[Troublesome Creek 01] - Troublesome Creek

by Jan Watson

  Will hung his head. “You’re right, Granny. I’m sorry.”

  “Julie’s pert near back to normal, but ye need to watch after her and the baby.” She pulled a passel of linen cloths from her deep apron pocket. “These are clean rags for her. If she floods and it don’t seem to stop, send for me.” She kicked up a little trace of red-clay dirt with her booted toe. “It should be ’bout this color, brownish red. If it’s bright, like a sliced beet, that ain’t good.”

  Will took the rags and listened intently as Granny continued. “Make her eggnog with fresh eggs and warm milk.” She walked a little ways to the springhouse door, and he followed. “The afterbirth is in here, wrapped in oilcloth.” Her eyes, deep as a well and black as pitch, pierced his. “Ye must bury it tonight in the north corner of the yard.” He shivered when she gripped his arm. “Ye must line the little grave with willow branches and set a heavy stone atop it. When that is done, take a handful of the fresh-dug dirt and throw it over yore right shoulder. Make sure it scatters over the grave. That’ll keep the haints away. Yore other wee ones were not meant to live, but this ’un’s born strong. Ye have to protect her.”

  Will didn’t believe as Granny did, that the devil was busy playing tricks on people and that sometimes you could trick him back. She still held to some old mountain ways, and the weight of her concern rested heavily on his shoulders. He knew that nothing but the grace of God would protect his wife and family, but Granny stood like a little sentry between him and the cabin until he agreed.

  “All right, Granny,” he said. “I won’t forget. I won’t let you down.”

  It was unusually warm for a March day in eastern Kentucky, and the dank, dark smell of coal smoke permeated the air held close in the valley by rain-weighted clouds, obscuring the tops of the mountains. A jagged bolt of lightning ushered in the thunder boomer Will Brown had been predicting all day.

  Will was as happy as he had ever been while he dashed across the barnyard with a pail full of milk, still warm from the cow, and half a dozen brown eggs, stolen from the chickens, in his jacket pocket. He was thinking of the story he would tell Julie, of how mad the hens had gotten when he lifted them from their nests and helped himself to the products of their labor.

  “Hey, girls,” he’d said. “Share a few eggs with me. Remember who supplies the corn you like so much. And you have to admit, I’m much better looking than that other thief, old Mr. Possum.”

  The hens had squawked and ruffled their feathers, pecking indignantly at Will’s arms before settling back on their nests.

  He needed the eggs and milk to make eggnog for Julie like Granny Pelfrey had told him to do. He was so grateful to the old midwife that he would do anything she asked of him, most anything. A pang of guilt tickled his mind when he remembered the other instructions she had given after the birth of his daughter forty-eight hours earlier. Well, he consoled himself, I did near everything. A man can never do all a woman asks. He figured he’d done the best he could.

  He mounted the porch steps and set the bucket of milk on the rough plank floor. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his pipe and a pouch of tobacco. He would have a quick smoke and watch the storm for a minute before he went inside.

  Will remembered being glad that evening when Daniel had ferried Granny and Emilee across the creek, swollen from the rain that fell steadily from leaden skies. “Our good-luck sign,” Julie had dubbed it, for it had also rained on their wedding day.

  Thunder rolled, startling Will from his reverie. The shower that started two days ago, right after the baby’s birth, continued and was turning into a serious storm as night approached. Suddenly, hail began to fall and bounce as loud as gunshots against the tin roof. He hastened inside with the milk pail as the wind gusted in around him.

  Closing the door, he entered the spacious one-room haven that was his family’s home. He picked up the heavy iron poker that had belonged to his father and stoked the fire in the cookstove, then added a chunk of coal. Stirring sugar into the saucepan of warmed milk and beaten eggs, he carefully added a pinch of Julie’s precious nutmeg. He poured the drink into a heavy white mug and carried it to the bedside.

  The baby had burrowed under the blanket, and he pulled it back from her face. He noted a smudge of white at the corner of her mouth. So Julie’s milk was in; praise the Lord. That would make them all happy. Laura Grace had been fussy all day, demanding to be fed almost hourly. She would suck with fury for a few seconds, then pull away, red-faced and screaming like a banshee. Granny had prepared them for this possibility. She’d left sugar soothers—pieces of twisted linen, which he dipped in boiled sweetened water—for the baby to suck on. That worked for a little while, but the infant was hungry and ready for the real thing. So she slept at last, sated on her mother’s milk.

  Will had proudly accomplished all of Granny’s tasks. Well, almost all. Only one thing pricked his conscience like a blackbird on an ear of corn. As Granny had instructed, he carefully kept track of the number and heaviness of Julie’s pads, fixed her meals, and cared for the fussy baby so Julie could rest. Why, he even changed the soiled nappies and wiped her tiny bottom. He told Julie the only thing that saved him was that the nappies didn’t stink. He thought he might save them to tar the roof. She had laughed and laughed.

  What nagged him was the burying of the afterbirth. As Granny directed, on the evening of the birth, he had taken a shovel and a lantern to the springhouse and retrieved the little bundle. He carried it to the northernmost part of the yard and dug a deep, round hole. Satisfied, he paused to wipe rainwater from his eyes, then placed the wrapped package into the depression and quickly covered it. He tamped the dirt firmly into place with the back of the shovel and looked around for a stone big enough to cover the small mound. The lantern he had placed on the ground sputtered and cast an eerie green glow over the scene. He turned his back and pitched a handful of soil over his shoulder. It didn’t scatter—too wet—but sat there in a lump, like a reproachful frog. He jabbed at it with his shovel.

  It was then he remembered the willow branches. He had forgotten the grave’s special lining. Shivering in the damp wind, he drew the collar of his coat tightly around his throat. Well, he thought, I’m cold and I’m tired. I’ll fix it in the morning. Maybe the rain will stop by then. He laid the bowl of the shovel across the grave and hurried into the house.

  What made him a little uneasy was the condition of the grave when he went to check it this morning. The shovel had been cast aside. The grave was open and empty, strewn with shreds of bloody oilcloth. Dug up by wild dogs, he reasoned as he had smoothed the dirt back into place. No harm done.

  Will heard Julie moan in her sleep. She never complained but suffered the aches and pains with her usual good nature. She’d told him the bodily discomfort from having this baby was easy after having endured the heartache of losing their other three. She awoke easily when Will caressed her shoulder. She leaned forward as he positioned a pillow to her back, then slowly sipped the warm eggnog.

  “How do you feel, sweetheart? You were moaning in your sleep.”

  “I’m all right. Just a little sore. Did you notice our little chipmunk’s finally sleeping? She nursed for the longest time.” Julie leaned back against the pillow and handed him the cup. “I need to get up,” she said, slowly raising a hand to him. “Help me please, Will.”

  Will proffered a steady hand as she swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood. “Oh, the room’s spinning,” she gasped. “I feel sick.” Will could feel her panic as she clutched his shoulders. “Something’s not right. I think I’m flooding!”

  Forcing himself to stay calm, Will eased Julie back against the bed. An ominous red circle spread on the sheet beneath her. Granny had warned of this, but he had expected it would happen earlier if at all, and not this much. Struggling to remember all Granny had told him, Will placed his hand on Julie’s belly and began to rub.

  “Will,” she cried, “you’re hurting me! Stop, please stop.”


  “I have to do something!” Will replied as his mind spun nearly out of control. “You’re bleeding too much! Oh, Lord, please help us.”

  Julie grabbed his hand, forcing him to stop. “You need to take me to Granny.” Her voice steadied as if the very thought of Granny calmed her fear. “She’ll know what to do.”

  “It’s pouring outside. You’ll get soaked.” His mind cast about for a solution; he couldn’t take his wife out into this weather in her condition. “I’ll go fetch her.”

  “No, Will. I’m so afraid. It’s just a short way. Please don’t leave me.” He could see the terror on her face, and hadn’t he promised years ago to never leave her?

  “All right, sweetheart,” he said finally. “I’ll go get the horse and buggy. Can you sit up a little so you can nurse the baby? That will make your womb clamp down.”

  Famished after her long nap, the baby suckled greedily.

  Will wiped his bloody hands on his shirtfront, grabbed his slicker, and ran out into the storm, praying, pleading all the way to the barn. He fumbled with the leather gear as he harnessed the male of his pair of workhorses to the light carriage. Fleetly, he considered the sturdier wagon, but the surrey that Grace had sent would keep Julie and the baby dry.

  He pulled the suddenly balky Samson to the barn door. The big horse neighed as he faced the thunder and lightning. Delilah, shut up in her stall, whinnied. She was always restive when Samson wasn’t in his stall next to hers. The barn cat stretched, came out to meet Will, and wound herself around his ankle. Her kittens mewled frantically from their gunnysack bed in the corner. Will shook his leg. The cat stalked off, her tail in the air. She and her new kittens would have to be company enough for Delilah until Samson came back.

  He led the horse to the porch, speaking softly in spite of his urgency, stroking the animal’s long nose. Looping the reins loosely over the porch rail, he rushed back inside.

  Julie stood by the bed, pale and shaky, her eyes closed. Her lips moved in silent prayer. She’d managed to put on a clean gown, and he knelt to help with her shoes. He handed her the only medicine they had—a little glass of whiskey—and she shuddered as she drank it in one gulp. Stripping off his oilcloth jacket and wrapping the baby in it, he pulled a quilt around them both and carried them to the buggy.

  Will took up the reins and urged Samson forward. Within minutes they were at the banks of Troublesome Creek. They’d have to cross here to reach Daniel’s cabin. The creek was usually not much more than knee-high on this side of the footbridge, while farther downstream calm pools lay deep enough for swimming and fishing. This night, however, two days’ steady rain had given over to a deluge, causing muddy water to surge down the bed and overflow its banks.

  The great horse balked at the water’s edge. Will flicked the reins sharply, then flicked them again. Samson was resistant, but as always he followed Will’s commands, pulling the carriage into the swollen creek. A tree limb swept past as they were caught in a torrent. Too late Will realized his mistake. There was nothing to do but go on. He shouted to Samson above the storm, “Gee! Gee!”

  Thunder rolled. Samson did not respond. The stream they’d crossed a thousand times was suddenly no longer familiar. Water crashed against the horse and buggy. In a flash of lightning Will saw the horse falter. Samson flung his big head around as if he needed reassurance from his master. Then a tremendous bolt of lightning struck an ancient cottonwood on the far bank. Sparks flew as a large limb fell flaming to the ground.

  Samson reared, neighing.

  Will slacked the reins and called out, “Steady. Steady.” Darkness overtook them. The buggy tipped and swayed, then overturned, dumping its passengers into the roiling black water.

  Will went under twice before his feet found purchase on the slick, moss-covered rocks. The frigid water swirled around him as he fought to stay upright. He sputtered and coughed and flailed, feeling for Julie and the baby beneath the surface before the buggy finally slammed against his chest. He inched to the other side of the vehicle, praying to find them.

  Another bolt, and for seconds the scene was bright as day. Relief flooded through him when he caught sight of his wife clinging to a wheel that jutted incongruously from the water.

  He circled her with one arm and tugged.

  But she resisted. “My baby! My baby! I lost hold of her!”

  “Let me get you to the bank!” he yelled against the howling wind, her words barely registering as he worked to get her to safety.

  “Noooo!” she wailed in anguish. “The baby!”

  He had forgotten all about Laura Grace, so anxious was he to find Julie. How could a little baby be found in this? Against his better judgment, knowing there’d be no hope for Julie if he didn’t find her baby girl, he left her holding securely to the carriage.

  He ducked under the water and scrabbled along the bottom of the creek, scraping his hands raw on the rough rock that held the other wheel lodged under the water. Lungs bursting, he came up for air and found himself back where he had started. He inhaled deeply, ready to try again when the newborn’s lusty cry came from inside the overturned buggy! Reaching blindly, he felt the seat lying on its side. He leaned in, frantically feeling about, the infant’s bawl more distinct. Miraculously, his jacket had caught on a brace and held her inches above the surging muddy flood. Ever so thankful for his daughter’s loud cry, Will jerked the fabric loose and pulled the baby out.

  Darkness black as a witch’s heart surrounded him; a roaring, pounding flood assaulted him as he fought his way back to Julie. Faint with relief, Will grabbed the wheel where he’d left her and pressed himself against a cold and empty space.

  Julie was gone! His mind couldn’t grasp it. He’d left her clinging to the wheel only minutes before. She couldn’t be gone. The baby squirmed against his chest. Fighting rising panic, he gulped in ragged breaths. “Julie! God, please . . . Julie!” His head cleared. She’s on the bank, he told himself. Somehow she’s made her way to safety.

  The carriage provided him some protection on the downstream side, its bulk diverting the angry floodwater. Using it as a guide, Will made his way to the now docile Samson. The horse trembled in fear and exhaustion beneath Will’s hands. He grabbed the halter and called, “Gee! Gee, now!”

  Samson shook himself, like a dog caught in the rain, and heaved forward. With a screech and a groan, the buggy dislodged from the creek bed and floated up as Samson strained toward the bank. Will feared it would drag the horse off. Struggling to hold the baby out of the water, he unhitched the carriage and held to Samson’s thick mane as, now free, the animal pulled them back to the opposite shore.

  A monstrous rupture split the eastern sky and sent a jagged finger of fire to strike a rotted stump and reveal a surreal scene: a horse, too weary for fear; a whimpering baby wrapped tightly in a brown slicker; and a tall, disheveled man screaming his wife’s name over and over. The buggy rode a wash of water downstream, one wheel spinning wildly as it went. There was no woman waiting on the shore.

  Julie had vanished.

  CHAPTER 4

  Granny sat in a bent-willow rocker close to the fire, a cup of sassafras tea cooling on her knee. A tattered quilt, faded from many washings, covered her thin shoulders. Her Bible lay open in her lap. She loved this quietest part of the day, after everyone had gone to bed. The need for less sleep was one of the blessings of old age. Nothing made her feel cozier than listening to a good thunder boomer while she rocked by the fire.

  She was not enjoying the storm that raged this night, however. The vague sense of unease that had started with the birth of Julie’s baby had been replaced by the sure knowledge that someone she cherished would be passing this turbulent night.

  The signs could not be denied. Just last week, while walking up the mountain in the woods above the cabin, she’d spied a cluster of honeybees swarming from a hollow log. It was an early spring, so the apple trees were releasing their fragrant blossoms, enticing the bees from their dormant state. The a
ir was soft and clear, the sunlight slanted just right to reveal to her clouded vision the color of the bees—black, solid black. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen black bees. . . . Maybe that time just before they found Lost-Lum Sizemore swinging from the black walnut tree up Crook-Neck Holler. God rest his soul. Poor Lum, he couldn’t bear the burden of hisself no longer.

  And then, the morning after the birth, when Will had burst jubilantly into the house, a little brown wren followed through the door. In the clamor that followed, she’d quietly guided the bird outside with a broom. The foretelling signs continued that very morning when Emilee showed her tea leaves forming the shape of a coffin in the bottom of her cup.

  Granny leaned her tired old head back against the chair. Her own mommy had taught her the signs, way back before Jesus came into her heart. Her daddy liked to say, “A wicked and adulterous generation seeketh after a sign.” He’d try to persuade her mother that “the only real sign is the cross.” They were all happy when at last her mommy was saved. And even though Granny was a born-again believer, she couldn’t help remembering the signs her mommy had taught her and believing that somehow they were God’s way of using His creation to warn of things to come.

  Granny had not shared her foreboding with Emilee. She’d grieve soon enough. Young folks had such a hard time with loss. The older a body got, the sweeter the beckoning of heaven’s gates. Granny was readying to enter that land. She just couldn’t figure out why the chariot was coming for one of the young’uns and not for her.

  She closed her eyes, too old for tears, and bowed her head. “Lord, help me to get a holt of this,” she whispered as the rain drummed on the roof and the wind rattled the windowpane. “I put my trust in Ye.”

  The death knell sounded. The veil would part before midnight.