Brave Enemies (19 page)

“Where are you going?” I said, but it came out more of a cry than a whisper.

But halfway up the hill John stopped again. He stopped and turned to the left, and he turned to the right. He felt no bigger than a nerve inside me. But where the nerve touched it was like a spark from a flint, and it burned a needle of candle flame. Where were we going up the hill? Was there nowhere else we could go?

And then I felt John touching me. He touched me on the nipple and on the throat. He touched me on the shoulder and on the back of the neck. And he reached down under and touched my behind and streams of sparks and flutter ran all through me.

And I felt myself opening up. I opened deeper and wider than I ever had. I opened wider than I could, stretching myself and flattening myself to him. I opened so wide I thought I was turning inside out, and I thought I was going to fall backward.

If I open wider there will be nothing left of me, I thought. I will disappear into the spread of my legs.

John was reaching into me so far I didn't want him to reach deeper. If he reached any farther it would kill me. Stop, I wanted to whisper. Stop that, I wanted to say. But I was too weak, and too busy, to say anything.

When he took one more step, and then another, I felt a distant roar, like wind on the other side of the mountain. Something had broken loose inside me, but I couldn't tell where it was. Something had broken loose and was on its way.

“Where are you going?” I said under my breath.

John moved sideways, and then he moved sideways again. He couldn't move far, but he moved just enough. He moved to the left and then he moved forward.

What had broken loose in me couldn't be stopped. I couldn't even tell where it was, but something was on its way. Something was veering and ticking and banging inside me, and I thought, I will finish climbing the hill now. I will claw my way up and look over the top.

But what happened was I felt wings under me and in my thighs, and the wings started moving. The wings bore me up. And I felt bright velvet on my back and bright velvet rubbing the back of my thoughts and lifting me up. And the wings opened wider and flapped faster. I'd never felt such a lifting. I lifted John in the cradle of my wings, right up over the top of the hill into the sunset. And we were soaring in the wind so high I could see to the end of the mountains.

And I thought: The fire of love doesn't burn big and red and hot. The fire of love is purple and blue and tiny and burns in the dark. The fire of love is so bright and tiny it seems like something you remember from a long time ago.

I
T WAS GETTING UP
closer to Christmas and John was growing stronger. Most of the burns on his back were closing up. He could move better and twist around a little more. But the worst burns on his back and backside had not healed up. They were still runny under the scabs and under the corruption. They got inflamed like they were infected all over again. The longer his back went without healing the more discouraged John became.

When we loved, or when we sang hymns and prayed together, he would feel better. And then his confidence would wear away again and a change would come over him.

“If the Lord is in charge of everything and knows all, why would He let me suffer?” John said. There was bitterness and fear in his voice. “I have tried to serve Him in these woods. I have walked through mud and rain and high winds to my services.”

It bothered John that members of his flocks came to see him less often. I told him they were all miles away and working hard at their own places. And nobody wanted to travel in these troubled times.

“I have gone to visit the sick,” he said. “I have gone to comfort the grieved and afflicted.”

I didn't know what to say to John. He was the one who had read the
Bible and studied on it. He was the one who knew the proper thing to say. I told him that people depended on the preacher. They didn't expect the preacher to depend on them.

When he was most discouraged and when the pain was worst, John cursed like anybody else. When I tried to wash the worst of his sores he yelled out, “Damn me if I don't get over this.” As he fussed and cursed I saw that under his commitment and talent to preach and sing, he was just like everybody else. The pain and the long sickness stripped away his talent and inspiration. When he got well and strong again he would get them back. But the pain had taken away his strength and purpose. I was ashamed to see it. I was embarrassed to see him naked of what made him special and kind and above the meanness of the world.

“You'll feel different when your back is healed,” I said.

John turned to me with anger in his eyes. “Who are you to tell me that?” he said, as if he blamed me for all his trouble. He was like a hurt dog snarling and snapping at the thing closest to him. And he didn't want to give me any authority to comfort him.

I had to get out of the cabin. I had to get away from his glare and accusations. I put on Mr. Griffin's gray coat and wrapped a scarf around my head. It was an overcast December day. As I closed the door behind me I heard John call out, “Are you going to abandon me?” But I didn't answer. Such a question didn't need an answer.

It was still around the cabin, but wind roared on the hill, on the other side of the hill. I figured I would look for Christmas greens. I needed something to cheer me up. I needed to do something that would give me hope. I tried to remember where there might be a little pine or cedar for a Christmas tree. There were cedars back in the gully below the hill. Cedars liked to follow a ditch or stream. I got the ax and started walking toward the hill.

Cedars make better Christmas trees than white pines because they have thicker limbs. And cedars have a perfect flame shape, a tear shape. But their color is not as pretty and blue as a white pine, and their scent
is different. A cedar doesn't smell as good in a house as a white pine. A cedar smells a little musty.

I found a cedar tree by a branch before I even got to the bottom of the hill. It was as tall as I was and so dark it was almost black. It had cedar galls on it that looked like little potatoes. They seemed like decorations. I chopped it down with the ax and dragged it behind me.

I looked for a holly tree with berries on it, and turkey's paw moss I could string over the door, and some galax for greenery. The only way to get some mistletoe would be to climb an oak tree to pick it. I didn't have a gun to shoot it down.

I walked along the hill dragging my tree, and I did find a holly with bright berries on it and broke off several limbs. Holly berries are so red they light up the woods. And on the north end of the hill I did find some beds of turkey's paw moss and pulled up half a dozen strands like garlands. But I wanted some mistletoe. Maybe mistletoe would cheer John up. I could hang some over his bed and kiss him.

I looked around in the woods for mistletoe. Staring against the sky, it was hard to tell mistletoe from a squirrel's nest. There were dark little wads in trees here and there. But farther out the ridge I saw a big oak tree with a huge cluster in it. The mistletoe was big as a bushel basket.

When I was a little girl, I loved to climb trees. I'd climbed hickory trees and oak trees and dogwood trees. I'd climbed the tallest pines and sat in their tops. I dragged my cedar and carried the ax and greenery across the hill. I found an oak with mistletoe in the top, but it had no limbs until about ten feet above the ground. The trunk was too big to shinny up. Even if I took off the coat I couldn't put my arms around the tree.

I looked around and saw the shaft of a dead maple lying on the ground. It was partly rotten, but I thought it might bear my weight. I broke it off and leaned the pole against the trunk of the big oak. I took off the coat and laid it on the ground. Gripping the pole with both my hands and elbows and knees, I shinnied up to the first limb. From that perch I was just able to reach the next limb. From there I pulled myself up the big
tree. There was only one place about halfway up where I had to shinny between limbs.

The view from the top of the tree took my breath. I could see way across the valley to the birches along the river. I could see smoke from cabins. And I could see west to the mountains, to the black scald on Bee Water Mountain and to the higher peaks beyond. I was so high I felt close to the gray sky. There were white berries on the mistletoe. The leaves were golden green, like they were filled with honey.

I tore off all the bunches I could reach and flung them down. I watched the clusters bounce on limbs below. It was the most mistletoe I'd ever seen.

Then there was a shout and out of the corner of my eye I saw something move. Turning, I saw a line of men on horses on a trail not too far away. They had seen me and were pointing at me. Maybe they thought I was a spy. They were riding toward me. I started down the tree fast as I could and scratched myself on the rough bark, dropping limb to limb. When I got to the lowest limb I jumped to the ground.

Flinging on the coat, I grabbed the tree and holly and turkey's paw, and as much of the mistletoe as I could carry, and started running down the ridge. It was hard to drag the tree, but I hated to give up what I'd come after. I heard the men hollering behind me. They were on horses and if they found me they could ride me down. My only hope was to stay hidden and run through a thicket where horses couldn't follow.

I figured they would expect me to run straight away from them. It was what anybody would do that was scared. But when I came to the branch at the bottom of the hill, I turned right and started running on the rocks and in the sand and mud. The branch splashed between laurels with low overhanging limbs, and I had to duck and twist sideways to get through. The cedar dragged in the mud and sand, and I dropped some of the mistletoe.

It came to me that I would have to hide the tree and greens and come back later for them. There was a place by the branch with lots of briars
and vines and I parted a way into the mess and put the greens and tree behind some stalks and canes.

With my hands free I could run faster. But the hollering was getting closer. I saw they had crossed the branch and then come back because they'd lost the trail. And when they came back they saw my tracks in the mud and sand of the branch.

I ran faster, bending low and panting hard. I was worn out from climbing the oak tree, and my feet were sinking in water and mud. There were cushions of mud and tongues of sand the farther down I went. I sank up to my ankles. Even where it looked like leaves on solid ground I sank up to my shins. Under grass there was mud, slick and soft as cream. I couldn't move faster because the mud was sucking at my shoes.

The mud was cold but I didn't even notice it. I fell across a log. It sounded like the men had gotten off their horses to follow me. I heard them splashing and breaking limbs. At least they didn't have any dogs to follow me.

I couldn't outrun them, and if they caught me they would beat me and hang me, the way they did with spies. No matter what I said they wouldn't believe me. If they caught me, John would never see me again. He would be left to wait on himself and heal by himself.

I saw a sinkhole beside the branch. It was a place where a seep spring had undercut the clay and eaten away the bank. Vines and roots hung over the edge in a kind of curtain. I thought about jumping into the hole and pushing myself behind the veil of roots and vines.

Somebody hollered and a horse's hooves clattered on rocks. In the sinkhole I would be just a few feet away when they passed, and if they saw me I would be trapped. I had to keep running. It was hard to pull my legs out of the quick-mud, but I knew it was my last chance to escape. The mud slurped at my feet and sucked as I clawed my way out of the hole. And once I put a foot on the rocks I saw I'd lost my left shoe. My left foot was bare in the cold gritty mud.

I limped ahead on the rocks and sticks and mud as fast as I could. But
it seemed they were going to catch me, for the hollering was louder and closer. There was nowhere to hide, and they could follow my tracks in the mud. You have to think like a fox, I said to myself. Even if I climbed out of the branch they could follow my muddy tracks up the bank. I'd made a foolish choice to run along the stream.

Just then I saw a tall white pine on the side of the hill. It was taller than the other trees, but its limbs started almost at the ground. If I could reach the pine tree and climb it I could hide in the thick branches. But how could I get there without leaving muddy tracks? My only chance was to make them keep going down the branch.

I ran through the deepest pools to wash the mud off my feet and legs. And when I'd gone past the pine tree I came to a place with rocks on the bank. There were rocks up the side of the hill, mossy and covered with lichens. I jumped from rock to rock, hoping the moss would soak up the water from my feet. And when I got above the branch I walked as fast as I could without disturbing the leaves back to the big pine tree.

Staying on the side of the pine away from the branch, I climbed the limbs like a ladder, reaching the limbs with lots of needles just as the men came into view. The leader had his pistol pointed ahead, and some of the men carried their swords bare. They were red-faced and out of breath and angry.

Slowly and quietly as I could, I slipped farther up the tree, out of sight of the ground. I could only fool them a few minutes, so I didn't dare climb the tree any higher than I had to, for when they found they'd lost my trail they'd double back. And when they followed my tracks to the tree they would climb it.

Soon as they were out of sight I slipped down the pine tree. And then I walked carefully. I took off the one shoe and hurled it toward the creek, thinking it might confuse them. I walked on tiptoe and tried not to break any sticks. And when I got out of sight of the tree I ran fast as I could, circling way across to get back to the cabin.

“Y
OU LOOK LIKE
you've been drowned,” John said when I came into the cabin. I was so tired I stood in front of the fire with my hands on my knees. My pants were covered with mud and my coat was splattered with mud and frayed by briars and sharp brush.