The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

by Christopher Scotton

  I slowly moved to the ground, sitting with my back to Pops’ head, facing the mountain lion. Only for half a minute—that was all. I braced up the walking stick spear as a bulwark against an attack. Just until my legs were rested. The lion watched intently but made no movement toward me.

  Rest for maybe a minute, no more.

  Two minutes, tops.

  A blur muddled my vision, inviting the darkness from the edges of the camp to creep in closer, closer, until my mind merged with the night and the woods and the black of it all.

  It happened in slow motion: the splaying of the mountain lion’s forelegs as it leapt at me; the cocking of its claws and the pink between its paw pads; the whiteness of its fangs and the four sharp teeth in between; the primordial hatred in its eyes and the vertical black slit of pupil at its core. I went for the spear, but it was somehow weighted down. I pulled up with all my strength, but it wouldn’t move. The cat came down on me hard, claws digging deep into each shoulder. I could hear Pops yelling in the background, or maybe I was the one yelling as the lion’s claws ripped at my flesh. I smelled the cat’s hot, dead breath as his fangs closed around my throat.

  I bolted awake on another thunderclap and brought up my hands to pull the cat’s fangs from my neck, but they were gone. I jumped up easily and looked around for the spear. I grabbed it and turned back to where the lion had been. The ridgetop was totally empty except for Pops and me. I felt for claw marks and fang punctures, but my skin was clear. I blinked and whirled, but the cat was nowhere around. The fire had burned to coals and Pops was breathing quietly. I went to him and he stirred.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Not good… Think the infection… is all through me… We better get to a hospital.”

  “We’ll get going soon.”

  “When did you eat last?”

  “Dunno.”

  “You need to eat. Gonna… need strength.”

  I built up the fire and put the willow tea on to warm.

  Pops was taking in quick, short gasps as if he had sprinted up a flight of steps.

  “I’m worried about your breathing,” I said softly.

  “Think I lost this lung… Just can’t… get breath.”

  “Drink the willow tea. Buzzy said it will help your fever.”

  He sipped it slowly and coughed. I ate a piece of the leftover rabbit meat. It was chewy and slightly bitter, but I could feel the sustenance run through me with every bite.

  “It was the White Stag,” I said as much to myself as to Pops. “He was protecting me the way Red Cloud protected you.”

  “Kevin… there is a way… in these mountains… a chain of things that I don’t fully understand… The White Stag chose you… Don’t know why… but he did.”

  I thought about it as he drank tea, then drifted back to sleep. Just knowing I wasn’t alone—knowing that I was guarded by something inexplicable and ecumenical—gave me energy and courage I had never felt before. At once the pain in my thighs became a dull annoyance, my cut shoulders irrelevant, my aching back a badge of honor. I filled the almost empty canteens at the spring, reserving one for the willow tea; took the extra rope and tied Pops into the carrier; then extinguished the fire with kicks of dirt. I picked up the end of the travois and put my arms into the straps and started down the Irish Ridge Trail toward extrication, atonement, deliverance.

  The lightning storm passed and the moon shone through occasional clouds. The trail was flat and followed the crest for eight miles more before it dipped down into Prettyman Hollow, directly below the west side of the mining operation.

  I leaned forward, took the brunt of weight on my shoulders, and started a pulling rhythm of exactly one hundred steps, then a minute rest. I counted the steps out loud to keep me anchored to an understood reality: one hundred steps, rest for sixty alligators; one hundred steps, sixty alligators. At every tenth stop, by finger reckoning, I laid the travois down, checked on Pops, cut a mark into the left litter pole, and gulped water. Every fifth notch I ate a strip of rabbit meat. By the time the sky started to lighten, I had notched the pole eighteen times. As the sun peeked over the eastern mountains, Pops woke and I put the carrier down.

  “Where are we?”

  “Up on Irish Ridge. You need to eat, Pops. I’ve got leftover meat.”

  “From the turkey?” His voice was barely a whisper.

  “That and the rabbits we caught.”

  I cut a slice of the meat and put it in his good hand, then gave him the canteen with the willow bark tea. He chewed the meat and sipped the tea. I sat cross-legged in the trail next to him.

  “Did the tea help you last night?”

  “It helped me want to pee… and other things.”

  “Can you hold it? We need to keep moving. I want to get to the mines as soon as we can. There’ll be help there.”

  “Better do it now… otherwise gonna soil myself… That’s an indignity… I can’t abide.”

  I untied the rope and brought him to his feet. He took a shaky step, then swooned into me. “I got you, Pops.”

  “Can’t seem to find my feet.”

  “Don’t worry, just lean on my shoulder.” I wrapped my arm around his waist, took an uncertain step forward. His skin was strip-mine gray and seemed to hang off him in surrender. I helped him to a squat against a large tree. He exhaled with the effort and tried to unbutton his shorts, hands shaking so badly he couldn’t finger the snap.

  “Here, Pops.” I undid his pants and pulled them and his boxers down to his ankles. He closed his eyes and laid his head back against the tree as if the bark had turned to goose down. The urine came as a yellow highlighter stream bubbling into the ground. At that moment the man who existed for me on a column of strength and courage had never seemed so old, never so shockingly frail. And yet, through this realization I felt a depth of love for him that I never knew existed—a new cut of the stuff born of mutual respect, not hero worship, squared shoulders and leveled eyes replacing adoration and servility.

  As he defecated, I turned to the travois.

  “Kevin, did you pack… toilet paper?”

  “Didn’t think we were going to need it.”

  “Hand me a shirt, then.”

  I walked over with my extra T-shirt. He tried to wipe himself but his good hand shook violently, other arm dead at his side. He tried again but gave up. “Let me, Pops.” I took the shirt and wiped his bottom clean, then pulled up his boxers and shorts and snapped his pants. I looped my arm around him and nearly carried him to the stretcher. I laid him back on the travois, on top of the bedroll, and tied him in.

  He motioned me to come closer. His eyes quavered. I leaned in.

  “I wiped your ass… when you were a baby… Now we’re even.”

  “Now we’re even,” I said and brushed a fly away from the bandage on his forehead.

  Chapter 36

  AT THE BOTTOM OF PRETTYMAN

  I balanced the crossbar on my knee, looped my arm through the strap, and hoisted the litter end onto my shoulders. The sun had just achieved the eastern mountains, turning the cloud base between to a ferment of purple, red, orange, and blue. Even the scar of the mountaintop mine acquired passable shadings under the color.

  It had to be Tuesday or Wednesday morning, and soon the mine would burgeon with workers. We were seven miles away with many hills and hollows to travel, so I lowered my shoulder to the trail.

  “One.”

  By noon the course began its slow descent into Prettyman Hollow. An explosion from the mine echoed through the trees. It was the most encouraging sound I had heard in days. I hurried my pace down the hill, drawn to the blast like penitent to preacher. Every half hour or so another explosion thundered over the mountains, each a little louder than before.

  A sign up ahead marked the end of Old Blue National Forest. The path curved around the ridge end and down to the bottom of Prettyman. It was early afternoon when we reached the hollow bottom. I stopped for the first time in hours, unwrappi
ng the last of the meat for the final push up the long hill to the mine.

  “Pops, I’d like you to eat and drink something.”

  He didn’t stir. I gently shook his good arm.

  “Wake up, Pops. We need to eat before this last hill.”

  He was still.

  “We’re at the bottom of Prettyman.”

  No movement.

  “Not much farther to go now,” I announced loudly.

  I shook his arm, harder this time; his head went side to side, as if answering.

  “Pops?”

  Nothing. I knew that I was losing him. I put my cheek to his mouth and felt the faintest of breaths, put my hand on his heart to detect its fragile rhythm. For a moment the trees and the mountains and the sky, everything in the natural world, seemed to close down around me.

  I took his good hand in mine and squeezed. “Pops, please! We are so close. I’m going as fast as I can.” Several tears splashed onto his forearm. “Just stay with me.”

  The trail narrowed, with jagged boulders crowding the way. By two o’clock we had advanced less than a quarter mile up the slope. Another explosion rocked the air; the ground rumbled as if from the stub end of an earthquake.

  My mouth was a desert and my head was pounding and spinning as I pulled him toward the top of the hill. As afternoon slid on, I could see the first hints of the mine in the yellowing tree leaves and gray dust on the undergrowth. I limped past the abandoned cemetery and its collection of soulless headstones.

  The sound of a massive truck engine gave me hope. I slowly pulled Pops up the overburden to the top of the plateau that was once Sadler Mountain. In the distance, about a half mile east, four pickups were dwarfed next to the gargantuan haul truck I had seen coming through town—its left rear tire twice as tall as the men gathered around it. One of them waved to the others and climbed into his cab and drove off.

  I put down the travois and ran toward them, half skipping on shin pain. Two other men shook hands; one patted the other on the back as they walked to their trucks. They waved to the last man and went.

  I hobbled toward him, calling out and waving my arms. He checked a tire on the haul truck. I was about a quarter mile away, screaming for his attention. He went to the back of the big rig. I could see cigarette smoke curling around his head. “Help!” I shouted. He exhaled, flicked the cigarette into a puddle, and climbed into his truck. “Hey, help me!” I ignored the shin pain and ran toward him. I came to the edge of the plateau and stumbled down the gray gravel to the road. He started the truck and backed into the course.

  I was a hundred yards behind him now, waving my arms and trying to occupy his rearview mirror. He started to pull away; then brake lights flashed. He stopped. I was catching up, sweeping the walking stick in the air as I ran. He reached over and rolled down the passenger window. I yelled to him as loud as I could. Country music blared from the cab—something about prison. The brake lights doused and the truck’s rear tires spun on the loose gravel. They found purchase and the truck peeled off, exhaust still fogging the air when I arrived at the spot.

  “Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you. Fuck you.” My shouts echoed off the hills for several more rounds, then died.

  “Fuck,” I whispered, hands on knees as I fought for breath.

  It was all down to Jukes.

  The White Stag had constructed a rampart of confidence inside me that I had never felt before. I couldn’t quit on him now, wouldn’t let him die.

  I went to Pops and took up the travois to start across the ruins of Sadler Mountain, picking through the rock piles and the rainbow pools of poisoned water. I dragged the carrier down the ramp off Sadler to the road that ran over the Corbin Hollow valley fill. The gravel had been compacted and pulverized by the weight of the dragline and the haul trucks, so it was easy passage to the next ramp, a forty-degree angle up to the plateau that was once Indian Head. This and the hill up to Six Hollow Ridge was the last difficult ground to cover. Once I got to the ridge, it was four miles to Jukes, to the truck, and to help. I paused at the bottom of the ramp and took a drink from the canteen. My head was a dull throb; my legs hurt at the slightest movement; my shoulders pulsed with every beat of my heart; but none of it mattered.

  I took my first step up the steep ramp, using the walking stick for push. In a half hour we were at the Indian Head remains. I stopped for water, scanned the rest of the mine, which was empty and quiet.

  There wasn’t a trail up the hill to the ridge, but I recognized a lightning-struck tree at the top. I kept pushing up the hillside, over the broken rocks and damaged landscape toward the split tree. I took more water at the trailhead, then pushed through the deadfall to Six Hollow Trail—still good light as we left the broken mountains behind us.

  Six Hollow Trail was an old logging road that ran across the tops of Beaver, Pine, Jukes, Slow, and what was left of Corbin and Wilmer Hollows. The way was wide and flat, and we made good time despite my total exhaustion.

  Jukes was a magnet for me now; each step closer increased the strength of its pull. I paused every ten minutes to check on Pops—my cheek to his mouth to verify breath—but the closer we got to Jukes, the worse he seemed to be.

  We passed over Slow Hollow as the trail ran up and over a slight hill. Ahead I could see the big ash tree that marked the beginning of the Jukes Hollow trail. I bustled my pace and reached it as twilight was settling over the woods. I took a gulp of water from the canteen without breaking stride. The trail down into Jukes was narrow and rocky, jostling Pops as the travois poles recorded the uneven ground. He moaned on a particularly rough drop.

  “You okay, Pops?” He didn’t answer and I wasn’t expecting one. “We’re almost home,” I added, though I knew he was unconscious.

  We came to the flat rock that marked the beginning of Jukes Hollow. I cruised past it without pausing. The creek on my right picked up speed as it gathered water from various springs on the downslope. In the fading light I could see the top of the waterfall, could hear the splay of the water hitting rocks below.

  We pulled up to the edge of the cliff overlooking the old cabin. I laid Pops gently on the ground. His breathing was infant-like, faint, short breaths as if his one good lung had shrunk to newborn. I jostled his arm to wake him, but he didn’t stir. I was running out of time.

  Both sides of the precipice ran to sheer rock. The best option seemed to be lowering Pops down the face by the waterfall. I untied him and carefully pulled the bedroll off the travois. I removed the rope from the crosspieces and unlooped the webbing. My plan was to tie him tightly into the bedroll, lower him to the ground, then reassemble the carrier for the last mile to the truck.

  I readjusted Pops inside his bedroll and tied the rope tight, crisscrossing him to a mummy. I wrapped the extra line around a sapling on the edge of the cliff, then around my waist, with the other bedroll between my skin and the rope. I tied double knots every five feet for gripping, then brought Pops to the edge. I braced against a rock and slowly began to lower him down, taking the pull of the rope onto my hips and arms. I let the rope slide slowly through my hands, protected by the sleeping bag cushion. The edge protruded two feet, so there was no danger of him hitting the rocks as he lowered. Pops’ head lolled on his neck as he descended, his body turning several times on the drop.

  My counterweight and the twist around the tree gave the rope sufficient purchase to check his descent. His feet touched and he gently lay down in the grass at Sarah’s picnic spot.

  I gathered the makings of the travois and tied them as a bundle and lowered them down with the rest of the rope. When the bundle made ground, I threw the line next to Pops, then went to the far side of the cliff.

  I lowered the pack to the first ledge and slowly climbed down, taking hold of a trumpet vine that was growing out of the rock, using it to rappel ledge to ledge, then jumping to the hollow floor, wincing from the pain in my shins.

  I limped over to Pops, who was lying peacefully in the middle of the picnic spot. I w
ent to hands and knees and brushed my cheek to his mouth. A feather of breath. I reassembled the travois as quickly as I could, leaving out several crosspieces. I gently pulled him onto the carrier, shouldered it, and raced up the slight hill toward the road.

  I rounded the corner of the cabin and saw a shadowy figure coming out of the woods in the dusk. As he came closer, I could see the black line of a rifle barrel cradled in the bend of his arm.

  Chapter 37

  WHAT NEIGHBORS DO

  The rifleman saw us and accelerated, slipping the gun from his arm to his right side. A dog barked in the distance. I looked around frantically for a place to hide. The hill to our left was too steep for the travois; behind us the rock face prevented any escape. I made for the cabin door, throwing off the shoulder straps and pushing Pops into the porch corner. I fished his pockets for keys while the rifleman advanced, gun ready.

  Pops’ key chain was a fist of unknowns. I shoved keys into the cabin door lock—a large silver key stopped half in; a green one slid in but wouldn’t turn; a brass key wouldn’t go past the tip. I shook the key circle, hoping to light on the correct one. I tried a slim gold key with a blue cover on the fingerhold; it slid in but the lock stayed fast.

  “Hey!” he called, striding purposefully. I went to the pack, pulled the bowie out of its sheath, and whirled. I recognized him from the meeting at Hivey’s—it was Gov Budget. At a hundred feet he switched the rifle to his left hand and started a half run.

  I went at him, covering the space between us easily, fear and rage balming my exhausted body. “Noooooooooooooo!” I shouted and lunged with the knife. He stepped aside with surprising grace and grabbed my arm at the wrist and twisted it. With the same hand he seized the hilt of the knife, disarmed me, kicked me to the ground, and tossed the knife aside. I landed on my wrist; the pain almost made me pass out.