One Shenandoah Winter (11 page)

“Horned owl. Makes some kinda racket, don't it? You listen, now. The mate's around here somewhere.” Just as the words were spoken came the equally loud response. “There you are. Them owls, they mate for life. They'll get apart a ways, and screech back and forth like that, trying to scare prey toward one or the other.”

“You know these woods,” Nathan observed. The words sounded lame, but were so full of truth they had to be spoken.

“Like the back of my hand.” No boasting there. A simple agreement to all Nathan could not express. The chair squeaked with the sound of his turning. “Guess it's kinda like you and your doctoring.”

“I know my field,” Nathan agreed.

“They're folks up these parts, they figure if you don't know the hills, why, you don't know nothing. I'm eighty-two years old and I ain't never been farther afield than Charlottesville, and only been there once. But I know folks who speak thus are just plain wrong.”

“It's easy to think the world ends at your doorstep,” Nathan said, awash in memories.

“Son, you just spoke some kinda truth.” Poppa Joe leaned forward, a shadow of movement as he spit over the rail. “Folks is always comforted by what they know, and scared by what they don't.”

Nathan felt no need to press the conversation, which was unnatural. Silence had been a hated foe since the day. That was how he thought of it now—the day. It was easier than trying to recall all the time before and after. Gather all the horror of his nighttime ghosts rising to take over his daytime world, and package it into a single small unit, measurable and manageable. The day.

There were too many stars for just one night. Nathan leaned over far enough to see beyond the porch's edge. A silver river ran in eternal stillness overhead. Even without the moon, the light was enough to wash the meadow in ghostly white.

When the old man spoke again, it was as though the pause had only been for an instant, and not the better part of an hour. “Them same folks, now, they're the ones who go to the doctor for the birthing and the dying and never once in between. You ever met the like?”

“Not me. Where I'm from, if somebody gets the sniffles, they're calling for an appointment.”

“Well, that right there'd be a problem, now, since most of them hill families don't have no phones. They're a dying breed, though. Less of 'em every year.”

“Hard to believe there are still people out here without telephones.”

“No phone, no electricity, no light except maybe a kerosene lamp. 'Less they got themselves a Coleman. You know what a Coleman is, son?”

“No idea whatsoever.”

The old man hacked a laugh. “I like you, son. There ain't much foppery to your thinking or your talking. You strike me as a straight-walkin' man.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” Nathan was genuinely touched. “I take that as a compliment.”

“Back when I was a boy, a Coleman was the cat's pajamas. Burned coal dust. You'd pump the gauge, build up a pressure, then light the lamp. First time I ever did read the Book after dark was the night my pappy brought home a coal-dust Coleman.”

“Sounds like a bomb in the making.”

“Aye now, it was that. Get a crack in the base, that thing'd go off like lightning. Lost a few families in the valley, we did. They took to sleeping with the light left on, thing got too heated up and took 'em straight to Glory.”

A shadow drifted by, with wings impossibly long. “Owl. Big'un. Must be headed off for the other side. We're talking overloud for his liking.” Poppa Joe paused, then picked up the thread of his earlier thought. “The ones who don't hold to doctoring, now, they carry on with a passel of home remedies. Good'uns, by and large. Stood the test of seeing a dozen generations and more through the trials and tribulations of this world. Nettle poultice, you ever used that one?”

Nathan had to laugh. “Can't say that I have.”

“Good for young'uns what laying with the wet chest. Draws it out. You ever coated a body's throat with tincture of merthiolate?”

“I believe I've heard of that being used.”

“Dead straight it's used. Best thing there is for the strep.”

“This is like I'm sitting here listening to the last century come alive again.”

“Ain't the last century, son. Ain't even last year. This is the here and now talking to you.”

“And what happens when these home remedies don't work?”

“They die, son. They die. Lot of that going around these parts.”

Nathan waited for the wheezy laugh, and when it didn't come, felt the weight of his own lost battles. “Lot of that everywhere.”

“Them folks, you know what they call the doctor? The Gatekeeper. You ever heard tell of that before?”

“No.” The night drew in around him. The night and a thousand hillside nights before. “No, I haven't.”

“Yessir. Gatekeeper, he comes riding up on his big horse, with the specter in the black robe nigh on behind. That's the way it was in the high country, I reckon, for most of our people's time here. The village Gatekeeper, he might protect the young'un from the grim reaper for a little while yet, but not often, and more seldom still for very long.”

Nathan felt as though the night had slammed the breath from his body. All the quiet mockery, all the silent derision he had felt for these country ways since his arrival, all was punched from his mind by the old man's words. In that instant, he felt closer to those strangers in the hills than anyone else on earth.

While he was still recovering, Poppa Joe rose to his feet, his joints seeming to creak with the floorboards. “Time we was getting a'bed, son. Dawn'll be rising us before you know it.”

Nathan overslept, which was a very bad thing. The hour before dawn, when his guard was lowest, the nightmare came and captured him.

It was the same dream he had known ever since the breakdown, the image that had finally become a part of his waking world. Tiny arms reached up, tiny voices crying for help, and he was helpless to do anything at all. He stood trapped and unable to move, his feet embedded in concrete, struggling to act and reach and comfort and heal. And when it seemed that he might finally break free, the voices started going quiet. One by one they simply went away. The noise died, and with it the children died as well. His children. All of them turning to ghosts before his very eyes.

He awoke with a gasp so strong the intake raised him to a sitting position. Nathan sat there, trying to bring his heart rate down to a sustainable level. He heard the thump and creak of footsteps, and he raised his eyes. For the longest moment he could not remember where he was.

Then the door moaned its way open, and Poppa Joe Wilkes stood in the doorway, a steaming cup in one hand.

“You make more noise wakin' up than a bear at first thaw.” He walked over and offered Nathan the cup. The hand shook so that the steaming liquid sloshed over the sides. “Figured I might as well come on in and say hidy.”

He accepted the mug without meeting the old man's gaze. “I overslept.”

“Don't matter none. World's still out there, dawn's moving slow as ever. Come on out when you're ready, I'll fix us some grub.”

Nathan drank the coffee as he dressed. When he entered the main cabin, he found Poppa Joe busily stirring an iron skillet. “Coffee's in the pot there. I'm just fixing up a mess of grits and eggs. Thought mebbe we'd get ourselves an early start.”

Nathan walked across the scarred plank floor. The ceiling was higher than he had expected, built to fit the man at the stove. The coffee pot was an ancient affair and smoke-blackened. “I'm not much on breakfast.”

“Use that rag there to pour the coffee, save yourself some skin.” He kept patting at the skillet's contents. “Need something solid in your gullet, son.”

“My gullet.” The towel was as black as the coffee pot. Nathan wrapped it around the handle and lifted the pot from its position at the corner of the wood-burning stove. The coffee poured out treacly-thick. “I'm not certain I could find that on an anatomy diagram.”

“Now you're funnin' me. Sit yourself down over there.” Poppa Joe ladled out eggs onto a metal plate, then added a spoonful of grits from an elderly pot. He set the plate down in front of Nathan, went back and made another for himself. He eased himself down into the chair.

Poppa Joe folded his long hands and brought his forehead down to meet them. The action was so fast and natural that Nathan almost missed the fact that Poppa Joe was about to pray.

“Lord in heaven, bless us and bless this day and bless this here food. We thank Thee, Lord, for all that is. Amen.”

Poppa Joe raised his eyes in time to catch sight of Nathan's discomfort. He nodded once, picked up his fork, and pointed at Nathan's plate. “Get yourself into that lot there. Biscuits and bacon'll wait till we're back.”

Nathan lifted his fork and patted the scrambled eggs. They were drier than hospital eggs that had rested in an overhot steamer through morning rounds. He felt Poppa Joe watching him, so he tried to scoop some up. They scattered across his plate like oddly shaped yellow marbles. “Back from where?”

“You'll see. Got something I want to show you.”

Nathan knew he was being watched, and he did not want to disappoint his host. He plucked an edge from the glutinous lump of grits, and used that to glue some eggs to his fork. He chewed once and swallowed quickly. The mixture was pretty awful, but the coffee was bitter enough to mask the flavor. He ate with grim determination, chasing down each mouthful like medicine.

Poppa Joe eyed the empty plate with approval. “That's the spirit. Young feller like you's got to eat right.”

Nathan pushed himself erect with both hands. His belly felt like he'd swallowed a bowling ball. “Where are we headed?”

“Here, put this on.” Poppa Joe handed him a patched and ancient hunting jacket. When Nathan hesitated, he smiled and said, “Don't you worry none. Been washed since last year, and all the fleas that bit me done died an awful death.”

“It's not that. I just don't know if I need something this heavy.”

The grin broadened to reveal teeth too brilliant to be false. “You done forgot what I told you yesterday.”

“What, oh yes, about the north wind. No, I didn't . . .” Nathan watched as the old man stumped to the door and flung it back. He stepped over, took one look, and gasped aloud.

Poppa Joe moved away. “Got you some wool socks and boots warming by the stove.”

But Nathan could not move. Nothing in all his days had prepared him for what he was seeing.

The entire world was frosted silver white. What yesterday had been a late autumn meadow was now a frozen mystic wonderland.

Sunrise was still a good half-hour away. Orange and rose hues colored the eastern hills. Each delicate taste of color was reflected in perfect union by the meadow, for the field itself now had no color. Each blade of grass, each tree, every post and thistle and branch was captured by a coat of winter. The white sea was singing in silent unison with the empty sky and the coming light.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder. Nathan turned to find Poppa Joe studying him with the silent intent of somebody who long ago had learned to look beneath the surface. “First time I laid eyes on you, I thought to myself, now here's a man who'd be touched by the dawn. Ain't many left on earth who know the value of a sunrise.” The hand rose and fell. “Glad to know I was right about you, son.”

Hurriedly he dressed and followed Poppa Joe from the house. The old man closed his front door with a simple wooden latch. If there was a lock, Nathan could not see it.

Poppa Joe moved with the stiff angular grace of an aging stork. He picked up each foot and set it down carefully, working his way across the field at a surprising speed. Nathan tried to walk in the old man's footsteps. The silence was so complete, the beauty so perfect, he felt one unwise step might shatter the sanctity of what he was witnessing.

They left the meadow and started up a trail which led them deeper and higher through a steep-climbing forest. The trees were elm and poplar and highland fir, all burdened by their own winter coating. Each leaf was frozen into place, the frost etched in tiny veins across the surface. The pines bore billions of white needles, each one unmoving and breathless with wonder.

They walked long enough for the light to strengthen into morning. Nathan's breath came strong and comfortable, the puffs leading out before him in frosty plumes. The air bit comfortably, the movement warmed him. The boots and the woolen socks gripped the stones, and the old man led him silently onward.

Where the path took a cramped left-hand jink, the trees moved in to embrace him. Nathan found himself pressed up tight against the rock outcrop they were circling.

Then the path straightened, and the trees fell back in unexpected welcome. And for the second time that morning he cried out loud.

The sun had crested the hills to his right, a lancing blade so brilliant it stabbed at his eyes. Before him rested a mountain lake, silver and smoking in the winter morning. The mist rose like beckoning hands, opening to unveil the mystery of every morning, every new beginning.

The light was so intense it threatened to blind him. But Nathan did not want to blink, for fear of losing the image. It was too perfect, too full of beauty to last. He felt the sudden urge to walk out across the surface, to reach into the impossible moment and take for himself a sliver of eternity.

Silently Poppa Joe took his arm, and pulled him around to the right. Nathan let himself be led to a rock that stretched out like a granite throne over the water. He seated himself, feeling the cold bite through his trousers yet feeling that it was right to do so.

Poppa Joe returned with old yellowed newspaper. He motioned for Nathan to rise, and settled it down beneath him. Of course the old man would have something ready. It was only fitting.