hit something. I hit it so hard that I fell down. Then two great hands lifted me and set me on my feet. A man stood in front of me—so tall that he blocked out the sun. His hair was long and black and his beard was wild. He wore a hat that was pulled down over his eyes. My first thought was that it was Tsul ’Kalu himself, but this was a man, not a giant.
“Slow down,” he said. “What are you running from?” I couldn’t make out his face because the sun was behind him. But I knew exactly who he was: the Wood Carver. I had run from one murderer right into the hands of another.
I stared up at him and didn’t say a word. I looked down at his hands, still holding my arms. They were nicked up and scarred and he wore a bright gold wedding ring on his left one.
He dropped his hands and took a step back. I turned around and ran.
After supper Johnny Clay and I stood on the front porch with Hunter Firth. The door to the house was open and there was the sound of Daddy Hoyt starting a tune on the fiddle; of Linc strumming his guitar; of Granny beginning a song in her thin, raspy voice; of Sweet Fern and Ruby Poole washing the supper dishes; of Dan Presley banging on a pot lid; and of Danny laughing and playing with baby Corrina.
“The bootlegger’s probably forgotten all about it by now,” Johnny Clay said. There was a question in his voice. I knew what it was—we might not have gotten away with his moonshine, but that didn’t mean the moonshiner would forget that we tried to steal from him. In his eyes, we would be as bad and as hated as branch walkers now. We would never know where or when the moonshiner might find us.
We could hear the stomp of Granny’s shoes as she danced and Beachard’s shouts as she whirled him around. He was staying away from home more and more lately, no matter what Sweet Fern and Danny told him to do. Beach was fifteen now and said they weren’t his parents and he didn’t need to mind them. He didn’t mean anything unfriendly by it—Beach never did—he said that’s just the way things were.
I wrapped my arms tight around my waist and shivered, even though the evening was warm. I thought about the moonshiner over in Devil’s Kitchen and the bitter taste of his whiskey and about his son who was a bad and dangerous criminal. I thought about the Wood Carver—tall enough to block out the sun—walking the haunted trail. I wondered if he was out there now in the dark.
Johnny Clay caught a lightning bug in his fist and then slowly opened it so we could see the light. “It’s late in the season for him,” he said. “He should be dead by now.” He let it go and we watched it wobble into the air and then light up, go dark, light up, as it headed away from us.
I never wanted to go back to the jail ever again or get chased through the woods or shot at, and I knew Johnny Clay felt the same way. Still, someone had to say it out loud, so I told him I was bored rigid leading a life of crime and, what’s more, that I was swearing off liquor. He said he was too. I think he was glad I said it first.
SEVEN
School started on a cool day in early September. I was in the sixth grade now. I had two more years at the Alluvial School, and then I would be done forever. Johnny Clay was in his last year, but he threatened to quit every day, just like Beachard had when he was almost fourteen.
We went to school according to the planting cycles. We were there through December, then out again until March while we picked peas, dug potatoes, and rounded up the free-roaming cattle from the woods. Then we were back at school again until summer when we waited for the crops to grow.
The school itself was a one-room building, painted white, that sat between Deal’s and the Baptist church. The classroom was one large room with a blackboard along one wall and desks for thirty-six students, ages six to fourteen, in eight grades. Our teacher was Mrs. Avery Dennis, and her husband was Charles Hampton Dennis,
“Slow down,” he said. “What are you running from?” I couldn’t make out his face because the sun was behind him. But I knew exactly who he was: the Wood Carver. I had run from one murderer right into the hands of another.
I stared up at him and didn’t say a word. I looked down at his hands, still holding my arms. They were nicked up and scarred and he wore a bright gold wedding ring on his left one.
He dropped his hands and took a step back. I turned around and ran.
After supper Johnny Clay and I stood on the front porch with Hunter Firth. The door to the house was open and there was the sound of Daddy Hoyt starting a tune on the fiddle; of Linc strumming his guitar; of Granny beginning a song in her thin, raspy voice; of Sweet Fern and Ruby Poole washing the supper dishes; of Dan Presley banging on a pot lid; and of Danny laughing and playing with baby Corrina.
“The bootlegger’s probably forgotten all about it by now,” Johnny Clay said. There was a question in his voice. I knew what it was—we might not have gotten away with his moonshine, but that didn’t mean the moonshiner would forget that we tried to steal from him. In his eyes, we would be as bad and as hated as branch walkers now. We would never know where or when the moonshiner might find us.
We could hear the stomp of Granny’s shoes as she danced and Beachard’s shouts as she whirled him around. He was staying away from home more and more lately, no matter what Sweet Fern and Danny told him to do. Beach was fifteen now and said they weren’t his parents and he didn’t need to mind them. He didn’t mean anything unfriendly by it—Beach never did—he said that’s just the way things were.
I wrapped my arms tight around my waist and shivered, even though the evening was warm. I thought about the moonshiner over in Devil’s Kitchen and the bitter taste of his whiskey and about his son who was a bad and dangerous criminal. I thought about the Wood Carver—tall enough to block out the sun—walking the haunted trail. I wondered if he was out there now in the dark.
Johnny Clay caught a lightning bug in his fist and then slowly opened it so we could see the light. “It’s late in the season for him,” he said. “He should be dead by now.” He let it go and we watched it wobble into the air and then light up, go dark, light up, as it headed away from us.
I never wanted to go back to the jail ever again or get chased through the woods or shot at, and I knew Johnny Clay felt the same way. Still, someone had to say it out loud, so I told him I was bored rigid leading a life of crime and, what’s more, that I was swearing off liquor. He said he was too. I think he was glad I said it first.
SEVEN
School started on a cool day in early September. I was in the sixth grade now. I had two more years at the Alluvial School, and then I would be done forever. Johnny Clay was in his last year, but he threatened to quit every day, just like Beachard had when he was almost fourteen.
We went to school according to the planting cycles. We were there through December, then out again until March while we picked peas, dug potatoes, and rounded up the free-roaming cattle from the woods. Then we were back at school again until summer when we waited for the crops to grow.
The school itself was a one-room building, painted white, that sat between Deal’s and the Baptist church. The classroom was one large room with a blackboard along one wall and desks for thirty-six students, ages six to fourteen, in eight grades. Our teacher was Mrs. Avery Dennis, and her husband was Charles Hampton Dennis,
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