Old Wounds (36 page)

B
ACK TO
C
HEROKEE

The Qualla Boundary, October 1986

At last October
had come, and with it the long-awaited trip back to Cherokee. When Maythorn and Rosie had gone to Cherokee last time, Mrs. Barbie had driven them, complaining in a whiny voice all the long way. The traffic was terrible; the stores were tacky; Maythorn’s father’s family were rude and backward—the trip had seemed to go on forever.

But this time Mrs. Barbie and Krystalle were off at a pageant, so Driver came for them in his truck. They set off as before, down Ridley Branch, but instead of crossing the bridge that would take them to the road that led to the big highway and Asheville, Driver turned left onto Bear Tree Creek.

Rosemary nudged Maythorn, who seemed unconcerned. Maythorn, she whispered in her friend’s ear, he’s going the wrong way.

Driver must have heard her, because he reached over Maythorn and squeezed Rosemary’s knee. Hey, Rosie, he said, I’m taking you by a secret Indian shortcut. This is the way the old Cherokees would have come, back when they traveled over here to hunt.

Rosemary’s heart thudded with excitement. She knew that Indians had hunted in Marshall County long, long years ago. Pa and Mum had found spearheads and flakes of flint in the big field near the barn. And she herself had once found a tiny bleached seashell with two holes drilled in it. Mum had said that it had probably been sewn to a shirt as a decoration. Just think, Rosie, this shell got here all the way from the ocean or the gulf. Maybe an Indian down on the Gulf Coast found it and traded it to someone who lived a little farther north, and she traded it, and so on till it ended up here—far, far away from the salt water.

Driver drove to the end of Bear Tree Creek, to the place where it turned into two narrow roads. He pointed the old truck up the road to the right and they began to climb, twisting and turning, higher and higher up to the top of the mountain.

The road was narrow and unpaved, with woods pressing close on either side, and Rosemary became Shining Deer, the only woman who, because of her superb skill with a spear, was allowed to accompany a band of hunters. She herself had slain three fat bucks.

We’re at the top now, Driver announced. This is what the white folks call Troublesome Gap. And down there’s Spring Creek.

As they descended, the woods changed to farms and pastures, and houses, more and more houses. They passed through a tiny cluster of buildings that Driver said was a place named Trust. And on up here a little ways is Luck.

Maythorn pointed to a store that bore a sign reading PINK J. PLEMMONS, GROCERIES AND FEEDS, and she and Rosemary both began to giggle at the idea of someone named Pink.

And then they were on a highway, and the lake called Junaluska was to their right. That lake’s named for a famous Cherokee chief, Driver told them; no one but rich white folks live there now. He spat out his window and went on, The white folks love us Indians when we’ve been dead long enough.

The roar of the waterfall was even louder than she had remembered, and once again the sight of the white foam tracery against the sheer rock cliff caused her to stand mesmerized. And Granny Thorn was waiting for them, like before. She hugged them both and hurried them into her cabin, where a fire was crackling in the hearth. From out of the ashes she pulled a black iron skillet, full of what looked like cornbread. She spoke to Maythorn in Cherokee and Maythorn nodded, a little dubiously.

She wants you girls to have some of her chestnut bread, Driver explained, cutting his eyes over to the hesitant Maythorn. Go on, Rosie, try some; it’s good.

As they helped themselves to the crumbly, slightly sweet bread, Granny Thorn continued to talk in the whispering sounds that were the Cherokee language. Driver tried to keep pace with her, putting her words into English. Granny says that it’s the Fall Festival this weekend and we’ll all be going. She wants to show you about the dances—and to Rosemary’s amazed delight, Granny Thorn began a slow shuffling step, accompanying herself with a repetitive chant in her high, thin, old voice. Her gnarled and calloused bare feet beat out a rhythm on the dusty planks of the floor.

It was the most wonderful day she had ever spent. Granny had presented her and Maythorn with real Cherokee dresses of a deep rose-red to wear to the festival. And at the festival, she and Maythorn had been taken under the wing of a pretty young woman who seemed to know Driver very well. Sary Littlejohn had shown them how to do the Beaver Dance, and best of all, had asked Rosemary what clan she belonged to!

She thought I was a Cherokee! Rosemary hugged the thought to herself as they jolted back up the road to Big Cove and Granny’s house by the waterfall. Maythorn’s head was nodding and Granny and Driver were talking softly.

Some of us are going up to Swimmer’s house later tonight for the Man Dance, she heard Driver tell Granny. If don’t anyone do it, it’ll be forgotten. And seems like to me, us Cherokee need it as much now as we ever did.

31.

T
HE
B
OOGER
D
ANCE

Tuesday, October 25

The People were
crowded into the house, hip to hip, knee to back, close-packed on the big, smooth-worn logs that circled the central hearth. A faint sheen of sweat covered their eager faces, for although First Frost had come and the night air outside was crisp, the smoky interior was warm with the heat of so many bodies. All eyes were fixed on the tanned deerskin that covered the doorway, and when it was drawn back briefly as one of the men stepped outside to relieve himself, the huge orange moon hanging impaled on twisted, leafless branches illuminated strange shapes flitting back and forth in the purple night, manlike but for their grotesque heads.

The children squirmed beside their mothers in an ecstasy of anticipation and terrified delight as the five Callers, with their seed-filled gourds, and the lead Caller, with his water drum, accompanied the dancers circling the hearth. The pebble-filled tortoise shells bound to the legs of the dancers provided an extra layer of percussion to the measured thump of feet tracing the age-old pattern of the stomp dance.

The sixth song ended. In the momentary hush, a pale shiny face, its long, obscenely drooping nose surrounded by black fur, insinuated itself into the sliver of space between the deerskin and the doorframe. The hideous face surveyed the expectant crowd for a long moment then withdrew. There was a prolonged, inhumanly loud farting sound from beyond the door. And suddenly, in a jumble of flailing limbs and lewd gestures, the six masked boogers clumped into the lodge and the Booger Dance began.

Rosemary hunched forward, lost in the words as they scrolled down the computer screen. A recently posted article on a Web site devoted to Cherokee lore had popped up in response to her search. Suddenly, vague, half-remembered images had coalesced into a firm conviction.

This is it; one of the things I’ve been trying to remember. Driver was going to a dance at a neighbor’s house. But there were only grown-ups there. And it was in a regular house, with the furniture pushed back to leave room for the dancing. We weren’t supposed to be there, but when Granny Thorn went to sleep, Maythorn whispered to me that she knew the way to where they were dancing. We snuck out and followed a path through the woods to another little cabin. We could hear the drum and the rattles and we watched through the window until someone saw us. Then Driver came out and took us back home.

He had been annoyed with them for interrupting his good time, but beneath the irritation was a surprised admiration.
You girls came through the woods in the dark? Pretty good Indian stuff. But this dance is just for grown-ups—parts of it, a little X-rated maybe.

As he accompanied them along the dark path back to Granny’s cabin, he had explained the significance of the Booger Dance.
See, the boogers are the bad guys, like the boogeyman—nothing to do with the stuff that comes out of your nose, he had said as Rosemary stifled a rising giggle. We call it the Man Dance, too, because…
He had hesitated, but both girls knew what he was talking about, having seen some of the dancers with penis-like gourds between their legs, making a great show of their artificial equipment.
Well, that’s just another name for it. But the reason we do the Booger Dance is to make fun of our enemies. You see? You saw how the dancers were acting silly and falling down. The dance tells us to laugh at the bad guys and not be scared of them.

Then they had heard the roar of the great waterfall and, as they had rounded a curve in the path, they had seen the little cabin’s outline against the ghostly veil of falling water. The tiny windows had been dimly aglow with the light of the oil lamp Granny had left burning to guide Driver back home.

And Maythorn told Driver that she wanted to make a Booger mask so she wouldn’t be scared of someone—and Driver said he would help her.

“Mum, I’m glad I caught you. I’ve remembered something really important.” Rosemary’s breathless enthusiasm bubbled in Elizabeth’s ear. She listened apprehensively as her daughter detailed the elements of this new revelation, ending with a somewhat diffident note.

“But I called because I thought…Mum, do you think you could possibly go to Cherokee and try again to find Driver Blackfox? If he can remember the mask Maythorn made, it might tell us who she was afraid of. And if we knew that, it could get us closer to knowing what happened to her.”

Elizabeth glanced at the clock. Eight-thirty in the morning and a day’s worth of wreath-making ahead of her. Phillip had already left for school, and she had been on the way out the door when the phone rang.

“Today? Now? Why would I have any better luck at finding him than we did before?”
And what makes you think that I’m sitting around like some unemployed private eye, just waiting for a call so I can spring into action? For god’s sake
—

“Mum, I know you’re busy, but listen. I did a little online research and ended up phoning a gallery in Cherokee where Driver’s got a show right now. I talked to this woman and told her that I was doing an article on Cherokee artists and that I wanted to interview Driver Blackfox but had been having difficulty getting in touch with him. She was really nice and said that he was bad about returning calls or answering letters but that if I could get to Cherokee today, Driver would be at the gallery this afternoon.”

32.

T
RUST TO
L
UCK…AND
B
EYOND

Tuesday, October 25

Reluctantly, Elizabeth had
allowed herself to be convinced. Rosemary’s excitement was compelling. “And, Mum, you really ought to try going by the back way—I wish I’d thought of it earlier; it’s the way Driver took us the last time we went to visit Granny Thorn. You just go down Bear Tree and over Troublesome Gap to Spring Creek—really, Mum, I think you’ll love it. And call me tonight and let me know if you talk to Driver.”

The day was clear and cold as Elizabeth drove up Bear Tree Creek. Frost blanketed the fields still in shadow, and almost every little house was marked by a plume of white smoke. At the head of the creek she took the fork to follow the gravel road that wound high and steep toward Troublesome Gap. Rich brown leaves carpeted the woods, and the sun, winking through tree trunks and bare branches, highlighted the few trees whose red or yellow leaves had not yet bowed to the inevitable. Huge old rhododendrons, dark and wilted with the cold—leaves “querled” up, in the mountain dialect—clung to steep banks.

Higher and higher, surrounded by leafless trees she drove. Through a gap, she could see distant mountains, dark and hazy blue, stretching along the horizon. Above her, the sky was a perfect clear deep azure, and before her, newly fallen brown leaves lined the roadsides, leaving a narrow trail down the middle, making the gravel road seem no more than a footpath.

This is incredible—like going back centuries. I haven’t seen another vehicle since that one pickup back near the bridge.
She was very near the top now. Tilted vertical outcroppings of rock loomed above the road; in the pervasive shade, icicles and wilted ferns clung to the folds of the boulders.

At the top of the mountain she stopped the car to enjoy the view. In the distance a grid of roads was sketched on a cleared mountainside, and farther down the road she could see a single car. A small litter of beer cans in the ditch revealed that others had paused here.

Oh, well, back to the present.
Down and down, dodging in and out of shadows and sunlight that lay across the twisting road. Far below her lay Spring Creek, its houses and fields in the mountain’s shadow still heavy with frost. Two horses, little more than dark silhouettes against their silvered pasture, looked up as her car approached.

Close by the road rose an abandoned log cabin, the original edifice studded with additions from different periods—a frame addition to the front, a crude plywood enclosure scabbed on to the back. Sentinel pines stood in a line beside the old house, and across the road were a traditional corn crib and shed. Just beyond the house a log barn still stood, straight and true, though a plank addition sagged slightly.
There’s a story there in that home place—probably spanning several generations. But now they’re all gone.

The somber thought was dispelled by the sight of a sheaf of orange-coral leaves illuminated by the sun, behind the dark loom of a huge poplar trunk. And now the woods gave way to fields, and before her were more and more houses in a broad valley and beautiful mountain slopes warmed by the sun and punctuated by globular green pines. Soon she was through Spring Creek and into Trust, a little handful of buildings that seemed to have been recently renovated: a general store, a large house with a well-maintained lawn, a gazebo, a chapel, a covered bridge: an immaculate little fantasyland amid the quiet surroundings.

Luck was next, another minuscule community, and Elizabeth smiled at the sign on a defunct grocery and feed store. Mr. Pink J. Plemmons’s store might be shuttered, but his name still endured, proudly blazoned in faded lettering on a sign that hung askew across the building’s façade.
Till some antiques picker gets hold of it and sells it to a transplant to put on their living room wall because it’s “quaint.”

To her disappointment, she realized that the magical part of the journey was over, and she found herself on a busy highway, speeding through Junaluska, past Waynesville, and on to Cherokee. The odd feeling of having come in through a secret back door lingered—
almost like L’Engle’s “tessering” through a wrinkle in time
—but now the scenery was familiar: the same that she and Rosemary had passed not quite two weeks prior—except that now there was a snowmaking machine on the roadside in Maggie Valley, turning out a pathetic little slope of white granules for tourists to slide down on inflated rubber doughnuts.

Mystic Grounds, the coffee shop and gallery where Driver Blackfox’s work was on display, was an unexpectedly cosmopolitan little sanctuary in the midst of the tourist kitsch of Cherokee. Fancy coffees, quiche, and
pain au chocolat
were on the menu; Edith Piaf was followed by Tracy Chapman on the sound system. Elizabeth paused in the doorway, wondering if her quarry was on the premises.

A sign with an arrow directed her to the gallery—a spacious, windowless room. The first thing that met her eye was a carved mask, painted a lurid blue and surmounted with a stiff fringe of flame-colored hair. Beneath it, she was delighted to see, was an artist’s statement and a picture of Driver Blackfox.

A handsome, chiseled face with a somber expression looked out from the color photograph.
He still has the long braids Birdie mentioned but, like mine, they’re not as dark as they used to be.
The artist’s statement was brief. It mentioned Blackfox’s commitment to Cherokee themes, his fascination with animal totems and spirit guides, and his longtime interest in mask-making.

Elizabeth made her way around the room, studying each piece. Superbly carved animals rendered in wood or stone were displayed on log pedestals. A life-sized Great Horned Owl with outstretched wings dominated the display, flanked by smaller works of various birds and beasts. Masks lined the walls, some carved and painted, others constructed from gourds. Many depicted animal heads: a realistic bear with mouth opened in a red snarl; a demure raccoon; a comic possum, with pointed, grinning snout and tiny sharp teeth. Others were human, with exaggerated features.
These have got to be caricatures: doesn’t that one look like Rush Limbaugh? And that’s got to be
—

“Sometimes people from outside see these masks and think Blackfox is abandoning Cherokee themes. Actually, they’re just the latest expression of a very old tradition that he’s keeping alive.”

A dark-skinned young woman was standing in the doorway. Her paint-daubed jeans and shirt suggested that she, too, was an artist. She looked closely at Elizabeth.

“I thought maybe you were the one who called, the one who was doing an article on artists from the Boundary. But I had the impression she was younger….”

“You spoke with my daughter; we’re working on the piece together.” Elizabeth pulled her reading glasses from her pocket and put them on, in a feeble attempt to look like someone who would write an article. “My daughter wasn’t able to get away, so I came. Do you expect Mr. Blackfox soon?”

The young woman looked abashed. “Well, that’s the problem. Right after I talked to your daughter, Driver came in and took care of the stuff he was going to do this afternoon. He said he had an important client coming to talk to him about a big commission.”

“Will he be back later?”

“Afraid not. He said he was having lunch with the client at the casino and that he had some other things to do after that.” A frown wrinkled the young woman’s smooth forehead. “Did you make a special trip? I’m sorry.”

Her face brightened. “But if you went to the casino, maybe you could catch him there. I think he said he was meeting the client at one.”