Chapter 45 Long and Short
Long and Short
Kate Shaw
I hold Eddie’s arm to steady myself on the slippery shale. My breathing is ragged. The flashlight wobbles at my feet. I say, “You knew about the tunnels?”
“Everybody does. They go a long ways, but there ain’t many places to git out.”
“Did you ever get lost?”
“When I was a kid it was kinda expected. But nobody died that I recollect,” he teases.
“Have you found things?”
“Sure. Old tools and an ammo box, and that green stone folks call emeralds. Like what we found at Mister Sunday’s place.”
“Eddie, I’m sorry I doubted you that day.” I start my apology. “It must have been terrifying what you saw, and there I was questioning you.”
“It’s okay. You ain’t from round here.”
My heart thuds at his bluntness. That easy dismissal that I’ve not earned my place no matter how much I invest. Makes me wonder if the last ten years counted for anything.
But there’s my inheritance from Birdie, so I did something right for her to trust me.
She lived an intentional life and, like obedient children, Lydia, Theresa, and I are following the path to the heart of her story.
I’m beginning to understand that our purpose is to expose Birdie’s truth whether it’s her apothecary knowledge or the wisdom of women who are the Keepers.
I ask Eddie, “What’s the best thing you found?”
“A rifle musket from the Civil War back in the 1860s. Took it out of a skeleton’s hands, him with his mouth wide open, likely screaming or crying for his mama, but he got caught all the same. Still got it.”
“So, somebody did die.”
“I guess, but he was a damn Yankee. Serves him right for sneaking round thinking these tunnels was meant to hide the enemy when they ain’t. They belong to us.”
We exit the cave, and Rachel’s tail wags his whole body as he comes toward me and I love on him. Now our strides widen on open land and in blessed daylight, and Eddie and I make good time. This is my chance for closure with my star pupil.
“You ready for school?”
“I been there once. Preacher took me. Went inside and walked the halls. It’s big.”
“How’d you feel?”
“I could get lost, I guess, sorta like the tunnels. Them first days I gotta pay attention so I don’t look like a bumpkin.” Eddie grins his adorable grin and looks young and innocent, two qualities that can help or hurt him depending on whose path he crosses.
“Ask for help. People are willing to help if you ask.”
“I got Gus Flannery,” he says proudly, as if a pierced girl the size of a gnat is his golden ticket.
“I showed her them stories I wrote for Creekrise. She said they was real good, both entertaining and educational. She thinks I might get to work for the school newspaper in a year or two. She’s gonna show ’em to her mama. ”
“You’ll do well, Eddie,” I say and mean it. I’m pleased that his days won’t be ruled by fear.
We arrive at the burned trailer, and Lydia, Gus, and Theresa are sitting on the stumps wearing a film of black dust. I’m grateful Rachel gave me an excuse to skip the dark.
I point to the old crow on the low branch who gazes in the distance ignoring us.
“Theresa, that’s Birdie’s crow. Used to ride on top of her head. ”
“He’s silver. How old is he?”
“Very, very old,” I say because I don’t know.
Lydia glances at her watch. “We beat you by seventeen minutes.”
“That much? And you came out in Birdie’s room?”
Theresa interjects, “It’s where Birdie made her books.
There are stretchers for skins to make vellum, pots of ink, paint, and delicate brushes.
” She glances over at Granny C. “Now that Kate’s here, may we three take a closer look at Birdie’s chamber?
It would help with the important work we’re doing, and it doesn’t make sense to come back another day when we’re already here. ”
I want to say I don’t need to go underground again, but Granny C says, “Y’all won’t take nothin?”
I quickly say, “No, they won’t. Not without your permission.” I don’t look at Lydia or Theresa when I make this promise. The things Granny C needs will stay.
I follow Theresa and Lydia down the stone steps but stay by the open trap door.
Sadie has gone home, and Gus and Eddie wait at the trailer site, but Granny C brings her evil eye to watch us, leery we’ll take something though I gave our word.
The room is dominated by a chestnut table in the center.
The four-foot-wide plank top is a single piece of chestnut from a mighty tree that used to be king of the forests.
They could grow a hundred feet tall and eight feet thick.
Birdie wrote that the white blossoms in the spring looked like snow on the mountain.
Then a blight came and left hollowed-out carcasses in its wake.
There’s a square opening in the center of that table. “I bet the manuscript box fits that opening. There’s a rim inside to keep it from falling through,” I say.
Theresa nods. “A place of honor, but if it belongs here, why was it in Birdie’s trailer?”
“Maybe she moved it so we’d find it and turn curious,” Lydia suggests.
Theresa adds in admiration, “She was a sneaky witch, wasn’t she?
And these are tools for making her books.
Lime to soak the skin, a wooden beam and curved knife to scrape it, and a frame to keep the drying skin taut.
” She nods toward a barrel. “That’s chalk.
It leeches out fats and oils from the skin and makes the surface smooth.
It takes a dozen steps to make the materials for a book.
This crone knew bookmaking from A to Z.”
How little I knew Birdie Rocas because I never bothered to ask. I saw a curmudgeon with a crow riding on her head. I didn’t see her power and purpose.
Lydia’s flashlight scans adjoining rooms where we can see more walls of shelves holding more books, and a line of canvas cots. Theresa states loud enough for Granny C to hear, “Didn’t Birdie’s note read Books go to teacher? Do you think she meant all her books, Kate?”
I groan.