M.C. Higgins, the Great (2 page)

Now there was only the stream and seeping wetness. Because the trees grew so huge, M.C. suspected that the river still flowed underground. Not only were they massive but they were entwined with vines as thick as a man’s arm. Maybe the vines were poison ivy grown monstrous from Killburn magic.

M.C. liked the idea of witchy vines.

Funny they never cause me to itch, or Ben, either.

The vines tangled up and up to the very tops of trees. They connected with other vines and other branches, forming a network that shut out hard sunlight. Dampness became trapped with heat, causing fog to hang eerily just above the ground.

Wouldn’t want to be caught down here in the night, M.C. told himself. He shuddered, picturing vines reaching for him and looping themselves around his neck.

M.C. jumped over the stream and headed for Ben waiting on a high branch. Ben’s unsmiling face was pale yellow and always looked slightly peaked. He had shocking red hair, thick and long. All of the Killburn children had the same hair, in varying shades of red.

As M.C. came nearer, Ben’s gray eyes lit up. He grinned, showing small, pointed teeth. He straightened his knees, then bent them, as if he would jump for joy.

M.C. always felt bigger and strong around Ben, like he wasn’t just anybody passing by. He was M.C. and he made a show of examining the vine he would use, which hung down the side of the tree trunk. He grabbed it above his head and braced his feet against the trunk. Leaning far back, he tugged hard on the vine. Positive it would hold his weight, he walked up the tree and climbed onto the branch next to Ben.

The branch twisted horizontally from the tree, searching for sunlight. To balance themselves, the boys had to stand still and hold tight to their vines. For a moment they stared at one another in a silent regard. M.C. liked Ben and felt sorry for his being small and alone when he didn’t want to be either. He admired Ben because Ben was a witchy. And he knew that Ben thought a lot of him, since he was like no other boy and would play with Ben. Tall and powerful, M.C. didn’t mind being by himself, could do anything well.

Between them was an unspoken agreement. Ben was never to touch M.C. with his hands and risk losing his only friend.

The problem for both of them was that they couldn’t walk a path together for fear M.C.’s father or others might see them. M.C. would walk the paths and Ben would stalk him, hidden in the trees. That way they could be together and have no trouble.

“I go first,” M.C. suddenly said. He shoved off the branch, swinging out through the ravine. He was carried in a long sweep through the ground fog. In an instant, he appeared shadowy, like a ghost riding lazily on thin air.

Vines are fine, he thought lightly. He felt the coolness of mist on his bare arms. But they aren’t the best ride.

M.C. reached the far side. Then Ben swung off the branch and rode low through the fog. Just above the stream, he passed M.C. on the way back.

“I got a ticket to ride,” M.C. sang softly as he passed.

Ben grinned with pleasure.

M.C. landed on the branch and pushed off at once. Again he and Ben reached the stream at the same time, from opposite directions.

“Hi, you bro’,” M.C. whispered.

“Hi, you M.C.,” Ben whispered back, holding tight to his vine.

In slow, ponderous sweeps, they rode back and forth. Their old vines creaked with the strain. The boys swung slowly, and finally they slowed completely.

M.C. caught up his vine with his feet. When he could reach it with one hand, he twisted it up and around his legs and wrapped it around his waist. He let himself hang there above the stream, with his feet dragging in the cool water. Ben did the same.

They swayed gently around in the stillness. Ben looked just as happy as he could be. M.C. was feeling pretty good himself, just listening and feeling the depth of silence. He even glanced at Ben’s hands. They were small and appeared almost ordinary, except each hand had six fingers. Ben had six toes on each foot. Folks said all the Killburn men had toes and hands the same.

Eying Ben’s witchy hands, M.C. assured himself that the sixth fingers weren’t wildly waving and making magic. They were the same as the other ten holding onto the vine. Only they were extra.

M.C. let the sound of the stream become distant. He could hear voices from the Killburn land nearby—snatches of words, their meaning lost on the mist. Dishes made their scraping noise. Chickens, clucking and fussing for food. Farther off, he thought he heard the deep cough and hum of machines.

Bulldozers, working so early?

Sound again from the house—a fretful cry of a child.

“Where’s your daddy now?” M.C. said softly to Ben.

“He’s at home,” Ben said. “And Uncle Lee and Uncle Joe. No work until tomorrow but they fill up the icehouse by eveningtime.”

“Are they going to cross that swinging bridge any time soon?” M.C., didn’t like running into Killburn men.

“Not likely before afternoon,” Ben said. “Then I have to help them.”

If M.C. ran into the Killburn men, his father had warned him never to let them cross his path.

“And your mama?” M.C. said. “Haven’t seen her in a while.”

“She at home,” Ben said. “She was gone most of last night.”

“Getting out the devil?” M.C. said, respectfully. He tried to be polite when speaking of Mrs. Killburn’s power.

“Deliverin’ a baby,” Ben said.

“Oh,” M.C. said, and then: “Are her greens any good this year?”

“Nothing’s any good this year,” Ben replied. “My daddy says it will get worse with mining going on everywhere.”

“What does mining have to do with your mama’s vegetables?” M.C. asked.

Ben was silent a moment, as if he didn’t want to talk about it. Reluctantly, he said, “Well, Daddy and Uncle Joe went for miles north and east following the coal seam, looking for mining cuts. They didn’t go to Sarah’s Mountain because of what your daddy might do. But wherever else, they lay hands on the cuts. . . .”

“You mean they thought to work magic on the hills?” M.C. stared at Ben in disbelief.

“I’m just telling you what they had to do,” Ben said. “Daddy says it didn’t work straight off but that maybe it will slow the ruin down.”

“Naturally it didn’t work,” M.C. said. “That’s why folks stay clear of your father, for doing things like that.”

“He just can’t find a way to heal a mountain is all,” Ben said. Looking at M.C., his eyes were anxious, innocent.

“Shoot,” M.C. said and fell silent. He pictured Ben’s father pressing his hands on giant gashes made by strip mining. And it just about irritated him to death, he didn’t know why. Two years ago bulldozers had come to make a cut at the top of Sarah’s Mountain. They began uprooting trees and pushing subsoil in a huge pile to get at the coal. As the pile grew enormous, so had M.C.’s fear of it. He had nightmares in which the heap came tumbling down. Over and over again, it buried his family on the side of the mountain.

But his dreams hadn’t come true. The spoil heap didn’t fall. Slowly his nightmares had ceased and his fear faded within. But then something would remind him, like the chance to get off the mountainside with the dude’s coming. Like Ben’s father acting the fool. M.C. would get edgy in a second.

“Tell me about the dude again,” M.C. said, to hide his irritation.

“Is it time for him to be coming?” Ben asked.

“Soon time,” M.C. said. “And I have to be heading back, too, so tell me about him.”

“I already told you,” Ben said.

“I know that,” M.C. said, “but I want to hear it one more time before he gets here. Tell me again.”

Ben sighed. “Well, I did just like you said. I asked everybody if they seen him, from here to Harenton. Just on the outskirts, on this side of town, folks had seen him. He appear to be heading east toward the river. He’s staying close to town, afraid of the hills, I guess. Anyway, I head for the river and I ask everybody: ‘You seen a dude come by here with a tape recorder?’ And they say, ‘Yea!’ And laugh their heads off. They been putting him on just to hear how they sound on the tapes. Say, ‘This song been in my family for a hunnerd and fifty year.’ Dude believe them, too, and tape them up good.”

“Tell about how he looked,” M.C. said eagerly.

“I haven’t even got to him yet.”

“Well, hurry up, you taking too long!” M.C. said.

“He was all right,” Ben began. “I find him sitting on the dock with some men fishing. You could tell right away he was the dude.”

“Tell it,” M.C. said.

“Well, he was eating his lunch real careful and slow, like he wasn’t that hungry. He looked more tired than hungry and more blue than tired. I guess he finally figured out that folks had been putting him on—‘a hunnerd and fifty year’ made up last week. He didn’t look like he was very happy about that. Wonder why a one made last week ain’t no good?”

“Maybe that wasn’t it at all,” M.C. said. “Maybe what he got wasn’t any good.”

“Maybe,” Ben said. “Anyhow, here’s the part you’re waiting for: He had on some of the prettiest boots I ever did see. A real baby-soft leather, man, and shining like two black stars.”

“And the hat was leather, too?” M.C. asked.

“The hat was
suede
,” Ben said. “And the jacket was suede, too. And the pants must of cost more than thirty dollars.”

They sat above the stream in awed silence, with great, still trees leaning near.

Finally Ben broke the quiet: “I told him all about your mama. I didn’t lie one bit. He’ll come over, as excited as he was—what will you say to him?”

“Not much, at first,” M.C. said. “Seems like I been waiting forever for him to come. So I might as well wait to see what he’ll offer.” He grinned. “And if he’s really going to do something for Mama, I’ll ask for some money. You know, just enough for us to pack up with some new clothes so we can travel on out of here.”

“You really believe he’s going to make your mama a star?” Ben asked. He saw M.C. stiffen. Quickly Ben added: “Sure will hate to see you leave.” Uncomfortably, he looked away from M.C.

“I’ll come back, maybe,” M.C. said kindly. “See if you be still swinging.” He laughed softly.

“Is your daddy going to want to leave the mountain?” Ben asked him.

M.C. went tight as a drum inside. “What you want us to do—let Mama go off all by herself, huh? With some dude we don’t even know?”

“I was just asking,” Ben said. “Shh, don’t talk so loud. I know you have to get out from under the spoil heap. I just can’t see why you think some—” Abruptly he left off, afraid of upsetting M.C. again.

“I’m wasting my time,” M.C. said. “Have to get on out of here.” He loosened the vine around him. Pumping his body slightly, he slid to the ground next to the stream.

“Why can’t you stay?” Ben said.

M.C. sighed. “You know why.” Ben never wanted him to leave. “Because the dude might already be at home.”

“Well, I’ll walk you part way,” Ben offered.

“Suit yourself,” M.C. said, “but we’d better say so long here, in case we run into somebody.”

Although they were only a few feet apart, M.C. raised his hand in a wave.

“’Bye,” Ben said.

“You keep yourself cool, you hear?” M.C. told him.

Ben sat dangling above the stream, odd-looking and shriveled, festering on the vine.

“Ben? I’ll be back maybe on Wednesday.”

“Maybe I’ll see you before then, on the paths,” Ben said.

“Okay.”

M.C. turned from the ancient place of vines and of mist. He scrambled up the steep side of the ravine as fast as he could go. At the top, he stopped to look down. There was Ben coming toward the side, ready to climb. M.C. pushed through the weeds into the woods. In less than five minutes, Ben was somewhere off the path, stalking M.C. from behind.

The thought that Ben was near but unseen was all right with M.C. Although M.C. was still edgy, he felt his senses become heightened with minute sight and sound. Where he moved and saw, Ben was moving and seeing the same. The fact was a comfort.

He’s my spirit, M.C. thought. He can see me and everything around me and the path, too. Good old spirit.

Only a few miles from the Ohio River, they were in country where once—no more than ten years ago—there had been elk and deer. It was still deep country where people liked nothing better than the quiet of staying close to home. Boys M.C.’s age endured school in the steel town of Harenton. Awkward, with twitching hands and no pine needles to touch or branches to hang from. In class, tongue-tied, they thought themselves stupid. Their teachers thought them slow. They endured it all. Until time to go home, to live again, ingenious in the woods.

Hills were crisscrossed with footpaths and animal trails. Only a hunter like M.C. could distinguish the telltale signs of trails. Anyone could follow the footpaths. Some had names from long ago, such as Wee Woman Path, Mighty High and Mighty Low. There were still some old, rutted wagon roads, which deadended at blinds and began anew up steep hill slopes. A few of the roads near coal seams had been broadened and flattened smooth by heavy machines. No one M.C. knew walked the roads.

As always, M.C. kept to Sarah’s High Path. It ran the length of the plateau shouldered by hills, with Kill’s Mound at one end of it and Sarah’s Mountain at the other. Where the woods angled up and then down sharp inclines, M.C. had no sweeping view in any direction. He could see the path ahead of him and he could sometimes see miles of blue sky above. There were houses scattered throughout the plateau, but the path veered away from them. To reach a house, hidden, M.C. would have had to take lesser paths branching off from Sarah’s High.

He could hear birds singing, some doves and quail. When bobwhites sang in the morning, it meant rain to come in the night. He heard the drone of catydids rising and falling. His own breathing was loud in his head. In his ears, gnats whined thinly and he could feel close, damp heat.

“
M.C
.” Ben’s voice light on the air, as if he had spoken within M.C.’s mind. “
There’s somebody
.” So near him off the path, M.C. was startled.

Someone was ahead of M.C. on Sarah’s High. Probably some woman going into town. He knew everybody within a square mile of Sarah’s Mountain. He knew them by sight, if not to say more than good morning.