Poison Ivory

by Tamar Myers

  “And most kinds of snakes too,” Mama said.

  I practically jumped out of my skin. “What do you mean by ‘most’ kinds of snakes?”

  “Never say never,” Mama said. “Even up in York County, if the weather’s warm enough, some varieties will come out and sun themselves. Why once—”

  “Mama, please. I’m a nervous wreck as it is.” I still didn’t have the heart to tell her that I hadn’t the foggiest notion where we were.

  “I suppose then you really don’t want to hear about the Small Hairy Ones.”

  “Our cousins in Wilmington? No thanks, Mama. And I thought there wasn’t anything scarier than snakes.”

  “Not our family, silly; South Carolina’s answer to Big Foot. The local tribe used to call them the ‘Srotideypoc,’ which literally translates as a small hairy person. According to the story—this was told to my great-great-granddaddy when he first started coming down to the beach after the War of Northern Aggression—there were many Srotideypoc living in this forest at that time. You see, it was all virgin timber then. Anyway, the Indians described them as being about four feet tall, bipedal, and covered with reddish brown hair. It was said that their eyes displayed human intelligence. They apparently lived in small family groups and subsisted on raw deer meat and berries. The Native Americans mostly left them alone, except when the Small Hairy Ones caught one of their maidens and made off with her.”

  At that point my hair felt like it was standing on end and I was scanning the underbrush for reddish brown hair and bright eyes. “What did they do with the maidens, Mama? Did they eat them?”

  “When times got tough, I suppose so. But mostly they wanted them as mates. Over the millennia the Small Hairy Ones became less hirsute and taller, and so it was easier for them to pass as humans, but they continued to live in isolation in this forest. There was a terrible forest fire here in the 1930s and they say that during the worst of it a band of about twenty or so short, dark, naked people staggered out of the forest, about half of them holding babies or small children. The forest rangers rushed over to give them first aid, but these people—everyone agrees they were Srotideypoc—were terrified by the rangers and rushed back into the forest and disappeared.”

  When we’d begun our foray into the woods, the sunlight streaming down between the second growth trees had created a dappled effect. Now the undergrowth was merging into one great shadow. It was also noticeably cooler.

  “Mama, who told you this wild tale?”

  “It’s not a wild tale, dear. Your Grandpa Paw-Paw told me the story when I was knee high to a grasshopper. He said that his best friend Roy was one of the forest rangers who saw the Small Hairy Ones that day. Besides, there have been reports since then. Why, just a couple of years ago some tourists saw one run across the road carrying a baby. That was just over in Berkeley County.”

  “No offense, Mama. But wasn’t Grandpa Paw-Paw the one who got fired from his job at the newspaper on account of he made up half his stories?”

  “That was only when he was drinking, dear, and the figure was more like a third.”

  “Mama! You’ve got me all worked up over nothing!”

  “Aha, admit it, Abby. My story scared you, didn’t it? Well, at least it got your mind off that horrible woman.”

  At that very moment the universe decided that Mama’s not-so-funny joke could use a little embellishment. From somewhere to our left came a bloodcurdling scream. It was like nothing I’d ever heard before in real life. I’d heard peacocks, panthers, and jackasses all give forth on the big screen, and this was a bit like those three animals rolled into one and then amplified.

  “Oh shoot,” said Mama, but not in a ladylike way. “What in tarnation was that?”

  “You tell me; you seem to be the expert on these woods.”

  The universe did not approve of the way I’d just spoken to Mama. From the other, opposite direction came the unmistakable cry of a human baby. This was a loud caterwauling baby, one who refuses to be appeased by a bottle, by rocking, even by a citywide car ride. I’ll swear the child—for that’s exactly what it sounded like—cried for two solid minutes, then stopped abruptly. The second it did, the screeching to the northeast of us resumed.

  “I’m getting out of here,” Mama said.

  “I’m with you there!”

  But it was suddenly as dark as a well digger’s buttocks, and unless we managed to dig our own well all the way to China, we weren’t about to go anywhere. “Abby, will you hold me?” Mama said.

  “Only if you hold me,” I said.

  “Deal.”

  So there we stood, two grown women, with our arms wrapped around each other, our hearts pounding against each other’s chests. At some point we agreed to sit, but that made us feel vulnerable, so we stood again. After many hours the moon rose and remained obstructed long enough for us to spot a hardwood tree that had fallen in some past storm. It appeared to have been stopped partway into its projected path by a dense grove of pines.

  We clawed our way through the brambles and then, risking injury—should the hardwood complete its journey—scampered up its trunk like a pair of young coons fleeing a pack of bloodhounds. The moon’s appearance was brief, and our climb was hazardous because huge patches of bark sloughed off everytime we shifted weight, but making it even just as high as a dozen feet above the forest floor was psychologically comforting. We assured each other that the screeching, crying beast—or was it really the Small Hairy Ones—couldn’t climb trees. And of course it couldn’t jump.

  As we clung to each other in the dead branches of a felled tree, I decided to let it all hang out—metaphorically speaking, in a sixties sort of way.

  “Mama, I love you.”

  “I love you too, dear.”

  “More than anyone in the world?”

  “At least as much.”

  “Who do you love as much?”

  “I think that should be ‘whom,’ dear. The grammar police will get you.”

  “I’m serious, Mama. Is it Toy?”

  “He’s my son, Abby. I’m supposed to love him as much.”

  “But he’s a ne’er-do-well—even if he is studying for the Episcopal priesthood. Besides, he never remembers your birthday, or Mother’s Day. What did he get you for Christmas last year?”

  “It’s the thought that counts.”

  “Oh, poor Mama, I knew you were going to say that. Toy didn’t get you anything. Not even a Christmas card. Did he even call?”

  “Well, when I called him the next day, he said that he was all set to call me, but he was playing this video game where you have to get to a certain level before you can stop, or you lose all your points—”

  “In other words, his video game was more important than the woman who spent thirty-six excruciating hours in labor with him.”

  “Oh no, dear, that’s what I spent with you; Toy just popped out like toothpaste when you squeeze the middle of the tube.”

  I was silent for a moment. Okay, if that’s the way you want to play it, old woman, I thought; two can play this game.

  “Mama, I’m kind of glad you’re sticking to principle this time, because it makes it easier for me then.” I waited for her inevitable question.

  “What does that mean, dear?”

  “First you have to understand that it’s the Bible speaking, not me. It says that a man should leave his mother and cleave unto his wife and two should become one. That implies that the marital unit takes precedent over the bond between parents and their adult children.”

  It was Mama’s turn to do silent strategizing. “Aha,” she finally said, “it’s the son who leaves his mother, not the daughter. So you still have to love me more than you love Greg, because I’m one of the Ten Commandments, and he’s not.”

  “Yes,” I said gently, “which means Toy left you, to cleave to C.J.”

  Mama pulled away from me, which was the opposite of what I’d intended. “How can you be so cruel, Abby?”

  “Me?
You’re dating my ex-husband, Mama, the man who took everything from me, including my children! Yet, I continue to let you live in my house, and I’ve said nothing to the kids about the sordid, not to mention, icky conclusions one might draw from the hours you two keep.”

  Mama gasped indignantly. Had it not been so dark, I think she would have moved to another tree altogether.

  “Why Abigail Louise Thunderbake! Somebody should wash your mouth out with soap. Buford and I have done nothing of the kind. I would never dishonor your father’s memory. How dare you suggest that I would, and then set yourself up as a long-suffering saint who is able to move past such a horrible offense for the sake of your children?”

  “Well, if you two weren’t ‘getting it on,’ so to speak, what were you doing going out all the time, and even spending the entire night together?”

  In the distance something howled. It was probably a coyote—they’d been moving into the area in greater numbers over the last decade—but if so, there was definitely something wrong with it. The mournful sound began on a canine register, then soared so high that birds roosting in neighboring trees began to twitter. I can’t imagine that a banshee, should such a creature exist, could sound any more eerie.

  Mama grabbed my arm. “What is that?”

  “I’m not sure. Mama, I’m sorry I hurt you. I was just basing my conclusion on what I could observe.”

  “But you didn’t see me in bed with that awful man, did you?”

  “No, but you flirted with him, like he was Rhett Butler and you were Scarlet O’Hara.”

  “Exactly. But didn’t Scarlet manipulate Rhett into giving her what she wanted?”

  “Sort of; he walked away at the end.”

  “Which is what Buford did with me, and that’s exactly what I wanted.”

  “So what did you manipulate him into doing?”

  “Oh Abby, I can’t tell you; it’s a birthday surprise. Darn it all, see what you made me do.” Mama burst into tears, something I’ve never known her to do since the day Daddy died. Even at his funeral she remained dry-eyed for the sake of the little ones.

  I felt so awful upon hearing my mother cry aloud that I would have gladly jumped from the tree and into the mouth of a howling banshee. Not having one immediately available, I too burst into tears. Thereupon hearing me blubber, Mama returned to my arms, whereupon the two of us sobbed until we could no longer breathe and had to blow our noses on our sleeves like elementary school boys

  Of course sleep was out of the question. Several hours further into our ordeal we heard something stamping in the bushes directly beneath us.

  “Wild boar,” I whispered to Mama.

  She squeezed my hand and nodded.

  Then the stamping creature emitted a very humanlike moan. It’s quite possible that my ears were playing tricks on me, so I wouldn’t stake my life on what I heard next—or, come to think of it, anything that I heard that evening. At any rate, I’m ninety-nine point nine percent sure that I heard the creature below say, “Help us, please. We’re the last of the Srotideypoc.”

  I sat, frozen with fear, unable to think or react for a long, valuable stretch of time. The stamping resumed, then I heard it move away from the tree, and then farther away until I could hear it no more. Later on, once just before dawn, I heard the devilish screams of the creature to the left again.

  It was the sound of that creature that woke me with a start. Slumped against me, cradled in my arms, was my lightly snoring minimadre.

  “Mama, did you hear that?”

  “Huh? You mean that crow?”

  “That wasn’t a crow, Mama. That was the thing we heard last night.”

  Mama gestured skyward with her chin. She was a bit on the grumpy side. In all fairness, she is not a morning person, never has been. Plus, if she was anything like me, she had to pee like nobody’s business.

  “There’s a crow right up there in that tree, Abby, just looking at us. Probably wondering which one of us he wants for breakfast.”

  “Okay, so maybe it was a crow that I just heard, but what about last night? Golly, I’ve never been so ding dang scared in my life. Have you ever heard such an unearthly sound?”

  “As a barred owl?”

  “That wasn’t any kind of bird, Mama. I’d be willing to bet my business on that.”

  “Oh darling, you don’t remember Paw-Paw’s peacocks, do you? Those things could shriek like banshees.”

  “Shhh, Mama! Something’s coming now.”

  25

  Mama listened obligingly for a second, then glommed onto to me like germs on a day-care doorknob. In keeping with the bird theme, now that the sun had risen we were sitting ducks up there on the fallen tree trunk. There really wasn’t much higher for us to climb without getting snarled in the branches, and since we couldn’t even tell which direction the new sound was coming from, jumping off the trunk could well be the wrong move. Instead, like the pitiful cowards that we ultimately were, we hunkered down together, our arms tightly around each other, our eyes tightly closed.

  While the latter sounds like a childish response to danger, there may well be an evolutionary basis for it (I read somewhere that some animals also close their eyes when danger is unavoidable). After all, it certainly removes that “someone is watching me” factor from the predator’s mind. On the hand, I can certainly understand why someone might prefer to see a Srotideypoc before feeling its hairy hands as it grabs you for its much sought-after mate.

  “Oh, Mrs. Washburn,” this Small Hairy One called. “Is that really you up there?”

  I opened one eye. I shut it, said the quick prayer of a lapsed Episcopalian, and then opened both eyes.

  “Mr. Curly!” I shrieked.

  “Lord have mercy!” Mama screamed. “Holy crap,” she screamed again, as she slipped from my arms and subsequently from her perch.

  Thank heavens it was indeed Mr. Curly beneath us, and not some diminutive prehistoric remnant with overactive follicles. I’d never paid a lick of attention to Mr. Curly’s biceps, but Mama said he caught her as easily as if she was a feather pillow, and then set her down on the forest floor as gently as if she was a crystal chandelier.

  “He smells like Chrome,” she whispered after I’d been hoisted to the ground. “Isn’t it wonderful?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “It’s a men’s cologne. By Azzaro. Honestly, Abby, sometimes it’s you who’s way behind the times. But anyway, isn’t he just to die for? That is what you young folks still say, isn’t it?”

  “Ladies,” Mr. Curly said, “is something wrong? Besides the obvious, I mean?” He not only sounded chipper, but looked fairly dapper, all decked out, as he was, in khakis and a matching safari vest.

  “My mama thinks you smell nice,” I said.

  “Abby!”

  “Well, it’s true. And as neither of you are married, and since he just rescued you—well, I think we could dispense with a courtship altogether.”

  I said it with a smile in my voice. It was meant in a lighthearted way. Believe me, I would rather eat a bowl of cream of maggot soup on a TV reality show than have my mother marry a man who’d been responsible for me going to jail, even for just a few hours.

  “Mrs. Washburn,” Mr. Curly said, sounding not one bit amused, “I am already married, thank you very much. And as it happens, the woman I am married to is the light of my life.”

  “Oh darn,” Mama whispered.

  If the man heard my randy mama’s comment, he didn’t let on. “What in the name of all that’s good are you two doing out here in the middle of the wilderness? Is this some kind of game I’ve wandered into?”

  “Game?”

  “One of those reality TV shows. Like the Amazing Race—now that’s a TV show worth watching.”

  “Unless you’ve missed an episode of All My Children,” Mama said, “and we need to catch up on Soapnet.”

  “That’s why God invented TiVo,” I said.

  “No you don’t,” Mr. Curly said
sternly. “I’ll have no taking of the Lord’s name in vain in my presence.”

  “It was only a harmless joke,” I said.

  “He’s right,” Mama said. “You are sacrilegious far too much, Abby. Sometimes I fear for your life.”

  “What?”

  “If the far right gets into power,” Mama said, “they’ll round up infidels like you and burn them at the stake—or something like that. I saw them discussing that on the Triple Six Club.”

  “Mama has an active imagination,” I said. “And just so you know, her delusions are nonpartisan: she’s an equal opportunity offender.”

  “Are you going to answer my question, Mrs. Washburn? What are you doing out here?”

  “To make a very long story short, Mr. Curly,” I said, “I know who has been smuggling ivory into Charleston for the last five years. We were inadvertent stowaways on one of her trucks—don’t ask—and her goons were given orders to kill us. They, however, got distracted by fisticuffs, so we fled into the forest and spent the night being courted by the Small Hairy Ones—again don’t ask.”

  “Why that’s fabulous news!”

  “It is?” I said.

  “I mean that you’ve been able to determine the identify of the chief smuggler. Who is she?”

  “Lady Bowfrey,” I said. “She lives in Mount Pleasant.”

  “Ah, the breakfast lady! I should have known.” He hit his forehead with the palm of his hand. “Every week those trucks are at the docks serving up complimentary breakfasts to the stevedores.”

  “On Tuesdays?” I said.

  “How did you know?” he said.

  “Because every Tuesday night they park in front of her house and carry boxes in and out, and then on Wednesday mornings they serve a huge breakfast to a grateful community. Keep the people happily fed, seems to be her motto, and folks won’t care which ordinances you break.”

  Mr. Curly beamed with pleasure at the revelation. “Excellent work, Mrs. Washburn. Excellent. I will personally see to it that the Department of the Prevention of Illegal Imports awards you with a Medal of Good Conduct.”

  “Thank you, sir.”