Thistle and Twigg (22 page)

I reached out and caressed its smooth exterior. I began to wonder where the tribe came by this bit of gold and which tribe it might have belonged to; perhaps a Cherokee journeyed here from North Carolina? I seemed to recall mentions of gold finds there and in Arkansas as well.

I’d forgotten Homer, had forgotten the world outside existed in those minutes, and looked behind me to see about him. He lay sprawled out on the floor with his head resting on a flat rock underneath the wall of drawings. I laughed.

“You’re taking this rather calmly, old fellow. But then, this isn’t new to you, is it, dear?” I set the pipe down and stepped toward him. In his sleek black coat, against the rock that sparkled in the lamplight, he looked very much like the pipe. “Homer, are you imitating the figure?”

I stopped. I think perhaps my heart did as well as I dropped to my knees. I slid or crawled, I’m not entirely sure which, to Homer’s side. I gazed at the rock under his head, a rough-edged oblong chunk studded with what looked like fiery, shiny gold.

I held the lamp high and suddenly saw what had been around me the whole time. The room’s walls shone for a reason. They were veined with strands of gold. Not a few here and there, but thick and crossed like a gargantuan spider’s web, running in all directions. I began to notice some spots in the walls shone differently than the rest, and discovered spots of planed rock. More than gold lay in one such cutaway space. I counted five crosscuts of embedded quartz, large specimens, one in a dim rose, four others in a lustrous purple.

My mind reeled. I felt dizzy. I walked slowly back to Homer who sat up watching me, his front paws out like the Sphinx. I lay down myself, resting my head in the middle of Homer’s back. With eyes closed, I let these new revelations spin above my head, so many skeins of what I’d seen and of the stories of these woods I’d heard all tangled and spread above me. My eyes bolted open as the last important strand finally unraveled above me. I stared at it, there above my head, the place where myth, reality and Cal’s vital reason for preserving this place untouched lay.

The ceiling. Through fissures in the ground above me, great twines of roots twisted through the cave’s ceiling. In the dim light, the back wall directly before me took on new shapes as the majority of roots stuck out in relief. The roof looked to me about twelve feet high. Roots twisted on the wall from top to bottom and who knows how much further below. By my estimation of the room’s length from the hidden cave door where we entered, Homer and I must now lay directly underneath the other end of the ceremonial hall. We lay at the base of the two great trees, whose nest of gnarled roots burrowed into rock speckled with glittering gold.

At last I understood. Dear, wonderful Cal was quite right to rank this his number one priority, above all other treasures. He could never, ever let anyone know, could let no one see. It would be too risky. Even if it were only fool’s gold, the dazzling sight of it, the lure of riches would be too great a temptation for someone unattached to its history so intimately as he. This gold could never be mined for it would destroy the sacred ceremonial hall above me.

Even that, however, would be secondary in his mind to disturbing the two great trees, for they made this place all the more sacred where forest and family come together. They were the same.

Tsali and Tseni.
Charley and Jenny.
Tsali Skatsi
and
Usti Tseni
on the canyon map referred not so much to the place but to the people there, Charlie the Scot and Little Wren, Cal’s ancestors, whose bead necklace and small dagger he had cherished above all other possessions. They were not merely a fireside legend of lovers buried with the seeds of trees in their fists, but real people who lived and gave him life not so many generations ago. When I’d first seen
Tsali
written, I didn’t realize how it was pronounced. It was only as I lay on the cave floor that I made the connection to
Tsalagi,
which we pronounce as “Cherokee.”

I sat up. “What did I do with the notebook?” I asked Homer. I saw it where I had dropped it next to the stone bench. Quickly I scanned the pages for mention of gold.

Cal had begun writing this journal in 1969, according to the date on the first page. On it he had written, “Thomas is gone now so I’m writing this to someone in the future. There’s so many things to tell about, I figured I better start at writing it all down.” He goes on to tell the story of
Tsali
and
Tseni,
except here it was not a legend, as he told it to me before, but the story of his great-great-great grandparents, with many side notes of Cherokee words, family names, and places.

At last, a reference to gold caught my eye, one noted as copied from a letter sent to Cal’s great-grandfather, Zebediah Prewitt, from the U.S. Assay Office in St. Louis, Missouri: “Gold nugget tested 22 karat, July 22, 1884.” Another note, taken from a letter from the Assay Office in New Orleans to Ephraim Prewitt dated September 12, 1924, read: “Sample 23 g/tonne.” Just under 24 karats. Almost one hundred percent pure gold.

Light from the vent holes had faded somewhat with the moving sun. I’d lost track of the time. I ran my hands once more over the ceremonial pipe, which I decided must be a warrior, resting perhaps before his next call to battle.

With reluctance, I gathered my tools from where I’d left them at the passageway. I held the lamp out for a last look before turning down the wick. I set the lamp beside the entrance, and Homer and I left the secret cave behind.

Once home, I hung my leather work belt on the coat rack just inside the door. There, on the hook beside it, was the canvas bag Phoebe had given me. Its garish orange fabric clashed with the crimson and purple in the kindergarten-style picture of two native children at play.

A wave of happiness washed over me. I started to cry. Homer’s paws tapped softly on the wooden floor as he walked closer.

“You must think me very odd,” I said to him, dabbing my eyes with a tissue. I bent down and gave him a long hug. “Come. You deserve a very special treat. How about eggs and ham?”

While his snack sizzled in the pan, I looked through the number one box reading snatches of stories. One reminded me of a place Cal showed me in the canyon. The more I thought about it, the more determined I was to see for myself if his story had been true. A plan for the evening began to form. I needed to make a phone call.

“Are you busy tonight?” I wasn’t sure how Phoebe would feel about my strange suggestion. I hadn’t mentioned my vision of the mysterious golden glow in the woods during our ordeal. To date, she’d not seemed receptive to the idea of any supernatural occurrences at all. However, I thought she might enjoy getting out for a little fun. “Phoebe, there’s something important we need to do. The sooner, the better.”

“Does it have to do with Indians? Or spirits?”

“Yes, it does. Both.” I sighed, knowing she would think me daft, but I told her my plans anyway. To my surprise and delight, she greeted my idea with enthusiasm.

“So, I’ll see you around seven o’clock?”

“I’ll be there,” she said and immediately the dial tone buzzed in my ear.

O
nly a small strip of yellow police tape remained in the cabin’s clearing. I unstuck it from the porch railing as Phoebe, Homer, and I passed by. Everything else had been taken as evidence, the targets, all bullet casings, even the cigarette butts and other trash. We’d planned on cleaning it all up ourselves. Still, we tidied the area a bit more gathering sticks and stacking them, and straightening inside the cabin.

Phoebe worked cheerfully and was ready to move on to the real reason for our visit. She’d certainly come dressed for the occasion in an eclectic mix of clothing that I can only describe as Native Princess wear. Several necklaces of beads, shells, and one of rawhide and feathers hung over a Navaho print top in dark brown and red with brown leggings underneath. She’d arranged another necklace or bracelet in her hair, teased up and held with French combs in the back, which gave the impression of a tiara. Her earrings matched the rawhide and feather necklace.

“So, how do we do the sage things?” Phoebe asked. We’d stopped by Cal’s house on the way to pick up several bundles of sage that hung in his pantry plus a rock bowl like the one he’d used in his ritual. Phoebe and I took one bundle each.

“I believe they call them smudge sticks. We light them, like so,” I said, as I flicked my lighter to one end of each bunch. “Then, I think we wave it in the air and around objects to dispel any evil… ehm … spirits or feelings that might remain.”

“Gotcha. Like a hazmat team,” she said unfazed, giving her stick a test wave. “To clean up where all that meanness leaked out of those militia dudes’ brains and contaminated the trees and rocks, right?”

She was trying to humor me without saying I was loony in so many words. “Yes, well. I know it must sound far-fetched.”

“Jane, honey,” she said as she put a hand on my shoulder, “if it’s important to you, then it’s important to me. I’m here for you. Now, show me what to do.”

We decided to each take half the clearing, walking with our smudges held before us. Their aroma certainly made me feel better, regardless of its effect on the spirit realm. The cabin was in my half. I watched Phoebe from the door as she spent extra time fanning and fumigating the big limb of red maple leaves that hit Chalmers. She lifted the limb at various points and thrust the sage underneath, her lips moving in an angry way all the while. I doubt she was chanting.

Once done, we walked up the incline to
Tsali
and
Tseni,
set the sage in the rock bowl, and placed it at
Tseni’s
base near where the bullet meant for Phoebe had gone instead. Only about two-thirds of the bullet was buried in the trunk. I managed to pry the slug out with only a little digging. I stared at the small shallow hole and at the bullet, not flattened on impact as it should have been, but, except for the very tip, whole.

“Extraordinary.” I considered telling Phoebe then of the cushioning gold light strands I’d seen. She interrupted my thoughts with a long sigh.

“You know what,” she said, while she waved smoke over the tree’s wound. “I believe things are a little different here. You know, like funny different. Like something or somebody from Up Yonder helped us out.”

We looked at each other without speaking for a moment.

“I think you’re right,” I said.

I decided not to talk about what I’d seen during the shooting. Instead, I told her the story of
Tsali
and
Tseni,
how they lived, loved, and died, and of how Cal had sacrificed so much to keep them and this place safe. “Now it’s my responsibility. I wanted to start things off right. That’s why I wanted you to come with me.” I held out my hand and said, “Here.” I dropped the bullet into her palm. “For your memento table.”

“Don’t you want to keep it?”

“No, dear. It belongs to you.”

“But you could start your own table.”

I smiled. “Perhaps one day. But not with this. It’s rightfully yours.”

She giggled like a delighted child. She started to pocket it but on second thought reached down to a sage bundle and thoroughly smoked the bullet all round. “Okay. Now. There’s something else I want to do.”

She had brought along Smokahontas. I had mixed feelings about the presence of a gun at our little ceremony. She also set out a knife in a leather sheath decorated with a fringe of beads. Just as she’d done with the bullet, she incensed knife, sheath, and Smokahontas with smoke, raised them out over the clearing like a shaman, then out to
Tsali
and
Tseni,
then stepped between the trees and held the weapons out to the ceremonial grounds.

“With these weapons,” she said in a solemn tone, “I Thee promise, to have and to hold them, to protect and defend this sacred place, from here on out.”

She set Smokahontas and the sheath on a bed of leaves. To my astonishment, she took the knife and scraped a thin, shallow line across her thumb. It wasn’t deep enough to bleed much, really, but a few drops of red did appear. She handed me the knife and looked at me expectantly.

“It’s all right,” she whispered, “I brought Band-aids. The antibiotic kind.”

I took a deep breath and followed her example. We clasped hands, holding our thumbs together. Phoebe raised her eyebrows and looked to me, waiting. “Aren’t you going to say something too?”

“All right then.” I cleared my throat and gathered my thoughts. “I, Jane Thistle, also swear to defend this place, to the best of my ability, by whatever means necessary, for as long as I shall live.”

“Amen, Blood Sister.” Phoebe nodded her approval. She squinted her eyes and whispered, “By whatever means necessary. I like that. I pity the fool that tries to mess with us now.”

A cool breeze blew through our hair as we walked between
Tsali
and
Tseni
and down into the ceremonial hall. Homer, who had been sniffing the bluff area with great interest, trotted around us and led the way.

The sun’s last rays moved below the canyon’s ridge. “It’s almost time,” I said, as we walked in the twilight. “We’re headed to the benchlike boulders, just there in front of the water.” We stepped over rivulets and mossy stones onto the flat rock dancing area, not far upstream from the Maiden’s Tears.

I looked up over the rock wall before us to the panorama of open sky. Wisps of clouds moved quickly across the long rectangle of open space between the two high cliffs Cal had shown me. It would be a clear night. Perfect.

Phoebe put her things on a bench and sat. We set the rock bowl between us, letting the sage continue to burn. I took a few candles out of my canvas bag, set them up and, once lit, showed Phoebe the crude map Cal had drawn of the canyon floor.

“Here are the trees,” I said, pointing to their drawing. Underneath, Cal had written “
Danitaga,”
a word I looked up earlier that means, “Where the Two Stand Together.”

Phoebe’s face caught odd shadows and her jewelry sparkled in the candlelight. “We’re here,”1 said. “At the center of the hall.”

“What are those weird words?
⁷⁷

“
Noquisi Nvya.
What the Cherokee called this place. Star Rock.” I took out a spiral notebook I’d found in the number one box. “This is the legend handed down to Cal.”1 paused, holding the book closer to the flames to read his note written in small print. “He says, ‘Some tribes believed that at death the people become stars. Like saints. Prayers go up for help. Special nights, they come down to earth.”

Phoebe leaned closer in the candle’s light. “We’re not about to get hit by a UFO, are we?”

“No, of course not.”

“Because then they might put us on the cover of
The Globe.
Alabama Ladies Conked on Head by Native Americans from Outer Space.’ Not that I read those magazines. I just see them in the checkout lanes at the Pig.”

Our laughter echoed in the canyon while we waited on full darkness. Phoebe gave me an update on the progress of her house. “All done. My new stove and refrigerator are beautiful. You’ve got to come see my new couch and chairs in the living room. I’ve had everything smoky either taken out or dry cleaned. Of course, I couldn’t take Petey to the cleaners. I’m fumigating him good in a Tupperware bowl filled with a mixture of baking soda and cat litter. Oh, and Jerry Nell and Donnie are coming over tomorrow night with some kind of special hooks or holder they’re making for me. Donnie’s going to put it on the wall so I can hang Smokahontas over my memento table. Hey, look. I believe it’s fixing to happen.”

She was right. I blew out our candles. The darkness deepened around us and a wondrous miracle of nature occurred before our eyes. The rock walls we faced disappeared and became the night sky studded with the glow of thousands of stars.

“Well, I’ll say” Phoebe said. Her jaw hung open slightly, and for the first time, her voice held a note of awe on seeing the spectacular in simple nature.

Cal’s notes explained the phenomenon. The tiny worms he’d shown me the day we walked through the canyon were known as
Arachnocampa luminosa,
a species rarely found outside of New Zealand. Though he called them glow worms, they were really insects that, in larval stage, glow in the dark. The larvae had a definite blue cast, shining like milky sapphires with a strong and steady light rather than flickering.

“They do look like stars,” Phoebe said. She moved about the dance hall, at times leaning out, at others stepping close to the wall and looking straight up the cliff’s face. “You can hardly tell the difference from the sky It’s like the stars come all the way down to the ground. Come look right here.”

I obeyed. She had me follow her to several other vantage points, being careful not to touch the damp walls or sticky creatures, and to the ponds where we could see the glowing blue dots wavering underwater as well.

“Here. Take my picture,” she said. I did so but wasn’t optimistic that the glow worms would photograph well, with or without a flash.

“Okay.” Phoebe clapped her hands together and rubbed her palms. “We seen it. We done it. Now, let’s get back to civilization.”

A
LITTLE LATER IN MY KITCHEN, OVER COFFEE AND
strawberry sponge cake, Phoebe and I discussed Riley’s photos. I’d left them out on the table, meaning to look through them again.

“They’re not bad kids,” she said. “Just a little off. It’s their age. They’ll grow out of it.” She flipped quickly from one picture to the next, hardly looking at them as she snapped one up, put it down smartly on the table, and picked up another one. “I just can’t believe grown people believe in ghosts.”

“But in the forest, you said “

“That’s different. Completely different. That was angels. This here,” she said, while flapping one of the photographs back and forth between her fingers, “is pure foolishness. Taking pictures of ghosts, my foot. You can’t take pictures of what you can’t see. Or what’s not there in the first place.”

I stood to get more coffee. While up, I heard a soft tapping noise from the den.

Phoebe looked up. “What’s that?”

“Maybe your squirrel theory needs looking into, particularly after my phone didn’t work when you tried to call the police.” I poured each of us another cup, set the carafe back in the cof-feemaker, and stepped just inside the den to have a look. The tapping continued, though it took me a moment to see its source.

“It’s only the wind blowing the rose bushes against the window,” I said when I returned.

“I mean, why,” Phoebe continued, “would somebody who has already passed over, left this world and is in a better one, want to hang around a nasty old graveyard with nothing there but dirt and weeds? Or a big old house like this one, no offense, when he could be someplace like Las Vegas or Gulf Shores? To get his picture taken by Riley and them girls? I don’t think so.”

The tapping grew louder and its rhythm increased.

“It just don’t make sense to me,” Phoebe said. “Because I’d want to be where the action is. Somewhere fun.”

“Phoebe, dear, I’m sure that no matter where you are in the afterlife, in heaven or on earth, there will be no shortage of fun.”

She smiled. “You think?”

“I’m certain.” I reached over to the countertop to a package I’d wrapped earlier. “This is for you.” It was just a small gift, a jewelry box in pretty colors I thought she might like.

“What’s this for?” She leaned over and gave me a big hug around the shoulders.

“Just a little friendship gift. It’s been wonderful having you stay with me. I shall miss you.”

As I spoke, a movement in the air behind Phoebe’s head caught my eye. Something was floating down behind her. I looked closer at the strange sight, trying to understand the impossibility of it, wrestling with it and finally comprehending.

“I think these are for you,” I said. “Another farewell gift.” We stared at the floor behind her where a little mound of red rose petals had softly fallen and come to rest.

Phoebe left hurriedly. I hardly had time to scoop up the petals and put them in her new jewelry box. Her only comment was, “Jane, you need to check your screens, hon. All kinds of stuff is blowing in here.”

I followed her quick steps out the front to the porch, refraining from pointing out that all windows and doors were shut tight. Homer and I watched her car back out of the drive, and I waved goodnight as her headlights swept across the lilac bushes, the porch, and away down the road.

A
STRAY RED PETAL LAY ON THE PORCH NEXT TO
H
OMER
. I picked it up and touched the silky leaf to Homer’s nose. As the chair beside him rocked slowly, I became aware of the smell of cigarettes and whiskey in the air. Homer snuggled closer to the chair. I knelt and rubbed behind his ears.

I rose and walked to the small table and chair I’d set up at the end of the porch, similar to the way Phoebe arranged hers with a lamp and a potted geranium. The lamp’s light wasn’t very bright, but strong enough to read by if I chose to. I’d set a sketchpad on the table for when I felt like drawing plants or birds I’d sighted.