Chapter 44

Uriah Parsons had spent his years wandering about looking for a place where he could ground himself. In 1782, he would return at age 37, but not to the valley, for he had learned of and respected the Cherokee Eden as if it were his own. He acknowledged what he perceived to be their ownership, never knowing Cherokee have no concept of ownership. They are of the land. The “People of the Land.” Had he realized he searched for a moral code, he would have had to admit he found it on Turtleback Mountain.

He returned to the mountain, the humped Turtleback, so named by Long Hunters. Low-lying hoary clouds, not unlike silvery fog, infiltrated its massive trees. Using land allotments earned from his time with General Washington and allocations for settling the West from the Governor of the Virginia colony, he returned to claim the whole of Turtleback Mountain. Never realizing that territory, mountain or meadow, valley or cove, belongs to itself, to no man. Never knowing that Great Spirit, to prove Sister Sun and Brother Moon wrong about the destructive nature of man, had given land the power to fight back.

Uriah Parsons would have been proud to know that his grounded great-great-granddaughter was more committed than even he to honoring tradition.

 

After Winston Rafe left with Eli, Boone Station refused to acknowledge the sunlight. Each day dawned gloomy and clouds grew dirtier, heavier, as the hours wore on. Each day, sadness slammed into her head hard, then harder. The pounding was so intense her heart swelled and squeezed out any room in her bosom meant for air. To calm herself, she stroked Sunday’s back and ears and let the calico give, in turn, by rubbing Lily’s skin with her rough tongue.

And it rained. And rained. The road washed out, preventing Sheriff Youell from reaching Boone Station to question Eli. Or Lily. Ditches overflowed and the stream behind Boone Station swelled and smothered its banks. Lily waited.

After a dreaming night of Eli alone in a strange room surrounded by tawdry brown and black wallpaper, Lily stepped out on the porch, Sunday at her feet. An exhale of wind blew the door shut behind her. Lily walked to the road and looked back at Boone Station. The house, its door shut, its windows down against last night’s chill, had no life about it. Lily asked herself if she had lived here these years, if Rattler and Kee Granny were real or imagined, if Owl still served as her guardian. She could not say what of her life had been real or what she had imagined.

She headed down the road where the cut-off led to Old Man Farley’s place. Wandering, aimless, all she cared about was gone. Just she and Sunday and Gertie, Lily’s ancient goat, left on the Turtleback. At one time, when her mother lived, when Gabe lived, when Eli was with her, with her like a brother, she remembered Kee Granny telling her she had to face life with courage. She had done that. She did that when she took up the shovel to Briar Slocomb. But she didn’t kill Briar Slocomb. He killed his own mother. Now he was killing her with his accusations that compelled Winston Rafe to take Eli away.

Lily and Sunday reached Farley’s shack. Lily stooped to enter. Thinking back, she recalled Winston Rafe had stooped to enter Boone Station. Had she seen him step up on her porch, she would know that he had stooped to miss being hit on the head with Uriah Parsons’ creaking Boone Station sign.

She sat. Her back rested against a far corner. She looked out at fallen tree trunks covered with lime-colored moss. Though the moss promised vibrant life fed by damp and shade, she knew the logs rotted from within. A layer of leaves, brown and crisp before their crumbling, hid new growth trying to push itself upward. Sun rose and warmed the air around her. Lily relaxed.

Anna appeared before Lily, as on a stage. She dragged a mop across the floor as she tried to corral milk Lily had just spilled. Lily stood in the door, a child no more than nine. The summer before Covington and Eli. It had been another of those “I didn’t mean to” events when Lily had stumbled over the threshold and emptied a bucket of Gertie’s milk onto the floor. Lily pouted up to cry.

“Milk. Water. They’re the same. When it’s spilt, it’s gone,” Anna said. “But there’s a difference. Spilling or pouring out.” She swiped the mop. “I learned that a long time ago.” Standing in the door, Anna gazed at Lily. She followed Anna’s eyes. In the moment Anna glanced away, Lily grew into a young woman.

The floor now dry, Anna spoke to her daughter from the other side. “Water spilt can be forgiven. Water poured out shows no respect. Never let nobody pour out your water.” Anna leaned against the mop. “Not your water. Not your blood.” Anna vanished.

Lily stroked Sunday’s coat where she slept in the bow of Lily’s belly. She straightened her leg to resist a cramp.

Within an instant, a great silent cloud covered Turtleback Mountain’s top ridge. Inside the shed, Lily watched white mist hide everything beyond the door. The mist accentuated the door, transforming the entrance into an arch. A tingle ran over her from head to toe. She gasped. The building she had perceived to be a shanty was now a chapel.

A puff of wind brought the mist inside and filled the shack. It should have been cold and damp. Instead, it cloaked Lily like a warm blanket and surrounded her, so soft she felt cocooned in new cotton. She knew no fear, even if this proved to be her death-mist. She accepted this presence without Kee Granny or Ena having to give her notice.

“Let me see your face.” Lily spoke to the mist.

“Arise. The time has come.”

Lily did not raise her head until the last reverberation faded. “I will,” she said quietly. “Are you Great Spirit or my mama’s God?”

“Lily, I say get up.”

“You know I have killed.”

“I know what you have and have not done.”

“But I killed Briar Slocomb within my heart.”

“Others have done worse.”

“I can’t. I thought I could make it right, but I couldn’t.”

“Like prophets before you, I command you by name. Lily Marie Goodman. Get up and go.”

She dragged herself toward the opening. Twigs scraped her knees and palms. Her blood mixed with dirt packed hard by generations of hooves and feet. She stopped at the threshold. “I can’t go,” she whimpered. “I’m afraid.”

“You have the strength. Go.”

“Where?”

“Consider the night of the fire. The icy water that cleansed your wounds. Does it know where to flow? Imagine sun shafts. How they connect earth to the sky. The hush of a moonbeam and the steadfastness of Owl. Celebrating the joy of Eli. All these, I tell you, are sacred. Think on these things and you will know how to place your feet.”

“I don’t know the way.”

“I am with you.”

A movement startled Lily. Out of the mist, Owl hooted himself in and settled on his rafter.

“I’m up,” Lily said aloud. “But first, I must tell the bees.”

Owl hoo-hooted. Lily picked up Sunday. The two left Old Man Farley’s shack with Owl circling behind them.