Spinning the Moon (5 page)

Why I came here, I know not; where I shall go it is useless to enquire. In the midst of myriads of the living and the dead worlds, stars, systems, infinity, why should I be anxious about an atom?

—LORD BYRON

I
brought no sunscreen or blankets on this trip—only a grim determination to see a task through. I considered bringing a weapon but had pushed that thought aside. I was completely ignorant of guns and knives and how to use them for defensive purposes, and the results could have been disastrous if I had attempted any sort of forced rescue. I figured my flashlight could be used as a pummeling device if needed. I had no idea what to expect. Only my mother's words and an unexplainable force propelled me to the hill.

Throughout the day and evening, fat gray clouds hung heavy in the sky, leaking out a constant drizzle. Not enough to get soaked, but just enough to be annoying. The tires of my car squished over the wet asphalt as I looked for a place to park. I was startled to find a beat-up Volkswagen Beetle illuminated by my headlights.

As I parked my car next to it and glanced in the windows, my heart skipped a beat. No dolls or coloring books or other signs that a child had ever ridden in the car. I laughed nervously at my imaginings and turned toward the path. Droplets of rain spotted my jeans as I climbed. I looked up at the dimness of the evening sky and pulled the hood of my rain jacket over my head.

As I approached the top, my heart hammered, but not from exertion. A blanket and a few tall branches had been converted into a makeshift shelter for a teenage couple. A small campfire illuminated their faces,
while the pungent aroma of burning wood and leaves wafted over to me. The boy quickly adjusted his shorts, stood, and offered his hand to his girlfriend. I smiled awkwardly at them and averted my gaze.

The thick cloud cover blocked any possible view of the eclipse or comet, but the telescope would give me something to do. I fished through my pocket for a quarter and put it in.

A wave of dizziness engulfed me before I could hear the clank of the coin hitting its target. I gripped the telescope to regain my balance and was hit by the sudden smell of gardenias, which brought a fresh recollection of the night Annie disappeared. A man's voice and the whinnying of a horse broke the silence. I whirled around to see who it was. The young couple was absorbed with each other as if they hadn't heard a thing. I saw no one else.

I was about to dismiss it all as the product of my overactive imagination when I distinctly heard the crying of a child. It wasn't the fretful cries of a baby, but the screams of a child who fancies himself injured.

I ran over to the couple. “Did you hear that?”

They looked at me with irritation. “Hear what?”

Turning around, I clearly heard the voice of a man. “Don't run away from me when I'm talking to you. It's dangerous in those woods.”

A young child answered back, “You're not my father and I don't have to listen to you!”

“Annie!” I shouted, thinking that maybe those voices would know where she was.

The couple quickly rolled up their blanket, scooped up mud to throw on their campfire, and scurried for the path leading down to the parking lot.

The pinpricks of a severe headache began to work themselves up from the base of my neck. Looking upward, I saw a partial moon through an opening in the cloud cover, a shadow taking a bite out of the edge. The murky sky obscured any view of the comet but I knew it was up there, trailing its mark through the sky, just as another comet had done five years previously.

The earth seemed to tilt at an odd angle, and I lost my balance. This had to be an earthquake.
They aren't totally unheard-of in Georgia,
I reassured myself. My limbs trembled uncontrollably so I lay down,
curling up in a fetal position. I heard more voices, closer this time, and I nearly choked on the overwhelming smell of gardenias as I lost consciousness.

The feel of a rough, wet tongue lapping my cheek woke me. Opening my eyes, I found a strange-looking dog of questionable parentage. It was undoubtedly the ugliest mutt I had ever seen, but certainly the friendliest if his pleasure at waking me was any indication.

I sat up quickly and was rewarded with dizziness and spots before my eyes. I put my hands on either side of my head to keep it steady. The dog climbed into my lap and lay down, his tail thumping against the ground.

Absently patting the dog, I looked around. The scenery was new but offered an uncanny familiarity. I realized I must have staggered down the hill in my confusion. The gloomy cloud cover of night had blossomed into a sky of glaring blue, and the ground around me appeared bone-dry. Wanting to see how much time had passed, I lifted my arm, but was dismayed to find my watch gone. It had been a gift from Michael, and I felt another stab of loss.

Seeing no sign of the asphalt parking lot, I determined that I had managed to roam to the other side of the hill in some kind of delirious state, because I couldn't remember anything. I stood, pushing the dog gently off of my lap. The ground appeared to pitch violently, so I sat down again. I searched unsuccessfully in the overgrown vegetation for my purse, with my phone inside it, and then shrugged out of my rain jacket as the sweltering sun bore down on me. When the earth stopped spinning, I stood again slowly to make my way back to the parking lot. With no key or phone, I wasn't sure what I would do when I got to my car, but at least I had a direction to head in. Maybe there'd be more cars in the parking lot and I would just wait until somebody came.

There were no marked paths, so I was forced to walk very slowly. I had to continually brush aside green stalks and blades with my hands, which cut the skin on my palms. I paused to rest and wipe the sweat from my face. It then occurred to me that except for the insistent humming of insects, it was totally silent. No planes flying overhead; no traffic on the highway.

Something pounding through the underbrush on my right shattered
the silence. My mouth went dry as I recalled that panthers could still be found in the wild in this part of the state.

I turned as a small boy, age seven or eight years, emerged hurtling through the underbrush and running smack into my middle. I staggered backward. He looked up at me with wild brown eyes and pointed behind him.

“It's a catamount! Help—he's gonna get me!”

I had no need to ask what a catamount was, as the object of the boy's terror slowly sauntered its way out of the thicket, its body low to the ground as it moved toward its prey. Instinctively, I shoved the boy behind me. As if to make his intentions clear, the large cat darted its tongue out and flattened its ears. The feral eyes glinted in the sunlight, and I wondered if it could smell my fear. Something moved outside my peripheral vision, but I dared not look. A deep growling began in the depths of the cat's throat, and I turned and threw my arms over the boy. He trembled, his sweat sticking to my own on my bare arms. I bent my head, prepared for the gouging of sharp claws through the thin cotton of my blouse. The beast hissed and sprang from the ground. I squeezed the boy tightly, his small bones sharp under my hands, anticipating pointed teeth in my flesh. The crack of a rifle shot at close range split the air.

The feline dropped down like a leaden weight, hitting my shoulder and knocking us to the ground. Tasting dirt, I turned my head and spat. I scrambled on my hands and knees away from the cat, dragging the boy with me.

Coming to a spot about ten feet away, I stopped. Clutching me wildly, the boy sobbed incoherently. I gathered him in my arms and made soothing sounds while keeping a wary eye on the panther for any signs of movement. The acrid odor of gunpowder stung my nostrils.

A shadow fell on us, making us both look up. The boy scrambled to his feet and tried to unobtrusively wipe the tears off his cheeks with the backs of his sleeves. His clothing gave me a start. I couldn't remember the last time I had seen a boy his age in anything but jeans and a T-shirt, but this child wore a white cotton shirt with loose knee breeches and suspenders. His dirty feet were bare.

The dog bolted out of the bushes and leapt on the boy with a joyful
yapping. I made a move to stand to greet our rescuer, but instead felt two firm hands grab me by the arms and hoist me up. I found myself looking up into eyes that suddenly reminded me of the Caribbean. I had a flash of recognition for a moment, and then it was gone. He was about my age or perhaps a little older, but I was sure I would have remembered this man had I met him before. He was looking at me just as closely, his gaze almost intimate. I lowered my eyes.

“Thank you,” I managed. “You . . . you saved my life.” His hands trembled on my arms and I realized I was shaking.

“Are you all right?” His look of concern warmed me, and I was ready to say yes, until I felt the pain in my shoulder from where the cat had landed on me. I winced.

He released me gently. “I think you need to see a doctor. Do you live around here? I will take you home.”

I blushed when I realized that he was staring at my jeans.

“You are not from around here, are you?” He averted his eyes, then looked at my face.

I paused at the formality of his speech, so unlike what I usually heard at school where I taught or on television. “I live in Roswell. My car isn't far from here. I'm sure I could drive home if you could help me find my purse. It has my car keys and my phone in it.” I brushed the dead grass off of my pants and shirt and then noticed he hadn't moved or spoken.

“There are no railroad cars around here, ma'am.” He looked at me as if I were speaking in a foreign language. “But it would be my pleasure to escort you back to Roswell. We are heading that way, as well.”

Confused, I opened my mouth to reply when I noticed his peculiar costume. He wore a long-sleeved white cotton shirt, a pullover variety with three wooden buttons at the neck. His pants were light brown, almost yellow, and held up with suspenders. A wide-brimmed hat, darkened around the brim with sweat, sat on his head and hid his hair, but his eyebrows were almost black. And then I noticed his rifle. It was huge—almost five feet long—and looked exactly like an antique Civil War Enfield rifle that my history-buff father had hanging in his study.

“Is there a battle reenactment going on?” I asked, hoping that his explanation would soothe the growing worries I felt tickling the back of my brain.

“No, ma'am. Only battles going on 'round here are the real thing.” He looked closely at me with a furrowed brow. “Did you hit your head when you fell?”

I had begun to wonder the same thing and reached up with both hands to feel for bumps on my skull. No such luck.

“No. I don't think so. But I heard a child's voice. I . . . I thought it might be my daughter.”

“Your daughter?” He searched the immediate area with his eyes, a look of growing concern on his face. “Willie and I have not seen anybody at all since we left the house this morning.” He took a step closer. “Will you be all right if I leave you here with Willie while I go look for your little girl?”

I shook my head. “No. That won't be necessary. Annie—my daughter—she's . . . she's been gone for five years now. I guess it was only wishful thinking when I heard that voice. It was probably Willie's.” I looked away from his intense gaze, feeling once again the crushing weight of sorrow and afraid I might end up crying in front of a perfect stranger.

“My condolences. I am very sorry for your loss.”

I looked at him and knew that he was.

“Please just get me back to Roswell. I'll be fine.”

He nodded slowly, then turned his attention toward Willie. The boy stood as still as a tree trunk and looked as if he wanted to blend into the scenery. The tall, lean man limped as he walked, his pants leg sporting several patches.

“Willie, you are in for the biggest whipping of your life. You could have been killed.” The man limped over to the fallen animal and nudged it with the butt of his rifle.

“This here cat would have had you for supper if I had not been here in time. Sort of what your mother would do to me if I let anything happen to you.”

“You are not my pa. I do not have to do anything you say.” Despite his defiant words, the boy's lower lip trembled. He stuck his chin out and added, “Anyway, my pa says you are a traitor and should be in prison. I am not listening to no traitor.”

The man paled. He knelt in front of Willie, keeping his left leg
straight out to the side. He grasped the boy by the shoulders and said, “Did he really say that?”

Willie stood still, examining his feet, but I could see his jaw trembling. “Yes, sir. And he said that I needed to protect my ma from any secesh claptrap you might be scooping out.” The boy's voice was barely audible, and a tear hit the toe of his shoe.

Despite his reaction to the boy's words, the man gathered the child in his arms and hugged him. “No matter what is between your pa and me, it is not going to change the fact that you are my nephew and I love you as if you were my own son.” He stood and added, “And that means that it is my duty to protect you as a father would, in your own father's absence. I am sorry, Willie, but I am going to have to give you the switch when we get home.”