Tapping the Dream Tree (39 page)

“It's not about the length, Brenda. It's about what we mean.” “But you were able to put it so succinctly. ‘If you give me your soul, I will always honor, cherish and respect you.' That's beautiful.”

“Thanks.”

“Only why do you say ‘soul' instead of ‘heart'?” “I don't know. Heart didn't seem to encompass everything that we should be giving to each other.”

“You know, I never saw this side of you before.” “I've had a lot of time to reflect since we broke up. Is it something you can sign? I can certainly sign yours.” “Hand me the pen.”

“So? What do you think, Mr. Parker?”

“She has an extraordinary spirit. Strong and true and full of grace.”

“You can tell that just by holding the paper up to your face and smelling it?”

“Hardly. But her essence permeates the paper. I was simply admiring its potency.”

“That good, huh? Well, she always was a looker and she kisses like you wouldn't believe—though I guess you wouldn't be into that kind of thing.”

“Let's just say I'm selective. I certainly appreciate your bringing her to my attention.”

“Well, I know the best way for you to show that appreciation.”

“I'm sure you do, Mr. Chaplin.”

“So, do we have a deal? Her soul for what you can teach me?”

“I think an agreement can be made.”

“Great. So where do we start? With the little flame business, or can we cut right to the living forever trick?”

“Patience, please. You haven't simply dialed an 800 number.”

“Hey, I delivered. I expect you to do the same.”

“And so I will. But first I need you to go home and reflect on your place in the world—where you are now and where you would wish to be in, oh, let's say start with five years from now.”

“What for?”

“Then when you return to me we will have a better understanding of how to begin your education.”

“That's not how it worked with Peter. You just started right in on showing him stuff.”

“Indeed I did. But each of us is different, and so the paths we need to take to reach the same goal can also be very different. Peter doesn't jump into a new thing, so the best way to begin with him was by doing just that. You, on the other hand, are already an impetuous individual. So for you, we need to balance that higher energy with elements of a quieter meditative process. It all has to do with balance.”

“So I just think about who I am, what I want?”

“Indeed.”

“Okay. I guess I can live with that. Only tell me this. It's not all going to be this mumbo jumbo, right? You're going to show me something practical, too.”

“I believe, Mr. Chaplin, that you will find that I can be the most practical of men.”

“I can't believe you did that, man.”

“Did what?”

“Tried to trade off Brenda's soul to Mr. Parker.”

“Oh, please. What the hell was she doing with it?”

“You just don't get it, do you?”

“What's to get?”

“It's not about taking people's souls and using them to live longer yourself. It's about giving. It's only by helping other souls reach their full potential that your own lifetime is extended.”

“Is that what Parker told you?”

“He didn't have to. I've been working on those meditative exercises he gave me and damned if I'm not starting to see connections between everything. There's not a thing we say or do that doesn't have repercussions. The smallest kindness can blossom into an age of renaissance while one cruel deed can bring down an empire.”

“Jesus, did he see you coming or what.”

“Yeah, I think he did. But not the way you think. I'm honored that he felt I already had such potential.”

“And what about his not taking the souls of all those losers I offered him because they'd only give him a year or so more of life?”

“It's because they require too much work, Robert. There are so many people in the world that it's better to work with those that have the higher potential because if you can win them over, then they'll start doing the work, too.”

“Work, work—what the hell are you talking about?”

“An enlightened world where everyone takes care of each other and the planet they live on.”

“Right. That's why he was so happy when I traded him Brenda's soul.”

“You didn't trade her soul. It wasn't yours to trade.”

“Bullshit. I handed it over to him, signed and delivered.”

“You're missing the point. If you don't keep up your side of the bargain, then the contract is void.”

“I haven't had time to keep up my side.”

“You had time enough to try to trade her soul.”

“Then why was he so happy to get it?”

“He wasn't happy about that. He was happy because she's such an advanced soul. Waking her up to her full potential will take a fraction of the time it would normally take with others.”

“Like you?”

“Sure, like me. I'm not ashamed to say I've got a ways to go. But at least I'm on the road.”

“And I'm not?”

“I don't know what you are, Robert. I guess I never did. You're a hell of a lot darker than I could ever have guessed. I mean, what do you even care about, besides yourself?”

“Wait a minute here. If Parker's helping people, why does he need them to sign over his soul to them?”

“It's just to make a connection. A powerful connection. Yeah, it's sort of freaky when you realize that you really do have a soul and you've just signed it away. But the more you work at what he gives you, the quicker you come to understand that he couldn't possibly keep it. If he did, he wouldn't advance any more. He wouldn't be able to help other people anymore.”

“This is such a load of crap.”

“Let me tell you about this thing I found, Robert. It's a void. You know, a place where none of your senses can come into play because there's nothing there for them to sense.”

“Am I supposed to be listening to this?”

“There's a place like that inside each one of us. I think it's where we go when we need to mend, like when you go into a coma.”

“And your point is?”

“I think you need to go there. Not just because you're hurting yourself, but because you're hurting others.”

“Hey, keep back.”

“I'm not going to hit you. I'm just going to touch you—here.”

“Where … what the hell did you do? I can't see anything …”

“Mr. Parker says that sight goes first, hearing last.”

“I'm going to kill you, you—”

“You're not going to do anything. You're not going anywhere.”

“Christ, I can't feel anything. Don't do this to me, Peter.”

“Peter.”

“…”

“Come on. Quit screwing around.”

“I'm not a bad guy.”

“Peter?”

“Oh, Jesus. Anybody .. . ?”

“It's a long lane that never has no turns.”

—Arie Carpenter

There's those that call it ginseng, but ‘round here we just call it ‘sang. Don't know which is right. All I know for sure is that bees and ‘sang don't mix, leastways not in these hills.

Their rivalry's got something to do with sweethess and light and wildflower pollen set against dark rooty things that live deep in the forest dirt. That's why bee spirits'll lead the ‘sang poachers to those hidden ‘sang beds. It's an unkindness you'd expect more from the Mean Fairy—you know, the way he shows up at parties after the work's all done. He's happy as all get out, flirting around and drinking and playing music, but then he can just turn no account mean, especially when he has a woman alone.

What's that?

‘Course there's spirits in the hills. How could there not be? You think we're alone in this world? We have us a very peopled woods, girl, and I've seen all kinds in my time, big and small.

The Father of Cats haunts these hills. Most times he's this big old panther, sleek and black, but the Kickaha say he can look like a handsome, black-haired man, the fancy takes him. I only ever saw him as a panther. Seeing yourself a panther is unusual enough, though I suppose it's something anybody who spends enough time in these woods can eventually claim. But I heard him talk.

Don't you smile, girl. I don't tell lies.

Then there's the Green Boy—you want to watch out for him. He lives in the branches of trees and he's got him this great big smile because he's everybody's friend, that's a certain fact. He loves company, loves to joke and tell stories, but one day with him is like a year for everybody else you left behind.

See, some places, you've got to be careful on how the time passes. There's caves ‘round these parts that can take you right out of this world and into another, but the days go by slower there, like they did for Rip van Winkle. I met an artist once, he was gone twenty years in this world, but only a few days had passed for him on the other side.

What happened? He went back. That's another caution you need to heed. Places like that can take a powerful hold of you, make you feel like everything in your life is empty because you're not breathing magic.

There's wonders, no question, but there's danger, too, and that's not the only one. You listen to what I'm telling you.

Old Bubba's been seen more than once in these parts, but you stay wide clear of him. I know there's some have said they got the better of that old devil man, but if you bargain with him, I believe you'll carry a piece of his darkness inside you way into forever, doesn't matter that you got the best of him.

And you meet a blacksmith in these woods, you stay clear of him, too, I don't care how honey-sweet his voice is or what nice things he might be telling you. He's just waiting for pretty girls like you. He takes them back into the fairy mound and once you're there, no one's ever going to see you again.

I suppose the one I know best is the Apple Tree Man, lives in the oldest tree of the orchard. Do you know that old song?

Jimmy had a penny,

he put it in a can;

he give it to the night

and the Apple Tree Man

Singing, pour me a cider,

like I never had me one.

Pour me a cider,

give everybody some.

I've known him since I was younger than you, but he hasn't changed much in all those years. He's still the same wrinkled, gnarly old fellow he was the first time I met him. The time is right, maybe I'll introduce the two of you.

Fairies? Oh, I've seen them, all right. Not every day, but I know they're out there. First time, I was just a little girl. They were these little foxfire lights, dancing out there in the field like flickerbugs. It wasn't any snakebit fever that let me see them, though I did have the venom in me from a bite I got earlier in the day. I could have died, lit a shuck right out of this world and there's me, no more than twelve years old, but the Apple Tree Man drew the poison right out of me with a madstone soaked in milk. Him and the Father of Cats,they saved my life, though only the Father of Cats wanted payment, so I owe him a favor. If I can't pay it when he comes asking, then one of my descendants has to. Trouble is, I never had any children. I'm the last of this line of Kindreds, so far as I know.

Anywise, instead of dying, I got me a big piece of magic that night. It was hard to hang onto for a time, but I know no matter what else I experience in this world, scraps and pieces of that mag-ic'll be with me forever. I don't question that.

You get on in years and it can be hard for a body to tell a difference between things that happened and things you thought might have happened, but I know better. There's a veil, thin as a funeral shroud, that divides this world from some other. You do it right and you can walk on either side of it. The world you find on one side or the other, the people you meet, they're all real.

I reckon it's been seventy years, maybe longer, since the Father of Cats came out of the forest and made me beholden to him. I'm getting on in years now. I'm not saying my time is come, but it's getting there. Year by year. And I guess I'd just like to see him again. Pay my debt before it's time for me to move on.

Sarah Jane Dillard didn't think the old woman was crazy, though most everybody else did. Folks liked her well enough—they'd pass the time with her when she came into town and all—but what else could you think about a woman in her eighties, living alone on a mountaintop, an hour's walk in from the county road?

It wasn't like she was a granny woman who needed her solitude. She had her herbs and simples, and she'd be the first to lend a hand, somebody needed help, but she wasn't known in these parts for cures and midwifery like the Welch women were. She was just an old woman, kept herself to herself. Not unfriendly, but not looking to step into social circles any time soon either.

“What does she
do
up there, all on her own?” someone or other would ask from time to time.

They might not know, but Sarah Jane did.

Aunt Lillian lived the same now as she had since she was a child. She had no phone, no electricity, no running water. The only food she bought was what she couldn't grow herself, or gather from the woods around her.

So most of her time was taken up with the basic tasks of eking out a living from her land and the forest. It took a lot of hours in a day to see after her gardens, the cow and chickens, the orchard and hives. To go into the woods in season to gather greens and herbs, nuts and berries and ‘sang. There was water needed to be carried in from the springhouse, a woodbox to be filled, and any number of other day-to-day chores that needed doing.

It wasn't so much a question of what she did, as there hardly being the time in a day to get it all done.

“But don't you find it hard?” Sarah Jane had asked her once. “Keeping up with it all?”

Aunt Lillian smiled. “Hard's being confined to a sick bed like some my age are,” she said. “Hard's not having your health and being able to look after yourself. What I do … it's just living, girl.”

“But you could buy your food instead of having to work so hard at growing it.”

“Sure, I could. But I'd have to have me the money to do that. And to get the money, well, I'd have to work just as hard at something else, except it wouldn't necessarily be as pleasing to my soul.”

“You find weeding a garden pleasing?”

“You should try it, girl. You might be surprised.”

The trail to Aunt Lillian's house started in the pasture beside the Welchs' farm, then took a winding route up into the hills, traveling alongside the creek as it flowed down the length of the hollow.

In spring, the creek grew swollen, the water tumbling over stone staircases, overflowing pools and running quickly along the narrows, until it finally reached the pasture where it dove under the county road before continuing on its way. By fall, the creek was reduced to a trickle, though it never dried up completely. There were always a few deep pools even in the hottest months of the summer, home to fish, spring peepers and deep-throated bullfrogs, and perfect for a cool dip on a sweltering day.

Tall, sprucey-pine grew on either side of the trail, sharing the steep slopes of the hollow with yellow birch, oak and beech. Under them was a thick shrub layer of rhododendrons and mountain laurel. Higher up, tuliptrees and more sprucey-pine rose on either side with a thick understory of redbud, magnolia and dogwood. Even with her yellow hound Root at her side, Sarah Jane had seen deer, fox, hares, raccoons and possum, not to mention the endless chorus of birds and squirrels scolding all intruders from the safety of the trees—when they weren't occupied with their own business, that is.

The walk through these woods, with the conversation of the creek as constant company, was something Sarah Jane quickly grew to love. It didn't matter if she was just ambling along with Root, or pulling Aunt Lillian's cart—fetching the supplies that were dropped off for Aunt Lillian at the Welchs' farm, or bringing them back to her old house up in the hills.

Sarah Jane's own family lived next door to the Welchs on what everybody still called the old Shaffer farm. Though they'd been living there for the better part of ten years now, and her grandparents for five years before that, she'd become resigned to knowing that it would probably never be called the Dillard farm.

They'd moved here from Hazard after her father died—she, her mother and her six sisters—to live with Granny Burrell, her maternal grandmother. The Burrells had bought the farm from the Shaffers a few years before Sarah Jane's family arrived and hadn't had any more luck losing the Shaffer name than they did. When Granny Burrell died, she left the farm to Sarah Jane's mother and now it was home to their little clan of red-haired, independent-thinking women.

“If you weren't so bullish,” Granny Burrell would say, “you'd have better luck getting another father for those wayward girls of yours.”

“Maybe they don't want another father,” Sherry Dillard would tell her mother. “And I sure plan to be choosy about the next man I have in my life. I'd just as soon have none, than get me one that won't match up to my Jimmy.”

“You're going to ruin your life.”

“Least it's my life,” their mother would say, an unspoken reference to her brother Ulysses, who'd so badly mismanaged the investment company he'd opened that its failure left a trail of bankruptcies from one end of the county to the other.

But if their mother had a mind of her own, her daughters gave a whole new meaning to independent thinking.

Adie, named after their paternal grandmother Ada, was the eldest at nineteen. From the time she could walk, she'd always been in one kind of trouble or another, from sassing the teachers in grade school to eloping at sixteen with Johnny Garland, the two of them hightailing it out of the county on Johnny's motorcycle. She came back seven months later, unrepentant, but done with boyfriends for the time being. Her celibacy had lasted about a month, but so far she hadn't taken off again.

The twins, Laurel and Bess, were born the year after her. They were also mad about boys, but their first love was music—making it, dancing to it, anything there might be that had to do with it. They both sang, making those sweet harmonies that only sisters can. Laurel played the fiddle, Bess the banjo, and the two could be found at any barn dance or hooley within a few miles radius of the farm, kicking up their heels on the dance floor with an ever-rotating cast of partners, or playing their instruments on the stage, keeping up with the best of them. When they were home, just the two of them, they'd amuse themselves arranging pop music from the seventies and eighties into old-timey and bluegrass settings.