“This is only the beginning,” I said.
“I come up here because I want to talk to you,” the preacher said.
“Figured you did,” I said.
“Brother Muir, sometimes we feel we’re called to do things, and it’s only our pride calling us, not the Lord.” What I felt about Preacher Liner was his weight. He was a heavy man, but he willed hisself to be heavier still. He made his voice heavy, and he put all the weight he could gather against anybody else’s ideas or opinions in his voice. He wanted you to feel he could crush you.
I felt my breath getting short.
“I’m doing what I feel led to do,” I said.
“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” Preacher Liner said.
“If I don’t know what I’m led to do, then who does?” I said. I was tired and sweaty and I wanted to get the wagon unloaded.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” the preacher said. “Sometimes we have to listen to those older than us to know what to do.”
“Who am I supposed to listen to?” I said. I was madder than I expected to be. I couldn’t help myself.
“We have to listen to them with experience,” the preacher said. “I will not have my church split up by some foolish notion.”
“I believe the Lord asked me to build this church,” I said. “He showed me a vision of what needed to be done.”
“Maybe you misunderstood the vision,” the preacher said. “Maybe you didn’t get the message right.”
“I’m not building this church on my own land just to please you,” I said, my voice trembling.
“All my life I have fought Pentecostals,” the preacher said. “This church has been my work, and I won’t leave it to Pentecostals.”
“I ain’t a Pentecostal,” I said, “and I don’t need nobody’s permission to build a new church.”
“People are worried about you,” the preacher said.
“Who is worried?”
“Your mama is worried about you, I know,” the preacher said. “You’re so all fired up to do things, and you keep changing your mind.”
“How do you know Mama is worried?” I said.
“Because she asked me to pray for you,” Preacher Liner said. His face was splotched red and pale in different places. I noticed there was circles under his eyes.
“Who are you to tell me that?” I hollered. Anger was swelling up in me and sweeping me away. Anger rose from the center of the earth, and from the beginning of time, and roared through my bones and belly. Lightning flashed behind my ears.
“I think we should pray about this,” the preacher said.
“I’ve done prayed about it,” I shouted. I wrapped the reins around the brake handle on the wagon and started walking toward the woods. I wasn’t going to argue with the preacher no more.
“Pride cometh before a fall,” Preacher Liner called after me, but I kept on walking.
I DIDN’T GO back to church for almost a month after I argued with the preacher. I was busy building the foundation on the mountaintop. That was my worship, I told myself. I had got the foundation wall up almost two feet. But I couldn’t stay away on Christmas Eve. I wanted to hear Annie sing and her mama, Mrs. Richards, sing. And I wanted to see the little Christmas pageant that Mama had the younguns put on every year. When I was a boy I had took part in the play and carried a shepherd’s crook or a box wrapped in tinfoil that was supposed to look like a Wise Man’s gold.
It was a cold clear night and the service had already started when I come into the church. There was no place to set except on the back bench where the backsliders and drunks and rough old boys set.
“What say, Muir?” Wheeler said when I slid in next to him. He had a week’s growth of beard.
“Not much,” I whispered.
“You getting any?” Wheeler said.
“Not much,” I said.
“Shhhh,” Will Stamey said.
I couldn’t see the choir from the back of the church, but I knowed they was setting behind the curtain on the left. An angel wearing paper wings climbed up a stepladder under the star above the pulpit. “‘Behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy,’” she said. “‘For unto you is born this day in the city of David a saviour, which is Christ the Lord.
“‘And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.
“‘And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying,
“‘Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.’”
I felt my skin get stiff with chill bumps when the little girl said them words. She was John Fisher’s girl, I think. They was among the first verses I’d ever learned in the Bible. Mama read them to us younguns at Christmastime.
Will Stamey lit a match and throwed it into Wheeler’s lap. Wheeler knocked the match onto my lap. There was nothing to do but slap the match to the floor and stomp on it. My boot made a loud bang when it hit the bench in front of me. People turned to look back toward us.
“Shhhh,” Monroe Anderson said.
The women started singing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” behind the sheet stretched in front of the church. I listened for Annie’s voice. I could hear her mama’s fine alto. Annie had a clear soprano voice.
O little town of Bethlehem!
How still we see thee lie!
It was the best song there was. The thought of the silent stars going by, and the hopes and fears of all the years, made me shiver. And I thought I could hear Annie’s voice, such a pure note with all the others. Such a rare voice.
Somebody on the back bench belched as the song come to an end. It was just a belch and wouldn’t have amounted to nothing, except people started giggling. All the boys in the back row snickered and giggled till you couldn’t hear what the younguns was saying at the front of the church.
“Shhhh,” I said.
But they kept on laughing among theirselves until it near about ruined the service. I looked to the end of the bench and seen Moody staring at the window. I hadn’t noticed him before. He wasn’t paying any attention at all and he wasn’t laughing. He looked like he was way off in his own world of worry.
SOON AS THE play was over they called out the names of the kids with presents under the tree, and the choir sung “Joy to the World.” When the preacher said the final prayer I was the first to get outside.
“Now shake hands with everybody,” Wheeler said as he followed me out, “like a real preacher would.”
Moody come out and stood in the shadows of the churchyard, but I didn’t pay him any mind. There was a moon floating high over the church and over the mountains.
“Hey, Romeo,” Moody said to me.
I looked at the moon high over the juniper trees and knowed I was not going to wait and ask Annie if I could walk her home. I hadn’t had the money to buy her a present anyway. After the Christmas play and the carols, I wanted to be alone. I wanted to climb up the mountain in the moonlight and see the work I’d done on the church. That was what I wanted to do for Christmas.
“Who is Romeo?” I said to Moody and walked past him in the dark.
It was the prettiest night you ever saw. Moonlight flooded over the mountains, making them look like folds of blue-and-purple velvet. There was lights in the houses up and down the valley. When I reached the top of the ridge I heard a firecracker go off, and then another. A dog barked somewhere, and I could hear the shoals over on Bobs Creek. People going home from church carried lanterns down the road and along paths to the hollers.
Just then there was a squall from the thicket on the north side of the mountain. Sounded like it come from the laurels. I answered with a squall of my own. And then the wail come again, a high wawl that rose to a scream and sunk away to a growl. It sounded closer than before.
“Come on, wildcat,” I said to the dark. “I wish I had your hide.”
More firecrackers was popping in the valley, and then a
shotgun boomed. And I heard a crash beyond the clearing, like something had jumped out of a tree into the leaves.
“You’re just a kitty cat,” I hollered at the dark.
And then I seen two lights at the edge of the clearing. They was eyes so bright they reflected the moonlight. They shined and blinked.
“Come on, tiger,” I yelled. The eyes blinked again and then they was gone. I heard something bound away through the leaves down the side of the mountain.
The breeze on top of the ridge was icy. I shivered as I looked down on the lights in the valley. The moon was so bright you couldn’t see too many stars. This is where people will come out of church after a service and see moonlight on the river fifty years from now, I thought.
I stepped to where I thought the door was and stumbled on rocks. Had I forgot where I had put the door of my own church? I felt my way to the wall, but the top seemed rougher and lower than I expected. I took another step and banged my foot on more rocks.
What had happened to the foundation? It felt more like a rock pile than a wall. I took out a match and struck it. There was rocks scattered every which way. It was like my wall had melted down. I thought I must be at the wrong place or looking at the site from the wrong angle. Had I forgot how much work I had done?
I bent over and seen there was dried mortar on the rocks, and pieces of busted cement on the ground. I struck another match and seen sockets and nests of cement where rocks had been knocked loose. I looked closer at a rock and seen a white dent. Somebody had took a sledgehammer and knocked down the top row of my foundation wall. It didn’t seem possible. I stomped the ground and walked around to the other side and struck another match. There was rocks busted loose and broke on that side too.
It didn’t seem like Christmas anymore, and I didn’t care about the moonlight shining on the mountains that looked like satin. Anger flushed through me and burned my temples. Even the shadows under trees turned red. It must have took somebody a whole day to destroy my work.
I throwed down the match and started down the mountainside. I was so mad I didn’t look out for limbs and brush, and they slapped me in the face. I was so angry I didn’t care where I was going. I must have reached the road and walked down to the river and back without even noticing. I don’t know how much time passed as I walked around the pasture and up the creek.
When I got back to the pasture fence I crossed it without thinking. The grass in the pasture was almost white with moonlight. The ground glowed with moonlight and my anger glowed. I was so mad the shadows seemed lit with red sparks, and when I closed my eyes I seen red shooting stars. Wasn’t but one person mean enough to do that to my work. It was a cold night, but I was so mad I was sweating.
Mama had left a lamp burning in the kitchen for me. Otherwise the house was dark and quiet. I was going right to the bedroom to find Moody. I was going to let him know I’d seen his Christmas present to me.
But there was still a little fire in the fireplace. Some logs had burned down to glowing coals. I seen a boot in front of the fire, and then I seen a leg in the boot. I looked closer and seen Moody laying on the floor in front of the fireplace.
“Get up, you son of a bitch,” I said. I was so mad the words almost stuck in my throat. When I got closer I smelled liquor like toilet water on him. He must have come in from celebrating with his buddies and passed out in front of the fire.
“Wake up,” I said, and prodded him with my boot.
“What hell?” Moody said and rolled over. “What the hell?”
“Merry Christmas,” I said and kicked him in the hip.
“What hell?” he said again and set up.
“I seen what you done,” I said and pulled him to his feet. He still had his coat on. “You bastard,” I said and smacked his cheek.
Moody raised his knee and hit me in the side. I think he was aiming for my crotch and missed.
“You blackguard trash!” I said and shoved him against the mantel. A flower vase fell in the dark and broke on the hearth.
“I’ve put up with your doings before,” I said. “But not this time.” I hit Moody in the face and he slid down the wall beside the fireplace. There was something sticky on my hand. He held up his elbow to protect his face and I hit him on top of the head and on the chin.
“Crazy fool,” he said and spit.
“You ruined my work,” I said and hit him on the side of the head. My hand was numb and bloody.
Mama come into the living room with a lamp. Her hair was in a braid. It looked grayer in a braid than it did loose.
“He’s drunk,” Mama said. “He don’t know what he’s doing.”
“Drunk ain’t no excuse,” I said.
Fay come out of the dark hallway with a blanket wrapped around her shoulders.
“You’ve got to do the Christian thing,” Mama said.
“I ain’t done nothing,” Moody said, and wiped the blood from his mouth. “But I might know who did.”
I asked Mama what was the Christian thing to do. I was so riled I couldn’t hardly feel my feet on the floor.
“To forgive seven times seventy,” Mama said.
“I have forgive Moody a thousand times,” I said.
Moody had already set back down on the floor. He patted his lip and looked at the blood on his hand. He was awful quiet, like he was studying on something that puzzled him, unable to see it clear.
• • •
ON CHRISTMAS DAY I walked along the river and stayed away from the house. I was embarrassed, and I felt guilty. Since my own brother had tore up the work on the church, it was almost the same as if I’d done it myself. I can’t explain it, but that’s the way I started to feel. Like I’d almost done it myself. And I felt guilty for hitting Moody when he was drunk. But mostly I felt guilty for losing my temper. Every time you get angry and hurt somebody you feel bad about it, no matter what they’ve done. Mama was right: it was the Christian thing to forgive seven times seventy. I had failed Mama and I had failed myself. I thought how my good intentions and my grand ambitions had caused only trouble. I wondered if I should quit working on the church. I wondered if I should just give up and leave Green River for good, as I’d planned so many times.
In the bright sun of that Christmas Day I walked along the river and heard beagles bellering in the fields above the Bane place. Somebody was rabbit hunting on Christmas, enjoying theirselves the way they was supposed to. The boom of a shotgun echoed off the mountain above the river. Somebody was enjoying Christmas as a holiday.
When I got to the forks where Rock Creek comes into the river I stopped and stood in the pines. I didn’t want to go no farther. The beagles was yipping and yelping way up on the ridge, sounding like a flock of geese up there. Their noise rose above the noise of the creek. I dropped down on my knees in the pine needles.
I listened to the wind in the pine trees that sounded like an ocean a long time ago, and the mumbling of the creek water, and the beagles inflaming the air with their yaps. Who was I to impose myself on the world? Who was I to make requests of the Lord? What right did I have to take up space and air and water from other people? Who was I to demand an answer to my prayers?
My defeat was so total I felt cleansed by it when I stood up. As I stepped down the trail I felt baptized with shame. I was stripped to the bone and humiliated and there was nothing to do but start over again. I was as free as if I had been born again. Anger and defeat had cleaned me out and made me feel light as I walked down the trail and across the creek. I walked by the river feeling naked as a baby. I could go anywhere I wanted to. I could escape from Green River.
As soon as I reached the house I got my packsack. I stuffed socks and underwear, an extra shirt and pair of pants, in it. I throwed in some ammunition and matches. I went to the kitchen and put some cornmeal in a paper bag and packed it with my cooking kit. From the closet I got my .22 rifle, and I took four dollars from the box I kept on the beam above the closet door.
“Where are you going?” Mama
said.
“Into the wilderness,” I said.
THIRD READING
1923
Twenty-one
Muir
I HEADED TOWARD the west, for that seemed to be the direction of freedom. To start all over again you went to the west.
The woods smelled of wet leaves rotting in the middle of winter, and mud along the river give off a musky scent. It was a smell of sinkholes and swamps. By nightfall I’d be on much higher ground. I stomped the ground I was so glad to be on the trail.
By dark I reached the Flat Woods and camped there. It was my old trapping ground. The trees was familiar as friends. It felt good to sleep there by a fire under the stars, except the night was so cold I had to keep getting up for firewood. I dreamed about walking all the way to Black Balsam and maybe beyond, toward the Smokies and the blue wilderness to the west where ridge rose beyond ridge and peak above peak. The ground I laid on could take me anywhere I wanted to go, to the Rocky Mountains if I wanted to walk that far.
Whoa there, I said to myself in my half-sleep. Easy does it, Muir, old boy. Don’t go flying off like you done before. For a long journey it’s better to go slow at first. Take one step at a time, and travel one day at a time. If you hurry you’ll find nothing at the end but wore-out legs. All roads lead to the same end, so what’s the use of hurrying? Slow down and be peaceable in the peaceable kingdom.
I GOT UP before daylight, and by the time the sun rose over Chimney Top I was already in Transylvania County. I stayed away from the big creeks and roads and cut straight across the mountains toward Brevard. By the middle of the day I reached the village of Brevard and stopped at a store to buy four cans of sardines, a box of soda crackers, and some candy bars. No need to use my camping supplies before I had to. But I kept walking. I didn’t stop till I reached the Davidson River that come tumbling and foaming clean and singing out of the high hollers below Pisgah. On the bank of the stream I set down to open a can of sardines.
The key fitted over the tongue of tin and I rolled back the metal top to reveal the tray of oily fish. Wished I had the fork out of my packsack, but I didn’t want to take the trouble. I could eat with my fingers and then scrub them with sand and river water.
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