He shook his head. That was twice now Amy had caught him in a lie, and both times it was because of moonshine.
“I hate liars.”
“Wal, I don’t think much of busybodies.”
“Are you calling me a busybody, Tom Higgins?”
Tom shrugged. “What else should I call you, after you set a revenuer on that man over in Ox Gore Holler?”
A look of triumph flashed across Amy’s face. “So I was right!” A moment later she was guiding Agamemnon down the trail, calling, “Mr. Hudson? Mr. Hud—son!”
Tom’s shoulders drooped. Why hadn’t anybody fired the shots to warn that a revenuer was around? And what would Pa do when he found out about this? “One thing sure, he ain’t gonna say a word about the clever way I threw Petey Hudson an’ Amy off the track,” Tom muttered. Picking up the sack and the empty jar, he started slowly back to the still.
That afternoon, he sat slumped on the porch step, still smarting from Pa’s tongue-lashing and nursing a smoldering anger at Amy. She’d lie, too, if it meant protecting her pa, he thought. He lifted his head when he heard a high-pitched “Hoo-hoo!” But by the time Amy rode up to the gate he was staring morosely at the ground. He didn’t answer when she called to him, and he didn’t look up when he heard the gate close behind her.
“I don’t blame you for being mad at me, Tom. I came to apologize. You know I don’t hate you—I like you a lot.”
Tom blushed scarlet. “I still think you’re a busybody,” he said without looking up. “An’ so’s your pa.”
The step creaked as Amy sat down beside him. “You’re still mad at me,” she said flatly.
Tom nodded. He knew it wasn’t her fault Pa had been so hard on him, but he wasn’t quite ready to forgive her for calling him a liar. He scowled, remembering how ugly the word had sounded when she spit it out at him.
The step creaked again as Amy stood up. “Well, I’ll see you at church tomorrow,” she said. “I hope you won’t still be mad.”
He’d still be mad, Tom decided as he watched her leave. Or at least he’d let her think he was.
20
The fragrance of apples hung heavy in the air as Tom cranked the cider mill. The only good thing that had happened all week was discovering that a couple of trees in the overgrown orchard at the old homesite had produced a bumper crop of summer apples, he thought.
Tom swatted at one of the hornets that buzzed around the fruit he was grinding. He’d hoped that the papery gray nest hanging from a branch at the far edge of the clearing was an old, abandoned one, but obviously it wasn’t. He poured more apples into the hopper of the cider mill and was about to start grinding again when he heard something crashing toward him through the woods. His hand froze on the crank, but his mind raced. What could it be?
Peering through the screening branches of the uprooted pine, Tom saw Princess burst into the clearing, her nose to the ground and her tail wagging. She must have tracked him from the wagon road—he’d taken a sack of apples to the Widow Brown before he’d started work this morning. When Tom gave a low whistle, the little dog’s head came up and she bounded across the clearing and around the fallen tree. She leaped up into his outstretched arms, and he hugged her while she licked his face.
Suddenly, though, Princess cocked her head, and a moment later Tom heard a faint voice. It was Amy, calling Princess, and the little dog yapped in response. Wiggling out of his arms, she ran toward the sound of Amy’s voice.
“Good thing she left,” Tom muttered as he watched Princess disappear into the woods, “or Amy might of come lookin’ for her.” He began to crank the cider mill again, but to his dismay, a few minutes later he heard Princess coming back. She was going to lead Amy straight to him—straight to Pa’s still! What would Pa say when he found out?
This time, when Princess ran to him, Tom held her muzzle so she couldn’t bark. She squirmed and clawed at his hands, making smothered little sounds while he hoped that Amy wouldn’t find her way through the thicket. But now her voice sounded closer, and Tom knew that she had found the maze of paths he and Pa had chopped as escape routes if they had to flee the revenuers.
He had to stop Amy! Suddenly, Tom thought of a way to make her turn back. Letting Princess go, he reached into his back pocket for his slingshot and the rounded stones he’d picked up on his way down the path. Fitting a stone into the sling, he drew back the band and aimed at the hornets’ nest. He missed, swore silently, and aimed again just as Princess burst back into the clearing for the third time.
“Princess! Come back!” Amy’s voice was so close that Tom knew this shot had to count. Holding his breath, he let the stone fly. It was a solid hit, and angry insects poured from the bobbing gray sphere just as Princess bounded around the edge of the uprooted tree. Tom grabbed her and peered between the branches, poised for flight. If the hornets didn’t scare Amy away, he’d have to run into the woods behind him. He’d cut to one side and then let Princess go, hoping—
“Princess? Where are you?” Amy sounded close to tears. As she came into the clearing, she stopped to swat at one of the hornets and then began to back up, waving her hands in front of her face.
It was working! Tom could hardly believe his good luck—she was going back! But when Amy cried out, he felt terrible. He’d only meant to tum her back, not to hurt her. She cried out again, then turned and ran. Princess straggled free and tore after her. As the little dog raced across the clearing and into the woods, Tom waited for the yap of pain that would tell him she’d been stung, too. But all he heard was more cries from Amy, each one a little fainter, until at last all was quiet.
Woodenly, Tom set to work again. He welcomed the monotonous grumble of the cider mill and the calming effect of his rhythmic cranking. But his earlier excitement about making apple brandy was gone now, replaced by worry.
What if Princess came back to look for him when Pa was here? What if Amy found her way back again? Would she figure out that Princess had been tracking him? Did she already suspect that the maze of trails she’d followed through the laurel had been made by a moonshiner? Suddenly Tom stopped cranking. He’d have to tell Pa.
There was a leaden feeling in Tom’s stomach, a certainty that Pa would never trust him again. And why should he? After all, this was the second time the still had been discovered because of him. Tom sighed. He should have put the apples through the cider mill before he went to Mrs. Brown’s cabin. Then Princess wouldn’t have been able to track him. Or, Tom reasoned, she might have led Amy to the still after he’d gone. He wouldn’t have known anything about that, so he couldn’t have told Pa.
Tom began to crank the cider mill with renewed energy. He’d pretend that was what had happened. Pa would see the paw prints and footprints tomorrow and know the still had been discovered. He’d be angry, all right, but not as angry as he’d be if he knew the whole story. Tom felt a little uneasy about deceiving Pa, but he reminded himself that Pa never gave a second thought to tricking somebody when it suited him. It was just that Pa did it with words, and he was doing it with silence.
Tom wiped the sweat from his forehead and began to pour more apples into the mill. A sudden fiery pain on his wrist made him drop the basket, and as apples rained down and rolled away, he brushed off a hornet and ran to plunge his arm into the spring. Even though the water was icy cold, Tom’s wrist still felt as if it were burning.
“I deserved this,” he muttered, feeling even worse about what he’d done to Amy.
It wasn’t until the preacher fumbled in his pocket for the pitch pipe the next morning that Tom realized Mrs. Taylor wasn’t at church. Glancing toward the end of the front row, he saw that Amy was missing, too. He looked down at his swollen wrist and felt a stir of apprehension. Then, to his dismay. Preacher Taylor began the service by asking the congregation to remember Amy in their prayers.
“Her face and arms were badly stung by some kind of bees yesterday when she was in the woods looking for her little dog,” he said, “and the doct
or in Buckton has gone to Roanoke for a funeral.”
The preacher had ridden to town for the doctor! No one went for the doctor unless they were afraid a person would die. Was Amy going to die? Tom hardly heard a word of the sermon. He was too busy worrying—and wishing he hadn’t avoided Amy all week, letting her think he was still mad.
Tom stood as the congregation straggled through the last hymn with the people in the back rows several beats behind those in the front. The preacher sang loudly, but that was no substitute for Mrs. Taylor’s keeping time as she led the singing.
Outside after the service, Tom waited near the edge of the clearing, sure that today the preacher would go straight home instead of staying to talk. Tom fell into step beside him as he walked purposefully past the little clusters of people and headed toward the mission house. “Preacher Taylor,” he said, “I been thinkin’ maybe Miz Brown can do something for Amy.”
“What could she possibly do that Amy’s mother isn’t already doing?” the preacher asked impatiently.
“She’s got potions for ’most everything,” Tom said, practically running to keep up. “Folks ’round here always call on her when they’re feelin’ poorly.”
Preacher Taylor walked still faster. “I’m sure you mean well, Tom, but I won’t allow anyone to practice ignorant backwoods superstitions on my daughter.”
Tom felt as though he’d been smacked in the face. Without another word, he turned around, and kicking at a twig, he muttered, “Them ignorant backwoods superstitions have done more for folks ’round here than all that preacher’s talkin’ has. Or ever will.”
Back at the schoolhouse-chapel, Andy called to Tom. “Mrs. Brown invited you and your pa for dinner,” he said. “They were in a hurry to leave, so I waited to tell you.”
As they started down the wagon road together Tom said, “I ain’t never heard of sendin’ for the doctor for nothin’ but bee stings.”
“If you’re stung often enough, it can be almost as serious as being bitten by a poisonous snake,” Andy replied.
As serious as being snake bit! What had he done? “You think Amy’s gonna die?” Tom asked fearfully.
“No, but I imagine she’s feeling pretty miserable.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. When they arrived at Mrs. Brown’s cabin, the old woman was busily preparing the meal, but Pa was nowhere to be seen. He was checking the still, Tom realized. Suddenly, his mouth felt dry, and he wished he’d told Pa about what had happened the day before.
Andy played his banjo and sang while Mrs. Brown cooked, but Tom couldn’t listen. When Pa finally joined them, he sat silently on the porch, and Tom was pretty sure he wasn’t listening, either.
At last Mrs. Brown called them in to dinner. Tom breathed in the aroma of fried ham slices and boiled vegetables and wondered how he could be so hungry at a time like this. He let his eyes wander over the cloth-covered table, taking in the dishes of corn relish and cucumber pickles and clabber cheese and apple butter. We’d eat like this, too, he thought, if only Ma hadn’t left.
“Wal,” Pa announced grimly, “I’m gonna have to move my still again. Them bees that stung the preacher’s li’l gal was hornets from a big ol’ nest near my rig. There’s paw prints all ’round the still from that mutt of hers, an’ footprints right up to the edge of the clearin’. I moved out the still pot an’ the worm an’ hid ’em.”
Tom watched the butter melt into a golden puddle on his mashed potatoes and wondered just how much Pa suspected.
“This is the second time that li’l gal’s stumbled on my still, with a bit of help from her critters,” Pa said. “Looked like that mutt of hers tracked Tom from the wagon road.” He glared across the table at Tom and asked, “What was you doin’ there when you was supposed to be grindin’ that fruit?”
“He brought me some summer apples so’s I could make you a pie, June,” Mrs. Brown said. “We’ll have it for dessert.”
Silently, Tom thanked the old woman for coming to his rescue. They both knew Pa’s weakness for apple pie.
“You know, June, you can set up your rig on my property if you want to. Nobody’d have a second thought if they saw you or the boy comin’ here, and I could give a shout if a revenuer was ’round,” Mrs. Brown added.
Pa looked relieved. “We’ll look for a place after dinner, then,” he said. “Andy, you can come with us, if you want.”
“I’d like to work with you while you set up the new still and do a ran of brandy,” Andy said. “That way I could have a chapter in my book on making moonshine the old-fashioned way.”
Pa’s quick agreement told Tom how much his father trusted Andy. It was hard to believe that not long ago he’d been a stranger they thought might be a revenuer.
They had just finished the apple pie when they heard a holler. “That sounds like Miz Taylor,” Mrs. Brown said in surprise. Tom was halfway to the gate and the old woman was on the porch by the time the preacher’s wife rode up on Agamemnon.
“I came to see if you can do anything for Amy,” she called to Mrs. Brown, her words coming in a rash.
“I’ll git my potions,” the old woman said, hurrying back inside.
Mrs. Taylor looked down at Tom. “I want to thank you for suggesting to my husband that Mrs. Brown might be able to help Amy.”
“But I thought he didn’t cotton to ignorant backwoods superstitions,” Tom said, puzzled.
Mrs. Taylor’s eyes flashed. “Herb women were easing people’s suffering long before anyone even heard of doctors. Or preachers, either,” she said shortly.
Andy followed Mrs. Brown to the gate and lifted her onto Agamemnon, and Mrs. Taylor wrapped her arm protectively around the old woman and turned the horse toward the mission.
“Wal,” Pa said as the dust settled behind them, “while she’s gone, we might as well look for a place for that still.”
Tom followed the men through the woods, but his heart wasn’t in it. His steps began to lag, and soon he fell behind, but no one seemed to notice. If Pa didn’t care whether he was there or not, he might as well go back, Tom decided. After what had happened yesterday, he could use a little time away from everything that had to do with stilling.
Tom waited on the Widow Brown’s porch for a while, hoping to find out if the old woman had been able to help Amy. Then he took a stick and scratched a message in the dirt outside her gate: I HAF GON HOM. But when he reached the wagon road he paused for a moment and then turned toward the mission. As he drew near the house, he saw someone on the porch. It was the preacher, sitting with his head bowed.
At school the next morning, Tom’s eyes searched Mrs. Taylor’s face, and she gave him a reassuring smile. Even so, he had trouble keeping his mind on his work, and at noon he had to stay in his seat to finish the last arithmetic problem before he took his lunch bucket and joined the others. Mrs. Taylor stopped beside him on her way out.
“Mrs. Brown’s potion made Amy feel ever so much better,” she said. “I thought you’d want to know.”
Pulling his chipmunk carving from his pocket, Tom asked, “Can you take her this? An’ tell her”—he hesitated, blushing furiously—“ tell her I said she ain’t no busybody.”
“I’ll tell her that,” Mrs. Taylor said, stroking the carved animal with her finger. “Who made this lovely thing, Tom?”
“I did, ma’am,” he said.
“You amaze me! You’re as talented as you are smart.”
Blushing again, Tom stared at his slate and waited for her to leave. Then, his shoulders back and his head held high, he took his lunch bucket and went outside to join the other boys.
21
Tom was surprised to see Andy coming toward the Widow Brown’s gate in response to his holler.
“Mrs. Brown’s gone off to Ox Gore Hollow to bring another little Cobbin into the world,” Andy said. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
Tom’s shoulders drooped. “Can I wait for her?”
“Sure, but it might be a while.�
�� Andy led the way back to the porch and picked up his banjo.
Tom slumped down into Mrs. Brown’s rocking chair, reminded of how he’d sat there on Sunday, worrying about Amy and about whether Pa would figure out what had really happened at the still. And here he was again, still worrying.
Andy stopped playing and laid the banjo across his lap. “Something’s bothering you,” he said.
Tom nodded, wondering how Andy and Mrs. Taylor could see that, but Pa hadn’t noticed. Without raising his eyes, Tom whispered, “I done somethin’ awful, Andy.”
“Is it something you can make amends for? Something you can make right again?”
“Ain’t no way I can make it right,” Tom said, wishing he could. And then, in a rush of words, he told Andy how he had been responsible for Amy’s stings. “I know she’s gittin’ better, but every time I think about it, an’ every time I see Miz Taylor, I feel bad all over again,” he finished. “You think I should own up to what I done?”
Andy frowned and asked, “Own up to Amy, or own up to your pa?”
Tom just looked at him. He’d meant own up to Mrs. Taylor.
“Do you think it would make Amy feel better if she knew the truth?” Andy asked.
“It would make her feel worse!”
After a moment Andy said, “I think if Amy knew you’d been involved in what happened, then you’d want to explain and ask her forgiveness. But since she doesn’t know, you’ll have to forgive yourself instead of burdening her with your regret.”
Or burdening Mrs. Taylor, Tom thought. “But how do you forgive yourself?”
“It takes time,” Andy said, “but the first step is to stop going over and over the whole thing in your mind.”
“How’d you know I was doin’ that?” Tom asked in surprise.
“Because I know human nature. And the human condition.”
“The human condition? What’s that?”
Andy seemed to be concentrating on lighting his pipe, but finally he said, “It’s what all people have in common, no matter where they live. Or when they live. It’s what makes the story of the Greek kings leading their armies against the Trojans as gripping today as when it was first told, almost three thousand years ago. And it’s what will make people all over this vast country respond to the stories and ballads from these hills. Do you understand what I’m saying, Tom?”
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