These High, Green Hills

by Jan Karon

  “Well, you see, he’s a priest. And we call a priest ‘Father.’ Now, settle down, and I don’t mean maybe, because we’re going to read a story. Anybody who doesn’t listen, or who talks or whispers, gets to come up here and read my part—in French.”

  He thought they’d never get to the section with the palace guard, but when they did, he hoped he wouldn’t mess up.

  “The palace guard,” Cynthia read at last, “looked down upon Violet and said ...”

  He gave the line a wicked snarl. “Aha, my fine feline, thought you’d pull the wool over my eyes, did you?”

  “Violet was very frightened,” continued Cynthia. “She didn’t know what to do. As the palace guard’s big hand moved to catch her by the neck, she darted between his legs.

  “She ran down the long corridor as fast as she could go.

  “She looked behind her and saw the big, black boots of the guard. Then, other people were running behind her and shouting, ‘Stop that cat!’

  “As she ran, Violet’s heart beat very fast. She could hardly get her breath. Boots and slippers and mops and brooms followed in hot pursuit.”

  He jumped on his line in the nick of time. “We must stop that cat! The Queen hates cats!”

  “Violet rounded the corner at a very great speed, and skidded into a large room. It was bright and beautiful. The sun shone in on a polished marble floor. And there, sitting on a throne, was ... the Queen.”

  He heard a gasp or two. Large eyes fixed on Cynthia.

  “Violet tried to stop, but the marble floor wouldn’t let her. She slid right up to the hem of the Queen’s royal gown. And then ... she bowed.

  “That’s when she felt the fearsome hand on the scruff of her neck.

  “Suddenly, she was lifted up, up, up—and then down, down, down as the palace guard bowed, also.

  “What is that?” the Queen demanded.

  “Your Majesty, that is a cat!”

  “I’m supposed to hate cats!” said the Queen.

  “Yes, Your Majesty.”

  “But why am I supposed to hate cats?” asked the Queen.

  “Because your father, the King, hated cats, Your Majesty.”

  “Hmmm,” said the Queen. “It looks soft. Let me hold it.”

  “But Your Majesty, I couldn‘t—”

  “Of course you could, because I am the Queen!”

  At that high moment, Cynthia looked up to see Violet suddenly bolt from her carrier and, leaping over laps and darting past grasping hands, race through the open classroom door to the shrieks of the entire assembly.

  “Oh, no!” cried Cynthia, unbelieving.

  The catch on Violet’s decrepit carrier had jiggled loose again.

  Cynthia sprinted toward the door.

  “Stop that cat!” she shouted.

  Half the classroom emptied before the rector could get up.

  He sat down again quickly, however, as both legs had gone completely to sleep.

  “You were a wonderful palace guard,” she said, smiling over at him. “So fierce!”

  He zoomed around an RV with a sign that read Dollywood Or Bust. “It was a new and different experience, all right.”

  “I thought it was great fun!”

  “Which part? When we read the story together, or when Violet leaped through the window and was caught in midair by the assistant principal?”

  “All of it!” she said, laughing.

  “I’ve always heard that truth is stranger than fiction.” He looked at Violet, who was sleeping in Cynthia’s lap, the very picture of innocence.

  His wife furrowed her brow. “Maybe it is time for a new carrier,” she said.

  The summer people were slowly making their annual come-back to Mitford. Attendance was building every Sunday, and the Wednesday Eucharist was definitely up in numbers.

  Four buildings on Main Street installed new green awnings, including The Local, which inscribed theirs with white lettering: Fresh Meats and Produce Since 1957, Avis Packard, Grocer.

  Dora Pugh gave a sidewalk sale and moved forty-five flats of pansies in a record two hours and nine minutes. The candy tuft did not do as well. Lank Pitts drove a pickup load of rotted manure into town and parked it in front of Dora’s hardware, where he sold it by the pound in garbage bags.

  “Most people give that away,” grumbled a customer, who nonetheless purchased two sacks full. “I pay f‘r th’ feed that goes in m‘ horses,” said Lank. “Seems fair t’ charge f‘r what comes out.”

  Evie Adams, whose family home faced Main Street, received a check from an uncle and replaced the rusted porch glider, a longtime village eyesore, with two green rocking chairs. New window screens also went up, but only on the front of the house. Uncle Billy looped a hanging basket of geraniums over a nail beside his back door, where they’d be easy to bring in, in case of frost.

  In all, the days were longer, the air warmer, and the Lord’s Chapel youth group more restless.

  “You’ve promised two or three times,” said Larry Johnson, the group leader.

  “Could I help it I had the flu the first time you went camping, and the next time you asked, I got married?”

  “You better do it this time,” said Larry, “or I don’t know what dark revenge the kids might come up with. They really want you to go. Besides, it will be fun.”

  Suddenly, everybody knew how to have fun. Why bother to come up with ideas of his own?

  “Oh, and they want you to bring Cynthia,” said Larry.

  Cynthia camping? He didn’t know about that. However, a girl who’d kept an alligator in her bathtub might possibly be up for it.

  “How would you like to go camping weekend after next?”

  “Camping?” He might have asked her how she’d like to go bungee jumping.

  “With the youth group. They like you, said you’d be a blast to go camping with.”

  “A blast?”

  “That’s what they said.”

  “How do you go camping? What do you do?”

  “You take a bedroll and a tent and a frying pan, and saunter forth,” he said.

  “Have you ever done it?”

  “Hundreds of times!” As good as that sounded, he couldn’t tell a lie. “Five or six, anyway. I’ve been promising the kids I’d do it, and the jig is up.”

  “Snakes,” she said. “I hate snakes.”

  “Snakes hate you even more. Watch your step and you’ll be fine.”

  “What about bugs?”

  “Cynthia, Cynthia ...”

  “And how do you ... I mean ... what do you do about ... ?”

  “The woods.”

  “Oh.”

  “Take sketch pads and pencils—you could see a deer or wild turkeys, even beavers. It’s just your dish of tea. I’ll teach you to throw a line in the water, and who knows, we could catch dinner for the whole crowd, and be heroes.”

  “Do you have a tent?”

  “Sort of,” he said.

  “Sort of?”

  He could tell she smelled a rat. “A few poles and a blanket.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Come on,” he said, kissing her. “We’ll have a blast.”

  She looked at him, leaning her head to one side in that way he couldn’t resist. He realized he didn’t want to go without her.

  “Sleeping under the stars, singing around the campfire, roasting marshmallows ...” He searched her face for some sign of interest. Blank.

  “Walking in the woods, listening to the creek rush boldly over the rocks ...” He was giving it everything he had.

  “Searching yourself for ticks ...” she put in.

  “Didn’t you say you wanted to study different kinds of moss, draw birds, go out into nature? That’s where you find nature—in the woods!”

  “Yes, but ... camping?”

  “Cynthia, it’ll be fun!” he said, desperate for a merchandising tactic.

  She looked at him soberly, then grinned. “OK. But just this once.”

&n
bsp; “You remember that dictionary I found in th‘ Dumpster?” Uncle Billy asked him when they met on the street.

  “I do.”

  “I cain’t hardly enjoy readin‘ it n’ more.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Yessir, it’s one thing here and another thing there—they’re always changin‘ th’ subject, don’t you know.”

  The rector rolled his eyes and chuckled.

  “That’s m‘ new joke, but it’s not m’ main joke. I’m workin‘ out m’ main joke for spring. By th‘ almanac, spring comes official on June twenty-one.”

  “Well, then, you’ve got a little time,” he said. “Let me treat you to a cheeseburger.”

  Uncle Billy grinned, his gold tooth gleaming. “I’d be beholden to you, Preacher. An‘ I wouldn’t mind a bit if you’d tip in some fries.”

  He put his arm around the old man’s shoulders as they walked toward the Grill. He’d be et for a tater if he didn’t love Bill Watson like blood kin.

  He sat in the living room on Lilac Road, where Miss Sadie had come to look perfectly at home.

  He wanted to get the thing accomplished. He was actually losing sleep over it. What if she really did hurt someone, or herself, or both? The last time he was told to deliver a warning to another party, he didn’t deliver it—and Dooley’s best friend was nearly killed.

  “Have you looked into getting a chaplain yet?” asked Miss Sadie.

  “No, ma‘am, I haven’t.” He suddenly felt about nine years old.

  “Well ...” she said, sounding a trifle stern. She’d had to keep after him with a stick to find a school for Dooley.

  “But I’ll get to it. We’ve months to go yet.”

  “What have you got on your mind, Father? When you have something on your mind, it shows.”

  Dive in, and pray there’s water in the pool. “Miss Sadie, I know your wrist is healing.”

  “Look there!” She jiggled her hand as a demonstration.

  “Planning to drive soon?”

  “I certainly am! I’ve nearly turned to a fossil sitting around here, and it’s made me grumpy as all get-out. You know I’ve never been grumpy.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “It’s not my nature.”

  “I agree completely.”

  “But there’s a first time for everything,” she declared.

  “Miss Sadie, Rodney Underwood is going to give you a citation the next time you drive up on the sidewalk.”

  She looked at him. “Did he tell you that?”

  “He did.”

  “Did he send you to tell me that?”

  “Yes ma‘am.” Seven years old.

  “Well, you tell Chief Underwood that he can march over here himself and do his business like a man. Sending my priest to do his dirty work is something I don’t cotton to, and I don’t mean maybe.”

  “He said his men had spoken to you before....”

  “Yes, indeed, they did, and I took no notice of it. He certainly likes to send people around to do his job! Is he so overworked he can’t take care of important matters himself? You and I pay his salary, Father, need I remind you?”

  Sadie Baxter was in a huff, and grumpy wasn’t the word for it. He wanted to sprint to the door and head for the city limits. She had fussed at him before, but he’d never been around when she unloaded both barrels.

  He saw Louella peering through the doorway.

  “As if you didn’t have enough on your hands, Father, with the sick and hurting all around us. You know what I’d like to do?” Miss Sadie looked fierce.

  “No, what?”

  “I’d like to yank a knot in Chief Underwood’s tail!” she said, meaning it.

  He thought he’d never seen her look so young and spunky. Maybe being grumpy had done her good. In any case, he was quitting while he was ahead.

  He stood up. “The construction at Hope House is moving along at a pace, everything looks terrific, and I’d like to take you up there any day you want to go. Oh. I nearly forgot.” He pulled the paper sack from his jacket pocket and handed it to her.

  “Donut holes!” he said. They were her hands-down favorite.

  She looked at the bag and then at him. “Were these supposed to soften me up?”

  “They were,” he said. Why beat around the bush?

  She threw her head back and laughed merrily. There was the Sadie Baxter he knew, thanks be to God.

  Taking the bag, she said, “You tell Chief Underwood to pay me a call in person and stop sending his henchmen to tell me what it’s his job to say.”

  “I will.”

  Miss Sadie rose from the chair, taking her cane. “And tell him to call first, so I’ll be dressed.”

  “I’ll do that.”

  She laughed again. “I declare, it’s kind of fun to be grumpy. People jump when I speak. I never noticed people doing that before.”

  He put his arm around her as they walked to the door. “Cynthia and I will come and take you for a spin, drive you up to Fernbank. Maybe you’ve got a little cabin fever.”

  “I’d like that. And Father?”

  “Yes?”

  “You know we love you. But you’re not suited to meddling.”

  “Hessie’s story on your Primrose Tea was a whopper,” said J.C.

  “A prize-winner,” said the rector. “Cynthia had a copy laminated.”

  “If I paid that woman by the word, I’d be in deep manure.”

  Mule slid in beside the rector, wearing a chartreuse jacket. “I just did a closing that will set me up for a month of Sundays.”

  “Maybe now you can dump your polyester in a landfill and get you a new wardrobe,” said the editor, finishing his house salad.

  “Congratulations!” put in the rector.

  “I just dropped a bundle at the Presbyterian parking lot sale. Two suits, a brand-new sweater, and a runnin‘ suit.”

  “You don’t run,” J.C. said.

  “So, I’ll protect my investment and start,” Mule replied. “What’s that smell?”

  The rector didn’t mention that he’d smelled something peculiar ever since J.C. sat down. So far, it had killed off all cooking odors from the grill, driven his sinuses haywire, and made the inside of his mouth feel funny.

  “What smell?” asked the editor.

  “Somethin‘ foul. Man! Stinks like cat musk.” Mule sniffed the air like a beagle. “No offense,” he told J.C., “but it’s comin’ from your direction.”

  “It’s your upper lip,” snapped the editor, grabbing his briefcase. “I’ll just leave you boys to figure it out. I got to get over to th‘ mayor’s office. Hasta la vista.”

  J.C. left a heavy blast of scent in his wake. The two men looked at each other.

  “Cologne,” said the rector.

  Understanding slowly dawned on Mule’s face. He broke into one of his cackling laughs. “So that’s it! Well, I’ll be dadgum. Ol‘ J.C., he’s ... he’s ...”

  “Getting overhauled,” said the rector.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Locked Gates

  IF SPRING had blown in like a zephyr, its mood soon changed.

  Gentle rains became wind-lashed torrents, washing seeds from furrows and carving deep gullies in driveways and lawns. Power blinked off and surged on again, those with computers kept them unplugged, and TVs went down before the lightning like so many ducks in a shooting gallery.

  Sudden, startling downpours of hail unleashed themselves on the village, leaving holes the size of dimes in the burgeoning hosta, and flattening whole groves of trillium and Solomon’s seal. Seedlings keeled over in the mud, and Winnie Ivey’s hens and chicks scattered for high ground.

  Mitford was driven indoors for three days running, to watch the mildew make its annual invasion of basements, bathrooms, and closets.

  It was Tuesday morning before the village awoke to a dazzling sunrise, clear skies, and balmy temperatures. The foul weather, however, lingered on in his secretary.

  “If I ever read another w
ord about Hessie Mayhew’s Lady Spring, I’ll puke,” Emma said.

  “Did Harold get his potatoes in?”

  “Got ‘em in, watched ’em slide off the side of the mountain. Along with his peas, beans, squash, and onions.”

  “A regular blue plate special.”

  “I haven’t heard you talk about a garden this year. Too busy, I suppose.” Emma gave him one of her unmistakable looks-with-a-message.

  “Not at all. We’re filling out a couple of beds with purple foxglove, lupine, cosmos ... let’s see, delphinium, Canterbury bells, a dozen astilbe ...”

  “Humph. Astilbe. Too feathery for me. I’ll take a good, hardy marigold any day.”

  “To each his own,” he said mildly.

  “That was some shindig at your place.”

  He had wondered when she would at last bring up the social event that was still the talk of the town. “So I hear.”

  “Cynthia did a good job.”

  “Thank you. I hear that, too.”

  “A little too much sugar in the lemon squares.”

  “I see it failed to sweeten your disposition.”

  “Ha ha. What do you think about your kitchen walls being banged up with a hammer?”

  “The best thing to happen to the rectory since Father Hanes installed a fireplace in the study.”

  “I didn’t think you’d go much for that deal.”

  “I hope you know the ruined look is the very thing to give mundane surfaces a mellow, weathered appeal. Take your old villas in Italy, for example, where the plaster is put on thickly, without superficial concern for perfection, where the surfaces ripple and change like ... like life itself ...”

  She peered at him over her glasses.

  “... where buildings shift and settle with the passage of years, where a century is but a fleeting moment in time ...”

  “I get it!” she said, wanting him to stop at once.

  “... where decades of smoking olive oil and burning wood wash the walls with a palette of color as subtle as the nuances of old stone or ancient marble—where, indeed, the very movement of light and shadow are captured in the golden glow of the walls, grown as redolent with history as trade routes worn by ancient Romans....” He had no idea what he was saying, but he was enjoying it immensely.