The Messenger of Magnolia Street

by River Jordan

  “Now, boys,” Kate sits herself down, “you’re going to eat, and I’m going to tell you a story. Something to set your mind at ease.” And once again Nehemiah wasn’t hungry until the food was before him, but now the eating of it consumes him as much as he consumes the food. The boys, such as they are in their grown-men states, begin to eat, and Kate begins to tell them a story. The story is the book of Trice. It is of her beginning, of how she came to Shibboleth, of how she was left in a bucket, not a basket as the story has been told by those not paying correct attention to the story. And that she also wasn’t left on Kate’s porch.

  She tells them about going to the Well. It was her “remembering place,” she tells them. And when people died, it was her grieving place. After all the work of burying her mother was done and everyone had gone home, Kate had gone down to the Well to remember that she had to keep believing. And while she sat, she told them (and they have heard this story before but now they are hearing it again), she heard a noise echoing up from the Well. An echoing sound from a long way down. Not a cry, not a whimper, but a sound that spoke, precious. A sound that whispered, soft jewel. And when Kate pulled the bucket up, very slowly, very carefully, one rotation at a time, turn upon turn, what came up out of the dark, watery depths to the surface of the earth was a baby. And the baby was Trice. Nehemiah and Billy have stopped eating, looking into Kate’s clear eyes. When the baby emerges, they always stop. They are compelled.

  “Can you imagine me there holding this tiny infant in my arms, naked as the day she was born? Not a mark on her, not a bruise, not a brushstroke.”

  “And now she’s gone,” Billy says, and his eyes are getting watery. He looks away.

  “You’ll find her.” Kate says it with such finality, such fearless knowledge that at once they believe her. “A child comes to me in such a way,” she shakes her head. “No, don’t worry, you’ll find her. That baby had angels watching over her. And wherever she is, whatever has tried to get ahold of her, she has angels watching over her still.”

  Kate pulls herself up, turns, hands on hips. “What I’m trying to tell you is that she’s got more of a purpose than feeding Magnus’s blame cats, I can tell you that much.” She starts to walk off, turns back, and leans in to the boys, her hands propped on the table. “And let me tell you this much: when you find her, and if you retrace your steps you will, you better listen to her.” She picks up the dishes and she is gone.

  The clock is chiming again. Billy is looking over the door, looking at Nehemiah.

  “You see it, don’t you?” Nehemiah glances up at Billy, who has a peculiar look on his face.

  “What’s going on, Nehemiah? Can you tell me?”

  “No, I can’t, Billy. But I have a feeling that we’re going to find out. Now.” He turns around, looks at the clock above the door, where Time To Eat is nowhere to be found. This clock has no hands. And now that he’s looking at it more closely, the face has no numbers at all. He rises slowly and goes to stand under the chiming, staring above the doorway, trying to examine the face of it. The numbers are not numbers. They are dots and dashes. They are triangles and geometric patterns. And somehow, they are vaguely familiar.

  “Did we ask Kate what we came to ask her?” Billy is standing by his side, both of them now with arms crossed over their chests, looking above the door.

  “What did we come to ask her?” Nehemiah considers climbing up there, taking the clock down, but he already knows it won’t be there when he does. His hands won’t touch anything tangible. Not in this world anyway.

  “What we’re supposed to do next.”

  “She told us.”

  “Remind me.”

  “She said to retrace our steps.”

  “You know what that means.”

  “I think I do, Billy. I think I do.”

  They are still frozen in place, staring at the clock, which continues chiming, as if time itself was a slow-motion carousel. One large, eternal revolution.

  Saturday, 3:46 P.M.

  Nehemiah and Billy make mention to go round up Blister and Catfish and John Summer with all his hunting dogs but decide against it. Or more so, they decide in favor of Kate’s suggestion that they retrace their steps. Decide that’s at least the starting place.

  Sheriff’s Deputy Dewey, with his cousin Blister in the front seat beside him, is already out covering the south side of the county, knocking at doors along the way, riding all the back roads. They’re looking for anything unusual when Blister tells him for the fourteenth time that day how he owes Trice his life. Then he’ll ride along quiet awhile and then say, “Well, I reckon I owe Nehemiah most or second most, depending on how you look at it.” Then, after some more quiet, he’ll add, “And Billy too. I reckon they were a team.” And while all this is going on, news of Trice’s disappearance is being passed from mouth to mouth.

  Nehemiah and Billy slowly make their way back to Magnus. She is on the front porch when they pull up. She gets to her feet, peers hard into the truck from the porch railing, hoping for sight of that mop of blond hair.

  “What you doing here where she ain’t?”

  Isn’t she a pistol? Magnus is a special piece of work and if the day ever comes that I’m on relief of my duties, I’ll catch up to God when he’s in a whistling mood and find out just what type of inspired moment she was in the making.

  “We didn’t know, Magnus, that she wasn’t here till we came back.” Billy slams the truck door. He is too tired to tussle with Her Majesty.

  “No word from anybody? No call from Dwayne?”

  “Not a word. See, just like I said this morning, something’s wrong.”

  “We believe you, Magnus.”

  “Well, if ya’ll believed me sooner, you might’ve found her by now.” She spits, full of sour.

  “Magnus, I know you want us to stay right here and visit with you all day, but could you just go find something of Trice’s, some shirt or something for me to give Sonny Boy here to go on.”

  Magnus snorts. Actually snorts, which is rather insulting to the dog, but he pretends not to notice, to be absently occupied with the cats hiding up under the porch. Snort or not, though, she gets up from her chair and goes inside.

  “Billy, don’t take it personal, but can that dog actually track anything?”

  “He can track, Brother.”

  “But can he find?”

  “Sonny’s not only got a nose, Nehemiah, he happens to have a heart.”

  Magnus returns carrying a sweatshirt in her hands. “She’s not the tidiest person in the world. She’s a clothes strower. I just close the door and let her go. Long as I don’t have to look at it, I tell her…” Then Magnus stops because she can’t go on. She starts winding her hands together, one over the other. “It’s gonna be dark soon.”

  “She’s right, Nehemiah, let’s get on while we still have some daylight.”

  “Don’t worry, Magnus, we’ll bring her home.” Nehemiah turns toward the truck, opens the door, then turns back. “Magnus,” he pauses, looks at the ground, then back at her over the door frame, “you still pray like you used to?”

  “Don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think it might be time for some of those prayers.”

  “Your momma was the prayer glue, didn’t fall to me none.” She spits again. “You should ask that old, sassy Kate to pray, that’s who orta be praying.”

  “Magnus, Kate hasn’t stopped praying since the day she was born.” Billy slams his door shut. “Guess that means you are what you might call the second string.”

  Nehemiah whispers hard under his breath as he gets in and shuts the door, “I’m trying to give her something to occupy her mind. Don’t make it worse by making her angry.”

  “Shoot, boy, don’t you know nothing, that’s just what she needs.” And Billy stirs up the ant bed as he backs out of the driveway by yelling out the window, “God probably don’t listen to your prayers anyway, so don’t even bother.”

  They are pulling aw
ay as I record Nehemiah saying, “That was just downright mean.”

  “Wrong. That old snuff dipper will be in there praying heaven down to earth. You think Magnus is gonna stand for somebody not listening to her? Specially God.”

  And with Billy’s diplomacy, Sonny’s nose, and Trice’s sweatshirt, they set out to make just one more stop before they return to what once was but is no more.

  Nehemiah wanders through the house thinking that there is something he should be taking with him, some tool of defense that is just within his reach but that he can’t see. He walks into his mother’s room, opens the closet still filled with her clothes and shoes. Guess we should clear this stuff out, he thinks, knowing they never will. Somebody might, but it won’t be them. Nehemiah closes the door just as something catches his eye, and he turns and reopens the closet. There, on the floor, between two pairs of practical shoes (one black, one brown) lies a silver thread. The silver is luminous. Puzzling. There is nothing this color in the closet. Nothing even close. Nehemiah picks it up, fingers the silky feel of it, is holding it up before the window studying the texture and the light when he hears Billy calling, and shoves it into his right jeans pocket.

  He finds Billy standing by the door with the shotgun. “Don’t reckon it’ll help.”

  “Nope. But don’t reckon it can hurt.” Then Nehemiah turns back down the hall, calling over his shoulder, “Hold on.”

  He goes back into his old room, opens the closet door, and takes down a green duffle bag. Then he closes the door and walks back to the front door to meet Billy.

  “Hey, good idea.” Billy says.

  “Yeah, I thought it just might come in handy.”

  And suddenly, it is I who am surprised. I am the one who knows most all things, sees the future in all its configurations, has the past recorded down to the detail of a heartbeat, and yet, on occasion, I am surprised by the human heart, by its capability to know and yet have the courage to continue. What has caught me unaware is the knowledge that Nehemiah and Billy aren’t searching anymore. They know where they will find Trice. And they are going to get her.

  An Hour Before Sundown

  The sky is disappearing, the blue fading into dusk. There is the promise of an hour of sunlight, but nothing more than a promise, as Billy parks the truck on the side of the road. They appear to be walking by instinct, picking up the remains of some long-forgotten trail. Billy carries the shotgun, his pockets full of extra shells. Their faces are serious, locked up tight. They’re now-or-never faces.

  Billy takes Trice’s sweatshirt in one hand, kneels down next to Sonny Boy and whispers in the dog’s ear, then he holds the shirt before the dog’s nose and mouth, rubs it on his long ears, and slaps him lightly on the rump. Nehemiah stands waiting to the side, pacing slightly back and forth along the edge of the road. Pacing the same worn spot.

  When Sonny Boy begins to move, so do they. Wordlessly. The dog plows out the path, but the two men walk as if they knew he’d turn in that direction. He is not retracing last night’s journey. He travels farther, much farther along the road before he turns, crosses a dried-up ravine, and disappears into the gnarled undergrowth. Again Nehemiah considers the quiet. I, too, give pause, write down the stillness, I know this death knell. I know the sound of life’s absence. Only Sonny’s shuffle, only their feet on the dry ground give credence to any pool of promise.

  Nehemiah thinks of asking Billy, “Why has it come to this?” But his mouth feels dusty, his throat dry. They are walking out the daylight. They are vanishing into what was once green fern, wild-flowers. And in this barrenness, as they search, listen for Sonny, hope for Trice, moving along in the airless void, they are casting their faith, their hopes on Kate’s words. Trice will be all right. Trice has angels. And they are hoping all of this with an intensity that you don’t yet feel. They sense that the three of them are not alone traversing this ground.

  The battle begins. (Now, here is where you will ask me to explain the unexplainable. Here is where you will ask me for the thread of logic that connects all rational human thought. Here is where I look at you and say, “Watch. From where you are, it’s all that you can do.”) There is the crawling of sticks, the flight of wings, the sound of footsteps in the trees, the howl of a dog, the scurrying of things unseen, the ugly whip of clouds rising over the dried earth. It is an unnatural looming and swelling black air, a darkness whose passion is to eat the light. Now there is the sound of cutting, of whipping fast and light. And as Billy and Nehemiah watch helplessly, the black swells and rises, moves toward them, lowers itself. And believe me when I tell you this, the blackness looks into their faces, searches out their hearts, looks for open doors. And suddenly is pulled back, then swells again.

  The dark bears down upon them, the wind threatening a great and terrible devouring. They believe that they almost see teeth bared. That the teeth are swords, and the swords themselves spit venom. And now, as the brothers stand shoulder-to-shoulder, their greatest weapon is this, that they will not turn. They will not run. They will not back down. They stand determined, eyes watering in the wind, looking into the faceless apparition that could be worse than death itself. Later, Nehemiah and Billy both will tell you that they could have sworn they heard a rooster crow in the midst of this madness. That they heard it loud and clear.

  The wind tosses around small limbs, scrambles the dirt on the ground, causes Sonny Boy to shake his head, circle back, cower at Billy’s feet. That’s when Nehemiah catches a glimpse, only the briefest of a glimpse of red fur, and he grabs Billy’s arm. Their mouths are moving but their words are swallowed back. Nehemiah places his mouth against Billy’s ear, is trying to repeat what came. For a moment I sense them separating, going in different directions, and am relieved, even I, to see the better choice made when Billy follows Nehemiah. And now the man from the capitol, who has known strategically what to do for nearly a decade, relies instead on the gift inside of him. The one that has been dormant but not erased.

  Nehemiah follows the flash of a red tail until he makes out where he knew it was going all along, the cave. The fox turns at the cave’s entrance and looks at Nehemiah. It is the last time that he will ever see it, this particular creature of consequence. One time it called for him to forget a place. This time, it calls for him to remember. And he does. If Trice’s dream was a vague awakening, the fox’s eyes are an electrifying challenge. They say, Remember, Nehemiah. Remember who you are.

  There is a flash of light. Not one that Billy sees, or Sonny Boy, but it is a flash that jolts Nehemiah’s memory. And Nehemiah is ten again. He is holding tight to Trice’s hand, breathing in the wild smell of her hair and listening to Billy’s voice from the darkness saying, “Careful, careful, we’re almost there.” And from beyond his voice, out there where there isn’t anything that they can see, there is a growing growl. Their knees and hands tremble. Their mouths go dry as they cling to one another and descend lower and lower into that cavity.

  Twila had looked up at the clock just then, realized the distance of the time that separated her from the children, realized where they’d gone, and could feel them in her soul as they moved farther along the rocks, the ridged edge. She stepped out on the porch, the screen door slamming behind her, her hands in her apron pockets, full of faith and believing, and stood there looking across the field and into the beyond. There she is now and almost now, on the porch with her prayers, and me summoned at once to receive them. I step into the cave’s core. Nehemiah, Trice, and Billy reach the bottom of the wet cave. And something begins to reveal itself. I move before it and lift my wings full-force. Light spills out from beneath in a great feathered fury. It spills into Billy’s big heart, is captured in Trice’s hair and cast over Nehemiah like a mantel, where it will remain forever. And over on the porch where Twila stands, peace falls. A peace beyond reason but one she easily understands. She pulls her hands from her pockets and goes back in the house, busying herself with dinner. Waiting for the children to come home.

 
Nehemiah is remembering this now. Remembering. And for just a moment he looks my way, but it’s only a fleeting feeling. A really true feeling.

  And as Billy aims the shotgun at the fox, as Sonny Boy howls, Nehemiah pulls the silver thread from his pocket. And the silver turns to water in his palm. Nehemiah looks up and calls for the rain. And immediately the rain pours down. It is a watershed. Billy wipes his eyes with the back of his left hand. Nehemiah reaches over and places his hand on the shotgun barrel, lowering it for his brother. He motions to Billy to follow him, and the wind subsides. The rain is eating the wind, forcing it underground. The rain is keeping them alive.

  Nehemiah has remembered his way. And his way now leads them to Trice. They travel through the rain, echoing the footprints of the fox. Then they step inside the entrance to the cave. This is a cave they know. This is a place they have come before. In the twilight years of their past. The childhood days of their youth. The delightful days when they believed in impossibilities. And in treasure.

  The rain still falls without but inside there is cavernous silence. The temperature has dropped twenty degrees and they can hear the clear sound of their boot steps on the rock floor, hear the dog’s shuffling paws, his nose now touching the ground, inhaling deeply. He is smelling, familiar.

  Nehemiah drops the bag, bends to one knee, unzips it, and takes out their old helmets. He passes one to Billy.

  “Nehemiah…” Billy puts on the helmet, trying to find his voice. He begins again, “There’s a battle going on out there.”

  “Let’s go get her, Billy.” Nehemiah puts on his helmet, turns on the light, and focuses the beam into the cave. “The battle will wait.”

  They follow what to others would be blind madness. Cool caverns that turn and twist and disappear. Places so small even children would find it difficult to squeeze through. Remarkable, magical places that open into rooms the size of cathedrals. Secret rooms that rain gold drops.

  Once there were three young souls who mapped out every trail, memorizing the paths before them and behind them. They were meticulous in their work. Serious in their discoveries. Silent with their secrets.