The Road to Bittersweet

by Donna Everhart

  The other shape was an even more remarkable find. It was Granny Wallis’s pie safe, caught between two tree trunks, and still, somehow, held in an upright position. I nudged the small latch and opened it. Unbelievably, inside was what was left of the birthday cake Momma had baked the day of the storm. My stomach rumbled, and I took it out and inspected it. It was flattened and soggy, yet still it smelled all right. Hunger won out. I swiped a finger through the frosting and tasted it. It tasted off, but more like chocolate than anything. Using the tips of my dirty fingers to scoop mouthful after mouthful, I crammed the wet, pasty cake into my mouth. I closed my eyes and thought about nothing else except eating. I finally come to my senses and stopped, took a deep breath and let it out slow.

  Already I felt better, more clearheaded and even had some energy. I set the remains of the cake back inside and nudged the little door closed again. The gnawing hole of hunger filled, I looked at the property with fresh eyes. I tried to feature what Momma would do since nothing hardly ever ruffled her. While sitting in the tree, I’d felt sort of protected, uncomfortable, but protected. Here, on the ground, and surrounded by woods, the unusual quiet filled me with apprehension. The shift from day to night would leave me exposed to whatever might ramble by, be it two-legged or four-legged. There could be bear, or bobcat, or wolf as desperate as me for food. The last thing I wanted to do was sit up all night, my back to a tree and vulnerable.

  I was going to need some sort of shelter. There was enough branches, limbs, and other foliage on the ground I could use, some of it dry even. I grabbed the walking stick and began looking more carefully for what I could use. I spotted one particular clump set higher than others. I poked at it with the stick, and it made a hollow sound. I bent over and dug through all the wet leaves and branches and uncovered the bucket from our well, rope still attached. Encouraged, I kept on, all too aware the faster I went, the faster it seemed the sun went down.

  As I continued gathering what I needed, I looked east, towards the Powell farm. Maybe once I’d done what I could around here, I’d go over there, check to see if anyone was about. I recollected there was a few pecan trees between here and there, and it was time for wild grapes to be in season too. I dragged armful after armful of loose limbs close to the foundation, then paused to catch my breath, noticing how heavy the air was around me. Sweating profusely, I wiped my forehead and pushed on. Back and forth I went, into the woods again and again, a little further each time. After a couple more trips, I was surprised to find what looked like a section of one of the inside walls to our cabin, the fragments of newspapers and magazines still tacked onto the wood, the way we’d kept heat or coolness in. All this gathering had led me to exactly what I needed. I grabbed one edge, and winced as pain shot through my hands, but after gripping it tight for a few seconds I was able to haul it into the yard. I placed one end against the foundation and peered underneath. This would do and saved time. I sifted through the pile I’d collected, feeling like I could be choosy selecting branches with the most pine needles, or leaves.

  I proceeded to fashion myself a bed under the lean-to, piling it thick, and then I wished for a fire. Papa had told stories about living out in these woods when he was a boy, using what he had on hand. I was glad I’d paid attention. He gone into the woods one time for three days when he won’t but eleven, with only a slingshot, the clothes he wore, and nothing else. He’d made a fire out of the rotted inside of a tree from what is called punk wood. There was always downed trees in the woods, the ones what fell over from decay. And along Stampers Creek there might be some quartz rocks, what he’d said was best for creating a spark. I decided I would search for those things tomorrow.

  I surveyed my makeshift camp, and felt as ready for the night as I could be. I brung everything I’d found, along with the tin of crackers, the walking stick, the jar and my one sorry shoe, setting it all nearby where I could keep an eye on things. I opened the tin and, with apologies to my family, I ate the last of the crackers.While I munched, I let my eyes get used to the gloomy surroundings. The dark don’t never seem as bad once you get acclimated. With my bones heavy as the waterlogged timber I’d moved, I finally crawled under my lean-to like a cur dog slinking under a porch. I swatted at the mosquitoes, and listened to a few frogs croak. They was likely the only ones happy.

  I let the images of Momma’s and Papa’s faces come to mind, then I did the same for Laci and Seph, featuring them like pictures in a frame. I wondered what Joe Calhoun, Lyle, and Josie was doing.Was they sleeping under the stars too? I studied the night sky, watching the moon slink across it. Some buried fear within allowed me only a brief nod of dozing here and there, until I eventually gave up on sleep. I turned onto my belly and propped my chin on my arms while staring out into the still night, feet pressed against the stones, which somehow still felt warm from the sun.

  I said, “Go to sleep, Wallis Ann.”

  It sounded peculiar, the sound of my voice speaking my name and no one to hear. It was a little unnerving. I remained on my belly for a long time, half asleep, half awake. As was bound to happen, the urge to use the privy come on me. Since our outhouse was gone along with everything else, I was going to have to do my business like I’d been doing on my walk home. Out in the open. Even with the yard lit by the moon, and nothing around best as I could tell, I had the oddest sense of being watched. Crazy Leland Tew and his egg offering come to mind. That won’t helpful. What if he’d somehow followed me here? What if he was right there in them dusky woods, watching me?

  The very idea made me stay put until I could no longer hold it. When it got to be a must, I crawled out carefully, and stood in the moonlight, still as a night owl. I moved away from the lean-to, but not so far I couldn’t see it. I dug myself a little hole in the dirt. I looked over my shoulder. My belly burned with urgency. Hesitant, I reached under my dress and pulled down my drawers. I waited again, then, with the notion it was now or never, I went on and got myself situated above my little dip in the ground.

  I was in the middle of it all, and starting to feel some relief, when a huffing noise come from directly behind me. If I hadn’t already been doing what I was doing, it would have come on like I was a bitty baby with no control. I remained crouched as the huffing come closer, and closer yet. The odor of my pee rose, and I was petrified whatever animal stalked me would smell it and fear too. I had a stench about me, in general after being in the river, along with several days of sweating. Grime covered me from the top of my dirty, greasy head to my filthy feet. Maybe I stunk too badly for whatever it was. And whatever it was, was taking its sweet time. I closed my eyes and tried not to move, which was asking a lot.

  My thigh muscles trembled and ached. My ears went to buzzing with the effort to hear and track the movements. I thought it drifted to my left. Or was it to my right? Worst of all, I felt sure no matter what direction it went, left or right, it was closer. Goose pimples speckled my arms and neck. A twig snapped right behind me, and I went to praying.

  Lord, dear Jesus, God, don’t let me get eat up by whatever this is.

  It didn’t seem possible after all this time and what I’d been through I was about to be mauled by some wild animal. Another noise, and then I smelled its raunchy breath, so close it brushed over the back of my neck. I wanted to vomit. As hard as I tried to be still, I quivered and shook, and a cold shiver of dread raced up and down my spine at will. I tensed, waiting for a horrific roar, anticipating the first painful bite on my shoulder, neck, or wherever it chose to chomp down on. All I could think was wildcat. Or wolves. They hunted at night. My whole body ached with the need to take a lungful of air, and my mouth opened, prepared to match the scream of whatever was about to attack me and rip my skin to shreds.

  On the verge of blacking out from fear, and when I was about to shriek from sheer terror, the softest of touches whispered over my shoulder, and then a velvety nose snuffled my hair. Next come a hard bump against my hip, the stomp of a foot, and I dared look over my shoulder at t
he long, graying snout of our mule, Pete. Like the brush of a cool breeze on a hot summer’s day, relief flooded over me and I almost collapsed on the ground. Meanwhile, that old cantankerous mule moseyed on over to the barn, waiting for somebody to let him into his stall like it was any old ordinary day, even though he couldn’t fit through the door as it was leaning too much. If I hadn’t already been so exhausted, and recovering from being scared out of my wits, I might have laughed, except I won’t in a laughing mood. I stood, fixed my clothes, then I stumbled over to him on legs like jelly. I put my hand on his neck, rubbing down its length.

  “Old Pete, you sorry old thing, you sure did give me a bad scare,” I said.

  Leaning my forehead against him, I scratched his ears and took some deep breaths. I went back over to my lean-to, eased myself underneath and finally fell asleep.

  Chapter 7

  The change in the air brushed my skin like polished, cool metal against exposed arms and legs. I wished for the old ragged coat of mine once again. My need for the fire escalated. Shivering, I stared down at my feet, noting my toes had a bluish tinge. I wrapped my arms around my waist real tight and considered I ought to move about in order to get my blood stirring, except it was hard to rouse any gumption for doing much when my mouth felt like the inside of an old rag and my belly was so empty it was gnawing at my backbone.

  One way or the other, it was morning, and today I’d resolved to do two things. First take care of a fire. Second, work my way over to the Powells and check on them. I walked into the woods, using Mrs. Stout’s walking stick to knock against felled trees. It won’t long when the unique hollow sound rang out as I poked hard at the sides of a mountain gum. A section collapsed, and come apart, and inside was exactly what I needed. I broke the chalky pieces off, and then searched a bit of rocky area, happy when I come across some moss too. It was another good burning material. I collected as much as I could and then I went and dumped my fire-building material into a pile near a little stack of kindling wood. Next, I gathered pinecones for their resin.

  What took me the longest was my search for rocks with quartz. Stampers Creek was still too high, and the rock beds was mostly hidden. I dug around close as I could get near the edges and finally give up, deciding instead to get two plain rocks and try them. I studied what I’d gathered, and strangely, I felt nervous, like I was about to stand in front of my class and read out loud. I was parched, and all I could think was, if I could do this, I’d be able to boil water. And if I could boil water, I could drink and drink and drink without fear of getting sick. And I’d be able to cook—if I could catch or kill something. I fixed the punk wood into a tiny pile. I got the kindling, and built a small teepee of the sticks, laying them this way and that. I had some dead pine needles too, and I fashioned a little bird-nest-looking bundle and added the moss. Finally, I lifted the two stones, and took a breath.

  Papa’s voice come to me, “Don’t smother it. Start small.”

  I crouched down close to the punk wood and smacked the rocks together at an angle against one another, click, clack, click! I kept going in the same direction like Laci strumming the dulcimer. After a minute of knocking them stones together, a tiny spark hit the crumbly wood, and a fragile tendril of smoke curled like a tiny gray worm into the air. Excited, I carefully cupped one hand around the tiny glow and waved my other hand to encourage it along. When the miniature pile went to smoking a bit more, I carefully scooped the tiny smoldering bit and ever so carefully set it into my pine needle and moss nest. I leaned over and nursed the smidgen of a flame by pursing my lips and by blowing delicate puffs of air over it.

  I was fearful any minute I’d blow too hard on the itty-bitty flare I had going and snuff it out before it had a chance to take hold. Small as it was, I persisted, and soon most of the pine bundle was ablaze, and I hurried to set it into the small opening of kindling I’d collected. My tiny blaze caught onto the littlest of branches, and sputtered. I froze, willing it to life, like a struggling newborn kitten. I felt the first bit of warmth coming off it soon after, and reached for the bigger sticks, slowly building it until I was certain the blaze won’t going out. My little flame expanded to the size of a melon.

  I’d done it. I had a fire.

  I stared at it with pride, my sense of triumph immense. I hurried to get Momma’s kettle, and pulled it close. I added even more wood, and soon it went from reasonable size to a roaring blaze. I thought, It can’t get too big and I can’t get close enough, but I still got more to do. I got the water bucket I’d found and I headed straight towards Stampers Creek. I was careful to steer clear of any nearby standing water, and only filled it from areas where it flowed swiftly. I come back and dumped the water into the kettle. After it boiled and cooled, I was going to fill that jar to the rim, and I was going to drink it down, and fill it again. I felt right proud of myself and I believe I might have even smiled a little bit right then. I patiently waited, and when I was sure it had boiled long enough, I poured some into the jar and set it aside to cool. I stacked more wood onto the fire and watched it burn a little longer.

  Gazing towards the sky, I decided if I was going over to the Powells, I ought to do it now. It wouldn’t take long to get there and the water needed to cool anyway. I set off at a good pace, following the trail. I’d only been there a time or two, but after several minutes, I come to the wood fence that separated our cow pastures. I took a second to admire the fall colors tipping the uppermost part of Cullowhee and then I went over the fence and down into the holler. There I had to climb over fallen trees until I come to another field of flattened fodder. There won’t no livestock to come eat it, or signs of anyone who would bundle it for use later. I was on the Powell property now, and I kept on, looking over my shoulder now and then to be sure Cullowhee Mountain and Cherry Gap was behind me, which meant I was going in the right direction.

  After a few minutes I come to another clearing for their place where I found the circular rocks for their well, some strewed planks of wood, maybe from the cabin’s porch, and a tall post, with a bell hanging crooked. That was all.

  “Helloooo?”

  I walked over to the well, searching the ground for a rock or something to drop into it. I found a small stone and tossed it in. It clattered down and I heard a splash within seconds. I poked my head in and jerked it out, gagging. Something had got in there and died. The Powells had experienced the same fate as us. Their home was gone, their well contaminated, and there was no way to know how they’d fared. I needed some way to signal them to come to our place. I grabbed another rock. I went over to the wood post holding the dinner bell, and I scratched my initials, W.A.S., and the date, September 8, 1940. It was all I could do. I headed back, sad about what I’d seen and discovered.

  When I got home, I rushed over to check on the fire and the water. The blaze was still going strong, and the water in the jar had cooled. I grabbed the hem of my dress to wrap around the handle and dragged the kettle from the flame. Pete come moseying along from where he’d been feeding on some nearby timothy grass and red fescue. I was glad he could forage for his self, and I eyeballed him, filled with a new confidence about what all I could potentially do. I started planning a few things to keep myself busy, so I wouldn’t think so hard on being alone. I lifted the jar and drank the water I’d boiled, filled with the sense I was going to be okay.

  * * *

  On my fourth morning I woke to overcast skies. Each day I’d began with a sense of anticipation. I was always convinced for the first few hours something good would happen, but, as morning passed into afternoon, and afternoon into nighttime, those expectations evaporated along with my hope. It helped to stick to a routine. Stoke the fire, add wood, boil water, plan the day. Today I was going to hunt through the barn. I’d waited for fear it would fall on me, but now I was tired of waiting. I entered it and familiar smells hit me right away, like the leather from harnesses, and the saddle we used to ride Liberty. The dry, sweet odor of hay, sawdust, and damp wood. After s
earching in the corners and behind a stall, I located Pete’s work harness crumpled up into a corner, with a bit of mildew already growing on it. I picked it up and began to pull and stretch the damp leather. I walked outside where he was nipping daintily with his hairy mule lips at bits of timothy grass. Old Pete could be tricky, and I wondered if I ought to hide the harness from his sight. He lifted his head and his ears twitched at my approach, only it won’t me or the harness he seemed interested in. He was looking towards the path, and then I heard what he did, a distant, soft singing.

  I went still, my hand hanging midair, the straps of leather dangling. The wind what had whistled through the tops of the trees this morning had calmed, and it was so quiet, I wondered if my ears was doing that funny thing again, filling my head with noises that won’t there. I tilted it to hear better. Maybe I was getting feverish. Could be hunger was causing my ears to ring. There it come again, louder this time, a recognizable song, and a singular voice, combined with the deeper one, as familiar as the ground beneath my feet. Us Baptist got this way of singing with a definitive expression of our words, like an insistence we be heard. We sing and chop our hands up and down and really get our insides into feeling the music. This was the singing I’d heard all my life. Momma’s clear soprano, peppered with Papa’s striking alto, their voices soaring as they drew closer.

  I dropped the harness and sprinted towards the sound, paying no heed to the rocks jabbing my bruised, sore feet. I don’t reckon I really know who seen who first. It was like we all seen each other at the same time, yet my mind wouldn’t let me believe what was in front of my very eyes. I stopped, my hand over my mouth, and everything went blurry. There was Momma. I couldn’t move towards her, though I wanted to, and behind her was Papa. And behind him was Laci, arms hanging by her side, wide-eyed and silent. Momma and Papa, they come running towards me and I still couldn’t budge. I couldn’t trust my legs.