The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  We punched through the space between the hollowed core and the mouthpiece and cleaned the hole to make a smooth tube. He inspected my work; again it passed his whittler’s eye.

  The reed is the most important part of the whistle, he instructed. If it’s not right, it will ruin everything. He showed me how to make a triangular cut for the reed opening and how to fashion the reed from the remaining willow in the hole. He cut the reed hole and shaved the piece to near perfection. He examined it closely, shaved off a ribbon more, cleaned the cut, and blew into the mouthpiece. A perfect whistle came from the willow wood. Still, he wasn’t satisfied and made almost imperceptible adjustments here and there: a hair off the reed, a snub from the core. He tried it again and pronounced it fit.

  Now it was my turn. With Buzzy coaching over my shoulder, I made the delicate triangular cut into the willow stick and lifted out the piece of wood. I cleaned out the cut and put the whistle to my lips. A shrill sound, like winter wind, blew out of the willow stick. “You cut it too shallow,” he said. “Take a bit off the top.”

  I removed a paper-thin shaving from the reed and tried again. A little better. I rived off another layer and blew. A clear whistle burst from the wood. Warbly and unsure, but a whistle still. “Not a bad effort, Indiana,” he told me with a smile.

  Next, we cut four note holes into each whistle stem with the pointed blades of our knives. We doctored the reed and note holes ever so slightly, and when Buzzy was finally satisfied with his work, he blew a clear, strong note that resonated off the rocks around us. His fingers danced on the note holes as he played a slow, mournful song that perfectly scored Mr. Paul’s death and my last three months.

  “That was great,” I said when he finished. “What song was that?”

  “Warnt no song; I jus made it up.”

  “Come on! When? Just now?” I couldn’t believe he could create such beautiful music on the spot.

  “Sure, listen,” he said and put the whistle to his lips. He launched into a slow, lilting reel that soared and tumbled and ascended again like a sad foundling bird on first wing. I watched him closely, watched a talent in him I never knew existed. He held the final note in an arcing vibrato, then slowly pulled the mouthpiece from his lips. I was speechless.

  “Your turn.”

  I laughed and licked my lips. “I’m gonna suck at this.” I blew into the whistle, and out came a shrill, off-key, out-of-time screech as my unsure fingers searched for an agreeable tune. I finished with an atonal salute and looked to Buzzy for assessment.

  “I’ve heard better music out the ass of a coonhound,” he said grimly. We dissolved into laughter and spent the next hour on the ledge overlooking the Kentucky hills, inventing songs and discovering the affiliations of the notes. It was the first time since Josh’s death that I felt truly at ease, as each song we wrote erased some of the hurtful past. It gave me a first peek into new way, a bloom of belief that the nightmare of the past three months was finally ending. On the edge of everything, with the wet, cool willow whistle at my lips and the tired sun newly buried in the west, I had little idea how wrong I was.

  Chapter 20

  WHEN HIGH EXPECTATIONS AND LOW EXPECTATIONS ARE DEVASTATINGLY UNMET

  Before we realized it, evening had drifted in from the east. “Let’s start thinkin bout food,” Buzzy said after the sun disappeared somewhere over Missouri. We climbed down the rocks into the cool of the Telling Cave. I had taken a large bag of Doritos from Pops’ pantry and Buzzy pulled out four hot dogs, some mustard, and bread. He built a fire. I cut two roasting sticks from what was left of the willow branch.

  The smoke from the expanding flames rose to the top of the room and conveyed out an unseen opening at the ceiling. I laced the dogs onto the sticks and we cooked them to tar and ate them thick with mustard. The light of the fire and Buzzy’s kerosene lamp was enough to give the dark cave a warming glow. It actually wasn’t such a gloomy place after all, Rebah Deal notwithstanding.

  We finished the hot dogs and chips and lay down on our sleeping bags, watching the circle of coals as the fire died to a single flame. The blue evening light at the cave mouth bruised to purple, then black, as night extended. Mr. Paul and the alley hung in the air with smoke from the fire, but both of us seemed reluctant to bring it up. Instead we talked about Petunia Wickle’s breasts, my friends back in Indiana, his friends at Missiwatchiwie High School. After a while we floated into a comfortable silence, which great friends seem to share so easily. But I could tell his mind was roiling, as it had been since the alley. Finally, his smile vanished and he looked into the fire as if searching for the right words to match his thoughts.

  He knocked some dirt into the flames with his heel, then turned and looked at me, face in a half grimace.

  “I know who done Mr. Paul,” he said to the dying coals in a voice barely above a whisper.

  I popped up off my elbow and turned to face him. “How do you know? Was it that Budget man?”

  He shook his head, plowed more dirt and ash with his heel. “I seen it—seen it all.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I felt a little betrayed that he’d been carrying this secret for so many days and it took the Telling Cave to wrestle it free. “Have you told anybody? Told the sheriff?”

  Buzzy shook his head violently. “Ain’t tellin no sheriff. No way.”

  “You gotta tell me, Buzzy,” I implored. “You know I won’t tell anyone.”

  The dirt and ash he had been heeling now formed a small wall between him and the flame, either to keep the fire out or to keep the truth in.

  After a few minutes of silence, punctured occasionally by a popping coal, he spoke. “I was walkin down Green like I tole you, when I saw a man run out the back a Miss Janey’s, then some others. I thought they was robbin the place, so I hid behind the Dumpster to watch em. Then I see it’s Mr. Paul an someone comes out an throws him down on the pavement an they all start laughin. It was Tilroy fuckin Budget, smilin like he’s the king shit.”

  “What? It was Tilroy? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe it.” I knew Tilroy was a punk and a bully, but I couldn’t believe he had it in him to kill.

  Buzzy just kept staring into the fire and continued. “And the others are all laughin an sayin stuff to Mr. Paul. Rude stuff. An Mr. Paul starts to get up, he’s up on his knees facin Tilroy an says, ‘Tilroy, leave me be or I’m gonna tell your father.’

  “An someone says, ‘Oh, Tilroy, what’s he gonna tell your daddy?’ An everybody cracks up. Someone else says, ‘Yeah, we all been hearin you two was special friends.’ The boys all laugh an Tilroy gets this look about him like I never seen. Then he jus runs at Mr. Paul an kicks him square in the face. You know he’s got them boots he wears, an Mr. Paul’s face jus crumbles an he falls back an hits his head on the pavement. An the others are all laughin an sayin, ‘Ohoooooo, look at Tilroy the badass,’ an stuff. An Tilroy’s jus heavin an puffin an standin over Mr. Paul, who’s got blood comin out his nose like a gusher. Finally Mr. Paul sits up, blood down his shirt, nose all broken, an says, ‘Tilroy, I won’t tell. I promise I won’t tell.’ He starts to say it a third time, an before he can even get the words out, Tilroy is on him, this time kickin him square in the mouth, an Mr. Paul goes down, an Tilroy keeps kickin an stompin, an I close my eyes cause I can’t even watch at this point. But it was the sound, man. The sound a that boot hittin his head an hittin his head. I close my eyes but I can’t stop the sound a that boot hittin his head.

  “An all the others go silent, mouths hangin open, while Tilroy jus keeps kickin him, until one a them screams ‘Stop it!’ an tackles Tilroy, who starts to fight him, so he pounds him good an calls him a fuckin idiot an stuff. Then the one that stopped it all goes up to Mr. Paul an tries to help him, but I guess he got scared an says, ‘Let’s get the fuck outta here,’ an they all run off.

  “Then I go up to Mr. Paul, he’s still breathin, but jus barely, so I run as fast as I can to your house to get your Pops.”

  Remembering
the scene in the alley, the blood and broken teeth, made me want to vomit. Buzzy sat staring into the fire, arms wrapped around his knees. Finally, after a few minutes of silence, I said gently, “Buzz, man, you gotta tell. You can’t let that prick get away with this.”

  He shook his head.

  “Dude, you have to tell.”

  “No way.” Tears started streaming down his cheeks, and he started rocking back and forth. He made no attempt to wipe the tears away and soon they mixed with the ash on his face from fire building to form streaky gray lines.

  “He killed Mr. Paul!” My voice broke with grief as I said it, as much for Buzzy’s pain as for Paitsel’s.

  “Cleo was one a them,” he said softly.

  “What? He hates Tilroy!” I replied, almost shouting. Buzzy winced on my volume.

  “I can’t be tellin.”

  Like some valley fog lifting with the sun, it all became clear why Buzzy had been so different since the alley—I finally understood the crushing load he had been carrying all these weeks. I sat back, stunned. “Damn, Buzz,” was all I could think of to say.

  The fire was popping and the black walls of the cave were slick with sweat. I could hear the trickle of water from somewhere down in the crag opening. After some more time—it could have been two minutes, could have been thirty—I was finally able to speak. “Does Cleo know you know?”

  Buzzy shook his head.

  “You’ve got to talk to Cleo about it. You’ve got to tell him you know.”

  Buzzy was silent still.

  “Why would Cleo beat up Mr. Paul?” I wondered out loud. “Was it the fag thing?”

  “Cleo dint do nuthin,” Buzzy retorted. “He’s the one that pulled Tilroy offa him… had to beat on him to make him stop.”

  “Then all the more reason to talk to him. He probably didn’t know that Tilroy was gonna do that. Get him to go to the sheriff.”

  “That ain’t gonna happen.”

  “Just talk to him—see what he says.”

  “He’s got senior year comin up. By the end a last season he had Kentucky, North Carolina, and Notre Dame comin to his games. This is his ticket year; I ain’t gonna fuck that up.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “His ticket outta here. He does well this year, he’ll get a full ride somewheres. Get the fuck out the hollow.”

  I gave Buzzy a quizzical look, for I truly didn’t understand. For me Medgar was sanctuary; I had never felt more at home—or more loved. “Why does he want to leave…? This place is awesome; I could live here forever.”

  Buzzy laughed and just shook his head. “Kevin, you’re the smartest kid I know, but sometimes you’re so frickin stupid.” He looked at me now and smiled. The tears on his face had dried with the ashes and given him the look of a half-ready circus clown.

  I laughed and told him to wipe his face. “Why am I being stupid? I don’t get it.”

  “You love it here cause you don’t live here. You can leave anytime you want. Where’s Cleo gonna go?” His face became pained. “Where am I gonna go?” he said as a whisper.

  “To college, man! Do good in school, get good grades.” I just couldn’t grasp why this was a difficult plan for him, for Cleo.

  “I ain’t like you, Kevin. It don’t come easy for me.”

  “You think it’s easy for me? I study my ass off. My father kills me if I bring home a C. And if I get an A he bitches because it wasn’t an A-plus.”

  “Maybe he jus wants you to do your best. That ain’t a bad thing.”

  Now it was my turn with silence. Buzzy had no idea what it was like to live in Redhill with my father.

  “I got an A once,” he said sadly. “Know what my daddy did?”

  “What?”

  “He laughed. Jus laughed an walked around the holler for a week, sayin, ‘Buzzy the Brain, gonna live above his rearin.’ ” He shook his head and said again, this time in a bitter hush, “Gonna live above his rearin.”

  Now we both went silent, staring into the fire at the dancing light of the single flame and at the flame’s reflection on the sweating walls; listening to the slow drip of water somewhere down in the cave and the irregular popping of dying coals; fresh friends from completely different worlds faced with the hard shapings of truth and deceit, of right and wrong, and of the equivalent damage when high expectations and low expectations are devastatingly unmet.

  Chapter 21

  THE HAINT

  I am the phasim of Rebah Deal… help me find my way home.” The ghostly howl jolted us awake. The fire had died completely, and the only light in the cave was the weak flicker of the kerosene lamp shining off the wide whites of Buzzy’s eyes.

  “Did you hear that?” I asked, unsure if it was my imagination.

  “Shhhhhh!”

  It came again from the woods outside the cave. “I am the phasim of Rebah Deal… help me find my way home.” It was a sad, half-human voice trailing off at the last syllable to a spectral wail.

  “We gotta get outta here,” Buzzy said, panic binding his voice.

  “We can’t go out the front—that’s where she is.”

  “I am the phasim of Rebah Deal… help me find my way home.” It was right outside the cave now. I was terrified, ready to bolt like a frenzied horse.

  “Follow me,” he hissed. We grabbed our knapsacks, sleeping bags, and lantern. I followed him to the back corner of the chamber and into the craggy opening that led to the rest of the cave. From our spot down in the crag hole we could see the entire room and the yawning entrance. A nearly full moon backlit the opening, spilling weak light around it.

  Suddenly she was there, an elephantine figure silhouetted at the cave entrance. “I am the phasim of Rebah Deal… help me find my way home.” She raised her arms over her head and shrieked a forlorn howl that made us nearly shed our skins.

  From outside the cave came another voice. “Levona, if you don’t shut the fuck up, I’m gonna take your ass home.” It was Petunia Wickle. Her flashlight cut the blackness of the room as she stepped around Levona and entered the Telling Cave like she owned it.

  “It smells like smoke in here. Hey, who’s in here?” she called and shined her light around the room. Flashlightless Levona was a step behind.

  Buzzy moved to climb out of the crag, but I held him back.

  “What are you doin?” he implored. “This is our lucky night. They might leave if they think it’s deserted.”

  “Just wait a second.”

  Petunia shined her light on the fire ring and stopped suddenly; Levona rammed into her back. “Quit crowdin on me, Levona, I swear.”

  “But I can’t see nuthin. Why do you get to hold the flashlight anyways? It’s my flashlight.”

  “I get to hold it cause I’m holdin it,” Petunia said through clenched teeth. Her reply either confused or satisfied Levona; either way, she didn’t respond.

  Two other silhouettes appeared at the cave entrance, a tall, big-bellied shadow and a thinner, smaller shape, each with a flashlight. “Where’d them girls get off to?” the smaller one said. His voice was familiar. They entered the cave, the big one carrying a paper bag filled with bottles that clinked every step. The thin one carried two blankets.

  “Look, Tilroy, someone was kind enough to leave us a pile a wood. Ain’t that nice?”

  Tilroy chuckled dumbly. I looked over at Buzzy’s fallen face, slumped shoulders—I think we both would have preferred the ghost of Rebah Deal to the flesh and menace of Tilroy Budget.

  “Why don’t you get the fire goin while I make sure them girls ain’t had the pants scared off em,” the thin one said.

  Tilroy put the bag next to the fire ring and grabbed his sleeve. “Don’t you be givin no orders, Skeeter,” he hissed.

  Skeeter instantly lost a notch of bravado and assumed his proper bearing. “I’m jus sayin we need a fire, is all. Ain’t gotta go all mental on me, Til. You can build a fire bettern anybody I know—that’s a true fact.”

  The compliment sooth
ed Tilroy, and he began to assemble a tent of twigs over the few remaining coals. Skeeter sidled over to Petunia, who was standing ten yards from our hiding place. He circled his arms around her and kissed her neck, their flashlights crossed like swords. She giggled, pushed him away, and escaped back to Tilroy. Skeeter ran after her, laughing, leaving Levona to stumble in the darkness over the rocks back to the fire ring. Tilroy had a flicker of flame going in the coals from our fire. Soon the room was bright with light, drawing in Petunia and Levona like moths.

  A beer bottle hissed, then another. Petunia spread a blanket by the fire. Levona did the same. Skeeter went immediately to Petunia’s blanket and lay down on his side. She frowned at him and sidestepped to Levona’s blanket and sat down. “Tilroy, you sit here right by me,” she said. Tilroy was putting more wood on the fire and knelt to blow into the core of the flame. Levona was a pillar, unsure what to do. Skeeter started to inch over to Petunia. “You go on and sit now, Levona,” she said. Levona moved to sit next to her.

  “Not here, you idiot!”

  Levona flinched as if slapped and schlumped onto the blanket next to Skeeter, who groaned disapproval. Tilroy got up from the roaring fire pit, clearly proud of his pyrotechnic abilities, and hiked up his jeans, which had begun to sag to the level of an overbooked plumber.

  Petunia put her legs out in front of her coquettishly, just like she had seen that girl do in Flashdance. Tilroy lumbered over and sat down heavily next to her. He reached into the bag and brought out a beer for Petunia and opened it. “Thank you, Tilroy,” she said in her best Jennifer Beals imitation. Petunia leaned into him and put her arm behind his so they crossed. The contact made him jump. Levona waited for Skeeter to offer her a beer, but he just glared straight ahead at the shiny wall. Levona reached for one herself, mumbling about poor manners. There was a minute or so of awkward silence until Petunia said, “I don’t think Icky Buckley’s ever gonna get his Trans Am fixed.”