Art's Blood (49 page)

Rosemary pointed down the mountainside to a flat, bulldozed area where two shirtless, tanned men in work boots, straw hats, and cut-off jeans were busy installing a window in the unfinished shell of a modest house. A tall, slender woman in a blue work shirt and faded jeans toiled up the steep road that led from the barn below to the building site. A thick braid of dark brown hair hung nearly to her waist. In one hand she carried a Thermos while with the other she held tightly to the unwilling fist of an energetic redheaded toddler. The child broke loose and tried to outpace her mother but soon took a tumble and sat down hard on her overalled bottom. Resisting her mother’s attempts to help her up, the little girl staggered to her feet and began to run. Once again her tiny boots slipped on the gravel and the scene was repeated.

That’s my mum and my little sister. Rosemary jerked her head in their direction. Her name’s Laurel. She’s pretty cute but she can be a pest.

I have a little sister named Krystalle and she’s a pest too. The dark child patted the rock beneath her in a proprietary manner. You want to come up on Froghead?

Is that its name? Rosemary scrambled up the steep slope and moved cautiously to lower herself on her belly beside the other child. Who named it?

Me. The dark girl patted the rock again as if it were a living creature beneath her. It’s one of my special places. I know all about this mountain. My mama stays so busy with Krystalle that she doesn’t care what I do. Long as I get home for supper. A lean brown arm indicated a knapsack. A pair of binoculars lay beside it. I pack my lunch and sometimes I stay out all day.

I’m Rosemary. What’s your name? Rosemary cast an admiring glance at the other child’s long straight black hair and bronze skin. You look like an Indian.

I
am
an Indian. My granny Thorn’s a full-blood Cherokee and my real daddy was mostly Cherokee. My true name is Mary Thorn Blackfox but mostly everyone calls me Maythorn. My mama told them at school that my last name is Mullins now, ’cause my real daddy’s dead and she’s married to Moon.

Moon? Is he an Indian too? Rosemary propped herself up to look at this interesting stranger more closely.

No, he’s just ordinary. Maythorn pulled the binoculars to her and trained them on the big pear tree near the house site. The two men, the woman, and the redheaded child were sitting on a stack of lumber in the shade of the tree while the men drank from tall glasses.

Is one of those men your daddy?

He’s the one wiping his face with a red bandana. Now he’s tickling Laurel. His name’s Sam but I call him Pa. The other one’s Uncle Wade. He’s Pa’s brother and he’s staying here this summer to help build our house.

Hmmph. I figured they were brothers— both with red hair and all. Do you like your uncle?

Rosemary wrinkled her brow at the glittering lenses. What do you mean? He’s my uncle! He’s really funny and nice but he tells dumb jokes all the time. And he’s teaching me how to play the harmonica. Why wouldn’t I like him?

Dunno. The binoculars turned back to survey the scene below. The tall woman was evidently telling the little girl to come with her. The toddler shook her head violently, stamped her foot, and attached herself, limpetlike, to her uncle’s leg. The mother squatted down to look her daughter in the eye, spoke a few words, and slowly Laurel released her hold. The storm passed and the little girl grabbed the empty Thermos, waved a cheerful goodbye to the two men, and set off pell-mell down the road, the jug bumping the gravel with every step. Her mother hurried after her, pausing to look up the mountainside in Rosemary’s direction.

At once Maythorn lowered her binoculars and flattened herself against the rock. Rosemary waved in her mother’s direction. I’m up here! It’s really cool! There’s a—

Below, Elizabeth, with one eye on Laurel, who was nearing the old tobacco barn— their home for the duration— waved abstractedly at her older daughter and called out, Okay, Rosie, just don’t go any farther off. I’ll ring the bell when it’s lunchtime. Be careful up there.

She turned and hurried after the fast-moving little redhead, who was disappearing into the open door of the barn loft.

Mum’s got to watch Laurel all the time. There’re holes in the barn floor she could fall right through. Pa and Uncle Wade fixed a safe corner for her— There’s an old rug that covers the floor and we put her bed and all her playthings in there. There’s a kind of fence around it and she’s not supposed to try to get out.

Where do
you
sleep? Maythorn’s binoculars moved to the barn.

We all have mattresses on the floor and sleeping bags on top of them. Except for Uncle Wade— he has his own tent in the other barn— that little one behind those trees.
My
special place is in the corner across from Laurel. I have a rug too and a bookshelf with my favorite books— and I have a trunk for my clothes and a box for my very most important stuff. It’s really fun, like camping out except we don’t have to worry about rain. Sometimes I wish we could live just like that forever.

Maythorn abandoned the binoculars and rolled onto her side, leaning on one elbow to study Rosemary. Do your mama and daddy yell at each other much? Mine do. I’m glad that I have my own room to get away from them. I wouldn’t want to live all together like that. That’s why my mama said you all are hippies.

No, they don’t yell at each other! Rosemary was aghast at the idea. Sometimes Pa yells when something messes up— like when the truck wouldn’t start yesterday. He yelled and said a lot of bad words but he wasn’t mad at any of us.

What were the bad words he said? Maythorn looked with interest toward the house site where Sam Goodweather was hoisting another window into place.

I’m not allowed to say them. Rosemary looked prim. But I guess I could spell them for you. He said D-A-M and S-H—

The clanking of a cowbell interrupted her exposition and she jumped to her feet. I have to go now. She paused, reluctant to leave her newfound friend. You could come down and eat lunch with us. There’s always plenty. I could show you my books and stuff.

Maythorn was unmoved. No, thanks, I’ve got my lunch right here. And I’ve got some other jobs before I go home, some other things I have to see about.

What do you mean— jobs? You’re just a kid— and it’s summer vacation. What do you have to see about?

Things. It’s my job. Maybe I’ll come down another day.

The cowbell sounded again, louder and longer. Sam and Wade Goodweather were under the shed now, and Laurel was standing at the edge of the shed, waving the cowbell wildly from side to side.

Okay, maybe another day. See ya. Rosemary slid off the rock and started down the slope. A thought struck her and she stopped.

Maythorn, what kind of job? What do you do?

The sun glinted on the binoculars’ lenses, throwing bright lances into Rosemary’s blinking eyes.

I’m a spy, said Maythorn. I find out stuff.