Chapter 7 Futility
Futility
Kate Shaw
The woman following me looks familiar, but where would I have seen her?
Up here, other than wildflowers, monarchs, and evergreens, the colors of this place are earthy and raw.
They speak to folks who scrape by. People up here make something out of nothing, but the relentless effort grinds them down, and the colors reflect that. This woman carries a refined light.
I go slower than I usually do so Lydia Brown can keep up. “What is it you’re writing?”
“An article for Appalachian Folklore. A magazine out of Asheville. The stories are about the magic of this place. I suggested one about medicine women. They liked the idea.”
Lydia struggles to catch her breath, so I go slower.
I don’t have the heart to tell her that after the strain of this climb, it’s possible Birdie might not be there, and if she is, she might not talk to her.
She isn’t generous with her words. But Lydia will have to find out for herself. I doubt she’ll take my word for it.
“Known her long?” she asks, winded, and I stop to give her a rest, turn, and look down on the woman whose flushed face is damp with sweat. She reminds me of myself when I first came here out of shape and out of luck. This steep climb beat me down day after day, until one day it didn’t.
“Ten years.”
“But you’re not from here,” she says, clearly trying to buy more resting time, swatting at gnats, slapping a mosquito on her calf.
“I come from Tennessee.”
“We’re not far from the state line, are we?”
“No. Where do you come from?”
“A few hundred miles east of here, but still in Carolina. Grew up on a tobacco farm. Daddy tended bees. My parents died twenty-five years ago. I haven’t been back in a long time. There’s nothing there. Home is gone.”
I know that plight. Home is a place you belong until the person who is home is gone.
We continue our climb, and I think about the private sorrows she and I carry, dropping tiny pieces of ourselves like puzzle pieces to collect until we might have a picture worth seeing.
I wouldn’t think that Lydia Brown had private sorrows and no home to go to, what with her polished exterior, but I’d be wrong.
“What are you going to do when it’s all over?” she says.
“I’m not sure. I have a place on Ocracoke so I won’t go homeless.”
“That’s not far from where I was born.”
“It’s lovely to visit but I don’t know what I’d do for employment. Maybe it’s time to retire.”
“Or maybe something wonderful is right around the corner for you,” says the optimist.
The climb has been tediously slow and the sun has dipped below the highest ridge when we near Birdie’s place.
The crows are settling on the branches when we enter the clearing and see young Loretty Dillard sitting beside Birdie at the yard table.
They face away from us, sorting herbs into bundles and tying them with twine.
Loretty points and names the herbs: blood root, Solomon seal root, Indian pipe, wild ginger.
There’s a pile of morel mushrooms. A fire burns beneath a simmering pot of rabbit stew.
There’s blood and fur on the flat rock by the creek.
“Afternoon, Birdie. Hello, Loretty.”
Lydia studies the totem pole, the wind chimes, the painted rocks laid in a circle with a red bowl in the center. Birdie stands and turns to face us. She’s the perfect picture of a witch from a primeval forest. Her scowling face is not welcoming to the stranger.
“Birdie, this is Lydia Brown. She writes for a magazine and wants to include you in a story about medicine women. Could she have some of your minutes?”
Lydia starts to step forward, but I hold out an arm to stop her. Birdie will let her know if the distance between them gets closed. Or not.
“Hello, Birdie Rocas. It’s a genuine pleasure to meet you,” she says respectfully. There’s a touch of awe in her voice. She’s a more pitiful outsider than I am.
Birdie stays standing, puffing on her pipe, contemplating the jasper.
Lydia takes a magazine out of her coat pocket and holds it up but doesn’t step forward.
She wants the witch to see she’s on a legitimate business.
“This is a copy of Appalachian Folklore, a magazine dedicated to mountain ways, like what you’re doing at the table.
My article will be about medicine women.
What you know is a source of great interest for readers. ”
I tap Lydia’s arm to stop her talking. She’s spouting too many words.
Any second the crone will go inside and close the door.
Lydia takes the hint and turns quiet. The light from the ridge dims, and Birdie is now masked in shadows.
Only her pipe smoke swirls around her fuzzy head and her eyes hold the glint of a feral night creature.
Birdie rests a knotty hand on Loretty’s thin shoulder and, like she is sometimes inclined, speaks peculiar words.
“Y’all watch over this marked child. She be a Keeper,” she says and holds up the girl’s right hand for no reason I can speculate except that it is as tiny as a doll’s hand.
With a nod of the old woman’s head, Loretty leaves us, crosses the creek, and without a backward glance is gone.
She’s a child at peace in this wild place, and she’ll be safely inside her house with Sadie Blue and her family before dark fully falls.
The witch pockets a handful of morels from the table then goes to the stew.
She uses her wool skirt to take the hot handle and lift it off the fire, then carries it inside her trailer and shuts the door.
“Oh,” Lydia says surprised. “So that’s it. She won’t come back out, will she?”
“No. That was your one chance.”
She whispers in reverence. “Did she call the girl a Keeper?”
“She does that sometimes. Speaks things that don’t make sense, then later they might.”
“And could you see what was on her hand?”
“No.”
“At least I know Birdie’s alive.” Lydia works to make something positive out of her failure.
“And I saw books inside that look homemade.” She still holds the magazine.
“I’ll leave this on her table so she sees it’s an important publication that values the life she lives. In case she changes her mind.”
“You’re brave, Lydia Brown,” I say, but I think she’s also foolish. “Do you go to this much trouble for all your stories?”
“I’m only a journalist part-time, mostly for fun. But this story and Birdie Rocas are special, and I don’t quite know why.” Lydia stares at the closed door and speaks as if in a trance. “I’ve never met her till today, of course—”
“But you said you’d heard of her,” I say.
“No. I saw her name on a card at the library three years ago. It was paper-clipped to a piece of paper and was intriguing. I’m glad I came today.”
Lydia hands me a business card with her name and phone numbers on it and Books and Beans and Special Collections in italics across the bottom.
“My home number is on the back. I’m not far away.
I’ll drop everything to return if the opportunity arises to talk to her.
Please call me if she changes her mind.”
I turn to leave when she says, “Can I ask you something?”
“What?”
“Were those homemade books I saw stacked inside?”
“Yes. Birdie calls them her Books of Truth.” I speak softly in case Birdie’s listening.
“What are they about?”
I grin and say, “Truth of course.” Then add, “Stories, recipes, odds and ends, I guess.”
“So you’ve read them?”
“Bits and pieces. I read what Birdie wants me to read.”
Lydia nods and holds out her hand to shake mine, then surprises me when she says, “I’d like to stay here a little longer.”
“In Birdie’s yard? But it’s growing dark, and she sent you away.”
“I know. I’ll respect her privacy, but I’d like to sit here among her things and think.”
“But it’s scary in the dark.”
“I’m not afraid.”
“How will you get back to your car?”
She pulls a penlight out of her pocket and clicks it on and off then holds up her walking stick with the metal tip.
Lydia Brown is prepared. “It’s a straight shot following the creek, isn’t it?
There are no forks so I can’t get lost. Thank you for your time, Kate.
I hope our paths cross again. Good luck with your end of school and your students’ transition.
And like I said—maybe something wonderful will come from all this. ”
Reluctantly, I leave her outside Birdie’s trailer, sitting at the yard table as the dark arrives. The embers in the fire pit are dying and she throws another log on the coals, comfortable being where she’s not wanted.
I’m halfway up the trail to my cabin when I remember who she looks like: Gloria Steinem. The advocate for women’s rights. The woman who inspires those of us standing in the wings, waiting, doing little but wanting more.