A
s they walked through the woods, no breeze stirred what last leaves clung to the branches, but it wasn't like the stillness before an afternoon thunderstorm or after a thick snow. Instead, it seemed the earth had paused, unsure if it wanted to turn back toward summer or move on into winter.
“When we get to New York, will we live beside the ocean?” Laurel asked.
“If not, we'll be near.”
“Good,” Laurel said. “I want to look at something I can't see the end of. That's how it is, isn't it, endless?”
“Yes,” Walter said.
They came to the brook and made their way upstream. Laurel set the muscadine wine in the pool and they stepped onto the outcrop and unpacked the basket. The rock was warmer than last time, brighter as well since there was no haze or clouds, just a wide rising into a depthless blue. As Walter unfurled the checkered quilt, he imagined it seen from an aeroplane or zeppelin, the cloth like a flag making some human claim on this wild place.
“I should have had you bring your flute,” Laurel said as she took the bread and preserves from the basket, set out the plates and napkins and knife. “But I'm of a mind we've got enough prettiness without it.”
More than enough, Walter thought, with the blue sky and the stream's sparkling mica amid the flow and shoal of yellow leaves. The dress Laurel wore was pretty too, the finer cloth clinging to her body's curves, the dress's cut revealing more of her breasts and shoulders. When Laurel had first come out of her room, he had found the green color unsettling, but now he saw it for what it really was, not an omen but a confirmation that what he'd once lost had finally returned. They ate, then drank the wine. Afterward they lay down, Laurel with her head on his shoulder. Walter listened to water slide off the ledge and splash below. He closed his eyes and felt the sun take away the deep-earth dampness that had seeped into him. With the sound of the water and the way the outcrop seemed to float above the cove, it was as if they were adrift. He remembered a song he had heard in Central Park about rowing a boat because life was but a dream.
Laurel settled her hand over his. They did not talk and after a while he thought she might be asleep, but then she spoke.
“When you think about the
Vaterland
,
do you ever have moments when you think it didn't exist?”
“Not recently,” he said. “You have made certain of that.”
“I guess so,” Laurel said, and smiled. “There's so much more I want to know, know good enough not to forget. The place you were born is called Narsdorf and is in Saxony and the conservatory is in Leipzig.”
Walter nodded.
“May fourth is your birthday and your sisters' names are Gertrude and Lena, and your father's name is Claus and your mother's Anna.”
“Very good,” he said.
For a few moments they were silent. The wine and sun had made him sleepy and he closed his eyes.
“As lonely a life as I've had in this place I'd not wish it otherwise,” Laurel said, “because had it been different I wouldn't have met you. Your life, it's not been a bed of roses either.”
“Easier than yours,” Walter said.
“But it was hard for you at the conservatory.”
“Not so bad after the first few weeks.”
“And you were twelve when you went there?” Laurel asked.
“Yes, twelve.”
“But now things are better,” Laurel said, “so there's no need for us fret about what once was.”
Laurel leaned and kissed him on the mouth. The kiss lengthened and they shed clothes and brought their bodies together, but in a drowsy way, then fell asleep with their clothes a pillow, the quilt half under and half around them. After a while they woke and dressed. For a few minutes they sat on the quilt, listening to water veil the forest's other sounds.
“I guess we better get back so I can start supper,” Laurel said.
Walter helped Laurel to her feet. She brushed off the dress.
“I'll have to wash it again before we leave for New York, but it was nice wearing it for you. It made today more special.”
“Yes,” Walter said. “It did.”
Laurel put the cups and knife and preserves in the basket, but instead of packing the quilt and wine bottle, she found four flat creek stones and placed one on each corner of the quilt. She set the wine bottle in the middle and secured it with a small cairn of rocks.
“Why are you doing so?” he asked.
“Because this might be the last time we get to picnic here. Even if it's not us or Hank and his family, somebody else will come to this cove, maybe to live. I want them to see that something happy could happen here.”
Walter picked up the basket and followed Laurel off the outcrop and past the pool where she'd chilled the wine. They followed the brook's leaps and pauses into the cove.
“Maybe I'll make a pie for tonight,” Laurel said. “Would you like that?”
“I would,” he said.
“Slidell gave us those apples. You want that or blackberry?”
“Blackberry.”
“All right,” Laurel said. “But there's one condition.”
“Which is?”
Laurel turned and smiled.
“You let Hank fetch the cinnamon this time.”
The brook grew quieter as the land leveled. The path veered away from the water and into the woods. They were halfway to the cabin when they heard dogs barking and then a shout.
“Something's wrong,” Laurel said.
Walter set the basket down and they hurried through the trees until they could see the cabin.
Hank was roped to a porch rail and a man in a uniform pointed a pistol at him. Another man tied a noose to the well's scaffolding. Boyce Clayton was in the yard with a red-headed man who held a leash in each hand, on the other ends two dogs, their long ears dragging the ground as they circled and sniffed.
“They know you're here,” Laurel whispered as Ansel Clayton came from the cabin with a shirt. “Come on. Hurry.”
When they got to the brook, Laurel told him to take off his shirt. He did and handed it to her.
“Wade up the creek and don't let your feet touch the bank,” Laurel said. “Go to the waterfall. If I don't show up by dusk, go to your old camp. I'll come for you when it's safe.”
T
hey made their way to where the land began its descent. The path became rockier and they passed beneath a drift of tin and bottles, on the ground salt and chips of colored glass. Chauncey knew why they'd been placed here and thought of last January when he'd asked Slidell Hampton to take the telegram about Hank's wound to Laurel. I'd not have thought a military man to be spooked by old wives' tales, Slidell had taunted.
The cliff's shadow engulfed them and the men as well as the boys got quieter. The air became cool and moist. By the time the ground leveled, the cliff cleaved half the sky. Chauncey had heard there were places in this cove that light had never touched, and if a man lingered long in one he'd never be able to look at the sun again. He thumbed back the Colt's safety.
Chauncey slowed and let the others ride alongside as they came out of the woods. Hank was on the porch but there was no gun visible. Even if he has one, with one hand he won't be able to aim it good, Chauncey reassured himself.
“Where's that Hun spy you're hiding?” Chauncey ordered as they dismounted.
“What are you talking about?” Hank asked.
“Walter,” Boyce said, “the one what plays the fife.”
“Use one of them ropes to tie him up,” Chauncey ordered Jubel. “You boys help.”
“He's a musician,” Hank said, “from New York.”
Chauncey unholstered the pistol and aimed it at Hank, willing his hand not to tremble.
“Where's your sister, helping him hide?”
“He ain't no spy,” Hank said. “He can't even talk.”
“Grab him,” Jubel shouted, and he and the boys pinned Hank against the side railing.
The boys held Hank while Jubel bound him, leaving just enough rope to knot the ends tight around a slat.
“Where are they?” Chauncey demanded.
“You go to hell, Feith,” Hank said.
Chauncey heard the hounds coming down the trail into the cove.
“We need something he's worn and them dogs will find him quick enough,” Boyce said.
“Go get something you figure his,” Chauncey told Ansel, “and make sure that Hun ain't hiding under a bed. Boyce, check the woodshed. Jack, take Wilber and search the barn and don't forget the loft.”
“Yes, sir,” Jack said.
In the side yard a scaffold had been built over the well but there was no pulley or bucket.
“You better check that well, Jubel,” Chauncey said.
Jubel took a rope with him. He struck a match and peered into the well mouth, then threw the rope over the top beam and tied a noose.
“One less thing to do when we find him,” Jubel said. “Once he quits kicking all we'll have to do is cut the rope.”
Ansel came out of the cabin with a chambray shirt.
“You sure it's his?” Chauncey asked.
“Too small to be Hank's,” Boyce said.
“When I get these damn ropes off me, I'm coming for all you sons of bitches,” Hank shouted.
“Maybe we won't give you the chance, Shelton,” Jubel said. “The good thing about a noose is you can use it more than once.”
“There ain't no call to ponder nooses,” Boyce said.
“The water's yet murky on all of this,” Ansel agreed, “and it looks to be murky for a while yet.”
“If you old men ain't got the stomach for it, head on back to town,” Jubel said. “Right, Chauncey?”
The men turned to Chauncey, and it wasn't a bunch of boys waiting for orders but three men, two of them a good thirty years older and Boyce a Spanish War veteran.
“That's right,” Chauncey said to Boyce and Ansel, “though after what the Huns did to your nephew I'd have thought you all to be the first to help.”
Boyce and Ansel didn't respond but they didn't leave. In a few minutes two hounds came out of the woods with Linville stumbling behind, the leashes jerking and swaying in his hands.
“Left the wagon and other dogs at Slidell's,” Linville said, “but these two are the proudest in the pack.”
“This is his,” Boyce said.
He handed the chambray shirt to Linville, who wadded it and let the dogs nuzzle the cloth before unleashing them. The hounds circled the yard until one gave a long moan and made a low-nosed rush into the woods, the other close behind.
“They've struck it,” Linville said.
“Let Linville ride with you, Wilber,” Chauncey said, and turned Traveler toward the far ridge.
At first the dogs and horses followed a discernible path through the woods. They came to a creek and for a few moments the hounds were confused. Then the dogs found the scent and followed it downstream. Chauncey and his horse splashed through the creek, then back onto the bank, weaving their way through woods and water. A branch knocked off Chauncey's hat but that no longer mattered. He didn't need a sign of rank to lead.
Jubel pulled close to Chauncey.
“That Hun's headed for the river.”
Chauncey took the lead again and soon glimpsed water beyond the blur of trees. Suddenly, the woods ended and he was on a narrow riverbank with the hounds and Laurel Shelton. Chauncey pulled out the pistol as the rest of the search party floundered onto the swath of sand.
“Where's the Hun?” Chauncey shouted above the riders attempting to calm their mounts.
Laurel Shelton was backed against a tree, the hounds barking and slobbering as they surrounded her. Jack shouted that there was a shirt in the river. All the while, men and dogs and horses bumped and stumbled and circled. Traveler lost his footing for a moment and veered perilously close to the water. Chauncey had the dizzying sensation that he was on a horse astride a carousel, the world turning around him.
“Tether them damn dogs,” Jubel shouted.
Linville dismounted and worked through the confusion of boots and hooves, lunging with the leash collar to snare the hounds and drag them away.
“Did he swim across the river?” Chauncey shouted, aiming the gun at Laurel, letting her and everyone else know he wasn't going to be trifled with, not today or ever again.
Laurel met his eyes and nodded just as a hound bumped Traveler's shanks and the horse jerked sideways.
Chauncey squeezed the rein to hold on and the pistol fired.
Traveler reared but Chauncey stayed in the saddle. Other horses whinnied and swerved and Jubel's mount almost tumbled into the river. The horses finally quieted and Linville pulled the dogs off the bank and into the woods. The world no longer spun around Chauncey. It had shuddered to a stop and locked itself into place. Laurel Shelton's back still pressed against the tree, but now a tear appeared in the green cloth covering her left breast. She didn't appear to be in pain, her face expressionless. It's a briar scratch, not a bullet hole, Chauncey told himself. Then her knees buckled and she fell to the ground.
For a few moments no one spoke. The men and boys watched as a stain spread down the dress. It was Boyce Clayton who moved first, kneeling beside her. He spoke her name. When there was no response, he took her wrist in his and searched for something not found.
“You killed a damn woman,” Boyce said, turning to Chauncey.
Between sobs, Wilber said he wanted to go home.
“It was an accident,” Chauncey said. “It wouldn't have happened if she hadn't been helping a spy.”
“What the hell do you think he was spying on,” Boyce asked, “down here in the middle of nowhere?”
“It was you all's fault,” Chauncey said, “bumping and shoving. You should have kept your horses farther back. Those dogs too. They caused it to happen.”
Boyce lifted Laurel Shelton into his arms. Ansel came over and stood beside him.
“You tell that to Hank,” Boyce said. “He'll kill you for this.”
“But it's Linville's fault more than mine,” Chauncey said. “Those dogs should have been leashed the whole time.”
“It ain't none of my fault,” Linville said. “You shouldn't have had that damn pistol out, much less aiming it at her.”
“I didn't aim it at her,” Chauncey answered. “I aimed at the tree in case that Hun was hiding behind it. The dogs were what made it go off, and all of you bunching up on me.”
“That Hun's getting away,” Jubel said. “Let's go. The bridge ain't but a mile if we follow the river.”
“I'm taking Laurel back to town,” Boyce said. “I ain't leaving her out here.”
“I ain't going either,” Ansel said.
“I want to go back with you,” Wilber whispered between sobs.
“Me too,” Jack said.
Ansel helped Boyce drape the body on the horse.
“Quicker to follow the water,” Boyce said and led them downriver, the only sound Wilber's sniffling.
The others didn't speak until the procession was out of sight.
“I got to get my wagon and the rest of my dogs,” Linville said, “though if I hear another word about what's happened being my fault, I'll let you two sniff the ground and find that Hun.”
Linville whistled and barks responded from above. He studied the steep terrain.
“Slidell's house can't be more than a quarter-mile up this ridge,” Linville told them.
“It's too steep for the horses,” Jubel said.
“But not me and these dogs,” Linville replied. “You take the low road and we'll meet at the bridge.”
As Linville and the dogs began their ascent, Jubel turned to Chauncey.
“You didn't do nothing that witch didn't deserve.”
Chauncey nodded.
“We need to get on across that bridge,” Jubel said. “It's already getting darksome and he ain't twiddling his thumbs waiting for us.”
“You go on,” Chauncey said. “I'm going back to find out from Shelton where that Hun's headed.”
Jubel met his eyes for a long moment, then nodded.
“We'll meet across the river.”
As Chauncey followed the creek upstream, he suddenly remembered Paul's homecoming. It would be over now, Senator Zeller and everybody else long gone, if it had even happened without Chauncey to supervise. He hadn't wanted to be here, but if he hadn't everyone in Mars Hill would have said Chauncey Feith was a coward, even though it wasn't his duty to lead a posse. Now there'd be people blaming him because he had left, just like they'd blame him for what was clearly an accident. If Jubel and the others hadn't come crowding in and the dogs hadn't been scaring the horses, it wouldn't have happened. Of course Jubel was right. The real blame was with the Shelton bitch. If she hadn't been helping a damn Hun escape, Chauncey wouldn't have had his pistol out in the first place. As soon as she saw him, she should have lain down on the ground because, for all Chauncey knew, that Hun was behind the tree with his own gun. If she'd been on the ground with her hands out, the bullet would have just hit the tree.
Chauncey came to where the creek and the trail to the cabin met. Because he was riding slower and alone, he noticed how quiet the woods were. Too quiet. No birds sang or squirrels chattered, the only sound the leaves under Traveler's feet, soft and breathy like someone, or something, whispering. He passed more dead chestnuts than he'd ever seen in one place and even the oaks and the poplars had few leaves, their gray bony branches piercing the sky. After a while, he passed graves he hadn't noticed earlier, two graves. Chauncey had the chilling thought that this cove already knew what he was going to do.
He was still in the woods when he dismounted and leashed Traveler to a dogwood sapling. When he came out of the trees, he was directly in front of the porch. Hank was still tied up. Since he'd helped harbor a Hun, Hank would get put in jail, but even so one day he'd surely be let out. Chauncey had no choice, because that was what war wasâkilling a man so he wouldn't kill you. You can't give him a chance because he can't give you one and every soldier understood that.
I'll not shoot him in the back though, Chauncey told himself, and it isn't only to show he was attacking me. I'll kill him like a man. He moved across the yard and stood in front of the steps. Hank had his chin tucked against his chest and knees. His eyes were closed as if he was asleep, but then Chauncey saw the shoulders shrugging to free the arm. Chauncey looked to his right, on past the scaffold to check the path they'd followed into the cove, then left beyond the railing where Hank was tied, and saw no one there either. He took the pistol from his holster and settled his index finger inside the curve of the metal, not touching the trigger. The gun felt five times as heavy as before and Chauncey was suddenly engulfed in weariness.
It was so unfair. If he'd just been allowed to stay at the homecoming ceremony, none of this would have happened. The damn Claytons had to pick this day, after who knew how long, to figure out they'd been playing music and having a high old time with a spy, then expect Chauncey to come into this godforsaken place and track the Hun down when they should have done it by themselves. Now he was going to have to do this. No one would give him a medal or say he was a hero the way they would if Chauncey did the exact same thing in France or Belgium. There would be people in Mars Hill who wouldn't believe Hank Shelton had attacked him or even tried to run away. They'd think Chauncey shot Hank when he was still tied to the porch railing. Because that was what they wanted to believe, that Chauncey Feith couldn't have done it any other way, and it'd be the very same folks who just hours ago slapped him on the back and tipped their hats and told him what a bully fellow he was. The very same ones.
The hell with them, Chauncey thought, and with the Claytons and the Sheltons and that German professor and that hag librarian and Meachum and Estep and that damn escaped Hun too. They could every one of them go straight to hell for all Chauncey cared. There was nothing he could do to please any of them so they could think what they wanted. Chauncey let the crook of his index finger touch the trigger. All he had to do was squeeze it. Just walk up there and do it and do it now and you won't be down here when it's full dark. He thought of the bottles hung on the tree limb. A witch, that was what people, a lot of people, believed Laurel Shelton was. The same folks would also believe that a witch could seed a place with all sorts of charms and hexes that could still live on even if the witch didn't.