Fire Is Your Water

by Minick, Jim;

  “Elijah was fed by ravens?”

  “It’s mentioned somewhere in Kings, I believe. Just a little snippet. Newton expanded that.”

  For the first time in a long while, Ada smiled at the Reverend. “Thanks. I’ll tell Will.”

  “Good. There’s another part that applies to you. Look at verse four.”

  Ada read aloud:

  Thus Satan, the raven unclean,

  That croaks in the ears of saints,

  O’erruled by a power unseen,

  Administers oft to their wants . . .

  “Satan overruled by a power unseen,” Reverend Zigler interrupted. “That’s what can happen in your life, Ada. Satan is behind your powwowing. God can cleanse you of it. You just have to ask.”

  Ada slammed the book shut. Does he know? she wondered. “Every time I powwow, I ask for God’s help, and He comes, Reverend Zigler.” Please forgive me for lying. “Satan cannot heal.” And now neither can I.

  “Oh, but he can pretend.”

  “I could do nothing without the Lord. Not even pretend.”

  “But Satan comes as a wolf covered by a sheepskin, remember?”

  “I think I smell a wolf right now.”

  “I think you smell yourself.”

  26

  After supper one evening, Ada and Will walked side by side through the orchard with Cicero riding on Will’s shoulder. The scent of mown hay filled the air, and over the drone of the pike, they heard the cows settling in the lower pasture.

  Will pulled off a green apple. He rubbed it on his shirt and took a bite.

  “I don’t think I’d eat that,” Ada said.

  Her voice still surprised him with that sound of a phoebe, but he didn’t comment anymore. “Why not?” He covered his full mouth.

  “Didn’t your Daddy or Aunt Amanda ever teach you?”

  “About what?”

  “Green apples.”

  “You mean, like, green as opposed to red?”

  “No, green as in unripe, you silly goose. It’ll turn your stomach. Make you sick.”

  Will spat it out and threw the apple into the thick grass. He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. Cicero gave a low rattle.

  “Hey, we need to go fishing sometime.” Will took her hand. “I caught a big one yesterday morning.”

  Ada was silent for a long moment. Her arm stopped swinging. “That’d be good,” she said.

  “I know where this big catfish is holed up at Caledonia. He’s got whiskers long as a snake, and he’s busted my line fifty times. We could try to sneak him onto a hook with some catalpa worms.”

  Ada released her grip. “We had some real good singing yesterday at church. A gospel quartet out of Greencastle.” She twirled an apple leaf between her fingers. “You’re welcome to come with us anytime.”

  Will looked to the sky and stroked Cicero’s chest. “I don’t go to church, Ada. I fish.”

  “I see.” She tossed the leaf aside. “Jesus was a fisher, too, you know?”

  “Yeah, I remember.”

  “Just the other day, Reverend Zigler showed me an old hymn that had a raven in it. What do you think of that, Cicero?”

  The raven looked at her but made no sound.

  “Guess he’s got flying on his mind,” Will said.

  “This raven in the hymn brought food to Elijah during a drought, and the prophet said this proves the Lord will take care of us.”

  “That so.”

  “Yes, that’s so.”

  Will stopped and looked at her, debating. “I want you to finish this line for me.”

  “OK.”

  “The Lord is my shepherd . . .”

  She stared at him hard. For a moment, she remembered the barn fire, this verse she couldn’t complete. Then she said, “I shall not want.”

  “When have you never wanted, Ada?”

  She was quiet.

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “That’s not the point. That psalm means the Lord shall always provide, we needn’t worry.”

  “When have you never wanted or worried?”

  She focused on his question, pushing the other memory away. “When I play the piano, I get lost in the melody, in the joy or sadness of the song. I don’t want anything then.”

  “Any other time?”

  “Sometimes in prayer. Or when I used to powwow.” There, she said that word to him, but he ignored it.

  “But most of the time, we want, right?”

  She hesitated and didn’t answer.

  “Since the day I was born, Ada, I have wanted my mother. Before I even knew what that word meant, I wanted.” He started walking again. “That verse is just a bunch of . . . hogwash.”

  They hiked in silence, she two steps behind, until they came to the upper hayfield, the windrows raked into long, billowy lines. Will took Cicero from his shoulder and fastened the creance to the jess around the raven’s leg. “OK, big boy. Let’s show Ada what you can do.” They’d been practicing for a week, so he hoped it would go well.

  Will held the long loops of leather in one hand, and Cicero stood on his other. “Ready?”

  The bird gave a harsh croak.

  “FLY!” Will yelled and threw Cicero up into the air. The raven took several quick flaps while Will let out the creance and started running.

  To Ada, it looked like a man getting pulled by a big black bird. She giggled before yelling, “Go, Cicero, go!” The raven gained altitude so that he was level with the treetops bordering the field. When his leash played out, Will gave a three-part whistle. Cicero immediately began circling. “Good boy, Cicero, good boy,” Will yelled. The feathers fiddled the air, the wings strong.

  Will pointed and gave a different whistle, and Cicero broke his spiral to fly back toward Ada. As they got closer, Will whistled again, this time one long, rising note, and then he stood with his fist raised. Cicero swooped to land and grabbed his dead-mouse reward from inside Will’s hand.

  “That was amazing!” Ada said. “And he looks healthy to me.”

  Will beamed. He set the raven on the ground and gathered up the creance.

  “So, when will he fly without that leash?”

  “I was thinking about right now.”

  “Really? Will he come back?”

  “That, I don’t know, but I’m pretty sure he will. He’s gotten used to the taste of easy mice. Plus I think he likes me.”

  “Oh, he likes you. Just look at him watching you.”

  Will knelt beside Cicero. “Are you ready to really fly?” he whispered. He loosened the creance from the raven’s leg.

  “Up,” he commanded, and Cicero hopped onto Will’s fist. Will made sure Cicero watched as he threw the leather straps aside. “You’re free, now, buddy. Go for a good fly, but come back, OK?” He raised his fist and launched the raven.

  For the first few flaps, Cicero followed the path he had just flown, but when he felt the lack of weight, he bobbed his head to look. He saw nothing but Will and Ada below, Will not running, just watching. Cicero circled and started a long series of rattles and throaty tocks. He spiraled higher and higher above the hayfield. The mountain draft carried him, and for a moment, he didn’t want to stop.

  Then, far below, he heard Will whistling. He turned out of the updraft and made a long descending stoop to land on Will’s fist. He gulped the mouse in one bite before leaning into Will’s petting. As they started for home, Cicero ruffled his feathers and settled on Will’s shoulder. Ada took Will’s offered hand.

  27

  On his day off, Will roused Cicero before sunrise and fixed breakfast. He turned on the radio hoping to hear some Hank, but instead it was another report on the war in Korea. He listened for a while before driving over the mountain.

  He arrived before anyone else, and in the early dawn, he stroked Cicero before releasing him. The raven was raucous with joy. He swooped to brush Will’s face with his wings, dipping and rising and making Will laugh.

  When the other men ar
rived, Cicero turned shy and retreated to the orchard, where he perched to watch. He produced a constant litany of caws and whistles, some form of conversation Will wanted to understand.

  Peter greeted Will along with the other men and introduced him as a friend of Ada’s from the other side of the mountain. The men nodded and shook his hand. He tried to catch their names but recognized only Mark Hoover. Will knew no one else, except for Woody Watson, also here on his day off. Then in the back of the group, Will spotted the two Shupes.

  Over and over, Peter thanked the men and shook their hands. “We’re going to get this thing built as quick as we can, and then we’re going to have us a barn dance!” He clapped and pointed to Tom Kendig, the head carpenter. Tom picked up two blocks and shouted, “Come on, fellas, we have work to do.” Will fell in line, heaved two of the heavy blocks, and hauled them to the other side of what would be the new barn. Norman and Jesse started laying up the corners, their trowels slapping on the wet cement.

  Woody slipped in beside Will. “Best watch out for Jesse, there. He’s had a crush on Ada.”

  “We already met.”

  Woody gave him a surprised look as they grabbed more blocks.

  Close to the masons, Will made eye contact with Jesse. He had a crew cut and too many muscles, and he paused long enough to give a hard-eyed stare. Will smiled. “Howdy, stranger.” He stacked his blocks and turned away.

  Woody waited for Will to catch up. “When’d you meet him?”

  “Oh, a while back. He tried to take off my foot with a block, but I showed him.”

  They picked up their next load and kept moving.

  ALL morning, women dropped off casseroles and desserts, deviled eggs and warm rolls. Ada and her mother thanked their neighbors and friends. Some stayed for coffee, checked on Kate’s hands, and asked about Nathan. They talked about their gardens, the weather, and the barn building. No one asked why Ada could no longer heal.

  The question was in Mid Kelso’s face, though, as Mid peeked into the kitchen, where Uncle Mark unwrapped her mother’s hands. He’d taken a break from the barn building to check on Kate’s wounds.

  Mid asked how the burns were healing, and Kate called out “Fine” and thanked her for the food. Before Mid hurried off, she looked at Ada in a strange way. Ada knew the telephone lines would buzz all day. Reverend Zigler would probably find out, too.

  For Ada, though, something had changed. That morning in her prayers, she had stopped asking why. Who was she to expect the Lord to explain everything? Instead, she remembered the watery fire she had witnessed deep in the forest—the way it washed over her feet, the way it held all the beauty she ever could want in her life. That was God, and that was something she could hold onto, and that should be enough.

  Uncle Mark pulled off the last bandage. “Looks like your burns are all healed.”

  Her mother held her hands in front of her face, turning them. “Look, Ada.” Gone was the raw flesh, the scabs and swelling. Instead, pink oval scars remained.

  “Thank you, Mark.” Her mother opened and closed her hands. She leaned forward to hug her brother.

  “No,” he corrected her, “thanks be to God.”

  Kate echoed his words. Then she stood and hugged Ada.

  Ada whispered their words, but when she closed her eyes, all she saw was the outline of a chain scarred across each palm.

  AS the morning warmed, so did Cicero. He flew over the men to investigate and check on Will, who hauled block, mixed mortar, and listened to the raven. Cicero dipped and glided and even executed a barrel roll. The bird, it seemed, could fly wherever and however he wanted.

  What did that bird think, Will wondered, and what else might he say? Surely he had emotions, the way he got giddy when they played. Just now, high above, he circled and flared his wings, chortling and making low gurgles—surely he knew joy. And if joy, then he must know sorrow.

  Will heaved another block and wondered if Cicero recalled his family, if he missed them like Will missed his mother, that constant absence.

  The men built walls and ignored the raven, all except Jesse. He stopped slinging mortar to stand on the scaffold and watch Cicero’s antics. He scowled and held his trowel up, as if to point a gun.

  Then Cicero made a sudden swoop so close to his head it startled Jesse. He jumped off the scaffold, ran to his truck, and pulled out his shotgun. He chambered a shell and searched the sky.

  The men stopped and watched. Those who saw smiled a little, amused. Will hadn’t seen Cicero’s swoop, so he, like most of the others, stayed quiet, didn’t understand.

  “What are you doing?” Peter asked.

  Jesse cranked his head and scanned, gun halfway to his shoulder. He didn’t answer.

  Peter again asked, “Jesse, what are you doing?”

  Jesse didn’t speak. Instead, he saw Cicero light in an apple tree a hundred yards away. He lifted his gun and shot.

  The pellets clipped some leaves below Cicero, who screeched and started flying away.

  Will shouted and ran at Jesse while the mason pumped another shell, already leveling the gun. He fired again, but the bird was farther away, even more out of range than the first time. Will rammed his shoulder into Jesse’s ribs and knocked him to the ground.

  “That’s my bird!” Will punched Jesse’s chin and nose. Jesse tried to use the gun as a shield, but Will was too close and too quick.

  Peter and the others pulled the two apart, both of them leaning in, red-faced, bloody snot dripping from Jesse’s nose.

  “That’s my bird!” Will shouted again, heaving great breaths.

  “That fucking bird tried to attack me.” Jesse shook off the men, leaned down to pick up his gun.

  Someone shouted, “I saw it come close.” Another said, “But he was just playing.”

  Jesse walked toward his truck, but Peter stopped him. “Jesse, I need you to leave. I can’t have guns being shot like that. So pack up your tools and don’t come back.”

  Jesse threw his gun in the rack and slammed the door. His father gathered up their tools. To Peter he simply nodded and said, “Guess I need to leave too, then.” Soon, the dust from their pickup covered the crowd of men.

  Peter said, “Well, I reckon we’ll have to lay up the rest of these blocks.” Tom Kendig took over, and the work resumed.

  But Will had already run into the orchard. He called and whistled, but the raven had disappeared.

  WHEN Ada and her mother heard the first shot, they rushed to the window. The toolshed blocked their view, so they couldn’t see who was shooting, only Will breaking from the line of men and running toward the shooter. Then they heard the second shot.

  Ada sucked in her breath. “God, no,” she whispered and ran out the door, her mother following, but they still couldn’t see, with the men crowding around. Her father bent and when he stood back up, he held Will, Will whose cowlick flew wild, Will who yelled at the other man, Will who was alive. He cut through the crowd to run into the orchard. Ada followed. She didn’t see Jesse slam his truck door and watch her. She didn’t see him and his father drive away.

  Under the first apple tree, Will searched the grass. When she got close, he picked up a black feather.

  “Damn it,” he said. He turned, held up the feather, and yelled, “That son of a bitch shot Cicero.”

  “Who?”

  “Jesse.” He looked at her a moment and then turned back to the ground.

  “Why? Is he hurt?”

  “I don’t know.” Will kept scanning. “He must’ve scared the bastard by flying close. Oh, hell.” He picked up another feather. “I don’t know how bad he’s hurt either.” He glanced toward the barn. “That’s too far for a shotgun, so he can’t be hurt too bad.” He scanned the sky. “But he must’ve gotten a pellet or two. Damn it.” He paced around the tree but found no more feathers. He yelled Cicero’s name, turning to the east and west, cupping his hands and whistling. Ada joined him, calling for Cicero.

  They wandered farther int
o the orchard. When they reached the blueberry patch, Will turned. “Maybe you should go back. He’s just had the crap scared out of him and doesn’t really know you yet.” Then he lifted his face to the sky and kept yelling Cicero’s name. He didn’t notice Ada’s shoulders droop.

  Halfway back, Ada spotted movement at the edge of the woods, something black that rose from the grass for just a moment. It was Cicero huddled under a pine tree. “Cicero,” she said in a quiet voice. Immediately, she felt tingling in her fingers. Could it be? She tried to calm her breathing.

  The raven wouldn’t let her get near. She knelt in the pine needles and called his name again. The tingling intensified. She remembered the sparrow she’d held when she was child and how it flew after she said a simple prayer. She remembered the time she’d cured Clyde’s cow by chanting through the phone. She could heal animals without touching them. And now it felt like she could heal again. But just her fingers tingled, not her whole hands.

  Ada closed her eyes and recited the chant for stopping blood. She repeated it twice more and then opened her eyes. The tingling slowly faded.

  Cicero stood on his good foot and hopped toward the orchard. When he reached the open grass, he spread his wings and flew away.

  Cicero

  I should’ve known that son of a bitch didn’t have any peanuts, just a fucking pellet sandwich. That bastard. To call him owlscum belittles the devil owl. Don’t know which pisses me off more—shotguns or the inadequacy of words.

  I heard Will calling and whistling, even heard that girl call my name, though I can’t say she had much heart in it. I didn’t want to be near any human, even Will, so I hid.

  Somehow she found me. She kept her distance, there under that pine. As soon as she said my name, I got a weird feeling over those pellet wounds. Warm, like water. Like the time Will took me to that man who held me and whispered over my stump and bandaged my wing. That kind of funnybone sparkling. And then the pain was gone. I don’t know what she did, or even if she did, but I knew right away I was OK. So I skedaddled. I wanted away from that place.

  I flew to my favorite tree, a huge pine above Will’s station. Watching the men settled me some. Even with the trucks hawking diesel fumes, this was home. Still is.