Darkthunder's Way (13 page)

“He’s really my great-uncle,” David said, as he helped Calvin through the barbed-wire fence that separated his family’s upper pasture from Uncle Dale’s—there was no sense going the long way round if there was a straighter and more picturesque route, especially since they had reluctantly decided to delay their jogging. “He’s my grandpa Sullivan’s next-oldest brother.”

“Is he still alive?”

“Of course!”

“Your
grandfather
, dummy.”

David shook his head. “’Fraid not. He died before I was born:
his
pa outlived
him
by ten years.”

“What happened?”

“Car wreck. He was in his late forties, which is probably fortunate, considering. He was a pretty wild character, apparently—loved the women, but married very late. Almost got himself disinherited. If he had, Lord knows where we’d be living.”

“How so?”

David sighed as they picked their way across the pasture. “Because he was a younger son— Oh fiddle, Calvin, this is complicated.” He paused, pointing westward toward a glimmer of water almost masked by a fringe of trees. “See that lake? The old home place is under there. My five-times-great grandpa, Patrick Brian Sullivan, settled there in 1817—soon as we secured it from—oh no!”

“From the
Indians
?”
Calvin supplied, nonplussed. “Probably the Cession of July 8, since this is east of the Chattahoochee, but don’t worry about it; you can’t help your history any more than I can mine.”

“Yeah, well, it’s still a bum rap, I guess. But anyway, he came over from Ireland as a boy right after the Revolution and fought in the War of 1812 and got a land grant for his trouble, built a cabin out there where the lake is. His son, Thomas Kevin, was the first one born here. First one buried here, too, since old Pat B. just wandered off one day and didn’t come back.”

Calvin cocked an eyebrow. “Any idea what happened?” David shook his head again, though he had a notion or two—considering what he now knew about the surrounding territory. “But to get back to the younger-son business,” he continued, “the property kept getting passed down through the male line: first son to first son. It wasn’t like they tried to exclude the women, or anything; they just all kept getting married and moving away. Anyway there got to be a tradition: the oldest son got the home place, and any younger ones got farms further out, and when
they
had kids they had to subdivide again, or leave—which most of ’em did, ’cause the lots were too little for farmin’ by then.

“Anyway, when the R.E.A. built the lake in the forties, it drowned the old place, so the rightful heir—Uncle Dale’s older brother—got displaced and had to move, and got mad and joined the army and got killed in the Second World War. His two sisters had married and gone by then, and that left two farms and a bunch of cash—since the girls wanted no part of the government’s blood money, as they called it. Pa’s still living on part of it. So anyway, Uncle Dale got one of the two remaining farms that were still above the water, and my grandpa, his younger brother, got the other: the furthest-one out. When he died, Pa got half his place and Uncle Dick the other, only he sold his to Pa and left.”

“What about your grandmother?”

“She remarried and left too. Seems she was secretly in love with Grandpa’s brother, but when he got killed, she got real down on the army and all, and when Dad joined up and Uncle Dale took up for him, they had a falling out, and haven’t spoken since. We haven’t heard from her in years.”

“Your mom’s folks from around here?”

Another shake of head. “Dad met her while he was up at Fort Bragg. She’s a North Carolina gal, just like yours was.”

“So you don’t have a lot of close kin around, then?”

“It’s like I said: the boys stayed if they could, and the girls left. Oh, I’ve got third and fourth cousins out the wazoo, ’specially over in Union County, but they don’t count. Leastwise I don’t count ’em.”

They had crested the ridge now. Below them spread the rolling hillsides of Uncle Dale’s farm, good mostly for raising cattle, though he had a little corn patch on one side, a tiny vegetable garden on the other, and a scraggly strip of sorghum in the creek bottom. Straight ahead was a line of outbuildings: weathered gray corncrib, barn, woodshed, and smokehouse; and beyond them, the compact lump of Uncle Dale’s house—scarcely more than a cabin, really. It had only gained indoor plumbing in the fifties. Its tin roofs reflected the early-morning sun.

And to the left, at the summit of the hill on which they stood, almost at the shadow line of trees, was a small area enclosed by rusty wrought-iron fencing. A single scrawny cedar guarded the center. David had already started toward the cabin, but twisted around abruptly and redirected his steps that way. “Might as well show you the family plot.” Calvin nodded silently and followed. A moment later they passed through the rusty gate. Tombstones rose all around them: some marble or granite, the oldest scarcely more than iron-colored boulders. Baskets of faded flowers, both real and plastic, were scattered about. David indicated a pair of markers to the left: BRIAN ARMAGH SULLIVAN,
one read; a smaller slab beside it bore the name KATHERINE WILSON SULLIVAN. “My Civil-War ancestors.”

Calvin inspected Brian’s dates. “1843–1860! He was awfully young when he died.”

“Yeah, I guess I’m lucky to be here, considering that he got married the day before he joined up. They must have done it right the first time, ’cause they never had another chance. Yankee bullet blew him away.”

“But didn’t most folks up here side with the Union?”

“Yeah, but we were all crazy Celts, and the Union was mostly Brits, ’least that’s what old Granny Kate here told Uncle Dale.”

“Told
him?”

“He was eight when she died.”

“And who’s this real new one over here?”

A shadow crossed David’s face. “That’s Pa’s youngest brother,” he said after a moment, his throat constricting. Even after four years the memory was too painful. “We called him David-the-elder, ’cause he had the same name as me: David Kevin Sullivan, only he was a second and I’m a third. They named me after him ’cause he took such a shine to me when I was born. Uncle Dale raised him, really. Grandma was pregnant with him when Grandpa got killed and never wanted much to do with him. He never knew his own pa.”

Calvin was studying David’s face intently. “But he knew you didn’t he?”

David nodded mutely. “He was the older brother I never had. There’s a streak of dreamer that shows up in the family every now and then—more of the Celt, I guess. Uncle Dale’s got it, I’ve got it in spades, but Pa missed it and so did Uncle Dick. I’m not sure about Little Billy yet.”

“But your uncle…”

“I never thought of him as an uncle, ’cause he was only eight years older’n me; I just called him David. But to answer your question: yeah, he had the dreamer streak—’course he had everything: brains, looks, athletics—even art. I wish I was half the man he was.”

“What happened?”

“Joined the army ’stead of going to college, ’cause he wanted to see the world. Got to see Lebanon and the inside of a coffin in about six weeks of each other.”

“You loved him, didn’t you?”

David nodded sadly. “Every good thing I am I owe to him—what I don’t owe to Uncle Dale.”

“Speaking of which, we’d better get over there, or I’m never gonna get to meet
him
.”

David turned his head to wipe away the single tear he hoped Calvin hadn’t noticed.

*

“Glad to meet you, boy,” Dale Sullivan said five minutes later. “I reckon Davy can’t keep from making interestin’ acquaintances.” He released the hand he had been shaking and ushered them into the coziness of his living room, where he plopped his bony, khaki-clad body into the rocker beside the rough stone fireplace. The dull splashes and sharp clicks of dishes being washed came from the adjoining kitchen. Someone was also humming.

“Yeah, well he’s pretty interesting himself,” Calvin said cryptically, as he took a seat on the sofa, which faced the hearth where David had ensconced himself. “He’s been tellin’ me about the family.”

“Oh-oh.” Dale chuckled, his blue eyes agleam beneath his wire-rimmed spectacles. He scratched his goateed chin absently. “Pretty borin’ stuff, ain’t it?”

“Not at all, sir,” Calvin said quickly. “Kept my interest, anyway. ’Sides, most kids our age don’t know their history at all.”

Dale eyed him keenly. “But you do.”

Calvin nodded. “No thanks to my dad. He wanted to ignore the family heritage and live like a normal Atlanta ’burbie, but my mom’s father stepped in and said I was to spend summers with him. He turned me onto the old ways, taught me the genealogy and all.”

“How far back?”

“Far as he knew it. The calendars don’t convert very well.”

“What was that you said about him being a medicine man?” David asked pointedly. “He teach you anything?” Calvin grimaced in resignation. “Well, sorta. Basic herb lore, mostly. He wanted me to settle down a little before we got into the hard stuff—the chants and spells and all—and then he got too old to do much. ’Bout all I learned of
that
was the discipline and a little of the ritual: goin’ to water, respect for the earth, and that kinda thing. How to look at the world through Indian eyes. I’ve met my totem, but that’s about it.”

“All right!” David cried. “What was it?”

Calvin fidgeted uncomfortably. “I shouldn’t even have mentioned it. It’s supposed to be a secret.”

“Like your name?”

Calvin glared at him. “You tell me about that model, I’ll tell you about the totem.”

Dale cleared his throat warningly. “You boys up for a little coffee?”

“Yeah,” David said, glancing at Calvin, who shook his head. “No thanks. I’ve already had three cups this morning.

“Then one more won’t hurt, will it? ’Sides, this is
special
coffee.”

“How special?”

“Trust me.” Dale shuffled off to the kitchen and returned shortly with two steaming mugs in hand. David stuck his under his nose and inhaled deeply, motioned for Calvin to do the same. An unmistakable underscent hid within the rich aroma.

Calvin wrinkled his nose in turn but did not taste it. “Moonshine?”

“Let’s just say there’s a secret ingredient the law might be more than casually interested in.”

Dale laughed loudly. “The only interest the law’s ever shown in that stuff’s in how much I can let ’em have.”

“And I’ve been meanin’ to talk to ye about that too,” came a woman’s voice from the kitchen door.

David looked up and grinned as Katie McNally tottered into the room. Instantly he was on his feet to give the old Trader lady a quick hug and help her to a seat beside the window. She was at least ten years older than his uncle, stooped, gray-haired, and frail, with a bad left eye which she squinted. But there was strength in her too, and feistiness. David knew: he had seen both, and more besides.

Calvin raised an inquiring eyebrow.

“Oh yeah, Calvin: this is Katie. She’s Uncle Dale’s—”

“Houseguest!”
the old man finished quickly, grinning above his white goatee.

Katie said nothing, but her eyes twinkled merrily as she tugged her fringed paisley shawl closer. “Katie’s been staying here the last couple of weeks, while her folks are traveling,” David volunteered. “I guess you could say she’s a friend of the family.”

“Like I told you, this family attracts strange friends,” Dale said, gazing at her fondly. “Sure am gonna miss her when she leaves.” His gaze shifted to David. “I ’magine you know the feelin’.”

“I am
not
strange!” Katie laughed, her voice still alive with the lilt of her native Ireland.

“Oh, so the woods are full of Tinkers?”

“Tinkers?” Calvin wondered aloud. “You mean—”

“Irish Horse Traders,” David told him quickly. “Katie’s family were up here and had—an unfortunate accident. She got sick and we agreed to take care of her while the rest of their folk got their act together.”

“Besides, she’s a hell of a cook!”

“
Mr.
Sullivan!”

“Things have sure been a lot better around here, too.”

“Couldn’t hardly o’ been worse! You lads have no idea how messy an old man livin’ by hisself can be!”

“And you have no idea how cantankerous an old woman used to livin’ by
herself
can be! She ain’t had nobody to boss for years. Been like a kid in a candy store!”

“How’s yer mama holdin’ out?” Katie wondered. “I wish she’d o’ let me help her.”

David shrugged. “Done with the baking, put the turkey on last night and the ham on this morning. Too bad we couldn’t roast a pig like we wanted to.”

“You know your ma and her notions,” Dale said, chuckling.

“Yeah,” David nodded, slapping his hands on the stone. “And I’ve got an idea we’d better be gettin’ back there. I just wanted to bring Calvin over to meet you so he wouldn’t get lost in the mob later.”

“Glad you did. You boys come back anytime.”