Christy

by Catherine Marshall

  “You’uns must be hongry,” we heard Opal say. Her voice was disarming; I could hear a smile in it. “Thar’s some cabbage and side meat cookin’ in thar—and hot corn pone.”

  Then the tone changed. “ ’Course you’re sorry fellows and I don’t confidence any last one of you. And if I wasn’t a woman, I’d feather into you and knock-fight every last’un of you into the next dist-rict. But then on the other side, I never did like nobody t’have gnawin’ stommicks—even torn-down scoundrels. So I could tote some of the vittles out to you. Or if you’d druther, you kin come inside.”

  It was a strange invitation, so unprecedented that the men were obviously at a loss how to react. With the men silent before her, Opal now tried more strategy, pure female. “Bird’s-Eye, if you’d like to leave yer kinsmen guardin’, Miz Christy and I can bring vittles out to them. It would be more fittin’ for you—bein’ the head of the clan n’all, to eat inside, comfortable-like.”

  In the darkness I could not see Bird’s-Eye’s face to get his reaction to this appeal to his status. Still there was no reply. The men would be thinking that Opal was trying to trick them. But working for her was their real hunger.

  “Eatin’ yer vittles won’t change nothin’,” Bird’s-Eye finally said, his voice sullen. “Don’t know as we’uns ought t’—”

  Opal immediately picked up the fact that he had not turned her down altogether. “Looky-here, Bird’s-Eye, I’m no lack-wit. And I’m sure you’re atter Tom yit. But you cain’t eat gredges and hate won’t fill up your stommicks, and my hot corn pone and huckleberry pre-serves will. Sweet milk too and sweet ’tater pie. Some folks are plumb foolish ’bout my ’tater pie.”

  The men with Bird’s-Eye made no comment, but somehow I knew that Opal had won her point; they were all but smacking their lips already.

  “Waal, I reckon—” Bird’s-Eye hesitated a long moment. “Con-found it, woman. Probably I’m a con-sarned idiot.” He was following Opal toward the porch.

  I backed away from the door and the children retreated again to the farthest corner of the room. Bird’s-Eye paused on the porch and to my surprise, removed the cartridges from his gun. He nodded briefly to me but did not take off his rusty hat. Carefully he placed the cartridges on the mantle-shelf, stood the gun at the side of the fireplace in sight of us all. This was the first time that I had seen this part of the mountain code acted out, though I had heard about it: One who breaks bread in a mountain cabin would not dare violate the hospitality tendered him by fighting or killing while “eatin’ another’s salt,” nor can the host betray this rule. So Opal’s move was inspired in that she had won a brief truce in the feud.

  Also, she knew that she could not have talked to Bird’s-Eye about the old days in front of his kinsmen. On Bird’s-Eye’s side, he felt that his situation was covered by his men on guard in the yard. So now in these moments of relaxed neutrality, Opal would have her chance to talk to that hole in the armor.

  I carried out tin plates heaping with food to the men outside. They fell on the food ravenously, and when I got back inside, I found Bird’s-Eye eating just as eagerly, though silently and obviously ill at ease.

  “How ’bout some sass?” Opal asked him. “And thar’s a heap more side meat.”

  “I’m near ’bout foundered now,” the man said between mouthfuls. “Waal, some sass, maybe. Right tasty,” was his grudging compliment.

  So Opal ladled some applesauce onto his plate, then an immense piece of pie. With every bite, Bird’s-Eye was feeling more mellow. “Hah! That pie hits whar ye can hold it!”

  In the strategy Opal was trying was her faith that this strange man’s heart could be changed. Looking at him sitting there with hat on eating Opal’s home cooking, it strained my imagination to believe that any such change was possible.

  In the time-honored way of women, as soon as her guest’s stomach was full, Opal began. “Reckon ye’re a-wonderin’ why I asked you in. It’s jest that onct we’uns got along real good. And I memorize how you favored me. Thar was that fawn with the leg you busted, and you splinted hit up for me. Remember? Did you know that I had that thar fawn for a pet till he was full-growed? Aye—so I got to thinkin’ ’bout all that whilst you was thar in the yard, and I sez to myself, ‘It’s my turn to favor Bird’s-Eye now.’ ”

  For Opal this was a considerable speech. Standing well out of the way in the shadows, I had been watching Bird’s-Eye’s face. The hard mouth-lines had relaxed a little.

  “Aye—I knowed ’bout the fawn bein’ a pet. Looky-here, what’n ever happened to it?”

  “When he was growed he went boundin’ off to the woods one day. Never saw him again. Always kinda hoped no hunter got him.” Opal went closer to Bird’s-Eye, took his empty plate. “Looky-here, Bird’s-Eye, whilst you was fixin’ that fawn’s leg, you was a real man. You know that? It’s plumb foolish for you not to let more folks in the Cove see a heap more of that Bird’s-Eye. They have the wrong idea ’bout you.”

  The man looked at her in genuine astonishment. “That must be woman tease-talk. Are you a-joshin’ me? Fixin’ animals’ legs ain’t no man’s work.”

  “Fixin’ onything is man’s work,” came Opal’s firm answer. Tearin’ down or killin’, that thar’s easy. Any addle-pated fool kin pull the trigger of a rifle-gun or fling a rock. It’s fixin’ that’s hard, takes a heap more doin’.”

  Listening to this, I could see again the baby girl’s tiny body lying in the middle of the big bed. How amazing that this homespun mending philosophy and the awful liver-grown superstition could be part of the same woman.

  “And I knowed,” Opal went on, intent on what she was saying, “whiles you was a-fixin’ that baby fawn’s leg that ye was a good fixer, Bird’s-Eye. Lorda­mercy, you are so good that if ye’d a mind to, you could fix up this whole Cove. ’Course ye’d have to stop killin’. But Bird’s-Eye, you was meant to be a real man, a fixer, a clan leader. I reckon I’ve knowed that for a long time.”

  The man sat silent, I hoped transfixed by a new idea. Yet if Opal’s words had hit target, Bird’s-Eye’s pride was not going to let him show it. He sat there cracking his knuckles nervously. “Waal, Opal, you jest mought have some good notions thar.”

  He rose to his feet, reached for his cartridges and his gun. “Tell you what I’ll do,” he said carefully, “what’s fittin’ fer one is fittin’ fer all. We’uns will lay off here for a spell. Got more pressin’ business onyways fer now down to Allen’s grist mill. Got some corn to be ground,” he laughed mirthlessly. “But don’t expect nothin’. We’uns will be back di-rectly.”

  And he walked out the door.

  I stayed the night with Opal, sharing Toot’s bed. I was uneasy and slept fitfully, knowing that they would be alarmed about me at the mission. We dared not send Isaak to tell them where I was lest Bird’s-Eye or one of his men be watching and misconstrue the message being sent.

  Toot and I slept on a muslin tick filled with straw and corn shucks; whenever either of us moved or turned over, the rustling was like dry leaves crunching underfoot in the autumn.

  It must have been about two in the morning when we heard soft tappings at the door. It was Tom and Uncle Bogg. The old man, being familiar with his son’s favorite hunting stands, had been able to find Tom’s hiding place. We dared not light a lamp lest some of Bird’s-Eye’s vigilantes be watching. By a window where the pale moonlight filtered through cracks in the shutters, we huddled for a whispered consultation.

  The men already knew about Bird’s-Eye and some of his men picketing the McHone cabin. Wherever Tom’s hideaway had been—and they did not reveal this—he and Uncle Bogg had seen every move in and out of the cabin.

  It was obvious that the hours of crouching in the woods like a hunted animal had debilitated Tom more than his father. Perhaps it was because Tom was still not altogether recovered from his wound and because, after all, he was the fugitive. In the murky light his eyes were sunk deep in their sockets. Haunted eyes, they were. The sh
ifting shadows drew his cheekbones sharply as with a black crayon with furrows of pain and tension around his mouth.

  Opal’s solicitude was wrenching to watch. She kept thrusting food at her husband for which he had no appetite, hovering over him, plucking at his sleeve, even offering to go to the spring to fetch him a drink of the clear ice-cold water which he had often declared the best water in the world. Tom scarcely saw or heard her; no creature comfort could reach or assuage the hurt in those pain-filled eyes.

  All of us knew that if Tom could have fought Bird’s-Eye alone, he would gladly have done so. But how could he contend with a group in collusion, all determined to kill him, many of them even now lying wait for him in ambush? His only other alternative was to hide out for a while, and unless Tom crossed the state line or went far from home (both of which ideas he rejected), that left only the jail or the mission house as sanctuaries. We agreed that Tom’s best course was to leave immediately and try to reach the mission before sunup.

  But he lingered long enough to look down into the face of each sleeping child as if to imprint the images on his mind. Opal trailed him to the door.

  Clumsily, Tom put one hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Don’t be a-frettin’ yerself, Opal. Leastways, hit’s bound to be settled soon, one way or t’other.”

  He patted her and slipped out.

  The next morning I had breakfast with the McHone children and Uncle Bogg. All of us ate mechanically, our thoughts centered on Tom, wondering how he had fared. For once Uncle Bogg was cracking no jokes, asking no riddles, telling no tall tales. As county squire he was caught in a web of circumstances. I could see his mind skipping hither and yon, searching for those loopholes and duplicities by which he himself had always before escaped and by which he had finagled freedom for other people as well. But this was his son now, his family caught at the center of the web. In the morning light his face was grizzled and dirty, his mouth as grim as Tom’s had been in the night.

  The children and I made it back through the woods in plenty of time for the opening of school. As we came in sight of the mission house, we knew that something was wrong. People were milling around the yard, standing in little clusters staring at the house, talking softly. My immediate impulse was to protect the three children from any bad news, so I tried to send them off to the schoolroom. But they refused to leave my side until they found out whether this commotion had anything to do with their father.

  Fortunately, it was David who saw me first and came loping across the yard toward us. He looked haggard. “Christy! Where on earth were you last night? I spent half the night searching for you. Thank God, you’re safe!” But then his eyes told me.

  “Tom?” My lips formed the word soundlessly.

  “Almost time for school,” David said, his voice too loud and hearty. “Isaak, why don’t you go on ahead?”

  Isaak stood his ground, looking at David scornfully. “Preacher, you ain’t foolin’ us none. Have they got my Paw? Is my Paw—?”

  I had never seen such an agony of compassion on David’s face. He stood looking at the little boy, taking his measure. Finally he said, “All right, Isaak, you’re a man. I can see that. But Toot and Vincent here—”

  “They ain’t no babies. They’ve got me.” He stood very straight, bracing himself, hastily throwing up his fortifications against David’s message.

  “We found your father in the woods, there,” David pointed, “not more than three hundred yards from the house. He almost—made it. Shot in the back—just once.”

  None of us spoke, yet our question filled the air.

  “Yes,” David’s voice was soft, “Tom—is—gone.”

  I sank to the ground, heedless of my skirts in the dirt, and drew Toot and Vincent toward me to cuddle them. Then I reached out for Isaak too but it was David who got to him first. He put one arm protectingly across the boy’s shoulders. “It’s rough, Isaak. You’re the man of the family now. Mustn’t think about ourselves right now. Your mother, how are we going to tell her?”

  Opal. I wanted to thrust the thought of Opal from me. Opal with her new-found hope, her dreams of reforming Bird’s-Eye. Now this.

  “I want to see my Paw, Rev’end.”

  “Isaak, that isn’t a good idea,” David answered firmly. “No use of putting yourself through that.”

  “He’s my Paw, Preacher.” All at once there was an old man’s face on a twelve-year-old boy’s body. “Take me to my Paw now, Preacher.”

  Without another word, David turned and led Isaak toward the mission house.

  I sat staring after them, vaguely conscious of Vincent huddled against me, and of Toot, his face buried in my lap, his fat little bottom sticking up in the air. My longing was to run after Isaak, somehow to stand between him and the moment toward which he was walking so steadily.

  There was no callousness in this boy now, only sensitivity and hope. I remembered his response to the beauty of “Kubla Khan.” He was so impressionable! Oh, shield him some way, I wanted to cry out to that heaven to which he had declaimed. Don’t let this look at his dead father’s face send the bitter desire for revenge hurtling on down to yet another generation.

  If I were with Isaak now, I would not know what to say to him. Oh, let David know! Let him speak words loving enough to release the grief, strong enough to stop the hatred.

  For me the rest of the day was a blur. At school I went through the mechanical motions of teaching. Afterward, I could not even remember what subjects we had covered nor what I had said. Then there were the explanations to Miss Ida and Miss Alice about my experiences at the McHone cabin. That night I had trouble falling asleep. I kept seeing Isaak’s face . . . and Tom’s . . . and Opal’s. I awoke resolved to ride over to the McHones with David when he went to make plans for the funeral.

  That was agreeable to David, so we started soon after breakfast riding Prince and Buttons. Our way led us past the cemetery on the brow of Persimmon Hill. In the distance there were two moving figures who seemed to be shoveling dirt. “David,” I asked, “who’s that up there?”

  David reined in Prince and stared in the direction I was pointing. “Can’t tell from here but they’re digging a grave.”

  “But they look like boys.”

  “Christy, you stay here and I’ll have a look.” Prince wheeled and started up the hill in long easy lopes.

  But I could not stay there. I rode slowly, skirting the perimeter of the cemetery, carefully avoiding the graves, not wanting to see what I feared we would see.

  But there they were, Isaak and his best friend, Rob Allen, one working with a pickaxe, the other with a shovel beside a small mound of dirt, the beginning of an open grave. Already David had dismounted and was talking with the boys.

  As I rode up, I saw that Isaak’s face was white, his eyes stricken. “He woke me up at the crack of dawn,” he was saying, the words beginning slowly, then tumbling out. “Mama tried to stop him. Preacher, I was frightened of him, so stern and quiet, he was. Lips pulled tight, breathin’ heavy-like. Collared me and brought me here. Took the shovel, heaved it in the dirt. Says ‘Dig here.’ ”

  I felt my stomach contract with anger and revulsion. The same emotions were struggling on David’s face.

  “Isaak, this is man’s work. Didn’t your grandfather offer to help?”

  “No sir, Preacher. Jest left me here, then put out down the road.”

  Rob explained, “I was moseyin’ by on my way fishin’. So I thought t’holp Isaak dig.”

  David persisted, “But didn’t your grandfather make any explanation before he left?”

  “Told me facts was facts. Said they’d killed my Paw, and I mought as well—his mind was so honery-fixed. Weren’t no use to talk back. But Preacher, I don’t even know how deep to dig hit—” His voice trailed off.

  David reached out his hand. “Isaak, give me that spade.”

  The boy handed it over, hastily brushing away a tear with his sleeve. David put one arm around his shoulders. At not qui
te thirteen we could not treat Isaak as if he were a small boy. But out of what perversion or coldness of heart, I wondered, would a youngster be asked to dig his father’s grave? Surely the old squire had a will like a steel trap.

  Eagerly the boy turned his back on the gravesite to grasp Prince’s reins. Isaak began stroking his neck, burying his face in the horse’s shoulder, talking softly to him as if grateful for the comfort of any living thing. Prince stood without moving, his brown eyes liquid, nickering now and again. He seemed to understand Isaak’s need to fondle him.

  I dismounted and Isaak tethered both horses close by. After a while the boy came and sat down on the grass close beside me. My mind struggled with what to say to him. “Isaak, you know sometimes when people hurt on the inside, they say or do things they don’t understand themselves, things they’re sorry for afterwards. Maybe it’s that way with your grandfather.”

  His forlorn eyes gazed at me but he did not respond to that.

  I went on lamely, “It’s just that—well, it’s better to try to understand so that more hurt won’t grow inside you.”

  David’s shovel scraped at the earth rhythmically as the pile grew beside the hole. I knew that David had never dug a grave before any more than Isaak had. From the convulsive energy with which he was wielding the spade, he must be working off on that clay-soil some of his anger against Uncle Bogg.

  It was taking a long time. Finally David worked out a system: he took the pick and loosened the hard clay, then Rob would shovel it out.

  Isaak sat with his knees almost touching his chin, chewing on a blade of grass. We were silent now; there seemed nothing more to say. In the stillness the sound of every clod of earth falling onto the heaping mound, every sharp metallic sound of metal striking rock, tore at us.