Thistle and Twigg (12 page)

A
fter I dropped Phoebe off at her house, I stopped at the bank. I had a very pleasant chat with Mr. Roman, the local manager there. We’d met on two previous occasions when I opened new accounts and settled my house purchase before my move to town.

My first thought in regard to buying Cal’s land had been to simply transfer the money from a credit union savings account I’d used for years when depositing my part-time freelance money I’d never touched it, and many times the amount Cal asked for had been growing in interest there for some time.

The night before my trip to the bank, I had a better thought. I decided instead to take out a loan, as a way to support the local bank. I could easily transfer payments electronically from my credit union account when they were due. Mr. Roman seemed quite pleased and assured me the necessary paperwork and the cash Cal requested would be ready for me within a few days.

I worked in the house the rest of the morning, unpacking boxes and putting things away. I wanted to give Cal plenty of time to rest before going over to see about him. Around noon, I had a nice lunch made for him and a few extras for later.

The inside of Cal’s house was a bit messy but not so bad as I expected. The kitchen was outdated and in need of paint. We passed an old wood stove in the middle of the house and stepped into a small sitting room. No paintings or photographs hung here. There simply was no room. Floor to ceiling bookcases filled the walls and their shelves were stuffed with books.

I made Cal sit and eat while I looked over the spines of his collection. Homer received a treat as well then lay on the floor beside Cal.

“Miz Jane, I sure do appreciate you being so nice,” Cal said, as he tucked into his meal.

“My pleasure. Now, let’s talk about something serious. I want to call a nurse for you. You need someone reliable who will come see after you regularly.”

His mouth was full but his eyes had the look of “No.” He shook his head.

“Please, Cal. How long has it been since you’ve seen a doctor?”

“A few weeks ago. Doctors can’t do me no good anymore.”

I didn’t want to pry. If he’d seen a doctor as recently as that, I had to assume that doctor would have advised him to get a nurse if he needed one. Whether or not he had, and Cal was being uncooperative, was another question. “And are you following his instructions?” I stared at the cigarette butts in the ashtray next to his chair.

He smiled, following my gaze. “Not too good. He only gives me six months, so I figure why quit smoking now?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Don’t be. The main thing is, we’ve got to get our sale settled.”

He was very happy when I told him that it should be done within a few days. Mr. Roman saw no problem in getting the correct amount in cash for Cal but doing so would delay things a bit. “So, I should have it by the weekend? That’s good.” His back relaxed into his chair as he breathed out a heavy sigh of relief. “It’ll be over by the weekend. That’s good.”

I didn’t pester him about his doctor’s orders. Two bottles of prescription medicine sat on the end table next to the ashtray. One of them contained painkillers in a strong dosage. The fact that Cal had filled the prescription encouraged me. The other side of the coin was not so good: that the pain must be nearly unbearable for him to have done so.

“Something has been on my mind since this morning,” I said. “I must ask you, when you heard about Phoebe’s house being set fire, you looked as if there was something you might know about it. Have you heard something?”

He sat very still. His eyes lost their focus. “I don’t know if you’ve heard much about me, Jane,” Cal said. “Rumors always seem to include me around here, no matter what.”

“I don’t listen to gossip,” I said.

“Me neither. But sometimes you hear things that sound convincing, even when there’s no truth in a bit of it.”

“Such as?”

“Such as, people say I’ve hoarded money and gold out here,” he said with a laugh. “That I filled up mason jars and plugged them in the ground like planting corn.”

“My, how imaginative. Is there any basis for it, or is it one of many silly stories about you?”

Cal smiled. “Maybe it is.”

“Which?” I said. My knowledge of Southern speech was limited, but there was no mistaking the playfulness in misdirection here, particularly with Cal.

“What I’m getting at,” he said, “is that people will assume if something bad happens, that I did it. Been that way for years.”

“Yes, well, we can’t escape that in regard to the murder on your land. Yet in the case of Phoebe’s fire, you couldn’t have a better alibi. You were a guest of the local constabulary.”

I resumed looking over his books. I moved a stepping stool aside as I gazed over the book spines. History, many on the two world wars, and fiction, nature books. Native American customs and histories filled one entire bookcase, perhaps more.

“I have some of the special books over here that belonged to my father and grandfather.” He led me to a barrister’s bookcase with old glass doors over each shelf. Here I could see the pride Cal felt for his family and his land. Inside, books and mementos were carefully spread in displays.

He smiled as he opened one of the cabinets. He took out a black wooden shadow box with a glass top. Inside lay a small fragile-looking string of beads, once white but now yellowing with age. Next to it lay a small dagger with a bone hilt and a sewn leather sheath. Cal placed the box in my hands with reverence.

“Did these belong to someone in your family?” I asked.

He nodded. “My great-great-great-grandparents, Charlie and Jenny. Not the oldest things I have, but the most precious.” He took out other treasures in turn. It pleased him to have someone to share his joy in the objects. From beside a pair of gold rings, he brought out a wedding photo.

“My Livvie. She had a laugh that could cure your soul.” He gazed lovingly at the image of her and of himself, neither of whom looked yet twenty. He took out another, older photograph, a tintype, showing an elderly couple. “That’s my grandparents.”

She was small and dark. Her long black hair was braided and hung in two plaits past her shoulders. Her dark eyes shone with character and pride above high cheekbones. Cal’s grandfather stood tall beside her, his strong, rugged body protective, his mischievous face very much like Cal’s. “She was Cherokee?”

“Yep. He was one-fourth.”

I leafed through book after book, looking mainly at pictures taken of the area some time ago. Many were of the construction of Wheeler Dam in the 1930s. Much earlier ones showed downtown Tullulah when its stores were brand-new

One picture shocked and, frankly, sickened me. Three men with rifles stood beside the carcasses of two magnificent bears. One man held the heads up for the photographer. The shocking part was the caption, which said the animals were “killed on Old Anisidi Road near the bluffs.” Not far from where I sat. I looked more closely. One of the men named was Cal’s father.

Cal wanted to take a walk. I didn’t object, though I could tell he was more tired than usual. He led me off the gravel road in a direction away from his house. Soon his house and the surrounding meadow were behind us. The trees and underbrush of his woods all but erased the slim path we’d been following. Just like that, we crossed to another world.

“Now up here,” Cal said, “is the spring. This is good water. You can drink right out of it.” He stooped, cupped his hand and drank. “Good cold water.” A tiny springhouse made of metal sheets straddled the stream. Inside, shelves held cans of beer. Cal took one down and offered one to me as well.

“No, thank you,” I said, “but you go ahead and have one yourself.”

From the way the trees fell away from us, I sensed we were on another path of sorts. It continued to rise to a tree with a trunk as big around as the width of two cars. Its bark and limbs looked like no other around them.

Cal saw my astonished look. “Pretty, huh? I’ve seen it so many years, I forget sometimes how unusual it is.”

“What is it?”

“A Canadian hemlock. Over three hundred years old. It and four others you see there across the way are the only ones in this part of the country.”

“How is that possible?” I felt the bark with both hands as I walked around the large tree.

“Don’t know. The experts say seeds may have come down so far on a glacier. I’m thinking it could’ve been a traveler that brought them.”

A thrilling thought. Over three hundred years, which would be in the late sixteen or early seventeen hundreds. I nodded. “A native down to hunt? Or possibly a European explorer.”

“A fellow from a university looked at them. He said it was unlikely explorers were here then and that I just didn’t understand. I understand one thing—the trees are here and that’s for sure.”

We walked along as the path widened. Cal pointed out a fork that led to a well-known native trading route, one that stretched from the Smoky Mountains in North Carolina, across northern Alabama, and connected to the Natchez Trace.

“I spend a lot of time here. The path is so worn, it doesn’t need much up-keep. But I feel like I need to keep it open. I like to go along with my scythe and cut back where I need to. Here, try it.”

I took a few swipes at a clump of weeds. We walked on and as I got the hang of it I cut back here and there along the path.

“That’s right,” Cal said. “There’s maps I’ve drawn of all the trails, so you’ll have them. I’ve been writing things down for thirty years or more. My daddy and granddaddy did the same, so you’ve got plenty to read up on whenever you get the notion.”

“Wonderful. I look forward to it. Cal, there’s something I want to say. I want you to know that I will never intrude. As long as you live here, and I hope it will be for a very long time, I will consider this your place. I want to be sure you feel the same way, no matter if I’m the official owner.”

“I appreciate that. We aren’t going to have any problems, you and me.” He stopped and looked around us. “Now then. We’re here. The ceremonial hall.”

We had arrived at the two gate-like boulders, but from another direction than before. They had been completely hidden from view on our approach by large firs.

Cal took a folded piece of paper from his shirt pocket. “This is just a rough sketch. I wrote down the main points. There’s better ones at the house that show everything.” I unfolded the lined paper torn from a wire-bound book. Held horizontally a stream ran from left to right. Trails ran along the length with offshoots to paths Cal and I had already traveled.

Cal’s crude handwriting scrawled out words that made me stop in my tracks. All along the trail, place names in Cherokee tickled my imagination and rang in my head like fire bells.

“We’re here, at the main entrance.” He tapped the map. His finger touched a crude drawing of the entrance stones. Across from it, the map showed a wall opposite us with the words
Nvya Noquisi
on it. To the right, he’d drawn several waterfalls, one with the intriguing name Maiden’s Tears. To the left, he’d written one large word,
Danitaga,
above two trees, and in smaller print,
Tseni Usti, Tsali Skatsi,
beneath them.

We sidled through the entrance rocks. Cal waved to the old trail, a precipitous drop that a goat would have difficulty navigating. To the right, Cal walked on a short stretch of flat earth and onto a wooden plank bridge. It had no rail, no rope on the sides, but on its right, more huge boulders served as a wall as the path led steadily down. We were headed into a deep valley, like a canyon, with steep sheer cliff walls towering on the other side of the stream, as on Cal’s map.

I puzzled over the scene. “The stream, had it once been a river? The canyons out west were carved by water, but here the rock looks much different.”

“That’s right. It’s not a real canyon. All these boulders are from an earthquake. Many, many thousands of years ago. They formed a big circle and isolated the forest here.”

Cal stood on the planks, turned toward me, watched my expression of delight. A wordless communication passed between us, and he smiled while a pair of cardinals swooped between us. We walked round a bend of the stream, taking care to avoid the more slippery-looking rocks covered with wet green coats of moss. I could hear the sound of water rushing somewhere nearby, though here the stream meandered slowly along a thin curve.

“First stop, Invisible Falls,” Cal said. I expected to see a waterfall for the sound grew louder as we progressed. True to its name, there was sound but no falls, only an indentation in the rock about ten feet square, dry as could be.

Cal answered my confused look. “It’s an echo of another fall, that way. It bounces off the boulder across from it and again into this hollow.” Farther ahead past dappled shadows through the rock maze, I saw the bottom of a waterfall where a rainbow hovered in a patch of bright sunlight over the stream’s bed. In many more places, water fell from the rocks above us, some trickled flat against the walls, others in little streams as if spraying from a water hose. None were so breathtaking as the next spot I remembered from Cal’s map.

“The Maiden’s Tears,” I said when I saw it. It couldn’t be anything else. A large sandstone outcropping above us had been worn into the shape of a human face. Drops of water fell from the down-turned eyes to a small pool about fifty feet below.

“The U.S. Government rounded up all the Indian tribes in the southeast at different times over a period of years. They held some here in the canyon, then forced them to walk to Muscle Shoals. From there, they started on the Trail of Tears on the way out West. She cries for them.”

I could no longer hold back my own tears. I’d suppressed my emotions when I first saw the canyon from just inside the boulder portals. I hadn’t wanted Cal to think me daft. Even as wonderful as the outer forest was, on first seeing the canyon below us, I could hardly take in the beauty. I had to steady myself with a hand to the entrance and remind myself to keep breathing.