The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos

by Horton, Franklin

  Lloyd had been waiting for this opportunity. “I been known to pick a banjo.”

  Andrew grinned. “Did you know there’s a perfect weight for a banjo player?”

  “No.”

  “They is. It’s about three and a half pounds, including the urn.” Andrew burst into laughter, slapping his knee.

  Jim joined him. He too was a fan of banjo jokes. “Hey Andrew, you know the difference between a banjo and a trampoline?”

  Andrew shook his head.

  “You take off your shoes before you jump up and down on a trampoline,” Jim said.

  Andrew cackled. Jim snickered. Lloyd sat stone-faced.

  Andrew reached over and smacked Lloyd on the arm. “Hey, we’re just funning you. Wouldn’t play a tune for a man, would you?”

  Jim stood up before Lloyd could head for his banjo. “Listen, if you all are going to start playing music and swapping lies, I’m going to head around the lake and look for a campsite.”

  “Whereabouts you thinking of camping?” Andrew asked.

  “That cove at the mouth of the lake,” Jim said.

  “They’s bears,” Andrew said, pronouncing it bars. “You’d be much better off camping right here with me. Strength in numbers and all that.”

  “I appreciate the offer, but I kind of had my mind set on that other spot. You all can sit a spell. I’m going to go check it out.”

  “Suit yourself,” Andrew said.

  19

  Laurel Bed Lake

  Clinch Mountain Wildlife Management Area

  Most of Laurel Bed Lake was visible from the immediate shoreline, with the exception of a small cove at the mouth of the lake. That isolated cove had always been a favorite destination for Jim’s family when they kayaked here. They’d park at a gravel lot with no boat ramp and drag their kayaks to the water. When they first started paddling here, they piled into two boats, but soon Pete and Ariel wanted their own. Jim bought them smaller kayaks and carried a rope so he could tow them along behind his own if they got tired.

  They’d paddle along the shoreline, sticking to the shallower water. The quiet boats allowed them to creep up on beavers, turtles, and birds. When they spotted something that caught their eye, they’d stop and explore. Sometimes they’d fish, though their destination was always the gravel beach in the sheltered cove. They’d pull their boats onto the shore and throw out a blanket on a carpet of ferns. Lunch was a cooler of drinks and a backpack of whatever snacks the kids wanted.

  Those were magical times. Despite the hassle of getting everyone ready, loading all the gear, and driving the hour to the lake, they were memories everyone treasured. Now, riding along the shoreline on horseback, traversing the lake in a manner he’d never experienced before, Jim couldn’t help but be bombarded by those memories. He scanned the water, almost expecting to see their colorful kayaks and his children waving at him. The water was empty though. Not his kayaks, not anyone’s kayaks. No boats at all.

  The trail he took was mostly used by shore fisherman trying to reach a better spot along the densely wooded lakeshore. The path rode high on the slope above the lake in order to miss the deep coves where feeder creeks notched the shoreline. Not long after leaving Lloyd behind Jim had to climb off his horse and walk. There were too many low branches for horseback.

  The wilderness area was over twenty-five thousand acres. The lake was deep in the interior and provided habitat for a lot of wildlife. As Jim walked, he heard critters in the forest reacting to his presence. Deer sprinted for safety. Birds flushed or called out warnings to their fellow birds. Snakes oozed along like ancient evil. Jim kept his eyes open for more bears, fully expecting to run into another.

  It took him nearly forty-five minutes of walking to reach the gravel beach he was looking for. He’d never approached the place by foot before so he took a couple of false turns on the last section of trail. When he stepped foot on the carpet of moss and ferns where his family had picnicked so often, he was again hit by memories of the times he’d spent here. In his customary practical manner, he reminded himself that dwelling on the past accomplished nothing. He needed to keep his head in the present. That was where the pressing concerns were.

  The beach and campsite had seen better days. There had sometimes been a little trash left there back when he and his family frequented the lake, but the area was cleaned up regularly. Volunteers and employees picked up cans, bottles, and items left over by less considerate campers. Now there was scattered evidence of longer-term camping. Jim tied his horses off and wandered around.

  A frame of stripped poplar poles appeared to have been the basis of a large tarp shelter. There was a supply of firewood stacked off to the side. A crude table had been fashioned between standing trees. Deep slices in the surface of the tabletop made Jim think it had been used for processing game. He crouched over the circle of stones they’d been using as a fire pit and raked a twig through the ashes. Most of the fine ash had already been washed away, exposing the unburned wood once buried there. This told him the fire pit hadn’t been used recently. The twig unearthed rusting can lids and a slender bone that he suspected belonged to a doe.

  Jim took a seat on a log and stared out at the calm water. Strains of banjo music reached his ears. He shouldn’t be surprised at the way Lloyd had taken to that old man. It was a sign of how difficult the isolation of valley life had been for him. Lloyd was used to meeting people like that every week. He was used to entertaining strangers and playing for crowds. He missed the energy of having new people in his life, though the same might be said for most of the people in the valley.

  Well, everyone except for Jim.

  That awareness only furthered his quandary. With everyone already suffering the effects of isolation, of missing their routines, of losing the lives they were used to, how could he consider dragging them off into the woods? He hadn’t made up his mind that he was going to do it. He wasn’t committed to the idea, but it was a strong enough consideration that he was up here looking at the lake this very moment, wasn’t he?

  Besides the logistical issues of moving up here and constructing a shelter that would keep his family warm in the winter, what would the isolation do to them? He couldn’t imagine that the entire valley would move up here with them. His family would lose the only other people they had in their lives at the moment. And what about Nana and Pops? At their ages, he couldn’t expect that they’d want to explore the pioneer homesteading lifestyle.

  It was a stupid idea. A flight of fancy brought on by the stress he was dealing with. There were times in everyone’s life when escaping and running away seemed like the way to go. Sometimes starting over helped but other times it fixed nothing. Maybe it would have worked for him years ago, as a single man with no one to worry about. He was far from that now. Not only did he have a family to take care of but parents who needed his help. Then there were the friends, who benefited from his assistance.

  Yet the issues that drove him here—drove him onto this mountain, into these woods, and to this very campsite on the lakeshore—were real. He’d kicked a hornet’s nest in destroying that power plant. He’d never considered the pushback he might take for an action like that. At the time he hadn’t cared. He was so offended by the idea that his government would hold them hostage, not releasing power or even aid for those in need, until they had total control. Give us your guns or you get nothing.

  Scuttlebutt Hugh heard on the radio had led Jim to believe that it wasn’t the entire government behind it. He’d heard as much from Scott and the other East Coast Power Recovery Commission people they met back in the winter. As always, various factions were vying for power and each had a different vision for America. There were competing agendas and at the moment, the folks making the decisions about power and aid were able to further their own agenda. They weren’t holding all the cards though. Jim had reason to believe there were people out there who would support the action he’d taken. He just had to find them and ally himself with them.


  What did that mean for him in the interim? He had no support and no allies outside of his own people. If he couldn’t take his family out of the valley, what did he do? What were his options? Did he continue to hide out in the mountains and leave them to their own devices? He couldn’t imagine doing that. He’d found it difficult to go to sleep last night just thinking about them. How much more intense was that feeling going to be in a week? A month? There was no way he could do that. That was no way to live. Not for him and not for his family.

  He was reminded of his grandfather whose imagined reminders to harden the fuck up had gotten him home from Richmond. His grandfather had never hidden from the deeds he’d done. He’d shot men and slit throats. He’d had gunfights in town and killed men who crossed him in front of restaurants full of customers. If the law wanted him, they knew where to find him and he dared them to come. They never did.

  Perhaps Jim needed to adopt a similar philosophy. He wanted to fly under the radar to keep his family safe. He wanted his community to think he was dead so no one would come looking for him with the expectation of obtaining a bounty, or perhaps even in search of vengeance. Maybe it was time to tell the world to kiss his ass.

  If he had no way to guarantee his family’s safety and nowhere to shelter them, then maybe it wasn’t time to hide. Perhaps he should go on with his life as if nothing had happened. He could dare the world to come for him. Let them give it their best shot.

  He’d already taken men’s lives and popped that cherry. The taboo was broken. He wouldn’t lose any sleep over more spilled blood. If there were any out there who imagined they could collect a bounty on him, let them bring it. If there were those who wanted to make him pay because they didn’t have power, they could bring it too. If there were those who just didn’t like his attitude, he’d be ready for them as well.

  Let the world come for him and let them give it their best.

  20

  The Big House

  Sharon tried her best to keep Oliver hydrated but she simply didn’t have the knowledge or equipment to get enough fluids into his body. She considered using a teaspoon to feed him water but was concerned it might run into his lungs and cause more distress. In a technique she’d once used on a kitten, she saturated the corner of a clean towel with water and put it in Oliver’s mouth. She’d never get a sufficient quantity of fluids into him that way, though. The best she’d accomplish would be to keep his mouth from completely drying out. She couldn’t save him, but maybe she could keep him comfortable. It was all she knew to do.

  Nathan assisted as he could, jumping at any task that didn’t require him to be in the room with her and Oliver. Sharon understood. At his age it was difficult to see such things. She remembered it vividly. Young people didn’t have the experience to know how to handle those situations. They don’t know what to do with the emotions that flared up from what they were seeing before them. They hadn’t been beaten down and damaged enough by the world, hadn’t been hardened and had their more delicate feelings singed away.

  Sharon did her best to accommodate Nathan. She wanted him handy. She wanted him close by in case she needed to move Oliver or in case she needed something from outside the house. Since he wasn’t comfortable alongside the deathbed, she found tasks for him to do elsewhere in the house as she could. She had him tidying things, checking the animals, and making sure her pony, Honey, was okay.

  Oliver’s lips didn’t cooperate with his brain, but Sharon saw within him the desperate desire to communicate. She tried once to assist him by placing a pen in his hand and a notepad beneath it, but his hand was no more cooperative than his lips. Whatever he so desperately needed to say remained with him. All she could offer him was consolation.

  “It’s okay, Oliver,” she said, stroking his brow with a damp washcloth. “We’ll be fine. There’s nothing to worry about, my friend. There’s nothing here for you to concern yourself with. Whatever is on your mind, just let it go. You don’t need to worry about anything anymore. There are people waiting for you on the other side. People you’re going to want to see. Don’t let us hold you back.”

  She saw the reaction in his eyes, the understanding, the processing of her words. He was hearing her but it did nothing to calm the desperation in his eyes. Maybe it was fear or confusion, something more basic than a desire to communicate with his friend? Maybe it was the instinct to fight? She’d seen that before in dying animals, the desire to live so strong that they fought even when there was no quality of life worth preserving. She could do no more for her friend Oliver than she’d been able to do for those animals she’d loved so much. Soothing words and a calming touch. Being with them so they understood they were not making the journey alone.

  She thought she understood what kept him here. It was the campers. While she ran the day-to-day operations of the music camp, they were all his guests. He felt responsible for them. He’d tried, as much as Sharon would let him, to help care for her and the children. He was having trouble letting that go. Even as the body failed and the other side pulled at him, the sense of obligation to the living was powerful. It persisted even when all was burned away in the heat of death.

  There was a tap on the door and the click of the latch echoed in the quiet room. Sharon released Oliver’s hand and turned to see Nathan peering through the door opening.

  “Can you come here a minute? You’re going to want to see this.”

  Sharon patted Oliver on the hand. “I’ll be right back.”

  She moved toward the bedroom door and Nathan held it wide, closing it behind her. Nathan skirted around her in the wide hallway and walked ahead.

  “What is it?” she asked. “Is something wrong?”

  “No, but you’ll want to see this.”

  He led her to the front door, one she didn’t use because of the high porch. It appeared Oliver hadn’t been using it either because Nathan had some difficulty pulling the swollen door open after he unlocked the various latches. When he finally managed to tug it open, he swung it wide and stepped clear.

  “What is it?” Sharon asked again, rolling up to the door. Before he could reply, she saw it for herself. The front porch looked off onto the camp road for some distance. Coming toward them, she could see the children from the camp. All of them. They walked in groups, holding hands and swinging them as they walked. Some carried baskets. Others held water bottles.

  Sharon understood why they’d come. She was both overwhelmed with the emotion of it and concerned that they’d made the long walk. She rolled out onto the wide porch and stretched her arms wide. The children were too far away to receive the hug but it was a gesture she often extended to them. It was a greeting that meant they were welcome and they were loved.

  They didn’t see her at first, hidden in the shadow of the covered porch, but soon one of them caught sight of her and cried out. Heads popped up and scanned, seeing her on the porch, her arms wide. Then the children were running toward her. Sharon hadn’t realized how hard the situation with Oliver had been on her until she saw those smiling faces and burst into tears.

  The children reached the house in no time and clambered up the high steps. The army of little feet was loud on the old boards. They swarmed her like puppies and she hugged them in one all-encompassing embrace.

  “I’ve missed you so much today,” she cooed. “You have no idea. You’re so brave to walk here from camp. You are all so big and so brave.”

  It took several minutes for the scene to calm down. The sight of their strong camp director crying made one of the children start crying and it spread like wildfire. Soon all of the children were crying along with Sharon. Nathan even shed a few tears himself, but shrank back into the house to wipe them away. He didn’t want to be seen crying. He was too old for that.

  When order was eventually restored, Sharon had all the children take a seat on the porch surrounding her. Kay spoke up first, afraid she might be in trouble for bringing the children to the house.

  “They were asking wher
e you were. They wanted to know about Nathan. You’ve always been honest with us, Ms. Sharon, so I was honest with them. I told them that Mr. Oliver was sick and you were helping to take care of him. They wanted to come see you. They wanted to bring him flowers.”

  The children had indeed brought baskets of wildflowers and perennials they’d cut from around the camp. Seeing their proud faces made Sharon smile. Children weren’t always thoughtful but it was incredibly heartwarming when they were.

  “Those will make him very happy,” Sharon said. “I’ll put them in a vase at his bedside.”

  “Is Mr. Oliver going to be okay?” Tara asked. She was the nervous one, forever fearing the worst.

  Sharon took in a long breath and let it out slowly. She forced herself to shake her head. She was always honest with them, even when it was difficult. This would be one of those times. “Honey, I don’t think Mr. Oliver is going to be with us much longer. He’s very old and very sick.”

  “He’s going to die?” Jenny asked.

  “I’m afraid so. There’s nothing we can do to help keep him alive. Even if we were able to bring a doctor here, he wouldn’t make it. He needs a hospital with electricity and complicated machines to keep him alive. We don’t have access to anything like that.”

  “Can we see him?” Kay asked.

  The other children were also interested in that idea, wanting to see if they could make the grandfatherly man feel better.

  “I don’t think you want to do that,” Nathan said, stepping back out onto the porch and sitting down with the children. They hung on his every word. He was the oldest and they all looked up to him like a big brother. “You know how Mr. Oliver looks happy all the time when he sees you?”

  The children nodded.

  “He always smiles,” Tara said.

  “That’s right,” Nathan said. “He always smiles and looks happy. The problem is that what Mr. Oliver has right now makes him look sad. He can’t help it and I don’t think he’d want you to see him sad. Do you want to remember Mr. Oliver with a sad face or with a happy face?”