A Parchment of Leaves (33 page)

Before long we were on the hard-packed road that would take me over Buffalo Mountain and eventually out of Kentucky altogether. By midnight I would be at Cumberland Gap. I thought I might be able to find a place to sleep there, and in the morning I could go to the place where Esme had lived as a child. I would have liked to have found the big running field Esme had spoken of. After that, I would head over the mountains into North Carolina. I couldn't imagine seeing my people once again.

T
HE OVERPOWERING SCENT
of spring came to Saul on a breeze no stronger than a breath. It washed over him, a tangy, moist smell that was potent—even over the sourness of sawdust he could taste spring. The aroma had seeped into his mouth and coated his tongue. He closed his eyes and breathed it in, let it mesmerize him. It smelled like Vine. And it smelled like a memory, although he could not place it.

He had sat up on the mountain all night, on a cliff where he could look down and see the place Aaron lay. He had not really been able to see the place, of course, as darkness had covered the world completely. But he was aware of its closeness all night. He sat there with his knees pulled up to his chest, his arms wrapped about them, rocking. Seeming never to blink. He was so still that animals came near without knowing he was there. A whippoorwill lit on a limb above him and cried out for more than an hour. The moon had drifted in and out of the black clouds, never shedding enough light for him to see his hand in front of his face. When daylight came, he remained there for a long while.

He had wanted to fashion some kind of marker for his brother, but he could not bring himself to move near enough to the grave.

He had walked down the mountain, slipped into the house without Vine's even knowing it and gotten ready for work. He had led the horse out of the holler quietly and had ridden to work just as he did every morning. He had talked with the men as if nothing had happened, but he didn't really hear what they said. He only nodded and
managed to answer their questions correctly, without any knowledge of what they had asked. All day long he had been running the lumber through the big saw. The buzz was a litany behind his ears. He had been in a daze of memory. Thinking about Aaron. Strangely enough, the things that came to him were not ones he called forth. He had hoped to remember his brother laughing, playing the banjo, talking of big dreams. But all he recalled of him were arguments in which Saul had remained silent while Aaron shouted, the menacing way Aaron would whistle a song when he passed their house very early in the morning. It seemed he was remembering a brother he had never accepted having—the Aaron that Vine had always feared, the one she had spoken of to him many times. He had not paid her any mind.

He placed the smell of memory. That scent of spring was from many days ago, when he had first met Vine. The air had been made of redbud and dogwood. The world had been brand-new, the color of an eggshell.

He kept working mindlessly until the whistle sounded. He stood at the silent saw a long time, not knowing what to do.

Because he had done it so many times before, he went home. He didn't know where else to go. He didn't have anybody in the world except Vine and Birdie, and now Matracia. And so he knew what he had to do. All a man had in this life was his family, and he had to do his best by them. This was the thing that would matter most to him when he lay upon his deathbed, taking inventory of his days on earth. Things had to be set right.

When he came up the holler, Serena was on the porch. She ran down into the yard as if she had not seen him in ages. He had never seen Serena cry before. In fact, he had thought it impossible. But today she did, her words coming out in a great blur that he had to strain to hear. When she had finished and backed away from his horse, he took off up the mountain.

S
AUL RODE DOWN TRAILS
he had not been on in ages, shortcuts he had used in his youth. Trying to catch up with her, he steered the horse up old logging trails and across ox paths that had not been trod in many years. He dug his heels deep into the horse's side, his eyes scanning the trees in front of him for any sign of her dress or her long black hair.

His horse was not used to negotiating such steep trails, as it had grown accustomed to the new roads. It stumbled on roots, threw its head down when limbs struck it in the face. Saul did not let up, and the blood in his ears drummed along in rhythm with the stamping hooves.

He had not been on this trail since before he and Vine married, but he knew that it would bring him out onto the main road into Pineville. Vine would have gone that way, surely. She had never been out of Crow County and would stay on the most traveled roads. He had ridden out of the county by now. He was sure of that much. Below him he caught a glimpse of the Black Banks River, white-capped water washing about in great, foamy whirlpools. He was getting close to the confluence of the Black Banks and the Cumberland, for the water moved fastest here. The grade began to go downhill and the horse moved carefully down the steep path. Rocks had fallen into the way so that Saul had to steer through the woods for a moment before he was back on the path. Sunlight fell through the leaves in dappled, unpredictable patterns that blinded him momentarily.

Before long he had reached the foot of the mountain. The path ended abruptly at the water's edge. There had been a bridge here once, but now it was long gone, taken by a spring flood and never rebuilt. The river moved so quickly that drops of water rose up to snap on the air. He jumped off the horse and let it drink. The horse hesitated, nervous about fast-moving water, then bent its head.

Saul squatted and dipped both hands into the water for a drink. He threw the rest across his face, smoothing his bangs back with wet fingers. He remembered the last time he had been here. He and
Aaron had come here to fish for trout. He tried not to think of them, standing thigh-deep, casting their lines, their laughter clear and solid on the humid air. And then he thought of Aaron's fingers on the banjo, and the way he would entertain them all with his stories after supper, and the way his hair hung down in his eyes. He thought of squirrel hunting with his brother, of felling trees in autumn woods and stacking coal behind Esme's back door. He swept all of this out of his mind and remembered that the river was shallow enough to cross, even in such a quickening current.

He swung back onto the horse and dug his heels into its sides. The horse raised its legs high to make sure it had proper footing. On the other side, the path resumed and went straight up another mountain. On the other side of that was the road to Pineville, and he would find Vine there.

He could not let her slip into the big mountains east of here. She might never be found once she got through the gap. He did not intend to let her get away like this.

I
N
B
ARBOURVILLE THE
streets were crowded with people. There was a trial going on in the square and it was so well attended that people had parked all down the streets leading up to the courthouse. Saul twisted about on his saddle to see around cars and horses and buggies in front of him. It seemed to take him forever to get through the town and back to where the mountains rose up on all sides. He rode beside the Cumberland River, and glints of sunlight from its water played across his face. The trees gathered about the road once more and he pushed the horse harder. He didn't know how long the mare would be able to keep up this pace. He watched for foam at its mouth.

And then, up ahead on the road, just going over a hill, he saw Vine. She was moving slowly, like a dead woman strapped to the back of a horse, sitting upright. He urged the horse on and leaned forward, and they broke into a canter. Even as he approached her in
such a wild fury, she did not turn to see him. He pulled back on the reins as he came up beside her, and she turned to face him.

He jumped off the horse and had to walk quickly to catch up with her, as she did not stop. “Vine,” he said, and she looked down at him. Her eyes were full of questions. He could not read what emotion lay behind them.

He held his hands out to her. At last she simply slid off the mount, like someone slipping down a mossy bank toward deep water. When her feet hit the ground, he put his arms around her and breathed her in.

“It don't matter,” he said. “Nothing matters but you.”

“Saul,” she said.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “I'm so sorry.”

Vine stood within his arms for a long time. She buried her face in his chest and held her hands curled into fists against his back. He did not move, either. She felt that she might be lulled to sleep by the steady rise and fall of his chest. She could drift off in this peace of being forgiven. Maybe, she thought, forgiveness made up for all the evil in the world.

She flattened her hands against his back and let them smooth up his shirt. She put one hand into the nape of his neck, where sweat stood in the lines of his skin. The smell of water came to her on the air, and she knew that it was raining somewhere far across the mountains. She opened her eyes to look over his shoulder. The road here was like a tunnel made of leaves. The trees were ancient and curled over in a green, moving arch. A little wind came up off the river and rippled past. The leaves turned their white sides to face her: God passing through.

I
AM DEEPLY GRATEFUL
to my entire family, especially my cousins and my daughters, who provide inspiration every day. And to my grandmother Mae House and my great-grandmother Martha Size-more, whose spirits live within this book.

The following people offered friendship, support, and help with research: Donna Birney, Virginia Boyd, Jeanne Braselton, Steve Flairty, Shelly Goodin, Judy Hensley, Gretchen Laskas, Maggie Laws, Reneé Lyons, Craig Popelars, Grippo Reynolds, Ingrid Robinson, Sandra Stidham, Julia Watts, Lynn York, and
all
my friends from the Hindman Settlement School. Special thanks to my true blues, who sustain me: David Baxter, Mike Croley, Sister Pam Duncan, A. J. Hicks, Genie Jacobson, and Marianne Worthington. Thanks to my editor, Kathy Pories, for patience, wisdom, and above all, grace. Lastly, to Larry, Lee, and Hal, my gratitude for good letters, friendship, and broken windows.

Poetry of the region played a pivotal role in this novel, and for their wonderful words I thank Kay Byer, Michael Chitwood, Danny Marion, Ron Rash, and especially the late James Still. Poets Jane Hicks, Lisa Parker, and Noel Smith should receive special recognition.

The following books and albums were especially informative and inspirational to me:
Trails Into Cutshin Country
(Viper: Graphic Arts Press, 1978) and
The Pioneer Families of Leslie County
(Berea: Kentucke Imprints, 1986), both by Sadie Stidham;
Trail of Tears
by John Ehle (New York: Anchor, 1989);
The Cherokee People
by Thomas E. Mails (New York: Marlowe,1996);
Out of Ireland
by Kerby Miller
and Paul Wagner (Dublin: Roberts Rinehart, 1997);
The Snowbird Cherokees
by Sharlotte Neely (Athens: University of Georgia Press, 1993); and the
Foxfire
books, edited by Eliot Wigginton (Garden City: Anchor/Doubleday, 1972–93). Listening to music of the era helped me to put myself in this place and time. The following were especially helpful:
Both Sides: Then and Now
by Betty Smith (Bluff Mountain Music, 1994);
The Bristol Sessions
(Country Music Foundation, 1991);
Barren River Breakdown, Hindman Show
(Siamese Records, 2001);
Two Journeys
by Tim O'Brien (Howdy Sky, 2001); and
Mountain Music of Kentucky
(Smithsonian Folkways, 1996).

Published by
A
LGONQUIN
B
OOKS OF
C
HAPEL
H
ILL
Post Office Box 2225
Chapel Hill, North Carolina 27515-2225

a division of
Workman Publishing
225 Varick Street
New York, New York 10014

© 2002 by Silas House. All rights reserved.

The author is grateful to the University Press of Kentucky for its generous permission to use lines of poetry from James Still's
From the River, From the Valley.
Copyright © 2001 by James Still.

Excerpts from this novel appeared in a slightly different form in
Ace Weekly
and on NPR's
All Things Considered.

This is a work of fiction. While, as in all fiction, the literary perceptions and insights are based on experience, all names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. No reference to any real person is intended or should be inferred.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available.

E-book ISBN 978-1-61620-291-0

Also by Silas House
Clay's Quilt
The Coal Tattoo