by Farris, John
Her chief recreation, other than dinners with Travers and occasional guests invited by Edgar, who invariably spent the evening talking about archaeology in German or some other language she didn't speak, was horseback riding. But the conventions of the day made it difficult for her to go far on the mountain. Ladies, as she had been taught, were expected to ride sidesaddle. It was an acceptable if cumbersome method of getting around on a placid horse where the paths were straight and level. But that limited her to the vicinity of the construction site, a hazardous course unless Mr. Travers rode at her side, ready to take control of her mount should he be frightened by the clattering appearance of a steam wagon or the shrill whistle that preceded blasting. Edgar could not sit a horse with any degree of comfort, and never accompanied her.
Sibby's riding habits were heavy and uncomfortable, with tight, padded shoulders. Under the full velvet skirt she wore long trousers of covert-cloth, so that if she took a tumble, not so much as a bare inch of her body would be revealed. She also wore a padded derby with a veil to filter the ever-present dust, and dogskin gloves. She envied the grace and ease with which Mr. Travers, a Virginian and lifelong equestrian, rode his fine chestnut gelding, Cyclops, up and down rugged slopes and through the evergreen forests, where she surely would be dislodged from her precarious seat by a shrub or low-hanging tree limb.
She made a startling and bold resolution, but waited until Edgar was absent from Wildwood, presenting a paper to his peers at the only archaeological society that mattered to him. Then, on a morning's ride in September of 1906 with Travers, she made her radical proposal.
"I w-would like to be able to r-ride as w-well as you, Mr. Travers."
"Thank you for the compliment, Mrs. Langford." The architect turned his attention immediately to an overloaded mule-drawn wagon of lumber that was intruding on their path, and held both horses back.
"It w-was both a c-compliment and a request, M-Mr. Travers. I w-would like for you t-to teach me to ride a horse as a m-man rides."
Tall beside her, he looked down in astonishment, and Cyclops, sensing his master's uneasiness, did a little side jog.
"That is—unheard of, Mrs. Langford."
"I d-don't care."
"You—have you consulted Mr. Langford about this?"
"If it is s-something that will make me h-happy, Edgar will n-not seriously object."
"The problem is, of course, you cannot use the English saddle dressed as you are."
"I have designed an a-altogether d-different habit in which to ride," Sibby informed him, finishing breathless and so red in the face she was for once glad of the veil that covered her to the chinline.
"Do you mean—you will dress as a man?"
"That is anobvious r-requirement, Mr. Travers.W-when would it be c-convenient for you to c-commence with my lessons? I am sure you will agree that p-privacy is desirable,—as I do not w-wish to m-make a spectacle of myself while learning proper eh-eh-eh—"
"Mrs. Langford, I must think about this."
"Equitation," she finished in a burst of exasperation, her eyes watering. "Are you a-f-fraid that my husband will b-be angry?"
"I am quite certain he will be angry. And have you considered carefully how others may interpret your desire for privacy?"
"No one n-needs to know what we are d-doing if we are discreet," she said rashly.
"My dear Mrs. Langford—" He didn't know whether to smile or be stern with her. His expression, under the circumstances, was comical. She was infuriated. She covered her mouth with one gloved hand, then blew it away in a gasp of desperation, no longer caring if she revealed to him the miserable state she was in.
"P-please. I be-beg you, Mr Travers! Please do this for me, I rn-must have this s-small degree of freedom, or—I think that I s-shall die!"
Four days later Travers led Sibby, still sitting properly sidesaddle in an appropriate, voluminous riding habit on her docile black mare, to a sunny clearing on the mountain, well away from the construction site. It was a roughly circular arena sixty feet in diameter, from which, with the help of a team of mules, he had personally removed all windfalls and boulders. The floor of the clearing was a well-trampled mat of spongy pine needles, a fair substitute for tanbark, adequate footing for the horses. He had left an extra English saddle there the day before.
He helped Sibby down, then changed saddles on the mare and attached a long lead while Sibby walked slowly to one side of the clearing, shuddering a little in the brisk air. She took off her gloves, then unbuttoned the wool habit. This she removed and hung on a stub of a fir tree. Underneath the habit she wore a long-sleeved linen shirt with a little velvet tie, and velvet jodhpurs her seamstress had made for her. They were of a burgundy shade that went well with her cordovan riding boots.
She walked back to Travers, derby in hand, eyes downcast, cheeks a dull red.
"Do you think this will d-do, Mr. Travers?"
He looked her over. He was not shocked; there was nothing indecorous about her appearance, although he'd never seen a woman in such attire before. He just knew that today would have repercussions. They both knew it. She raised her eyes to him before he could back down. And saw that he was not a man to back down, once he'd come to a decision.
"Yes," he said matter-of-factly. "I believe so."
She nodded. Thereafter she kept her chin up, and continued to look him in the eye with trust and growing confidence. His heart went to the bait like a fish in a pool.
"Very well. W-what must I do next?"
"First I will show you the proper way to mount. Here, please, on the left side of the mare."
That night Sibby Langford made a single entry in her diary.
I think I have fallen in love with Mr. Travers.
The setting down of these words was a revelation, perhaps the first time in her life she had dared to be completely honest with herself.
She added, And he with me.
But the nib pen made an uncharacteristic blot at the end of this line, and the tears of heartbreak she shed over the page for the next half hour nearly obliterated her words, while emphasizing the commitment.
Chapter Fifteen
April 1958
"Hyar he is."
Terry was awakened in the front seat of the 1940 Dodge sedan by the gruff voice, by the sudden brilliance of lantern light in the space he occupied like a burrow. He gave a convulsive jerk which was followed by shudders and the onset of a headache like a mallet blow between the eyes. The greasy fumes of the burning wick stung his nostrils. Because of the pain in his head and the light near his eyes he couldn't keep them open long enough to see who was behind the lantern. Just had a whiff of him. Rose hair oil and sweat. The night air felt cold and damp but the rain had ended. The man holding the lantern backed out of the car, the light diminishing. Terry saw the April new moon repeated on the cracked windshield. Men were moving around outside, visible to him mostly as white shirts drifting like the sails of a midnight regatta, or laundry on a slowly revolving back—
"In your car, William," a distant voice announced.
"Thank the good Lord," an equally unfamiliar voice responded quietly. Terry heard a child's sleepy complaint. "Reckon we'll get on now," a woman said through a yawn. Car doors opened and closed, an engine was started. Terry sat up on the lumpy seat, his forehead glancing off the rearview mirror. This he scarcely felt, but one hip was sore as a boil from a spring protruding through the worn fabric of the seat cover. Beneath the blanket he had wrapped around himself his clothing was sticking clammily to his body. His loafers were sodden, his toes freezing.
"Faren?" he said hoarsely.
Illuminated by the headlights of a passing car, the face of Hickory Smith, Faren's half brother, appeared in the door space.
"Better come into the church. Get you warmed up. We've got hot soup and coffee."
"You're crazy. I'm not going back in there!"
Hick Smith drew the back of one hand across his thick droopy mustache, as if it were a small a
nimal that needed gentling. His deadpan expression didn't change. His eyes looked tired; that nearly hidden aspect of the sinister Terry had noticed earlier was missing, though he stared unwinkingly at the boy.
"Kid, ain't nothin' you need to be afraid of in God's house."
"Snakes."
"The service is over," Smith said flatly, "and the snakes are gone."
"But where's Faren? I saw her! She was—" He gestured aimlessly; his throat swelled up at the thought of what he'd seen and he couldn't have spoken even if he had trusted Smith enough to attempt an explanation.
"I'm right here, Terry," Faren said.
He nearly knocked Smith over getting out of the car. She had come out of the church barefoot, like Terry wrapped in a blanket, mud on her face too. He threw his arms around her, needing to assure himself that she was solid flesh and bone.
"Terry, Terry," she murmured, unable to resist nuzzling him, nibbling at a cheek with her cold chapped lips. Coffee on her breath. As real as real. He couldn't help babbling once his throat unlocked.
"What happened? Where'd you go? I mean, where were you? I could see you! You walked right through me!"
"Did what? Terry, you're—I'm okay. Not hurt or anything. Nothing happened—"
"Nothing!"
"Shhh." Faren's arms were around him. She gave him a hard, perhaps a warning squeeze. It quieted him.
She was damp and cold and began to shiver. He remembered how dry she had appeared to him, untouched by the downpour. Not seeing him, even as she walked casually through him as if he were a doorway. "We have things to talk about, but not now," she advised him. "Let's go in, lucky if we both don't take sick."
By the time Terry had swallowed a cup of chicken soup from a thermos, everyone but Smith and Faren had left the church building, and the yard. The windows were all closed and misted over. Smith had turned on the propane heaters; they hissed in a way that reminded Terry subtly but unpleasantly of the snakes he'd seen. He looked uneasily around him, imagining movement in shadowy places, his nerves expanding and contracting; he kept a close watch on the floor by his feet. Smith leaned against the wall near the front door reading his Bible while Terry finished his soup and Faren drank more coffee. They sat exhaustedly knee to knee on a bench, staring at each other, nodding; communicating by touch rather than with words. Terry was dazed by the lateness of the hour, by everything wonderful and harrowing they had shared that day, by mysteries he felt inadequate to explore. The food on his stomach had the effect of a knockout pill. Before long he couldn't keep his eyes open. Smith walked Terry out to his Hudson car, a bathtub on wheels, and Terry went to sleep in the backseat. Faren rode in front. When they reached Smith's house they woke him up and once again he was led as if in a trance, this time to a small second-floor bedroom. The room was clean and spare, with a narrow iron bedstead and an old-fashioned washstand that had a china bowl and pitcher on it. There was a chamber pot under the bed. Faren showed it to him.
"Guess you know what that's for."
Terry nodded, and looked longingly at the bed.
"Uh-uh, pull your clothes off first, then get under the covers. I'll be right back."
He was still on his feet when she returned from down the hall. She was wearing a robe and slippers. She had towels and a washcloth and pajamas with her. She poured water into the basin and cleaned his face.
"Need to talk to you."
"Morning's soon enough," Faren said.
"There's a funny smell in here."
"You're right over Hick's workshop. That's oil paint and turpentine and developer fluid you smell. Told you he was an artist. Are you going to get undressed or do I need to do it for you?"
"No."
"Pajamas are on the bed. Put your dirty clothes outside the door so I can wash and dry them first thing. 'Night, Terry."
"Wait." But she was gone. With the hail door closed there was only moonlight coming in, beneath the shade drawn to within an inch of the windowsill. He shucked and pawed until his clothes were in an untidy pile on the floor. He forgot to put them in the hall. The pajamas were big on him. He was dropping off to sleep when the door opened, a spear of lamplight crossed the bed and Faren crept in to toss his soiled clothing in a basket.
And he heard her say: "I know now, Terry. Everything I didn't know before. Tonight I walked in marble halls, it's just there, waiting to come back. But those poor souls in their limbo, they can't ever make it back. Poor helpless people, they're lost forever."
He felt her sorrowing kiss on his forehead, reached up weakly to touch and keep her there, he felt lost himself. But she was gone, just as quickly as she had vanished in the churchyard. He saw and heard nothing more until long past daybreak.
Chapter Sixteen
Whit Bowers was awakened just before dawn by the somewhat hair-raising, gruff-throated sounds of milling hounds and Arn's impatient countryman's voice calling him out; time to be on the trail. Whit had the moonshine hangover Arn had prophesied, a cold sick feeling that the only place suitable for him just now was at graveside of his own funeral. He plunged into a cold shower that tasted of iron, but afterward still felt too inept to use a razor and decided not to shave. Lacing up his boots was a frustrating chore.
Arn grinned when Whit finally appeared, adjusting the straps of his backpack from Abercrombie and Fitch.
"Don't appear as how you've used that much."
"It's new."
"Now, that'd be ideal if you went to climb the Matterhorn with a gentleman friend. China service for two, maybe you got a portable pottie in there?"
"Arn, I'm not in the mood. Did you hear from Faren?"
"No. There ain't that many telephones on the Boundary, 'ceptin' in Cherokee town. But if she was in any real trouble, the woman would've found a way to let me know. So I reckon everythin's ducky."
"I don't feel right about going off for a couple of days without saying anything to Terry."
"Stay, then. Catch up to me when and if you can. Only thing is, one bear path looks like 'nother fifty yards into the tall trees. I could blaze a trail, reckon. Plant little flags along the way like it was a Boy Scout jamboree."
"When will we get back from Tormentil?"
"If we can just spend more time walkin' than jawin', late tomorrow night."
"Okay. I'll leave Terry a note."
"No need. I already woke Jewell up and told him where we'd be."
"God . . . I could use a cup of black coffee."
Arn just stared at him for a few moments, then relented with another grin. His own eyes looked a little redder than usual this morning, and he hadn't shaved either. "Believe you could at that. Pot's on the stove, Colonel. Turn the burner off when you've drunk your fill."
So they were back to rank, Arn putting a little distance between them for unknown reasons, although the Grudge wasn't in evidence. Yet.
A little after six-thirty they were on their way to Wildwood, following a path beside the flourishing creek that ran down through Arn's property. All three dogs went with them, including Bocephus, the hound which had been doctored at the vet's the day before, his hind end shaved in a crude iodined oval with stitching across it. For now Arn allowed the dogs to roam freely through the wet grasses and flowering weed, sniffing out rabbits that lived and fed securely in tangled undergrowth. He carried strong braided leather leashes wrapped around his right shoulder. His own frayed canvas pack, like a mailman's pouch but smaller, hung comfortably off the left shoulder. Arn traveled with few encumbrances. His rifle (a model 1895 lever action Winchester, the first rifle he'd owned and, other than the BAR he had lugged around for much of the war, his favorite), his sheath knife, a pocket knife, matches, some packets of toilet paper and two suppositories in foil, redbug repellant, a snakebite kit (more for the sake of the dogs than himself; he had never been bitten), fishing line and hooks, a tobacco tin full of coffee, a small battered pot to boil water in, a poncho to keep him dry in anything short of a flash flood, extra ammunition in a watertight case the size o
f a pack of cigarettes. He shot, fished, or dug for his dinners, and in late spring and summer there was abundant fruit wherever he went. In addition to his old grayish-brown felt hat with the turned-down brim, he wore a twill shirt and tan duck pants, a gabardine Ike jacket, grease-darkened moccasins that were molded to his feet like an extra layer of skin, and no socks. He moved with a stride that Whit admired but which gave him plenty of trouble from the start as he attempted to match Arn's pace. His own low-top hiking boots were broken in but they were heavy and a little clumsy on this gently sloping, rain-softened terrain; he felt subtly but irritatingly off-balance in both mind and body.
Last night Whit had dreamed of men who flew and a man who walked through walls, and of trying this trick himself although he had been told he wasn't ready yet. Getting into the wall with ease (it was limestone, blocks seven feet thick) but getting stuck halfway, suffocating from horror, screaming and screaming. The panic had awakened him, as it always did. And the coda to the nightmare was familiar if not reassuring. Released from the grip of the stone wall, not knowing how he had managed his escape, he found himself alone on a flat gray desert with dry folds of pinkish mountains rimming the horizon. The sun was blistering his naked back, his lips had swelled to twice normal size; he trudged westward, dying of thirst.
He was thisty now, with a terrible taste in his mouth, kind of sour and chicken crappy; but he knew if he gulped the water he wanted he would just make himself sicker, doubling up from cramps, and then he could count on Arn leaving him behind. (What was Arn after today, anyway? Why did he have the urge to go back so soon? Whit knew it wasn't for his sake.) Better to patiently sweat out the lightning, sweat until he smelled like a still. Then he could drink.
"Bring you somethin' to keep the wet off?"
"A slicker." So far it promised to be a fair, probably humid day following the hours-long storm of the night before. Whit looked for clouds, then asked Arn if he thought there was a prospect of rain.
