Ghosts of Yesterday

by Jack Cady

  “Thunderation,” Ephriam said. Then he said, “Damn.” Then he said, “Goddamn.” He stood beside us in the mouth of the cave. Behind him the cave stretched far back in darkness. Ephriam stood in the cave’s entry like a man framed in a shadow box. “Chums, it’s against nature. Where? What? Smell the stink.”

  Charles stepped into the storm. “Unfortunate beast. Poor animal.” He walked through driving rain to the horse, knelt, and touched the searing wound. He drew back his hand and blew on burned fingers. Then he rocked back on his heels heedless of rain and became a detached observer. His scientific interests are wide. While all three of us have inflicted hot wounds during the war, none of us, and doubtless no one else, had ever seen this kind of wound. It ran through the beast like a scorching razor.

  The carcass was not halved. Rather, the strike hit directly from above. It struck between neck and shoulder, so that the head twisted awkwardly away. Bone gleamed hot and flesh cooked. Stench rose and rain pounded. We three stood beside the animal and fought justifiable fear.

  “Think carefully. What did you see?” Charles, who is sometimes fastidious, sometimes finicky, wrinkled his nose at the smell of burned hair and bone.

  “When lightning strikes,” Ephriam mused, “there is always sound. There’s a crack or a thump. There’s always thunder. I didn’t see nothin’. The important part is I didn’t hear nothin’.”

  “We have witnessed hot damage elsewhere,” I said. A week after departing Asheville we began seeing broken trees and broken rock holding the imprint of fire.

  “Make complete notes,” Charles told me. “Be assiduous.”

  My notes partially read: ‘Light flashing like a bolt from Jehovah or Zeus. Bones sliced shear. Flesh instantly cooked.’

  When the rain stopped we towed the carcass fifteen rods from camp. The horses wanted no dealings with the dead mare. They shied, but Charles is completely attuned to horses. Our tow left the dead mare near an animal trail. Scavengers would take care of the carcass.

  These hills roll endless and rise to heights between five and six thousand feet. When standing on a high ridge one looks west and sees tops of mountains stretch to the horizon. There is history here, one worth knowing if we are to survive.

  Forty-two years ago in the presidency of Andrew Jackson, peoples of this region, Cherokee and Creek and Catawba, were removed to the western territories. The removal was not gentle. Many died. Some escaped to these hills. They mixed with people already here, an odd mixture.

  The resident people live in ancient ways. The refugees who fled Jackson’s soldiers were accustomed to more modern ways. Before removal many Cherokee were wealthy. They owned businesses, farms, and slaves. They had a written language and a newspaper. Even though highly civilized, they still knew how to survive in these hills.

  They survived because no army on earth is large enough or skilled enough to find someone hiding among these endless mountains. The very eye of God would become befuddled among these mists and valleys, among these smokes and rushing streams. And, there are spirits.

  No ethnologist worth his salt would deny the presence of ghosts. For, although one may not believe in ghosts, one must accept that others do. Thus we walk in a fantastic land where the people we study have a great mythology. It is a mythology of ghosts and spirits and witches.

  And, one must admit, although a few men may not believe in ghosts, it does not mean those men are not haunted. Each of our party carries memories of war. The dead and dying drift through our dreams; of which, perhaps, more later.

  On the day when the horse died, and before disposing of the carcass, we returned to the cave as the storm slackened. August heat returned and the forest steamed. Giant trees formed a canopy holding heat to the ground.

  “Reduce our knowledge to elements.” Charles stripped wet clothing. He knelt quite naked as he searched his pack for dry gear. Charles appears gawkish without clothes. His upper body weighs heavy, his lower body light; like a workhorse on legs of a racehorse. To me, Charles said, “Make a written note.” He did not say a record would be wanted by others if none of us survive.

  My notes further read:

  The Land

  Wet with eternal mist

  Movement in the sky but only in the mist

  Movement on the landscape but only in the mist

  Electrical storms of frequency and strength

  Dense forest

  Much game

  Destructive strikes of light

  The People

  Reclusive

  Matrilineal

  Hostile. Doubtless warlike.

  Primitive, but with occasional modern weapons acquired in aftermath of The War of the Rebellion.

  ……

  “Ain’t likely the natives throw lightning bolts.” Ephriam does not enjoy mysteries. “Seems like what happened ties to storm.”

  “Examine all possibilities,” Charles told him. “It may tie to mist. It may tie to neither.”

  “As I understand it,” I suggested, “our first problem asks if these strikes are random, or planned. If planned, we face an unknown and dangerous opponent.”

  “Random, surely,” Charles said. “Planning supposes a controlling presence. In which case, we would already be lost.”

  “Because,” Ephriam growled, “folks in these parts are somewhat direct.” His barrel-like figure seemed vague in the dim cave. His blue eyes shifted as he looked beyond the cave into the mist. Even at rest, and in an easily defended spot, Ephriam searched the forest for enemies. “Fair question. What do they think of you?” he asked me. “With them it sets up as either worship or kill.”

  When we first encountered the native people they fled before me. Men of my generation rarely stand six feet tall, and certainly not seven-six. Men of my generation may weigh, bone and muscle, fourteen stone but not twenty. The native people stand small beside Ephriam, are dwarfed beside me. They fled believing I am a monster or a creature of mythology.

  One who did not run was a young woman. Early in June we paused, thinking ourselves unobserved, at the foot of a trail which ended at a confluence of two streams. The young woman attended a fish trap. She removed a catch of trout.

  She dressed, as do all the ancient people, male and female, in deerskin apron with single strap across naked breast; the apron with numbers of carefully sewn pockets. People here carry their livings with them; flint, tobacco, pipes, knives and other small tools. In winter they cloak with furs.

  “Beautiful sight,” Charles breathed. “Nature’s fair child.”

  “Beautiful fish,” Ephriam muttered. “I’m wearied of venison. You reckon she’d trade?”

  I wondered what crossed her mind as she turned and saw three strangers sitting massive horses. We must indeed have looked like creatures of myth. Charles is of average height, but larger than the native men. Ephriam has the girth of a sound tree, and I, a giant astride a giant horse. We expected her to fade quickly into forest as had others before her.

  Instead, she stood quietly and watched with the calmness of power; the calm of a woman who knew she could harm if she wished, and could not be harmed. From the forest came the crashing of a heavy body, the snort of a bear. Mist blew across the streams. Damp warmth radiated from the forest.

  “We witness courage,” Charles said in a low voice. “Either hers or ours. We must speak to her.”

  Fragments of the English language survive. A primitive sign language exists. Before our departure from Baltimore we learned somewhat of Cherokee. Given time and patience we could communicate. I give the sum of our conversation, since phrase by phrase would be tedious.

  “Why are you here? I don’t want you.” Her voice sounded low and no more friendly than her words. Her face was not as round as tribes of the far west. Her face seemed nearly European, brown eyes, tan skin, a face that would be lovely should she smile. I judged her as being in her middle 20s.

  “We come in the name of science.” Charles spoke softly.

  “I do not kno
w that word. It is not necessary. Your science is no good.”

  “There is much lightning here.”

  “It is the robe of Thunder.”

  In the forest the crashing of the bear told that it circled us. Bears have curiosity. They will follow a man for great distance, not stalking, just watching. They walk silent when they wish, but this one did not wish, and it sounded huge.

  “I want to know Thunder,” Charles said. “Does one praise Thunder?” One learns of a people by learning of their Gods.

  She looked at Charles as if she feared him hopelessly stupid. “You praise Thunder. You dance. Thunder laughs.”

  We would later understand that the natives teach by asserting the ludicrous. If, for example, a youngster does a foolish thing, he will be praised for doing well. The culture teaches with kindness, but with no small touch of sarcasm.

  “Then Thunder is an enemy?”

  “No.”

  “A friend?”

  “No.”

  “What?”

  “Thunder is.”

  We would also later understand that the natives accept existence of natural things without judging. To them a stream without trout pools is not worse than a stream with many pools. One is a stream with pools, one without, neither better or worse. Thus, Thunder is.

  Charles looked to the skyline where round-shouldered mountains stood with tops covered by mist. Far off, in the mist, movement flashed in positive streaks of silver and orange. Orange bloomed like explosions, but there was no sound. Mist muffled sounds of forest and stream. Rapid and desperate movement came and went through the forest, as if killing forces confronted each other.

  We all have memories of war. Memories of charges, battle flags flying and the screams of maddened or dying men, and dying horses. Perhaps our memories peopled the mist and the forest with soundless battle.

  Charles pointed upward but remained silent. The young woman stood content with her own thoughts. Soon she would decide we were no longer interesting. These people are direct. She would simply walk away.

  “War?” Charles asked.

  “You go away,” she said. “Carry off all that you brought.” She turned to leave.

  “Let her go,” I told Charles. “She’ll say no more. Not at present.”

  ……

  In the days and weeks that followed, as June folded into July, and then to August, we feared we would become complacent with forms and colors that moved through mist. Patterns developed. On days when mist was cut by storm, and when rain fell with violence, colors on mountain tops flared high. Because of mist, red explosions appeared as orange smears, and flashes of blue light turned silver. Sometimes ozone drifted through the rain. We would later discover a wrecked tree, seared and smoking.

  On noons when mist retreated before August sun, movement in the forest fragmented. We could see figures of men ghosting from tree to tree and sometimes meeting. The figures were nebulous. No one could actually say he saw battles, but could not say he saw anything else.

  We often went to the confluence of streams hoping for the return of the young woman. Instead, our adventure took a different shape. Natives concluded that while we might be demons we were not presently dangerous. We were approached by delegates of two separate camps.

  The first was a warrior who appeared out of mist. He moved easily and without fear. He wore gray pants of a kind that I had seen on many a dead Confederate, and linen shirt, worn but serviceable. He carried a cap-and-ball rifle, and a steel knife. This warrior had a broad Indian forehead combined with negroid features. His skin was chocolate colored, his hair kinky, a statement of other important history.

  In the American south, from the first visits of negroid and caucasoid peoples, there has been much interchange with the native population. The ethnologist who hopes to find an unmixed culture is overly optimistic. However, because of the ancient peoples there was some reason for optimism. This warrior, though, was modern.

  He was clearly an experienced man. His rifle was shouldered muzzle down. His moccasins were worn without being worn through, which showed that he knew how to move with admirable economy. Moccasins would not have lasted our party for a week. His rifle is now out-moded, but muzzleloaders were serviceable during the War of the Rebellion. Doubtless, like us, he had fought. He stood nearly as tall as Ephriam and he moved with the light steps of a man who can walk soundless through dry leaves. Such woodsmen drift like spirits through the forest.

  “No need to fear,” he said most pleasantly. “I’m not the Fool Killer.” His English was as good as ours, but slightly nasal. It held hints of cultivated speech, the soft and often dangerous sort one finds in Norfolk. He approached three well-armed men. He actually reassured three experienced men. His confidence set us aback.

  “No fools here,” Charles said easily.

  “The mule ain’t too bright… but got a trick or two in his withers.” Ephriam moved two steps away from Charles. If a fight was to happen it would be stupid to remain clustered.

  “Next time you get to town,” the warrior told Ephriam, “shop around and buy a sense of humor.” He grinned openly. “You gents are serious beyond moderate.” He searched the forest behind us. “On t’other hand, you’ve got a right. You have stepped into a hell of a fix.”

  “Charles Hare,” Charles said, introducing himself. Then he introduced Ephriam. I introduced myself.

  “Bester,” the warrior said. “Albert Bester.” He gave his white name. No Indian would give his real name to strangers. We were forced to wonder if Bester actually was Indian, or only had the blood. Lots of Cherokee and Catawba had abandoned Indian ways for white civilization. And, where had he acquired hints of cultivation?

  “… a helluva fix,” Ephriam asked. “Which one? It looks like we got enough to fill a main’sl.”

  “Why are you here? I’m not just curious. Your answer is important.” Bester stood casually but not at rest. He rested his rifle, but did not lean on it.

  Charles explained and Bester at first seemed amused. Then a sense of unease entered the situation.

  “If only you were hunting gold, or trapping fur, or stealin’ children, I’d know what to tell you.” Bester mused. “The people in these parts have handled such matters for nigh on three centuries.” He actually seemed puzzled. “Don’t you have enough trouble with your own world?”

  We figured then that Bester was Indian, or at least mostly. The spirit of science is alien to Indian vision. Tools, yes. Inventions, yes. But systematic inquiry toward a nebulous or unknown end, no. One cannot understand the notion of is and inquire about maybe.

  “We do have enough trouble,” Charles admitted. “If we look at someone else’s world we may find ways of fixing our own.” His simple explanation didn’t cover all the facts, but covered enough.

  Bester smiled in the quiet and cultivated manner of the best southern society: here he was, Indian, negro, a rough and tumble woodsman; and yet when he wanted he could put on the ways of the white aristocrat. Quite an actor. “Tell of your success.”

  “We’re eating well,” Ephriam said, “and wearing out our boots.”

  “We early on understood that we would have to establish camp and wait for people to come to us.” Charles watched the forest where movement had ceased with the appearance of Bester. “If we enter villages without invitation we would be seen as intruders.”

  “Odd thing to hear from a Yankee,” Bester said quietly. There was cloaked anger in his voice. “Nobody invited Grant and Sherman.”

  “We explore on foot,” Charles explained. “One man always stays in camp to attend the animals.”

  “Because,” Ephriam muttered, “horses have a way of wanderin’.”

  “They have a way of getting stolen,” Bester said. “Renegades take them. Say what you mean.”

  “The funny thing is…” Ephriam told him, “… I like you. You’ve already jumped my hide twice, and damn if I still don’t like you.”

  “You made a good scheme,” Bester to
ld Charles. “Had you entered a village you would have been treated well, then killed on return to camp.” Bester looked toward the forest. “Three forces exist here, and all three can handle you.”

  Bester explained that a village of Cherokee, adequately armed, held territory a few miles to the southwest. Native people, the people from whom the Cherokee had risen, held territories scattered through the mountains. Although a certain amount of tribal interchange was possible, the groups pretty much went their own ways and ignored each other.

  A third force came from medicine known only to a few of the original natives, the ancient people. Such people used power rarely. “But,” Bester explained, “they can bend nature to their purpose. Their own people revere and fear them, my people mostly fear them, and you would do well to be mortally afraid. Nature guards them.”

  I thought of the young woman we had met back in June. I thought of the crashing of the bear in the forest. A huge bear.

  “And the strikes of light and fire? Are those a manifest of nature? We’ve already lost one horse.”

  “They come from the west,” Bester told Charles, “and people don’t go there. However, it’s what I want to chew over with you.”

  According to Bester the strikes of fire began during the war, but never amounted to much. In these endless hills war otherwise made little impression. Life walked day by day and night by night, the unending circle of time the Indian knows. Skirmishes between small groups occasionally ended in the death of a warrior, or the kidnapping of a child. For the most part seasons rolled. Corn crops and tobacco and pumpkins grew and were harvested. Rumors of war penetrated the hills and some men walked off in the direction of battle, to return with stories of exploits that might or might not be true. And, of course, a good many did not return.

  “We see dead men moving through the forest,” Bester said. “Lots more lately. Strikes of fire increase. You might say things are no longer casual.”

  “We see them also.”

  “Most likely, you see spirits,” Bester said. “Spirits fill this land. People live beside spirits and don’t much care, because spirits only live on the edge of the world. The ghosts are a different matter.” Bester tapped his rifle butt against the ground. He now seemed a little dangerous, and very sad. “A ghost is the shape of someone who made bad mistakes. Folks here live in established ways. We fear mistakes.”