High Lonesome Sound

by Jaye Wells

  But first, breakfast. His daddy, God rest his soul, always said a man should eat like a king at breakfast, a prince at lunch, and a pauper for dinner. It was just one of several life lessons his mama had taught him, and following his advice was one of the ways the deacon honored his father, the great Reverend Seamus Fry’s memory.

  When he reached the dining room, Sarah Jane was already seated at the table. She looked down at her hands, which were clasped next to an untouched glass of orange juice. She looked up when she heard the creak of the floorboards announcing his arrival.

  “Good morning, Daddy.” Her dejected tone made him want to turn tail and go right back upstairs. He prided himself as a pious man, so he never could reckon why the good Lord saddled him with a daughter. While his friends had fine, strapping young men to carry on their family names and make their daddies proud, he had to suffer through the emotional traumas of fathering a girl.

  Father, why hast thou forsaken me?

  His lips twitched at his little joke. Luckily Sarah Jane didn’t see it or he would have had to deal with her hurt feelings over that too. “What’s wrong, Buttercup?”

  She sighed. “It’s Jack, Daddy. He was supposed to call me last night after he got off his shift, but I haven’t heard from him.”

  He’d forgotten that yesterday had been the boy’s first night working the mines. He’d put a word in for the boy for an office job at the mining company, but Jack had insisted he wanted to get his hands dirty and learn the job from the ground up, so to speak. Some people considered that type of ambition admirable, but to him, it stank of pride and willfulness. He told himself his dislike of Jack had nothing to do with the boy’s trash family or lack of resources to take care of Sarah Jane. Boy like that thought dating the deacon’s daughter would better his station in life. Boy like that thought he deserved a higher station that he was born into. But the deacon had no intention of letting his daughter be the star to which Jack Thompson tied his future.

  Still, it wouldn’t do to show any sort of smugness over the boy’s missteps. If Sarah Jane even suspected her daddy didn’t approve of their match, all their fates would be sealed.

  “Mining is hard work, honey. He probably dove headfirst into his bed when he got home.”

  She nodded absently. “I know—it’s just Jack always calls me no matter what.”

  He reached across the table to pat her hand. “I’m sure he’ll call as soon as he wakes up.”

  “You’re probably right.” She frowned into her juice.

  He smiled, ignoring the lack of conviction in her voice. “Of course I am.” He squeezed her hand one last time before he leaned back. “Now, where’s your mama?” He flapped his napkin out with a flourish before tucking it into his lap.

  “She went to meet Ethel. They were going to deliver some baked goods to that writer.”

  He froze with his glass halfway to his mouth. “She what?”

  She nodded, oblivious to the storm gathering across the table. “They said that since he got in on Sunday when the store was closed he probably didn’t have any proper food on hand in the cabin for breakfast.”

  “But what about my breakfast?” he mumbled.

  “She left some oatmeal on the stove.” She rose and kissed her father on the cheek. “I need to get dressed.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’m working in the library today—remember?”

  “Oh, yes—that’s right.”

  She paused and tilted her head to look at him with a worried expression. “You okay, Daddy?”

  He forced a smile. “Peachy keen, darlin’.”

  But inside he was cursing Peter West seven ways to Sunday. The man had only been in town less than a day, but he was already upsetting Deacon Fry’s orderly life.

  He decided to walk to the church that morning. The air was heavy, as if it might rain later, but in the meantime the sun was streaking through the morning sky like God had been finger-painting.

  He chuckled at his whimsical thought. After eating breakfast, his mood had improved. He was determined to make the most of the day that the good Lord had given him. He saw now that he’d been childish in his worries about that author.

  What’s the worst Peter West could do, after all? The good people of Moon Hollow were rooted in the land and in their faith. They wouldn’t be easily won over by a slick writer with a liar’s jawline. Besides, if he got his way—and he usually did— by sundown Mr. West’s visit would be nothing more than an unpleasant footnote in the town’s history.

  The deacon’s house sat on a rise above town. He decided to take a trail through the woods to the church since the road wound in a meandering path down the hill. The canopy rose above him and the dappled sunlight coming through the leaves brightened his mood even more. Was there any place on earth where man felt closer to God than in nature? Men like Peter West might prefer the manufactured order of the city that allowed city folk to pretend they were the pinnacles of existence. But he personally felt comforted by the large scale of nature and its untamed majesty. Here it was clear that men were at the mercy of God. Only sinful men had anything to worry about in the woods.

  Dry leaves rustled. He pulled himself away from his musing to look in that direction. The vastness of the woods and the number of trees made pinpointing the exact location impossible. Probably just a rabbit or squirrel searching for breakfast. He pursed his lips and whistled a tune. A mockingbird in the distance echoed his song.

  A stick cracked. He had not moved on the packed earth of the path, so something else created the sound. Leaves rustled somewhere behind him. His step quickened before he made a conscious decision to do it. He looked around for signs of animal life. Most of the small critters would hide during the day, especially if a human were moving through the woods. But something larger might not. Bears were still filling their bellies after winter’s hibernation, and sometimes deer wandered close to town to forage.

  Another twenty feet down the path, it dog-legged toward the river. The sound of the babbling water reached his ears over his puffing breath. He convinced himself it was the brisk walk that made oxygen feel harder to come by. But ever since the stick cracked, gooseflesh had broken out over his skin and his heart was galloping like a spooked horse. For a moment, he was back in the woods on that winter morning, but he reminded himself, no, it was May and he wasn’t that boy any more.

  He walked faster.

  Down near the creek, the path veered sharply at the riverbank and went another half a mile before it reached the church. But down by the water, the tree cover was heavier and sun harder to come by. He convinced himself the chill was due to the shade.

  Another shuffle of leaves sounded behind him. A loud crack—more than just a cracked stick—a whole branch this time. Something large. But no sound of footsteps or breathing.

  He looked over his shoulder. A shadow flashed in the corner of his eyes. A trick of light, probably. Please, Lord, let it be a trick of light.

  His breath came out in a puff of steam, as if it were January instead of May. His teeth were chattering in his skull. And when the low growl reached his ears, he knew it was no bear.

  Fear sparked the memory of the Thing With No Face that attacked him as a child. The bright void of that non-face. The harsh frost of the air. The vacuum where his lungs should have been. Suddenly the entire forest felt evil.

  “No!” he shouted. He could not let the Thing With No Face get him again.

  He took off running like a much younger man, and agility borne of terror carried him over a log fallen across the path. Yet, the chill chased him, brushing his neck. A low, mean laugh reached his ears.

  He stopped running, as if barred from continuing by some outside force. His body spun despite his desperate thought that he must flee. He looked back up the path.

  A shadow stood at the bend where the path broke away from the creek. His first thought was that the Thing With No Face had found him again. Then, the light shifted and fell on the stran
ger’s face. It was swollen and covered in blood, but there were discernible features, not a solid plane of static like all those years ago when Isaac—no, not now—can’t think of Isaac now.

  “Hello?” His voice cracked.

  An unearthly laugh escaped the broken jaw of the man. A laugh too large for the body it came from. Too dark to be human.

  Run. Run!

  His feet would not move.

  The man moved instead. His step brought him into a lone beam of light cutting across the path and illuminated the ruined face.

  “Jack?” Deacon Fry breathed. “Jack, is that you?” It was hard to tell. Both eyes were swollen and the jaw hung open and useless. But the build was similar to Jack’s and the sandy hair—though clumped dark and wet with something he assumed was blood—certainly looked like Jack’s. Plus, he wore the distinctive blue uniform of a miner, even though it was torn and covered in dark stains he refused to believe were blood.

  “Are you okay, son?” He took a hesitant step forward. Some part of his brain was still working but it wasn’t in charge. His fear center screamed at him to flee even as his civilized mind urged him to offer aid. “Son?” he said. “What happened to you?”

  One minute the man who might be Jack stood in the path with his limbs held at unnatural angles. The next instant, a blur, like rage in motion, shot through the air. The deacon only had time to flinch before the air filled with the foul perfume of blood and something darker—the stench of voided bowels; and the sharp crack of freezing air surrounded him like an ice storm. His mouth opened to scream.

  Before any sound could emerge, the foul smell and the cold disappeared. Sudden silence pressed in on his skin like the hand of Death itself. Nauseated and trembling, he ran to the one place he knew evil could not find him—Christ the Redeemer Church.

  12

  River Songs

  Ruby

  Sunday’s rainstorms left the forest floor soggy and the river riled up. Sitting alone on the bank, Ruby closed her eyes and listened to the water’s agitated music. The sound of water rushing over rocks and pressing against the banks wasn’t the deep song of the river spirit. That song was lost to her now.

  The scents of water and earth reminded her of when she was young and she and Mama snuck away to meet Granny Maypearl in the forest. The three of them had spent many blissful afternoons combing the woods for ginseng roots and other ingredients Granny would use in her tinctures and potions. When their baskets were full, they’d sit by the water’s edge and wash away the dirt caked under their nails.

  If she focused real hard, she still could feel her mama’s body pressed against her right side and Granny’s pressed to her left, the shock of cold water on her skin, and the brown muck dissolving to reveal pink fingertips. Mama’s hands always dwarfed Ruby’s as she cupped them to scrub away the last of the dirt. As their heads bowed to their task, she could see every line on Granny and Mama’s faces. She remembered the way the edges of Granny’s eyes crinkled when she smiled and then she’d wink at Ruby like they shared a secret.

  Hadn’t they? Hadn’t Mama warned Ruby to keep the meetings by the river secret? Hadn’t she warned Ruby that Daddy would be angry if he ever found out?

  A flash of violence cut through the warm memories. Daddy’s fist flying through the air. Mama’s lips slick with red. Sobbing screams echoing up the staircase and haunting her in the dark.

  Ruby shook off that memory and sank back into the nicer one. Granny’s voice whispering, “Don’t fall in, Rubybug, or the river spirits will steal you away to make you their queen.”

  The sun cast motes of pink light behind her eyelids. She smiled and absorbed the warmth of its rays as fuel for the memories.

  Once they were clean, three generations of Maypearl women would sun themselves like contented lizards on the riverbank’s sweet grass. Granny always brought a slice of strawberry and rhubarb pie for Ruby. Nothing ever tasted as sweet as that pie eaten in a sunbeam with the river serenading them.

  Then, her belly full, Ruby would lay her head in Mama’s lap and ask Granny Maypearl to tell her the story of the mountain spirits. Even though she’d told Ruby the story dozens of times, Granny would always smile—revealing crooked teeth stained sepia from her hand-rolled cigarettes—and say, “All right, Rubybug.”

  Ruby remembered the way the sun would glint like magic off Granny’s silver hair and how her eyes would twinkle even brighter.

  While Granny settled in to tell the story, her mama would close her eyes and gently caress Ruby’s hair. Sitting there like that, looking so peaceful, Ruby believed her mama was the most beautiful woman in the world. With a contented sigh, she’d let her eyes close, too, and swam in the memory of Granny’s words.

  Long ago, back before our kin came to the mountains from the land ruled by faeries, these hills were home to the mountain spirits. They lived here for millions of years and took care of the mountains and the river and all of the creatures and plants in the forest. Eventually, Indian folk found the mountains and made them their home, too.

  At first, the spirits were afraid because they’d never seen people before. But the Indians loved the mountains and respected the land. The spirits grew to love the people, but they were sad because they couldn’t speak with them. Oh, the spirits tried, but the people didn’t hear the river songs or the secrets they whispered on the wind.

  But there was one girl. Her name was Galilani. She was the daughter of a powerful Cherokee Gigahu, or Beloved Woman. One day, when she had seen six winters, she walked alone by the river. This river right here, in fact. The spirits of the water sang as they did every time people came to visit, but the melody sounded discouraged because no one ever listened.

  But that time, the girl knelt by the bank and tilted her ear toward the water. Excited, the river sang faster until its music filled the entire forest. And then something amazing happened: the girl began to sing back to the spirits.

  The spirits were overjoyed. Not only did Galilani understand the song, she also sang back to the river, which had never, not once, in the river’s long life ever happened before.

  Galilani visited the river every day to sing with the water. Soon, the other mountain spirits learned of her gift and began to communicate with her, too. The wind spirits whispered their secrets in her small ears. She’d smile and whistle along with the breezes. The tree spirits swayed their large trunks and their leaves danced in the wind. Galilani danced with them, showing she understood.

  Eventually, Galilani went to her mother, the Beloved Woman, and told her of the things she’d learned from the spirits. Her mother was a wise woman and did not make fun of her daughter for what others would dismiss as creations of a child’s imagination. The Beloved Woman listened and she shared what her daughter told her with her people. They heeded the lessons and began to honor the spirits. Almost immediately, life for the Cherokee people became easier. The more they honored the spirits, the more abundant their crops became, the easier life became on the mountain.

  All the while, Galilani continued her visits to the river, the forest, and the bluffs where the wind made her hair dance. The girl grew into a woman, and, as a woman, she was revered among her people. Eventually, her mother grew too old to lead, and Galilani took over as the Gigahu of her people. Her people loved her and so did the spirits. Life was good.

  Eventually, new people came to the mountain. White men. These men pretended to be friends with the Cherokees. They learned the lessons of the people about how to survive on the mountain, but they did not believe their stories about the spirits who should be respected. Still, Galilani and her people were happy to share the mountain’s teachings with the white men.

  But the white men didn’t believe in the mountain spirits. They only believed in one spirit who lived high in the sky. According to the religious leaders who spoke for the white man, the sky spirit told them that the world belonged to white men to do with as they pleased.

  Galilani became worried about their new friends. The
y carried guns and had no respect for the mountain. They said the mountain belonged to them now, and that the Cherokee needed to leave.

  As the days grew cold, she went to the river to sing with the spirits, hoping they would provide guidance. But the river was frozen and the spirits refused to sing. She sang all day and all night, but the river didn’t respond.

  The next day, she went to the trees and danced, but the trees had gone still and their branches were bare.

  On the third day, she went to the bluff and called on the wind and the great mountain spirit, but the air was still and the mountain refused to acknowledge her.

  Galilani cried and raised her face to the sky, where the spirit of the white man lived. If her own beloved spirits would not speak to her, perhaps this other spirit would help her. She raised her voice to the sky and shouted to the sky spirit to tell the white men to let her people stay.

  The sky spirit did not answer.

  13

  Crying Out In The Wilderness

  Deacon Fry

  By the time Deacon Fry made it to his office, the shock was wearing off but cold sweat still coated his chest. When he burst through the door to the reception area, Mrs. McDuffy looked up from her desk and half-rose in shock.

  “Deacon? Are you okay?”

  His breath caught and swallowing it felt like shoving a boulder down his throat. “I—”

  She stood the rest of the way and rushed around the desk. “You’re pale as a ghost.”

  He put a hand to his forehead as if he could judge his paleness by touch alone. His fingers came away wet. He shook his head. “I saw something in the woods.” His voice sounded too high and young. Shame bloomed in his chest. He was a grown man. A pillar of the community. But there he was acting like a boy who’d seen the boogieman.