Sweet Song (18 page)

Rocks and boulders made traveling difficult. His ankles and knees took a beating. His second day out was uneventful, but more wearing on his body. He had eaten a third of his jerky and stale bread. He camped close to a creek that night. He caught two trout in his burlap sack, made a fire, and ate.

The sky filled with clouds. The threat of snow screamed down at him louder than words. Thinking about the snow and imagining himself dying, covered in white, under a tree, Leon recalled what he had learned about the timber camps. How farmers cut lumber in the winter. They dragged the logs to the creek banks to await the spring runoff, the flood that would lift the logs and take them to the river, to the mills.

He awoke shivering. A thin layer of frost lay everywhere along the ground. A sliver of ice had formed near the water’s edge. An Eagle screeched. The sun’s path across the sky lowered each day. Even so, a single ray through the trees felt warm to the skin compared with the remainders of the night air.

Leon picked at his jerky. He rolled his things together. He stood tall and looked upcreek to where he hoped to find the beginning activity of a timber camp. The first thing he’d do was buy a heavier coat with what little money he had left and some of the money Billy had given him.

With a purpose in mind, Leon made his way upstream, away from the Susquahanna. He had no idea what to expect. When might he run into a camp? Would he hear them working before he arrived? Or see them? He traveled hard that day. The air kept his body dry and cool whenever he stopped to rest. His body stayed warm, the energy coming from the workings of his legs and arms, from the speed of his movements.

More than once, Leon came upon deer and frightened them into escape. The deer surprised him with their speed and agility. The animals had apparently congregated in a particular part of the forest, as though this herd was the largest in the world. He had stumbled onto them by accident. They teased him. He knew how deer muscle tasted dry and gamy, the jerky salted to bring out the tang.

Leon rested against a tree and listened. More deer rustled around in the leaves ahead. Or maybe not. This sound was different. Something was wrong with the weight or pattern of movement. He crept up to a clearing. Jake held a fallen branch and raked over the area where he had built his camp. Fire burned in Leon’s stomach and chest. His eyes bulged, taking in everything they could. He reached into his sack, felt for the cold metal, and pulled out the revolver.

Jake looked up when Leon stepped from the brush. “Don’t shoot.”

“I should kill you right now,” Leon said.

“My family needs it. I had no choice.”

Leon walked toward Jake and told him to sit. “I trusted you.”

The fear in Jake’s face turned to disgust. “You weren’t honest. As soon as Billy noticed somethin’ wrong ‘bout you, I seen it too. I
should-a telled the boss. You ain’t nothin’ but a nigger. Them other men, they cain’t see nothin’. But Billy knowed and then I seed it too. You ain’t deserved this money. Go ahead and shoot me if you want, but there’s the truth of it.”

Leon boiled. “I’m not a nigger,” he said. “I’m a man like the rest of you. Billy doesn’t know shit about me. You don’t know.”

Jake appeared to question his own words. “It’s ‘cause you don’t say nothin’. Everything’s a secret with you.”

“A man’s allowed his privacy.” Leon stepped right up to Jake and shoved the gun not three inches from his nose.

Jake’s eyes narrowed. “You ain’t Leon White. If you anythin’, you Leon with no last name. You got Hillary Carpenter with child, then run off.” He tightened his lips.

“Jacob,” Leon said.

“I knowed that you.”

Leon squeezed the trigger until it went off on its own.

Click.

Jake’s mind appeared to register the sound instantly. He slapped the gun out of Leon’s hand. The useless metal flew into the leaves a few feet away. Then Jake brought his boot up and kicked Leon squarely in the chest, knocking him down the hill. “I’ll git you.” Faster than a frightened rabbit, Jake ran away.

Leon’s chest hurt and it took him a minute to stand again. He went back to find the revolver. He should have asked for his money back. He should have pistol-whipped Jake. Nothing appeared to be the right thing to do.

The money had been gone the day before and it was still gone. Hillary was with child. That’s why he’d been chased out.

Leon sat on the ground and rubbed his chest. He hadn’t fooled anyone. Billy was right. He needed to transform himself, to observe and copy, or he would surely get lynched one of these times. Or he could be black. But Big Leon had died for Leon’s chance to change his life.

It wasn’t until later in the day that Leon learned the truth of the deer’s migration. While he walked a ridge along one of the hills that paralleled the creek, the tree line thinned, letting more of the sun splash into the woods. Direct sunlight warmed the area regardless of
the altitude. The insect population grew. The deer sightings subsided, but squirrels were everywhere, birds squawked, crows warned of Leon’s arrival, flying together, noisy black clouds heading toward the river.

When he broke from the woods, he expected to see the remains of a harvested field, a farmhouse where he could beg for food and directions, but that was not what fell before his eyes. Leon came upon a graveyard. The death of a wide patch of forest stretched for more than a mile. Tombstones of tree stumps lifted from the ground. His heart sank at the same time his stomach celebrated. Somewhere near he’d find work, but he would have to kill the trees to get paid.

Leon had grown up in a shack nestled among trees. The trees had protected his family from wind, rain, and snow. Many of the songs he created as a youngster praised the trees. Here, they had been torn from their magical place and left soulless. He could feel the lack of trees as strong as he could feel the presence of the river his first day out.

It was unbelievable what men could do. It was powerful and sad. But it was work. Billy had laughed when Leon suggested he wouldn’t work in a lumber camp. Billy had been right. Leon knew he had to settle that battle inside himself. Sensing the loss before him, he could only imagine what the war had been like. This expanse would be littered with human bodies instead of wooden ones. Perhaps his five friends had been right to make up their lives, to create new stories for themselves. After all, that is what Leon was about to do, too, unless he ran into Jacob. Then there would be trouble.

Leon searched the area for activity, for sheds, wagons, tools. Brush and bark littered the area. He headed downhill along the standing trees, planning to camp near the creek once again. From there, he’d go up creek until he hit the forest and go uphill until he found where next the cutting would begin.

As he made his way back to the creek, the two worlds called out to him, one in sadness and one in life. A family would wait another year or two, then move into the flat at the top of the hill. They would work hard to remove stumps and clear the land. They’d be sure to build next to the woods for protection, yet grow their crops from the
cleared area. Leon knew that was how many of the farmers began their lives, by homesteading a cleared woodland area. He no longer wondered why their lives were sad though. How long would it take to wear the sadness out of a butchered forest? How many laughing children would it take? Squawking chickens? Squealing pigs?

The mosquitoes appeared to lift from the earth in the mild temperatures the sun brought to the clearing. Near the creek, Leon noticed a few logs and could see why they had been left behind. One was split. An uneven gouge twisted along its entire length leaving no visible appearance that a single board-length could come of it. Other logs were hollowed, having been the dying older branches of trees.

Leon did not fish, but ate the last of his bread and jerky. He decided that if he didn’t run into a camp, he’d walk down over the slope and search out the river again. Snow hung in the sky, even though the sun’s warmth tried to hide it during the day. Leon was not convinced. Once at the river, he could easily walk the riverbank for a few more days. He could walk at night as well, not getting the distance he’d like, but keeping his body heat up.

He fell asleep, shivering, once the sun dropped. He awoke several times to sounds that stopped once he woke up. Before dawn, Leon rose, rubbed his arms to warm them, tucked his mouth under his bedroll to breathe body-warm air over his chest and arms, then swore and got up. Packing his few things, and placing his hands flat into the warm coals that were left from the night’s fire, Leon felt sufficiently ready to head out.

This would be the day. The gurgle and bubble of water relaxed his mind. The creek spoke to him, conversed in the language of water. He’d travel half the time upcreek and if he found no signs of an early logging camp assembling, he’d jog his way downstream toward the river. Every wrong decision stole a day from him.

Few insects buzzing about, continual bird-songs and squirrel-chatter, and the background tinkle and tuck of flowing water, kept Leon hypnotized. He stopped and focused on the power and strength still left in his legs. His stomach tightened, folding into its own emptiness. His arms felt numb, his hands sensitized. After he let out a long sigh, new sounds echoed through the woods, ones that
didn’t belong there. Had he unconsciously followed those sounds? He ran upstream where the water slowed, fanning out into a deep pool. Boulders lay visible under the clear water’s surface. Trees bent into the pool and would soon become weighted down by snow and fall across the water to create a bridge that led only halfway across the creek. It would land on the submerged boulder and await the spring thaw when it would be dislodged by cut timber. The creek would be cleared again.

The sound of people talking grew as the sound of the creek and forest animals blended into the background. Leon jogged toward the voices stopping to listen every fifty yards. As the voices became louder, Leon was surprised to find that he got happier. By the time he left the creek bank and traveled uphill toward the conversation, he was humming and making up songs.

The land opened into a small clearing. Several small cabins sat in the open. All around them, the ground lay bare and muddy. Short logs created a path around the buildings. A group of men cleared brush, talked in loud voices to one another, and generally cleaned up.

Leon observed the men for over an hour, looking for Jacob. The coast clear, Leon stepped into the open. Two men dropped the brush they dragged and met him halfway into camp. One had black hair and the other red hair. Both looked to be Leon’s height. “You’re early,” the black-haired man said.

“I felt snow coming,” Leon said.

“Get your harvest in?” the man asked.

“I’m not a farmer. Worked at one of the mills downriver.”

“That so?”

Leon nodded. “Several days downriver.”

“Well, come-on in. You can help get camp ready. Built the long-house, you’ll be staying there with a few of the men until we get a crew going. The cabins got built last season. Red here chased a clan of ’coons out yesterday and a family of skunks the day before.

Red produced a broad and toothless grin. “’At’s the foreman’s cabin.”

“I don’t mind a skunk once in a while.” Leon said.

“Don’t think you’ll be staying in the bosses cabin though. You’ll find the long-house just fine, I’m sure,” the dark haired man said. He held out his hand. “Name’s Jeb.”

Leon reached forward. “I’m Leon.”

“Welcome Leon. We can use some help getting ready.”

L
eon paid for his first meal by the sweat of his brow. Not wanting there to be any doubt about his enthusiasm, he cleared branches, underbrush, and hollowed logs from the area long after the others had quit for the day. Jeb had to convince Leon to stop. “There’ll be plenty to do tomorrow,” he said.

With a satisfied smile, Leon dropped the log in his arms and followed Jeb back into camp. The men introduced themselves that first evening. Jeb and Red, Leon knew, then there was a Bradley and a Horace, a William and Sam, and Buck and Walter. They were all sizes and all ages, yet each looked as though he could outwork Leon in an instant.

Leon had never thought of himself as weak or thin, but these men made him feel like the lesser hand. They opened a place for Leon to sit. Sam on his right and Walter on his left. Buck served beans and bread. “Get used to it. This is what we eat.” He pointed the serving spoon at Leon. “I take it you’ve never worked in a camp before?”

“No sir,” Leon said.

“If you had, you’d a stayed longer with the mill.”

Leon didn’t like the sound of that comment. As he ate, the others talked about their families, their plans. Leon understood that these eight were not farmers. They worked for the Lasser-Fitzgerald Timber Company. They had hauled food and supplies to the camp, those that they could, and awaited another shipment soon.

Once the sun dipped behind the hill, Leon shivered with the chill. The air temperature, with all the green around, slipped down a good ten degrees in a half hour and would continue to drop as night
bore down on the small group. The birds quieted, but the raccoons and squirrels protested the presence of the men by chattering and scolding from nearby branches. An owl hooted. The wind picked up.

“You might of been right to show up early,” Jeb said in reference to the chill.