CHAPTER 15
The Moon Man
T
he next Saturday morning, the first in November, Grandma hitched Natty up to the wagon and placed a basket in the bed of it.
“Where you goin', Grandma?” I asked as I approached her from the door of the barn while she tucked a light blue-and-white checked dishtowel more securely in and around the food in the basket. I could smell some of the ham biscuits from this morning's breakfast, as well as the blackberry pie she'd made last night, which I'd assumed we'd have after dinner today.
“I'm goin' to see Samuel Harold. You know, the Moon Man.” She smiled. “It's his birthday,” she added in an off-handed way as she turned back to her task.
“The Moon Man! Who's the Moon Man?” I quickly moved up beside her. She had my undivided attention.
“
Samuel Harold
. You know, chil', the
Moon
Man!” she emphasized, as if doing so would clear things right up for me. She placed two jars of bread-and-butter pickles, ajar of pickled beets, and one of split runner beans into an old crate that she had braced against the wicker basket.
“I don't know him,” I stated.
She turned and stared at me in the oddest way for several seconds as if processing this newly acquired bit of information, and then told me to run into the house and tell someone that I was going with her. Strangely enough, she told me to tell someone other than Mama, and to beat it back to the wagon in a hurry. The fact that Grandma wanted me to avoid letting Mama in on our plans was utterly delicious to me.
I ran into the house to find that Mama was taking stock of the jars of food in the pantry, so I ran up the ladder to the loft where Merry was sitting before the vanity's mirror working on braiding her thick dark hair. When I told her I was going with Grandma, Merry Beth said she wanted to go, too, as I'd expected, and started toward the ladder. The discussion ended quickly enough, though, when I pointed to her feet and told her to put on her thickest snake boots for there were plenty of them where we were going. I knew she hated the reptiles with a passion, and my tactics for dissuading her from going worked perfectly; she abruptly turned back around, went back to her braiding, and offered up the excuse that if she went with us there'd be no one else around to help Mama with the cooking. Issuing a compliment on how considerate she was of others, I made a hasty retreat down the ladder, and hightailed it out to the wagon, where Grandma was waiting and ready. I pulled myself up onto the seat next to her, and then, leaning forward, she picked up the reins and slapped them against Natty's back. We lurched forward as the wagon rolled out of the barn.
“Who's the Moon Man, Grandma, and where're we goin'?” I asked again once we turned onto the sawmill road. I figured that since I was now part of this mysterious mission, I had the right to know.
“Samuel Harold, like I said before,” Grandma firmly stated. “Don't ask any more questions right now, Rachel. Let's just listen to the world go about its business around us for a spell, while we go on about ours.”
After that, I kept my questions to myself, loving the whole idea that just Grandma and I were headed to parts unknown, to see a man who was also unknownâto me, anyway. Soon I would be privy to the world of one Samuel Harold, a.k.a. The Moon Man, and I couldn't help feeling excited. But, at the same time, there was an unexplainable feeling of anxiousness, too. After all, I was with my Grandma, a strong and reliable force in my life, so what was there to fear?
It was just so uncharacteristic of her to be so cryptic about something, and because this was behavior I'd rarely seen in her before, and it was in relation to some aspect of her life that I had no knowledge of either, it gave me a very unfamiliar feeling of being uncomfortable in her presence. I just didn't know what to think, much less to say, so abiding by her request, I said nothing more for a long while. Instead, I just watched the dirt road weave and wind and lead us onward into unexplored territory.
We crossed the Titan Mountain pass, which was about seven miles north of us. Then we took a series of switchbacks, and crossed Lightner's Creek, the Bolsey River Bridge, and came out on the river road. I had only come this way one other time in my life and that was to attend my second cousin's wedding at a small Methodist church nearby.
I glanced over at Grandma, and watched the wind whip loose the strands of her hair from the knot at the base of her neck. She must have felt me watching her for she glanced over at me and gave me a smileâone that seemed a little nervous, I thought. There was apprehension there, and as quickly as the smile came, it was gone; then she redirected her focus back to the curving road, and her own thoughts.
A couple of hours after we'd set out, we turned left onto a well-rutted and worn path that was just past the Bolsey River Gristmill. Giant oak, maple, and hickory trees encroached on the ancient-looking trail, blocking out the dim November sunlight with their heavy branches, many of which were adorned with browning yellow and red leaves. Some of the branches hung down low enough to knock us off the wagon's seat. I scooted closer to Grandma, and she mumbled something about the trees having grown so much over the years, which made me wonder just how
many
years she'd been coming to this isolated, dark place. We traveled about a half-mile further down the old path until we came around a bend and into view of one of the strangest sights I'd ever seen before.
In the middle of a clearing stood a very old, rather small log cabin that had been weather-darkened to a deep molasses brown. Over the front doorway was a plaque with the Lord's Prayer handwritten in what had once been bright blue paint, with two simple crosses painted in now-faded white on each side of the words. But it wasn't the cabin with its religious signs that made the scene strange, it was the trees, or rather what was
in
the trees. For there, hanging from and amid the branches were hundreds of hand-cut and carved wooden or metal crescent moons, in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Some had faces painted or carved on them, while others were plain and somehow frighteningly beautiful in their own simplicity. They hung from the tree branches with fishing line, so that it seemed as if they floated on their own. They spun, bounced, and swirled in the chilly November wind, then calmed in their movement between the gusts to a gentle swinging and swaying.
“What are they doin' here, Grandma?” I asked in a breathy whisper.
And what are
we
doin' here
, I silently asked myself.
“Keepin' haints out,” she answered.
Warding off ghosts was not the answer I'd hoped to hear. That was not one of the calming, reassuring answers that I could usually count on from her. This was an answer that almost began to make me sorry I had come along for the ride . . . almost, but not quite.
“How many are hauntin' this place, Grandma?” I whispered.
“Only one, that I knows of anyway,” she answered.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“Your granddaddy, chil'.”
I immediately looked at the plaque over the front door, and when I understood the reason for it, started reciting the Lord's Prayer to myself:
Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name. Thy kingdom come . . .
This was as good a time for it as there ever had been in the history of mankind.
Oh, God, oh, Jesus! Oh, God, oh Jesus (and any others that might want to jump right in here to help me!)
, I prayed,
I swear on my family's Bible that if you'll keep that ghostâmy granddaddy!âaway from me, I'll try to like Mama better again, and I'll not wish bad things on Ray Coons. Well, I won't wish for things to happen to him that could kill him, anyway. And I'll never touch my breastsâor anyplace lowerâunder my sheets at night again.
I was so scared I couldn't even ask why my granddaddy (who'd died before Mama was born) was haunting this, of all places. And, most importantly, why was he haunting
any place
at all?
Suddenly, a shotgun blast snapped me out of my holy supplications, and caused Natty to buck and try to turn around.
“Whoa, Nat! Whoa!” Grandma called to the startled horse, while pulling on the reins in quick response. As no other shot was forthcoming, Grandma loudly called out, “Sam, it's Willa. Willa Holton! Come out here, old dog, where I can see ya.”
“Great day in the morning!” An excited voice exclaimed from around the back of the cabin. “Willa? Is it truly you, gal? Sweet Savior! Hold on, I'm a-comin'!”
And, with that, a rather thin but strong-looking man of medium height came into view with a shotgun in his right hand and a long, fat, dead rattlesnake in the other. He had thick, mostly gray hair, but with golden blond streaks running through it, and his eyes were an intense rich brown. I wasn't sure which one I should be more afraid of, but I was pretty sure it was the old man given that the snake's head was gone. I leaned into Grandma, who patted my knee reassuringly, and then yelled back to the man in a high-spirited, animated way: “Samuel Harold. Look at the likes of you! My land, but you're lookin' fairly good for a man who's a celebratin' sixty-two years today!”
“Ah, Willa, my gal. Is it my birthday? I hadn't thought about it.” He lowered his eyes and shook his head in a reflective, where-have-the-years-gone kind of way. Then he looked back at Grandma, and displaying a handsome smile that boasted a full set of teeth, he said, “Come down here and give this old man a squeeze!”
Grandma actually did as she was bidden and it was a moment I knew I'd never forget. The years seemed to fall away from her as she slipped over the side of the wagon. And with a most submissively feminine act of compliance, this woman of unbendable strength and wisdom, a woman who almost always managed to keep her feelings in check, gave in to this stranger's appeal and went without hesitation into his outstretched arms. “There's a first time for everything,” I'd heard her say countless times. I knew that this was certainly one of those “first times,” and, perhaps, the last time that I'd ever see my grandmother so unabashedly caught up in such an intimate moment.
They spoke softly and it was obvious that their words were only for each other. Strain though I might, I couldn't make out full sentences and just caught a murmured “good” or “missed” and several “blessings” in their quietly private conversation.
There was something about their meeting that was both joyful and sad. I didn't understand the
why
of any of it, because I didn't know their story yet, but it was clear to see that there was indeed a story, and it was one that was not an open book for the world to read. I knew I was privy to a scene that was one of the later chapters from a tale that had begun a long time ago; one that deeply involved these two lives, but that had somehow brought them to this near-conclusion of moon-filled trees, ghosts (of many kinds, I was sure), and rare, yet emotion-filled words. These were all part of a deep and cherished understanding between them. I felt confused by it, and awkward, yet absolutely fascinated as I witnessed the latest moment in their story.
“Sam, this is Rachel, my eldest granddaughter. You've heard me talk a lot about her,” she said, suddenly self-conscious as though she'd just remembered I was thereâand watching them.
“Great day in the mornin'! Rachel!” he said, looking at me as though I'd come from one of his hanging moons. “My God, but you look like your grandma! All except the color of your hair, 'a course.”
I smiled, pleased to be compared to her, and muttered a soft “hello,” and “thank you.”
A rising wind made the moons dance and swirl in an agitated way. “Let's go on in,” Sam said, looking up at the sky and sniffing at the same time. “I smell rain, and it's comin' in quick.”
“Well, help me with the food I brought ya, Sam. There's a pie in there that'll be ruined if we don't get 'er in quick-like.”
With that, I followed the Moon Man and Grandma over to the wagon, and grabbing the crate and wicker basket, we hurried inside.
I glanced up at the hand-painted plaque with the Lord's Prayer on it before stepping inside, hoping it would ward off any ghosts that might otherwise be lurking in the corners, not to mention large spiders or the family of the beheaded rattler. From the outside there didn't appear to be any gaps between the logs, but varmints still had a way of finding their way in to seek the warmth of a fireplace, not to mention the occasional crumb that the Moon Man might carelessly drop. But upon entering, I realized that the cabin was well cared for and far neater than I'd expected.
Just inside the door was a lovely old oak hall tree. It had delicate, richly detailed carvings of birds and flowers adorning the top edge, and centered below was an oval beveled mirror. Though darkened by age, the piece was elegantly beautiful and free of any smudges or dust. There were wooden hooks to each side of the mirror and an oilskin jacket and hat were hung from one, while neatly placed on the floor below were galoshes that were well-worn but wiped free of mud. The Moon Man hung our coats on the hall tree's empty hook and then we followed him into his sparsely furnished but pleasant and warm living room. There were two matching wing-backed chairs that were done in a faded but still handsome green-and-red plaid, and between them was a small, round table where a Bible and a copy of the Sears catalog rested. Before the large fireplace, which was made from river rock of varying hues, lay a long, thin old cat that had not moved at all since we'd come in. I immediately went to the golden animal and bent down to pet it. It quickly raised its head and then laid it back down as if satisfied that I meant no harm, but offered, instead, a much-desired stroking.