Sporty Creek

by James Still

  The pony wheeled and set off for the mill. The doctor’s wife turned her head and stared at us. She eyed the baby mainly.

  That night we children sat at the table with empty plates. Grease sizzled the dove’s breast Pap was frying for Mother. “There hain’t a finickier set of young’uns in the mountains of Kentucky,” Pap groaned. “I boil stuff. I bake, I fry; still, they will hardly taste my cooking. I believe they could live on blue air.”

  I wrinkled my nose. A musky odor came from the open door. I looked at the bowl of potatoes, at the bud eyes not pared out, at the peelings not scraped off. “I hain’t hungry,” I said. But I was. My insides felt grown together.

  The musk seemed to grow. Dan pinched his nose, and Pap cried, “Whew!” Yet Holly didn’t seem to mind. She even grinned.

  “There’s a polecat rambling,” Mother said, covering the baby’s face. She fanned the smell away with a hand. “Traps ought to be set under the house.”

  Pap speared the dove’s breast with a fork. “I met a skunk in the barn loft just a while ago.” He chuckled. “He heisted his tail, and you can guess what happened to my jacket. It’s my pea jacket on the porch that’s sweetening the air.”

  “Hurry the pea jacket out to the woodpile,” Mother told me.

  I snatched the jacket and ran into the yard. I dropped it onto the chop block. I looked about. The mulberry tree matched the night in darkness. It was as black as its fruit by day. Below, in the bottom, lantern light made shine the cracks in the mill walls. I planned, Come morning, I’ll get a close view of that pony. I’ll say to the doctor, “Was Pap of a notion, would you swap to our mare?” I spat, thinking of our beast.

  Pap was talking when I went inside. “I’ve set traps the mill over, but every day they’re sprung, bait gone, and nothing caught. I say it’s a puzzlement.”

  Dan said, “Once I seed a varmint walking. It had a big striped tail. I run, I did.”

  Holly stuck her chin out, vengeful and knowing. “I ijtold the doctor folks the mill was a den. They wouldn’t hear to it.”

  Mother saddened. “I’d never heard a child of mine talk so brashy to their elders. I was ashamed.”

  The idea came into my head that Holly’s play place might be in the mill or near it. I hankered to go search.

  “One thing is for certain.” Pap laughed. “Neither young’uns nor varmints will be caught with my bait. I load the table here, and the traps there. What happens? Nothing.”

  “The children are slipping out of hand,” Mother said, her lips trembling. “Holly in particular. Eleven years old and not a sign of womanly pride.”

  “Holly ought to wear plaits,” I spoke. “The herb doctor’s wife wears them.”

  Holly scoffed. “I hain’t going to weave my hair into ropes.”

  “Once I saw a horse go by with a plaited tail,” Dan said.

  The dove browned and was lifted to a plate. Pap passed it to Mother. The bird was fried hard as a rock. I thought, I’m so hungry it would take a covey of doves to fill me. I could eat square through the plate. I felt that empty. I thought of the ripe raspberries in the bottom, I thought of the loaded mulberry tree. I spooned a half-cooked potato from the bowl and tasted. It was briny, for Pap seasoned with a heavy hand. And all of it was the locusts’ and the baby’s fault.

  Pap groaned. “Be-dabs, if the whole family haven’t taken the punies. The horse, too. Today she wouldn’t eat her corn or hay.”

  “What ails the mare?” Mother asked.

  “She’s nearing her condition,” Pap said mysteriously.

  “I bet she ate berries,” said Dan.

  I didn’t pity the ailing beast. There was supposed to be a colt by now and there was not.

  Pap drew a bottle from his hip pocket. Speaking to Mother, he said, “The herb doctor sent you a bottle of his tonic. Swore it would redden the blood and quicken the appetite.”

  “Mmm,” Mother responded. She wouldn’t have tasted it for a gold diamond.

  Pap held the bottle against the light. “If this would arouse hunger, I’d dose the young’uns, the traps, and the mare. They say that when the unwell take to eating, they’re on the mend. A sure sign.”

  “Old plug mare,” I mumbled. I spoke aloud, “The herb doctor has a healthy nag. Not much bigger’n a colt. Was she mine, I’d not swap her for riches.”

  “I examined the pony’s mouth,” Pap said. “She’s as old as Methuselum’s grandpappy’s uncle. Teeth worn to the gums. The doc’s wife had the pony eating out of her hand. If a woman hasn’t a child to spoil, she’ll pet on a critter.”

  The baby waked suddenly, crying. Pap leaned over Mother’s shoulder. He plucked the baby’s chin. “I see blue eyes,” he said. And he said, “This little chub even cries sweet.”

  I said, “I’d rather to hear a hooty owl hoot.”

  “Woe, woe,” Pap moaned. “I reckon we might as well give the baby to the herb doctor’s woman and be done. She has nothing to pamper except that agey nag and an old husband.”

  I looked at Holly. “I have an idee where your hidey place is,” I said. “I aim to find it.”

  Said Holly, brushing hair out of her eyes, “It’s hid too good. You can’t.” But she was uneasy. “Fool around my playhouse and you’ll wish to your heart you hadn’t.”

  Mother sighed. “If a pot of soup could be made tomorrow, I believe I could eat. Soup with a light seasoning.” She rocked her chair impatiently as Holly and I kept bickering. “I can hardly wait to begin straightening out these children,” she said.

  “My opinion,” Pap said, “you’ll first have to comb their heads with a wagon wheel.”

  The mulberries were dead ripe. They hung like caterpillars, falling at a touch. I sat high in the tree among the zizzing locusts, longing to taste the berries and watching Holly. I saw her crawl under the house. I saw her skitter up the barn loft ladder. She went here and yon, and never could a body tell where.

  I hurried toward the mill. The cow tunnels winding through the high growth of vine and weed in the bottom were empty. I listened. A beetle bug snapped. A bird made a clinky sound. I heard digging. Something went rutch rutch. I tiptoed toward the noise. There amid tall briars the herb doctor knelt, digging mayapple roots. The top of his bare head was glassy in the sun.

  “Did some’un go this way?” I inquired.

  The herb doctor paused. Sweat beaded his forehead. “A half-hour ago a skunk came within smelling distance. I had to stopple my nose a minute.” He sorted the roots, pressing them between thumb and forefinger until the sap oozed. He frowned. “It’s a mite late in the season to be gathering herbs, yet a kettle of tonic has to be brewed before we leave tomorrow.” He plucked a wilted leaf from his shirt pocket. “I’m digging mayapple, but what I need is more of this boneset.”

  “I know where there’s a patch,” I said. “A whole big lot.”

  His brow smoothed. “Lead me to it, and I’ll be mightily obliged.”

  I cut my eyes about, ashamed to say the thing I wanted. I ventured at last, “Would you be in a notion to swap your nag to our mare? I always did want an animal to my size.”

  “For seven years we’ve fed that pony,” the herb doctor explained. “My wife thinks more of her than she does me. Well, close to it. She would scalp me, did I trade.”

  I grumbled, “Our animal will never have a colt like was promised.”

  The herb doctor stood up. He looked wise as a lawyer. “Your mare requires special medicine,” he said. “I mix a tonic which cures any ill, brings to health man or beast.” He clapped hands together to free the dirt. “I’ll make a trade with you. Show me the boneset, and I’ll give you the last bottle left.”

  I said, “I bet was a person to eat mulberries, some of that tonic would kill the poison.”

  “Cure anything.”

  A woman’s voice called from the mill. “Oh, Doc! Doc, come here!”

  The doctor started off, saying, “Wait till I see what the wife wants.” When he returned, the cow tunnels were fil
led with his chortling. “That devil pony of ours!” he said, shaking with merriment. “You never know what she’s up to. Well, sir, she guaranteed we’ll leave tomorrow.”

  In late afternoon we stood by the mill with a poke crammed to the mouth with roots. The fragrance of cooking arose from their oven. I was wholly starved. The herb doctor said, “I’ll fetch your pay,” and brought out a bottle of medicine. “It’s as strong as Samson,” he said. And he said, “My wife’s fixing something for your mother.”

  “Will it work?” I questioned, sliding the bottle into a pocket.

  “It will fix up your mare and any other ill you can name.”

  The pony came from the rear of the millhouse. She stuck her head in at the door and drew back, crunching an apple. The herb doctor sniggered. “See that there? She’s rotten petted.”

  “My colt is going to have people sense, too,” said I. “The pony is bound to stick her nose in where it oughten to be,” the herb doctor said. His face wrinkled joyfully. The crown of his head shone. “What do you imagine she found this morning? We couldn’t believe our eyes.”

  “What—what was it?” I longed to know.

  The herb doctor sobered. “For a reason you’ll understand later we don’t want the place disturbed until we’re gone.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Will you promise not to peep until we’re on the road?”

  I promised.

  “It’s yonder,” he said, pointing to the lower side of the millhouse where the floor rested on high posts. “Not a wonder your sister tried to scare us with tales of spiders and lizards. Aye, she’s a wild one.”

  The doctor’s wife brought a bowl capped with a lid. The plaits of her hair tipped her shoulders, and her eyes were as sad as a ewe’s. “Suppose we could borrow a child from your parents?” she said. “Four children in your house, a mere one wouldn’t be missed.”

  I had no answer for that.

  The woman gave the bowl to me. “Take this mulberry cobbler to your mother. Tell her every berry has been inspected. Tell her they’re healthy to eat.”

  I ran home, and my heart pounded as I went.

  Mother sat with the baby. Pap stirred soup on the kitchen stove, and Dan stood by him. I uncovered the cobbler and handed the bowl to Mother. A fruity smell lifted from it. My mouth watered. I had to speak loudly, for Mother had plugs of wool in her ears to dim the cry of locusts. I said what the herb doctor’s wife told me to say. We heard Pap and Dan coming, and Mother whispered quickly, “We can’t trust eating berries this year. Feed it to the chickens, and say nothing.” There was only time to shove the dish under the bed.

  Pap said, “Hasn’t the locusts’ crying spell about run its season?”

  “This is the day they’re accounted to quit,” Mother answered.

  Dan peeked at the baby nursing. He was bad jealous. He dropped to his knees and scampered under the bed.

  Pap faced me. “I’ve looked up our mare in the book. One more page to turn, and out the window it flies.”

  I had lost faith. Anyhow, Pap was big to tease. On a level with Uncle Jolly, mighty near.

  When I could recover the bowl to sneak it out of the house, I found it empty. Dan had gobbled the whole pie. How fearful I was, believing him in danger. I recalled my bottle of medicine. Could I persuade him to swallow a dose? A thought sprang into my head. I would dose all— the mare, Mother, and Dan.

  I hastened to the barn and poured a fourth of the tonic into a scoop of oats. The mare poked her great tongue into the grain and ate it all. She was mighty fat already. On I footed to the house. I tipped into the kitchen. The soup pot was boiling on the stove, and I emptied all save one draft of the medicine into it. I kept a single swallow.

  Holly came through the door as I pocketed the bottle. She spoke angrily, “I heard the herb doctor tell you where my play place is. If you go there, something will scare your gizzard out.”

  “Huh,” I said, mockingly.

  The locusts hushed that very day. The next morning Sporty Creek was quiet as the first day of the world. It was so still I could hear the neep of crickets in the grass.

  Before the dew dried, I hid in the bottom, waiting for the herb doctor and his wife to depart. I saw them load stove and mattress and chairs and trunk into their wagon.

  They hitched up the pony and drove uphill to our house. I saw Pap and Mother shake their hands in farewell. I saw the doctor’s wife pat the baby’s head. Dan was there, but not Holly.

  I crept to the lower side of the millhouse where the floor stood high. I crawdabbed under. There was nothing to see except four posts supporting the mill and an empty pan on the ground. I heard footsteps and hid behind a post.

  Holly came underneath the floor with a cup of milk and crumbs of meat. She had the bait from Pap’s varmint traps. And behold! Her hair was combed slick. Two long plaits tipped her shoulders.

  Holly poured the milk into the pan. Squatting beside it, she called, “Roily, holy, poley.” Four small polecats came walking to lap the milk. Two big polecats came to nibble the meat. I blinked and could hardly credence my sight. Of a sudden the critters knew I was there. And Holly knew. The polecats vanished like weasel smoke.

  Holly said not a word for a minute. She squatted pale and vengeful, narrowing her eyes at me. She spoke presently, and the words came cold and measured through tight lips. “The baby has been took,” she said. “Poppy gave it to the doctor’s wife.”

  I stood frozen. My breath caught. Pain coursed my chest as from a blow.

  When I could move, I raced toward the house, speeding with loss aching inside of me.

  I thrust my head in at the door. Pap had his knife out and was making a whimmy-diddle* for Dan. Mother was eating soup with bread crumbled in. The baby was nowhere to be seen. Mother was saying, “The soup—it has a queer whang. Still, things don’t taste the same when you’re puny.” Dan’s bowl was beside him on the floor, empty.

  Seeing me, Pap grinned and said, “I’m closing the book on the mare. Tomorrow is about the day for the foal to get here. That’s for sure.”

  “The baby!” I choked. “He’s been took.”

  “Baby?” Pap puzzled. “Why, here he kicks on the bed, growing bigger than the government.”

  I turned, running away in shame and joy. I ran out to the mulberry tree. The fruit had fallen, and the ground was like a great pie. I drew the tonic bottle from my pocket and drained it. I ate a bellyful of mulberries.

  *seventeen-year locust: periodical cicada

  *jander: jaundice, yellow

  *chub: cherub—infant

  *chin hello: nod

  *whimmy-diddle: toy whittled from a tree prong, also anything of small worth

  7

  the dumb-bull

  Aaron Proffit drove a bunch of yearlings into our yard on a cold March evening. It was the very week Cass Logan sent word to Pap he needed a sawyer. Heifers bawled, and young bullies rattled the dark with their bellows. We hurried out onto the porch to learn what was afoot. As Aaron rode up to the doorsteps, Pap hailed him, not recognizing him at first. “Hey-o?” Pap called in uncertainty and, when he recognized Aaron, shouted heartily, “Alight and show your saddle!” Aaron was a penhooker. He was a skinflint to boot. Those who had been stung by him in a trade called him Dude.

  Aaron opened his fleeced collar, rustling new leather. His breath curled into a fog. “If Sporty Creek mud gets any deeper,” he grumbled, “it’ll be beyond treading. In some spots my horse bogged to the knees.”

  “Any day now we’ll see spring,” Pap predicted. “It’s time for her to explode. Then we can walk the earth and not sink.”

  Pap turned out our mare and colt and stalled Aaron’s horse. My colt had finally showed up. He brought the brass-trimmed saddle onto the porch. Aaron shook his boots and scraped the caked mud upon the doorsteps. Supper having long been eaten, Mother prepared a meal for Aaron.

  Aaron shucked off his coat. A foam of sheep’s wool lined the underside. “There’s no
t a cent in yearlings,” he said. “Hit’s swapping copper for brass. Beef steers are what puts sugar in the gourd, and I’ve found not a single one between here and the head of Left Hand Fork.”

  “Crate Thompson cleaned the steers out of all the hollows on Sporty and over on Troublesome Creek in Knott County a month ago,” Pap said, “and I’ve heard a sketch he’s over on Quicksand Creek, buying in the Decoy and Handshoe neighborhoods.”

  Mother brought a plate of shucky beans, buttered cushaw,* and a sour-sweet nubbin of pickled corn. Holly raked coals upon the hearth for the coffeepot. While Aaron ate, Pap and me and Dan brightened Aaron’s boots. We scraped the dirt away, rubbed on tallow, and spat on the leather. We polished them with rags until they glowed.

  “I never saw boots have such razor toes,” Pap said. “You could nigh pick a splinter out of your finger with them.” He thrust forth his own to show the bluntness of the shoecaps. Pap’s were the shape of the box they came in.

  Pap picked up one of Aaron’s boots and compared it to his shoe. “They have the difference of a hoe and a pickax,” he said, sighing in awe. “Man! They must stack your toes into a pile.”

  Aaron champed his tobacco cud. “They’re comfortable,” he said.

  On finishing his meal, Aaron said, “I’d take a shortcut to Quicksand if I didn’t have the yearlings on my hands. Maybe I could get there before Crate Thompson cleans out the last beef animal.” He rubbed the stubble of his chin. “Reckon your eldest boy here could drive the calves to Mayho town for me? That would save a whole day.”

  I raised off my chair, hoping. In another month I would be ten, to my mind agey enough to be trusted, to be allowed to venture into the world.

  Pap hesitated.

  “That’s a right smart little chunk of a distance for a boy to walk alone. And I might be gone when he gets back. Expect to hit a few licks of work at Plank Town this spring.”

  “I’ll pay him a dollar,” Aaron said, “and I’ll make it silver. Silas Mcjunkin’s boy will be at my house to help with the penning, and my woman will settle with the both. Silas’ boy is driving two cows from the mouth of Augland in the morning. “