Solom Page 9

  “Kaaaay.”

  Katy grabbed a spatula between the thumb and mitt of the potholder and spun like a ballet dancer after three shots of whiskey. “Who said that?”

  She was annoyed, both at herself and at whatever trick of physics had made her panic.

  Her heart fluttered, and an uneven rhythm pounded in her ears, like when the natives were asking King Kong to step up to the altar and accept their drugged sacrifice. Fay Wray in the original, Jessica Lange in the De Laurentiis version, and whatever hot blonde du jour nabbed the T & A role in the remake currently in development.

  “Kaaaaaaaaay.”

  “Go away.” Katy held up the spatula like a hatchet, hoping to ward off the invisible thing in the corner of the kitchen. Gordon’s first wife didn’t belong here anymore. She was dead. Rebecca didn’t exist.

  This was Katy’s house now.

  And Solom was her home.

  Something stirred in the attic. Damned mice. She’d have to speak to Gordon about them.

  Later. First, she had a meal to prepare.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Rush Branch Primitive Baptist Church was one-room wooden building that sat on a crooked row of concrete blocks. The white paint had curled away in places, and the thickness of the chips showed the age of the church. The grounds were well-tended, and the waterway that gave the church its name was barely twenty feet from the front door. A deep pool at the base of a short waterfall made for convenient dipping when baptisms were performed.

  David Tester ran a weed-eater around the wooden steps. Like most rural mountain preachers, he had a real job during the week. David owned a landscaping business, which never would have made it had it not been for the seasonal homeowners who had neither the time nor inclination to do their own yard work. David saw it as a sign from the Lord that outsiders belonged in Solom. Since the Primitives believed in predestination, David didn’t have to worry about converting anyone. Their names were either listed in the Big Book or they weren’t, simple as that.

  Gordon Smith, the college professor, had asked him why his denomination still held services when there seemed to be no ultimate goal. To David, the goal was to live right and to get along, and regular church services couldn’t hurt. Besides, this was a community church, and though families could now pile up in a car and drive to one of the fancy churches in Windshake or Titusville, most of the locals would preferred to go to the church where they had been raised. The congregation was aging, but that was true of all the old Baptist sub-denominations. Seemed the kids didn’t take to the Bible the way they used to, and David could hardly blame them.

  The weed-eater’s thick fishing line plowed through the ragweed and saw briars that sprouted along the building’s foundation. The buzz of the gas-powered engine echoed over the hillside and a veil of blue smoke lifted into the cloudless sky. The rotating line hit gravel and a rock spun free, bouncing off the plank siding of the church. Shredded vegetation stuck to the shins of David’s jeans.

  David was about to trim around the old cemetery stones when he noticed a small dark hole in the ground by the first grave. He killed the engine and his ears rang in the sudden silence. He knelt by the hole. The grave was that of Harmon Smith, a horseback preacher from the 1800s. Horseback preachers traveled from community to community in all kinds of weather, staying with a host family for a week or two at a time. David admired the sacrifice of such men of God, though Smith had been a little scattershot in his beliefs. He preached to all denominations and, according to legend, had managed to fit his message to each without ever slipping up by trying to save a Primitive or letting a woman wash a man’s feet during the annual Old Regular Baptist foot-washing ceremonies. Then he’d gotten what the old folks called “a mite touched” and had become devoted to the idea of sacrifice, even breeding his own livestock to serve as Old Testament-style offerings.

  The grave hole was probably made by a mouse. David looked around for a rock so he could plug it. A mouse’s den probably had a back door, but David didn’t think it was proper for a creature to be crawling all around in the preacher’s bones. Harmon Smith had earned his rest.

  David went to the parking lot and found a fist-sized chunk of granite. He tossed it up, enjoying its weight. David had been a pitcher on the Titusville High School nine and still liked to play church league softball. He was approaching the grave again when he saw the twitch of a dark tail as it disappeared down the hole. Too big to be a mouse. And it was scaly.

  Sort of like a ...

  David told himself that no snake would burrow into the ground on such a sunny day. It would be on a rock somewhere, absorbing the heat. David ran across snakes all the time in his landscaping work. They were mostly harmless, though copperheads and rattlers lived in these mountains and water moccasins could be found along the rivers and streams. David held the rock by his ear as he approached, ready to hurl it if a serpent’s head poked out of the hole.

  A truck passed on the highway, slowed, and honked. David lifted his left hand in greeting without taking his gaze from the hole. The truck pulled into the parking lot. David knew how silly he looked, standing in the little cemetery with its worn gray stones, holding a rock like some kid who was afraid of ghosts.

  He tossed the rock toward the creek. The truck door opened and James Greene, one of the church elders, climbed down from the seat. He wore denim overalls and a plaid shirt, his sleeves rolled up to reveal thin forearms with silver, wiry hairs. Greene pushed his Atlanta Braves baseball cap off his balding head, wiped at the sweat, then returned the cap to its usual skewed resting place.

  “Hi, Elder David,” James said.

  “Elder James,” David said in welcome.

  “You tending to the grounds?”

  “Even Eden needed a little clip job now and then.”

  “Hmm.” James looked at Harmon Smith’s grave, which had a depression in the earth at the foot of the stone. “The grass grows best over him that sleeps with a clear heart.”

  “The joyous day is coming soon,” David said. “The elected shall rise up and walk with the Lord.”

  James noticed the dark hole. “Hey, look at that,” he said.

  “Figured it was a mouse. It’s about time of year for them to start laying winter plans.”

  “No mouse. That’s a copperhead tunnel.”

  “I never saw a copperhead in a hole before.”

  “Of course you ain’t. Smart, ain’t they? A lot of people think snakes are pure, dumb evil, but they know how to sneak. Do you know if you cut off a snake’s head, the snake won’t die till sundown?”

  “I’ve killed one or two in my time.”

  “Some of them churches in Kentucky handle snakes during worship service,” James said. “Pretty damn stupid if you ask me.”

  “There’s a verse in the Gospel According to John that says if your faith is true, you can take up serpents and they will not harm you.”

  “Still sounds pretty damn dumb to me. Pardon my language, Elder David.”

  David kept his eye on the opening to the hole. He was trying not to think of the snake twisting through the moldy rib cage of the itinerant preacher. That seemed like a blasphemy that God would never allow. Maybe David could set some kind of trap for it, restore things to their proper order. If it be God’s will, of course.

  “I hear the Carters left the congregation,” James said. “Took up with the Free Willers.”

  David wiped the sweat and stray bits of grass from his face. “Yeah. I talked to Benjamin Carter about it. He said with all the trouble going on in the world, he needed extra reassurance. Said it wasn’t enough to just sit back and hope you were one of the saved. Said he felt better if he took matters into his own hands a little. Of course, Rosie went along with him, like a good wife will.”

  “We’re down to two dozen members, Elder David.”

  David nodded. Since the Primitives didn’t believe in missionary work, there was no call to go out among the people and recruit new members. The younger gene
ration had drifted away from all the churches, not just the Primitive subdenomination. Sometimes David watched those showy evangelists on television with their silk neckties and stiff hair and felt a little jealous. He wondered how he would fare out there on stage, where you felt the spirit work in you as you exhorted others to take Jesus Christ into their hearts and be born again.

  The Primitives had already been born into grace, according to their statement of beliefs, so believers had little to do besides wait around for Rapture. Of course, the rituals at church helped soothe worldly troubles. And services offered fellowship, too, something still a little rare in the mountains, with the closest Wal-Mart over 50 miles away. The Solom General Store had a potbellied stove and a little dining area, but loud tourists with their cell phones and cologne had altered the store’s atmosphere, and in some ways, their money had taken it out of the hands of the community.

  “The Lord will take care of it,” David said. The collection plate had yielded more metal than paper over the last few months. David didn’t preach for money, though he did accept reimbursement for the gas and equipment he used to maintain the church grounds.

  “Folks around here could use a good miracle or two,” James said.

  “Amen to that.” David fixed his gaze at the hole, which glared right back like a cold, ebony eye.

  ***

  Sarah Jeffers came to her senses in a dimly lighted room. At first, she thought she was in her bed on the second floor of the old family home by the store, because the light through the window had a late-Sunday-morning quality. Sunday was her sleep-in day, and her headache might have been caused by a couple of tall after-dinner sherries. Her eyelids were heavy, so she listened for the ticking of the antique grandfather clock downstairs. She heard nothing but a faint, irregular beeping.

  And the smell was all wrong. Instead of aged wood, musty quilts, and cats, the room had the crisp tang of antiseptic. She opened her eyes and blinked her vision into focus. The walls were white, unlike the maple paneling of her bedroom. The pillows were encased in vinyl and the bed was angled up like a lounge chair at the side of a swimming pool.

  “Back among the waking,” a young woman said. “How do you feel?”

  “Get me a doctor,” Sarah said.

  The woman smiled. “I am a doctor. Dr. Hyatt. You’re in Tri-Cities Regional Hospital.”

  Sarah closed her eyes. Doctors were supposed to be male and gray-haired. How could this urchin know the least little thing about the workings of the human body? She didn’t look old enough to have ever dissected a frog, much less gone through medical school.

  “One of your friends found you at your store,” Dr. Hyatt said. “You were unconscious.”

  “And that’s a bad thing, right?”

  “A sense of humor. Good. ‘Laughter is the best medicine’ is not just a section in Reader’s Digest. The claim also has some research backing it up.”

  “Then tell me a good one so I can laugh my way out of this hundred-dollar-an-hour prison cell. Let me out of here.”

  “It’s not that simple, Miss Jeffers. It is ‘Miss,’ isn’t it?”

  “I can’t lay around here during store hours. I got customers to see to.”

  “We ran some tests while you were unconscious. You had symptoms of a stroke, but your EEG and CAT were fine and your blood pressure is that of somebody thirty years younger.”

  “Tests? Who signed for them? And why are these wires sticking into me?”

  “The gentleman who called 911 said you had no next of kin. We followed the usual procedures for treating an apparent stroke victim.”

  “But I ain’t been stroked, have I?”

  “Not that we can tell. We thought you might have suffered a blow to the head, maybe by a can falling from a top shelf. Or a robbery. But the register was untouched and the store appeared to be intact. Your friend called the Sheriff’s Department and they checked it out. And you have no visible marks.”

  Sarah struggled to sit up, saw black spots before her eyes, and decided to try again a little later. “I hope somebody locked up. Half the merchandise will walk off otherwise.”

  “The deputies will take care of that. Your job is to get better.”

  The black spots coalesced behind her eyelids, turning into a shadow, a man in a black, wide-brimmed hat. She reached out for the doctor’s arm and clutched it, afraid the image would still be there if she opened her eyes. The beeping accelerated.

  “Are you okay, Miss Jeffers?”

  “I seen him,” she said.

  “Your friend? He said you were unconscious, but you might have been partially aware of what was going on. It’s not unusual during a fainting spell.”

  “No, before that. I seen him.” Suddenly she wasn’t in such a big hurry to leave Titusville and go back to Solom.

  “Just breathe regularly,” Dr. Hyatt said, patting Sarah’s hand until the beep marking her pulse became steady again. “Rest up. You’re not going anywhere for a little while.”

  That sounded good to Sarah. She closed her eyes and tried to block the recurring image of the man tilting up his chin until the wide brim no longer hid his face.

  Or what was left of his face.

  ***

  Odus had stayed with Sarah for a couple of hours, but when the doctor reported that she was awake and alert, yet refusing visitors, he’d driven his Blazer back to Solom and the Smith farm. He had agreed to help Gordon put up some corn, though it hadn’t quite gotten frozen enough to harden for feed. Now, ripping and twisting the brown ears from their stalks, he decided that Gordon’s crops were Gordon’s business, as long as the man paid cash. Odus was thirsty after the fright Sarah had thrown into him, and he’d picked up a quart of sipping whiskey from the Titusville liquor store. A few hours of September sweat and he’d have earned a sip or two.

  Gordon usually left the grunt work to Odus, but today the professor was pitching in, working the rows right alongside him. They filled bushel baskets and carried them to the end of the row where Gordon had parked his riding lawn mower. Gordon didn’t own a tractor, though a metal relic from the horse-drawn days gathered rust between the barn and garden. Gordon was thinking about what Sarah had said, about the man in the hat, when Gordon spoke.

  “Guess it’s time to take down the scarecrow,” Gordon said.

  Odus looked up at the form on the wooden crossbar whose head stood a good two feet above the dried blooms of the corn. It wore an old straw-reed hat that had been bleached by the sun and mottled gray by the rain, tied with twine to the feed-sack face. People in Solom were peculiar about their scarecrows, treating them like family members, using the same one from year to year.

  Odus had always thought it was some sort of good-luck ritual. The habit was to store the scarecrow in the barn, where it would hang on the wall and watch over the livestock during the long winter. Odus had been working for Gordon three years, and knew the usual time to tuck the straw man away was in late October, when the nights grew short and the wind rattled strange syllables in the leaves.

  “A little early yet, ain’t it?” Odus asked.

  Gordon put a gloved hand over his eyes and scanned the clear sky. “There’s a storm coming.”

  “Don’t believe so. The birds aren’t quiet and the mice are no busier than usual.”

  Gordon pulled off his glove, fished a handkerchief from his jeans pocket, and wiped his glasses. His eyes were glittery and unfocused, and he looked lost. “I’m talking about a different kind of storm, Odus.”

  Odus plucked another ear and twisted it free with a crackle of ripped vegetation. He tossed it in the basket then moved the basket a few feet forward.

  “I don’t know anything about that,” Odus said.

  “Do you know the scarecrow is more than just a trick to keep birds away?”

  Odus didn’t like the way Gordon’s soft eyes looked past him to the pastures beyond. “Well, I’m not so sure they even do that worth a darned,” he said. “I had to replant three times this spr
ing. The little raiders just swooped on in here like nobody’s business.”

  Gordon kept on as if he’d not heard Odus, who imagined that this was how the professor got when he was lecturing in the classroom to a bunch of stoned-out rich kids. “The scarecrow is as old as domesticated crops. Way back to Babylonia, which many scholars believe is the Garden of Eden of the Bible.”

  “I’m not much on history books or the Bible.” Odus tore a couple of ears of corn free, reveling in the sweet starchy smell. “The first tells you what went wrong and the second tells you why. I prefer to stay uninformed, myself.”

  Gordon put his glasses back, which eased Odus’s worry a little. Odus realized what Gordon’s naked eyes had reminded him of: the goats. They had that same heavy-lidded, unfocused stare.

  “The scarecrow wasn’t always an outfit of clothing stuffed with straw,” Gordon said, returning to work. “In the old days, a live man was tied in the garden.”

  Odus glanced at the professor, figuring the man was putting him on. Gordon’s face was as steady as always. Come to think of it, Gordon had never cracked a joke. He seemed unable to laugh and even a smile looked like it hurt him some. “To keep birds away?”

  “Well, that it did. Except other animals came, especially at night. A helpless man in the wilderness drew a lot of predators.”

  “Why did they do that? Punishment?”

  “More than punishment. Sacrifice. A gift to the harvest gods.”

  “Sounds like something a heathen would do.”

  “It was widely practiced in many cultures. Germanic tribes used to spike a victim’s belly button to a tree, then wrap the victim around the trunk. In the South Seas, witch priests claimed their island deities called for sacrifices to appease their wrath. African kings killed those magicians who failed to bring the rain. The ancient Greeks had all manner of sacrificial victims, both to Diana, goddess of the hunt, and Ceres, the harvest goddess.”