Willow Wood Road: Lavender and Sage

by Micah Sherwood

  The yard was dotted with petunias and pansies. The air was sweet smelling and the ground damp. In the center of the side yard was the well, a classic brick well with a bucket and rope. There was no running water in the house because grandma didn’t want it. In the far corner of the back lawn was the small outhouse. The idea of having a toilet in her home “disgusted” the elderly lady.

  As the boys walked from the rear of the building, they saw Uncle Ralph and two of his sons roofing the hay barn at the wood’s edge. Micah and Cory stepped into the living room where grandma was setting in her chair, her bad leg resting on an ottoman. Chester, his step granddad, was sorting papers as they came in. He rose without saying a word and hugged Micah and then shook Cory’s hand. Grandma motioned for her grandson to come to her, and he leaned over to receive her kiss.

  “You’re looking real fine,” she said. “Don’t you worry me again with this hospital business. No more maladies, promise me.”

  Micah shook his head yes and smiled. He enjoyed listening to her brogue. All the older people had the accent but the younger ones less so. He had spent much of his younger years in Missouri, and when he started school in Amarillo, the teachers struggled to interpret his English, so for two years he was in speech class. Now he spoke without accent. But the hill language was never far from the surface, and in a few days he would pick it back up and sound like the hillbillies whom his mother detested.

  Grandma looked over at Cory, who was standing away from the two trying to ignore their conversation. “Have you ever slaughtered a chicken?” She asked the boy who shook his head no. “Chester, take the litlun out and show him how to dress out a chicken for supper. I need a conversation with Micah.”

  Cory eagerly followed the elderly man out the back door to the chicken coop.

  Grandma was head of the family; Uncle Vernon ran the business, but she ran the clan. That was not a role she ever wanted, but it came with the territory, being married to the oldest Sherwood son brought responsibilities, and her sweet husband was dead pert near 30 years now. No one ever questioned her decisions.

  “I been havin’ dreams ‘bout you.” She stopped talking for a moment and stared at her grandson. His eyes widened as blood drained from his face. “You runnin’, runnin’ hard and being chased but by what I ne’er seen. I’ve had the same dream a couple times a week for over a month. You,” she tapped her finger against his chest, “You know what I’m talkin’ about?”

  Micah shook his head yes, yet could not force himself to utter a single syllable. Grandma motioned for him to sit next to her, and she cuddled him.

  “Ne’er saw the dream’s end,” she continued. “It means something but not for me. It’s meant for you I reckon.”

  “A warning,” Micah pronounced, “awful dreams, preparation dreams. Death.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. “Then last night, I saw a very pretty lady standing in my room in the dark. She sparkled like glitter. This was no dream. She showed her hand, where she held an image of you, and that image began to swirl and grow. And then you stood beside her. She placed both her hands on your shoulders and stared into your eyes real intense-like. ‘Just do it,’ she said before fading away. Do you understand this?”

  “Yes’m! I know what she means. I’m afraid, grandma. I may not have the courage.” Micah wanted to cry, but he stopped himself.

  “Fear is a weakness you have to get past. You are like your grandad. Christopher was never timid. He did what had to be done without regret. His father was the same way, and so are you. The dream is unfolding and has been for a while. Hold its secret tightly for your own welfare. Help me up.”

  Micah stood and helped his grandma walk to the picture window overlooking the pasture and the old homestead. The land was the greenest green, surreal and unimaginably bright, so bright it glowed. A little creek flowed between hills and through the woods and down the center of the meadow. Stones of an ancient foundation sat on a hillock overlooking the clear water of the brook; the grass surrounding the ruin was neatly cut and trimmed. Morning glories and honeysuckle covered its foundation. Well-kept weeping willows draped the brook. Just up from the stream, a small tidy graveyard was laid out, its monuments weathered and moss covered. Flowers dotted several of the graves.

  “That meadow belonged to your Uncle Earl. It was an inheritance from his pappy. That old foundation is all that remains of your great-great-grandfather’s cabin. His name was John Huebble, and when he died, he left it to your great-grandmother, his grand-daughter, Nancy; and she gave it to Christopher, who gave it to Earl. After Earl died, I held it for you. That is your land for as long as you live.”

  The grandmother looked at her grandson, not wanting to say the words that she knew had to be said. “The dream speaks ‘bout a dark and unforgiving venture. You will walk away from it a man, or you won’t walk away at all. I fret this severely. It’s a vague undertaking. Prepare yourself, but don’t overly ponder it. Live your life normally and quietly. The puzzle is coming together, and you have all of the pieces. I know what you’re thinking, why not stay here and never go back to Texas. I wish it was that simple. We all have responsibilities, and this is yours. If you don’t go back, I’m afraid…” Micah interrupted her.

  “Afraid that someone I love will be hurt badly, will die.”

  “That’s the situation. You have to handle it.” Grandmother petted Micah’s head. “When it’s all over, come home where you belong, back to the hills and to the people who love and prize you.” She rubbed her hand across his Mohawk, which was a little shaggy from being away from Billy Bob the barber for so long. “You wear your hair like the old’uns. It’s a proud thing. Your friend does too.” Discussion of the dreams was over, and she had helped all that she could. She moved the subject away from the morbid and its prerequisites.

  “Cory is Osage. I think he’s kin, I’m certain of it. I’ve taught him a little about the People.” Micah said as his grandmother was reading him, aware that her grandson knew about their shared talents. She smiled and shook her head yes.

  “I am tired and have to lie down. I’ll see you tonight at Vernon’s barbeque.” She kissed him and headed into her bedroom.

  Micah went out the back door and headed over to where Cory and Chester were busy with the chickens. Two young birds lay beheaded on a stump, and Cory had the head of a kicking rooster squeezed firmly between his thumb and forefinger. With a single swift jerk of the hand, the body of the suddenly headless chicken fell to the ground and proceeded to run about in a frenzied way while its head rested snuggly in Cory’s grip. “Look at that,” he said smiling and obviously proud of himself. “That’s how you take the head off of a chicken without an axe. Now we’re gonna skin ‘em.”

  Micah could only grin at his friend, who seemed to be in his element butchering pullets.

  After the family get-together, Micah and Cory gathered in the dormitory along with Vernon’s three boys plus David and Danny. Vernon’s oldest son, Jerry, was showing off his hooch making proficiency. He uncapped a large bottle that contained a murky brownish-yellow liquid.

  “Smell it,” the 15 year old said. It had a rich apple and brandy smell. He poured equal portions into cups for each boy, including Brian who had just turned seven. It tasted like apple cider but with a definite kick. “It’s easy to make,” he went on to explain the process. “You crush apples in the Fall and then squeeze the hell out of the pulp to separate it from the juice. Add a little yeast and let it ferment in a warm place. When winter comes, you set it out in the cold, and you skim off the ice from the liquid. That leaves you with Applejack. It’s at least 30% alcohol. Here, have some more, I got plenty,” and he opened an armoire where two 5-gallon bottles of Applejack was stored along with some smaller bottles of homemade spirits.

  Micah picked up a cobalt-colored bottle.

  “That’s peach brandy,” Jerry proclaimed and proceeded to pour some into Micah’s cup. “It will knock your dick into the dirt.” He smiled at himself.

 
; Micah took a swallow. “Whoa, that stuff will knock more than your dick in the dirt. He put out his cup for another serving.

  By midnight, the boys were more than happy. Brian was asleep, so the cousins decided to head to the brook. They stepped through a window to the roof and climbed down a sturdily built trellis covered with honeysuckle. Instead of going cross-country, they walked up the county road to a small bridge that crossed over the crick, which they followed upstream to where it drew near the old foundation belonging to their ancestor.

  The grass under the billowing willow trees was cut short and clean. The family maintained this part of the property as if someone still lived there. A gentle fog drifted through the humid air making the moon and stars look wispy and otherworldly.

  “I have to mow this place every week,” David, Lester’s son, said. He was Micah’s age and both boys shared the same name sort of. While he was named David Micah, his cousin was David Michael.

  Micah remained silent about this being his land.

  The boys lay on the soft grass listening to the gentle gurgle of the stream and were soon asleep except for Cory, who nudged his companion, and he and Micah went to the old and crumbling rock foundation. Electric-blue orbs were circling between them and the cemetery, moving against the breeze and bouncing everywhere.

  “You think they are family coming to welcome you,” Cory asked Micah about the floating globes, but he did not receive an answer.

  They strolled through the bone yard’s boundary fence and stopped at the first headstone. The name, Huebble, was the only word that was readable. Next to it was another monument, Nancy Jane Sherwood, who died in 1920—Micah’s great-grandmother. There were a dozen more gravestones scattered over the quarter acre parcel, and probably another two dozen graves that never had a stone or whose marker had weathered away completely.

  In Norway, the voices of the Shadow Choir were faint and wispy. Tonight their serenade was loud enough to echo throughout the tree sheltered holler, but while their words remained unintelligible, the cadence was clear and ethereal.

  “These are all my family,” Micah spoke to Cory. “Anymore the family is buried at Swars Prairie or Seneca, but I want to be planted here.”

  “But not for a long time yet,” Cory snapped.

  Micah did not respond immediately but stood watching the ghost lights dance between the graves. “They are memories of lives lived.” Micah spoke about the spooky globes. “You can read them if you try; they reflect the process of living, small fragments of personalities that continue to vibrate with joy and love, or with pain and distress.”

  “They are not the result of a violent death like those black jelly things in the prairie, but reflect day-to-day life.” Micah continued. “A man marries the women whom he loves deeply, and in their wedding bed, their joy is written in the surroundings—an orb pops into existence. It may last only seconds or for centuries. So all of these little globes are passions, regrets, celebrations and sorrows; our book of life, a recording of who we were and what we did.”

  Micah was again silent for a time before continuing his commentary. “This physical place we call home is a blurry reflection of True-Life. We possess power that goes unrealized because we define ourselves as limited, thus we become less than what we could be. We are guided by providence but not necessarily limited by it. People surrender to it, and when they do that, they also surrender their soul. Life is like an unfinished painting, a landscape that has been roughed out on a gigantic canvas. The Artist has a good idea of what he is painting, while we, his subjects, don’t want to know. But we can influence the painting’s completion, so our actions count for something and so do our inactions. Those orbs remind us of that, because they shout, ‘I am creativity.’”

  “Our lives mean something.”

  Micah finished his lecture and headed back to the stream. He stripped off his clothes and jumped into the clear waist deep water. The brook was spring fed and cold, numbing his senses. He slid his head under the rushing stream forcing a memory from his childhood, of a two year old visiting Missouri with his family on vacation, stopping at Shoal Creek to picnic and swim.

  Momma was always sullen when she visited the Sherwoods, something Micah could never understand. She sat on a blanket next to the car reading while Poppi, Greg and Uncle Vernon went behind the pillars of the bridge to change into their swimsuits. Micah was left on the gravelly bank of the river to watch the clear water flow past, and every once in a while a trout would swim close enough that he could almost touch it from his seat on the damp riverbank.

  After a few minutes, the guys were in the water swimming and splashing while Micah was left alone to watch. He was not good at watching and stood, heading into the flowing stream and targeting the bridge and his Poppi. After a few seconds, the toddler was in water knee deep, then waist deep. The currents got stronger as he progressed further. Micah was still a good 20 feet from his destination and stopped to study the sunlight flickering off of the rolling river and becoming mesmerized by the sound of the rushing water. The boy scrutinized the rocks beneath his feet, and while he was no longer moving forward, the water nevertheless got closer and closer until he was beneath its surface and lying on the stones where an instant before he stood.

  Micah could not breathe yet he was not frightened because it was so beautiful: the sound, the vibrant colors, and then drowsiness flooded his senses. He was fading into nothingness when suddenly he was drawn out of the water coughing and trying to catch a breath, but also caressed by the familiar arms of his mother who was both livid and loving.

  Now eleven years old, Micah had forgotten that experience until this moment as he lay with his head under the stream purposefully closing his eyes, waiting to fade into detachment until a hand pulled him up by his hair.

  “What are you doing?” Cory was intense and angry. “Why are you doing this? I can’t believe you.” Micah stood up in the water, and the boys exchanged glances only long enough for Cory to turn and leave, heading back toward the highway a mile away.

  Micah was at first stunned by his friend’s words, but then dressed and chased after him who was at the bridge by the time Micah caught up. They again faced one another without speaking, but Micah laid his hand on Cory’s shoulder for a moment, and then they returned to the farmhouse to sleep in silence.

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you last night,” Micah spoke to his friend as they took the horses out of the barn, leading them to the meadow.

  “I know,” Cory responded. “You were too taken with your death wish to think of anyone but yourself. You may love Tom and me, but you love yourself way more.”

  “No, you don’t understand.” Micah was not sure how to explain. “I lay in the water and remembered when I was young and almost drowned, and I got caught up in that memory. I wasn’t trying to kill myself. There is too much for me to do and to experience. You read me wrong. You sensed my memory and not my intentions.”

  Cory thought for a second before facing his friend. He looked deep into Micah, who told the truth. “Then I’m sorry. I know how you live in two worlds, and you favor the other one, and that bothers me. I think it will always bother me.”

  Micah continued. “You think that Guy’s death has depressed me. It hasn’t, so you need to let it go. I am scared, afraid of the future and the mistakes I might make getting there. You want to know what’s wrong with me. Well that’s it.”

  Cory knew there was more and that Micah was teetering on some kind of precipice, but he couldn’t press him on it, though he wanted to. In a way, he did not trust Micah, who was too unafraid of death. But everyone has their private issues, and he let his brother alone.

  Micah secured the fence after releasing the horses to run through the grassy pasture before returning to the big barn. Uncle Vernon and Jerry were standing under a large birch tree. Jerry was holding a lead attached to a gray Arabian mare.

  “Take her to Tom Elliott’s’ farm for servicing. I want her mated to his gray sire, under
stand? Here’s $100 dollars for the stud fee. You can go back later tonight and collect her.”

  The three boys hiked down the hill. The road turned and twisted through the forest over the two mile walk to the neighboring farm. Two-thirds of the way there, standing all alone in a small fenced area and next to a decrepit barn, a black donkey trotted up to the fence to watch the strangers pass. Jerry saw the critter and instantly had a roguish grin on his face.

  “Come with me,” Jerry ordered and steered the boys to an unlocked gate, which he opened and led the Arabian mare through the fence and then into the barn followed by Cory and Micah. He retrieved the donkey and pushed the awkward animal into the enclosure with the mare. “Let’s go.”

  “You’re kidding,” Micah said with a smile. “Your pappy is gonna beat you senseless.” It took a moment for Cory to catch on, but when he did, he nearly fell on the ground laughing.

  Jerry pulled out the two $50 bills and held them up. “Yeah, it will be a rough day 11 months from now, but in the meantime, I got some cash,” and he returned the $100 to his pocket and the trio headed back to the farm.

  On their way, the boys left the road and wandered down to the creek that eventually flowed through the holler. Trees hung over the brook making it dark and gloomy. Micah thought about his muddy creek, with its cottonwoods surrounded by prairies. He was ready to go home. It had been over three weeks, and he needed to see Styx and Nellie, Mr. Dorsey, Tandy and Dane.

  And Lindy.

  The creek was not very wide at this point, but it was deep. Jerry stripped and dove into the water. Micah and Cory soon joined him. The water was frigid. They played and splashed for a while, and then lay upon a patch of grass in the only sunlight permitted through the forest shade. Micah was ready for a nap when Jerry spoke up.

  “I know about the meadow, everyone knows. Some of Lester’s boys are pissed. They mow that area by the old foundation and trim the graveyard to keep it tidy. But you get the land. They don’t think it’s fair.”