Appalachian Galapagos (40 page)

"Amen."

"Weren't the trees and river placed here by Jesus?"

"Amen."

"Didn't Jesus put down the animals of our forest?"

"Amen."

"And didn't Jesus drape our land with kudzu? His own crowning touch and special gift?

"Amen."

"Today is the anniversary of the Summer Planting. A ceremony, not brought across the sea, but one already in place when we got here. Today is the Summer Solstice. A day that for a thousand years was used by the savages who inhabited this land to thank their pagan gods for the year's bounty. We too thank the one true God for the bounty that he has blessed the people of Jacob Mountain with. We glorify in his sacrifice upon the Roman cross and offer ourselves in thanks."

Finally the preacher ended the ceremony, red-faced, tangled hair, sweat pouring from his body. With a grand sweep of his hand, he commanded the congregation to go into the forest, and commune with the gifts of God; to touch and worship at the life-giving altar of nature. Doug and Laurie had entered the darkness, hand-in-hand. They found their own secluded pocket to commune in and celebrated their love.

It took several minutes for them to find their clothes on the leafy-vine carpet that had been their bed. Laughingly, they brushed the dirt and leaves off each other's skin as they dressed, pausing every couple seconds to kiss and touch. They left the seclusion of the forest and entered the bright expanse of the old nursery. Many had already returned from their
worship
. Laurie recognized the look on their faces. It was the same look she had seen as a child as the people returned from the rail in her church. She spied the
Clipboard Man
who nodded in her direction and appeared to make two marks upon his namesake.

In the tent, Laurie and Doug greedily grabbed cups and drank deeply of the sweet, southern iced tea. Others joined them at the tables, grabbing their own food and drink. All smiling and happy, looks of relief shown from their eyes.

Doug and Laurie found two chairs and sat down. Laurie saw one of the boys that Ian had run off with and walked quickly over to him. She returned shaking her head.

"Says he doesn't know where Ian is. I think we should go look for him."

"Don't worry about it, honey," said Doug, still a little stiff from their exertion. "With all these people around, he's okay. Probably just found the
motherload
of worms. Gonna kill the fish with the sheer weight of them."

Laurie smiled and leaned back, her fingers playing with the small hairs on the back of Doug's neck.

An hour later, there was still no sign of Ian. It had been several minutes since what appeared to be the last of the congregation had returned from the
treeline
. Over where they entered the tent, Agnes and the Clipboard Man were staring back at them. Finally Laurie couldn't wait any longer. She pulled Doug over.

"Have you seen our boy?" asked Laurie.

"No ma'am. Not yet," said the man.

"You are very lucky," said Agnes, a smile on her plump face as she reached out and touched Laurie's arm.

Laurie glanced over and wondered if the old woman might need her thyroid medication adjusted.

"Our son, Ian. You met him when we got here," said Doug.

"I know who your son is," said the man. "As of now, two people have yet to return from their communion. Your son is one of them."

"My son died in Vietnam. He would've been chosen, I just know it," said Agnes.

"Well, shouldn't we go look for them?" asked Laurie, suddenly discovering an intense dislike for the constantly-smiling woman babbling next to her.

"I expect one of them to be along momentarily."

"One of them?" asked Doug.

"Ah, here he comes now."

Doug and Laurie spun around and saw a figure emerge from the trees. They couldn't make the person out as he trudged toward them. Doug saw the figure lift something to his face, hold it there for a second then drop his hand. Drawing closer, Doug realized it was Spencer heading straight for them.

"Nope," he said. "It's only Spencer. Now, where is our boy?"

The Clipboard Man ignored him and lifted his hand in the air and signaled the preacher who had retaken the stage.

Agnes grasped Laurie's arm. "I just knew it would be you. I am so happy for you, dear."

Laurie shook her arm free and spun around. She felt heat rising in her body. Her heart felt constricted. Everybody was staring at them. Smiles of idiocy were plastered on every face. Didn't they understand? Her son was missing. Didn't they care?

"Doug," she said, her voice moving steam-whistle high.

The crowd began to applaud and move toward them. Hands grasped for theirs and people patted them on the back. Congratulations were given by all.

Laurie felt strangled. She couldn't understand this crazed receiving line she had become a part of. She roughly pushed her way free and bolted out the side of the tent, screaming for her son at the top of her lungs.

Doug remained rooted, trying to mold their unreasonable response to the problem into something familiar. A hand grabbed his wrist and jerked.

"Come with me. I know where he is."

Spencer pulled Doug through the crowd, scraping and kicking his way through. They left the smiling crowd behind and picked up speed. Doug glanced back. The people of the mountain were milling about like cattle, oblivious to their departure.

Laurie caught up to them, breathless and crying. They fought their way through the spiny brambles and thick shrub, blazing their own path into the interior. Spencer continued to remain aloof and ignored their pleading questions. Doug and Laurie searched all around trying to
will
their vision through the almost impenetrable darkness.

Several minutes went by before they came to a stop.

"We're here," said Spencer simply. He released Doug's hand and fumbled in his pocket. He came out with two things. One he passed to Doug, the other he lifted to his lips.

"What's here? Where are we?" asked Doug. He switched on the flashlight that his old friend had just handed him and shined it on the forest. Ian wasn't there. All he saw was the usual kudzu-covered brush, amorphous shapes of things that had been swallowed by the vine.

"Ian? Ian's here?" Laurie asked, her voice high pitched from fear.

"There's no one here!" Doug turned on his friend in disgust and grabbed a soiled shirt-front. "What the hell is this, Spencer. What fucking drunk delirium are you in? Where the hell is Ian? Where the fuck is my son?"

Spencer stared at his friend, bottle to his lips.

Doug reached out and swatted the bottle to the ground.

Spencer just shoved his hands deep into his jacket and blinked back.

"Dad? Is that you?"

"Ian?" Doug whipped the light around and zeroed in on the sound. A medium-sized bush.

"Hey, Dad? How's it going?"

"Ian?" asked Doug and Laurie simultaneously.

Doug peered and suddenly made out two eyes within the bush. Seeing it more closely, he could make out the boy's pale skin beneath the leaves. There was no sign of his clothes.

"Son, where are your clothes?"

"Ian, get over here this instant."

"I can't, Mom. I don't need clothes no more, Dad."

Both parents hesitated at the strange impertinent answers.

"Son, your Mom said come here. She's been worried about you. Now get your butt over here."

"Sorry, Dad. I can't. But don't worry, it's cool. I like it here."

Doug was at the end of his very frayed emotional rope. He threw the light to Spencer and rushed over to his son. Ian was covered in Kudzu, only small patches of skin could be seen. It had intertwined in the hair and around his limbs.

"I told you to get over here, boy." He grabbed for the boy's arms and tried to tug his son out of the bush. It gave a little, but held on firmly.

"Stop, Dad. It hurts," said the little boy, his voice trembling.

Doug tugged again. The child began to cry. "Daddy, stop."

Doug cursed heavily and reached around the boy's kudzu-covered waist.

"Doug, maybe we should get something to cut him out," said Laurie, breathless with fear. "I mean, if he's stuck we just can't leave him here."

Doug planted his feet in the moist earth and began to heave, the muscles crackling along his spine.

"Ian..."

heave

"...I said..."

heave

"...to get..."

heave

"
the hell out of..."

heave

"...the bush!"

Finally, a large crack filled the glade. As Doug pulled, his son began to scream. Ignoring the thrashing of his son, Doug held tightly and turned back toward his wife.

She pointed a trembling finger at the ground where Ian had just been standing. Her own screams joined her son's in an agonizing chorus.

Doug stared at the ground. Rivulets of green and red fluid were pouring from the boy's legs—or stumps. With a scream of his own, Doug realized that Ian's feet were still planted in the mountain soil. The ankles stood tall like ripe tubers sprouting blood and green sap. He noticed the ends of Ian's legs ended mid calf, flaps of skin dangling heavy with the wetness of arterial blood.

Laurie was drunk again and it wasn't yet noon. As always, she was talking to her plants, carefully watering them from a large blue pitcher. Her babbling was almost incoherent.

Doug was leaning back, smoking a menthol, the smoke hovering around him like a bad aura.

It was last year to the day that they'd made their flight from the mountain. After wrapping his belt around his son's thighs just above each knee to staunch the flow of blood, they'd sprinted for the car.

He remembered the horrified crowd, parting in shock as he rushed through, cradling his son, bracketed by Laurie and Spencer. He remembered Spencer raising the familiar Winchester rifle and firing it into the crowd as the people of the mountain realized what was going on and surged to stop him. He remembered Spencer drowning in the wave of people as the van danced drunkenly down the mountain road.

He remembered the quizzical doctors he had seen in the six states between Tennessee and his new home.

Unforgiving memories, all.

Doug leaned over and took a deep drink of his wife's gin and tonic and stood up. He was a little shaky too. Weaving slightly, he shambled over to his wife and put an arm around her shoulder. He joined her in a one-sided conversation with the tall, sculptured kudzu bush that stood lonely in a large clay pot.

"So then this fat fuck walks up to Judd," Kenny Joe said, grinning at his friends as he turned over the hamburgers on the grill. "We're
talkin
' Marlon Brando fat. Poor bastard has like five chins, and when he grins, his face puffs out like a beach ball. He must be at least four hundred pounds."