I pull out my photos of Cora and gaze into her face, one so full of hope and another of despair. I wonder what happened once Cora left Kentucky and the warm embrace of her friend Mary. On the back of one photo is written, “Briarwood, Natchez,” so I know she made it safely to Mississippi. And why am I seeing this woman’s story through a photo? Did she die by water? Or am I evolving like Dwayne insists is possible?
Shelby begins explaining the history of the Natchez Trace and the sites we are about to see that day. We turn on to the historic highway and I gaze out the window and see the dramatic entrance announcing our arrival, a National Parks sign featuring a man on horseback. Whatever is happening through my SCANC abilities, one thing’s for sure. Cora and I are taking the same trip.
Trace of a Ghost
Chapter Four
I study Cora’s photo. I’m still amazed at the revelation. She’s not an apparition in the traditional sense; she came to me in a vision. This happens occasionally when I’m haunted by folks. Sometimes ghosts appear in front of me speechless, and sometimes, such as the wet opera singer at the airport, they talk and impart messages. There are instances when I see their stories in dreams or visions. It’s my preferable way of communicating, as you can imagine, since it’s like watching a movie as opposed to having someone appear and scare the hairs off the back of your neck.
“Who’s that?” Winnie asks when she turns to talk to me.
“Her name’s Cora.” I glance down into those sad eyes, so hopeful in my vision. “I think.”
“You think?”
At this, Carmine turns and notices the photo. “She stole it from Tom’s Wall.”
I check to make sure no one’s heard and grateful that Shelby did not. “You told me to, you devil.” Just for fun, I add, “Oh wait, that label belongs to someone else.”
Carmine gives me the evil eye. “He’s not good enough for that title.”
“Maybe he is.” Winnie nods her head in Dwayne’s direction and he’s at the back of the van charming Miss Georgia again.
I can’t help it. This smarts. In all truthfulness, I’m not going to cheat on TB for this guy, — or any guy for that matter — but this is the second time that perfect specimen of a woman has nailed a good-looking man in my presence, both of which I had elicit thoughts about so in a way I’m feeling jealous.
I touch my wild curls that love to explode when the humidity levels get high. Breakfast was early and I didn’t have time to tame them so they are a little wilder than usual. “Do I look okay?” I ask Winnie.
She rolls her eyes. She doesn’t suffer from self-deprecation. “Who’s Cora?”
I show her the two photos.
“You stole these from that nice man?”
I lean in as much to whisper my answer as to signal for her to be quiet. “Carmine made me.”
Carmine laughs and places a hand at his chest.
Winnie studies the two photos, then turns them over. “‘Briarwood, Natchez.’”
“Must be the property she inherits,” I explain, sharing what came to me in the prayer circle, basically Cora leaving Kentucky.
“Weird.” Winnie hands them back. “Did you really take these from the wall?”
“That’s what you came away with just now?” The woman never fails to amaze me.
Finally, Carmine comes to the rescue. “It asked to go home with her.”
Winnie gives us both that mom stare. “Y’all and that woo-woo stuff.”
Now, it’s time for Carmine to roll his eyes. “Woo-Woo? I thought you understood.”
“Yeah, yeah. Y’all are SCANCs.”
“SCANC or no SCANC, I had a vision of her in the prayer circle.” I look at Carmine. “Do ghosts haunt photos?”
“They can.” He studies the photos. “I had a friend who used to buy old photographs in antique stores and try to find their owners. He’s had a couple of weird experiences.”
This perks Winnie up, mainly because she loves antique stores. As in loves antiques stores. “Like what?”
“Weird dreams, mainly.”
This perks me up, because one, I was hoping to have a fun trip and not have this involve a research experiment. And two, on the flip side, if I solve this mystery, I might evolve like Dwayne promised.
“Does this mean I’ll have weird dreams?”
Carmine shrugs. “Maybe. What happened in the vision? Exactly.”
I explain to them both about Cora saying goodbye to a friend named Mary, how she joined some creepy looking guy on a buggy ride down the Natchez Trace, heading to Natchez. And something about an uncle.
“One thing’s for sure,” Winnie says, “she ends up at Briarwood, whatever that is.”
Carmine opens his laptop and starts a search while Shelby announces that we’re coming up to Buzzard Roost Spring. We’re entering the Natchez Trace at this point, although still in Alabama, and within minutes come to the historic site. Carmine abandons the search and we all look out the van’s window to a historical marker.
“That’s it?” asks Joe.
Shelby laughs. “You have to use your imagination for this one. It used to be a place for visitors traveling along the Trace to rest. There’s a spring nearby and this was where Chickasaw leader Levi Colbert ran a plantation and grist mill.”
“A Chickasaw leader named Levi Colbert?” Sue asks.
“He was the son of an early Scottish settler and he married into the tribe,” Shelby explains. “He helped the tribe fight off a Muskogee invasion and became one of their leaders. His brother, George Colbert, ran the ferry a few miles north of here. It’s a quick drive between the two but on horseback, back in the day, more like two hours.”
“A plantation? That sounds Anglo to me,” Joe inserts.
Shelby shrugs. “All kinds of people owned slaves. Even Native Americans.”
“Or Scottish Native Americans.”
For the first time since we started this trip, Pepper pipes up. “Are there deer?”
Dwayne laughs and Pepper blushes, looking down at her lap. Shelby comes to her rescue. “There’s all kinds of wildlife on the Trace. Keep your eyes open.”
Pepper smiles tentatively and pulls one of her dreadlocks behind an ear. It’s then I notice she has at least four piercings and a pentagram tattoo on her neck that’s been hidden so far by hair. When she notices me staring, she quickly pulls the hair down. I want to assure her I’m not judgmental but Shelby’s calling for us to disembark.
We exit the van and walk down an incline next to woods and rock outcroppings, the path ending at a peaceful spring that chills the air around us. I pull my sweater close and that buzzing returns. I wonder if Cora stayed the night here as she traveled the four hundred and forty-four miles from Nashville to Natchez along the Trace. Depending on where she started in Kentucky, the trip must have taken weeks. I long to find a quiet spot and close my eyes, see if Cora comes through, but Shelby calls us back to the van. Next up is Bear Creek, where a Trace historian will meet us for lunch.
I haven’t been on the Trace for long but I’m already loving the rolling hills, the thick woods, and the lack of traffic. The speed limit is only fifty miles per hour and we’ve passed several bicyclists and hikers before pulling over to the Bear Creek turnoff. Sure enough, there’s a man waiting and John Henderson greets us all coming off the van.
“Welcome to Mississippi,” he says in a soft southern accent.
“We’re still in Alabama,” Shelby whispers in his ear but the elderly man ignores her, instead beginning his speech about Bear Creek Mound, the oldest prehistoric spot on the Trace that’s just up the road and one we’ll visit after our box lunch by this creek. We settle on to picnic tables situated over soft grass and beneath trees swaying in the fall breeze, while Shelby calls out our choices for lunch, something we decided upon when we filled out applications for the press trip.
“Vegetarian?” Dwayne admonishes me as he walks past.
“Seriously?” Carmine asks when he sits down across from me
.
“Why does everyone have a problem with vegetarianism?” I unwrap my sandwich of cucumbers, lettuce, tomatoes, and hummus.
“I’m not making fun of you,” Carmine says. “Just surprised considering you’re from the South and you write about food.”
When you’re a travel and food writer, you must eat just about everything — or at least try it. Ditto for being a Southerner; I had an uncle who loved to barbecue road kill. But if I didn’t reign in things somewhere, I’d be as big as a house, so I take advantage wherever I can.
“Because I eat like a pig on these trips, I try to do something healthy every chance I get,” I tell Carmine.
“So, you’ll be enjoying the barbecue at dinner?”
I bite into a raw carrot and laugh. “Probably.”
I’m so glad that Carmine and I are back to old terms that I fail to apprehend the buzzing when it first starts. While Mr. Henderson talks about the prehistoric history of the area the noise gets louder and louder. I’m starting to feel lightheaded and the food I’ve already eaten sits unsettled in my stomach.
“Excuse me,” I say as quietly as possible and rise. I need something else to drink beside the water I picked up, something carbonated and awful like a Diet Coke. “Drink,” I say to Shelby as I walk past, heading to the van and the cooler that’s lying inside.
“Forget something?”
I’m surprised to find Dwayne lingering in the back of the van, appearing as if he’s talking to someone on his cell phone. How he left the group and got here that fast baffles me.
I say nothing, grab my Diet Coke and am about to head out when he rises and reaches my side in two quick strides.
“Cell phone reception here sucks.”
I smile because my cell phone is several years old, one of the first flip phones people thought were so cool. I bought it in my newspaper days, when we had money, but now I’m embarrassed to pull it out since I live on a freelance writer’s income and can’t afford anything else. Dwayne, of course, is sporting the latest smart phone, whatever that is.
“Are you as bored with this talk as I am?”
It’s then I realize his arm stretches in front of me, blocking the exit from the van.
“Actually, I need to hear what he has to say. I just came for a drink.”
Dwayne doesn’t move, stares intently, those gorgeous blue eyes turning cold. I don’t know what he’s thinking but suddenly I’m very uncomfortable.
I nod to the door. “Do you mind?”
Dwayne reacts as if he’s awaken from a trance and removes his arm. That charming smile returns. “Sorry, yeah. But sit next to me at dinner.”
“Won’t Miss Georgia be upset about that?” I can’t help myself.
“Who?”
I give him a look Winnie gave only a few minutes before.
Dwayne laughs. “She’s a big girl.”
Not exactly what I expected to hear and the whole thing’s still making me uneasy so I head out the door.
“I heard there’s a good ghost story at Tishomingo,” he says to my back. “Something involving water.”
I pause on the bottom step. “At the state park where we’re staying tonight?”
He passes me leaving the van, that heady aftershave teasing me as he does. “Yep. Sit with me at dinner.”
Dwayne heads off towards the others, this time apparently getting cell phone service for I hear him talking loudly to someone, which disturbs Mr. Henderson and his discussion of a cave nearby. Shelby sends us both a frustrated look. I mouth “Sorry” even though I had nothing to do with it.
Everyone’s attention returns to their lunch and the historian and that buzzing now is more than I can bear. I head over to the creek bank and sit down, slurping my Diet Coke in the hope that it quells my queasy stomach. Or at least makes me burp.
I close my eyes and take deep breaths, praying that this isn’t some awful stomach bug. Nothing worse than puking your guts out on the road, especially on a press trip. I did that once on a back roads culinary tour through Alabama and the memory of the awful trip and the cracklings I revisited makes me want to vomit now. Maybe that’s why I’m not a fan of meat.
Of course, we did visit Tuscaloosa and that awful school. Roll Tide will make any LSU grad want to puke.
I chuckle at the thought — I can always make myself laugh — but that buzzing won’t leave me alone. I lean back into the grass and rub the back of my neck, hoping to relieve the pressure building in my head. I think about what Dwayne said back in the van, about the water ghost near the state park. How did he know there was a ghost there? How did he know I saw ghosts who have died by water?
I begin to contemplate whether the SCANC convention people share information about our individual talents when the noise stops. Suddenly. In its place I can hear the creek bubbling by but I’m not myself. I’m not in 2008. I look down to where my feet should be and see a dark skirt reaching my ankles, which are covered by heavy boots with buttons instead of laces.
Someone calls Cora’s name and she stands, leaving me behind. Were we one and the same for that moment, I wonder, and how is that possible? I’m quickly rising to a sitting position and watching Cora walk up the hill to what looks like a log-hewn house with a chimney in its center, a long open porch off the back. Reynald is there, talking with a group of men and spitting tobacco off into the grass.
Cora appears to be happy, taking in the pristine woods, creek, and spring with a smile, a kick in her step. Still, she’s a bit apprehensive about Reynald. I feel this more than view this and again wonder how I’m able to get inside her head. It’s also in the way he looks at her, that creepy smile and something he’s saying to the other men under his breath, which makes them all laugh as they take in Cora head to foot.
“Go to that woman,” I say in my head to Cora, and sure enough, she moves toward the only woman in this crowd. The lady, dressed in rugged attire for a frontier outpost, wraps a shawl around Cora and leads her off to the side of the building and away from the men.
“Good call.”
I turn and find a young African American boy watching me. Did he just talk to me?
I wake with a start and Bear Creek is rolling along like it did before this vision. I sit up and knock my Coke over and let out a strong “Damn” which makes my friends at the picnic table look over once again, Shelby included.
“Sorry,” I say.
Shelby frowns but Dwayne is having a good laugh at it all.
I rejoin the lunch party but everyone’s finished and we all head toward the bus. I bring along the leftover lunch which is soggy due to the hummus. As I pass Shelby counting out her wards, I apologize again.
“I wasn’t feeling well,” I mutter and I’m not sure she buys it.
I fall into my aisle seat and munch on the raw carrots and broccoli which sits at the bottom of my stomach as hard as the Diet Coke.
“What was that all about?” Winnie asks.
“Sick to my stomach.”
“Too much vegetarianism,” Carmine says with a smug smile and I poke him in the shoulder.
I missed the explanation of the Bear Creek Mounds so when we exit at the site I pause and read the historical signs while the rest of the group heads to the earthen hill with a wide flat top created by early Americans as a temple. According to the markers, migratory hunters first utilized the area for its abundant game and vegetation, dating back around eight thousand years. It later became a Native American hub of sophisticated hunting and agriculture.
“You are standing next to thousands of years of American history,” I hear Mr. Henderson say.
“And it’s in Mississippi,” Shelby adds.
Standing apart from the others, I find peace in the breeze that teases my hair and the afternoon sun warming my face in spurts as the leaves wave in its path. I imagine the village that once existed here, its people experiencing this lovely spot as I am doing right now. There’s an absence of buzz but I know that Cora has been here, too. She stood at th
is very spot, viewing with awe the creation built centuries before. I sense her wonderment, even though Reynald urged them on, uncaring to the significance of this scared spot.
How I know this is beyond me.
We get back on the van and stop less than a mile up the road to quickly look at a cave that’s deemed dangerous with a spring that’s undrinkable.
“Then what’s the use of going there,” Miss Georgia says as she files her nails.
Miss Georgia and Dwayne remain on the van, Dwayne insisting he needed to use his cell phone to call some important editor in New York. Shelby’s not too happy about that but she herds the rest of us off to hear Mr. Henderson talk at great length about the Trace. He recalls its history, from the Native Americans who might have used this cave, to highwaymen who preyed on American colonists and settlers before and after statehood. Like most historians, he drones on too long and we’re all getting those mid-afternoon sleepies. Shelby gets the message, bless her heart, and touches Henderson’s arm, and mentions something about staying on schedule.
When we get back on the van, Dwayne and Miss Georgia are sitting in the back aisle, giggling. Joe huffs as he sits in the aisle behind me and we share a look. We’ve been on enough press trips to know what happens when two journalists find each other attractive and take the opportunity to enjoy themselves. It’s totally unprofessional but I’m convinced these two don’t care.
We head out, pulling into Tishomingo State Park, which straddles both sides of the Trace and named for Chickasaw Chief Tishomingo. I perk up immediately for there are woods, interesting rock formations, wildflowers, and stone bridges over fern-filled creeks. The park exists in the foothills of the Appalachian Mountains so there’s elevation here, something I don’t get back home in flat, swampy Louisiana.
“You’ll each get a cabin,” Shelby announces, “although don’t expect the Ritz. These are rustic but very comfortable.”
“I hope the beds are adequate,” Kelly says. “I have a bad back.”
Winnie leans over and whispers, “I doubt it will be the bed that hurts her back,” and I struggle not to laugh.
Trace of a Ghost Page 6
