House of Purple Cedar

by Tim Tingle

  I told no one what I saw, but these events, as it turned out, served as a prelude to the coming night. Drawn by the drama unfolding around the panther and the shooter, we were about to enter a tunnel of vision and deep mystery. It was as if God chose to split the veil guarding us from things we should not know.

  He chose to let us see.

  The storm had been blowing up all day. I remember feeling a chill and looking to see the clouds gathering overhead, promising hard rain. It was the kind of cloud cover you long for when corn is in the ground, those billowing gray blue clouds that swagger low over the hills. I feared more than rain was in the offing. But there was so much to do with the sow, lest we break that unpardonable sin of wasting livestock and, worse yet, wasting food. The threatening weather only added to the urgency.

  Missus McCurtain took one look at the sow and told Aaron, “Get me the butchering knife.” Aaron made no protest. Even he could see the need to hurry. When he returned with the knife, Missus McCurtain stuck it hard into the main artery of the sow’s neck. Blood squirted out all over her hands, her arms, all over the front of her.

  She turned to me and said, “Bring me something to dry off with, hon, quick.” I found a worn-out cloth in the kitchen, tore it in half, and ran back to where she waited.

  She nodded thanks and dried off her arms. She then jabbed the point of the knife into the side of the sow’s head. She wiggled it to get a good hold and began to cut the thick skin of the sow across the throat. When the knife blade slid into the sow’s windpipe, I heard a deep whisssing sound.

  Missus McCurtain looked to a clump of elm trees on the edge of the cornfield, some distance away. Momma read her thoughts.

  “Rose, go get Whiteface. Bridle her up and bring her ’round here,” she told me. By the time I returned with Whiteface, Aaron had tied the sow’s legs together, two and two, and worked a thick rope around her middle. He took Whiteface by the bridle and fastened a loop of rope around her neck.

  “We gonna have to help roll the sow over to get Whiteface started,” Momma said. “Jamey, come on, boy, you can help too.”

  Jamey ran from the porch, eager to get a better look at all the blood. We, all of us but Aaron, got behind the sow and pushed with all our might, driving our shoulders into the side of the sow and struggling to turn her over so Whiteface could drag her to the trees. Our feet kept slipping in the mud, made slicker by the blood still pouring from the sow’s neck.

  “Come on, girl. Attagirl, good girl, pull,” Aaron urged Whiteface on, tugging on the bridle.

  After an hour of struggling, we managed to pull the sow beneath the grove. A hoist and heavy rope hung from the only oak tree standing among the elms. Leaning up against the tree trunk was the biggest kettle I had ever seen in my life.

  “There’s some brushes up on the porch. Get ’em quick,” said Missus McCurtain to anybody who was listening. Jamey was well into the spirit of doing now, and he made a mad dash to the porch. Aaron fitted a leather sling around the hindquarters of the sow and began lifting her off the ground, while Momma and Missus McCurtain dragged the kettle under the oak limb.

  “Rose, you’ll find some gloves up yonder with the brushes. And scrappers. They’ve got a thin blade and are real sharp on one edge, so be careful. Bring several pairs of gloves. We gonna need ’em. Those sow bristles can cut your hands to pieces,” Missus McCurtain said. Her voice seemed to lose some of its edge when she spoke to me, almost like she was treating me like a lady instead of a young ’un.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. When I returned, Aaaon had lowered the sow into the kettle and Missus McCurtain already had a good fire going under it. The boiling water loosened the skin enough for us to clean the sharp bristles off, but it was hard going without the men. Aaron did his best to roll the sow over easy, but she was just too heavy.

  “Get on away from here,” Aaron had yelled at Jamey when the kettle tilted and hot water eased over the kettle’s lip, blistering Jamey’s hand. Jamey grabbed his hand and ran behind the tree. Neither Momma nor Missus McCurtain said a word to comfort him. There was just too much work to do to tend to a skin wound.

  A few minutes later I looked up from scrubbing the hog bristles and saw that Jamey had discovered something even more interesting than the fat sow sitting dead in boiling water. The sow’s head was lying up by the tree trunk, her mouth wide open, and Jamey was poking at her eyes with a tree branch.

  When the scrubbing was done, Aaron lowered the sow on to the ground and went to butchering her. He had helped the men with the butchering enough to know how to go about it.

  “Hon, find us some more knives in the kitchen, will you?” Missus McCurtain asked me. When I returned with the knives, she and Momma were rendering the hog fat. They were boiling the skins and scooping the hog lard as it floated to the top.

  “Where is Jamey?” Momma asked. Jamey raised his guilty eyes. The hog was now dead and blind both, thanks to him. He hid his latest treasure behind his back, a two-pronged stick with the sow’s eyes dangling from it.

  “Come here, son.” Missus McCurtain took some warm hog fat and rubbed it on Jamey’s burn. “That’ll make it feel better. You go on back to your playing, now. It’s hoke. But leave that sow’s head to your sister, hear me.”

  She turned to me and said, “Rose, there ought to be some pliers in the tool box on the porch. Aaron can show you what to do.”

  When I came back with the pliers, Aaron said, “We need to get the skin off the head. Here, let me show you.” He took the pliers with one hand and gripped the tough skin while he held the head down with his boot. With his other hand he pulled on the skin, trying to pry it loose.

  “There’s good meat inside if you can get to it,” he said. Aaron nodded and turned back to his butchering. While Missus McCurtain might consider me grown, it was clear to me I was still just one of the children to Aaron, who at fourteen was every bit of three years older than myself.

  I tried to do what Aaron had done, tried pinning the sow’s head to the ground with my shoe, tried prying the hard skin loose with the pliers and my free hand. My foot slipped on the bloody sow’s head and I stumbled backwards. My back hit hard against the tree trunk and I sat on my bottom in the soft mud.

  “Careful now, hon,” said Missus McCurtain.

  I sat for a moment to let the dizziness clear. I saw the hills turn from green to gray as sheet rain moved across the valley. With a sharp electric crackle, followed by a cannon’s boom, lightning struck a red oak on the edge of the cornfield, splitting the trunk in a burst of flames. The fire soon sizzled and died in the path of the onrushing rain.

  Momma and Missus McCurtain looked anxiously to the sky, then to each other. Though they said nothing, I heard their conversation.

  “Storm looks to be only rain and lightning, no tornado.”

  “Might last all day.”

  “Hog got to be butchered, rain or no rain.”

  “Too heavy to carry to the barn.”

  “Just us to do it.”

  “Better get to work.”

  I struggled to stand, but the ground tilted and I fell backwards again.

  “Stay right there, hon. You rest a minute.”

  A wet sycamore leaf, yellow and brown, slapped my cheek. As I peeled it from my face, I saw the sow’s shiny blood on my hands. At that moment a gust of wind, freezing cold and hissing in my ears, seemed to suck my breath away. I gave in to the darkness and fainted.

  When I lifted my head, the dark clouds were gone and the bluest sky I ever saw shone down on me. I smelled pine trees and saw their branches waving in the cooling breeze. I stood on the banks of the Kiamichi River.

  It was the day of my baptism. The entire Choctaw community lined the banks of the river. Many held hymn books and everybody was singing. I strained to hear the song, but could not make out the words.

  Preacher Willis stood waist deep in the river. His arms were lifted and he was beckoning to me.

  “No need to cry, sweet child. This river
’s gonna wash you clean.”

  Only then did I realize I was crying. I was trying to smile, but tears streamed down my face. I lifted my hands to brush the tears away and saw the sow’s blood covering my hands. I put my hands behind my back.

  “No need to be ’shamed, child. We all got the stains. You ’bout to wash yours away,” said Preacher Willis.

  I stepped into the river and walked to meet Brother Willis. He took me by the hand and put his other hand behind my head.

  “Fold your arms and close your eyes, Rose. Might help to take a breath now.”

  He dipped me slow and gentle into the water. As if I was floating above myself and watching, I saw the sow’s blood wash from my hands. I saw it stain the river red, then pink, then wash away till only the light brown flesh of my palms remained.

  When my head cleared and I came to, I was propped up against the tree trunk with a pillow. I looked up to see Aaron smiling at me, not like a slouching skinny boy or a snake in hiding. The smile didn’t last long, but I saw it. He wanted me to. He nodded to my side, then flushed red and turned away. I saw a plate sitting next to me and knew that he had put it there. It held a thick slice of bread dipped in hog fat and beside it was a cup of water.

  Even at the age of eleven, I knew that Aaron would not be the one I would marry. But something about his gentleness told me that he would find somebody to take care of, and that somebody would take care of him as well. I ate the bread and sipped the water as slowly as I dared, with so much work to do and the storm so close. The clouds had retreated to the distant hills, where they seemed to be darkening and gathering strength for another run at us. The air was colder than when I fell out. I struggled to my feet, wiped the blood from my hands, and went to help.

  Aaron and I were soon smoking the meat, cooking thick slabs of pork steak on a spit by the porch. Momma and Missus McCurtain were rolling out sausage, using the hog entrails as skin and stuffing it with dried blood and innards.

  About an hour before sundown, I saw Missus McCurtain pause for a moment and look at Momma. Momma seemed not to see her, but she did, and went to reading her mind again. Missus McCurtain was asking if we’d be staying another night.

  “See to your brother, Rose,” Momma said. “Bad weather’s coming. Your father and Amafo cain’t stay out in this. They’ll be coming home. We got to be there for ’em.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Jamey, help your sister. Do what she tells you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You sure you want to be out in this?” Missus McCurtain said. “It’s getting near freezing. Might ice over.”

  “We’ll make it fine. Whiteface knows the way. We’ll likely be home before dark.”

  We all knew better than that. Missus McCurtain just looked at Momma. With the road slippery from the rain, we’d be lucky to be home by midnight. Nobody wanted to mention the possibility of us getting stuck in an ice storm, but we all thought of it.

  Half an hour later—the wagon loaded with squash pickles and two buckets of smoked pork and sausage—we set off for home. Momma drove Whiteface and I curled up under a quilt with Jamey. We had been going for about a mile when Whiteface went to whinnying again. I peeped from under the quilt and, sure as I suspected, we’d come upon the bull nettle.

  “Easy, girl. Snake done dead and gone. Easy, now,” Momma said, guiding her away from the bushes where she’d flung the snake. But Whiteface shied away from the roadside, shaking her head and coming to a halt. Momma climbed down from the wagon and took Whiteface by the reins to walk her past the bull nettle.

  I saw it before Momma did, but the words caught in my throat. The rattlesnake was dangling from a tree limb. Backing up like she was, talking to Whiteface as she walked, Momma was almost on the snake before I could holler. The snake was writhing in the evening breeze and its mouth was open wide, its fangs just inches from Momma’s neck.

  “Momma!” I screamed. She saw me pointing over her shoulder and turned right into the snake. She flung her arm against it, but the snake curled back and slapped against her face. Momma fell to the ground. I leapt from the wagon and ran to her.

  She was already on her feet and held the snake by the neck. Standing with her feet wide apart and staring above her, she ripped the rattlesnake from the tree.

  “Somebody nailed that dead snake to the tree,” she said. We looked up to see two nail heads on the tree limb. “Why would anybody want to hang a dead snake over this road?”

  Something moved in the brush. The wind blew colder and the woods seemed to take on a darkness quicker than the hour of the day required. “We need to be home,” Momma said.

  Panther in the Dark

  I knew by the way Momma acted that something was following us. I stayed under the quilt and pulled Jamey close. He made soft whining noises. I put my hand over his mouth, but he kicked back at me, scared and barely able to breath.

  “No, you have to be still,” I told him. “We’ll be alright if we be still.”

  I felt him nod and I loosened my grip. I heard dried leaves rustling and slipped the quilt down to my nose so I could see. The moon was a thin slice peeping through the clouds. In the dim light I saw something slinking behind a tree trunk by the road.

  The wind picked up and a hard gust sent leaves whirling around my face. I ducked beneath the quilt. When my breathing settled, Jamey slid close to me, till his lips were touching my ear.

  “Did you see it?” he said.

  “Un-uhh. Nothing to see. Shhh.”

  But I had seen something. I’d seen two burning green ovals peering down at me. They were the eyes of a panther, crouched and waiting on a thick tree branch overhanging the path.

  “Hand me the meat!” Momma said.

  “What?”

  “The meat. Hand me a bucket of pork.”

  A tin bucket filled with pork steaks was tucked under the seat of the wagon. I was too scared to move. I drew my knees up to my waist, closed my eyes tight, and shivered to make it all go away. Surely Momma wasn’t going to eat now.

  “Get it! Hand it to me!” Momma said. I scooted Jamey away from me and rolled over to my knees. The wind was howling. I heard the slick whisper of sleet and felt the stinging ice on my arms and the back of my neck.

  The bucket was wedged in tight and I had to yank hard. When I did, the quilt flew up and would have blown off the wagon if I hadn’t grabbed it. I almost dropped the bucket. Jamey started crying.

  “Hush, Jamey!” I pulled the quilt up over his face and tucked it tight around his shoulders. I felt like crying too. I struggled to lift the bucket over the seatback. It wasn’t heavy but the wagon was rocking and jerking on the rutted road. The sleet fell harder now, making the wooden floor slick.

  “You can do it,” Momma said. “Careful and don’t fall. Set the bucket right here beside me.” It took all my strength, but I did it. Real careful, I eased it down next to her.

  “Now git down under the quilt and don’t you move no matter what,” Momma said. I gripped the seatback with both hands and stood looking at her. Her face was drawn tight and her eyes squinted into the sleet. My face stung with the icy rain.

  “Momma,” I said.

  “Get down!”

  “Momma, what is it?”

  “Get back with Jamey. Keep him still.”

  Momma’s right hand held the reins tight. I saw her wrist quiver with the strain. Her left hand was cupped over her brow, protecting her eyes from the icy needles. In a frantic gesture––more like an angry man lashing out and whipping a horse than a women picking up a slab of meat––Momma grabbed the top piece from the metal bucket and flung it to the woods.

  I now heard what Momma had no doubt heard, a quick and nervous rustling ten feet to the right of the wagon. I fell down to my knees.

  “Help me,” she said.

  “Momma, what is it?” I lied in asking, for I already knew.

  “Take the meat and be ready.”

  “No,” I said. Her left hand made a
stab in the darkness, brushing aside a small oak branch flying at her face.

  “Do as I say and we have a chance. You must help. You are not a child.”

  No one had ever said that to me before. “No, I am not a child,” I said too soft for her to hear. I had ridden in rocking wagons before. I had walked in colder, thicker sleet than this, through darker woods than these––and I had seen panthers before, big cats, koi chitto. I crouched and watched a mother panther lead her kittens to the river once. I saw a dead panther hanging in a neighbor’s backyard, gutted and ready for skinning.

  I stood up slow and easy, spreading my legs apart for balance. With one hand I gripped the seatback, with the other I picked up a piece of pork. “I understand,” I said. “I throw a piece, wait a minute, then throw another.”

  “Yes,” Momma said. “You are a strong girl. We will live through this.”

  Whiteface pulled steady, splashing through the shallow ruts now icing over. Momma held the reins and drove. Jamey curled into a fearful fetal rounding of himself and I hurled food into the underbrush to divert the killing that otherwise awaited. I knew that at any moment a cat half as big as Whiteface could drop from a tree limb onto the wagon and commence to tear into my skin with its teeth and claws.

  I looked at Momma and for the first time understood the hard set of her jaw. Part of it was fear, but more of it was anger. I learned something about her too. If the danger fell upon us, if the killing came, Momma would die to protect us.

  I touched her neck and she nodded, closing her eyes. Her left hand moved to grip mine.

  When the bucket was near empty, our house came into view. Momma leaned into the reins, leading Whiteface close to the porch. When she drew to a stop, Momma leapt from the wagon and whirled to grab Jamey.

  “Open the door. Hurry.” I ran to the porch and flung the door open while Momma lifted Jamey from the wagon. I saw Momma, burdened down with Jamey’s weight, splash though the mud and reach her long leg for the step. The single porch step was slick as pond’s ice. Only the toe of her shoe landed on the step.