail where he watched the day birth and never got tired of it and never quit saying, “She’s coming alive!” like each time was the first time he had ever seen it. Maybe it was. Maybe every birthing is different and Granpa could see that it was and knew.
It was the place Granpa had taken me first, and so I knew Granpa kinned me.
Granma didn’t look as we lowered Granpa in the ground. She watched the mountains, far off, and she didn’t cry.
The wind was strong, there on the mountaintop and it lifted her hair-braids and streamed them out behind her. Pine Billy and Mr. Jenkins’ son walked off, back down the trail. Me and the hounds watched Granma awhile, then we slipped away.
We waited, setting under a tree halfway down the trail, for Granma to come. It was dusk when she did.
I tried to pick up Granpa’s load and mine too. I ran the still, but I know our wares was not as good.
Granma got out all Mr. Wine’s figgering books and pushed me on learning. I went to the settlement alone and brought back other books. I read them now, by the fireplace, while Granma listened and watched the fire. She said I done good.
Ol’ Rippitt died, and later that winter, ol’ Maud.
It was just before spring. I come from the Narrows down the hollow trail. I saw Granma setting on the back porch. She had moved her rocker there.
She didn’t watch me as I come down the hollow. She was looking up, toward the high trail. I knew she was gone.
She had put on the orange and green and red and gold dress that Granpa loved. She had printed out a note and pinned it on her bosom. It said:
Little Tree, I must go. Like you feel the trees, feel for us when you are listening. We will wait for you. Next time will be better. All is well. Granma.
I carried the tiny body into the cabin and put it on the bed and set with her through the day. Blue Boy and Little Red set too.
That evening I went and found Pine Billy. Pine Billy set up the night with me and Granma. He cried and played his fiddle. He played the wind … and the Dog Star … and the mountain rims … and the day birthing … and dying. Me and Pine Billy knew Granma and Granpa was listening.
We made the box next morning and carried her up the high trail and laid her beside Granpa. I taken the old marriage stick and buried the ends in piles of stone me and Pine Billy put a
t the head of each grave.
I seen the notches they made for me; right down near the end of the stick. They was deep and happy notches.
I lasted out the winter; me and Blue Boy and Little Red, until spring. Then I went to Hangin’ Gap and buried the still’s copper pot and worm. I was not much good at it, and had not learned the trade as I had ought to. I knew Granpa would not want anybody else using it to turn out bad wares.
I took the whiskey trade money that Granma had set out for me and determined I would head west, across the mountains to the Nations. Blue Boy and Little Red went with me. We just closed the cabin door one morning and walked away.
At the farms I asked for work; if they would not let me keep Blue Boy and Little Red then I would move on. Granpa said a feller owed that much to his hounds. Which is right.
Little Red fell through creek ice in the Arkansas Ozarks and died like a hound ought to die, in the mountains. Me and Blue Boy made it to the Nations, where there was no Nation.
We worked on the farms, going west, and then the ranches on the flats.
One evening late, Blue Boy come aside my horse. He laid down and couldn’t get up. He couldn’t go anymore. I taken him up, acrost my saddle, and we turned our backs on the red settin’ sun of the Cimarron. We headed east.
I would not get my job back, riding off this way, but I didn’t care. I had bought the horse and saddle for fifteen dollars and they was mine.
Me and Blue Boy was huntin’ us a mountain.
Before day we found one. It wasn’t much of a mountain, more like a hill, but Blue Boy whimpered when he seen it. I toted him to the top as the sun broke the east. I dug him a grave and he laid and watched.
He couldn’t raise his head, but he let me know he knew it; for he stiffened a ear and kept his eyes on me. After that, I held Blue Boy’s head, settin’ on the ground. He licked my hand, when he could.
The Education of Little Tree Page 20