Somewhere between that first poke and the unfolding of spring, my bones mended, and I got three things: my old job with the Pack Horse librarians, an old mule I named Junia, and sign of Charlie Frazier’s seed. Weren’t but a few days later, I pulled up Frazier’s devil-rooting with a tansy tea I’d brewed from the dried herbs Mama’d kept in the cellar.
The brisk morning nipped at my face, and I buried my chin deeper into Pa’s oilskin coat and nudged the mule ahead to the home of our first library patron. We crossed over into the fog-soaked creek before sunrise, the dark waters biting at the beast’s ankles, a willingness to hurry pricking Junia’s long ears forward. Late April winds tangled into the sharp, leafy teeth of sourwoods, teasing, combing her short gray mane. Beyond the creek, hills unfolded, and tender green buds of heart-shaped beetleweed and running ivy pushed up from rotted forest graves and ancient knobby roots, climbed through the cider-brown patches of winter leaves, spilling forth from fertile earth.
Hearing a splash, Junia paused in the middle of the waters and gave a half-whinnying bray. “Ghee up, girl,” I said, spotting the frog. “Ghee.” I rubbed the mule’s crest. “Ghee up now.”
The beast flicked her tail, still unsure, looking over into the trees toward the trail that led to Frazier’s place. “Ghee, Junia. C’mon, we’re on our book route.” I pulled the reins to the left, tugging her head so she wouldn’t look—wouldn’t have to remember him too.
The mule was my inheritance, the only thing Frazier had owned, that and three dollars, some loose change, a tar-blackened spittoon, and his name. Before Frazier married me, I’d rented my mount for fifty cents a week from Mr. Murphy’s stable, same as most other librarians. I had been satisfied riding his horse or small donkey for my book routes, but I just couldn’t leave the poor animal tied to Frazier’s tree to die.
The mule’s coat had been blood-matted, and her open wounds oozed out of flesh that sagged toward the cold winter ground. But one look at the beast told me she had a will to live, could fight with a fierce kick and big bite. And I’d seen something in her big brown eyes that told me she thought we could do it all together.
Pa’d said, “It’s trouble. Sell it! Ain’t worth two hoots—a horse or donkey would serve you better, Daughter. You tell a horse and ask a donkey. Yessir, horses will gladly do your bidding, but a mule, well hell, that beast is just an argument, and with that one”—he shot a finger to Junia—“you’re gonna find yourself wrestling a good deal of just that, negotiating with the obstinate creature.” Then Pa’d turned away, grumbling, “That mule’s only fit for a miner’s sacrifice.”
I’d balked loudly at that. If a mine was shut down overnight, a miner’s sacrifice had to be made. Mules were sent in at daybreak before the shaft opened because of the fear of gas buildup overnight. The men would strap a lit candle or carbide lamp onto the beast and send it in alone. If they didn’t hear an explosion, or see a smoking, flaming mule hightail it out of the shaft, only then did the miners know it was safe to go in and start the day’s work.
Reluctantly, Pa let me bring her back home. I bought a bottle of horse liniment, a used saddle, and soft horse blankets for the old mule. It had taken a month for me to nurse the starved, beaten beast back to health. Another month to stop her from kicking and biting me. Not Pa, nor any man, dared stand beside her still, or else the ol’ mule would sneak out a leg and sidekick them, stretch her jaw and take a hard nip of skin. But despite her temper with the men, I’d ridden her into town and marveled at how gentle and agreeable she was around the young’uns and womenfolk.
Junia lifted her muzzle, and once more I followed her stare, bent my good ear to the breeze, stroking my lobe. Doc said the other ear might never heal, and so far he’d been right. The muddle stayed put when I tried to test it by closing a palm over the good one.
Across the creek, a rafter of turkeys and their poults scratched for food. “He can’t hurt us no more, ol’ girl,” I soothed the mule, patted her withers. “C’mon now, we’re on official duty for the Pack Horse.” Junia prodded the breeze with her nose. Quietly, I waited, letting her decide it was safe to journey on to our book route.
To my relief, she cast her eyes away from Frazier’s path and moved toward the bank. Today would be busy. My Monday route was a long one. Some days I only had a few folks scheduled for drop-offs, but today I’d been given a new patron on top of the seven homes and mountain school I’d visit.
Climbing up the brush-tangled bank, we topped the hill, leaving behind the scuttles of squirrel and rabbit. The mule raised her muzzle and nickered, remembering we’d checked out the route last week to prepare for our first day back.
A train whistle lost itself over the rows of blue hills to the east, slipping rail song into the coves, hollows, and pockets of old Kaintuck. I let the sound fill me with its tune. Soon, my mind turned to the train passengers the big steel cars carried past the woodlands, through these old mountains cut with untold miles of rivers and creeks. What fine places the locomotive toted them to. I’d dreamt once of a train full of Blues journeying. Blues like me. Someone, somewhere who looked like me—
Junia snorted as if she’d heard my far-fetched thoughts. “It could happen,” I told the mule. “There could be others out there like me.”
In the distance, the Moffits’ homestead peeked out of the morning light. Eager now, Junia pressed on, breaking into a fast trot when she saw the girl.
It was my first book drop since my January marriage, but seeing my library patron up here and waiting like that felt like I’d never left.
Spring had finally come, and I shed the dying winter, the death of my marital bed, and returned briefly to my ten-year-old child of yesteryear. I leaned into the raw spring wind feeling the spirit of books bursting in my saddlebags—the life climbing into my bones. Knocking my heels against the beast, I kissed my teeth in short bursts, urging her into a full gallop. Being able to return to the books was a sanctuary for my heart. And a joy bolted free, lessening my own grievances, forgiving spent youth and dying dreams lost to a hard life, the hard land, and to folks’ hard thoughts and partialities.