The Splendour Falls

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  ‘Bluestone Hill.’ I gestured vaguely in the direction I’d come. The man’s practical warmth had pushed my worry into a corner, where I could ignore it until later. ‘I’m—’

  A grin split his white beard. ‘I know exactly who you are, Miss Davis.’ He reached across the wheel to stick his right hand out the window. I shook it automatically. ‘I’m Jim Young. I’m friends with Paula and Clara. And with your fellow houseguests.’

  ‘The Griffiths?’ I felt a satisfying click of comprehension. This was the mutual friend, then.

  Mr Young chuckled. ‘Don’t I look like a world-travelling archaeologist-turned-folklorist in my retirement?’

  ‘You look like Kriss Kringle’ The observation slipped out, surprising me. I didn’t joke with strangers. Or anyone, really.

  He laughed loudly, and didn’t seem offended. ‘Are you looking for Rhys? He’s over by the dig.’ He made a vague and unhelpful gesture.

  I shook my head. ‘I’m trying to find out more about my family’s history. Which today, I guess, means finding out more about this place.’

  Delight lit his jolly face. ‘My dear girl, you have made my day.’ He put the truck back in gear and gestured for me to step back. ‘Let me move off the road.’

  There was no way to avoid his joining me. If I’d wanted a tour guide, I could have taken Shawn up on his offer. But I’d wanted to explore alone. The wildness of the place made me want to poke into its corners and lift its figurative carpets.

  Or it had, until the awful moment under the trees. Suddenly the distraction of company seemed a good thing.

  When Mr Young rejoined us, Gigi sniffed excitedly at his trouser legs and he bent to pet her. ‘So, what do you want to know?’

  ‘What happened to the town?’ It was good to focus on practical questions. And this way, I could find out some facts without having to go back to William the Boring.

  He chuckled. ‘Which time? A lot has happened here.’ He gestured for me to follow him to the gap in the trees at the river bluff. I stopped a few feet back: the bank was steep, and the water was a long way down. Paula’s warning against swimming made a lot of sense.

  ‘The Native Americans had a community here first,’ said Mr Young, deciding to start at the beginning, I guess. ‘Though it was gone by the time Cahaba was settled. It’s a natural place for a settlement, of course, since it’s the juncture of two rivers. Which means easy transportation and irrigation, and the land is very fertile.’

  He pointed to where a smaller river joined the wide swath of the Alabama coming from the north. Maybe it was Dad’s influence, but I found it interesting how the lay of the land affected civilization, before we started changing the terrain to suit us. However, that wasn’t what I’d asked. ‘And this became the capital?’ I prompted.

  My attempt at subtlety failed, judging by Mr Young’s grin. ‘Cahaba, at its peak, was a thriving community, and the home to three thousand people. Vine Street was lined with stores and businesses. There was a fancy hall for dances, a female academy, two churches, and, of course, the state house.’

  My gaze ran over the empty roads he indicated, and I pictured them lined with buggies, the way New York streets are lined with cars. The contrast between my serene and rustic walk and the bustling city he described was disconcerting. ‘What happened to all of it?’

  ‘Things go in cycles, don’t they? That’s the funny thing about Cahaba. Things were booming, and then there was a yellow fever epidemic, then a flood, and finally the state voted to move the capital to Tuscaloosa.’

  ‘Well, who could blame them,’ I said. ‘If disaster struck twice.’ That would be the river’s fault; the asset was also a liability. I prodded him to get to the point. ‘So a flood wiped out the town?’

  ‘Oh no.’ He was clearly enjoying the story too much to let me rush him. ‘It was a setback, but the pendulum swung back the other way. Cahaba was a major shipping point for the cotton plantations in the area. Which, of course, you know, as a Davis. Steamboats ran up and down the river, carried the crops out to Mobile, then on to textile plants in the North and in Europe.’

  ‘Then what?’ I didn’t bother to hide my impatience, but there wasn’t much bite to it. Not in the face of Mr Young’s humour. ‘Was there another flood?’

  He grimaced ruefully. ‘Among other things – like the war. The railroad was torn up, its iron used for a more strategic line. That was the beginning of the end, in a way. In 1866, when the county seat moved to Selma, a lot of families did, too. Lock, stock and barrel.’

  ‘But not the Davises,’ I said, rather unnecessarily, trying to fit the story together. ‘What about the Maddoxes? Were they here from the beginning too?’

  ‘Oh yes. Bluestone Hill weathered everything better than the town. The Maddox family established the new town downriver. In fact, they gave an incentive to families to move their houses there instead of Selma.’

  ‘The whole house?’ The image – buildings taken apart like Lincoln Logs and put back together again – was startling. ‘That’s why there are so few structures here?’

  He nodded. ‘Even after the war, with all the manufacturing in the North, it was difficult and expensive to get building materials down here. So what wasn’t moved wholesale was cannibalized.’ He grinned with enthusiasm. ‘But it left the underground stuff for us diggers to find.’

  We’d walked as we talked, and now we were coming up on the spot where the chimney stood eerily alone under the trees. It gave no sense of warmth, only the impression of bitter cold.

  ‘What was this place?’ I asked, nodding to the brick relic. ‘Where the chimney was?’

  ‘That was the Cahaba Federal Prison.’ He cleared his throat delicately. ‘For prisoners of war. Union soldiers.’

  I fought a shiver, even at a distance. The complete logic of it was a shock of confirmation. A Civil War prison would give anyone the horrors. But how could I have known that, even subconsciously? Had I read it in the Davis book? Would that explain my certainty that something bad had happened here, something that reverberated through my psyche?

  ‘Did it flood, too?’ I asked.

  ‘Among other things.’ Mr Young’s Santa Claus face turned grim. ‘The conditions were very bad by the end of the war. Overcrowded, disease-ridden. Prison mortality was bad on both sides, but I can’t pass this place without thinking this was a low mark in human nature.’

  I looked at him fully, curious at his phrasing. Did he feel something too? Like me, he’d stopped walking rather than go any nearer.

  Gigi pawed at my leg, asking to be picked up. I obliged, cuddling her close. Was this the kind of haunting Professor Griffith had talked about? I still rejected the idea of ghosts, but there was – seemed to be– the imprint of something horrible here, like a stain that wouldn’t come out in the wash.

  ‘Enough about that,’ said Mr Young, determinedly steering us back into the metaphorical sunlight. Less figuratively, he took my arm and turned us both away from the prison’s spectre, guiding me over the uneven ground, towards his truck. ‘What else can I show you while we’re here, Miss Sylvie?’

  Maybe it was asking for trouble, all things considered. But I wanted – needed – to know more about the past, and the people in it. ‘I’d like to see the cemetery, actually.’

  He grinned like Christmas had come early. ‘You are truly a girl after my own heart.’

  I could see how Mr Young and Professor Griffith were friends. They had the same love of imparting their knowledge. In Mr Young’s case, it was the history of Cahaba, and the cemetery was the perfect place for it.

  I’d been nervous when he’d pulled the truck up by the cemetery fence. Whether the moment by the river was the suggestive environment working with my overwrought emotions, or something I didn’t want to speculate, this was a graveyard.

  But the morning was warm and the only shadows were the ones from the spreading oaks. It felt more peaceful than lonely, despite the way the ageand weather-darkened monuments were left ab
andoned, broken and tumbled.

  Gigi flopped onto a pillow of shaded grass, her tongue hanging out. I didn’t blame her. My legs were tired and aching, and they were a lot longer than hers. But there was still something I was after, so I looped her leash around a branch and left her to nap while I followed Mr Young around the cemetery.

  ‘Where are the Davises?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, you won’t find them here. The Davis family is buried in Saint Mary’s churchyard.’ He waved vaguely towards Bluestone Hill. ‘It’s past your place, on down the river just a bit, before you get to Maddox Landing.’

  Maybe I was cranky because my leg hurt – I hadn’t walked so far since The Accident, and most of it on unpaved ground – but he could have mentioned that earlier.

  Oblivious to my frown, he went on enthusiastically. ‘There are a couple of Maddox graves, though. You might be interested in those, since your families are so connected.’

  I wondered what he meant by that. Addie had said something similar, if ‘connected’ was Mr Young’s tactful way of saying ‘inbred’.

  He started across the grounds, waving for me to follow. I had to pick my way carefully over molehills and around fallen stones. I rejoined Mr Young at a sturdy but rusted fence. An ornamental pear tree shaded a plot containing three large monuments and several smaller ones, all eroded and darkened by the elements, but pristine compared with some of the others in the cemetery.

  ‘The tree and the marble would have been brought here from elsewhere,’ said Mr Young. ‘Someone wanted dear old dad to be comfortable.’

  ‘And had the money to make sure of it,’ I mused, squinting at the inscription: MATTHEW MADDOX, PATRIARCH AND STATESMAN. 1785–1860. ‘Wow, he was really old.’

  Mr Young gave me a disapproving look. ‘That’s the same age as me, little missy.’

  I grimaced. ‘I meant for the time.’

  ‘Well, that’s true enough.’ He nodded to the ornate monument, the fanciest in the cemetery. ‘Mr Maddox was on the state legislature, the lone dissenting vote against moving the capital. His son went up to Tuscaloosa, though. The Maddoxes have always been politicians.’ Mr Young smiled at some private joke. I sort of knew what he meant, though. Shawn had that good old boy charm and I’d seen hints of his leadership in the way he handled the Teen Town Council.

  I noticed something else as I looked over the other stones in the plot. ‘There are some Davises here. They’re just all married to Maddoxes.’

  Mr Young nodded, starting towards the cemetery gate. ‘That’s what dynasties do – secure alliances with marriages.’

  ‘What kind of alliances?’ I caught up to him easily.

  ‘Business, of course. Your family grew the cotton; the Maddox family shipped it. The Davises owned the ironworks across the river, which made the parts to build Maddox steamboats.’

  ‘Huh.’ I collected Gigi from under her bush, and she grumbled until I picked her up and carried her. It sounded like the Davises and Maddoxes had been in bed together in a lot of ways.

  The topic of business brought me back to the barbs that Rhys and Shawn had traded that morning. ‘What about this latest venture of the Maddoxes? Rhys seems to think it might threaten the park and the archaeological work you’re doing.’

  Dismissing that with a wave, Mr Young opened the gate and waited for me to pass through. ‘I’m just a history nut and a digger. I don’t like talking about the modern stuff. The land is listed with the National Registry of Historic Places, which gives it some protection. If Mr Maddox wants to get his hands on it – which I’m sure he does – he’d have a hell of a time.’

  ‘After so many floods, why would anyone want to build on this site?’

  ‘Well, you could use it for hunting and recreation for all the people who are going to buy the overpriced homes in your little planned community upriver.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt an odd surge of protectiveness at the thought of ATVs tearing through the woods, pickups four-wheeling where the Union soldiers had been imprisoned. Not to mention innocent wildlife getting picked off.

  Mr Young smiled at my expression, which must have been easy to read. ‘I think you’re all right, Sylvie Davis. Now, you want to go see the dig? We’ve got half of the old church excavated, and you might like to meet some of the college interns.’

  ‘I’d love to.’ Rhys might see it as sticking my nose in his business again, though that didn’t bother me much. But as I glanced at my watch, I discovered a different problem.

  ‘Oh, I can’t. Paula will kill me if I’m not back for lunch.’ I was surprised at how disappointed I was not to see a hole in the ground. ‘It’s already noon and I still have to walk back.’

  ‘Well, don’t despair. How ‘bout I give you a ride?’ He looked at Gigi, lounging in my arms. ‘I didn’t want to damage your pride by offering you a ride home, but your little dog is done for.’

  He tactfully avoided mentioning that I was pretty obviously done for too. I knew it showed in my step and probably in my face. I didn’t even bother to hide my relief. ‘Mr Young, you’re a lifesaver. Gigi thanks you and so do I.’

  Chuckling, he held the truck door for me, then climbed behind the wheel. ‘Just come back and see me sometime, and we’re even.’

  We headed down the dirt road that had brought me there. It led through a gate in the fence I’d climbed, then made a turn where I would have walked straight through the woods to the back of the house. ‘Gigi and I will have to work on our stamina before we trek out here again.’

  ‘Just keep an eye on her,’ he said with a grin. ‘She wouldn’t be more than a mouthful for the gators.’

  ‘Gators?’ And I’d just been worried about bobcats.

  ‘Yep. You’d better stay on the roads and paths yourself. There are some old, open foundations here and there. And the drop to the river is steep in places. We had a man, upriver from here, doing some surveying. He fell and ended up in traction.’

  ‘That’s awful!’ I knew about traction. Picturing the sheer bluff at the headland, I felt a rush of sympathetic vertigo. ‘Is he OK?’

  ‘Probably will be eventually. But you be careful. Wouldn’t do for you to go breaking your other leg.’

  As much as I whined and worried about my current situation, I did admit that things could be worse, and that would do it.

  Chapter 12

  Paula’s comment when she saw that I’d hitched a ride home didn’t actually contain the words ‘I told you so,’ but it might as well have. I gritted my teeth on a retort, but fortunately Clara, chopping vegetables at the counter, laughed and broke the tension. ‘Paula, ease up. I’m sure Dr Young enjoyed having a captive audience.’

  I grimaced at my mistake. ‘I’ve been calling him Mr Young all day.’

  ‘If you listened to his stories,’ said Clara, ‘he’ll forgive you.’

  With a shrug, Paula unbent. ‘That’s undoubtedly true. Now go upstairs and wash up, and don’t even think about taking that dog with you while she’s filthy from walking in the woods.’

  Annoyance flared again, and it would have been satisfying to stomp to the porch, if I could. As I closed her crate, Gigi looked at me reproachfully, and I apologized with a treat.

  I should have been grateful to Paula for her dislike of dogs. Irritation was – well, maybe comfortable wasn’t the right word, but familiar. And it gave me the spur I needed to get my sore, exhausted butt up the stairs.

  A typical day for me used to be four hours of dance before lunch and at least six hours of rehearsal after, often with a performance in the evening. Now a couple of hours of walking made me feel like I’d hopped all the way to Atlanta and back.

  Plus, as I washed my hands and arms and splashed water over my face, I saw that I had a slight sunburn on my nose, so I was probably going to get skin cancer as well as freckles.

  And wrinkles, added my mother’s voice in my head.

  I went to my bedroom to grab Dad’s garden book so I wouldn’t have to come back upstairs for it. But I pa
used on the open threshold, one hand on the knob. It smelled as if someone had delivered an entire bouquet of lilacs while I was gone.

  Maybe Clara or Paula had dusted with some kind of scented cleaner. But I knew the smell of fresh versus perfume, and this was definitely fresh. Even in the small space, I couldn’t localize the source. Each way I turned, I caught an elusive whiff.

  It wasn’t unpleasant, but it was odd, and I’d had enough odd for the day. I resolutely leaned over the desk and opened the window a crack, then grabbed Dad’s book and went downstairs for lunch.

  Clara served an amazing tomato-and-spinach quiche for lunch – delicious, but my cholesterol was going to be sky-high if I didn’t make her see the joy of tofu soon. After excusing myself from the table, I went to the porch and brushed the fragments of leaves and pine needles from Gigi’s soft fringes of fur. When she was lovely again, we went out to the knot garden, where she promptly dived into one of the herb beds and started rolling around.

  I sighed. At least it smelled like tansy, which, according to my dad, repelled insects. Funny how many things he told me had lodged in my brain, popping up when I needed them.

  Spreading my old, faithful quilt on the ground, I sat and pulled off my shoes, then picked up Notable Gardens of the South and held it a moment, savouring the anticipation of deciphering Dad’s handwritten notes. After suitable reverence, I flipped to the short chapter on Bluestone Hill.

  There was a very grainy black-and-white photograph of the knot garden that showed the properly trimmed hedges, paths and planting beds. There was the stone, looming in the central circle, the path around that and the herb beds at each corner. Inside each, I could just make out some vague Celtic knot design, but not with enough detail to satisfy my curiosity.

  The author wrote that he included the garden in the book because of the contrast between its formal layout and the rustic simplicity of the standing stone, where a statue or topiary would have been more traditional.

  Almost in answer to that, beside the photo, Dad had lightly pencilled in a diagram of the garden and written: Stone. Circle? Stone circle? Stonehenge?