“The money should go to you,” Lucille said. “If it’s sufficient to cover your fee.”
Hewitt shook his head. “No. We were working for John Lang. That money belongs to you.”
Lucille frowned. “But will he pay you?”
“He’s Jimmy’s twin, isn’t he?”
Lucille reached over and clasped Hewitt’s hand. “Yes. And like Jimmy, and like you, Mr. Donaldson, John’s a man of his word.”
***
The sky was gray with small patches of blue peeking through the thinnest parts of the cloudy shroud. Beams of sunlight broke through, and I thought of Jason Fretwell. Earlier that morning I’d been at his bedside. The doctors were confident it was safe to start bringing him out of the medically induced coma.
I grabbed Captain’s arm and helped him guide his walker up the slope through the open cemetery gate. Nakayla walked on the other side of him.
Harry Young’s casket was already in place atop the knoll of the historic Newton Academy Cemetery. The small graveyard was little more than two acres and lay less than a mile from my apartment. I never knew it existed.
We passed markers so eroded by time that the epitaphs were no longer legible. Some had been supplemented by newer marble stones, particularly those of the Revolutionary War veterans. Small flags graced the graves of all war veterans in anticipation of Memorial Day now less than a week away.
We might be witnessing the last grave to be dug on this quiet hill. At a hundred and five, Harry Young might be the final descendant whose immediate family had been interred here. A trustee for the foundation overseeing the care of the cemetery agreed to have Harry laid to rest beside his father, a man who died in 1919.
The chaplain who conducted the ecumenical Christian service at Golden Oaks Retirement Center stood beside the simple wooden casket, watching our approach. His Bible was already open.
“Thank you for bringing me,” Captain said. “This spot is perfect for the Mayor.” He chuckled. “Harry will definitely be the new kid on this block.”
We stopped across the open grave from the chaplain. Just the four of us. The men from the attending funeral home stood farther away, yielding the space to us, Harry’s designated loved ones. And we were.
The chaplain began slowly reading the Twenty-Third Psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.”
My mind drifted from the familiar words as I thought about all that Harry had seen and experienced in his lifetime. My eyes caught sight of a row of Confederate battle flags marking the stones of unknown Confederate dead. “CSA 1861-1865” was all that summarized their lives.
“Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies.”
A few yards below them, a row of U.S. flags marked the graves of unknown Union soldiers. Nameless enemies sharing the same hillside. Forever.
Maybe here is where the ironies end.
Loving versus Virginia. The very name summarized another conflict—the power of love versus the power of the state.
“And I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever.”
Harry Young was in the house. So were Jimmy Lang and Donnie Nettles.
The chaplain closed the Bible.
Captain saluted.
Acknowledgments
I am grateful to the many people who offered their expertise, encouragement, and, in some cases, their names for the creation of this novel.
The Kingdom of the Happy Land existed in the North Carolina mountains as described. The story of the commune of former slaves and the slave owner who led them to their refuge was first told to me by the late Louise Bailey, friend and keeper of our mountains’ history. Ed Bell, whose family owns the site of the Kingdom, was invaluable for showing me the actual location and for being a character in the book. I’m indebted to Henry Harkey for his research of North Carolina inheritance laws and to Judge Fritz Mercer for sharing courtroom procedures and appearing as a fictional version of himself. Arborist Jack McNeary provided facts regarding the hollow log, and Sheriff Chipp Bailey enabled me to learn about the forensic evaluation of gunshot wounds. My brother Craig de Castrique and the Asheville Mushroom Club offered suggestions for Sam’s fungi quest.
Historian and folklorist David Brose gave me access to hundreds of Doris Ulmann photographs housed at the John C. Campbell Folk School and he shared stories about the travels of Doris Ulmann and John Jacob Niles to the area. Thanks to David for also spending time with Sam and Nakayla. All other characters are fictional and any resemblance to actual persons is coincidental.
Readers might be interested in several books used for reference: A Devil and a Good Woman, Too—The Lives of Julia Peterkin by Susan Millar Williams; and The Life and Photography of Doris Ulmann by Philip Walker Jacobs. I’m grateful to Blue Ridge Community College for access to Sadie Smathers Patton’s 1957 limited edition monograph, The Kingdom of the Happy Land.
While the existence of the Kingdom and the photographic treks of Doris Ulmann and John Jacob Niles were real events, the linking of the two is an invention for the story.
Creation of a novel is not done in isolation. Thanks to Jessica Tribble, Annette Rogers, Robert Rosenwald and the entire staff of Poisoned Pen Press, and to my editor Barbara Peters and agent Linda Allen. Also thanks to my wife Linda, daughters Lindsay and Melissa, and son-in-law Pete for reviewing the manuscript.
Finally, I’m grateful to the booksellers and librarians who recommend my stories to their patrons, and to you, the reader, for spending your time with Sam and Nakayla in the mountains of North Carolina.
Mark de Castrique
January 2013
Charlotte, North Carolina
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