Saving Wonder

by Mary Knight

  You would think that would make things easier.

  After we watch JD’s father come raging through the woods and close out the video, we check the number of views it has so far.

  The counter says: 2.

  “Two?!” The three of us kids scream.

  “That means …” Jules pauses.

  “Somebody else has watched it besides us.” Mr. A finishes her sentence.

  But … who?

  The next day, I call Papaw up in Cincinnati and tell him that JD, Jules, and I are going to need a big dose of luck getting anybody to watch our video, much less help us save our mountain. “You don’t need luck,” he says. “You need serendipity.” When I look up its definition, however, I honestly don’t see the difference, so I call him back.

  “Luck is luck,” I tell him, twirling the springy cord on the Cavanaughs’ kitchen phone. Mrs. C is out visiting a friend, Jules is locked away in her room studying for a history exam, and I’m feeling as lonely for Papaw as a hound left home from the hunt.

  “Curley, you should know better than that by now,” he answers in a husky voice. His voice is so much stronger now. “A word is never ‘just’ one thing or another.”

  “Right, Papaw. How could I forget?” I wonder if he can hear me smiling.

  “For one thing, serendipity suggests something pleasant happening unexpectedly. Luck, on the other hand, can be either good or bad.”

  “And for another?” I egg him on.

  “When you look at its origin, serendipity also suggests that this ‘happy accident’ happens as a result of a search—when one is looking for one thing but is surprised to discover something else.”

  “Kind of like how I was looking for Jules to be my girlfriend, but instead I discovered a friend in the person I thought I hated?” Judging from the long pause, I’m pretty sure Papaw never expected to hear this.

  “So … did that surprise you?” he finally asks.

  “As JD would say … Heck, yeah!”

  Papaw laughs. “Well, that’s serendipity.”

  Our next subversive act happens on Monday, two days after we post our video. This time it will be just me and Jules up in Ol’ Charley staging a “sit-in,” as Mrs. C likes to call it. JD will be in school on account of his father making sure he gets there.

  “That’s all right,” he tells us over the phone at seven in the morning. “This way I can check to see how many views we’re getting. Man, I hope I’m watching when it goes viral. Dudes! That would be awesome.” JD thinks that all of his cyber networking is going to make a difference, but Jules and I have our doubts. Still, his enthusiasm is contagious. When we hang up, Jules and I look at each other and laugh.

  “That boy,” Jules says, and I know exactly what she means.

  We have Mrs. C’s permission to miss school, and Papaw’s, too. “Our country was founded by renegades,” Papaw told me over the phone last night. “What you’re doing will be far more educational than anything they can teach you in civics class.”

  Jules and I climbed up into Ol’ Charley at 7:30 this morning, making sure we’d be here before the “chain saw massacre,” or so Jules calls Tiverton’s road crew. Mrs. C has given us a day’s supply of food and drink and an old horse blanket for a cushion. Nevertheless, after an hour of straddling our branch, my butt feels like it’s been sitting on a nest of porcupines. Subversion can be hard.

  The road crew guys trudge right past us when they arrive, giving us dirty looks. I guess they’ve been told to skip over Ol’ Charley for now and head on up the mountain. Mr. Tiverton probably figures we’ll give up eventually, which, in case you’re wondering, isn’t going to happen. Besides, it’s a beautiful day in Wonder Gap. Jules and I watch as the morning mist slips through the holler like somebody’s tugging on the bedsheets farther down. Redbuds and dogwoods speckle the new-green woods around us with dashes of purple and white. Even though my bottom hurts, there’s no place else I’d rather be—and no one else I’d rather be with.

  And then the whine of chain saws fills the air. The sound reminds me of the screaming banshees Mama used to warn me about when I was a little boy. She’d demonstrate by making this high-pitched screeching sound, chasing me around the house to my own high-pitched squeals of laughter. She said the banshees haunted the woods at night, just waiting to gobble somebody up. I’m pretty sure all of that was to keep me from wandering off, and it worked.

  Jules winces at every crashing tree.

  We are greeted by a number of visitors throughout the day, some expected, some not. Gordy the dozer guy is our first. His dragons seem even more ferocious in the morning light.

  “Hey, you kids!” he yells, chomping into an apple and making half of it disappear.

  Jules pulls out the pepper spray her ma gave us just in case.

  “What you guys are doing up there?” He takes one more bite and tosses the core into the woods. “It takes a lot of guts.” I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.

  “My daddy was one of those hippy protestors back in the seventies. He marched on Washington during the Vietnam War.” His barrel chest seems to expand with pride as he tells us about his pa and how he became a conscientious objector and all. When we offer him a turn in our tree, he laughs and spits out a few apple seeds.

  “Well, that would be job suicide, now, wouldn’t it? I’ve got kids to feed.” He tosses us a couple of apples out of his lunch pail before he goes back to work. “Those are from our orchard, incidentally. Might be a few worms. They won’t hurt you none.”

  Sometime around noon, Clay Whitaker, the local sheriff, ambles through the woods and sidles up to the tree like he’s on some kind of social call, although I’m pretty sure he’s come to take us to jail. We’ve been expecting him all morning. His mother is Cherokee, though. So I’m hoping he feels some kinship with Ol’ Charley and will show us some mercy.

  “Well, looky here, you two. You’ve got yourselves into quite a fix, I see.”

  “With all due respect, Sheriff, I’d say it’s Red Hawk Mountain that’s in a fix, wouldn’t you?” Jules tosses her apple core into the woods behind her. “Not to mention this tree.”

  The sheriff hooks his thumbs into his gun belt and rocks on his feet. “Yup, I guess you could say that. Yup, I guess you could.” I’m wondering if he’s trying to catch us off guard by lulling us to sleep with all that rocking, when he finally gets to his point.

  “Kids, here’s the thing. The law’s the law. Tiverton Coal has a permit that gives them the right to take down this tree, and you’re obstructing that right. Not to mention, you belong in school.”

  Jules and I look at each other and shrug.

  He picks up a long stick and starts poking at some leaves. “I’ll never forget the day I pulled your ma and little Zeb out of that riverbank, Curley. I still have nightmares about it.”

  “Yes, sir. So do I.” Jules looks at me in surprise. I’ve never told her about the nightmares, and I tell her almost everything.

  “You and Jules aren’t coming out of that tree, are you?” Sheriff Whitaker asks.

  “No, sir.” Jules answers for both of us. My head’s still stuck in those bad dreams.

  “Well, I figure you’ve had your share of suffering on account of coal, Curley Hines. I just don’t have it in me to pull you down.” He taps the trunk of Ol’ Charley twice with the stick and starts to walk away. “You kids be careful up there.”

  He stops and turns around about midway to the county road. “I’ll be sure to tell my ma what you’re doing here,” he shouts. “She’ll be sending you a blessing for sure.”

  Our next visitor comes walking up the path with Mrs. C. It’s about three in the afternoon, as close as I can tell by the sun’s slant on the mountain. Jules and I have spelled each other with pee breaks recently, but the excitement of hanging out in a tree all day—even with Jules—is wearing thin.

  “Hey, guys, how’s it going?” a young woman with spiky blond hair calls up to us. “I’m Regina Hopki
ns, a photographer from the Lexington Record. Someone sent us an anonymous tip this morning about what you kids are doing down here in Wonder Gap, and my editor wanted me to check it out. Mind if I take some pictures?”

  “Gosh, no,” is all I can manage.

  “I wonder who gave them the tip,” Jules says, and then looks down at her mother. Standing a few feet behind the reporter, Mrs. C sneaks a wave over her shoulder.

  “Never mind,” Jules says, scrunching her hair with both hands. For the life of me, I’ll never understand why she does that. “How do I look?”

  “Fine, I guess?” She scowls at me, and we hear kishh kishh kishh.

  “Thanks, you two.” Regina Hopkins is already putting her camera back in its case. “I think I got the shot.” Wait. What? Jules was frowning at me. “It was perfect. You both looked kind of mad.”

  “I gave her the link to your video,” Mrs. C calls over her shoulder as the photographer follows her out of the woods.

  “Okay, cool, thanks for coming!” Jules waves after them and then turns around and hits me on the arm.

  “Ow! What’s that for?”

  “For ruining my one chance at fame!”

  That’s when I pull out my harmonica to ease my nerves, like I’ve done throughout the day. I’m wailing on my own soulful version of “Stairway to Heaven” by Led Zeppelin from one of Papaw’s old rock albums, when Jules reaches over and grabs old Gloria right out of my hands.

  “Honestly, Curley. I don’t know which is worse,” she says, “that song or the sound of all those saws.” I’m guessing she thinks it’s me.

  Now I know what Papaw means when he says he’s “reached his boiling point.” I’m so mad at Jules for knocking the only thing that’s bringing me peace, I could spit hot lava. I never thought I’d say this, but after eight hours with Jules in this God-forsaken tree? I’m ready to be anywhere else.

  We spend the next hour not saying another word to each other, a much different kind of silence than what we used to share up here in Ol’ Charley before the chain saws came.

  By the time Gordy and the rest of the crew pack up their gear for the day, my anger has long since cooled, but every muscle in my body is now as stiff as a poker. Jules and I climb down from Ol’ Charley and hobble like eighty-year-olds back to her place.

  What we find there boggles the mind.

  Her living room, with seating for about three, is packed as tight as a can of sardines with people I don’t recognize. Mrs. C is passing around peanut butter cookies and steaming hot cups of sassafras tea.

  “Our heroes!” someone shouts as Jules and I walk in to applause.

  “Here, guys, take my seat.” A tall man with a gray mustache and beard jumps out of a chair brought in from the kitchen.

  “No, thank you, sir,” I say as Jules and I wave him off. “We’ve been sitting all day.”

  Everyone laughs.

  “What’s going on, Mom?” Jules asks, a bit sharply. I can’t blame her. All she’s been talking about for the last few hours is taking a hot shower.

  “Well, darling … for starters, I invited a few of my environmental friends.” Several folks smile and wave. “I thought it was time we got organized.”

  The man with the gray beard speaks up again. “Some of us here have watched your video. We had no idea this was going on in Wonder Gap. We’ve felt so helpless against the mining industry for so long; some of us are weary from a fight we never seem to win. But your youth and enthusiasm have inspired us. We want to help you save your mountain.”

  The others in the room clap and nod.

  “Some of these folks and others who couldn’t be here tonight have offered to take turns sitting in your tree for you,” Mrs. C says, “when you want to take a break or … heaven forbid … go to school.” Folks laugh.

  “Actually, after an entire day of tree sitting,” I say, “school sounds pretty good to me.”

  Jules raises her hand to give me a high five, something we practiced early on in our tree today. Jules says the key is to focus on the other person’s elbow. It sounds like that would throw you off, but no kidding, it works every time.

  “We also have a very special guest this evening, and we are honored to have her with us.” Mrs. C nods to an older, thin-faced woman sitting across the room in front of us. Long, silver hair streams down her back, a back as straight as an oak plank Papaw might use for a table. There’s something familiar about her dark eyes. They look like Sheriff Whitaker’s. Could this be … ?

  “Thank you, Irene.” The woman bows. She grips her walking cane and pulls herself up. All eyes in the room watch, and no one makes a sound. It’s a moment full of waiting.

  “My name is Helen Whitaker. I am Cherokee and a member of the Bird Clan. My ancestors named this sacred mountain you are trying to save Tsiwodi, which means ‘hawk.’ When my son, Clay, came to see me today, he was quite troubled. He had just talked with these two young people and heard the fire in their plea. ‘Ma,’ he begged me, ‘there must be something the tribe can do to help save Red Hawk Mountain and our Cherokee tree.’ That’s when I knew my ancestors were calling me: Helen, it’s time.”

  She motions for Jules and me to walk toward her. People sitting on the floor scoot back, clearing the way. I know this sounds weird, but it feels like we’re walking down an aisle, you know, to get married. She reaches out and we take her hands. They are long-fingered and wrinkled, but her grip is strong. A large silver-and-turquoise ring in the shape of a turtle twists around her index finger and rests on top of my hand. She waits until she has drawn my gaze into hers. I want to look over at Jules to see what she’s doing or what she thinks, but the old woman makes that impossible.

  “That tree, my young friends—the one I hear you call Ol’ Charley—has witnessed the plight of my people for over three hundred years. My ancestors hid in that tree to escape removal, when so many of us were forced to walk the Trail of Tears, or as the Cherokee call it, the Trail Where They Cried. The tree is part of our legacy, and it stands as a sentinel to a sacred site.” Her words create a stir in the room. Does she mean the mountain? I never thought of it as sacred, but I guess it could be. And then she adds, “An ancient burial site.” Whispers float around us as Jules and I stand calm in Mrs. Whitaker’s dark-eyed gaze. She waits. When the room grows quiet again, she continues.

  “Only a few of us living have been told of the burial site’s existence on Tsiwodi, or as you know it, Red Hawk Mountain. The wisdom of this was to leave it unknown and thereby undisturbed. With the threat of mountaintop removal, that wisdom no longer holds.” Like Papaw says about words, I guess wisdom needs to be flexible, too.

  “Mrs. Whitaker?” I’m surprised at the sound of my own voice breaking the silence.

  “Yes, Curley? And you can call me Helen. I already hear the honor in your voice.”

  “Thank you, ma’am … I mean, Helen. What does wisdom say now?”

  She laughs. “When I hear it, you’ll be the first to know.” And then she shakes our hands and lets them go.

  “There’s one more thing about serendipity, Curley. Something you won’t find in any dictionary,” Papaw told me when he gave me my word. “You can influence it. You might not be able to make it happen, but you can create the conditions under which it can.”

  “How’s that, Papaw?”

  “Stay open to possibility. Be on the lookout for good. And serendipity will bless you again and again.”

  I didn’t know what Papaw meant by that when he told me.

  After meeting Helen? Now I do.

  Serendipity—noun

  : the phenomenon of an agreeable and unexpected coincidence, often appearing when searching for something else

  It’s been a crazy week in Wonder Gap, especially after the Lexington Record ran that picture of me and Jules in our tree, and no, we were not K-I-S-S-I-N-G. I cannot get that dang song out of my head.

  We’ve had all kinds of visitors wanting to sit in Ol’ Charley, so Jules and I are only in it
for a few hours a day after school. Mrs. C has taken it upon herself to draw up a sit-in schedule and to make sure folks have provisions and such. She also keeps an eye on the progress of the mining road.

  Meanwhile, dozens of folks—including many of Mrs. C’s environmental friends, Helen’s Cherokee friends, and other American Indians from all over Kentucky—have been combing the mountain, searching for anything that might show us where the ancient burial site is. After hundreds of years, Helen explained, it’s been covered over by brush and trees. If they find the burial site, we might have a case for trying to preserve it and the mountain with it. Right now, it’s our only hope.

  Every day, the searchers gather at Ol’ Charley and head off up the mountain. They spread out in a line, much like folks do when they’re searching for a lost youngster in the backwoods or somebody’s granddaddy who’s lost his way. It’s a little like looking for a needle in a haystack, Papaw says, but we’re all hopeful that Ol’ Charley has been watching over something special all these years.

  Speaking of Papaw, today’s the day he’s coming home. He’s calling it a “visit,” which right away makes me think he’s not planning to stay. Who the heck visits home, anyway? He says we’ll discuss our plans when he gets here, which has me about as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. I mean, I don’t know where our money’s going to come from or even where we’re going to live for the long haul, now that I’ve gone and spoken out against Big Coal. Really, I’m speaking out for our mountain, but that’s a distinction (d word, last year) Mr. Tiverton apparently doesn’t see.

  Anyway, Papaw says there’s too much happening on Red Hawk Mountain to stay away any longer, and Aunt Gertie has agreed to come back with him. She says it’s to help take care of the house, but I know it’s to keep an eye on Papaw. Frankly, that’s a relief. Even when we’ve talked on the phone, his pauses make me nervous. I’m afraid he won’t get started again.

  Today is Saturday, and I thought I’d surprise Papaw with a little welcoming party, which is why I invited Mr. Amons, Jules, Mrs. C, and JD over to the house after Jules and I tidied up. I’ll tell you what, she and I were like a couple of worker bees, dusting and sweeping and wiping down cabinets. It’s a warm spring day in Wonder Gap, so we threw open all the windows, at least the ones that aren’t stuck shut, and Jules picked a bouquet of daffodils for the kitchen table.