Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  Inside, the familiar hushed comfort of the small sanctuary quieted her. She came here often, by herself, at any time of day or night—one of the privileges of being the church pianist. It was her place to be alone, a shelter, except when the new preacher entered.

  The air smelled stale, so she opened a window next to the piano. She played “Rock of Ages” from memory. She even sang softly, forgetting her voice: “Rock of Ages, cleft for me, let me hide myself in thee.” Her body swayed into that lostness she’d felt as a child, of having few worries. Next she played the first chords of “For the Beauty of the Earth,” her favorite hymn, but it felt wrong, too happy, so she opened the hymnal to “Come, Thou Fount.” This too was almost too happy with its “streams of mercy, never ceasing.” But it had that minor key in the middle, and she sang, “Teach me some melodious sonnet, sung by flaming tongues above.”

  Her hands froze. The chords echoed in the sanctuary. What song did these flaming tongues sing? Was that what she heard in the barn?

  Outside, a door slammed. She closed the window and rushed out, barely missing Reverend Zigler. She didn’t want any of his words right now.

  A quarter mile down the road, at the turnpike entrance, Ada kept Lucky close as she waited for a truck to pull out from Johnny’s Restaurant, cross the road, and stop at the tollbooth. Then she and Lucky scooted across to turn into a dirt road that looked like a farm lane.

  Grasshoppers jumped with click-clicks of their wings, and the noise of traffic grew. Soon, Ada came to the underpass, a narrow tunnel under the toll road. Few cars traveled through, but water flowed here constantly.

  Ada hopped on stones to the walkway, while Lucky sloshed in the stream, the sound amplified and echoing in the tunnel. She paused in the coolness and listened to the water. The earth muted the traffic above, the rumbling sounding far away. The glint of minnows made her think of Will Burk and his blue eyes. He was cute, but why had she winked? What on earth had she been thinking? That was just it. She hadn’t thought, only acted on impulse, and now he probably thought her too forward, a tramp, even. But maybe not.

  Ada pushed on to enter the bright strip of heat and sunlight. The shadows of tractor-trailers swished over her, the roar once again loud. Then she entered the forest, where hemlocks created their own coolness and the hum of cicadas competed with the traffic’s drone.

  In the 1930s, when she was still a child, Ada had hiked to the edge of the farm to watch the surveyors mark trees for this new road. Next came the loggers, the crash of trees like a slow tornado across the mountain. Last, the heavy equipment rumbled in to cut up her daddy’s back ten acres. He still mourned the loss of that land. But to Ada the child, the world seemed to be coming to their little town, and she only wanted to see what this new road would bring.

  What it brought was a longer trek to the mountain. Before, her family just crossed a few fences to arrive at her favorite cove. Now, instead of three miles out and back, she had to hike six.

  She wanted this longer walk, this time alone, today, now. The empty basket swung on her arm, and for a while, she heard nothing but the hum of the turnpike.

  Ada reached Uncle Mark’s small cabin. During hunting season, he lived here, and in the summer, the family gathered for reunions, sawhorse-tables sagging with food, horseshoes ringing on stakes. She used to spend hours here playing hide-and-seek with James and all her cousins.

  A pickup ground up the rutted road behind her, with Uncle Mark waving from the cab.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he said as he cut off the engine. He climbed out and petted Lucky. Ada could feel his eyes on her. “Come sit with me a while.” He motioned to the bench on the porch, where they both sat.

  “I met a fellow from the station yesterday. Will Burk, I think he said he was. Seems like a nice fellow. Do you know him?”

  “I just met him.” Ada stared at her feet.

  “He brought a wounded bird to the house, a raven. Said he rescued it from somewhere up above the station after that storm.”

  Ada remembered what Will had said while she dipped ice cream.

  “What a bird, I tell you. And what a mess. Had a broken wing, and the boy had to cut off a foot to get it free.” Uncle Mark scratched the back of his neck. “I chanted over the stub of a leg and wrapped the wing. It hopped and drank for us, so I think it’ll live. But boy, even wounded like that, you could tell that bird had sense. And it was big!” He held his hands wide.

  They fell silent as Uncle Mark cleaned his glasses.

  “Mama’s getting better.” She wanted to fill the silence. “I came in from milking this morning and found her fixing breakfast. I scolded her, but she said she could at least do some of the cooking.”

  “That’s good to hear.” Uncle Mark tucked his handkerchief back into his pocket. The quiet returned, and Ada couldn’t think of what else to say.

  “So.” He put his glasses back on and turned to her. “It looks like Kate’s getting better. How about you, Ada?”

  And there it was, what lay between them, what lay between her and everything else. How about you, Ada?

  “I’m all right, I guess.”

  “You guess.”

  She couldn’t lie. “Oh, Uncle Mark, why can’t I powwow? Ever since the fire, I can’t do anything. You saw what happened when I tried to chant over Mama’s hands. And then yesterday at work, James got a bad cut trying to fix the coffee machine. He wanted me to heal it, but I knew it wouldn’t work. What hurt worse was when he looked at me. I told him I couldn’t powwow anymore, and he just looked at me like I was from somewhere else.” She rubbed her cheek with the back of her hand.

  “Don’t talk nonsense.” Uncle Mark rested his hand on her shoulder. “What happened in the fire? Tell me.”

  Ada shared all of it, the seep of smoke she’d spotted from the house, Mama disappearing into that gray wall, the panicked cows, the falling timber, the flaming door. The fire she’d clapped out on her dress. And then her cold hands. “I tried to pray,” she said, the tears running freely. “Tried to say the psalm and the Lord’s Prayer, but they just got caught in my throat. Like I couldn’t remember anymore.”

  Uncle Mark waited a moment. “At the door, why did you hesitate?”

  She stared into the woods. “Is it a sin to be afraid?”

  “No, but it’s a sin to let those fears rule you. How long have you been afraid of fire?”

  “All my life.”

  “It ain’t the fire that burns, Ada, it’s that fear.”

  She tapped her thumb to each finger. “So, what do I do?”

  “Give it up. You can’t hold onto that fear.” He rested both hands on his knees. “Other than that, I’m not sure. Have faith and be humble before the Lord. Pray without ceasing. Read the good book. I don’t know, Ada. I’ve never heard of anyone losing their power. The Lord has something in mind. We just have to trust and be patient.”

  They sat a long while in silence. She still had questions, but now they were no longer hers alone.

  Uncle Mark squeezed her knee. “I came to check on the cabin. Ever since those boys broke in last winter, I like to have a look. Make sure they ain’t been back.” He stood and stretched. “And it looks like we’ll be all right.”

  “I’m heading up the cove to gather herbs. Come along,” Ada said.

  “Wish I could but I got to get to town.” He climbed into the cab. “You watch out for snakes, now.” Then he pulled away.

  Ada and Lucky followed an old logging road past the cabin. After another mile, she came to the sulfur spring. The water stank like rotten eggs, and Ada had sipped it only once as a child, on a dare. Now, she drank every time she visited. Something about the water made her feel better, as if its stench might take away everything else that stank.

  She knelt and brushed aside the leaves. When the water cleared, Ada cupped her hands and drank. The coldness made her sinuses ache, and the mineral coated her mouth, the smell of it on her hands. She drank again and sat for a while. Lucky rested besid
e her, but he didn’t drink.

  A hermit used to live here in a dug-out shelter. Nothing remained but a dimple in the side of the hill. Whatever had happened to him? And what had made him a hermit? What had chased him here to this smelly water? An immense loneliness came over her, so she started hiking again.

  The road paralleled the turnpike before fording a stream. Ada watched where she stepped. She’d met a copperhead here last year, sunning itself on the path. It hadn’t moved as she skirted past.

  The memory called up Reverend Zigler, their minister of two years. His venom. Shortly after he had moved into the parsonage, he had come to visit. “Hello,” he hollered into the house. “Anyone home?”

  Ada had been alone, reading about nursing schools, when she heard the knock. Only strangers came to the front door. She considered waiting, but the knocking persisted, the voice familiar. She hurried down the stairs.

  He held his hat as he waited at the screen door, sweat glistening through his thin hair. His face was all shadow as he peered in, and his round glasses refracted the light. “Why, hello, Reverend.” She hoped her voice sounded polite. “Please come in.”

  “I tried to call,” he said, as he shook her hand. His palm was sweaty, his hand squeezing hers in a quick shake. “But no one answered, so I decided to just come on over. I hope this is a good time. Are your parents home?”

  Ada told him they had gone to town but would be back in an hour or so.

  “Well, I’m meeting all of the folks the Lord has sent me to serve. And I’ve heard a lot about you, so maybe just you and I can talk. How’s that sound?” He fanned his face with his hat.

  Ada backed to the sink. Had he watched her folks leave, waited for this chance to talk to her alone? “Sure,” she answered. “How about out on the porch? Have a seat while I fix some lemonade.”

  “That’d be nice.” He stepped out and sat on the swing.

  Through the window, his bald spot popped into view and disappeared as he rocked back and forth.

  “Mighty fine place you have here,” he said when she handed him the glass.

  She thanked him and sat in a rocking chair. The porch was small, and he stopped swinging after his knee bumped hers.

  The Reverend rattled on about his visits the previous day with the Hostetters, who had a son in Korea, and the Mitchells, their daughter sick. “That Melinda Mitchell, she’s doing real well.”

  Just two days ago, Ada had chanted over Melinda and given her boneset and horsemint to break the fever. What would the Reverend think of that?

  She shifted in her chair, adjusted her dress. This was the closest Ada had been to Reverend Zigler. Up close, he looked older, his neck a series of folds. We’re probably his last charge before he retires.

  “I called on Denton Atwood this morning.”

  She slowed her rocking.

  “He told me how you healed his arthritis. Said you chanted over his knees and the pain stopped.” He paused to swirl the ice in his lemonade. “Is that true?”

  Ada watched his fingers on the glass before looking up. She had hoped to avoid this question. “Yes, it’s true,” she replied. Even this close, she could hardly see his eyes through those glasses.

  “That’s what I feared. Your powwowing, Ada Franklin, is the work of the Devil. Only the Lord heals, only He has that power.”

  Uncle Mark had warned this might happen, but he hadn’t told her what to say.

  “Before I came to this parish, I had heard about you and your uncle, heard you could stop bleeding and heal burns, and even then, I was afraid for your souls, afraid you served the Devil.” He leaned forward, placed his hand on her knee. “But the Lord forgives, Ada. You can start anew, you can leave this Devil’s work, you can . . .”

  Ada stood up. “How dare you come here and insult me like this?” She stepped back, hand on the door. “This is the Lord’s work. He works through me. When I powwow, I can feel His Spirit pushing the Devil out. How dare you?” She let the screen door slam behind her.

  The next Sunday, Reverend Zigler preached on Jesus making the blind man see. “That healing power comes from God and God alone. And it comes through Jesus, Jesus alone and no one else. Anyone who claims otherwise bears false witness before the Lord.” Ada felt the congregation’s eyes as she sat next to the piano, but she kept her focus on Uncle Mark. He just stared at the minister. When the service ended, he nodded once to Ada before heading out the side door, avoiding Zigler and the rest of the congregation. Ada followed to find him leaning against his car, cleaning his fingernails with his knife.

  “Some sermon, don’t you think?”

  “What gives him the right?” She thumped against the car beside him.

  “Oh, he’s the preacher. That’s his pulpit. But this is our church. He’ll be gone in a few years. We just have to wait him out.”

  “While he makes our life miserable.”

  “You’re probably right about that.” He closed his knife. “But you just keep on playing the piano and teaching Sunday school and powwowing whenever anyone asks. It’s what the Lord gives us to share, and that’s what we’re bound to do. Now, here comes your aunt. She’ll be in a huff to quit this church, but we ain’t going to do that. Our families have been here longer than this building. We just have to keep doing what we’ve always done. You remember that, Ada.”

  Aunt Rebecca started railing against the minister, but Uncle Mark opened the car door and held out his hand. She took it and slumped into the passenger seat, all the while yelling through the window to Ada, “Don’t you believe a word that man just preached. I’ll write our district superintendent about this, you just wait.” Uncle Mark waved as they pulled away.

  ADA and Lucky hiked into the poplar cove. A pileated woodpecker hammered high overhead, and by the stream, the wood thrush sang in long, fluted phrases. Her lungs filled with the lushness of this deep hollow, the air cooler, the shade more dense. This place was more holy than any church. These plants, a congregation of old friends. There was bloodroot and maidenhair. The goldenseal already had its little globed fruit. Ada greeted each one, and each in turn gave ease.

  A stalk of cohosh rose above her, one of the few plants still blooming. She bent the wand of white blossoms to sniff. Like the sulfur spring, these flowers had a heady tang, not of rotten eggs but of dead meat. It stinks, but it still heals, she thought as she dug. Even the sulfur water quenches. Even a copperhead kills rats. Reverend Zigler was no snake—he had preached a fine sermon at Anna Atwood’s funeral, and since the fire, he’d comforted her father, telling him the church had started a fund to help. Was he right? Had she borne false witness? Did he think the fire was God’s punishment? Surely not. “You just keep powwowing,” Uncle Mark had said, and that was what she had done, for better or worse. Maybe for worse. Maybe now no more.

  It ain’t the fire that burns . . . Uncle Mark’s words swirled in her head. That fear of fire. Was there any plant to balm that? She filled her basket with roots and headed to the stream.

  The water felt so wonderful that Ada took off her shoes. She sat on the bank and ate her apple. That good tired she loved came over her, so she leaned against a birch, but something flashed up the slope. Something moved in that spicebush. A bird? For a moment it looked like the whole bush sparkled. She turned but saw nothing, just Lucky digging a hole. Then, out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed another movement, light filled and wavering, this time from a rhododendron beside the water. Again, when she faced it, the flickering ceased.

  Could it be? Moses had to avert his eyes before God spoke. Aunt Amanda saw that green flame only in glimpses. Was this the burning bush? Or bushes? Ada closed her eyes to whisper please. When she looked again, both bushes were just bushes, no movement, no flashes. The woodpecker drummed far off, and Ada let out a sigh as she stared into the stream.

  The sigh caught in her throat. All around her, the water danced like fire. It flared with shimmering flames. Eddies swirled with color. Fish darted like sparks. The fire was eve
rywhere, her feet in a lava stream yet not getting burned. She stared and listened to the rattle of water on rocks, the wind high above.

  Then all of it disappeared, and the stream became just a noisy gurgle, the bush just a tangle of green. Briefly, the tips of her fingers tingled, but she couldn’t be sure. She knew what she’d witnessed, though—a fire burning in this flinty water.

  18

  Same Day

  Will rested in the Plymouth, glad his shift was over. He ate some crackers and watched the other men work. Beside him, Cicero played with a cracker. “You like that new perch, don’t you, now?” The raven sat at eye level on a plywood platform Will had built the night before. Hank warbled on the radio, and Will sang along on the chorus.

  Again, he checked his reflection and slicked back his hair. From the glove box, he grabbed some deodorant and swiped his armpits. But he still stank from the day, so busy and hot that he had probably lost two pounds. He started the car and waved to the Esso boys. Cicero rattled in glee as the trees zipped past.

  After a mile, Will took the Blue Mountain exit. He turned left on Route 696 and drove slowly through Hopewell, past Johnny’s Restaurant, a motel and general store, and a small Methodist church. At the edge of the village, he touched the brake. Here, where the road curved away from the mountain, the black hulk of burned barn jarred the summer sky. Will blew out his breath and turned in to the driveway. The smell of ash filled his nose, the taste of it on his tongue.

  An older man with a mustache walked from the house, a hammer in his hand. He watched Will pull on his cap, wipe his palms, and step forward, holding out his hand.

  “Hi, I’m Will Burk. I work up on the pike. I stopped to see if you needed some help.”

  The farmer shook the young man’s hand, sized him up. “Can you build a barn?” He chewed the tip of his mustache.

  Will opened his mouth but didn’t know what to say.

  “How about milking? Can you milk a cow? By hand, I mean?”