Quarrel with the Moon (10 page)

"I bet the price is beautiful, too. I thought they didn't get many tourists up here, but this place is a souvenir shop."

"What a wonderful place to buy Christmas presents. You can't find things like this even at Bendel's."

Josh wasn't interested in the local handicrafts. "Christ, isn't there anyone around?"

"Why, I'm here."

Both Cresta and Josh were startled. They hadn't seen the woman sitting at a loom hidden in the cool shadows of the afternoon. She got up from her stool. "I should have lit a lamp, but I know the pattern so well that I can weave it by heart, uh huh, by heart."

She was an elfin woman, no bigger than an adolescent. Her age could have been anywhere from fifty to seventy. Her face was heart-shaped and her head covered with a cap of tight, gray curls. It was obvious that she had once been pretty, but now the vestiges of beauty had dried up and blown away. Her movements were flighty, her manner nervous, as if she were not only unused to strangers, but people in general.

"It's early for tourists," she said. "They generally come in the autumn to see the trees. Uh huh, to see the trees."

Josh stepped into the shaft of light streaming in through the window, so bright and golden that it almost seemed solid. The little woman peered at him through her tiny blue eyes. "Young man, who are you? What are you doing here?"

Josh replied, "My name is Joshua Holman, ma'am, and I'm looking for an aunt of mine who used to live up in these parts. Av -"

"Avarilla Chastain," the woman supplied. "Well now, that explains it, uh huh. That surely does."

"Explains what?" asked Josh.

The woman smiled. "I'm Sophie Balock, nee Perkins." Her voice, squeaky and breathy at the same time, was a little girl's imitation of a grownup.

"And I'm Cresta Farraday," offered Cresta, feeling ignored.

"Aren't you pretty," Sophie said without looking at her. "Uh huh. Real pretty. I'm not from these parts originally," she confided. "My husband, Kalem Balock, brought me up here from Jericho Falls forty years ago. Then he up and died, leaving me stuck on this," she pursed her thin lips, "mountain."

"Aunt Avvie," Josh reminded her.

"Aunt Avvie, uh huh. She's the nicest person in this here place. The only...." Sophie's voice trailed off.

"Then she still lives here?" asked Josh excitedly.

"Oh, yes, she practically runs this here community, uh huh. Avarilla's a real pillar."

"But where does she live?"

Sophie regarded Josh for a full minute. "In the Thicket."

"Yes, yes," Josh was getting impatient. "But where is the Thicket?"

"You just head the way your camper's pointed," Sophie explained. "Just head in the same direction, uh huh, for about a half a mile." She turned and saw that Cresta was examining the quilt hanging on the wall. "Most of the tourists we get are backpackers," Sophie said sharply. "They never have any money." It was more of an accusation than a statement.

Cresta was unperturbed. "How much are you selling the quilt for, Mrs. Balock? There doesn't seem to be a price on it."

Sophie looked flustered. "Don't know. No one's ever offered to buy it. I'll have to ask Avarilla, I suppose. After all, she and the other granny women made the quilt, uh huh, she and the other ... granny women."

"Well, I'd like to buy it," Cresta said defiantly.

"Make me an offer. Cash, of course. No traveler's checks."

Cresta glanced at Josh. He held up ten fingers. "A hundred dollars, Mrs. Balock?"

The slightest trace of a smile played at the corners of Sophie's mouth. "Why yes, I think that would be quite adequate. Uh huh, quite adequate."

Even as Cresta paid the old woman, she knew that she could have gotten the quilt for less, but in New York it would have cost three or four hundred dollars.

***

Outside, the sky, a deep red-orange embroidered with lavender and gold, was as brilliant as a sorcerer's cloak. Since there were no street lights the village was fading into darkness, the houses becoming so much a part of the background, they might have never existed. The townspeople who had gathered around the camper quickly moved away when they saw Cresta and Josh emerge from the store. Then they too disappeared into the long shadows cast by the setting sun.

Sophie Perkins Balock stood at the screen door until the camper slipped from sight. Then she sighed and returned to her weaving. She checked the shuttles to make sure there was enough thread and sat down to her work ... throwing the shuttles, treading and pulling back the batten. Three easy steps which over the years had become the rhythm of her life.

As she worked, she rambled as she usually did ... talking to herself and to her dead husband. "I never wanted to move here, did I, Kalem? I didn't want to leave Jericho Falls. But you had to leave. Uh huh, for some reason or other. Probably that Gatling girl, uh huh. I knew about it, and you knew I knew about it. But we acted as if we didn't neither of us knew anything about anything. Staying out late. Sometimes all night, uh huh, all night. Seems like I wouldn't be fool enough to think it would be different up here, but I was, uh huh, I was." Sophie paused to make sure the warp was taut then continued weaving and rambling.

When Sophie and her husband had moved to the Ridge, there had been more people in the community, as well as a small lumber company. The addition of a general store was - for a time - a profitable enterprise. But there was a gulf between the Balocks and the people of the Ridge. The women resented Sophie for her airy ways, and the men distrusted Kalem. He was not outgoing; a loner whose habits were considered strange even by the mountain folk. And he was too handsome by far. Tall and muscular as an oak, he had dark hair, light grey eyes and a face which caused women's hearts to beat a little faster.

Sophie sniffed with self-pity. "We were never liked, Kalem ... I'm still not. Maybe kids would have helped, uh huh. Well, it wasn't my fault I couldn't have any. You didn't have to go off and never come back."

The screen door opened an inch. A long stick with a rag wrapped around the end deftly slid between the side of the bell and the clapper. The door opened wider and admitted the owner of the stick without announcement.

The whine of the unwinding thread, the soft whish of the warp and the dull thump of Sophie's feet on the treadle were joined by yet another sound - the creaking of the floorboards. Alarmed, Sophie looked up from the dark corner. She was a coward by nature. Every branch scraping against a window, every sighing wind, every flash of lightning struck terror in her heart. She cursed herself for not having lit the kerosene lantern. "Who is it?" she called out in a gravelly voice.

A muffled giggle translated by Sophie's imagination became an ominous growl. With trembling hands she reached for the kerosene lamp and struck a match. The wick sputtered for a few terrifying moments. Sophie was afraid that it wasn't going to catch. When it did, she turned it up to full, picked it up, and forced herself to walk toward the sound.

The girl named Marinda and her three male companions stepped into view. They smiled with sweet menace. Sophie reacted harshly. "What do you mean sneaking in here like that?"

The boys sniggered behind dirty palms. Marinda blithely answered. "We wanted to surprise you, Mrs. Balock. We know how
lonely
you get."

Sophie frowned and stared at the girl. Her eyes were so hypnotic that Sophie felt in danger of falling under a spell. While Marinda held Sophie's gaze, one of the boys wandered to a glass container of sourballs and opened it. The sound spun Sophie around. Defiantly, he stuffed one in his mouth. "Those cost a penny, Alex." He threw a lemon sourball to Marinda. She caught it without looking and slipped it between her glistening lips.

"What do you want?" Sophie asked.

A trace of a smile flickered on Marinda's mouth. She moved toward the loom. Sophie ran in front of her, instinctively stretching out her arms as if protecting her child. "Please go!"

The girl stepped around Sophie, leaned against the meticulously threaded and rolled warp. She began running the tips of her fingers through the threads and asked, "Why do you do the same pattern over an' over?"

Sophie opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. It was the first time anyone had asked her that question. Marinda stroked her hair as she watched the old woman. Sophie was puzzled. What did she want? She stole a cautious glance at Marinda's odd hand as she combed it through her tresses. "Do you want to buy a nice hair ribbon?" Sophie ventured.

The boys stood to one side, nudging one another and leering.

"What are you starin' at, Mrs. Balock?" Marinda said. "Do I look odd to you? Is there somethin' the matter with me?"

Try as she might, Sophie could not take her eyes from Marinda's hair. The right side seemed to be undulating with movement, although she knew the ceiling fan no longer worked. It hadn't worked in years. Then she saw what she thought was a small green ribbon emerge from between the strands. It had to be an illusion. The ribbon got longer and longer. Marinda turned over her hand and a writhing green snake crawled into her palm. Marinda, smiling crookedly, thrust it at Sophie's face. Sophie shrieked and staggered backwards. She flung out her arm and knocked over the jar of sourballs. It crashed to the floor. The glass splintered and the brightly colored candies went rolling in all directions.

Sophie, trembling with fright, leaned against the counter and held onto it for support. The boys knelt and began filling their pockets with the spinning candies. Marinda began laughing. It was a mocking, derisive sound. The three boys joined her, and soon the entire room rang with peals of wicked merriment. Then Marinda tucked the wiggling snake back in her hair. Still laughing, she and her companions ran out of the store.

After the door closed, Sophie fell across the counter and collapsed in sobs. At last she lifted her head, wiped her nose on a piece of fabric and asked plaintively, "What am I going to do now, Kalem, huh? What am I going to do now?" her mouth twitched and tears stung her cheeks. "I'm so afraid," she whispered to herself.

The labyrinth of trees that made up the Thicket grew close together and meshed their topmost boughs. They formed a cathedral made not of stone and mortar but of leaves and branches.

"You'll never get the camper through there," said Cresta.

"I don't intend to. We'll park here and walk to the house. I think I see a light. That must be it." Josh pulled off the road, and the two of them alighted from the vehicle.

"It looks like the entrance to Twelve Oaks," said Cresta.

"What?"

"You know,
Gone With the Wind
."

"It looks to me more like an entrance to a primeval rain forest. As if we were going backwards in time."

As they entered the Thicket they were greeted by the sound of overlapping whispers - an overture played by myriad insects. The path, a greenish-brown smear, sodden with leaves, seemed to unwind before them. The last rays of the sun barely pierced the thick canopy of leaves; the light was diffused into a soft iridescent glow. The Thicket smelled of the wind and the rain, the sun and the shadows. It was the scent of death and rebirth. It was the scent of genesis.

Cresta walked ahead of Josh and kept glancing over her shoulder, encouraging him to catch up with her. Josh had the feeling that he was walking on the floor of the ocean, as if in a dream. His footsteps became labored, his legs nearly immobile. The light from the house seemed to pulse and Josh had the strange sensation that the house was moving toward him.

They had gone about a quarter of the way when Josh stopped. Cresta turned to look at him. His eyes were glazed and shining and he was breathing heavily, gasping for air. "Josh, what is it?"

"No air. Can't ... catch my breath." He staggered to a tree and leaned against it, sucking precious oxygen into his mouth. His face was covered with perspiration, and his chest was heaving. Cresta became alarmed.

"Josh, what can I do? Is - is there any brandy in the camper?"

"Some amaretto," he gulped. "Please."

"I'll get it right away." She kissed him quickly on the lips. "I love you." Then ran as fast as possible back toward the camper.

Josh closed his eyes. Something rushed by. His fingertips went cold and then a strange insidious odor filled his nostrils. It was the suffocating smell of damp humus mixed with something else - was it fur? Yes, that was it. The scent of an animal which had been caught in the rain. A breeze, damp and brisk, caressed his flesh. The caress became a chilling embrace and Josh doubled over.

When Cresta reached Josh his eyes were closed, but he was breathing easily. She lifted his head and poured a bit of the almond liqueur between his lips. He swallowed a generous amount and sputtered; she took the bottle away. His eyes opened. "Wow!" he said. "I must have had an anxiety attack. The excitement of seeing Aunt Avvie and all."

"Do you think that's all it was, Josh? Your heart's all right, isn't it?"

He nodded.

"I've never seen a heart attack, but that's exactly what I would have expected."

"Naw, there's nothing wrong with my heart, love. My chest feels just fine. I was just doing a little hyperventilation number, that's all. I'm fine now." He took another drink of the amaretto and handed the bottle back to Cresta. She slipped it in her purse, then helped Josh to his feet.

"I'm all right, love. Really I am."

As they walked forward, Cresta kept her arm around Josh's waist. "I didn't know you were that close to your aunt."

"Well, I didn't see her that often. Like I said, mainly on holidays. I loved the way she loved me. I was better looking and smarter than my parents had any right to expect of their child, and they spoiled me - you know, catered to me. Aunt Avvie talked to me straight. No bullshit. 'Stop preening around, Joshua, and come over and sit in my lap,' she used to say, and of course I'd go. She'd hug me so tight I could hardly breathe. My parents, when they touched me, were always so careful, like they were afraid I was going to break."

"But they loved you."