The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  “Ready,” I said.

  Buzzy nodded unenthusiastically.

  Cleo made like he was crouching behind an imaginary center; he barked some numbers and smacked the football with a loud “Hike.” He backpedaled five paces; I pulled on the rope furiously to bring the tire across the space. He cocked and fired a perfect spiral right through the middle of it. Buzzy caught the ball and threw a wobbly pass right back to him. “Bring it over your ear, Buzz,” Cleo said, demonstrating proper technique in slow motion. He turned to me. “Kevin, you gotta pull like you got a world-record jimmy on the line.” He set up at center again. “Y’all ready? Sixteen, sixteen, blue thirty-two, hike.” He back-pedaled exactly five steps. I pulled the rope with newly found pace; the tire whipped across the wire at running-back speed. He stepped up and threw another perfect pass through the opening. Buzzy caught the ball and tossed it back, careful to follow Cleo’s passing instructions. “Great throw, Buzzy. Way to get your hip into it. Kevin, that was good pullin. Our guys can’t run that fast, but in college they all do.” Buzzy and I switched places. Cleo fired another pass, this time missing the tire. I brought my hands up to catch it, but it came so hard and fast that it bounced off my chest, nearly knocking the wind out of me. I picked it up and threw a wobbly pass back to Cleo. He laughed and said, “Who taught you how to throw?”

  “No one,” I said. “I taught myself.”

  “I can see that. You stink,” he said with a grin. “Come here for a minute.”

  I walked over to him. He put the ball in my hands. “First thing, you’re holdin the ball too close to the middle; hold it toward the back like this.” He showed me how to properly grip the ball. “Then bring it back with a straight arm and swing your hips toward the target. Go on and try that.” I did, and the result was measurably better, though still quite lame. Buzzy caught the ball and zipped it straight back to Cleo. “Good try, but you’ve got to bring your arm down to your ear and move your hips to the target at the same time.” I tried it again, this time almost a perfect spiral. “That’s it,” Cleo said. “Great try.” He gave me a high five. I smiled, my first real one since April. We worked with Cleo for another hour in the stifling heat, throwing footballs and doing all manner of drills and exercises.

  “Time for road work. Anybody wanna run with me?” he said with a grin.

  Buzzy shook his head. “Naw, we got stuff to do.”

  “Whatever.” He started off down the road, then stopped. “Hey, hang on jus a second.” He ran into the house, then came out a few moments later carrying a two-foot-long thick black plastic box. He put it at Buzzy’s feet. “This is for you.”

  Buzzy knelt, unclipped the hasps, and opened it. Inside, nestled in gray foam, was a gleaming crossbow pistol.

  “That asswipe Tilroy give it to me. An now I’m givin it to you.”

  Buzzy pulled it out slowly, reverently. “Whoa, this thing is cool.” He raised it, closed an eye, and took aim at a squirrel on a branch.

  “Thought you’d like it,” Cleo said proudly. He patted Buzzy on the back, then took off running down the gravel lane that led out of the hollow to the highway.

  “Man, Buzzy. Cleo is really cool. I can’t believe he just gave it to you. It’s like he doesn’t treat you like a pissant younger brother or anything. It’s like he’s your friend or something.”

  “Yeah, he’s an awesome brother,” Buzzy said. There seemed to be a doleful tone in his voice that I’d not heard before. “Come on, let’s head up the tree house an shoot it.”

  We walked over Kinder Mountain to the tree house. I was curious about Buzzy’s father’s illness but decided not to pry.

  We took a piece of plywood and made an X in the middle with dirt and propped it against the tree. Buzzy cocked the bowstring and loaded the heavy metal arrow into the groove at the top of the gun. He closed one eye for aim and pulled the trigger. The gun made a whoosh sound and the bolt flew out and hit the dirt X exactly in the middle. The bolt drove through the plywood and lodged in the tree behind it.

  “Dude, that thing is powerful. Let me try.”

  Buzzy cocked the string and loaded the second bolt. I aimed, hands shaking slightly, and fired, hitting the upper left of the target. “Ain’t bad for city,” he said and laughed. We collected the bolts and tried again. For the next three hours we practiced with the crossbow pistol—once Buzzy missed a squirrel by a whisker. After a while we went back up to the tree house and sat on the front porch.

  Buzzy lit a cigarette and handed me one.

  “No, thanks, man.” I knew Pops would disapprove and I didn’t want to do anything that would cause reproach.

  “We oughta camp up the Tellin Cave tomorrow night. It’s Rebah Deal night.”

  “What’s that?”

  “That’s the night when all the ghosts a people killed there come hauntin up from the bottom a the cave.”

  “You don’t believe that old legend, do you? I mean, seriously, how can a cave kill you?”

  “You can ask Rebah Deal herself when she comes ghostin tomorra.”

  I looked for a smile to betray the joke, but there was none. “I don’t know. I don’t think Pops will let me spend the night in a cave.”

  “Of course he won’t; that’s what makes it fun. Tell him you’re campin with me up the tree house. I owe you a campout.”

  We said good-byes and I walked back over the mountain into town just as dusk was settling. Pops was on the porch with the mustering night.

  “He is back from his travels at last,” he said when I opened the gate. I walked up the steps and collapsed into the chair next to him. “I assume you either caught up with Buzzy Fink or found an abandoned coal mine to explore. Best stay out of them, mind you.”

  “I went all the way over to Fink’s Hollow. He was there helping his father.”

  “That’s a lot of walking for a single day.”

  “His dad seems really sick. Like he’s got cancer or something.”

  Pops nodded. “He’s very ill. It’s sad for Buzzy and Cleo.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  “Pneumoconiosis.”

  “Cancer?”

  “Black lung. It’s what some miners get after breathing in all that coal dust for years.”

  “Is he going to die?”

  “I’m afraid so. This last year has been bad for him.”

  I picked at a paint chip in the porch floor and thought about Buzzy and his father and the coming loss. Thought about my father and everything we lost when Josh died. Finally understanding our common trial somehow brought me closer to Buzzy—as if tragedy, or the prospect of it, had inducted us into some secret society of the baned.

  “He invited me over to camp out tomorrow night,” I said after a while.

  Pops scratched his chin. “Tomorrow night, eh?”

  I looked up at him.

  “And where exactly will you be camping?”

  “Probably up on the mountain somewhere.” It wasn’t a complete lie.

  He looked at me with concern. “Just be careful wherever you boys decide to camp.”

  “I will,” I said and ran into the kitchen to call Buzzy.

  Mom was sitting at the kitchen table with both hands around a hot cup of tea. Audy Rae was working dough by the sink.

  Mom looked up to me when I entered the room. She smiled for the first time in months. It was a small, almost indiscernible upturn of the lips, but a smile nonetheless. “Hey,” I said.

  “Hi, Kevin,” was all she could manage, then back to staring at the residue on the bottom of her teacup, as if studying the meaning of loss in the leaves.

  “My friend Buzzy invited me to camp out tomorrow night,” I said to fill the vast silence.

  “That will be fun,” said Audy Rae. Mom opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came. It seemed she had lost her capacity for regular conversation and was able to speak only in grief and salutation.

  “Do you know Buzzy’s mom—from when you were growing up?”

 
; She took in a breath and looked up at the corner of the room where the ceiling joined two walls. “I do know Isak Fink and his sister Velva. We were in high school together; Isak was a senior when we were freshmen.” She let out several short sharp breaths.

  “I saw your high school stuff upstairs,” I said, hoping the remembrance of her accomplishments past would somehow bring her spirits up. “You were running everything.”

  Mom didn’t respond. She continued staring at the corner of the kitchen.

  Audy Rae finally broke the awkward silence. “She’s got her mom’s organizational skills and her daddy’s bossiness.”

  Pops and I were alone on the porch that night. Chester was off working on the Paul Pierce murder investigation special edition, and Lo was at a Rotary Club meeting in Knuckle.

  A Cadillac pulled up to the curb and a large man got out of the back. I knew instantly it was Bubba Boyd. He opened the fence gate like he owned it and strode to the bottom porch step, his son, Billy, a few steps behind. The driver was the man from the town hall meeting and stood under the streetlamp, arms crossed in the same posture of malevolence.

  “Bubba, you picked an inauspicious time to come calling. I’m not in fine humor this evening.”

  “We need to talk bidness,” he said and trudged up the steps.

  “I didn’t think we had any business.”

  “We got the bidness a Jukes.”

  “Not for sale, Bubba.”

  “You ain’t heard my offer.”

  “Okay, make it.”

  He sat down in one of the wicker chairs, its legs flaring on the load; Billy Boyd stood a pace back. The girth of Bubba’s thighs forced his legs wide. He wore thick gold rings on each of the fat fingers of his right hand, the gold seemingly embedded in the expanding flesh around it. He licked his lips and regarded Pops for a moment. Billy did the same.

  “Hundert thousand cash money.”

  Pops regarded him coolly. “That’s a fair offer.”

  “I thought you would like it.” He leaned forward, elbows on thighs.

  “Didn’t see you at the funeral last week.”

  “I was otherwise engaged.”

  “You missed quite a tribute. Paitsel’s eulogy touched everyone in the place. That was a special love those two had.”

  “Special? What the hell you talkin bout special? That was disgustin, unholy, an sick is what it was. Paul coulda been big-time with his singing, but he chose the path of iniquity.”

  Pops laughed. “So says the righteous man. You really think anyone would choose that life?”

  “I do. We hold our destiny in our own hands.”

  “So you think it was Paul’s destiny to wind up beat to death in an alley in his own town?”

  Bubba licked his lips and looked straight at Pops. “He had it comin.”

  Pops nodded like he understood. “You think he had it coming. So who do you reckon did that to him?”

  “I don’t have any idea.”

  “When they catch them it’ll be murder, now. That’s a whole different kettle.”

  “Zeb ain’t got a lick to go on. Without witnesses, it ain’t likely to go nowhere.”

  “How would you know that? Did you talk to Zeb?”

  “Somethin happens in this town, I know bout it.”

  Pops leaned forward in his chair. Bubba did the same so that they were almost nose on nose. “I think you put some of your boys up to it. Just like that time you put Gov Budget up to accosting Audy Rae. You sat there in the truck and let him do your dirty work like the coward you are. Let me tell you something, you’re lucky you stayed in that truck, or Sarah would have humiliated you just like she humiliated Gov.”

  “I don’t reckon she woulda slapped me.” He grinned and his yellowed teeth showed for the first time. “She had, I woulda taken her behind Hivey’s an made her pay. Hell, she probly woulda liked that little ride.” He chuckled deep and darkly, then cut himself off when he saw the look on Pops’ face. It was a fusion of burgundy and purple with red-tipped ears. Pops’ eyes opened wide and seemed ready to burst out of their sockets. The skin on his forehead crumpled up into ridges and rolls of anger that made the mule-shot scene at Sen Budget’s seem like Christmas morning.

  Pops lunged at Bubba Boyd, and his momentum pushed the bigger man back until the chair tipped and he fell to the porch boards with a heavy thump. Billy Boyd moved to help his father, then took a step back. He turned to the streetlight man. “Harlan!” Harlan came on a run.

  Pops grabbed Bubba’s ear and twisted him up and off the floor. Blood trickled down Bubba’s jaw, and he leaned down to the pain and yowled.

  “You will never speak of her that way again, you understand me?”

  Harlan was at the bottom step now.

  “Do not even think of coming up here,” Pops shouted and pointed with his free hand. Harlan paused, then stopped.

  Bubba was still yowling. Pops twisted the ear again, and a fresh rivulet of blood washed Bubba’s neck.

  “You understand me?”

  “I got it, I got it,” he said through gritted teeth.

  Pops dragged him to standing and down the steps by his ear, throwing him in a heap at Harlan’s feet. Billy Boyd’s mouth was moving, but no words came out. It was the first time he had ever seen his father at submission and it perplexed and unnerved him. He and Harlan helped Bubba to his feet and out to the car, a hand cupping the serrated ear. Pops turned wordlessly, chest heaving, and strode back up to the porch.

  He paused at the top and turned to the road as Bubba Boyd’s Cadillac peeled off. Normal color returned to his cheeks and ears as he sat down in his chair and settled himself.

  I was wide-eyed and openmouthed. The fury that exploded and the speed with which it arrived frightened me—it was as if a raging magma, held down for so long by rearing and position, ruptured its vessel and spewed forth in an overpowering surge. Then, just as quickly, the rage drew back into itself or dissipated to the night.

  Pops picked up his mash, regarded the SWP etching, and said with surprising calm, “I won’t tolerate a man who speaks so rudely of my Sarah.”

  Chapter 19

  HOW TO CARVE A WHISTLE OUT OF GREEN WILLOW

  I packed my knapsack the next day, tied a sleeping bag to the side of it, and set out for the tree house at four o’clock. Buzzy was already there when I arrived, leaning against the tree smoking a cigarette.

  “Got the new Playboy,” he announced proudly. “Found it under Cleo’s mattress.”

  “Let’s see.”

  He pulled out the thick magazine and we sat against the tree parsing every inch of Miss August as if we were archaeologists and she was a Dead Sea scroll. After a half hour deciphering the secrets of female flesh, we set out for the Telling Cave.

  We covered the five miles to the cave in two hours over an abandoned mining road and a well-used hunting trail, stopping occasionally for Buzzy to instruct me in the ways of the woods. We scrambled up the side of Knob Mountain to a small clearing on a shelf near the top. At the end of the clearing, abutting the granite face of the knob, was the car-size opening to the Telling Cave. As I stood just outside it, I could feel the warm air around me convecting into the cave. Inside was dark and exciting.

  “This is cool—I’ve never been in a cave before. Looks like people come up here all the time,” I said, gesturing to an old campfire ring riddled with melted bottles, broken glass, and other detritus from previous visitors.

  “Teenagers, mostly.”

  “How does it work?” I asked, trying to take the legend seriously. “Do we tell the secrets before we go in or after?”

  “You tell the secrets inside, an once you’re in you can’t leave without tellin.”

  The cave was wet and washcloth cool from the dank air, a menacing smell that shot tingles of excitement through my body. The chamber expanded from the opening to a thirty-foot ceiling glistening with moisture and blackened with soot from the fire ring in the middle. Around the ring were sitting roc
ks and some tree stumps with seats worn in from years of telling. On a four-foot ledge against the south wall was an old hay mattress and another fire pit.

  The walls were smooth in places and covered in years of graffiti that read like a history book of Missiwatchiwie County. Janey Beverage was here 1945. Cleatus and Sharon ’54. Ethna Deal loves Billy Winwell. B.G. Hivey + E. Fink ’62. Sharon + ? in 74. Class of 1984 rocks! Petunia ain’t got no secrets.

  Buzzy set up camp inside while I scouted firewood, collecting enough to last a week—if Rebah Deal actually did arrive, I didn’t want to be caught without a flame.

  As I arrayed our fuel, Buzzy went off into the woods. He came back ten minutes later dragging a long willow branch with green leaves still attached.

  “What did you bring that back for? It’ll never burn.”

  “Ain’t for burnin; it’s for carvin.” He took a shiny hatchet from his knapsack and, working on an old stump, cut three eight-inch pieces of willow wood from the straightest part of the branch. He sunk the hatchet in the stump and motioned for me to follow.

  We climbed the rocks above the cave to a ledge that jutted out from the summit about a thousand feet above the valley below. We sat on the edge with our feet dangling over the side. The previous evening’s rain had cleared the mid-July haze and the view extended into forever.

  “What are we carving?”

  “Whistles.”

  “I don’t know how to carve a whistle.”

  “Bout time you learned, ain’t it?”

  He handed me Cleo’s best wood-carving knife, which he had filched from their bedroom, and one of the willow blanks. I followed his lead and carefully stripped the bark from the wood until my piece was like his: clean, wet, and almost perfectly cylindrical.

  I watched him as he fashioned the mouthpiece from the green wood; watched as shavings helicoptered to the ground like maple seeds. I copied his technique and soon had a cruder version of his delicately shaped mouthpiece. He examined my work and pronounced it satisfactory—for a beginner. We hollowed the insides, taking care not to make the walls too thin or too thick. Cleo always made his walls too thick, Buzzy informed me, which flattened all the notes.