When the last person entered the clearing, Sharon found that all eyes were on her. Somehow she hadn’t thought this far ahead. When she’d imagined this situation she’d only thought about it being her and the children. She hadn’t prepared anything but she understood that this was her show. This was her territory. All of these people had come to help but they were awaiting her words. The ball was now in her court.
She cleared her throat. “I’d like to thank you all for coming. You’ve helped to make a stressful experience much easier for us. I appreciate it and I know that Oliver would have too. I worked for Oliver every summer for the last twenty years. He was my boss, but he was my friend too. It never felt like work when I was here at the camp. This felt like home and the rest of the year was just the things I had to do to come back here.”
Sharon looked around the circle. Some faces smiled back at her while others stared down at their clasped hands. Even for those who weren’t grieving Oliver, the presence of the dead affected people. Everyone handled it differently. It made some uncomfortable and others somber.
“The children have prepared some songs for today. They’re going to play a number to get things started. They wanted to begin with an old Carter Family tune, My Dixie Darling.” She gave the children a reassuring smile. “If you’re ready.”
The children took the cue and raised their instruments. The smaller children, some of them new to performing, stared at their instruments, getting their fingers in just the right places. Nathan looked at each child. When he was certain they were ready, he strummed his guitar and then eased into the tune. Nathan had picked this one and he knew all the words. At the chorus, all of the children joined in, their harmonies beautiful from sheer intent and purity of emotion.
When the song ended, the children looked up and smiled, forgetting for a moment the occasion of their performance. Then when people failed to clap, instead returning their smiles and offering reassuring nods, the children remembered and fell somber again.
“That was excellent. I’m sure Oliver is smiling down on us right now. He loved that song so much,” Sharon said. “This next part is purely optional so don’t feel like you have to participate. Since we’re informal here and many of us had a relationship with Oliver, I’d like to invite anyone who feels moved to do so to tell a story about him. Maybe just share a memory. I’ll start.”
Sharon looked down at her lap. She’d already picked the story she wanted to tell. As the recollection of the experience filled her, she couldn’t hold back a smile. She opened her mouth to begin speaking but noticed that all eyes in the circle were now staring at the trail they’d come in on. It was to Sharon’s back and she couldn’t see without turning her chair.
When she heard footsteps approaching, she wheeled around to find a woman around her age and a younger man staring at the assembled mourners. Sharon didn’t recognize the pair but she understood the look on their faces. It was a bitterness bordering on hatred. She wondered what she or anyone in this group might have done to provoke such a reaction from the woman.
“Excuse me, I’m Sharon, the Program Director at the camp. Can I help you? Are you here for Oliver’s service?”
“You’d think folks would notify the next of kin when one of their family dies,” the woman spat.
Sharon plastered a smile across her face. “You must be Oliver’s niece. Come join us.”
“I ain’t doing it. I reckon if you wanted me here in the first place I’d have been invited,” the woman replied.
“It’s Kimberly, right?” Cordelia said. “We didn’t know where to find you. There was a lot needed done so we just spread the word among the neighbors. It wasn’t like we could run an obituary in the paper or anything.”
“No one figured you’d come anyway,” Cecil said. “Everyone knows how you felt about your uncle.”
Kimberly narrowed her eyes. “That don’t mean that you can just knock me out of line to get what’s coming to me.”
Sharon gave her a confused look. “What exactly do you think is coming to you?”
Kimberly raised her hands and gestured around her as if the answer was obvious. “This.”
“The camp?” Sharon asked. “The farm?”
“Every damn bit of it,” Kimberly replied.
The boy at her side, likely her son from the resemblance, bobbed his head in agreement. He looked to be in his thirties, a scraggly looking man with homemade tattoos.
Sharon shook her head. “I’m sorry but there’s been some kind of misunderstanding. Oliver made arrangements for this years ago. He had a will and it’s on file at the courthouse. I was a witness. Upon his death, everything he owned went into a trust to support the camp. There’s to be a board of trustees who’ll help manage the operation of the farm so that we get optimal yield from the property.”
Kimberly pursed her lips and gave Sharon a defiant look. “That’s news to me.”
“I’m sorry if you felt like you should have been notified but it’s only customary to contact the people named in the will. There wouldn’t have been any reason to notify you about his decision.”
“She’s telling the truth, Kimberly,” Cecil said. “Oliver told me I’d be on that board of trustees. Kendall is on it too.”
Kendall and Freda nodded.
Kimberly erupted. “That ain’t fucking right! My momma should have had a piece of this. I’m all that’s left of that family and it should be mine. Ain’t right that it’s going to some outsider and some stupid kids. I’m his blood! Y’all ain’t shit!”
Cecil waved a finger at Kimberly. “You can hush that mouth up right now. You ain’t talking that way in front of these children.”
Kimberly gritted her teeth and practically snarled at the older man. “What are you going to do about it, you old bastard? You all are trying to rob me. You’re all in it together. I see what’s happening.”
Cecil gestured at his sons, the boys who’d helped dig the grave. “You all show her to the gate, please.”
Sharon, used to handling matters herself, wasn’t done. “And I suggest you don’t come back. If you have any questions, you hire a lawyer and take them up with the court.”
“The court?” Kimberly snorted. “You going to hide behind a court and lawyer? There ain’t no fucking courts right now and there ain’t anywhere for you to hide. The best thing for you to do is get your ass out of here and give us what’s ours. If you don’t, you won’t have a minute of peace here. I guaran-damn-tee you that.”
Kendall stepped out of the circle and stalked toward Kimberly. “That’s it! I heard enough of that nasty mouth in front of these children.”
Kimberly turned and hurried down the trail, her son on her heels. Kendall was trotting behind them, Cecil’s sons with him. When they were gone, several of the children rushed to Sharon, throwing their arms around her.
“Do we really have to leave?” one of them asked. “We don’t have anywhere to go.”
Sharon was aggravated. She’d worked hard to make these children feel safe here and would not let anyone threaten that. “No. We’re not going anywhere.”
33
Tazewell County, Virginia
The ride through The Cove went exactly as Jim expected. Dogs barked and drew glaring farmers who weren’t excited at the sight of unfamiliar interlopers. Some watched from their porches, armed and ready to shoot strangers for the crime of appearing where they were not welcome. Jim fully understood the sentiment. There were times he’d been that man on the porch. He didn’t react any better when strangers traveled through his valley.
The ominous sense that this might inevitably lead to a confrontation encouraged him to consult his GPS and find an alternative to the more populated Thompson Valley. If they went that way, closer to town, they were bound to butt heads with someone. Instead, they headed southeast on Route 91, which soon turned into a dirt road. There were farms, farm dogs, and armed farmers, but fewer of them. People here, perhaps less accustomed to travelers, were not so aggress
ive in their response. Some waved and even spoke. A few asked of any news from the outside world. When prodded for information, Jim relayed what he knew of things, as if the road required a toll and information served as payment for his passage.
The route wound over Clinch Mountain and it was a beautiful ride. Farmers had warned them that trees frequently fell across the road but they’d done their best to keep it open. Many had family or farmland on both sides of the mountain and had an interest in keeping it open. The riders saw plenty of evidence of this. There were rotting piles of sawdust from the days when there had been chainsaw gas in the farmers’ barns. As cutting firewood burned through their supply of fuel, they fell back to old bucksaws and axes, cutting only enough clearance to allow a wagon through.
Jim and Lloyd stopped for a meal on the peak of the mountain, tying off their horses and sitting in the middle of the road, although perhaps “meal” was too glamorous a word for it. It was only sustenance to keep their bodies operating, to keep them upright in the saddle until they reached their destination. Jim removed two MREs from the packhorse and tossed one to Lloyd.
“I don’t get to pick?” Lloyd complained.
“They’re the same.”
“Sure they are. You’re keeping the best one for yourself. Greedy bastard.”
Jim rolled his eyes and showed Lloyd the label, then sat down on the road. He used the heat pack to warm the meal and stared off through the trees while it worked its magic. He found as much sustenance in the view as he expected to derive from the meal. “Beautiful country here.”
Lloyd nodded.
Jim studied the package his MRE came in. “You know where these MREs came from?”
“No.”
“They came from that chopper that landed in town. The one that hauled us back to the valley. This was supposed to be part of the bounty paid to whoever turned me in. Even though MREs suck, these are more satisfying because of that. I’m eating my own bounty.”
Staring off at the valley below them, Lloyd replied, “Yeah, I can imagine.” He didn’t even seem to be listening.
Jim pulled out his GPS and examined the map. He punched buttons and did some calculations. “I’m not sure if we’ll make it all the way to the trailhead today. We’re still twenty miles off.”
“I don’t know much about horses but that seems like a long ride, considering how far we’ve already come today.”
Jim stuck the GPS back in his pack. “It’s a couple of more miles to Tannersville. It’s nothing more than an old post office, a church, and a few houses. We’ll travel the Freestone Valley from there to Route 16. I’d like to make it as far as Route 16 today, at least. This valley is cleared for farming and there aren’t many places to camp. Once we get out of this valley and on Route 16 we’ll be back in the woods again. I’ll be more comfortable setting up camp for the night.”
Lloyd looked grim as he tore into his MRE.
“What?” Jim asked.
“We spent our entire childhood dreaming of the day we’d be mobile, of finally being able to drive anywhere we wanted. Now we’re back on foot again.”
“Ironic, isn’t it?”
“Pathetic is more like it. I’ll never complain about a road trip again. I’ll just appreciate that I’m not walking.”
“If we ever get to take another road trip,” Jim said. “That remains to be seen.”
“You don’t think this will pass and get back to normal?”
Jim poked at his turkey chili with beans and pondered how to respond. “What’s happening now will pass but who knows what the country will look like. I think normal will be different from here on out. How long will it take to clear and reopen roads? To rebuild gas stations and repair power lines? It can take months to rebuild after a hurricane or tornado and things are never the same in those places after that. Blow that up to a national scale. Some things will be rebuilt and some won’t. Things will never look the same again.”
“That’s depressing.”
Jim shrugged. “It is, in some ways. The only way to make peace with it is to be flexible and appreciate the new normal, whatever it looks like. If we base our happiness on getting things back to the way they used to be, we may never be happy again.”
Lloyd tightened his mouth into an expression of disgust. “That’s just great. I guess we learn to live like we’re in the Great Depression again. We’re down to appreciating a roof over our heads and a full belly.”
The turkey chili wasn’t great but it was food. It was too salty and the flavor wasn’t what Jim expected. He added some sriracha from a bottle he carried in his food sack and doctored it to the point it wasn’t half bad. “You know, Lloyd, our people, our hillbilly ancestors never had anything. They were poor before the Great Depression and they were poor afterward. They found happiness. They found a reason to live life and carry on. That’s what we have to do too. It’s a time for resilience, not weakness. When you’ve lived without a roof, with an empty belly, you understand that those things are significant. There is reason to celebrate them.”
Lloyd ignored him. “What was that shit you dumped in your chili?”
“Sriracha.”
Lloyd stared at him like he was speaking Greek. “What the fuck is that?”
“Hot sauce.”
“Well, let me have some.”
Jim tossed him the bottle and smiled as Lloyd gave himself a generous dose. He’d be complaining about the spiciness next.
“Was it really just yesterday that I was hanging out with that old man and telling stories?” Lloyd asked, stirring the sriracha into his chili.
“Yeah.”
Lloyd shook his head in disgust. “Things change fast don’t they?”
“Some things do. Some things never change at all.”
When they were done eating, Lloyd wandered off to the side of the road to relieve himself. When he returned, he pointed to a tree growing alongside the road. “You see that?”
“What?”
Lloyd pointed again and Jim walked over to see what he was looking at. There were two crude letter Ms carved into the tree with an ax. Jim furrowed his brow.
“What the hell is it?” Jim asked.
“That’s what I was just asking you.”
“Looks like a cattle brand or something.”
“It’s at the crest of the mountain. Maybe it was a message for someone. A signal that they’d made it this far.”
“Could be.” Jim pulled his iPhone from his pocket, hit the button, and waited for it to power up. When the phone booted he took a picture of the symbol.
34
Tazewell County, Virginia
The valleys along Clinch Mountain were remote country. The farmers who lived there had long ago chosen isolation and abundant, fertile farmland over convenience. They preferred starlight over streetlights. They preferred walking muddy fields to afternoon strolls along tree-lined sidewalks. In the best of times they’d had unreliable electricity and non-existent internet. A run into town to pick up a tractor part or buy groceries consumed half the day. Any frozen food they bought would be melted before they even got home.
Even the post office at Tannersville was a remnant of a bygone era. It was the epicenter of a scattered community that offered nothing in the way of amenities. The post office was a cinderblock building with a metal roof, looking like a country store from the 1960s, which it might have been at some point. It was a throwback to the day when even the smallest community had a post office crammed into the corner of a feed store, a mercantile, or a pharmacy.
It took the pair a couple of hours to make their way through the Freestone Valley. Jim was anticipating Route 16 and its winding passage over the mountain. It was a paved road with a lot of curves. Before the collapse, it was nothing to see a Porsche club or group of motorcyclists racing at top speed through the countryside. Their vehicles would be bristling with tiny action cameras, trying to catch every nuance of their ride. That would be one hassle Jim wouldn’t have to worry about enco
untering today. No one would be driving in the middle of the road at twice the speed limit.
About a mile before the intersection with Route 16, the road ran parallel to a large farm. Most of the road was tree-lined but there were gaps where Jim and Lloyd had a good view of the fields. While farms in this part of the country were nothing compared to the vast fields of the Midwest, this was a big farm for the area. Part of the fields were in corn and the rest grown up in hay.
The hay fields wove close to the road, then dipped farther away as they followed a meandering creek. When the trees opened up again, the riders caught a glimpse of activity in the field. Jim paused to look and saw a small army of men stacking hay in the same manner they likely used a hundred years ago. They were collecting it from orderly windrows that had been cut and raked using horse-drawn equipment of some type. Those machines sat rusting on nearly every farm in this valley so it wasn’t hard to imagine that some industrious folks had found a way to restore one to working order.
While cutting and raking could be done with a horse, Jim knew of no provision for baling without a tractor. Without one, the laborers were using the ancient technique of building haystacks with pitchforks. Some of the tools they used were of ancient origin, resurrected from the rafters of barns and called into duty. Others were of more recent construction, made from forked tree branches with an extra tine or two added. This was a situation where the modern pitchfork was at a disadvantage; its tines were too short to hold large clumps of hay and the slick finish of the steel tines more easily allowed the hay to slip through. Sometimes the old methods worked best with the old tools.
Despite the steady pace at which the hayers worked, someone noticed the pair of riders on the road. It could have been that the sound of hooves announced them, or perhaps Jim’s attention to their work had raised someone’s hackles, giving them the feeling that they were being watched. When one worker spotted them, pausing in his labor, the others slowly ground to a stop. Soon, all eyes were focused on Jim and Lloyd. Jim guessed they were deciding if they should get back to work or reach for their guns.
The Borrowed World Series | Book 8 | Blood & Banjos Page 21
