by Inez Kelley
His hobby served a dual purpose. He used his own landscape photographs as advertising or promotional material. Others he kept just for himself, sunrises that looked like melting sherbet, rainy forests that carried an ethereal mist, dewdrops on a pale petal. Today he’d managed a couple spectacular scenic shots as well as a few rabbits and a fawn, its spots still visible on the copper hide. But this time, these covertly stolen images of Zury weren’t for business. It was almost magical seeing her in the mountains, like watching a soaring eagle play in the clouds.
There was something different about her outside the confines of a meeting room or an office. The unfiltered sunshine brought out the vivaciousness of her personality. It also did amazing things for her skin. His eyes dropped to her legs. Her shorts had slid up, exposing more of her finely muscled thighs. He wanted to feel those thighs locked around his hips as she rocked into him.
“Hurry up, it’s just up here,” she called over her shoulder.
Her enthusiasm was contagious and he smiled, letting the camera hang by the strap around his neck. She wasn’t overly tall but seemed larger than she was by sheer force of personality. When she was quiet and at rest, he was astounded exactly how petite she truly was. Delicate lines in her wrist and ankles called his hands to circle them. When she’d curled up on the kitchen chair this morning, he’d had to make himself turn back to the stove. Sleep-mussed and unguarded, she’d looked so young. But his reaction had not been innocent. He’d wanted to scoop her up, carry her back to the bed and tuck her in, using his own body as her blanket.
All the summer heat sank and gathered in his groin. Summer air fostered tantalizing images of moist naked skin on skin and he shifted a stirring erection into invisibility. She didn’t notice. Her sunglasses gave no glimpse into her eyes but her focus was clearly not him. She disappeared around a bend in the trail. He sprinted to catch up.
A slow-moving spring bubbled from the ground. Zury’s backpack had been abandoned in the grass. She had her boots off and was peeling thick socks from her feet. “It’s snowmelt from the mountaintop that empties into the Black Cherry River. Not deep but enough to splash around in and cool off.”
The temperature might have been a few degrees cooler near the water but he was burning up as she shucked off her shorts. Beneath her clothes, she wore not a string bikini but a sturdy set of boy shorts and a full-coverage tank-style top. The damned thing still hid whatever tattoo was on her left breast, letting only a small line of color show. With one tug, he could free her from that scrap of material and discover the image with his eyes, his fingers and his mouth.
The knot in his throat was hard to swallow. How could anyone so delicate have hips so lush? They were ideal for gripping, her hipbones the perfect place for his fingertips. His palms would curve to fit her skin as he pulled her back to him. Her ass was round and firm, would feel so right nestled tight to him while he was buried deep inside her.
The bank dropped off sharply to a small stretch of rocks darkened by the flowing water. She stepped down and toed the water, her shoulders giving a little shudder. He stood transfixed as she walked into the water until it lapped at her belly button. Gooseflesh erupted on her skin and peaked her nipples to sharp points beneath the black top. His gaze zeroed in before decency made him blink and look away. Water drops flicked at his face.
“You coming, Slick?”
It wouldn’t take much. “Yeah, in a second.”
He rested the camera beside her bag and emptied his pockets, piling the junk beside his camera case. After yanking his hiking boots off, he peeled off his shirt and covered the delicate lens. The first touch of water on his toes was sharp, like knives.
Waist deep, she laughed. “Be a man, Joni.”
Joni? Oh, that was one nickname he had to put a stop to right away. He braced and strode into the spring. Slippery rocks gave beneath his feet, and his arms shot out for balance. Water soaked the seat of his shorts, and the freezing cold obliterated all sexual thoughts as his balls tried to crawl up into his belly.
Zury disappeared beneath the subtle waves only to pop back up blinking the drops away. Slender hands whisked her hair back from her face. “God, that feels so good.”
The need to hear those words in the dark, whispered against his shoulder while they were both drenched in the sweat of lovers, made him hold his breath and sink into the stream. The cold stung his face and he shook his head beneath the water, forcing the erotic image to fade. He arched coming up, flicking his hair back and throwing water behind him.
“Hey, watch it!”
He turned and caught a mouthful of icy water from her hand-splash. His sun-warmed skin had adjusted and the water was now silky, delightfully refreshing and invigorating. Dark spiky lashes circled her laughing eyes and a single drop traced along her nose. He couldn’t fight the realization any longer. The attraction he felt for her was growing.
Stretching his arm wide, he swung and sent a cascade over her. Her laughter was like a bird’s song, light and lyrical, but she retaliated like a fox. Her foot shot out and hooked around his knee, buckling his leg and planting his ass on the slippery rocks. Water rushed up his nose and he lunged up with a roar.
Their play lasted ten or fifteen minutes before Zury headed toward the bank. She’d brought a towel in her pack and, after drying her face, offered it to him. She finger-combed her hair away from her face, resettled her sunglasses, and let the sun dry her skin. Jonah dried his face, then spread the towel on the grass, collapsing beside her. The sun felt deliciously indulgent after the chill of the stream.
“I haven’t splashed in a creek since I was a kid.”
A time-lined face floated from his memories and he closed his eyes, trying to keep it vibrant and alive. It had been years since he could recall Pappy’s face so clearly. His father would beat Jonah’s ass every time he got caught sneaking off to Pappy’s cabin. The bruises never stopped him but he didn’t dare stay too long and never overnight. He’d loved the old man too much to stay away completely though. Their time together had been short, so terribly short, but Jonah considered those stolen hours as the best time in his childhood. When Pappy died at the age of ninety-two, part of eleven-year-old Jonah had gone with him.
“My great-grandfather lived at the edge of town in a little one-room cabin. He could have moved anywhere but he loved that old place. He didn’t like my father very much so he wasn’t on the best terms with my folks. I wasn’t supposed to go there but I always did anyway. He told the best stories. I used to spend hours wading in the creek out back catching frogs and minnows.”
“I played in empty lots full of garbage.” Her bag also held bottled water and she handed one to him before cracking the top of one for herself. She sipped, her face trained on the stream. “I was a Fresh Air kid, did you know that?”
“No, I didn’t.”
But it explained a lot. For more than a hundred years the Fresh Air Fund kids’ program had been giving poor children from New York City the chance to experience country life. He vaguely recalled hearing about the summer visits from other kids whose families hosted them. Some stayed just two weeks, others longer. Many returned to the same families year after year.
Despite breathing the mountain air every single day of his childhood, he’d been jealous of those kids. They got to escape, if only for a little while. He never had that luxury.
“When I was nine, I came to West Virginia to stay with the Reynolds family. The first night there, they had a cookout. I ate hot dogs and macaroni salad and stared at the mountains. I’d spent my life to that point surrounded by buildings so tall they blocked out the sun but suddenly I could see forever. When it got dark, I didn’t want to go inside. I’d never seen so many stars. It was like I could touch them. Lorena, my host mom, made her son grab a sleeping bag so I could stay outside. It was the best gift I’ve ever gotten.”
The high sun su
cked the water from her skin and kissed along her cheeks. Damp strands of hair fluttered in the wind. She drew her knees up and rested her forearms on top. “After I went home, I counted the days until I could go back. The Reynolds let me stay a full month the next year, and leaving was the hardest thing I’d ever done. The year after that, I stayed all summer. I knew that this was where I belonged. I’d stare at bricks and concrete, listen to sirens wail, triple-lock the doors, and dream about the mountains. I used to sing John Denver’s song instead of saying my prayers at night.”
Jonah drank, more to fill the gap as she silently stared at the stream than out of thirst. Sun sparkled on the water in a glimmering gold blanket. He knew exactly how beautiful his home state was but prisons were made of many materials, not just concrete. His only escape had been a stooped and wrinkled old man who took him to places with storybook words and his imagination. But every night he’d had to trudge home, face reality, and die a little inside.
Steeped in nostalgia and heavy with memories, Zury’s voice lilted.
“Mami died when I was sixteen, ovarian cancer, and I was placed into foster care. But only long enough to call Lorena and DeWayne. They flew out that day and came and got me, brought me back here to live with them.”
“And you’ve never left?”
“Oh, I left. Lorena said I couldn’t hide in the hills. I went to school at the University of Ohio, majoring in tourism. I took an apprenticeship in Colorado and worked for a hotel in Nevada. But this is home. This is where I belong.”
She turned so suddenly he jumped. Her knuckles were white on her bottle.
“Don’t you see, Jonah? The Fresh Air kids program saved my life. These mountains saved my life. Now every year, the Falls hosts six kids for a two-week stay. It’s my way of giving back. You take this all for granted. You’ve never known a day where the only thing green you see is the cash in your wallet. Where the tallest thing around you is a slab of concrete and glass. Where the streets hold the heat like an oven and bake everything in sight. I couldn’t breathe there. Here, here I can fly. I can’t let anyone destroy that.”
And she had no idea how traditions and rigid beliefs could strangle you like a rope. Old mountain ideas that refused to adapt, refused to mature or change with the outside world, choked the life out of you until there was nothing left but blind obedience.
One wet strand of black hair curved against Zury’s cheek, highlighting her cheekbone. His mother had had the most beautiful hair, long and black, so black it looked like ink spilling down her back. He’d loved watching her brush it, knew First Corinthians called it her “crowning glory” and that it hadn’t been cut since she was a girl.
It wasn’t allowed. It didn’t matter that it was thick and heavy and gave her a headache. It made her so hot in the summer. His father had caught her trimming it one evening and thought she’d removed too much. A stinging slap reminded her that godly women didn’t cut their hair, ever.
He was full of shit as far as Jonah was concerned. “Why do you cut your hair?”
“What?” Furrows lined her forehead. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“If you’d never cut your hair, it would be really long, right?”
“I guess so.”
“For centuries, long hair was a woman’s mark of beauty. But even women who keep their hair long trim it. To keep it healthy and get rid of split ends and stuff. Forestry is just like that. Don’t think of it as destruction. It’s more like maintenance. Properly done, it keeps the land healthy.”
Did she know how adorable she was when she scowled? Her nose crinkled up and her brows drew down. Her lips pursed into a tight bow that was perfect for kissing. “Nature has been growing just fine without man’s interference for eons. Come on, I have something I want to show you before we head back.”
They dressed and gathered their packs. Jonah slung the camera around his neck and clicked a picture of the spring before following her down the hillside. Ten minutes into their trek, she veered off the trail and angled through the brush. They were now on Hawkins land but her steps were just as surefooted. His damp shorts snagged on the bushes when he had to turn sideways to squeeze through. Her swimsuit left wet patches on her shirt and shorts that the sun quickly dried but she never slowed her path.
The trees spread out, letting the sunlight pour down between the branches. Dappled spots of gold grew into wide patches on green grasses that licked his calves, growing taller and taller as the woods grew thinner and thinner. She led him into a small meadow dotted with dandelions and wildflowers, and one massive gnarled hickory tree with a bent trunk.
He couldn’t snap the shutter fast enough. The joy on her face threatened to reach through the lens and yank his heart from his chest. He focused on light settings and angles, using the lens as a barricade. A few clicks insulated him and he let the camera drop.
“I love this tree.” Brittle bark flaked beneath her fingers as she circled around it like a wood sprite, her face shining with delight. Angling her head back, she looked up into the overhanging branches. “It’s gorgeous, wild and untamed.”
Unlike most hickories, this one had low-growing branches jutting out fewer than twenty feet from the ground. The knurled and heavy limbs snaked out and up like sinewy arms on some ancient Middle Eastern goddess. It nearly begged for young boys to climb it and sweethearts to carve their names into its base.
The hickory was old. Jonah estimated it was close to three hundred, far older than the surrounding growth. Farmers and landowners had long used such trees as markers at the corner of their property. The distinctive shape was almost iconic. He’d seen more than one picture idealizing its solitude, often with biblically inspired captions such as The Tree of Knowledge or The Tree of Life.
How wrong those captions were.
Chapter Four
Hickory trees can grow to 140 feet in height and about 25 feet wide. Common species are shagbark, shellbark, pignut and bitternut. A deciduous tree, it has colorful gold leaves in the fall. Hickory trees bear both male and female flowers.
“It’s a wolf tree.”
Zury’s smile obliterated all thought of the tree from his mind. “Is that what you call it? I call it the abuelo tree. To me, it seems like a grandfather, all wrinkled and knotty, bent but not bowed. Kind of like the guardian of the grove. It’s bigger than all the others but not as bland. It has character.” She waved her hand to the surrounding trees, all younger, straighter, farther away from the meadow. “Those trees all look the same. This one is special.”
“It’s dying.”
“No, it’s not.” A furrow bloomed on her forehead at his words. Her hand slapped the bark with a thud. “Hear that? It’s solid. The leaves are green. There isn’t any rot or disease on it.”
He hated destroying her fantasy but she needed to understand. “They call it a wolf tree because it’s a lone wolf type—it didn’t grow surrounded by others but alone and unchecked.”
Alone in nature was never good.
He pulled the strap from his neck and laid the camera aside, then dug a sectioned increment bore from his camera case. Once assembled, the long metal cylinder was a tick thicker than a cigarette but far longer, with a sharp edge and a narrow crank. He started to drill.
Zury’s hand shot out and gripped his. “What are you doing?”
“Just watch, okay?”
The tough bark gave underneath the cutting teeth, and the wood below was little challenge. It had been a long time since he’d actually worked in the field, and the cranking action spawned an ache in his forearm, but he didn’t stop until he felt the give of the pith. Even then, he gave it several more cranks before stopping.
“Hold out your hands.” He positioned her palms under the cylinder and backed the bore out of the tree. It brought a long tube of wood with it. A creamy tan at the beginning, the cut
piece slowly darkened until the end turned to dark brown powdery silt that disintegrated in her hands.
Jonah picked up the paler end. “This is new growth. It’s lighter and hard, but this—” he pointed to the moist powder in her hand, “—is the center of the tree, the heart. It’s dead and slowly consuming the newer wood faster than it can grow.”
Her confusion bled away and concern rounded her eyes. “Can we stop it?”
“No.”
Zury ran her fingers along the wooden shaft, down to the crumbling dust, a heartbroken softness on her cheeks. “It’s like a cancer, like the one that killed Mami.”
“I guess so.” He disassembled the increment bore and pocketed the pieces, letting his voice gentle. “See how this tree’s misshapen, not straight and tall like the others? It probably survived something catastrophic hundreds of years ago, like a fire or a blight. But trees aren’t meant to grow alone. They’re genetically designed to flourish with counterparts. With nothing else around, the branches of this one extended out too early and got too big. The root system dug too deep and got too widespread. The tree feasted on all the nutrients from the surrounding land, sucking so much it made it difficult for new growth to take root nearby. Eventually it did, but by then, this one was already doomed.”
The sky was blindingly blue, with a depth that had marveled poets for centuries. He fixed his eyes on it to avoid seeing the sadness quivering her lip. For once, he wasn’t tempted to pick up his camera. This endless sky wasn’t anything compared to the bottomless pain in her eyes.
“When the other trees started taking from the ground and growing, this one couldn’t consume as much as it needed. That’s when it started dying from the inside out. It’s starving to death, Zury.”
