Lord of the Mountain

by Ronald Kidd

  I stared at him. “You know that?”

  He stopped and gazed through the window, off into the distance. “I’m not sure. It seems familiar.”

  “Could you sing the rest? I just heard that one verse.”

  He closed his eyes and concentrated, then sighed and shook his head. “Sorry. It was a long time ago. Maybe when I was a kid in North Carolina.”

  Hearing him say it sent a shiver up my back. “Where in North Carolina?”

  “Burnsville, near the Tennessee border. I was born there.”

  I remembered conversations from my own childhood, questions I had asked Mama and Daddy about North Carolina. All they would tell me was a town.

  “I was born in Deep Gap,” I told him. “Is that anywhere close?”

  “Not far,” said Esley. “Fifty, sixty miles, over in Watauga County.”

  My song was just a fragment, but now it had a place—Watauga County, in North Carolina. Esley had heard it. Maybe others had too. It was a pretty song, but in my family, it caused pain. That night in the kitchen, I’d seen the pain in Mama’s face, felt it in her voice.

  Sitting there with Esley, I thought about the pain—where it had come from and why I had left. My past, held back for so long, came crashing in on me, and suddenly I needed to tell it.

  “Want to hear a story?” I asked Esley.

  He nodded, and it occurred to me that Esley’s real gift, with music or stories, was listening.

  I started in the kitchen that night hearing the song and worked my way out, to the family, to the house, to the tent. I described Daddy’s church and the snake and the healings that stirred folks up but didn’t necessarily make them better. I told him about the preacher who lit up like a torch, the woman who stood beside him, the boy who had been damaged, and the boy who had escaped. I told him about a church that didn’t have music and trains that did.

  When I finished, the room was quiet for a while.

  Finally, Esley said, “That’s quite a story.”

  “Sometimes I hate it,” I told him. “Sometimes it makes me ache.”

  “That church—it really didn’t have music?”

  “Never.”

  “But why?”

  I had to admit I didn’t know.

  Esley pondered that for a minute. “What you told me—it’s not just a story. It’s a mystery.”

  He strummed for a while longer, then hobbled over and opened a closet. “Here’s a couple of blankets. You take the couch. I’ll sleep on the floor.”

  “Really? The floor?”

  “Hey, I do it all the time.”

  I thought for a minute, then shook my head. “The couch is yours. I’ve got someplace else in mind.”

  He handed me a blanket. Moving to the front door, I opened it and stepped across the big porch to the front yard. The moon was high. There was a nip in the air. Crickets sang, and somewhere a bullfrog croaked. Mountains ringed the valley, wrapping around me like Mama’s arms.

  I walked to the Chevrolet, opened the front door, and stretched out on the seat. It felt like home.

  CHAPTER 35

  There was more food the next morning—eggs, grits, sausage, toast. At first I was embarrassed at how much I ate, but Sara liked watching me.

  “It’s a compliment,” she said, bringing out more eggs. I took a couple and passed them on to A.P. and Esley.

  Sue Dean helped Joe with his food, while Gladys and Janelle finished up. When they were done, Sue Dean took them out to the front porch to jump rope. I wanted to talk with her, but I didn’t think she’d like that.

  “I’ll be doing a load of clothes at the creek,” Sara said. “If you give me yours, I’ll wash them.”

  I looked down at my shirt and pants, caked with soot. “These are all I’ve got. What’ll I wear?”

  “Doc has some extra clothes,” she said. “You can wear his to fix the car. That way, yours will stay clean once I wash them.”

  Clean. It was a word I hadn’t thought much about lately.

  “When you’re done with the car, you can take a bath,” said Sara. “I’ll get out the tub. Doc can draw water at the well, and I’ll heat some up for you.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked.

  “I’d advise it,” she said with a twinkle in her eye.

  I changed into some of A.P.’s clothes, rolling up the long legs and sleeves. A little while later, Eck came back. His uniform looked as neat as ever. I couldn’t tell if he had changed it on the train or if that’s just the way he was.

  “Here’s the U-joint,” he said, handing me a bag. “And hey, I like that outfit.”

  “Sara was doing some wash. I gave her my clothes.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Today’s Thursday. Sara washes on Saturday.”

  I gazed at him, then we both laughed.

  “Did she say anything about a bath?” he asked.

  I nodded. “As soon as the car’s fixed. I guess I’m pretty dirty, huh?”

  “Only your friends will tell you,” said Eck.

  A couple of hours later, the new part was in place, and the Chevrolet was fixed. When A.P. brought water from the well, I used some of it to wash the car. Under all the dirt, it was shiny and nice.

  Esley stood by, admiring the car. He turned to A.P. “Ready to roll?” he said. “Find some more songs?”

  “I reckon,” said A.P.

  Esley pulled a map from the glove compartment and opened it on the hood of the car.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “we haven’t been to North Carolina for a while.”

  My heart gave a little hop.

  “What about Mandy Groves’s friend?” said A.P.

  Esley turned to me and explained, “Amanda Groves lives across the river from here. Big, tall lady with bright-red hair. If you’re digging for songs, she’s the mother lode. When A.P. started out, he just sat on her porch and she’d sing to him. She told A.P. about a friend in North Carolina.”

  “Let’s see,” A.P. warbled, “where was it she lived?”

  “Watauga County,” said Esley.

  Just like that, the world opened up. My song played. The mystery beckoned, stretching back to our kitchen and Daddy’s tent and the strange faith he had dreamed up where music was a sin. Esley nodded to me, and I knew I’d be going with them. It was just a matter of how.

  With the car repairs done, Sara took the rest of the water, heated it up, and poured it into a galvanized tub. She hung some blankets around the tub, handed me a bar of lye soap, and said, “Have at it.”

  I pulled the blankets closed and took off my clothes, or rather A.P.’s, then stepped in and scrubbed. The water turned black and filled up with the most amazing things, which apparently I’d been carrying around on my body. They weren’t as bad as Daddy’s snake, but a couple of them came close.

  Eck stayed for dinner. Later that afternoon, after my clothes had dried, I put them on and made an appearance at the porch, where Eck was talking with A.P. and Esley. I had to admit, I felt like a new man, or at least a new boy.

  “What do you think?” I asked them.

  “He’s human,” said Eck.

  Eck shot A.P. a look, and A.P. cleared his throat. “We been talking.”

  Esley broke in. “Mostly Eck’s been talking. But we liked what he said.”

  “Seems you need a job,” A.P. told me. “Is that right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Well, maybe you noticed—Esley and me, we’re not so good with cars. But, well…you are.” A.P. fidgeted, then looked at Eck and back at me. “Ah, the heck with it. I’m no good with words. We have car trouble. Want to be our mechanic?”

  I stared at him. “You mean, stay here and work on the car?”

  “Not stay here,” said Esley. “Come with us to collect songs. When the car breaks down, you can fix it.”

  “Yes,” I blurted before they could change their minds.

  A.P. went on. “Of course, we’ll pay you, and—what did you say?”

  “Yes!” />
  Eck grinned.

  A.P. leaned back. “Well, that was quick.”

  “Told you,” said Esley.

  ***

  Afterward, I wondered about Sue Dean. I had found her, and now I was leaving again. It seemed bad, but in another way, maybe it was good. She was angry. Maybe she needed some time to think.

  Anyway, I didn’t have a chance to consider it, because A.P. was anxious to get going. He and Esley packed up after supper that night. Sara gave me a satchel so I could pack too.

  “What do I put in it?” I asked her.

  “Just wait,” she told me.

  She led me to a little room down the hall. There she showed me another machine, but this one was for inside work, not outside. At first I thought it was just an oak table with iron legs. Then she opened up the top and pulled out a familiar object, like one that Mama had at home but fancier, painted black with gold decorations and the word Singer on the side. It was a sewing machine.

  “Ain’t she a beauty?” asked Sara.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  “When we got paid for those songs, A.P. bought a car. I bought this. Here, take a look.”

  Pulling up a chair, she showed me how it worked. What I had thought were just iron legs turned out to be the engine that drove it. There was a flat, metal place to put your foot—Sara called it a treadle—and when you pumped it, a wheel spun and the needle went up and down. She took a scrap of cloth from one of the drawers, stretched it out flat under the needle, and pumped the treadle. A line of stitches appeared on that cloth just as straight as it could be.

  “Now, let’s get you something to put in that satchel,” she said.

  She disappeared into her bedroom and came out with an armful of clothes. “These are some extras that A.P. doesn’t use anymore.”

  Holding them up next to me, she measured the sleeves and pant legs, then sat down and went to work. An hour later, I had some clothes. I tried them on and they fit, thanks to Sara’s machine. I had clothes to choose from for the first time since the girl named Barbara had stolen my pack. She had taken everything I had, and now Sara was giving some of it back.

  The next morning, Sara cooked breakfast bright and early. Then she and Sue Dean filled a basket with food for us to take. Esley loaded it into the car, alongside a couple of suitcases, the guitar, his crutch, and my satchel.

  Sara and the children stood nearby. Sue Dean held Joe, and the girls clasped hands.

  “Well, Doc,” said Sara, “here you go again.”

  “Yes’m,” he grunted.

  “Seems like you’re gone a lot.”

  It occurred to me that while A.P. was off exploring the hollers, Sara would be cooking, washing, sewing, and wrangling three kids.

  A.P. cocked his head. “It’s what we do, Sary.”

  She ducked her head. “Yes, it is.”

  A.P. hugged each of the children in turn, then kissed Sara’s cheek.

  Esley said, “Be good, you all.”

  I turned to Sue Dean. “See you again soon.”

  She nodded and held Joe close. I saw something in her eyes. It might have been anger, or it might have been hope.

  Sara shot me a tired smile. “Take care of ’em, Nate. Not just the car.”

  “I’ll try.”

  A.P. climbed behind the wheel, and Esley took the passenger side. I got in back. I smiled and thought, Just me and the hog.

  We waved, then moved off down the road in search of a song.

  CHAPTER 36

  For me, it was mystery and adventure. For A.P., it was work.

  Mr. Peer was always pushing for more songs, and A.P. didn’t mind a bit. After recording the Carters in Bristol, he had brought them up to Camden, New Jersey, for more sessions. They recorded thirteen songs in two days, including “Keep on the Sunny Side,” “John Hardy Was a Desperate Little Man,” and “Wildwood Flower.” The records came out a few months later, and still Peer wanted more. He had scheduled another Camden session for next February, so A.P. needed more songs, always more songs.

  I learned all this in the back seat of the Chevrolet as we bumped along the road, headed south on Highway 91. I offered to help with the driving. I told A.P. and Esley about Mr. Lane’s Packard and how I had driven it.

  “Glad to hear that,” said Esley. “We need all the drivers we can get.”

  After a while, I realized why. It turned out that A.P. wasn’t the world’s best driver. He would hum a song, and his mind would wander. The car would drift, and Esley would jerk the wheel back.

  About that time, A.P. started humming and the car started drifting.

  “Watch it!” said Esley, grabbing the wheel. “All right, that’s it. Pull over.”

  “What for?” asked A.P.

  “I’m driving.”

  A.P. snorted. “It’s my car.”

  “It’s my life,” said Esley.

  A.P. guided the car to a flat place by the road, where he and Esley swapped places. I had to admit I felt better. I think A.P. did too. Now he could hum to his heart’s content.

  We left Virginia, dipped into a corner of Tennessee, and came out the other side in North Carolina, traveling through little towns called Damascus and Laurel Bloomery. A short time later we entered Watauga County. Gazing through the car window, I tried to imagine Mama, Daddy, Sister, and me living there all those years ago. I pulled out the patched-up photo of Sister’s grave and studied it. Maybe I’d be seeing it soon.

  It turned out that A.P. and Esley weren’t sure where Mandy Groves’s friend lived, so we stopped for directions in Sugar Grove, a quiet town nestled in the mountains. They reminded me of my mountains—high, hazy, and, if the light was just right, a pretty shade of blue.

  Then, directions in hand, we headed up some dirt roads into the foothills. The car thumped and shimmied. We passed a few houses tucked back among the trees, and after a while I noticed A.P. gazing out the window, mumbling to himself.

  “What are you doing?” Esley asked him.

  “Counting.”

  “Counting what?”

  “Mailboxes,” said A.P.

  “Well,” said Esley, “when you got ’em counted, let us know.”

  “…eight, nine, ten. Lace. That’s what they said.”

  “A.P., you’re not making sense,” said Esley.

  “Stop!” said A.P.

  Esley slammed on the brakes. I winced.

  “Turn in here,” said A.P.

  “You think they have songs?” I asked him.

  He stared at me. “No, I told you. Lace.”

  Esley glanced at me and rolled his eyes, like Arnie and I used to do. It made me smile.

  A.P. pointed past the mailbox to a couple of faint tracks in the dirt that seemed to be a driveway. Esley sighed, spun the wheel, and bumped along the tracks to a stand of trees, where we found a cottage. Sure enough, there was a hand-lettered sign in the front yard: Lace. A.P. got out and headed for the door.

  “What’s he doing?” I asked.

  Esley shrugged. “Doc—he marches to his own drum.”

  A.P. came back a few minutes later carrying a lace doily, like Mama used to put under flowerpots.

  “You like lace?” Esley asked him.

  “No, but Mandy told me her friend does. I figure it might help us get a song.”

  We pulled back onto the road, and it led into a narrow, winding canyon, a place I never would have noticed.

  “You think someone lives in there?” I asked.

  “Sure,” said A.P. “Folks like the hollers, being off by themselves so they can follow the old ways.”

  At the end of the canyon, pressed up against the side of a mountain, was a shack that was painted bright purple. Esley parked in front of it, and we sat there.

  “You going in?” I asked A.P.

  He and Esley shared a look.

  “We’ll wait,” said Esley. “First rule when you’re hunting songs: let ’em come to you.”

  Ten minutes later, a woman stepped o
nto the porch. She was over six feet tall and as skinny as the rails I’d been riding.

  In the car, Esley whistled softly. “She’s bigger than Miss Mandy. Maybe there’s a whole family of them—you know, Amazons, like those warriors in Greek mythology. I saw pictures of them in a book.”

  The woman wore coveralls and had long, gray hair that hung down to her waist, which was pretty far. She puffed on a pipe and stood there gazing at us.

  A.P. rolled down his window and called, “Hattie Washburn?”

  “Who’s asking?” she said.

  “A. P. Carter. You know, the Carter Family.”

  “Never heard of ’em.”

  “Mandy Groves said to look you up.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, songs,” said A.P.

  “Go away,” she said.

  “Friendly ol’ thing,” whispered Esley.

  “Shush!” hissed A.P.

  He picked up the lace doily, opened the door, and edged out toward her, holding the doily in front of him like an offering.

  She cocked her head and watched him approach. When he reached her, she took the doily and ran her fingers over it.

  “Nice. Lula May Hodge?”

  “Yes’m, we saw her just now,” said A.P. “Beautiful work. It’s yours if you’ll give us a minute.”

  She puffed on her pipe. I caught a whiff, and I can tell you the tobacco didn’t come out of a package. She admired the doily again, then stepped into the front yard, where an old wooden table was set up with four chairs. She folded herself into one of the chairs and nodded.

  “All right,” she said.

  A.P. took a seat next to her. Esley motioned to me, and we got out of the car. The minute Esley appeared, her eyes fastened onto him.

  “Who’s he?” she asked A.P.

  “That’s my guitar player, Lesley Riddle. The other one’s my mechanic.”

  Esley got his crutch and guitar from the trunk, and the two of us joined them at the table.

  “Nice house,” said Esley. “Pretty color.”

  She puffed on the pipe, watching him all the while. “Painted it last month. I chose purple. That’s Easter colors.”

  A.P. looked around at the autumn leaves. “Easter’s in the spring.”

  She snorted. “Every day’s Easter. Jesus rises like the sun. He picks radishes with me.”