Walking to Gatlinburg: A Novel (41 page)

Morgan stood by the grave, in his hands the book he'd quarreled with for years. It was still closed, since mourners were continuing to arrive, some wearing their own burial clothing because they had no other suitable garb. Word of Pilgrim's death had traveled like wildfire, and scores of people had come, more than one would have guessed lived within thirty or forty miles of Great Grandmother. They were Pilgrim's patients, whom he had befriended and healed or whose children and old people he'd doctored. Men, women, children, stood grave and silent on the mountainside like that throng whose savior had long ago preached from on high.

"We will have no ranting at Pilgrim's funeral, Morgan," Manon had said the night before. She had begun saying "we" instead of "I" since the baby had come. Now she made it plain that she and her son, Morgan, would have decorum at the funeral. There would be no recriminations with a harsh and recondite god, no screeds on universal injustice, no references to the damnable war or to human
iniquity. Morgan had looked at her for a moment and then nodded.

The sheep pasture was filling with mountaineers, the few surviving Allens and Sheltons standing opposite one another, Unionists and some Secesh, some families from as far away as the Sugarlands and Gatlinburg. By the edge of the woods, though no one had seen them emerge, stood half a dozen gray-clad Cherokees, men from Will Thomas's unit. For some reason, Morgan thought of Ludi's grave, thirty miles to the east. He had left it unmarked, burying the stone devil's head from the grave of Fair Susan's lover with the devilish creature himself.

Morgan began to speak. His voice was sharp, like a searching fall wind, carrying into every corner of the pasture. "Pilgrim Kinneson loved these mountains," he said. "He loved the seasons and the tall woods, the small brooks, the birds and all the animals of the Shaconage. He loved the people he doctored, and most of all he loved his family. His wife, Manon Kinneson, will stay on among you and carry on his work. You will cherish her and her child as you did him."

Morgan looked around at the listening people. "Pilgrim was not a believer in the ordinary sense. He was a Vermont freethinker and to the very end true to himself. But of all the words in all the books he had read, he loved these best." He opened Manon's Bible and read aloud from it. "'Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the Kingdom of Heaven. Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted. Blessed are the meek ... Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called the children of God,'" Morgan concluded, and with his lips silently formed the word "Amen." Through her tears Manon nodded back to him.
No more
.

No one else spoke. No one pledged peace or offered to shake
hands with friend or foe. Such was not the way of these people. But one by one they filed past Pilgrim's closed wooden coffin. Some reached out and touched it. Some touched Manon or her newborn Morgan. Then they melted into their mountains. Manon and the baby had some time alone with Pilgrim, after which Morgan lowered the coffin and filled in the grave.

There was more food than any ten people could eat. Ham and bacon, berry pies, cornbread and more cornbread, a firkin of wild honey, even a few loaves of white bread, and jug upon jug of whiskey. After supper Morgan and Manon talked in the crofter's cabin. Morgan had built a fire in the hearth to take the chill off the air. As he had told the mourners, Manon would stay on in the Shaconage. She could already do much of what Pilgrim had been able to do for his patients, and she would learn, from his medical texts, most of the rest.

On they spoke, Manon cradling her newborn in her arms. She spoke of herself and Pilgrim, their early walks over Kingdom Mountain, their faithfulness to each other while Pilgrim was studying at Harvard and abroad in Scotland. She told of their shock over the families' opposition to their marriage and how, after Pilgrim had been wounded and walked away from the war, he had come up with the bold scheme to reunite and go south. The baby made a mewing sound in his sleep. "Hush, Morgan," Manon said, swaddling him closer.

Morgan chunked another split of hickory on the hearth irons. Manon told him that she had packed Blackstone's
Commentaries
in his haversack and that he should not neglect any opportunity to study it. Soon the baby roared to be fed, and Morgan carried his blanket up the hillside to sit beside his brother's last resting place.

D
AWN ON GREAT GRANDMOTHER. The purple mountains rose from the fog as Morgan headed down the path toward the foot of the pasture. The yellow-eyed ram watched from a rock. Standing on the log stoop, Manon held up the baby. On the edge of the woods, Morgan turned and touched his finger to his hat. Then he walked into the trees, heading north.

I
n the Kingdom County courthouse, a curious relic sits under a glass case on a stand just inside the courtroom door. It is an ancient stone covered with drawings and odd symbols. Below it a brass plaque reads: