The Choiring Of The Trees Part 25

He looked down at his knees, and, sure enough, he had been crawling among squash vines. "I'm right sorry," he said. "I didn't notice it was yore guh-yarden."

"Whar ye from?" she demanded.

"Stay More," he said, but her blank look told him she had never heard of it, and he added, "Up in Newton County."

She inclined her head over her shoulder. "That's a fur piece up yonder," she said.

"How fur?" he asked.

"You don't know?" she challenged.

"I aint never been in this part of the country afore," he said.

"Wal, it's ever bit of seven mile to the county line," she said.

He laughed, partly with pleasure. "That's all?" he said. And then he exulted, "I'm jist about home!" But by then exhaustion, from having climbed the mountain and encountered a stranger, had taken hold of him: he abruptly lost his balance on his knees and fell over and then just lay there on his side, unable to rise.

"Air ye porely?" she asked, with some solicitation, dropping the muzzle of the shotgun. He could have reached up and yanked it out of her hand if he had wanted.

"Jist tard," he declared, weakly. "Jist real tard."

"Come sit in the shade of the porch, and I'll fetch ye a drink," she offered, and with surprising strength for a woman lifted him up from the ground so that he could stagger onward to her house.

He stayed to supper. More than that: he stayed the night. The woman-her name, she said, was Mary Jane Thomas-had two children, a girl of five named Elizabeth and a boy of three, Edward Junior, who were fascinated with this strange visitor wearing c.o.o.nskin, deerskin, bearskin, and carrying a bone air. Edward Thomas Senior had been killed in an accident down to the sawmill two years before, and Mary Jane had stayed on at the homeplace, making a decent enough living off the land. This place was called Raspberry; there were two other families down the trail not too far, and that was it: Raspberry, Arkansas, population eighteen.

From Raspberry to Ben Hur, which was in northernmost Pope County, almost on the Newton County line, was indeed only seven miles, and this closeness to home (even though Ben Hur was still a good thirty or thirty-five miles from Stay More) was the reason Nail resisted Mary Jane's suggestion to stay awhile, or even forever if he had a mind to. She served him a magnificent supper: chicken and dumplings with sweet corn on the cob, a mess of fresh greens, snap beans, sliced tomatoes, and for dessert a blackberry cobbler with real cream. After putting the children to bed, she used the rest of the cookstove's heat to warm up some water for a good bath for Nail, with real soap, and a shave if he so desired (he did), and a change of clothes: he could help himself to what was left of her late husband's wardrobe, such as it was; Eddie Thomas had been roughly the same size, not quite as tall, as Nail. But before Nail put on his fresh shirt and trousers, she insisted on inspecting his wounds. She wanted to know how he had got each of them, and without going into detail about his crossing of the Arkansas River he explained that this wound had come from the sharp stob on a log and this wound had come from the claws of a bear, and so had this one, and these were tick bites or chigger bites, of course, and these were just blisters from his shoes, which were too tight. She gave him a pair of her late husband's boots, which fit too. She concocted a salve or ointment of some herbal or vegetable matter (he could only make out the smells of polecat weed and mullein leaves), which she insisted would help his cuts and bruises and scabs, and put it on the bad places for him. It was soothing. She offered him the makings of a cigarette, some leftover papers and a tobacco pouch of her late husband's, but he thanked her and declined. She asked if he would mind if she read the Bible aloud, and he didn't mind. She read some of Leviticus, and some of Job, and this of Matthew: "For I was an hungred, and ye gave me meat; I was thirsty, and ye gave me drink; I was a stranger, and ye took me in; naked, and ye clothed me; I was sick, and ye visited me; I was in prison, and ye came unto me." From the way she looked at him after reading these last words, he suspected she knew, or guessed, that he had been in prison.

It grew late. She yawned and told him, "I aint got a spare bed. You'd be welcome to mine if this weren't jist the first night and I hardly know ye. Tomorrow night maybe we could jist sleep together."

"That's all right," he said. "I'm much obliged. I'd be jist fine on a pallet on the floor, and tomorrow I've got to be gittin me a soon start on back up home."

But the next morning, before breakfast, after a whole day of not bothering him at all, the chill hit him again. It shook him, and kept on shaking him violently for nearly an hour, although the woman piled up every quilt she owned on top of him, after getting him up off his pallet and into her deep, warm featherbed. At first she blamed and berated herself, thinking the chill had been caused by his sleeping on the floor, but soon she saw it was something much more severe than any lack of hospitality could have been blamed for.

"I do believe you've got the swamp fever," she told him, and then, after the chill had ceased and the burning fever had started, she was confirmed in her suspicion: "No doubt about it, you've got yoreself the bad malaria." She became almost happy at the prospect of keeping him another day, or longer, tending his fever with towels soaked in cold well water, and later, when he began to sweat profusely, lovingly blotting it all up with rags. She sent the girl, Betsy, down the trail to the neighbors' to see if she could borrow a little bit of whiskey, and the girl returned carrying the gla.s.s jar as if it held frankincense or myrrh.

Mary Jane put something into the whiskey; she refused to tell Nail what, but he, who could judge whiskey well enough to smell the feet of the boys who'd plowed the corn, knew the whiskey was adulterated. "I aint sposed to tell ye," she insisted, "or it would take the spell off." Whatever she put in (and I can only guess it probably was three drops of the blood of a black cat; Nail had observed a number of cats around the place) helped, although it tasted so awful he nearly gagged on it. He could not eat the fine dinner, or the leftovers at supper, but she forced him to drink some boneset tea, which is also very good for malaria, and to have another dose of the whiskey-with-cat's-blood every two hours, or as often as he could stand it. And at bedtime she crawled in beside him. "Do what ye want," she told him, but he had no strength to do anything, although he appreciated her closeness and softness and willingness.

Early the next morning, while she still slept, he awoke to find that enough of his strength had returned that he could take her if he wanted, but he had made his choice: whatever strength he had, he would use for the hike. He was fully dressed and ready to go before she woke up, blinking at the sight of him in her late husband's clothes in the pale light of dawn, and he protested that he didn't need any breakfast, but she begged him to stay and have a big plate of bacon and eggs and biscuits and jam, and the first real coffee he'd had in nearly a year.

And while he was pausing to eat before departure, the two children appeared and watched him eat, and Betsy asked him, "Don't ye wanter be our daddy?"

He could not finish eating. "I don't know how," he said. "I aint got any experience in that line."

"You're a fool," the woman said to him. "You don't know a good thang when it's lookin ye right squar in the face."

"I'm a fool, I reckon," he admitted.

"Have you got a woman waitin fer ye?" she asked.

"I sh.o.r.ely hope so," he said, and thanked her for everything and several times protested her insistence that he stay.

When it became apparent that she could not persuade him to stay, she gave him one more thing of her late husband's: a .22 rifle and a box of bullets for it. Nail had declined, but the woman had displayed her late husband's entire a.r.s.enal: two shotguns, three rifles, even a handgun. She had offered him his pick, and he had decided on the .22 as most convenient. He would not be needing the bone air anymore, would he? she asked. "Could ye leave it for Eddie, when he grows up? I druther he learnt to use it than ary arn."

Nail presented his bone air to Eddie. Eddie swapped him his dead father's felt fedora for the c.o.o.nskin cap.

She walked him as far as the trail and pointed the direction toward Ben Hur.

"I'm sh.o.r.e much obliged," he said.

"Obliged enough to kiss me?" she asked.

And he took off the hat that had been her husband's, and he kissed her on the mouth and put the hat back on and did not look back, knowing that she'd not be watching him disappear, because it's real bad luck and even worse manners to watch somebody go out of sight.

Well, he told himself later on the trail, he wouldn't never forget where Raspberry was, and if things didn't work out between him and Viridis, he'd know where to find Mary Jane. Then he smiled and said to himself, But things is bound to work out between me and Viridis.

It was in 1880 that General Lewis (Lew) Wallace published a historical romance called Ben Hur: A Tale of the Christ, which became one of the best-selling novels of all time, and popular even in the Ozarks, where somebody discovered it about 1895 and decided to name a community after it, or, rather, after its t.i.tle character, a Roman-educated Jew who converts to Christianity and does good deeds. There was no post office of that name until about 1930, when the boundary between Pope and Newton counties was redrawn and Ben Hur became a part of Newton County. As late as 1963, Ben Hur was the last community in Arkansas to receive electricity, and even today the eastern approach to the town remains the last stretch of unpaved state highway in the Ozarks.

When Nail Chism pa.s.sed through Ben Hur, he did it openly and even waved at a few people he encountered. He could have been taken for a foot traveler on his way to Moore or Tarlton, which is exactly what he was, carrying the deerskin and bearskin folded up under one arm, not wearing them in the heat, and the .22 rifle in the crook of his other arm was no more or less than any traveler might have carried.

He was determined to reach the Newton County line before nightfall, and, while there were no signs along the road indicating the county line, he seemed to know when he had reached his home county: his pace slackened, his step faltered, and he stopped, knowing he had reached the end of the day's journey: just a little less than nine miles, which, in his weakened condition, had utterly exhausted him. For supper, he had only the fond recollection of his last supper at Mary Jane's, and then he went to sleep on a pile of leaves beneath a rock shelter in a place called Hideout Hollow.

The next day he awakened once again with severe chills and knew then, conclusively, that he had the "two-day ague," the form of malaria that recurs every other day. This third attack of the sequence of chills, fever, and sweating did not have the help of the medicine Mary Jane had given him; once again he was immobilized all day, and again he had the hallucination, or delirium, that he had reached Stay More and found a rock shelter in the glen of the waterfall prepared for him by Viridis. But this time when she appeared to him, she berated him for having slept with Mary Jane and told him he might as well go on back to Raspberry. On the next "good" day, in between the recurrent sick days, his first waking thought was that he ought to turn back to Raspberry and just stay there, if not forever at least until he was wholly recovered from the malaria.

But he went on. For the duration of his next good day, he made no attempt to keep hidden in the woods but walked on the cleared wagon trails that connected Ben Hur to Moore, and Moore to Tarlton, and Tarlton to Holt. I calculate that he covered another eleven miles or so along those wagon trails, stopping only once to pa.s.s the time of day with an inquisitive driver who was hauling a load of hay from his lower meadows to his barn and wanted to know who Nail was and where he was headed and what he thought of this terrible drought. Nail almost relished the chance to chat casually with a countryman, a fellow hillman, and he even told the man the truth: what his name was, where he had been, and where he was heading. "Sh.o.r.e, I've heared of ye," the man acknowledged. "Matter of fact, I signed that thar pet.i.tion to git ye off. Leastways I put my X on her."

As Nail politely declined (three or four times) the man's invitation to stay the night, the man asked, "Wal, air ye fixin to shoot Jedge Jerram?"

Nail laughed. "I'd sh.o.r.e lak to do it, but all I kin think about right now is gittin myself on up home."

"Don't take the right fork yonder," the man suggested. "That'd take ye down Big Creek towards Mount Judy. Cut back over yon mountain and ye'll come down to Tarlton. Stay More aint but about twelve, thirteen mile past thar. But you'd best jist come go home with me and stay all night."

"I'm much obliged," Nail said, and then, remembering his manners, counteroffered, "Why don't ye jist go to Stay More with me?"

"Better not, I reckon," the man said, and let him go, but called out from a distance, "I was you, I'd sh.o.r.e slay Jedge Jerram."

For the next several miles Nail thought about that. He had been bent, all these days, only upon reaching the hills of Stay More, making contact with his folks, and seeing Viridis without a screen or a table separating them. He had not given much thought to revenge upon Sull Jerram. He hoped he would never even have to encounter the man; if he did, he didn't intend to start anything; if Sull started something, Nail would be obliged to finish it. Certainly, he hated Sull, but he had not spent much time thinking about murdering him.

As that good day ended, somewhere short of Tarlton, Nail wished he had accepted the man's offer to spend the night. He knew that the next day promised another attack of chills, fever, and sweats, and he'd have been better off at the man's house; maybe the man had some quinine or something that Nail could have taken. But it was too late, he was miles past the man's place, and he needed to find something for supper that would tide him over the bad day, and to find a sheltered place to spend it.

His weakness, his fatigue, his sense of being so close to home that he could almost smell the air of Stay More overwhelmed him, made him giddy, staggered him. Late in the afternoon he found himself, he thought, in a sheep pasture! Real sheep, or at least tangible ones: he called to them, a flock of less than a dozen, "Sheep! sheep! sheepsheepsheep!" and they came to him, and he sank his fingers into their regrowing fleece, although they were skittish, smelling the bearskin he still carried. He inspected them carefully; whoever owned them did not know much about the care of sheep and was not feeding them right or keeping them happy. Nail could not see any near farmstead or signs of a trail leading to one, and if the owner of the sheep had a sheepdog, the dog was busy elsewhere. Nail decided to spend the night with the sheep, and he did. For his supper, he shot a squirrel with the .22 and roasted it over coals. The sheep watched him and sniffed the smoke of his campfire and made puzzled sheep's-faces.

When the chills seized him the next morning, he attempted to snuggle up against a ewe to keep warm, but she did not understand what he was doing and ran away from him. The bellwether, a castrated ram, led her and the other sheep off down the hill, away from Nail, who could not get up from the ground and follow them. He covered himself with his deerskin and his bearskin and shivered violently for what seemed longer than the usual hour. All day he watched for the sheep to return, but they did not, although he called them again when the sweats had cooled him enough to restore his ability to shout, and eventually he decided that the sheep were only part of his delirium.

Did he get up from the ground and move on? Or was that just another part of his delirium? It seemed to him that he was walking, but he could not actually feel his feet touching the ground; it was more like the kind of wayfaring that we do in dreams, moving soundlessly and effortlessly from place to place, maybe even leaving the ground and flying. He must have flown over a few of those mountains. Journey within a journey: fish leaping for him on the still pools of a richly imagined creek that looked so much like the west fork of Shop Creek near the village of s.p.u.n.kwater, just over the mountain from home. Even the distant chimneys and school-house bell tower of s.p.u.n.kwater, where he hadn't been in longer than he could remember, he remembered still as looking like that, or created them to look that way: familiar and comfortable and welcoming. The village had been named by some early drought-stricken settler after the lifesaving rainwater that remains in the cavities of trees or stumps, from the Scottish "sponge-water." The drinking of s.p.u.n.kwater is supposed to cure you of wanderl.u.s.t or make you handsome, one or the other or both, just as the waters of Solgohachia give you marital success.

If Nail actually stopped at s.p.u.n.kwater for a sip of the leftover rainwater, then he was cured of his roaming and would never do it again, and was transformed back into a good-looking man. If he only imagined that he had reached s.p.u.n.kwater, the last community before you approach Stay More from the east, then he was a beggar riding his wish and spurring it on beyond its endurance.

He would never afterward have any clear memory of the...hours? days?...of the following long pa.s.sage of time. His last reasonably clear memory had been of the sheep disappearing, and that sheep pasture had been miles and miles from home, and then of his feeble efforts to find a shelter for the duration of his day's sickness, where he could lie still and pretend he was hiking through s.p.u.n.kwater, and up the steep eastern slopes of Ledbetter Mountain above b.u.t.terchurn Holler, and down, down into the glen of the waterfall. If we are only going to imagine things, we may as well imagine them as we have known them.

The waterfall seemed so very real that he could almost use the help of the last time he had visited it, not the help of my letter but his memory of the last visit, before the trouble had started, in June of the previous year, just a little over a year before, and nothing had changed much since then, except that maybe the volume of the falls, springfed though it was, did not seem quite so full. That time he had explored again the caverns beneath the ledges on both sides of the waterfall and inspected their meager contents, the bits of woven stuff, shards of pottery, bones. This time he staggered into the larger cavern expecting to find exactly what he found: a bed. That bed was the best creation of his fevered brain, the product of his most burning fancy.

He fell into it, that pile of blankets, quilts, comforters, and pillows, topped, as he had known it would be, with fresh white sheets, but he forgot to grope around for the fresh white sheet of paper with her handwriting on it that would tell him there was a harmonica beneath the bedpile; nor did he think to grope for the harmonica and play it all night. Nor did he think to notice even if it was night or day. His eyes closed as soon as he hit the bedpile, and he spread his arms to embrace the bedpile, and his overworked imagination failed him and dropped him into a deep, deep slumber.

I was on my way to my own little waterfall when I spotted the mullein stalk standing upright. Looking back, it is a wonder how I managed to keep on going to my destination. My first impulse was to fetch Viridis immediately with the news that the mullein stalk was up! But two things stopped me: First, I really needed that bath; it was an exceptionally hot morning, and I'd sweated more than a girl should, and I wasn't about to go off to meet my hero with garden dirt on my face and dried sweat all down my sides. And second, I could just see myself hollering, "Viridis! Viridis! The mullein has risen!" and her saying, "The what?" and me trying to explain and even forgetting an important fact: you can't tell anyone about the magic of the mullein, or it's sure to spoil the magic. If I told Viridis, or anyone, that the mullein had announced the safe return of Nail Chism to Stay More, provided they didn't think I was crazy or just a silly, superst.i.tious girl, I might be embarra.s.sed to discover that my act of telling had wiped out the act of his coming.

So I did two things: I went on up the holler and calmly took my bath...well, maybe not calmly, but deliberately enough to make sure that I got thoroughly washed off from head to toe, and even washed my hair, which would mostly dry in the sunshine before I could get home and brush it. And then I went on up to the glen of the waterfall alone, or alone except for Rouser, whom I couldn't persuade to sit or stay. I even paused at the house, before trying to persuade him to sit or stay, to change from my faded gingham dress into my better blue calico, and then to brush my hair as best I could to get most of the kinks out. I thought of maybe a little rouge but decided against it. I did powder my nose, although it would become unpowdered again by the time I got to the glen of the waterfall. I wanted to wear my good shoes, but it was a long hike, so I made up my mind to wear my ugly working-shoes and take them off before I got there.

"Where you goin in that dress?" my mother yelled as I was sneaking out the front door. "This aint Sunday, you fool."

If she'd been more civil, I would have answered her. Instead, I kept on going, and told Rouser to sit, but he wouldn't. I told him to stay, but he wouldn't. I nearly took a stick to him.

Finally I just tried to ignore him, and he followed me all the way up the mountain to Nail's old sheep pastures, and across them to the forest, and through the cool, dark forest to the bright glen of the waterfall. I kept telling myself that all I wanted to do was find out if my mullein had been lying to me. There are, after all, a few known instances when superst.i.tions didn't do a bit of good, they only made you feel better or they out and out refused to cooperate, for some perverse reason of their own. It was just possible that my mullein stalk had mistaken Nail for somebody else, or else was a botanical freak that couldn't stop growing straight anyhow. If by some small chance the mullein stalk had lied, I would be the first one to know it, and the last and only one to know it, and then I was going to tromp the heck out of that mullein and start over with a fresh one. If, as I devoutly believed, my mullein stalk was being honest and trustworthy, I intended to summon Viridis immediately and tell her that by accident I'd discovered that Nail was back. Well, of course I'd have to say howdy to him before I ran back to the village. I couldn't just sneak up and make sure it was him and then run like the d.i.c.kens.

These were the thoughts that were running through my head while I hiked as fast as my legs would carry me. But there was another thought too, and I'm not ashamed to admit it: I had a kind of proprietary interest in Nail Chism. From the moment the whole trouble had started, a year before, I'd scarcely gone a day without thinking about him. I wanted him to be okay. I wanted him to escape the prison, as he had done, and I wanted him to make it safely back home, and I wanted him to live happily ever after. Sure, I wanted him, period. But that was something else. I knew Viridis deserved him a thousand times more than I did, and I knew she was going to have him, and I knew they were going to live so happily ever after that it would be like a fairy tale, and I knew in my bones that ever after was about ready to begin. But for a little while, just a little while, he was mine.

Yes, I took off my ugly shoes before reaching the glen of the waterfall and walked the last hundred yards barefoot and stopped where the water was still in a pool, away from the plunge of the falls, to look down into it and see my reflection: my face was red, not from any rouge, and both hands could not arrange my black hair the way I wanted it, but at least I had on my best dress, and a strand of artificial amber beads around my neck. I wasn't beautiful like Viridis, but I wasn't ordinary either.

In the mouth of the cavern, as my eyes adjusted to the darkness, the first thing I saw was the rifle. A .22, lying on top of a big wad of black fur: the skin of a bear, I figured out. Neither the rifle nor the bearskin was among the items that Viridis and I had steadily been furnishing the cavern with. Viridis had considered leaving the Smith & Wesson revolver in the cavern but had decided to keep it with her, for her own protection. She had left no firearm here, or at least she hadn't told me about any firearm, and she told me virtually everything.

And then I saw him. I knew it was him, and yet I was afraid. Who else could it have been? Since that last time in court I'd nearly forgotten what he looked like, except for his body: no man of my acquaintance, then or after, ever had a body as splendidly put together and held together as Nail Chism did, all the parts of it in perfect shape and accord. The body was sprawled out face up on the bed that Viridis and I had prepared for him. His eyes were closed, and I had to study his chest for a long time to determine that it was slightly moving with his breathing. He was not dead. But he was sound asleep at full day, nine o'clock in the morning. I'd expected to see him in prison clothes, something of which I had only a vague idea, zebra stripes and such, nothing like what he was actually wearing: just a man's light-blue chambray shirt, some gray cotton trousers, a pair of boots that didn't look like he'd hiked all the way from Little Rock in them, and a felt fedora hat, fallen upside down behind his head as if he'd dropped to the bed without bothering to take it off.

I resisted the impulse to shake him and see if he would awaken. I sat cross-legged on the floor of the cavern near him and studied him and felt a wild mixture of feelings: exultation that he was home, pride in my mullein stalk for being accurate and straight-up-and-down, admiration for his rugged and battered but beautiful features (the blond hair was growing back rapidly), befuddlement at his deep slumber in broad daylight, and, most of all, growing certainty that he was the one who had killed Sull Jerram. I didn't understand why my mullein stalk had not announced his return on the same day that Sull Jerram was killed, but the ways of mullein are as mysterious as they are magic and infallible, when they're not just being ornery.

I had to get Viridis, and yet I could not. First I had to see if he would wake, and let him know that everything was all right and that I would fetch Viridis right away. I wanted to somehow thank him for accepting my suggestion that the glen of the waterfall would make a good hiding-place. I wanted him to know that I'd helped put all of these things in the cavern for him, which, I saw by looking around me, he hadn't yet used: the cans of corned beef and beans and such were unopened, the pocketknife with can opener attachment untouched, the bar of soap still wrapped, the yards of mosquito netting neatly folded up, the hunting-knife still sheathed. He had not disturbed any of these things...except, I noticed, the harmonica, which now lay on top of the pile of bedclothes, near his open hand, as if he had held it and maybe even played on it but let it drop.

For the rest of the morning I stayed with him, waiting for him to wake. It must have been getting on toward noon. Rouser had wandered off after giving a good long sniff to the bearskin and to Nail's body. Maybe Rouser had gone back home; he wasn't all that faithful. I was getting hungry, and thought of opening a can of something to eat, but the sound of the can opener might wake him, so I waited. I felt like an intruder, in a way. I was invading Nail's privacy, or the privacy of his sleep: in sleep the body does things to us that we don't know about but wouldn't want to share with anyone else: in sleep Nail's most private part distended and bulged mightily within his trousers, and fascinated me but reddened me all over with embarra.s.sment or guilt at watching or...yes, reddened me with a kind of l.u.s.t. I was not, for going on three years now, a virgin, and I knew the meaning of that thickening and extension inside his pants, but I had never actually observed it, even if my observation now was impeded by the covering of his trousers. I knew it could happen in dreams: sometimes I'd seen Rouser asleep, when he wasn't chasing rabbits in his dreams, chasing some imaginary b.i.t.c.h and letting his pink thing swell and pop out of its furry sheath and drool. I wondered if Nail was dreaming about Viridis, even dreaming about something he'd never done, because, to the best of my knowledge at that time, in twenty-seven years he had never succeeded in doing what I had done nearly three years before, when I was only eleven. While studying him, I amused myself by imagining that I was reaching out and unb.u.t.toning the fly of his trousers and liberating from the prison of its clothes that big convict.

This daydream was so real and diverting that I was shocked to realize his eyes were open and looking at me as if I had actually done it. Or maybe in my l.u.s.t I really had done it while thinking it was only a daydream. One of his big hands abruptly covered his groin. He stared at me and began to tremble. Was he afraid of me?

I was smiling as big as I could, but also frowning, at his trembling. "Howdy, Nail," I said. "It's just me, Latha."

"Where am I?" he asked.

"You made it!" I said. "But are you all right?"

"I reckon not," he said. "I must be real bad sick, 'cause I don't have the least idee how I managed to git here."

I reached out and put my hand on his forehead. At the real touch of his skin I knew that I had only imagined touching him down below. Reality is always more touchable than imagination. "You're real cold," I said. "Cold as death."

"Yeah, I've been either too cold or too hot or too wet for quite a spell." His words came out almost like stuttering, because of the chattering of his teeth and the trembling of his body.

I drew a blanket up over him. And then another one. And yet another one. And then a quilt. I draped and tucked more covers over him than I'd ever had myself the coldest winter night of my life, and still he shook so mightily that I thought he'd pop right out of the bed. I couldn't understand how anybody could be so cold on such a hot morning. Well, it was cooler in the cavern than out in the sunshine, but not all that cool. I touched my own brow, and I felt normal; no, I felt a good bit hotter than normal. I considered that his conscience might be giving him a nervous chill: that he had killed a man and now feared the consequences. But n.o.body ever shook like that simply from guilt or fear. He was, I understood, sick. I wanted to run and fetch not Viridis but Doc Swain, but I was afraid that Nail would shake himself to death and freeze while I was gone.

So, almost without thinking, I did what I did: I climbed beneath the covers with him and held him tight, trying to warm him with the heat, the plenty of it, from my own body. The thick quilts and blankets piled atop us imprisoned my body heat and divided it with him, but that was not enough for both of us: I became cold myself. Together we trembled for a long time. We didn't have our arms around each other, not all four arms anyhow, but we had our bodies pressed as hard together as they could get, and that big bulge down there in his pants had never gone away, and my mind was filled with wild thoughts and fear and chill and l.u.s.t and everything.

Then we were not side by side, exactly. In an effort to still his shaking, I had pressed down on him, mashed him to his back, and I lay hard atop him, the whole length of him, mashing down, and then he did have both arms around me, around my back and my waist both, holding me tight to him. We squirmed and shook and squeezed in that position for so long that somehow the bulge in his britches worked itself directly beneath the juncture of my thighs so that our most private places were not just touching but mashing very hard and rubbing harder, and before I knew it I had begun a different kind of shaking, not of nervousness or chill but of fulfillment of the exertion and labor of love. I cried out. Maybe, even, I pa.s.sed out, because the next thing I was aware of, and it seemed time had gone by, he was no longer trembling at all. He was perfectly still, except for his breathing, and he had thrown the covers off us, and I wondered if the weight of all of me on top of him was mashing him uncomfortably, but he didn't seem to mind, and I didn't want to move from that position just yet, because I knew that once I did, I would never find myself like that with him, ever again.

At last I rolled off and lay there beside him, not touching him anymore, giving him up to whoever would claim him that he belonged to. I just looked at him, with love but also with a little wondering: had he maybe just faked his shaking in order to get me to do what I'd done? Because he wasn't shaking the least bit anymore. He was smiling, and I know it was just a smile of being friendly and maybe a little embarra.s.sed, but it also seemed like a smile of having tricked me into that enjoyment.

Then he said, "You went over the mountain."

"Yeah," I said, as if to let him know that I knew what he meant saying that. "I got over the mountain."

"You're not Viridis," he said, as if he'd just noticed.

I had to laugh. "I wish I was," I said. "I sure truly wish I really was. But don't you even know me?"

He smiled again. "Some ways, you're better than Viridis," he said.

"What ways?" I wanted to know.

"You're home folks," he said. "You wrote and told me about this hideaway. And I do honestly mis...o...b.. that she'd have warmed me up the way you jist now did. Or gone over the mountain."

"Aw, I had to climb that mountain," I said.

"I know you did," he said. "I sh.o.r.e appreciate it, what-all you've done."

"You're not shakin no more," I observed.

"No, you see, Latha, I've got the two-day ague, and the way it works is, I shake like crazy for an hour, and then I'm burnin up, like I am right now, for another little spell, and then I commence to sweat like a stud horse-'scuse me, Latha-I get soppin wet for a time, and then I'm okay for another twenty-four hours, and it hits me again the next day."

"I've never had that," I declared, "but I've heard of it. You've done been skeeterbit."

"Yeah, that's what causes it," he said. "Skeeters."

"You'd best let me run and fetch Doc Swain," I told him. "And of course Viridis too. She'd be real mad at me if she knew I'd come up here by myself."

"You don't have to tell her nothin," he told me.

"I'll make up a story," I said. "I'm pretty good at that, don't you know?"

"I reckon," he said.

I stood up and straightened my dress and patted my hair into place. "Can I get you anything 'fore I go? A drink of water? Anything to eat?"

"Just maybe a sip of water is all, right now," he said, lying there in the pain of his high fever.

"And we'd better hide that .22 before Doc Swain sees it," I announced, and tried to think of a safe place to hide it.

"How come?" Nail wanted to know.

"How come? Well, his dad is still justice of the peace, don't you know, and they've already been up here checkin when they came to get Sull's body, so naturally Doc would put two and two together and know it was you." Nail just stared at me as if he hadn't the faintest idea what I was talking about, and I began to wonder if maybe he really didn't. "That is your rifle yonder, aint it?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said.

"How long have you been here? What day did you get here?"

He shook his head. "I honestly aint got the foggiest notion." Then he asked, "What did you say about Sull's body?"