Did some dark magic make this life appear?
Or had something darker concealed it?
In the end he didn’t care, and that, too, was because of the hunger. It drove him a mile and then another—and he scraped at his eyes as if cobwebs covered them. Even then, blackness pushed in from the edges. He saw his mother in the kitchen, his father by the fire with half his face shot off. For a long time he felt the fire and was warm; but his father stared, and the light in those eyes was as unforgiving as iron on a winter’s night. Why do you live? they seemed to say. Why are you whole when I am this ruined thing? Randolph wanted to argue, but ice filled his mouth, and his father receded into a long, grim hall, growing smaller until the hall collapsed into a fuzz of white and gray and dull orange light. Randolph blinked, but the fuzz remained. He blinked again, and realized he was facedown in a drift, that his mouth was full of snow and that one eye was frozen shut.
How long?
The sun was a bulge beyond the trees, and somewhere he’d lost a glove, so that skin peeled from his fingers when he pulled the rifle free. He cried as it happened, and snow gusted from the drift, hard pellets against his face. Cradling the ruined hand, Randolph dragged himself to a clearing where a stream spilled from a stone face, and had long ago frozen into a waterfall of dull crystal. It showed dimly in the gloaming, and at the high place from which it descended stood the most splendid animal Randolph had ever seen. Its coat shone, and its antlers rose, magnificent. It stood in profile, and from a single eye looked down with what the boy would swear to be patience. For even as Randolph leveled the rifle with his raw left hand and tried to find the trigger with the numb fingers of his right, the deer stood with the same steadiness Randolph sought at the bottom of a shooter’s breath. And when the final instant came—the boy trembling, the deer pinned on iron sights—the animal’s brown eye rolled up and closed, and Randolph squeezed the trigger.
The deer fell where it stood.
It folded at the knees, rolled sideways, and tumbled down the wall of ice. For an instant a leg twitched, and then it was dead.
Randolph slogged to its side—amazed—but there was no time to wonder at the size of it. Night was falling. He couldn’t feel his hands or feet. Fumbling out a knife, Randolph unzipped the animal’s stomach and warmed his hands in its guts until his fingers would bend enough to pull the offal out. Everything inside the cavity was massive, too. Stomach. Intestines. A heart the size of his head. With the carcass stripped, he cut a chunk from the liver and ate it raw. Blood smeared his face and ran onto his clothes, but it didn’t matter. The meat was hot and salty with blood, and by the time the madness of his hunger passed, it was full dark. Randolph built a fire, and made it large. There was movement in the forest, and it frightened him. Eyes caught the light and threw it back. They moved, circling, then winked out at once; and in their absence a pressure grew.
“No, no, no.”
Randolph seized the rifle; pressed his back against the still-warm carcass.
He was not alone in the clearing.
Not even close.
CHAPTER EIGHT
By the time William Boyd finished the story, his guest was sitting fully erect with both hands on his knees and the drink, untouched, beside him. He was a restless man, and Boyd found the stillness gratifying, a hunter’s stillness.
“That can’t be true,” Kirkpatrick said.
“I filled in some color, yes, but otherwise relayed the story as it’s written.”
“What about the rest of it? What about the end?”
“See for yourself.”
Boyd handed over the journal, and Kirkpatrick riffled the pages, moving quickly to the back. He spread the leather covers, ran his fingers down the spine. “Pages have been removed.”
“Torn out,” Boyd said. “Sometime before the journal came into my possession.”
Kirkpatrick inspected the journal more closely. The handwriting was crude, the pages rippled and stained. Randolph Boyd’s name was inscribed inside the front cover, along with the words June 5, 1944, 29th Infantry Division, at sea. “Fiction,” he said. “Drunken ramblings.”
“His friends were known to tell a similar story. No one believed them, of course.”
“Because they were children, and frightened and half-starved.”
“Yet some things remain incontrovertible,” Boyd said. “My grandfather was found, white-haired, beside a frozen stream; the deer, in all its glory, was dead beside him. Those are facts, my friend, and undeniable.”
Boyd gestured through the arched door, and both men walked to stand beneath the dusty remains of the once-magnificent creature. The eyes were glass, but the remainder was as it must have been on that frozen day in 1931: the dense coat and massive neck, the antlers thick as a man’s arm and six feet from tip to tip. Boyd gave his guest time because he knew exactly what the big man was feeling: excitement and distrust, but above all the need to discover and see, and hopefully kill something equally grand. In the end, he had no choice but to accept.
“Tomorrow, then?”
“Not quite,” Boyd said. “There are papers to sign, funds to wire. You may want to consult with your lawyers.”
“But after that we hunt?”
“The day after tomorrow, yes.” Boyd offered his guest the untouched drink. “Bright and early, we hunt.”
CHAPTER NINE
After his meeting with Leslie, Johnny spent the rest of the day alone. He gathered more wood, did some work on the cabin, and went to bed with little appetite. From the top of the tree, he watched the heavens open like a flower. The moon settled, disappeared; and the stars emerged in infinite glory. He watched them long enough to feel the earth spin, and when he closed his eyes, it was all about the sound of wind. It moved over stone and through the trees, licked off the water and carried its smell. This was the Hush, and it was his, and he didn’t worry about the how of it or the why. He felt it like tissue and bone, like blood in his veins. Drift long enough, and it was hard to tell where he ended and the Hush began.
If there was a price, it came in dreams.
The first time Johnny woke, the dream followed him up, and it was the same dream he’d had a hundred times. He was on horseback beneath a tree, and a fire burned in the darkness beyond the branches. The ground was bare dirt beaten flat. The other white men were gone. Only the slaves remained, and they wept beneath men who swung dead at the end of thick ropes, their bodies beaten and cut and mud-stained and bloody. From his place on the horse, Johnny watched the women and children, the men ashamed of their fear. He felt the heat of all those hot, slick bodies—ninety-seven slaves—and when they looked at the girl, their fear was so keen, it rose to religious awe. She was tiny, the girl, seventeen or eighteen, black-skinned and fierce and less than a hundred pounds. She spread her arms, and the slaves stumbled left and right, crowding at last beneath the dead men and the branch from which they hung. For long seconds, she stared them down, the fire orange on her skin, the black eyes unforgiving. She spread her arms as if to hold the moment, then turned at last to Johnny and grinned as if she owned him, too.
Her hands and face were bloody.
So was the knife in her hand.
* * *
The dream had come slowly at first, then more often: the same men on the same ropes, the fierceness and fear and the small, dark feet. What disturbed Johnny most was how vividly he saw the tree.
Slaves had died there.
That was real.
When Johnny slept again, it was in the last, black hours before the dawn. He woke later to a still-dark forest and an edge of sun. He wanted to visit the old settlement; see the ancient tree. It rose from the same earth, and though it was lightning-struck and half-broken, the hanging branch still stretched over dirt where nothing green ever grew. When Johnny dreamed of it, it was often like this. He woke thinking, maybe. Maybe if he touched the tree, the bare earth, or if he knelt by the small stones where the hanged slaves had been buried in that brutal, hot summer o
f 1853.
He had so many questions.
Leaving the hammock, Johnny bathed in a creek, then put on clean clothes and ate breakfast. At the old settlement he stopped in the clearing because that’s where the sense of Hush Arbor lingered most. He’d counted the shacks once, finding the ruins of eighteen. Beyond the last of them, the clearing pinched out and a trail led to a cemetery in a second clearing, deep in the trees. The wall around it was old stone, and beyond it were forty-five markers. Johnny opened the gate and went again to the hanging tree that grew in a rear corner. Its trunk was black and gnarled, its thickest limbs larger than most other trees. Lightning strikes had stripped bark and killed parts of it, but the hanging branch still spread above three poor stones and earth so devoid of life, it looked swept. How many times had Johnny stood there? How many times had he dreamed? Closing his eyes, he saw dead men and flames and a bloody knife. He could feel the terror of the crowd.
But who would fear a child?
Kneeling by the stones, Johnny spread his fingers and felt a dead spot in the land that wasn’t right. Sap rose in the trees, and he felt it, same with the birds and beetles, the crawling vines and the flowers that followed the sun. But there was nothing beneath the tree to feel. The stones were small and unmarked. The dirt was simply dirt.
Brushing off his knees, Johnny looked up at streaks of bare, white wood. He told himself it was just a tree, just an old, half-dead, giant, scary-looking tree; but even on bright days, he didn’t believe it. The dream was too real to be a dream. It was too personal, too hot.
Turning away, Johnny backtracked through the cut and into the clearing. He passed a barn and a shed, then went inside the old church. It was easy to forget that people had lived here, and Johnny wondered if they’d felt what he felt, or if the gift was uniquely his.
“You shouldn’t be in here.”
Johnny turned, disbelieving. A woman stood in the open door, and sunlight haloed the shape of her. It took a moment to find his voice. “I own this place.”
“Not really,” she said. “And only for now.”
She was young and slender, his age, maybe, dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and boots. She stepped out of the sun, and Johnny knew her. He felt the sudden resentment. “What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I come all the time.”
“I would know if you did.”
She shrugged, and the weight of her silence struck Johnny like a fist. He’d not sensed her presence until she spoke: not the sound of her, not the feel.
“Do you know who I am?” she asked.
“You’re Luana Freemantle’s daughter, Cree. I saw you at trial.”
“Then you know I have as much a claim on this place as you.”
“The courts disagree.”
She shrugged again. “My ancestors lived here for two hundred years. They worshipped in this church.” Cree moved deeper into the room; touched a sconce, a stone baptismal. “You don’t belong.”
“But you do?”
“I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”
She stopped near the door, looking up at his face. She had narrow shoulders, dark hair and skin. “Have you been watching me?” Johnny asked.
“You don’t matter.” She was dismissive. “You don’t belong here.”
“But you do?”
She shrugged yet again, and Johnny felt something from her then, a flicker of doubt, the first he’d seen. “You grew up in Charlotte.” He pushed a little. “Your mother was Levi Freemantle’s second cousin, a distant relative at best. No appeal will change that.”
“Maybe not, but I spent my childhood here with my grandmother and great-aunts, and everyone who still remained. I know the history of this place in a way you never will, the stories of my family. You should return the land to those who love it most.”
“All six thousand acres?”
“Of course.”
Johnny felt her again, and the insight, this time, was like a bright flash. “Does the name William Boyd mean anything to you?” Her confidence failed as truth moved on her face. “He’s paying your legal bills, isn’t he? Jesus. What’s the plan? He funds the lawsuit and buys the land if you win?”
“I’m not going to talk about this.”
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
“Not about me.”
She stepped outside, and Johnny followed. “It’s just money to you, isn’t it?”
“No. Never.”
“This land has been in my family since 1694, a land grant older than the country itself. That’s history. That’s what matters.”
She spun on a heel, so fierce and suddenly angry, Johnny stepped back. “Are your people buried here?” she demanded.
“That way.” Johnny pointed. “Four miles.”
“Well, mine are buried right there.” She stabbed a finger at the cemetery, and Johnny noticed, with shock, that tears had filled her eyes. “My grandmother, who raised me, my aunts and uncles, my great-grandmother, who was like a saint. You can’t keep me away.”
“You can visit anytime you want. I just like to know who’s on my land. That’s all. Who’s on it and why.”
The girl blinked away tears, and looked younger than he’d thought, twenty maybe, or maybe less. “Why do you go to the tree?”
“You were watching me?”
“I’ve seen you there three times.”
“No reason,” Johnny lied. “The history, I guess.”
“You mean the hanging.” She said it harshly. “I suppose we share that, too.”
She was right about that. His ancestor was there that night; so was hers. They’d seen the fire, the swinging bodies.
Did they see a small girl with a bloody knife?
“I should go,” she said.
“Do you have a car?”
“I hitched to the crossroads. After that, I walked.”
“Why did you ask about the tree?”
“I shouldn’t have.”
She turned away, but he caught up near a charred mound where an old house had burned. “Please. I’d like to know.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It just matters.”
“Very well.” Sweat shone on her skin, and her eyes were still. “I see you when I dream.”
“What?”
“Firelight and dead bodies.” She grew solemn and quiet. “I see you at the tree and I wake afraid.”
* * *
Cree left then, her feet light and quick on trails she still remembered. She’d not lived at Hush Arbor for twelve years—not since she was seven—but the fear was nothing new. Her earliest memory was of the hanging tree and her great-grandmother’s folded skin.
I want you to touch it.… The old woman guided her hand to the bark and pressed it there. This is history. This is life. She was blind and toothless, the lines on her face like ripples in the mud that made the river. Forget what your mother taught you. This is where it began. This is who we are.
The girl tried to lean away from the tree, but the woman was strong and patient. She pressed the girl’s hand until the bark made it hurt.
Pain is part of it. Let the pain go.
The girl tried, but didn’t know how.
Do you believe in your mother’s god? Let him go, too.
The girl was confused. Didn’t everyone believe?
Why did your mother give you to me?
Because she has a new husband, the girl said, and because she doesn’t want me anymore.
She was always selfish, your mother, selfish and wrong and too big for the place that birthed her out. You let that go, too. She kissed the girl’s head. Now, close your eyes and tell me what you see.
I see blackness.
Blackness is good, your blackness and mine. What else?
Nothing, the girl said, and thought it was over then.
It wasn’t.
Fingers held her wrist, and a small, bright knife split the skin of her palm. The girl screamed; but the old woman was like a stone, the dead eyes
white and hard, the mouth a bitter line. She pressed the bloodied palm against the tree. This is who we are. Say it. The girl was crying. The woman pressed harder. This is history. This is life. Say it now. The girl said the words, and the old woman smiled. It’s done, she said. You’re one of us.
Why did you do that?
Because pain has always been the price.
The girl sucked blood from her palm, and saw other women then: her grandmother and great-aunt, the shadows of others, long dead.
* * *
For four years Cree had lived in the Hush, and knew parts of it as she knew her own face. There were long days and secret places, a million ways for a child loose in the woods to find amusement. But the sunny days were only part of it, and the old women taught her early to fear the cold ones and the long nights, to stay close if the wind disappeared or the sky filled with strange light. There were other people, too, but they stayed clear of the old women, and looked at the girl with something like fear. That was about blood and dark prayers, the dread of ancient things.
But her life was the old women.
They lived together in a one-room shack, the four of them alone at the edge of the clearing. Parts of that life were terrifying, but she slept well, pressed between the old women in the old bed. If she woke or was restless, they’d tell stories of slave ships and war, of an ancient kingdom, high on the side of a great mountain. Life was a tapestry, they said, and the girl a mighty thread. They would teach her the weave of it, but only when she was ready. In the meantime she learned rituals and shapes in the dust, strange words and blood and the small, bright knife, always the knife. Pale scars covered the old women from head to toe, and sadness filled them, even when they smiled. The girl understood now that they’d been dying the whole time, that their way of life had been dying, too.
But still, they scoured the deep woods. Cold or hot, it didn’t matter. They searched if they were healthy or tired or sick. The girl never knew what they sought, but they wandered the Hush, and were the only ones to do so, unafraid. The few others who remained tended scraps of garden and fished the nearby waters. None ventured to the deep swamp or the faraway hills. When the girl asked if she could help, they’d explained it to her. It is a thing we do, and that women before us have done. Your time may come, but only when you are older and wiser and very strong.