The Killing Tree (15 page)

It would be the first night in my life that I hadn’t slept under Father Heron’s roof. And as chill bumps crept up my arms
I realized it would be the first night that I would spend with Trout. It was real. I was free.

Trout pulled me to him, and we walked to the singing, dancing crowd. I let him kiss me, in the middle of the crowd, and never
once felt afraid of being seen.

Jericho’s daddy went to the middle of the circle and started praying about the coming winter. He called for people to testify
to the blessings the harvest had brought them. There were stories of new babies born and old people healed. Stories of food
that lasted when it shouldn’t have. Of rain that came, just when it was most needed.

“It’s our harvest night, Mercy,” Trout whispered lowly. “We’re startin’ a whole new life.”

I nodded and reached for his hand.

“Jericho,” Trout said. “You called to preach, ain’t you?”

Jericho looked down at the ground and shrugged his shoulders.

“Don’t worry, we ain’t in need of snakes,” Trout said.

He led me to the center of the circle, the moon shining down on my head like a crown of glory. And with Jericho’s prompting,
we made our promises real.
Wherever you go, I’ll go. Your people are my people. And your God is my God.

I was trembling while I said it, and while I listened. Trembling when he took my hand and led me deeper into the woods. Trembling
when I heard the sound of water, the sound of a pure mountain stream nearby. The whole time we walked, his eyes stayed on
me, looking in me. I let his eyes search me out, until my body felt no surprise when it felt his touch. Not like the sweet
kisses in the tentworld or on our fishing dates. But a touch simply because he knew that my skin, my very being, was now his.

His callused fingers gently,
so gently
, touched the side of my face. Softly pushing back my wind-tangled hair. His red palm lifted my chin.
Another touch
. The prickle of his beard was like tomato leaves rubbing against my skin. Was he holding me down in the water? Is that why
my skin burned so? Was he whispering love? Or was that just the wind in the trees?
Another touch
. Red palms on cool pale skin. A gentle invitation.
And still another
. His eyes, eyes that no longer asked, held mine. I was drowning. Drowning in deep green river pools. And there were sunflowers
everywhere. Floating past me. Floating on me. Within me.

L
ife coursed through me with every pulse. I ran my fingers through that black mountain dirt and held on. It was what my momma
laid on when she gave birth to me, when she died. And it was what I had laid on the night before, when I first knew love.
All of my hunger, sorrow, and new joy, I shared with the earth of that mountain.

Elsa visited our tent later that day. “I did it,” she said. “I made him a rattler stew. An’ I says to him, ‘Jericho, this
here is a rattler stew. An’ it might kill you. But it might save you too. I leave it to you whether you want to try.’ He set
himself down and ate the whole kettle. He even said he liked it.”

“Did it work? Has he been to church?”

“Ain’t been a meetin’ yet. But we’ve tried it on our own. We snuck down there and he held them snakes like they was nothin’
but fuzzy pups.”

“He’s part snake now,” I said.

“He is. Never seen nothin’ like it in all my days. He even shook ’em to try and rile ’em up, and they never even hissed. But
the best part is now he knows I ain’t the blackness in his soul.”

She hugged me close. “You know we’re kin,” she said lightly, giving me her full smile.

“Yes. We’ll always be friends.”

“No,” she said, laughing. “I mean you’re my people. Your Mamma Rutha, she’s my people too.”

“How?” I whispered, in shock.

“Ruthie Clyde was her birth name. She still comes up in here sometimes. Often one of our men will stumble up on her in the
woods. Ain’t all there in the head now, is she?”

“No. But how is she your people?”

“She’s from this holler. Fell in love with a valley boy, though. Moved out to his part of the mountain. That was all before
my time, but folks say this whole holler was in an uproar about it. She was a beauty in her day. An’ everybody hated to see
her waste it on a good-fer-nothin’ valley boy. ‘How can you leave your homeland?’ folks asked her, before she ran off to marry
him. ‘It’s easier to leave my home than it is my heart,’ she cried. She loved him somethin’ fierce. Funny when you think about
it.”

“What’s funny?”

“How you’re doin’ the same thing she did. Leavin’ your home for a boy. But Ruthie Clyde makes us kin. She was my grandmammy’s
sister.”

When Elsa left, I realized I was proud of her beauty. I was a part of that. I felt a sense of ownership in the wilderness
too. It belonged to some of my ancestors. I even wondered if that made me part melungeon. Maybe there was more to me after
all, than a dull paleness that stared back in the mirror.

I was washing up in the stream when I heard a branch break. It was close. Maybe thirty feet away. Leaves rustled without any
wind to blow them.
Danger, danger, danger
, my heart whispered.

Trout was supposed to be loading up the truck. If I had been sure of the way and it were just up to me, we would have left
long ago. But with darkness approaching, all of the woods looked the same.

There was another movement. The sound of underbrush being pushed back. It could be a bear, I thought.
Or it could be Father Heron.
I hoped it was a bear. Whatever it was, as I sat and listened to its movements, I grew sure that it was tracking me down.
Its path never darted to the side. It was following one clean straight line to where I sat, shaking.

Go, go, go.
That was my only thought as I felt my legs pull into a blind run. Something crashed behind me, responding to my flight. It
wasn’t tracking me anymore. It was chasing me. A tree root reached out and grabbed my foot, sending me tumbling to the ground.
I looked behind me. Moonlight bounced from limb to limb, lighting up pockets of the woods. A scream swelled in my throat.
Every glowing pocket held a pair of black eyes. I picked myself up and ran as hard as my body could. Into branches. Through
briars.

I saw the truck in the distance.

“Trout!” I screamed. “Trout!” It was a familiar sound. The scream of dreams, just like Mamma Rutha when her chicken was killed.
Soon Trout was with me. I pulled him, dragged him, to the truck.

“GO!” I screamed. “GO!”

After a couple tries the truck started, and soon we were moving. I turned and looked through the rear window. My eyes searching
for any trace of moonlight to show my danger. A shadow moved. A darkness low to the ground. And then another, close to the
first. And though I knew better, with all my heart I knew better, I couldn’t help but think I saw them. His great hunters.
Fox, Wolf, Coon, and Bear.

“What in the hell is goin’ on?” Trout cried. “Who’s after us?”

“Don’t know.” I didn’t know if I was being hunted or going crazy. “I just need to get off this mountain,” I sobbed. “I won’t
really be free ’til I know he can’t find me.”

“It’s awright now,” he said, grabbing my hand. “Woods can be a scary place at night.”

“I don’t know what it was,” I said. “It was like the minute the sun set I felt danger everywhere. And it was more than a feeling.
I saw things too, in the moonlight.”

“Maybe it was a melungeon moon givin’ you a sign that danger was comin’,” he said. “Ran into Jericho today. Told me he’s seen
some strange cars drivin’ up in here past couple days. Said if it was him, he’d be headin’ off the mountain soon.”

“I’m part melungeon,” I whispered. “I’m kin to Elsa.”

“Maybe it’s that part of you that saved us tonight.”

We drove through the night and Crooktop hid itself in the dark. I looked in the rearview mirror and imagined I could see it,
towering over our truck with its broken top. I felt the need to say goodbye. That mountain held more than my Father Heron.
Mamma Rutha and Della were up there somewhere. So were my momma’s bones.

By morning, though, my mountains had disappeared for good and everything else seemed too big. The sky went on forever. Green
hills rolled as far as I could see. And the air was thick and heavy.

“Where are we?” I asked.

“Middle of Tennessee. We’re further south here, there’s a little bit left to pick before the chill sets in.”

“Where’d the mountains go?”

“Eight hours northeast,” he said, smiling. “Big world, ain’t it?”

Crooktop had loomed over me all my life. But eight short hours proved it was never as big as it wanted me to believe. We slowed
to a stop, and I looked around at a new camp. It seemed familiar, with a river nearby, and little tent clusters dotting the
fields. The last of the tomatoes were still hanging heavy on the vines. And rows of peppers were planted next to them.
I’m home
, I thought.

“Well, let’s see if we can work,” he said.

I had never imagined that we might be refused. Instead I had been preparing myself for an ugly life. The life of a mater migrant.

“You mean they might not want us?” I asked. Suddenly, even the ugly life seemed precious. Without that work, we had no jobs.
No food. And no money to get us to the ocean.

“Well, camp’s windin’ down. Boss might not be lookin’ to hire just when he’s gettin’ ready to close the fields down.”

We went looking for the camp boss. Trout had worked for him before, and told me that he could be harsh. “You pick your maters,
and he’ll treat you good. You joke around and have an empty crate at the end of the day, he’ll make you pay.”

We found him by the trucks, watching crates being loaded. He was a big man, with thick layers of muscle over an even thicker
layer of fat. He was young too. Not much older than Trout.

“How’d he get to be boss?”

“Born for it. His uncle owns this farm.”

“Do I call him Richard?” I asked, seeing the name stitched on his shirt pocket, right below “A.C. Cropping Incorporated.”

“Never,” Trout said. “If you’re doin’ good, you call him Boss. If he’s yellin’ at you, you call him Sir. And behind his back
you call him whatever you want.”

When the trucks pulled away, Trout took me to him.

“Hey Boss. Crooktop camp’s dried up. We was wonderin’ if you need some help finishin’ up here.”

“Who’s she?” he asked.

“Mercy Price.”

“Where y’all from?”

“Up in the mountains. We’re on our way to Florida, need to earn some travelin’ money.”

“Well I’ll be damned,” he said, before spitting on the ground. He crossed his arms over his chest and studied me. My eyes
fell to the ground, and I tried my best to seem capable of hard work.

“Ain’t never bossed a white girl before. I’ve hollered my head off at them Mexican girls. But this here’s a new thing for
me.”

“She’s worked in gardens all her life, Boss. She’ll work good, you got my word.”

“Gardens.” He laughed. “This ain’t no pretty garden party. This work ain’t fitting for you. Hell, it ain’t hardly fitting
for you, Trout. You need to head back up in them mountains.”

“My hands can pick them maters as good as any Mexican girl’s,” I said.

“But are your hands as willing to blister? Is your back as willing to hurt? Them Mexicans swim over here and beg to blister
and hurt. They don’t got other options. You do. You was born for a better life than this.”

“I was born for a life with him,” I said, looking at Trout.

“I won’t cut you any breaks,” he said. “I don’t care how soft and pale your skin is.”

I nodded. “We’re real grateful, Boss,” Trout said.

“You see that corner field over there. Y’all can start there today. Show her how it goes, Trout. Make sure she don’t bang
the maters up too much. Don’t stop ’til you got twenty crates.”

“Sure thing, Boss,” Trout muttered as I followed him away.

Already I felt like a mater migrant. I hated that white boss so much I felt my skin turn brown beneath his stare. Trout handed
me a crate. And I was surprised at how big it seemed. Full of tomatoes it looked like a small box. But empty, I saw how deep
and wide it really was.

“How long will it take to fill this?” I asked.

“Not as long as it would earlier in the summer. During the early season we have to be real careful ’bout which ones we pick.
We have to leave most behind until they hit their peak. But now the season’s almost over, and what we don’t pick will rot.
So pick anything that ain’t near rot. Look for mushy skin or black spots, that’s how it starts.”

I squatted down in front of a plant and began to eye it for rot.

“An’ watch out for them mater worms. Fuzzy green things, ’bout as long as your little finger. They give a nasty bite. Watch
out for bees too. They love a rotten mater.”

“When’s our first break?” I asked.

He smiled at me, and I knew my question was silly. “Depends on how the day goes. Just start here, at the row next to mine.”

I put my crate down and cupped my hand around a tomato. After two tugs, it broke loose, and I laid it in my crate. It looked
so small. It would take a hundred rows, I thought, to meet our daily quota.

“Pull it like this,” Trout called. I watched him grab the stem of the tomato, right where it connects to the vine. With a
quick jerk the tomato snapped loose. He stripped an entire plant like that, before I had even spotted all the tomatoes on
my plant.

“Takes time,” he said. “You’ll figure it out.”

Soon he was far ahead of me. I was still squatting in front of my first plant, trying to figure out which tomatoes were rotten.
After squishing two in my hands, I wondered if they all were. I saw Trout get himself a new crate. Mine was only a third full.

Hours passed. Trout brought me new crates. I didn’t know how many I had filled. Was it really only eight? I heard the boss
yelling in Spanish, and was glad I couldn’t understand.

“Trout,” I whispered as he passed by. “Do they serve lunch?”