Mountain Magic Part 37
"I can't claim that," I said.
For I can't. My heart's sinful, and each day I hope it's less sinful than yesterday.
Who Else Could I Count On
"I reckon I'm bound to believe you," I admitted to the old man at last. "You've given me too many proofs. It couldn't be any otherwise but that you've come back from the times forty years ahead of now."
"You believe because you can believe wonders, John," he said. "Not many could be made to believe anything I've said."
"This war that's going to be," I started to inquire him, "the one the n.o.body's going to win-"
"The war that everybody's going to lose," he broke in. "I've come back to this day and time to keep it from starting if I can. Come with me, John. We'll go to the men that rule this world. We'll make them believe, too, make them see that the war mustn't start."
"Explain me one thing first," I said.
"What's that?" he asked.
"If you were an old man forty years ahead of now, then you must have been young right in these times." I talked slowly, trying to clear the idea for both of us. "If that's so, what if you meet the young man you used to be?"
So softly he smiled: "John," he said, "why do you reckon I sought you out of all men living today?"
"Lord have mercy!" I said.
"Who else could I count on?"
"Lord have mercy!" I said again.
Farther Down the Trail
Manly Wade Wellman
JOHN'S MY NAME.
Where I've been is places and what I've seen is things, and there've been times I've run off from seeing them, off to other places and things. I keep moving, me and this guitar with the silver strings to it, slung behind my shoulder. Sometimes I've got food with me and an extra shirt maybe, but most times just the guitar, and trust to G.o.d for what I need else.
I don't claim much. John's my name, and about that I'll only say I hope I've got some of the goodness of good men who've been named it. I'm no more than just a natural man; well, maybe taller than some. Sure enough, I fought in the war across the sea, but so does near about every man in war times. Now I go here and go there, and up and down, from place to place and from thing to thing, here in among the mountains.
Up these heights and down these hollows you'd best go expecting anything. Maybe everything. What's long time ago left off happening outside still goes on here, and the tales the mountain folks tell sound truer here than outside. About what I tell, if you believe it you might could get some good thing out of it. If you don't believe it, well, I don't have a gun out to you to make you stop and hark at it.
WHY THEYRE NAMED THAT.
If the gardinel's an old folks' tale, I'm honest to tell you it's a true one.
Few words about them are best, I should reckon. They look some way like a shed or cabin, snug and rightly made, except the open door might could be a mouth, the two little windows might could be eyes.
Never you'll see one on main roads or near towns; only back in the thicketty places, by high trails among tall ridges, and they show themselves there when it rains and storms and a lone rarer hopes to come to a house to shelter him.
The few that's lucky enough to have gone into a gardinel and win out again, helped maybe by friends with axes and corn knives to chop in to them, tell that inside it's pinky-walled and dippy-floored, with on the floor all the skulls and bones of those who never did win out; and from the floor and the walls come spouting rivers of wet juice that stings, and as they tell this, why, all at once you know that inside a gardinel is like a stomach.
Down in the lowlands I've seen things grow they name the Venus flytrap and the pitcher plant, that can tole in bugs and flies to eat. It's just a possible chance that the gardinel is some way the same species, only it's so big it can tole in people.
Gardinel. Why they're named that I can't tell you, so don't inquire me.
NONE WISER FOR THE TRIP.
Jabe Mawks howdied Sol Gentry, cutting up a fat deer in his yard. Sol sliced off enough for a supper and did it up in newspaper for Jabe to carry home, past Morg McGeehee's place that you can see from Sol's gate, and from where you can see Jabe's cabin.
Jabe never got home that day. As if the earth had opened, he was swallowed up. Only that wrapped-up meat lay on the trail in front of Morg's. The high sheriff questioned. Jabe's wife sought but did not find.
Some reckoned Jabe to be killed and hid, some told he'd fled off with some woman. Twenty-eight long years died.
When one day Morg hollered from his door: "Jabe Mawks!"
"Where's the meat?" Jabe asked to know. "Where's it gone?"
He looked no older than when last he was there. He wore old wool pants, new checked shirt, broad brown hat, he'd worn that other day. "Where's the meat?" he wondered Morg.
Jabe's wife was dead and gone, and he didn't know his children, grown up with children of their own.
He just knew he didn't have that deer meat he'd been fetching home for supper.
Science men allow maybe there's a nook in s.p.a.ce and time you can stumble in and be lost beyond power to follow or seek, till by chance you stumble out again. But if that's so, Jabe is none wiser for the trip.
Last time I saw him, he talked about that deer meat Sol gave him. "It was prime," he said, "I had my mouth all set for it. Wish we had it now, John, for you and me to eat up. But if twenty-eight years sure enough pa.s.sed me on my way home, why, they pa.s.sed me in the blink of an eye."
NARY SPELL.
Fifty of us paid a dollar to be in the Walnut Cap beef shoot, and Deputy n.o.ble set the target, a two-inch diamond out in white paper on a black-charred board, and a cross marked in the diamond for us to try at from sixty steps away.
All reckoned first choice of beef quarters was betwixt Niles Lashly and Eby Coffle. Niles aimed, and we knew he'd loaded a bat's heart and liver in with his bullet. Bang!
Deputy n.o.ble went to look. "Drove the cross," he hollered us. "The up-and-down-mark, just above the sideways one."
Then Eby. He'd dug a skull from an old burying ground and poured lead through the eye-hole into his bullet mold. Bang!
Deputy n.o.ble looked and hollered; "Drove the cross, too, just under that there line-joining."
Eby and Niles fussed over who'd won, while I took my turn, with Luns Lamar's borrowed rifle. Bang!
Deputy n.o.ble looked, and looked again.
"John's drove the cross plumb center!" he yelled. "Right where them two lines cross, betwixt the other two best shots!"
Niles and Eby bug-eyed at me. "Whatever was your spell, John?" they wondered to know.
"Nary spell," I said. "But in the army I was the foremost shot in my regiment, foremost shot in my brigade, foremost shot in my division. Preacher Ricks, won't you cut up this quarter of beef for whoever's families need it most round Walnut Gap?"
Trill Coster's Burden
Manly Wade Wellman
After Evadare caught up with me on that high mountain, her poor feet were worn so sore that we stayed there all next day. I snared a rabbit for dinner and dried its sinews by the fire and sewed up her torn shoes with them. Our love talk to one another would have sounded stupid to air other soul on earth. Next morning we ate our last smoked meat and corn pone, and Evadare allowed, "I can walk with a staff, John." So I bundled our two packs behind my back and slung my guitar on top. Off southwest, we reckoned, was another state line. Across that, folks could marry without a long wait or a visit to the county seat.
For hours we made it slantways down the mountain side and then across rocks in a river. We climbed a ridge beyond, midway towards evening, and saw a narrower stream below. There was a wagon track across and cabins here and yonder and, on the stream's far side, a white-steepled church and folks there, little as ants.
"We'll head there," I said, and she smiled up from under the bright toss of her hair. Down we came Evadare a-limping with her staff. At the stream I picked her up like a flower and waded over. Not one look did the folks at the church give us, so hard they harked at what a skinny little man tried to say.
"Here's sixty dollars in money bills," he hollered, "for who'll take her sins and set her soul free."
I set Evadare down. We saw a dark-painted pine coffin among those dozen ladies and men. Shadow looked to lie on and around the coffin, more shadow than it could cast by itself. The man who talked looked pitiful, and his hair was gravel-gray.
"Who'll do it?" he begged to them. "I'll pay seventy-five. No, a hundred-my last cent." He dug money from his jeans pocket. "Here's a hundred. Somebody do it for Trill and I'll pray your name in my prayers forevermore."
He looked at a squatty man in a brown umbrella hat. "Bart, if-"
"Not for a thousand dollars, Jake," said the squatty man. "Not for a million."
The man called Jake spoke to a well-grown young woman with brown hair down on her bare shoulders.
"Nollie," he said, "I'd take Trill's sins on myself if I could, but I can't. I stayed by her, a-knowing what she was."
"You should ought to have thought of that when you had the chance, Jake," she said, and turned her straight back.
In the open coffin lay a woman wrapped in a quilt. Her hair was smoky-red. Her shut-eyed face had a proud beauty look, straight-nosed and full-lipped. The man called Jake held out the money to us.
"A hundred dollars," he whined. "Promise to take her sins, keep her from being d.a.m.ned to everlasting."
I knew what it was then, I'd seen it once before. Sin-eating. Somebody dies after a bad life, and a friend or a paid person agrees the sin will be his, not the dead one's. It's still done here and there, far back off from towns and main roads.
"I'll take her sins on me, John," said Evadare to me.
Silence then, so you might could hear a leaf drop. Jake started in to cry. "Oh, ma'am," he said, "tell me your name so's I can bless it to all the angels."
Somebody laughed a short laugh, but when I turned round, nair face had nair laugh on it.
"I'm called Evadare, and this is John with me."
"Take it." Jake pushed the money at her.
"I wouldn't do such a thing for money," Evadare said. "Only to give comfort by it, if I can."
Jake blinked his wet eyes at her. The squatty man shut the coffin lid. "All right, folks," he said, and he and three others took hold and lifted. The whole bunch headed in past the church, to where I could see the stones of a burying ground. Round us the air turned dull, like as if a cloud had come up in the bright evening sky.
Jake hung back a moment. "Better you don't come in," he mumbled, and followed the others.
"I do hope I did right," said Evadare, to herself and me both.
"You always do right," I replied her.
We walked to where some trees bunched on the far side of the wagon road. I dropped our bundles under a sycamore. We could see the folks a-digging amongst the graves. I got sticks and made us a fire.
Evadare sat on a root. Chill had come into the air, along with that dimness. We talked, love talk but not purely cheerful talk. The sunset looked b.l.o.o.d.y-red in the west.
The folks finished the burying and headed off this way and that. I'd hope to speak to somebody, maybe see if Evadare could stay the night in a house. But they made wide turns not to come near us. I looked in my soogin sack to see if we had aught left to eat. But nair crumb.
"There's still some coffee in my bundle," said Evadare. "That'll taste good." I took the pot to the stream and scooped up water. Somebody made a laughing noise and I looked up.
"I didn't get your name," said the bare-shouldered woman, a-smiling her mouth at me.
"John," I said. "I heard you called Miss Nollie."
"Nollie Willoughby."
Her eyes combed me up and down in that last light of day. They were brown eyes, with hard, pale lights behind them.
"Long and tall, ain't you, John?" she said. "You nair took Trill Coster's sins-only that little snip you're with did that. If you've got the sense you look to have, you'll leave her and them both, right now."
"I've got the sense not to leave her," I said.