Appalachian Galapagos (39 page)

She strained at the darkness, but couldn't discern the night from the forest. She remembered being terrified of a Christmas present her Grandma had once sent. It was the book,
Where the Wild Things Are
. Definitely not a kid's book. "I was just kidding, Doug."

The van made a steep upward turn that hurled everyone back in their seats. When they leveled off again, there before them like a bright and glittering fairy encampment was the festival.

As they drew closer they noticed an immense open-sided white tent dominating the field. The sides were draped with kudzu. Light poured out from the sides. People filed inside bedecked in sparkling garments. Six great generator-driven halogen lights were interspersed around the field, illuminating the mad weaving of the mountain throng. The far third of the field was a parking lot that surely held every drivable vehicle within a fifty-mile radius.

No sooner had they found a parking spot by a green John Deere tractor, they were picking their way through the party. The brightly-lit tent was the obvious destination. Snatches of song could be heard from smaller groups where dulcimer and fiddle players made their stands.

Doug remembered the field, but was a little shocked at the change. Many of the people they passed had the same blank stares that the deer had had. But the trees were all gone. All that was left was a grass and clay mat trampled and pounded into an asphalt consistency.

The people were in differing forms of dress, from grime-covered coveralls fresh from the tobacco fields to handsomely-groomed couples in the dress of the long-forgotten mannered gentry. The connecting thread seemed to be the various amounts of kudzu intertwined, seeming to be almost attached to their clothing.

As they drew nearer the tent, electric strains of melody began to overpower the lyrical tinny sound of the mountain instruments. It took a few seconds, but Doug recognized it. Christian Rock, the ubiquitous regional answer to what the Church condemned Hard Rock of Satan. It was as hard and fast as its more popular counterpart, easily setting the blood to thrumming, but ethics and morals were the message.

"There's gotta be at least a thousand people," said Laurie, struggling to be heard over the music.

Doug glanced back and noticed her firm grip around his wide-eyed son's wrist.

"Like I said, probably the whole county's here. They most likely get a lot of business done then party all night. Seems all right to me."

"I feel kinda funny being here and not knowing anyone. We've gotten quite a few stares."

Doug regarded her, "I haven't noticed. Anyway, relax. This is the South. More importantly, it's Tennessee. All the folks are nice. You'll see."

They arrived at one of the tent's entrances. A tall, thin man, black stove-pipe hat, nineteenth century suit almost totally covered in Kudzu vines, stood, his pen poised above a clipboard.

"Name?" he said, his voice unusually officious.

Doug hesitated a moment, remembering the anal tendencies of the Army. "Oh, we're not gonna be on any list," he said. "We're not from around here."

The man's reply was a thin smile. "Name?" he repeated.

"Listen, man," said Doug, wondering if he should just gather everyone back in the van and go to the campsite. "I said we're not from around here. We're not gonna be on any list. We just heard of this little get-together at the store."

"Name?"

Doug's body tensed.

"Hey, Mister. We're the Daniels'," yelled Ian from somewhere behind Doug. Doug heard a soft whack. "Sorry, Mom. But he keeps asking the same dumb question."

The man with the clipboard's eye's softened. "You must be young Ian," he said. "And that makes you Doug and you Laurie," he concluded indicating with his pen.

"But how did you..."

"Old Annie called me. Told me y'all would be
stoppin
' by. Said you're from Chattanooga."

He flipped the pages on the clipboard until he came to the last page and made a mark by three names. "You folks are welcome. See Agnes at the table for your vines," he said indicating an older woman, gaudily-flowered hat perched on a head of blue-white hair, standing behind a Kudzu-heaped table.

"I'm thirsty, Dad."

"Sure you are, young man," said the man. "After y'all finish with Agnes, feel free to sample our refreshments."

As they shuffled into the tent, Doug tried to remember exactly when he had told the old woman at the store their names. She must have heard them speaking to each other when they were getting their supplies. He shook his head.

Agnes was pleasant and bouncy. As they approached, she jumped from her chair and deftly attaching several strands of kudzu to each of them. Across the tent was a series of tables pushed end-to-end. Each one was heavily-laden with food and drink.

They made a beeline and were soon carrying sagging paper plates and red plastic cups to the black folding chairs that made up two thirds of the tent's interior.

As they ate, Doug searched the people for his old friend, but had yet to see him among the milling throng. All the chairs in the tent were facing forward, and in addition to several couples snacking, others were watching the band performing on the raised platform. Hung from the tent supports directly above the drummer was an immense crucifix that appeared to be made entirely of kudzu. The figure of Jesus was strikingly accurate. Doug could even make out a green tear forever descending the statue's cheek.

"Hey, Doug," came a slow whisky soaked drawl from his left.

Doug turned and saw an emaciated man lowering himself into the seat next to him, denim jacket, multicolored with dirt and grime. The man's hair was a greasy waterfall, barely allowing two pinched, pink eyes to peer through.

"Hello," said Doug, lowering a sauce covered chicken wing. He wiped the corners of his mouth. "Do I know you?"

"Come on, Man. Why the hell are you here...now?"

"I'm sorry?"

"Doug, you dumb shit. It's me, Spencer!"

Doug straightened and peered at the man he had thought at least a dozen years his senior. No, not an old man, he saw now. Life just weighed heavily upon the man's face. He could see exploded blood vessels crowning the nose. What he had taken for wrinkles were seams of dirt, etched deeply into the worry lines that no thirty-year-old should have.

"Spencer? That you? What the hell happened? I mean, how the hell are you, man?"

"I'm alive, man. Now, why are you here?"

Doug could feel the force of his old friend's words as puffs of whiskey-coated breath hit his cheek.

"Came to do a little fishing and met Annie at the new store. Invited us to this little shindig."

Spencer looked around Doug and took in his wife and son and shook his head.

"What?" Asked Doug, wondering how drunk Spencer was.

"Doug, aren't you going to introduce me?"

He twisted in his chair, "Sorry, honey. Spencer, this is my wife, Laurie."

Laurie stuck out her hand. Spencer ignored it and pulled a pint bottle from his jacket. He hunched slightly and took a deep draught. When he was finished, he put the bottle back in his jacket and stared over Doug's other shoulder into the crowd. He leaned forward and whispered.

"Listen, and listen good. You folks don't belong here. You need to leave."

"Not very neighborly, Spencer," said Doug, struggling not to wrinkle his nose at the funk of his unwashed old friend.

Spencer glanced over Doug's shoulder again. "Shit."

"Mr. Daniels," came the voice of the man with the clipboard, "is this gentleman bothering you?"

Doug glanced up into the officious eyes of the man. "No. Not at all. We're old friends."

"Ah, I see."

Laurie looked at the man and noticed behind him, Agnes and two other ladies staring daggers at Spencer, all former pleasantness evaporated.

"Spencer, if you please?" The man held out a hand. Doug guessed it was for the bottle.

"What you want, man?" asked Spencer, his anger a little over-the-top for the occasion.

"Spencer, Agnes needs your help. Can you give her a hand?"

Spencer, who had puffed up with anger, deflated like an old balloon. His eyes suddenly sad. Once again he had become an old man. He leaned into Doug and gave him a short hug. "Get lost," he spit softly into Doug's ear.

Doug's childhood friend stood up slowly, letting his bones arrange themselves in his sallow skin and staggered away, his bony hips glancing off a few chairs before he melted into the darkness.

"What was that all about?" asked Laurie.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Daniels. I was concerned that one of our local miscreants might ruin your evening." The man's smile was a thin line, not overly enthusiastic. "Enjoy your meal, the service will be starting in a few moments."

"The service?" asked Laurie.

Doug groaned softly beside her, head rolling back, temporarily forgetting the last few confusing moments.

"We must give thanks to our Lord Jesus. After all, if it wasn't for his sacrifice, we'd all be full of sin and living in a Hell blah
blah
blah
."

"Oh," said Laurie. Remembering her husband's tales of the South's over-enthusiasm when it came to religion.

Laurie's moans
crescendoed
rapidly as Doug deepened his thrusts. Their lips met in a rush, teeth clacking. Deep throated sounds melded as they breathed in each other's essence. Laurie's body
spasmed
three times and her nails dug thin furrows into her husband's leaf-covered back. Doug climaxed simultaneously.

They collapsed, covered with sweat and dead leaves. Doug held his wife with one arm, her head resting against his heaving shoulder.

"I think I could get used to these Kudzu festivals," she said.

Doug smiled in the darkness.

The service had started, just as promised. Ian was thankful he didn't have to
go to church
as several of the other boys saved him and ran off in search of the fabled Mountain Bait. Laurie and Doug, however, didn't have an excuse. So, resigned to a little old-time religion, they sat arm and arm through the strange ceremony, Laurie occasionally nudging her husband to keep him awake.

Laurie, a non-practicing Catholic, was familiar with the stoic silence of Mass. The participative ranting of this congregation, however, reminded her of a television farce and left her smiling.

Doug had attended a few Southern Baptist services when he was a kid. Each venture was usually the result of a hormonal pursuit of a sweet young girl. The ceremony, or lack of it, wasn't strange to him. What was strange, though, was the message that seemed to be the main focus.

The preacher, a bald, heavy man whose jowls bounced energetically, kept comparing 'the life-bearing kudzu' to the blood and body of Christ. He kept talking of sacrifice.

"When we first came to this land," the preacher had said, "chased and persecuted for our beliefs, we found a land of vast uncharted wilderness. Not just the mountains, rivers and great forests, but the wilderness of the human soul. The savages living here were godless. We had much to teach them. We brought the light of Christ into their lives. They, in turn, were able to teach us something. What did they teach us?"

"What was it? Tell us?" came the cacophony of responses.

"They taught us about the land. They taught us how, not to conquer it, but to live with it. To become a part of it. After all, wasn't this mountain created by Jesus?"