Manly Wade Wellman - John the Balladeer 05

by The Voice of the Mountain (v1. 1)

  Nobody to be my guide,

  But nair you doubt, I'm a-going to find out,

  All over this world so wide . . ."

  “I swanny, John, that sounds to be the story of your life," said Tombs. “A-going round and round, a-finding things out. That's your occupation, and I do hope and pray the good Lord it won’t be your sudden downfall."

  “It's not been that yet," I said. “Not so far."

  “Folks will tell you, there's always a first time. Now hang up on the picking and singing for a spell, John, I've purely got to beg you out of a-hunting for Cry Mountain."

  “Save your breath and cool your coffee, Tombs. I'm a-going."

  “At least let me to tell you what I’ve heard tell about Zeb Plattenburg. He went there, and he nair came back."

  “So I heard Preacher Larrowby say. What's the story on Zeb Plattenburg?"

  So Tombs told it, like this:

  Zebulon Vance Plattenburg was named for the governor and senator all these mountains are so proud of, and he was an upstanding young man of Larrowby who did his best to be a hero himself. A good shot with a deer rifle (“Maybe near about as good as you or either me, John,” Tombs put in), a dancer who could dance to dawn’s early light, a courter and kisser of a-many a pretty girl.

  This Zeb fellow liked to cut shines, pester folks with his talk. Once, at some play party maybe ten-fifteen years ago, there’d been thunder and lightning and it was a-pouring the rain, and Zeb had run out in the yard and got himself soaked through to his underwear and dared God Almighty to strike him down with a thunderbolt. Nobody at the party had enjoyed to hear him carry on thataway. Tombs said he’d been there, and had signed a cross on himself to keep evil away. But folks were right impressed with Zeb Plattenburg. And when Cry Mountain raised its voice, he had a reason to pester folks worse yet.

  He’d vowed and sworn up and down he’d find that mountain (“Just like you, John”) and he’d climb it, choke off its cry so folks could rest easier. No matter what his friends could say, he set off to do it. And nair did he come back. Nor did the bravest man of Larrowby dare go see what had happened to him, all the years since.

  When Tombs finished his tale, I said, “And you reckon I’m just another Zeb Plattenburg when I say I’ll go.”

  “No, sir,” said Tombs, “you ain’t another Zeb Plattenburg. He was just a brag man. All he did, the day long from morning to night, was brag on himself. He’d brag himself into fist-and- skull fights one place another, and the most part of the time he won those fights. You ain’t like that, though I’d reckon you’d do yourself proud in a little turn-up. But I’d say, whatair Zeb said he’d do, he’d do it or die a-trying, and you’re like him thataway.”

  “Yes,” 1 said, “yes, likely I am. I’ll go out and look for Cry Mountain tomorrow morning.”

  “If that's your last word—”

  “It's my last word, all right."

  “If that’s it," said Tombs, “then all I can do is help you the best I can."

  I shook my head hard at him. “Don’t you try to come along. This thing is my business."

  “I don’t aim to come along. Just to get you started on your way, and pray till you get back."

  “Pray," I repeated him. “Do that, Tombs. Prayer just might could be called for."

  I reckoned it was my time to change a subject, so I picked up my guitar. I didn’t reckon I’d do a song about aught that was creepy, so I tried some of a cheerful one:

  “Yonder comes my pretty little girl,

  How do you think I know?

  I know her by her yellow curls,

  A-hanging down so low . . .’’

  Tombs cocked his ear to hark at that, and when I was done he said, “Sing it again one more time," and I did. When I was done, he sparkled his eyes at me for relish of the thing.

  “I vow up and down," he said, “that there makes me think of Myrrh."

  “The way you are," I said back, “what is there good and pretty you hear or see that you don’t think of her? You’ve got it bad, Tombs, or likely I should ought to say, you’ve got it good. I do wish you and Miss Myrrh joy of one another."

  “And I sure enough wish your wish sure enough comes true." He got up from where he sat. “Hell, what crazy words did I say just then? Let’s not bother to figure them out. Let’s just have us another thimbleful of that there how-come-you-so we picked up on the trail home from Larrowby."

  He poured us out two drinks, and the liquor was nice on the tongue and warm all the way down. We sipped and talked, and the sipping and the talking were both right good. After that, 1 looked out what I’d pack to take with me—the shirts and socks and so on I’d bought in Larrowby. Tombs fetched me a croker sack to stow them into, and likewise an old army canteen on an army web pistol belt.

  “You’ll need that,” he said. “You won’t want to get yourself all dried out, the way you were when you came to my door.”

  “I don’t like to take your canteen, Tombs,” I argued him.

  “Shoo, 1 got me more than one of those. Didn’t I tell you that when I was in the service, I worked some with the supply sergeant?” Then he stopped, and even his beard went into serious lines. “John, I’ll say one more time, I beg to you, don’t go up Cry Mountain.”

  “And one more time, I’ll not listen.”

  “Bullheaded, ain’t you?”

  “That’s a true word, Tombs. Now, I’m a-going to lie down and have a sleep.”

  I stretched out on his sofa with the blue blanket on me, and my eyes closed and I drifted right off, quick and easy.

  Maybe I had dreams, I sure enough should ought to have had dreams to warn me of what would come; but if I did dream, I’ve purely forgotten what it was. I woke when the morning was at a gray, to hear Tombs a-bustling here and yonder.

  “You lie back, take it easy, you’ve got a hard day ahead of you,” he said. “I’m a-fixing us what’ll be a good breakfast. I’d put baited lines in the branch out yonder, and I’ve pulled us out two of the best trout you could call for.”

  He said the truth that time. He’d scaled and gutted those trout before they’d more than stopped a-wiggling, and with hoecake and honey and coffee they were fit for the best folks on earth to eat. I had a quick shave and dragged on my boots and picked up the croker sack he'd given me, and slung on my guitar.

  "Belt that canteen on you," he told me. "I put spring water in it, and there's an old saying round here that if you drink the spring water in these here parts, you'll find your way back to drink it again, come hell or heaven or the day of judgment."

  "I hope to my heart that that comes true for me," I said.

  "And here." He held out something in a paper poke. "I split some hoecakes and laid in slices of that wild hog ham. You may find that worth your biting into along your way." He squinted his eyes at me. "John, I pure down wish you'd change your mind."

  "I don't do that when my mind's made up," I said.

  "Oh, sure, sure."

  He walked out with me and all the way to his branch where he panned his specks of gold. He took me to where big rocks stuck up, with the water a-swirling round them.

  "You can cross over here, John," he said.

  "And which way to Cry Mountain on the other side?" I asked.

  As I spoke, I heard that cry, Awoooooo.

  "Just you keep an ear ready to hark at that," said Tombs. "That'll guide you. John, I ain't about to tell you goodbye. Goodbye has a sort of final sound. I'll just say, do your best where you're a-going, and come back here and stay a week."

  We shook hands together. His grip was as strong as a trap. Then I put myself to that crossing on the rocks. One-two of them were mossy and slippery, but I made the trip all right. On the far side I turned. Tombs still stood there. I put up a hand to him, and he put up a hand to me. Then I headed in amongst the trees on my bank of the stream, and I saw him no more.

  No trail there, but I set my face for where Cry Mountain’s cry had risen.

  Those tre
es were thick-grown and big, all kinds. From high on some of them hung down crawly vines. 1 pushed along under them. It was dead quiet under there, quiet as in some church where they were a-getting ready to bury somebody that was dead. And it was dim dark, too; the sun was up but it didn’t get through all the leaves and vines. Underfoot, my boots found fallen twigs and pine straw, and likewise pebbles and rocks. That part of the mountain forest was like as if no living soul had air walked in it except maybe the panther, bear, and fox. Just them and, one time back yonder, that Zeb Plattenburg man they’d told me about. And he, if I was to credit them, had gone only one way through, had nair come back to tell of it.

  I wondered myself did I truly stay on the right way to Cry Mountain I’d been a-trying to seek that way for an hour. I stopped and tasted the good sweet water in the canteen lent me by Tombs McDonald. Then I stood still and harked, with naught to hear but my own breathing. I stood till Cry Mountain cried out.

  Yes, I was headed right, and no I reckon about it. I walked toward where the cry rose, walked even before it died out, and kept on a-walking.

  I scrambled up a slope under more trees and more. I came to where the trees thinned. The way along got easier, and I kept my feet to it. Once again I rested and supped enough water to wet my mouth inside. At last I got to the top of a ridge.

  Beyond the ridge, the trees were just brush for quite a stretch, and above them and on past them I saw what purely had to be Cry Mountain.

  4

  All right, gentlemen, you all wonder me what did Cry Mountain look like, and how came me to know it was Cry Mountain?

  From off where I stood up to look, it sort of flew up against the sky. It was tall, tall, and it was bare, bare, and it was steep, steep, steep. It was shaped like a bucket turned upside down. The naked rock it was made of had a tan-gray color, and looked so straight up and down that you'd reckon a mountain boomer squirrel would have its job cut out for it to climb up. High at the top, which figured to be flat, grew trees, thick and green. And on the tan-gray side of Cry Mountain a-facing me ran a crooked line up, like some Z’s one on top of the other. That line looked green, too, a dark green, and if trees hung on there, a man might hang on to the trees to help him mount up.

  Cry Mountain, naked and steep, stood so high above other heights right and left, they looked like brushy knolls. It stood where it was and, if I'd had aught of a doubt, it named itself to me with its cry, Awoooooo . . .

  I headed for it.

  The trees were thinned out as I went down a long slope, and there was some coarse grass that whispered against my boots. A spotted snake went whipping away as I came. I didn’t see what kind it was, but I jumped about a foot. My idea of nothing to do is mess round with snakes. The sun was a-getting high in a blue sky without a cloud in it, and I judged it to be maybe half past ten when I started that approach march toward Cry Mountain. I kept on my way, but I stopped maybe each twenty minutes or so, just to squat down and breathe a few breaths. By noon I came to a clear little branch of sweet water and I took me more of a blow there. I didn’t eat the lunch Tombs had fixed for me, but I did drink from the branch and filled up my canteen again and washed my face and neck and ears. I felt as good and fresh as I could hope when I headed along through little belts of trees, toward Cry Mountain off there.

  It was an hours-long walk again, with all the time the steep bare mountain a-coming closer and closer, till it took up a big bunch of the country ahead. I got to where I could make out the way the rock of it was, steep and mostly smooth and a little bitty bit shiny in the sun. It didn’t call to me now, maybe it just waited. There was no sound except a little puff of wind, a-rustling the grass and the leaves of trees here and there.

  It was still a right good walk to the foot of Cry Mountain. Trees thinned out into brush and tussocky grass, and the sun got hot and bright. By the time I stopped again, the sun said maybe five o’clock and Cry Mountain shut off all things in sight ahead, and rose up above me near about straight.

  But I came no closer. I’d been on the march all day, and there wouldn’t be enough light for me to get all the way up. I camped, under some pines and oaks.

  To do that thing, I raked up leaves and pine straw into a heap to lie down on. Then I pulled together dry twigs of pine for kindling, and broke up fallen branches of oak for longer burning. All that wood I stacked together to be used. My canteen shook like as if it needed to be filled full again, so I made a little scout at the foot of the mountain. Sure enough, I found a nice running stream that must be what came down from above, and I drank a handful and it was as good as a man might want. So I filled the canteen and headed back to where I’d fixed to stay the night.

  The sun was a-dimming away beyond the height, and things got slatey gray. I busted up a couple of handfuls of pine twigs and took just the one match to light them. On that blaze I put chunks of hardwood, little ones first, then big, and the fire handled them and grew bigger and brighter. It was a comfort- abler fire than my other one had been, when I was lost on the mountain betwixt Sam Heaver's store and Tombs McDonald's cabin. I wondered myself how Tombs was a-doing right then, and I hoped in my soul he didn't pester himself on account of me. By then I'd got right hungry, and I fetched out the johnny- cake and ham and enjoyed to eat it. At last I went and fetched in big wood chunks and piled them close to my fire, but not close enough to catch. I dragged off my boots and stretched out on the bed I'd made of leaves and pine straw and looked up to where the sky had gone black and little crumbs of stars were out, like pieces of the day.

  I studied those stars. I'll nair get tired out a-studying them. The patterns they make: the Big Bear and its baby, the Little Bear, with the North Star, Polaris, at the tip of its tail; over across the sky from those, Cassiopeia like a big bright W of stars; all the other patterns I'd been taught to pick out, back when I was a boy. I thought about how long the stars had been spread out thataway, how when men lived in caves and made their knives and hatchets out of stone, the stars had been like that for the cave folks to wonder at. How far off they were, I'd had that told to me too, but my poor mind couldn't figure it. But they were there, the stars were there, and I was there too, and it might could be they studied me the way I studied them. I hoped to myself that they wished me the best of luck. So then, I slept.

  Sleeping was no chore, gentlemen. After all, I'd come maybe something like fifteen tough miles since morning, up and down slopes and amongst trees and all like that, so I felt like a-stretching out for sleep. I woke up once in the wee small hours, because my fire had died down and I was chilly. I pushed on more wood, watched it catch and blaze, and looked up at all the stars. They were still up there, in their forever pattern. Back to sleep I went, and when I roused again it was dawn, gray dawn with some pink in it, which should ought to mean a fine day with no rain.

  I had more johnnycake with ham. Tombs had given me three. I wondered where I’d eat the third, and what would be a-going on. I drank from my canteen and picked up my stuff and slung my guitar behind me. I headed for Cry Mountain, which just then took up all the space in front of me.

  I went straight there, to where that winding line of trees came down. Water came down with them, fell about five-six feet in a little tumble, and I had a drink and filled up my canteen again. Then I looked at what had to be the way up.

  That was the start of things, gentlemen, and nair have I had air such a climb. In my day, both before then and later, I’ve been on mountains, with strange things to happen on them. Up on Hark Mountain I’d scrambled alone one time, and One Other waited in the pool at the top. I’d gone up Yandro, and a thousand things made me thankful I could find my way down again. And likewise Teatray, and Wolter, and one named Dogged, and others without names I can call to mind. And those mountains had things on them, things I’d just as soon not call to mind either. High mountains are a feeling, Lord Byron said once, but he nair said what sort of feeling. I’ve had my troubles on high mountains.

  Not that Cry Mountain would be champ
ion tall. I’d say it stuck up about fourteen hundred feet above the ground on all sides, though that ground would be considerably up above sea level. But the going up was what took it out of even a good climber with lots of gristle in him. Along that stream that wandered here and there along ledges and down in falls to other ledges below, that was the one and only way up. As I've told you all, trees and bushes grew along it, to grab hold of to help you. There were bunches of laurel and little strings of pine and then oaks and gums and thorns and now and then black walnut. I grabbed onto those to pull myself along.

  It was work to tire the best climber, and I stopped and stopped again to get my breath back. I heard naught, no bird nor either the rustle of an animal, but along the way I learnt there were things there.

  At one place the stream beside me had hollowed out a wide, deep place, and the water in there was as clear as glass, with green weeds a-swaying in it. Green weeds and something else. I saw the something, and it saw me. Half-hidden amongst the green stuff, it looked like a woman under the water, a pretty woman naked as a jaybird, with streaming brown hair and two eyes fixed on me.

  If that's truly what it was, she shifted down there and her naked arms reached up toward me. That's when I moved right out and up past another cataract, to where the stream was narrower and faster and, as I reckoned, safer to rest by. I'd heard tell of the Dakwa, the water-spirit of the Cherokees, that tempts you to within grab reach and drowns and eats you. Luns Lamar had spoken of such a thing, and there's a bunch of notes about it in Mr. Mooney's book of Cherokee beliefs. I didn't stay there to make sure it was a Dakwa. There might could be a fatal way of a-finding out.

  Along the flowing water, my side of it, was soft earth in patches, and here and yonder amongst sprawly roots and tufty grass you might could see a footprint, or more footprints than one. I looked at a set of those.

  They were hoofmarks, like what a right big deer would leave if it could climb that far up on Cry Mountain. Sure. Only— what deer would walk on just only two feet?