The Sublime Secret: Journey to the Big Picture

By Sal Godinho

In 1919, a young man, Barker, returns to his family farm in historic South Carolina, near a quince plantation. He is searching for the answers to the pain he feels from the loss of his parents in a tragic accident. Inspired by the legendary properties of quince, the forgotten fruit, Barker seeks insight into not only his own misfortune, but also, as it turns out, all gun-inflicted tragedies, from war to children at schools, marring an otherwise peaceful society. Such quest is increased by his captivation of a beautiful heiress, Polly, the owner of the quince farm, who happens to be friends with an elderly man, Gunter, known as the quince prophet. Gunter advocates a way of life designed to preserve the living Earth and eliminate further tragedies. Barker’s exalted love for Polly undergoes radical changes as he, along with her, absorb deeper knowledge. The striking unexpected resolution of Barker’s quest for enlightenment and peace and finding his place in the spirit of the Universe is revealed in the prescient pages of The Sublime Secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: Oct 25, 2021
• ISBN: 9781665712590

Sal Godinho

Sal Godinho was born and raised in Europe, a peaceful land in central Portugal displaying beaches, hills, rivers, where (mostly-wild) quinces, truffles, figs, pine nuts, blackberries, rice, grapes, pomegranates, and cork oaks grew graced by the scent of rosemary and eucalyptus. Such comfortable setting instilled upon him a clean, benign perspective of the world, which led him to wish it upon the whole planet. Meanwhile, as far as literary endeavors go, he was learning French and English and studied translations of the ancient Greek’s epic poems. Then, he was assigned to read THE LUSITANIANS, by Camoens, an account of the Great Discoveries around the world by the Portuguese sailors in their caravels, three generations before the Spaniards set sail. He was so enthralled about literature that he swore he’d become a writer. After Sal rejoined his family, in the U.S., he attended The University of Central Florida, earning a cum laude degree in Modern languages. Then he became friends with Sloan Wilson and Robert Newton Peck. They were his mentors. He even did a collaboration with Rob. (Bulls of Montalba). After, he wrote several novels for practice, sending one to Michael Korda, who told him the work ‘’was not a part of his present list”. In any case, part of the inspiration for this long-in-the-making work is due to the Castaneda’s books and the Praise of Nature of the Late Sixties, so apropos for the current times.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

65295.png South Carolina, November 1919

D anger appeared imminent after the sailboat swept out of the bay.

As a result, Barker tightened his grip on the handles of the helm. The boat is going to wreck! he feared, glancing anxiously at his mother and father, who apparently were not aware of the approaching weather.

Be that as it may, the winter temperature was mild compared to the brutal cold of the previous two years at this festive time—the reason for the boat passengers to receive a blissful mix of sunshine and seabreeze.

The young sailor’s blue eyes stared at the most monumental black cloud he had ever seen as he steered the sloop out of Charleston Harbor and around the tree-covered bend. The white-crested dark cumulonimbus hugged the horizon, resembling a two-tone octopus, ink and all, poised to pounce. I fear trouble for the brass and teak Liberty.

Nervous about the variable winds offshore, Barker felt a surge of adrenaline when he saw gales rippling the sea’s surface to the south. Regrettably, he heard the first rumble of thunder.

An apprentice in sailing, he dreaded capsizing, more than failing to establish a fabulous wing-and-wing run—when the jib sail stands to one side and the mainsail to the other—as he had planned on the way to the beach.

Perhaps I ought to let Father take over.

The enormous thundercloud hovered and emitted lightning flashes, posing a serious threat to a craft rigged with a metal mast. Nonetheless, the sleek vessel sailed steadily southeast, tilted as a sapling in the coming storm, while behind it the boat’s wake angled against the angry swells.

Yet, for Barker another danger loomed larger. It would be an uncontrolled jibe caused by a tempest’s shifting squalls. That particular quick change of forces made most navigators tremble.

A strong wave splashed foamy water across the black bow, spraying everyone, but Barker’s parents, standing at midships, cheered, and he was encouraged by their calm demeanor. Unlike himself, they were not even wearing the Portuguese cork life vests. The port tack, which he kept perfecting by easing the sails or trimming them, earned the steersman a comforting nod of approval from his father, an Admiral of the Fleet.

The hefty passenger who was happily eating Virginia Jams quince paste from a jar didn’t appear worried either. He was an old friend of Barker’s parents from the time they lived Upcountry in a fruit farm region on a quince plantation.

The hayseed is wolfing down the marmalade right from the jar, using a spoon, Barker whispered and chuckled, trying to buoy himself. He claims there is a new fairy tale Upcountry in which residents allege that learning about the legendary quince, the forgotten fruit, will guide one toward knowing the other bygone secrets, like the secret of peace. Even more importantly, these include the greatest secret which can be explained by an apparent new prophet living up there.

When Barker peered below again after a bit, the farmer was fast asleep. That’s peaceful enough, he mused.

The sailboat kept moving away from Charleston, which dazzled across the harbor on Oyster Point like a precious pendant jammed with jewels on a chain notched by the Cooper and Ashley rivers. Barker was sailing to the east wind because he wanted to fall into the run which would put him on course to Folly Beach at James Island. He looked forward to the enchanting sensation of riding a double sail craft with wind from behind—the wing-and-wing—when the main stream of air no longer seems to stir and all becomes quiet. As the boat was sweeping in the direction of the waves, he felt he might briefly surf a swell—a wonderful prospect.

Falling off! Barker announced, attempting to adopt his usual tone of cautious confidence, as his parents stood on the lee side, preparing the anchor. The wind crossed the stern straightaway. He had to be careful as this maneuver could allow air to slam against the sailboat if not handled properly.

Please! Please! Barker silently begged, seized by a strange chill.

He performed the turn well. The hick didn’t even wake up, he softly grumbled, casually shifting his gaze from the cabin to the black cloud which seemed to be dispersing. I hear him snoring down below. Probably dreaming about the secret of sleep.

The Liberty righted herself, white cloth finally billowing out in full splendor, foresail to port, the mainsail to starboard. Barker was forced to keep a watchful eye on the weathervane atop the mast to maintain wing-and-wing and not overcompensate. As the water slapped against the sloop, his parents moved to port side, away from the large sail.

All appearing normal, Barker shook his head to dispel what had been a gloomy foreboding. He breathed in, savoring the salty air and trying to dismiss the anxiety that afflicted him, the present concerns being a culmination of sorts. Though Barker was fairly happy, he inexplicably felt that there was something not quite right about his life, and perhaps existence in general—something somber on which he just could not put his finger.

At this moment, seagulls cackled against a partly cloudy sky above him, small cumulus clouds shaped like the isle of Britain paraded to the east, and a few brave rays of summer sun bounced off waves in a prismatic patchwork of light. Above all, the brisk, briny breeze caressed the sails into a song, allowing the keel to slice water with a resonant gurgling. The world seemed peaceful.

The Great War had ended, and the Spanish Flu pandemic had ceased killing people, sparing his family. Barker had to remember that he was fortunate to be one of the blessed, living in pampered affluence, in the grand style of English gentlemen. The so-called lord-proprietors, the first English settlers in this area, named the city after Charles II, the king who was their hero. Weren’t the Merry Monarch’s predilections horse racing, theater, elegant dining and dancing?

Perhaps in consequence, the aristocrats built beautiful townhouses and Greek Revival mansions and kept expansive plantations. They sent their children to school in London or Paris—a custom from which Barker was a beneficiary, having studied at Oxford and the Sorbonne before the war. His life was good. More than good, wasn’t it? So why was his mind filling with morbid thoughts of impending doom? He noticed how easy it seemed for him to have gloomy portents these days. When had that begun?

The wind became more erratic, making it difficult for both sails to remain stationary on opposite sides. I must sharpen my concentration.

He grasped the wooden helves of the shiny wheel with a steady hand, spinning it one way, then the other. When a sizable swell overtook the craft, lifting and lowering the bow, he surfed it for a memorable moment.

Bravo! praised his father, Bill Cunningham, as he adjusted his white cap. It turns out these are not the best conditions, but you’re doing a great job.

Yes, you have become an excellent sailor, added his mother, Mary Ellen. Her fashionable rose dress, secured by large cloth-covered buttons, fluttered in errant eddies of air around her ankles. I’m so proud of you. You’re so good at the helm, you ought to take a girlfriend sailing, sometime.

If I only had a girlfriend, Barker replied in a sad tone.

‘I assure you that you’ll have one soon enough," Mary Ellen encouraged.

I hope so.

After a short while, Cunningham spoke. Maybe you should become a sea captain in the military, son. He aimed a thumb over his shoulder. You could be stationed at the naval shipyard back there.

No, Father. As always, I want to continue to study Anthropology and Astronomy.

Well, then, that’s all right, said his father. His mother nodded in agreement.

Lapsing into silence, Barker felt that his parents were truly brilliant descendants of that aristocratic lineage. They were both distantly descended from George Monck, the Duke of Albemarle, one of the eight English nobles who were transplanted into the New World and settled in South Carolina. As parents, they were always considerate of his feelings and gave him the respect due an adult child. They clearly loved to have him sail with them.

The boat entered windswept water again, but scanning the looming big cloud beyond, the top of which now resembled a cauliflower, Barker felt the risk had passed and began to enjoy the lulling rhythm of riding on water.

His fingers had barely relaxed when a gust slammed them from the northeast, as if the octopus lashed out with an invisible tentacle, whipping the massive mainsail into an accidental jibe, a helmsman’s deepest fear.

Look out! he yelled, feeling a pang of panic.

Too late!

The squall impacted the sloop with such violence that the gray metal boom swung at high speed, striking his father’s head and knocking him toward the side along with his mother who had held to him screaming as soon as she saw the boom move.

Mary Ellen had clung to her husband in an effort to hold onto him, but his weight hauled her against the gunnel, causing her to hit her head while her waistband was momentarily caught in a line cleat, snapping buttons. Moaning, she was dragged overboard, joined to her husband.

Loosening both sails, Barker clawed the spokes and spun the wheel clockwise to round the boat into the easterly, as the ribs of the wooden hull groaned. The unexpected gust was gone, but his mouth was dry, tongue attached to the palate, and his ears buzzed. He loathed himself for not having prevented the uncontrolled jibe.

Help! he screamed into the cabin. Tightening the sails after coming about, he could only just make out his mother and father bobbing in the waves. He directed his glance once more toward the cabin and yelled as loudly as he could, Mother and Father are in the water!

The middle-aged farmer finally emerged, rubbing his eyes, his overalls swaddling his bulging belly.

Take the helm! Barker commanded, with a glare. When I jump in, release the sheets!

He tore off the cork vest and shirt and dived into the indigo-colored sea, as the farmer untied both sails. Jolted by the cold water, he swam toward the last place he had seen his parents. He pressed ahead. Good God! Where were they? Diving beneath the surface, he opened his eyes, feeling the salt burn everything into a blur.

Sails luffing loudly, the sloop drifted nearby, just as Barker’s head finally surfaced from the water. He bellowed at the farmer, Do you see them?

No, Lord help us.

This couldn’t be happening!

Please! Keep your eyes out for them. Just keep looking!

The old farmer pointed. Somethin’ white over yonder.

Fighting the waves, Barker swam over to find his father’s white cap. Not too far away, he came across a rose-colored dress button. Nothing more. Frantically swimming in a circle, he couldn’t give up, even when he heard the tearful farmer holler a good while later, Ain’t no use, Bark. I tell ya, they’re... they’re gone! He stifled a sob. We’ll have to report the drownin’ to the law so they’ll look for the... bodies. The water’s too cold, and it’s too rough out here today. Please come back aboard.

The young man refused until finally the boat brushed by, the large farmer leaned over, grabbed him, and hung on.

Barker coughed up water. Let go of me.

A terrible, terrible accident. Nothin’ more ya can do. Please come on back up, ’cause ya look awful tired.

No! I want to keep searching!

Strong arms pulled the weary swimmer aboard. I ain’t gonna let ya drown. You’re nineteen years old, and you got most of your life ahead of ya. The farmer spoke as if his words had been the result of lengthy pondering. It’s God’s will, son.

Barker Cunningham slumped on deck, an indelible expression of grief on his face, as a great swell of sorrow permeated every fiber of his body. He pounded his fists over his head on the raised cabin above the entrance. Inevitably, his tired eyes noticed the empty jar of marmalade resting on the sink, as if the absence of the quince paste revealed something about the tragedy. What secret does all this represent that I don’t understand? How does it all relate to the spirit?

1

65360.png

65295.png December 1919

"S low down, Leroy!" Barker commanded the graying servant who was driving the elegant victoria on the hand-broken stone pavement of the Carolina Highway.

He’s going to kill us both!

Barker was leaving Charleston to seek solace. A persistent discontent haunted him. Every time he had passed the seaport, he was reminded of the sea voyages he had taken to Europe with his parents, plus all the local trips.

Lowering his gaze to a long valise on the floor of the carriage containing a hidden foil, he recollected the time he spent in Paris visiting a salle d’armes near the Moulin Rouge, where he was instructed by French fencing masters.

He raised his glance, seeing in his mind’s eye the 200-foot landmark tower of the Episcopal Church in Charleston, and also remembered, as he was doing more often lately, the Sunday services there with Mother and Father.

Most painful was the sad sight of the Liberty, which Barker vowed to never sail again.

Sitting tall on the box seat, Leroy Sparks turned his broad torso slightly so that he could talk more efficiently with a raised voice to the lean young passenger.

"We’re goin’ by the pine belt now. There be danger!"

What! Barker’s eyes, roaming over the longleaf pine-forested land flanking the highway, saw nothing. He decided to abandon his composure and lean across the open carriage, closer to the driver, to hear more clearly.

Ya see those sand hills up yonder, Boss?

Barker was well aware of the higher elevation of the Pine Barrens, a part of the fall line. They were on a series of old dunes from an ancient beach, which formed a narrow ledge where rivers spilled into the lowlands, rushing into rapids and waterfalls.

Gotta move when we go by these hills, Mistah Barker, suh, Leroy said, deciding to keep his eyes dead ahead. Once more, he sped up the four-wheeled vehicle, urging on the two superb horses with a crack of the whip. Giddyup!

Why?

Outlaws in these woods wanna whoop us and take ou’ money!

How do you know this?

My people come from Mars Bluff, that land of farms west, ’round Florence. They told me about this here place, ’cause they did some jobs not too fa’.

A slight shiver of fear induced Barker to draw out a walking stick from a long valise next to his camphorwood-lined leather trunk on the floor of the carriage. This was not a simple stick, which was a common feature in some western parts of the state. He remembered the cane attack by the South Carolina Senator Preston Brooks on Senator Charles Sumner of Massachusetts. I may need this.

They told me of one called Southpaw—he’s a left-handed farmer, ya see—who stays ’round here, Leroy continued. Every time, he uses a different trick, stealin’ folks’ gold and such.

Why hasn’t he been arrested?

Leroy chortled. They try, but he knows all the hidden caves, even some big enough to hide his old horse. It’d take a lot of men—an army—to find ’im. They say he wants to get rich like the landowners by robbin’ people!

A loner, Barker inferred. He clicked the small switch at the metal end of the amber-colored cane, and a fencing foil made of the finest Toledo steel slowly began to emerge. It was a thin, four-sided épée with the pliable foible at the end removed. It was sharp as a razor. As the lethal weapon slid out of the wooden scabbard and glinted in the afternoon light, the iron handle flared into a bell guard, the hand protector.

If I have to, I’ll fight these Southern farmers turned highwaymen. Barker sliced the air fiercely, creating swishing sounds within the confined space of the carriage.

Mistah Barker, suh, your sword won’t be allowed in our village, grumbled Leroy loudly, recognizing the sounds emanating from behind him. There’s a law against weapons, bows and arrows too, only the sheriff wears a gun. Like in some cowboy towns of the ol’ West, you leave your gun outside, remember? He paused. You’ll see, we got an important medicine man—he ain’ the regular kind—that tries hard keepin’ our town safe. They call him the ‘Quince Prophet.’ He laughs a lot—some people think he’s not right in the head, but I think he knows somethin’ we don’t. Others say he knows the greatest secret. He nodded. That medicine man is goin’ by the natural law, the way I see it. He helped plant all the quince fruit trees for no money. He just go-od.

With a gloomy sigh, Barker remarked, My place of birth is a rather strange place, isn’t it?

Ya know, people say there ain’ no state like South Carolina in the Union. Well, there ain’ no other town like ours in the state.

He’s right about South Carolina, Barker concurred, doubting that any other state displayed such rich imagination and variety, with its Indian tribes, aristocrats, hillbillies, even the mysterious Melungeons. Also, there were field hands and servants of African descent—some speaking Gullah, a blend of American English, King’s English, and African continent dialect. Where else did people stain haint green and haint blue on window borders and doorjambs to ward off evil spirits? Superstition was also a form of fancy, as were the constant references to ghosts and legends. Come to think of it, how many other places in the world, besides South Carolina and its neighbor North Carolina, had a plant like the Venus flytrap luring insects onto its sticky, sweet-tasting leaves which closed and devoured them? So why should he be surprised to hear that his hometown was not like any other in South Carolina?

That’s all very well about the ordinance, but fencing is my hobby, Barker stated.

"Sorry about the law, but ya gotta put that up on account of the sheriff.’’

How will I defend myself?

The only weapon allowed is a shillelagh, suh.

An Irish walking stick?

Yassuh, but it ain’ made from the sapling of oak or blackthorn. It’s a straight quince branch.

Why that kind of wood? Was it because of the existence of a lot of it in the town?

They say quince never breaks in a fight. Ain’ stiff like a club, but doesn’t bend easy like a switch. It don’ have the knob, either, the head they used to hit stones with in the ol’ country—

Yes, I’m aware of that. That’s how the game of golf got started. I’ve seen them hitting that little white ball many times.

Leroy bared his big white teeth, displaying a wide diastema, a gap, in the upper row, as he wisecracked, Yassuh, but here they just hit yo’ head!

Barker failed to acknowledge any humor.

J.D., a teacher in town, can teach ya how to use one, added Leroy, looking ahead with concentration.

How dangerous is this Southpaw? Barker shouted to the driver, lightly feeling the sharp tip of his weapon with a finger.

Been told Southpaw is the son of a tenant farmer. Hates rich city folk. He become a robber.

What have I gotten myself into? Damn!

Don’ worry, Boss. I hear the thief rides a rack o’ bones. He’ll never catch up. Ou’ horses too quick. He raised his big fist. If he does, I punch ’im out. I used to be a bare-knuckle fighter as a young’un.

Barker glanced with concern at the red clay earth on the side of the road. The land was embraced by thick, rugged woods of beeches, maples, white oaks and tulip trees, in addition to the numerous pines. He could hear many birds singing among the trees which soothed his mood.

The giant, hired by Barker’s aunt back at the small Appalachian town, continued to incite the horses, despite a surface rutted by roots. Snug near the valise and the leather trunk full of his possessions, Barker cursed the rough, bumpy ride. Sitting half-turned on the seat to keep an eye on the rising road ahead for the bandit, he held onto his foil, and promised himself he would put up a worthy fight. This robber caught me at a bad time, but I’ll be ready for him. Barker wondered whether the assailant would descend from a gentle green hill or scramble up a deep, wooded gully. He determined to stay alert.

After a few miles, a thin white cloud hovered over their path. At first, the young man thought it was fog, but it soon became apparent that a horseman was stirring up dust, though moving more slowly than the wagon.

Who’s that? asked Barker, hefting his foil.

Nothin’ but a rider. Giving the reins a shake, Leroy signaled the horses to increase their speed to a gallop so he could pass the man on horseback. As the carriage drew closer, oddly the rider, too, sped up by spurring an old black-and-brown bay. It appeared that the stranger, wearing a cowboy hat with the front brim folded back as cheap fashion, had something concealed on his right side. As Leroy began to pass the old nag, the rider turned his lowered, jowly chin toward the coachman and urged his mount closer to the carriage. He swung out his right arm, displaying a huge club.

Barker winced at the armed rider, and called out, Careful, Leroy! The man transferred the thick stick to his left hand and lifted it.

Leroy exclaimed, Great Da, ya Southpaw, ain’—

The driver barely escaped the hard blow by leaning away at the last instant. The attacker once again raised the heavy stick. Glimmering foil in his right hand, Barker leaned out of the carriage. To me, redneck! he yelled out.

His ire clearly blazing, Southpaw aimed the club at the passenger and prepared to strike as his horse lost ground. When Barker raised the right wrist, holding the foil, his sleeve dropped, exposing the wristwatch. Mesmerized by the gold and diamond, the outlaw paused in mid-movement. His protruding eyes glittered and he was frothing at the mouth, which was toothless except for the canines.

It’s now or never! Despite a trembling hand, Barker thrust his weapon at the robber’s rib cage. He effected the Spanish-originated vuelta de puño, which meant changing the direction of the blade upon impact by turning the wrist.

Damn ya! howled Southpaw, cursing as he drew back, dropping the club and clutching his chest in pain with both hands. He kneed his horse in an effort to make a quick escape. The exhausted animal barely responded.

Leroy turned to Barker. You stick ‘im with yo’ sword?

"Yes, I gave him an eighth of an inch of steel! I actually felt the blade enter his body. It’s what the French call sentiment du fer!"

Leroy slowed down the horses almost to a walk, to give them a rest. It’s all right to be dumb on yo’ own if healthy and happy, he declared. If you copy people who want to get rich at any cost, and don’t know you don’t have to be rich to be happy, then that’s no good. He was silent for a moment. In one of the poorest places in the world, Madagascar, you can see the people smile and laugh in front of their huts... So Southpaw hates rich folk but wants to get rich himself! He laughed again. You shouldn’t borrow bein’ dumb.

Yes, you forfeit yourself, Barker said loudly. I agree with you. Children don’t even know about what is being rich and are happy. People lived happily for eons before money was invented, otherwise we probably wouldn’t be here. After a pause, he added, Besides that, rich people can be miserable, although most are happy. People even acknowledge that you can’t buy happiness! If you make a good living in your farm, bartering what you don’ have, what is the problem?

Barker was not too fond of farmers, in principle, because many of the ones he knew didn’t seem to be interested in the outside world, being poorly traveled and geographically illiterate. They suffered from the so-called insular problem—and this was true of many non-Southerners as well.

America was becoming a great world power, dealing with all nations around the globe, he further thought, and most Southerners seemed to be merely looking inward. Unfortunately, many soldiers sent to the Great War in Europe were from the South, as his veteran father had remarked to him. They didn’t want to have a say in their own government’s foreign policy or affairs, but then were conscripted into a war overseas, paying with life or limb. He felt so sorry for them he became angry when he thought about it. Now a few had become robbers? This sealed his abhorrence of farmers. I hope things change right here in South Carolina, my home. We need more open-minded farmers, who aren’t so oblivious to the world at large. He wanted very much to like his fellow Southerners. He admired them already, especially the young ladies, for their fondness of song and dance. Perhaps something would happen Upcountry, say, finding an attractive girl, which would enable him to love them fully.

Crouched over the old bay’s neck, Southpaw suddenly yelled from a distance, his two remaining yellowed teeth showing, Ya rich bastard! Ah’ll gitcha, boy!

2

65360.png

A dvancing on the Piedmont plateau, bypassing Chester, Leroy Sparks continued the breakneck pace he had set, and with another spurt he urged the horses into a hurtling run. They even passed a sputtering 1908 Model T Ford carrying copies of The Columbia Record newspaper.

Barker, drawing a deep breath, was annoyed anew as he held onto the side of the carriage. I can’t take this much longer.

The coachman managed to avoid a hickory tree, only to discover that the wagon’s right front wheel struck an exposed root. A squeaky sound emanated from below the seat.

What’s the rush? Barker demanded.

Leroy pointed his huge arm to the higher lands ahead, to a setting of more pronounced troughs and crests. Ya see them clouds comin’ from the end of York County right above Kings Mountain yonde’, suh?

Barker turned his gaze to a weather front beyond that distant battlefield hill to the north. He had learned to hate tempests.

If we don’t reach town befo’ that storm, the road will be a mess. Cracking the whip above the horses, Leroy directed them toward the end of a flat stretch east of Hickory Grove. Giddyup!

When Barker saw the sign for Hickory Grove, he felt it was revealing that its inhabitants had named their town after a nut. Come to think of it, his own village was named after a fruit, quince. Charming.

A pothole caused the open carriage to swerve precariously, first in one direction and then the other. That was when a wheel came off. Barker kept his grip on the side of the victoria, helplessly following the progression of the wheel with his eyes as it rolled into a gully. When the horses lurched to a halt, Barker righted himself, noted he was uninjured, and gave the driver a piercing look.

What are we to do now? he pressed.

Somebody come tomorrow with another wheel. Leroy cast a fleeting look at Barker and ventured tentatively, Ya ride, suh?

You offend me, he said in an even tone. He probably has no idea that a gentleman must become expert at riding as part of his education. He opened his camphorwood trunk and removed a magnificent pair of English leather riding boots, which he prepared to put on. "Does this tell you anything? I also know not to gallop in the direction of the stable, because I may not be able to stop the horse, and one should never gallop under low-branched trees."

Yassuh, you might lose yo’ head! guffawed Leroy, teeth gap exposed, recognizing his companion’s experience with horses.

What we are going to do with my trunk?

We hide the thing in the bush, and I take it to town tomorrow when I be back.

Barker nodded and held the reins of the palomino, resplendent with a golden mane and tail. I’ll ride this one. He’s a beauty.

That one, Sterling. The brown one, Peyton.

From the storage box under the carriage seat, Leroy took out a tarp to cover the trunk under the brush. He also pulled out raincoats. Descending a slope, the two steered the horses under the cloud cover as a light cold rain began to fall.

Riding bareback and holding awkwardly to his valise, Barker became soaked from the rain, chilled from the winter wind, and weary of the bad weather. He was understandingly restless by the time a bridge came into view. How much farther?

Ain’ much. This here Cherokee Creek connects to Broad River, he said, pointing beneath the wooden span. Crosses our town.

Preceded by wind howling in the trees, the skies became grayer. The clouds continued to release their burdensome loads, unleashing torrents of water. The driving rain ran in rivers.

Barker could not readily shake off his impatience and disappointment. Where in hell was this place?

We almost there, Leroy said, as the rain began to let up somewhat.

Meanwhile, Barker became intrigued by the strange shrubs and trees, some gnarly, that could be seen more clearly at this point. What are the plants in those fields between the hills?

The quince groves, suh.

Ah, yes. Interesting.

Where the highway swerved on the edge of the valley, a narrower road began on the left. A sign on a brick wall rendered by an artist named Gunter depicted the fruit.

Quince Springs is a nice name for my birthplace, Barker thought again. He knew the locals called the town simply Quince.

Nevertheless, with wind-driven rain lashing against his face, a desire to see his birthplace couldn’t lift Barker out of his melancholic mood. Finally, as the rain let up, he stared in wonderment as a town came into sight to the south, straight ahead between two hills. A tall remodeled home in the Queen Anne style rose abruptly on a nearby knoll. A direct route was not visible, as the road dead-ended, and a detour crooked to the left of a hill, displaying another brick colonial, apparently a larger one, mostly shrouded in fog. The horses sloughed through knee-deep muddy water on the new narrower path.

"Mistah Barker, suh, we gotta circle, because the Trail is blocked by four pieces of land, as we saw. That’s why they talk of buildin’ a road—what they call the passage. Lord, I see trouble when that happens."

Barker wanted to ask why, but was too tired to take up any conversation.

Let it remain an enigma.

After traveling around the eastern hills, the pair reached the valley floor, entering a wide northbound street which cut across the center of town.

This here the Quince Blossom Trail, Leroy announced, gesturing to the wide thoroughfare. People call it the ‘Trail’.

There were roadside summer fruit-stands here—a South Carolina custom, which pleased Barker. A low wall came into view on their left as they went forward. A pleasant scent emanated from tall shrubs behind it.

What’s that aroma?

The fruit that ain’ been picked, Leroy said, sweeping a hefty hand across an expanse of quince grove between the brick fence and a creek hugging the western hills. "These quinces belong to the heiress of the land. I work for her papa. He’s the boss of my woman, too—Jessamine."

Who is the lady?

Polly is twenty. Smart and pretty redhead. Strong, too. She fights fo’ rights of women.

The women’s suffrage?

Yassuh. They don’t like ’er.

Barker knew the they he was referring to were the supremacists—the South Carolina’s elephant in the room. I bet, he said.

Hoping to cheer himself, Barker contemplated falling for a girl in Quince Springs. He continued to believe that a girlfriend would certainly raise his spirits, brought low from the death of his parents. Maybe this Polly. Politically, he belonged on her side. He was even less fond of the supremacists than of Southerners in general. How could a shadow subculture bent on righting some wrongs—and they were entitled to some legitimate issues—break the law to achieve them? In any case, he already had something in common with the girl.

Now that he thought of it, he remembered that quince was a romantic image that had appealed to Elizabethan writers in Mother England. They picked it up from the ancient Greeks, for whom quince had become associated with the sweet aspects of love. There were British fictional characters who spoke of witty marmalade-eaters and described ladies’ marmalade lips.

As the riders eased along, Barker noticed the Quince Blossom Trail was crossed here and there by little streams of clean water. One of them was flanked on one side by small trees bearing fruit. It contained no running water; instead its bed was replete with grass, at the moment filling with raindrops. The sight appeared incongruous to him. Why no stream but this ditch? This was a real mystery.

He turned his gaze to the fruit shrubs. Those are quinces, right?

Yassuh.

Intrigued, Barker guided his horse to a lone branch gracefully looped over the road, sporting several specimens of the fruit, shaped like big, fat yellow pears, some more spherical, others smaller, fuzzy and greenish. He picked one of the species. The fragrance struck him as familiar—surely a memory from his childhood—a potent, wild, somewhat musky aroma. He was surprised how heavy this fruit was in comparison to an apple. Weighing it in his hand, he said, You could really hurt somebody with this.

He bit into the hard flesh and a chunk broke off easily. His mouth puckered a bit as he chewed. He found the unique taste delectable, with hints of pineapple, apple, pear, guava, and lemon. Yes, he had done this before. A forgotten boyhood memory had indeed resurfaced.

As he swallowed more of the astringent fruit, however, it suddenly seemed to have gotten stuck in his esophagus—a most uncomfortable sensation. His expression hinted at pain, if not panic. He bent forward, then backward.

Leroy laughed openly, his big white teeth and their gap exposed. He steered Peyton alongside Barker’s horse and slapped his big palm on the young man’s back.

Feels like a cork inside, tight in yo’ gullet, right? Leroy kept laughing. This is the reason it helps with looseness of bowels!

Finally, the food slipped into Barker’s stomach, and he