Ruined. Ruined. Ruined.
Hendrick called, “Everything all right in there? We’re getting hungry.”
“Just a little accident,” Motty said.
No one came to rescue her.
* * *
—
when the sliver of moon finally rose over the mountain, the men put on their robes again, which made Stella feel terrible; she was wearing her old dress now, the one with the three flowers. It was too short for her, and she was mortified. If any of the men had remarked on it she’d have run into her bedroom and hid.
The Uncles went on ahead, leaving only Hendrick and Stella in the front room. Motty was cleaning up in the kitchen. Stella could not sit down, and her insides were quaking.
“You don’t have to be nervous,” Uncle Hendrick said. “You were born to this.” She didn’t feel any better.
After a while Hendrick called out, “Motty, it’s time. We got to go.”
“Don’t you tell me when to go,” Motty said. She appeared a couple of minutes later. She’d taken off her apron, but she was wearing the same housedress she’d spent the day in. Stella eyed her, thinking, You’re going to wear that to my ceremony? But she knew better than to say it aloud.
Uncle Hendrick took her hand and walked her up the mountain, Motty trailing. The door to the chapel hung open, spilling yellow light onto the grass. Inside, more than a dozen lamps burned. The Uncles waited there. Hendrick directed her to walk down the aisle between them. The men said things as she passed: “Amen” and “Blessed child” and “Thank you, God.”
The panel of wood covering the stairs had been moved aside. Motty picked up a lantern and sighed. “All right. Let’s go.”
Motty stepped through the hole, and Stella stood at the top, watching that swaying light turn her grandmother’s body into frantic shadows. Motty reached the bottom and looked back at her.
“You wanted this,” Motty said.
Stella looked at the pews. All eyes were on her. Uncle Hendrick touched her between the shoulders.
Stella looked at the first step. Put her foot down, gently, half expecting the wood to crack. Took another step, and another.
At the bottom, Motty’s lantern revealed a room barely wider than the smokehouse. How had the thing she’d sensed that first day fit into this space?
“Let’s get to the table,” Motty said. And Stella thought, What table? But Motty was clomping forward. Her light found a gap in the rock, a narrow passage, and she moved into it.
Stella looked up. At the top of the stairs, the light kept shifting; Hendrick and the men, waiting. She wanted to run up and out, to Abby’s cabin. But she didn’t want to be the only Birch woman to let down the family. Motty wasn’t afraid. Lena and Esther and Clara Birch had all gone into the cave, too. If Stella ran out now, she’d break a chain of generations.
She followed Motty, into that constricted passage. The air grew chill. The ground tilted up and the tunnel turned, turned again, then suddenly widened into a cavern.
Motty held the lantern high. In the center of this space, a stone platform rose out of the floor. It looked half natural, half constructed, as if a bulge of rock had been sculpted into a pedestal.
The table.
Stella turned, taking in the ridges and furrows and shadowed nooks like the burrows of underground animals. Was the God here? She tried to remember what it felt like that first time in the cave, when she felt the presence. Nothing seemed to lurk in the dark.
“Climb up,” Motty said.
“What?”
Motty nodded toward the table. It was almost four feet high. How did they expect her to climb up on this thing?
Stella ran her hands over the table’s surface. It was ice-block cold, and smooth except for a few shallow grooves. She pushed up on tiptoes, and with elbows and forearms levered one knee onto the surface, then hauled herself up. Rolled onto her back.
“I’ll come back for you,” Motty said. The lantern moved away.
“Wait! No!”
Motty stopped. Her hand touched Stella’s forehead. Brushed back her hair. “I won’t be far,” she said softly.
Stella heard Motty move away, and the light vanished. Stella lay on the stone, breathing hard—and every breath sounded enormously loud. She couldn’t see anything.
A minute passed. Then five. Something was wrong. Or Stella had done something wrong. She started to sit up, and then felt the stone rumble beneath her. The vibration moved into her chest. She lay back and put a hand to her heart and stared up into the dark. Her left hand gripped the edge of the table. The mountain felt like it was coming alive around her.
The God was here. Somewhere in the room, somewhere above her.
The air felt heavy as water. Moving only her eyes, she searched the dark, longing to detect any movement. Each breath she took seemed impossibly loud.
And then, a sliver of white. It slipped down toward her through the dark—a limb, flat as the foreleg of a praying mantis. Its torso became visible, a pale mass gleaming like mother-of-pearl. Half a dozen limbs fanned out behind it, gripping the rock.
Stella’s throat tightened. Her limbs clenched, paralyzing her.
The God’s foreleg stretched along the length of her body. Its serrated tip drifted close to her face, then abruptly withdrew. Then its entire body receded into shadow. Alarmed, she sat up and reached toward it.
The arm drifted down again. The tip opened like the bulb of a flower. The interior gleamed, white and pink.
Stella opened her hand. Spread her fingers wide.
They touched. A spike of pain. She cried out—and a heat spread through her hand as if she’d plunged it into a hot spring. The heat rose up through her arm, to her shoulder, then warmed her cheeks like a fever.
She gasped. The air had become milky violet. She could see the God now, as if the room were lit by a dozen red lamps. It leaned out of a hole in the rock above, limbs delicately holding it in place. Its head—she could only think of it as a head—was a smooth boulder, eyeless and mouthless, yet it tilted gracefully as if to take her in.
She’d never seen anything so beautiful. So fragile.
The limb gently pulled back a few inches. She felt a tugging inside her palm. The limb pulled back farther and white threads stretched between them, crisscrossing and stretching like a cat’s cradle.
“Oh,” she said. She extended her left hand, and another limb came down to kiss her palm.
The pain was just as sharp but seemed to come from a great distance. Stella looked up at the God, and its thoughts blossomed into her head.
* * *
—
stella awoke in her room. Motty sat beside her on the bed, touching a damp washcloth to her forehead.
Stella reached up and was surprised to find her hand bandaged. The other hand as well. Blood spots marked the cloth covering her palms.
“Did I do okay?” she asked. Her throat was sore.
“You did fine. How do you feel?”
How did she feel? She closed her eyes. Strange shapes folded and unfolded behind her eyelids. Scraping at her. There wasn’t enough room in her mind for them.
She opened her eyes again. “He’s alone. He’s dying.”
Motty said nothing.
“We have to protect him.” Another memory came to her. The interruption. Stella had been yanked away from the God before he had finished. “You stopped us.” Tears sprang to her eyes. “Why did you stop us?”
“Tiny sips,” Motty said. “Tiny sips.”
“I could have done more.”
“And you will. When you get stronger.” Motty folded the washcloth and laid it across Stella’s forehead. “The men are waiting in the front room to hear from you. But I told them you’re too wrung out, so Hendrick’s going to come in here and record your words.”
“What do I say?”
“Tell him what he gave you. As best you can.”
She sat up and her head swam. Beside her was a book. The Book of Esther. She’d been waiting for years to read it, but her head was too full to make room for words. The God was moving inside her, trying to make room for himself.
“I need to go back,” she said. “I need to talk to him. Her. I need…” She didn’t know what all she needed.
“You’re drunk on him,” Motty said. “It’ll pass.”
6
1948
They called it the sittin’ up. The good Christians, by tradition, sat inside, drinking coffee, occasionally going into the deceased’s room to tut-tut over the body. The bad ones sat out back around a fire, doing as they pleased. Tonight that was drinking cans of Goldcrest 51 and passing jars. Stella had firmly aligned with the bad Christians. They were all young people happy to partake of Stella’s liquor supply, produced mysteriously from the barn.
She and Veronica were the only girls at the fire. The boys were distant cousins, most of whom she’d never met. Veronica had her hand on the knee of one of them. So—engaged but not yet dead.
Stella watched the house, waiting for Hendrick to appear. She’d slunk away from Abby’s without revealing herself, and thought about driving home to check on Hump Cornette and the progress of the batch. Yet, she stayed. For the rest of the afternoon she avoided Hendrick. She knew he wanted to talk, and she knew she’d have to face him eventually. She just wanted to make up her mind before she did. The constant flux and flow of yammering relatives and nosy neighbors made it near impossible to be alone, which was a boon, but also made it impossible to think.
So, she kept drinking. After several hours of that the only thoughts moving in her brain were a few hard absolutes, turning and scraping against each other like millstones. Stay. Go. Take Sunny. Leave her.
Across the yard, a figure emerged from the trees. Abby. She recognized that lumbering gait. He walked straight toward her. She tossed her cigarette into the fire. Got to her feet. Steadied herself.
Abby said, “How you doing, Little Star?”
“I’m all right.”
“Are you?”
“Where’s Sunny?”
“Up at the cabin. She doesn’t want to come down, not with all these people.” He started to say more when Vee swept in, threw her arms around him. “Abby!”
“Golly bum,” Abby said. “Look at you, all growed up, and still as pretty as a peach blossom.” His drawl had stretched into pure Gone With the Wind. Veronica had that effect on men.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I know this must be a blow. Motty thought the world of you.”
“She thought plenty of things about me, I’ll tell you that.”
Veronica laughed. “Daddy says Motty couldn’t have gotten by without you.”
“She helped me more than I did her,” he said. “She held the line out here for years without me. Even after, I barely did anything. Mow the lawn and drop off groceries, that was about it. Said she was done with farming.”
“I don’t know why anyone ever starts,” Veronica said. “Do you know what you’re going to do now?”
“Leave him alone,” Stella said. “Abby, you thirsty? I’ve got some of your recipe. Not as good as what you used to make.”
“I doubt that,” Abby said. “But none for me, thank you.”
“What the hell? Abby Whitt turning down a drink?”
He shrugged. Veronica said, “Come sit by the fire. I think you know some of these delinquents.”
Abby went around the circle, shaking hands. Everyone seemed to know him. Somebody asked, “How’s your uncle Dan doing, Abby?”
Abby chuckled. “He’s doing fine.”
“Have a seat and tell us the news.”
“Naw, there ain’t much to tell.” But they begged him and finally he said, “All right, all right. Let me see…”
Abby started with the story of Uncle Dan building a still out of a hollow tree and siphoning the liquor like it was sap, and the cousins were laughing as if it were the first time they’d heard it.
Stella stood outside the circle, nursing her beer. How the fuck were these people so easy with each other? It all seemed so fake. Desperate, even. A bunch of human beings huddled up like dogs in a den, pretending they wouldn’t turn on each other if they got the chance. Stella had learned to do a passable impersonation of a normal person, but she couldn’t keep it up for long. Not like Veronica, who could charm your pants off all day. Even Abby—even this older, sadder Abby—had a talent for being liked.
“I remember this one time,” he said, and launched into a story about one of Dan’s batches. “Once Ol’ Dan had finished, of course, he had to make sure it was up to snuff. After about a gallon or so he figured that corn likker was just fine, and it was time to head home. Now Dan’s pure country, you know, mountain-raised. He don’t need a light to get out of the woods ’cause his bare feet always carry him home, even when he’s feelin’ top-heavy.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. She stepped back, dizzy. He’s telling my favorite story, she thought. He’s doing it for me.
“Well wouldn’t you know it, he bumps into someone in the dark as they was coming up the hill. Dan apologizes immediately, of course. ‘I’m sorry, neighbor!’ he says, ’cause his mama raised him right. ‘I’ve had a bit to drink.’ But just about then—did I mention it was a cloudy night? Just about then the clouds part and the moon shines down and there stands Dan, looking at a panther three times his size, with bright yaller eyes. That big cat growls and shows his teeth. And I tell you what, that offended Uncle Dan. He throws up his hands and hollers, ‘Dagnabbit, I said I was sorry!’ ”
The boys fell over laughing. It wasn’t the story, or just the story. It was Abby throwing out his arms and bellowing in that Uncle Dan voice. Also, they were drunk.
“Now that panther,” Abby continued, “that panther, he wants nothing but to transfer Uncle Dan to the inside of his belly, and he bites down on Dan’s arm—chomp! Now, Dan, he’s pretty well lit, and didn’t feel a thing. But oh, that panther! See, Dan’s blood was about ninety-eight proof by this point. One bite and that big cat was as drunk as a deacon on a Saturday night.”
“What happened then?” asked another cousin. “He shoot that panther?”
“Naw, Uncle Dan wouldn’t harm a drinkin’ buddy. He opened a jar and they sat up partakin’ till the sun come up. Then they shook paws and went their separate ways. To this day, that panther’s one of his best customers.”
Yep. Drunk definitely helped.
Stella went to Abby, feeling weak in her chest. She bent over him and kissed his bald spot. “Nicely done, old man.”
Abby reached up and touched the back of her neck.
They called for another story. Stella stepped back, and realized she was being watched. Hendrick stood a dozen yards away, holding a Coleman lantern. He turned and walked between the trees.
* * *
—
when she reached the chapel door, Uncle Hendrick was kneeling beside the new concrete but not looking at it. He was staring up at the back wall, the lantern on the floor beside him. Stella could picture herself kicking over that lantern and setting the building alight.
“You praying to the wall now?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
“There’s precedent for that,” she said. Took a sip of beer.
“Did you know she did this?”
“Portland cement and river rock,” she said. “Pretty thorough job.”
“Why would she do it? It makes no sense.”
Stella had been wondering that herself. She had two ideas, and spoke the one she most hoped for. “Maybe because it’s dead.”
“What? Don’t be ridiculous.”
“It was always dying. Been dyi
ng for years. I hope to hell it’s kicked off. What a relief that would be.”
“Don’t blaspheme,” Hendrick said. “She did this to spite me.”
“She sure as hell didn’t trust you. She know about this God damn sister church you’ve started? You can’t have people trooping up here. The park’s taking the farm as soon as we empty the house. If that thing’s not dead—well, fuck. What happens when the park rangers find out about the hole?”
“Why do you have to use that word?”
“Fuck? Because they’ll be fucked. Any tourists go in that hole, they’ll die.”
“I’ll make sure that never happens.”
Stella blew out her lips.
Hendrick pushed himself to his feet, straightened his sleeves, not looking at her. Oh, he was angry.
“Motty didn’t go far enough,” Stella said. “We got to make sure nobody ever finds this place.”
“This is a holy site,” Hendrick said. “Sacred as Calvary. For centuries to come, pilgrims will come here to—”
“Pilgrims?” She burst out laughing.
“Get ahold of yourself.”
“Pilgrims!” It was hilarious.
He waited for her to finish.
She took a breath, held up a hand. “Fine, yeah. Shit.” Dropped into the front pew with a grunt.
Hendrick shook his head in disappointment. That would have worked on her, years ago.
Stella said, “You must be happy to have a bunch of followers calling you ‘Pastor.’ How much’ve you told them?”
Hendrick didn’t answer.
“Whatever you said, they’re going to be awfully excited to see this patch of cement. That’ll make true believers out of ’em.”
“After the God makes himself manifest, there won’t be any such thing as believing, or not believing. There’ll be no such thing as faith. He’ll be a fact.”
“Makes himself manifest,” she repeated derisively. The Birch family had been waiting a hundred years for the Ghostdaddy to announce itself to the world. Right now she was the only person alive who’d seen it in person—and she was damn sure going to be the last.
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