already would have killed her twice over.
Still, he kept his word. He was not a redstick. He had tried that life and was through with it.
They entered a dense green pocket forest of magnolia and oak. The walls of the ravine rose at least a hundred feet on either side, and the air cooled as they moved deeper into the forest. She took him through a laurel thicket alive with the rustlings of ribbon snakes and the cracklings of cicadas. Softshell turtles bolted for dark creek-holes; mink tracks lined the bank. The humid air was sweet with the tea-smell of rotting leaves, and then from somewhere ahead came the faint scent of wood smoke.
The woman lived at the blind end of the ravine, in a small stone hut built against the side of a rocky cliff. The roof of the hut was thatched with palmetto fronds woven through twisted lengths of willow, and at the base of the cliff the pure water of the creek bubbled up from the earth. They stopped here and she looked down at his breechcloth. “Ain’t you got no real clothes?” she asked. “You gone Indian?”
“Nome.”
“Need any?”
“Nome.”
She shrugged. “Fine then,” she said. “Sit.” She pointed to a collection of stumps arranged around a crackling fire. Five stumps in all, as if he were simply the first of many guests to arrive. They sat beside each other, staring at the fire as night fell upon them. She asked him about his bone club, and he told her that he had found it in the forest. He could tell that she did not believe him.
“You livin here by youself, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No men?”
“No men, not no more.” She patted him on his knee. “We’re alone. Don’t you be afraid.”
A dented kettle dangled over the fire, suspended from a tripod of rusty iron rods. She filled two metal bowls with a pearl broth containing white chunks of fish meat. At last she introduced herself. “My name is Elvy,” she said. “Elvy Callaway.”
“I am Kau.”
“Cow like a milk cow?” She laughed and he saw that her teeth were somehow quite white. “You got a Christian name?”
He shook his head.
“Ever want one? I’m a wizard at naming things.”
“Nome.”
She smiled and handed him his bowl. “You lack the talent for conversation,” she said. “Have no gift for it at all.”
He took a cautious sip of the soup, then coughed as it burned at his throat. His horse blanket was wet from the river crossing, and she took it from him and laid it out to dry across the thatched roof of the hut. He thanked her and then, in the manner of some people too long in solitude, she grew anxious to talk. As they ate she began to tell him her story. The story of how she had come to exist alone in that dark valley.
“I am a witness for the Lord,” she told him.
ELVY CALLAWAY HAD also once lived along the federal road, though farther to the east than he himself had. Her home was near the Chattahoochee River crossing, the border between Georgia and the Mississippi Territory. She was the madam of a brothel house, and
her establishment had been quite famous. In a shy way Kau admitted that he had overheard more than a few tales of Elvy’s Den.
She nodded. “God have mercy on our sinning souls,” she said.
Though five women called the Den their home, Elvy herself was far and away the prettiest and healthiest of the lot. She dressed in Charleston finery befitting her station as a madam, and refused her own favors to all but the occasional wealthy traveler, a few officers from the nearby fort. For trysts with these select men she kept a small cabin hidden in the forest. Visits to Elvy were carefully arranged, and so great was her discretion that no customer could ever be certain of the identity of another.
Such was her life until a cold night in December 1814 when she was surprised in her cabin by a knock at the door. She was not alone. A young British lieutenant, gentleman prisoner of the Americans at Fort Mitchell, was spread out beneath her. The
Still, he kept his word. He was not a redstick. He had tried that life and was through with it.
They entered a dense green pocket forest of magnolia and oak. The walls of the ravine rose at least a hundred feet on either side, and the air cooled as they moved deeper into the forest. She took him through a laurel thicket alive with the rustlings of ribbon snakes and the cracklings of cicadas. Softshell turtles bolted for dark creek-holes; mink tracks lined the bank. The humid air was sweet with the tea-smell of rotting leaves, and then from somewhere ahead came the faint scent of wood smoke.
The woman lived at the blind end of the ravine, in a small stone hut built against the side of a rocky cliff. The roof of the hut was thatched with palmetto fronds woven through twisted lengths of willow, and at the base of the cliff the pure water of the creek bubbled up from the earth. They stopped here and she looked down at his breechcloth. “Ain’t you got no real clothes?” she asked. “You gone Indian?”
“Nome.”
“Need any?”
“Nome.”
She shrugged. “Fine then,” she said. “Sit.” She pointed to a collection of stumps arranged around a crackling fire. Five stumps in all, as if he were simply the first of many guests to arrive. They sat beside each other, staring at the fire as night fell upon them. She asked him about his bone club, and he told her that he had found it in the forest. He could tell that she did not believe him.
“You livin here by youself, ma’am?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“No men?”
“No men, not no more.” She patted him on his knee. “We’re alone. Don’t you be afraid.”
A dented kettle dangled over the fire, suspended from a tripod of rusty iron rods. She filled two metal bowls with a pearl broth containing white chunks of fish meat. At last she introduced herself. “My name is Elvy,” she said. “Elvy Callaway.”
“I am Kau.”
“Cow like a milk cow?” She laughed and he saw that her teeth were somehow quite white. “You got a Christian name?”
He shook his head.
“Ever want one? I’m a wizard at naming things.”
“Nome.”
She smiled and handed him his bowl. “You lack the talent for conversation,” she said. “Have no gift for it at all.”
He took a cautious sip of the soup, then coughed as it burned at his throat. His horse blanket was wet from the river crossing, and she took it from him and laid it out to dry across the thatched roof of the hut. He thanked her and then, in the manner of some people too long in solitude, she grew anxious to talk. As they ate she began to tell him her story. The story of how she had come to exist alone in that dark valley.
“I am a witness for the Lord,” she told him.
ELVY CALLAWAY HAD also once lived along the federal road, though farther to the east than he himself had. Her home was near the Chattahoochee River crossing, the border between Georgia and the Mississippi Territory. She was the madam of a brothel house, and
her establishment had been quite famous. In a shy way Kau admitted that he had overheard more than a few tales of Elvy’s Den.
She nodded. “God have mercy on our sinning souls,” she said.
Though five women called the Den their home, Elvy herself was far and away the prettiest and healthiest of the lot. She dressed in Charleston finery befitting her station as a madam, and refused her own favors to all but the occasional wealthy traveler, a few officers from the nearby fort. For trysts with these select men she kept a small cabin hidden in the forest. Visits to Elvy were carefully arranged, and so great was her discretion that no customer could ever be certain of the identity of another.
Such was her life until a cold night in December 1814 when she was surprised in her cabin by a knock at the door. She was not alone. A young British lieutenant, gentleman prisoner of the Americans at Fort Mitchell, was spread out beneath her. The
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