Farewell, I'm Bound to Leave You

  “Why, thank you, Cora,” said Aunt Priddy, and turned her blushing countenance aside.

  “Have they begun to sing yet?” my mother asked.

  “These? Oh, no,” Aunt Priddy explained. “These are those Dying Swan sunflowers that sing only once, late in the season, when they begin to wilt and shrivel.”

  “I’d like to be here then to hear them,” my mother said.

  “Well then, you must come, Cora,” Aunt Priddy replied. “You have a standing invitation. But I should tell you that it is a sad occasion. Their final, only song attracts the crows to come and they tear them all apart. I have been frightened at times.”

  “Oh my.”

  * * *

  I don’t remember how we made our departure manners and got back to the station wagon, but there we were, rattling along the foot of Forgetful Mountain, with Worrisome Creek following us on the right-hand side. The water was clear and in most places the sand at the bottom shone red, but the pools below rock ledges looked deep and black and I thought of the lean brown-mottled brook trout lurking there and imagined I could smell the fishy clean smell of them. Then the road climbed one way and the creek another and soon the water was screened from sight by the tops of oaks and hickories.

  “Where are we headed now?” I asked.

  “Why, to see the Wind Woman, just as I promised.”

  I swallowed some of my dread and tried not to think of what might be coming, but when we rounded a deep curve that brought us below a neat red cabin cocked up like a rooster comb on the smooth hummock of a hillside, she could not resist.

  “Oh, let’s stop in for just a minute,” she said. “We won’t stay long, I promise. But the Happiest Woman would never forgive us if she knew we’d passed her by.”

  She pulled the station wagon into the wide sandy shoulder and we began the climb toward the cabin. The steps were quartz rocks lumped into the grassy hillside and some of them were uneven, so that we had to support each other as we went up. There looked to be many many steps to climb, but I was surprised to find us soon at the top, standing on the clean porch boards.

  The door opened before we could knock and the Happiest Woman came out. From the name of her, I’d expected to see a tall, blond, smiling woman, but she was short and dimly complected. Her black hair was threaded with silver and she was so tiny that I looked down upon the neat part that ended in the homely bun done up in back. She was round and buttery and wore a long gray dress with a plain white apron.

  Nor did she smile. Her face was as solemn as a pulpit and, though lined with humor crinkles about the eyes, seemed expressionless at first. Her brown eyes were lively and it was in reading them that I understood why she was known as the Happiest Woman. They were warm with a melting light as calm as a starry June sky. The smell of her reminded me of oatmeal muffins fresh from the oven and it seemed that this smell grew stronger when she rubbed her hands on her apron.

  She buried her head in my mother’s bosom and they hugged for a long time. My mother looked over her head, down into the holler with its dark oak grove, and her eyes misted again. “It’s been such a long time,” she said. “It’s been too long.”

  “Yes it has,” said the Happiest Woman. “And it needn’t have been—because you are welcome here at any time, Cora. You know that.”

  “Yes, but so many things seem to get in the way. It doesn’t make sense, does it?”

  “No.”

  “And sometimes…” she hesitated, as if making an unwilling confession. “Sometimes I simply forget. That doesn’t make sense, either, does it?”

  “No, but you’re not the only one to forget.” She turned to look at me. “Now who is this fine-looking young man?”

  “This is Jess. You know about him, of course, but you’ve never met him.”

  “Now is the first time,” she said, and searched my face with her brown gaze and then looked at the rest of me as if I were the most serious object in the world. After a while she spoke, her voice firm and quiet. “I hope that you will have a serene and happy life, Jess.”

  She must have discovered everything she wanted to know, for after this examination she took little notice of me. I remained silent during the visit; I could feel that words were not expected of me, that this was a time for women to be together in some strong way I would never fathom.

  She ushered us inside. This front room was dim but looked comfortable; in fact, it looked comforting—and that is the impression I gained from the whole house. There was a cushiony wine-colored sofa with frilly doilies on the arms and across the back. There were footstools aplenty and wooden chairs worn smooth and two hooked rugs with flower patterns. On one of the rugs a gray tabby opened one eye and then the other to take us well in; finding us harmless, it rose and stretched and poured itself into a different shape and settled to sleep again. There were few knickknacks on the shelves, but there were dull pictures of ancestors all about and against the far wall stood a stately harmonium with two rows of keys and wide pedals with frayed baize treads.

  I went to inspect it and found that the ivory of the keys had discolored and that the music book in its place in the holder was titled in a language I could not recognize. I stood looking at the harmonium while the women talked, now and again hugging each other warmly. When they wandered into the kitchen, I didn’t follow. I didn’t feel unwelcome, only unnecessary, and so I decided to go back outside and sit in the green rocking chair on the porch and watch the goldfinches that glittered in the poplars off to the right.

  Perhaps I fell asleep in the rocking chair. At any rate, my mind was brought back to itself by strains of music. It must have been the Happiest Woman playing the harmonium, because I think my mother did not know how. The sound of the instrument was like nothing I could have expected—not groaning and wheezy and turgid, as I’d heard so many parlor organs sound, but fleet and light and inspiriting. She played beautifully, keeping the melody line firm and clear while embellishing it with intriguing figures and odd flourishes.

  Then they both began to sing, and again the sound was surprising. I couldn’t tell who sang lead and who harmony; in fact, the parts must have been interchangeable almost from one measure to the next. And I was uncertain which voice was my mother’s. Finally I decided she was the one who sounded so much like Aunt Samantha Barefoot. The Happiest Woman possessed the lighter voice and would range it silvery in the high registers to take the melody or plunge it below the lead to sing supporting tones.

  Maybe they sang quite a long time, yet it seemed but a minute or two. I sat unrocking and watched two monarchs at play on a shaggy abelia and a nuthatch upside down on the trunk of a white oak, busily gleaning the scabby bark of its morsels. I could have listened a long time and I did not rise from my seat when the music stopped. I imagined the women inside, hugging and murmuring their goodbyes, and knew that my mother would come out alone.

  In a little while she did and down those awkward steps we stumbled and found ourselves back in the station wagon. We didn’t speak. The music was still vivid in my head, cool as springwater and bright as an October beech leaf, and I did not want to disturb it. I desired to hear it in my mind for a long time—for always, if I could. But little by little it left me as we followed the road down into the valley. At last I could hear it only very small, as if I were watching it through a reversed telescope.

  * * *

  When my mother spoke again, she opened with a compliment, and this was so rare an occurrence, I knew to be on my guard. “Your manners seem to be improving, Jess, and that’s something to be proud of.”

  I made no reply.

  “Now if you would only do something to improve your appearance, you’d be a more-than-presentable young man. But your shoes are often a disgrace and your hair … well, I don’t see why you can’t learn to train it the way your father has trained his.”

  I maintained my prudent silence, figuring to let the familiar harangue run its course.

  But she veered off. “Still,” she said, “
manners are the more important thing, and I’m glad to see you seem to understand that. But we need to brush up on them a bit before you meet the Wind Woman. She is a special person and special manners are required to get on her good side.”

  “What kind of special?”

  “Well, you mustn’t ask her any questions. She has many valuable secrets and if she wishes to unfold them to you, she’ll do it in her own good time. But you mustn’t pry.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, thinking that here was something I needn’t be told. I had not been brought up to quiz my elders.

  “But you must answer her questions fully and truthfully. Some of them may be embarrassing. It is her habit to cause you to think of things you don’t care to think about and don’t want to admit to out loud. But if you are not open with her, the visit is of no use.”

  “Will you be there when she asks me these questions?”

  “Now why do you ask? You’re not keeping secrets from your mother, I hope.”

  “Not exactly.”

  “Then why shouldn’t I stay through your visit?”

  “No reason, I guess,” I said, vowing that if my mother sat in on this interview, I wouldn’t say a mumbling word.

  “Well, maybe I won’t,” she said. “I’d have to be invited to stay, and she may not invite me.”

  I felt a gushet of relief.

  “There’s another thing you shouldn’t do. Don’t eat anything. No matter how often or how sweetly she offers, don’t take a drink of milk or eat a biscuit or anything else. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  “Yessum.”

  “And don’t stare. Some people find her appearance unusual—especially young people. But she’s likely to take offense if you gawk. That’s not nice to do under any circumstances.”

  “Yessum.” By now my curiosity was mounting to a towering pitch and I began to look forward to this visit I’d dreaded so earnestly. What would she be like, the Wind Woman? Scary, I thought. Like nothing I’d ever seen before.

  We had reached the foot of Wind Mountain, though I was unsure how I knew this fact. The ascent seemed gentle at first, the road well graded, and the bordering woods pleasant with light and shade. But the mountain hung above us like a great purplish cloud and I knew there would be steep climbing ahead.

  I was right. Sooner than I’d expected, the road narrowed and there were breath-shaking washboard stretches and in some places deep, hardened clay ruts. My mother drove with stern purpose, not glancing at me anymore. I’d thought she’d made this visit many times, but now it was apparent the road was mostly unfamiliar to her and she had to concentrate on every curve and bankside. The road had narrowed so straitly that I prayed we wouldn’t meet a car coming down. Such an encounter could only be head-on.

  Up and up we went and climbed above the tall trees into hillsides of scrub brush and knolls so closely grassed over, they seemed to be painted green. Among the groves below, breezes had made the treetops waltz, but up here the wind was stronger and we could feel it push against the station wagon.

  “What kind of things will she ask me?” I said.

  “I don’t know.” Her voice was uneasy and caused me to misdoubt all her explanations.

  “You say you never opened your heart to her. Did you ever talk to her at all?”

  “Not precisely.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I visited her just once, a long time ago. But I was too shy to begin, and when she pressed me, I went away. So I’m a little anxious she’ll remember me and think of me as that rude girl who came once to visit.”

  “Oh,” I said, as if I understood.

  “Well, this is as close as the road brings us,” my mother said. “We’ll have to walk on to the top.”

  I looked up and saw a weathered old cabin right on the grassy tiptop of the mountain. It looked so ramshackle and makeshift, I found it hard to believe it could withstand the winds that swept this abandoned knob. Yet it had obviously been here for many years. I knew already there was no one who could say when it was built.

  We got out and started up the slope at an easy pace. Then we had to work harder at it because the wind that poured down upon us was powerful and steady and we could make but a slow thrust uphill against it. We bent into the wind as if we were leaning over the edge of a pool to see our reflections in the water.

  I found it difficult going; my legs were tiring and it was hard to get a good breath in the face of that wind. It was like the breath was sucked out of my mouth before I could get it into my lungs.

  Suddenly my mother sank to her knees. She shook her head. Her short, fine, dry hair flapped ugly in the wind.

  “Are you all right?” I asked. “Come on.”

  “This is as far as I go,” she said. It was hard to hear her in the wind moil.

  “Come on,” I said. “It’s not far.”

  “You’ll have to go on by yourself.”

  “I’m not going alone.”

  “You have to. I can’t make another step.”

  “I can’t leave you here by yourself.”

  “Yes you can. You must. It’s better for you to go alone. Go ahead. I’ll be all right.” She stretched her legs out before her and pulled her hem down and began a deep study of the landscape below, with its fields and groves and rivers, its houses and barns and haystacks. She must have needed to stop or she wouldn’t have sat white linen down on that green grass.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  “Go on, Jess,” she said.

  I went on, but the hike became no easier. The wind had got stronger and now was full of mutterings, not animal, but not quite human, either. I closed my mind against them and staggered on.

  The cabin, when I reached it, was just as unsteady-looking as it had appeared from below. The shingles were warped and split, the rock chimney leaned three ways at once, the steps were chewed and sagging. There were six lard-can flowerpots lined up on the porch edges; gaily painted red and blue and green, they held no impatiens or geraniums and their soil was dry and shrunken.

  I knocked on the door but could tell from the hollow sound that the house was empty. That wind that had been against my face now forced at me from behind, streaming up out of the valleys and hollers of Hardison County. It was fresher now with green smells, not raw as it had been out upon the mountain bald, and the mutterings in it had turned to human language, though I could not make out the words.

  I knocked again and was about to turn away to go back and join my mother. I could see her heading down the mountainside to the station wagon; this old windy hill had been too much for her. I was thinking how glad I’d be of the shelter of the station wagon myself when the door of the cabin swung easily open.

  I debated only a moment before entering. I’d come this far and I knew my mother would be dissatisfied if I made no effort at all to meet the Wind Woman, so I stepped inside and waited for my sight to adjust to the dimness.

  The place was as empty as I had expected, but it was not deserted. I could tell that someone lived here—sparely and cleanly and intensely. There was no sofa and no cushions, only four sturdy oaken straight chairs and a rocker. A mandolin lay in one of the chairs, gleaming black and golden; I could tell it was often played. Since the cabin offered little relief from the wind, the rocking chair tipped eerily back and forth. There was a narrow shelf by the window, in which sat maybe two dozen renowned volumes, Homer and Milton and Shakespeare and the others. And Virgil, of course.

  I visited the Spartan bedroom and then went into the kitchen. Washed dishes were piled on a drain board by the basin—there would be no electricity here and no running water. In some nearby cranny of the mountain the Wind Woman would have a wonderfully cold spring. The ashes in the firebox felt faintly warm, but there was nothing in the oven or in the bread warmer above. Stove wood was stacked neatly in a wooden box beside the range. The gray tin pot was coffee-less.

  I went back into the front room and tried to decide what to do. Finally I thought
I would wait a bit. I could tell that the Wind Woman wouldn’t be coming, but if I tarried, I might mollify my mother. I stopped the rocker’s motion with an index finger and seated myself.

  When I closed my eyes for a moment, the wind swelled up all around the cabin and inside it, making a great music of speaking voices and voices singing and instruments playing and the sounds that the horses and cows and dogs in the fields make and the trees and birds and stones in the woods. The commotion in my head was frightening and intoxicating. I was lost in bewilderment.

  In a while—short or long, I don’t know—the different sounds gradually sorted themselves out and I could understand what some of the voices were saying but knew nothing of what they meant. It seemed there was the wild, desolate, heartbroken voice of a woman crying away away away, so that the hair rose prickly along my nape. There was square-dance music joyous and copper-bright and music of bagpipes and drums and harps from over all the seas. A man’s voice sang a river song slow and deep while another was singing a high-tenor mocking song:

  I see blackbird fighting the crow

  But I know something he don’t know.

  I heard in the wind in that room houses and barns, ropes and straps, gunshot and sword slash, iron and calico, jubilation and lamentation, country and city, old age and childhood, birth and death, the whole of the world below the mountain, and in the midst of it all, like a pallid queen in a silver throne raised above a clamoring multitude, the great round silence of the moon that looked down pitiless on Hardison County and all the surrounding counties out to the horizon.

  My head swarmed with the hurt of it and I clapped my hands over my ears. It had come in a torrent too sudden and overwhelmed me so that my heart leapt and struggled. My breath wouldn’t come.

  Then it all went silent except for that single round, silent tone of the moon that I could hear as clearly as if it were a distant bell upon a deserted planet. That sound was a mercy and a marvel.