When Green Leaves Fall

By Jack A. Robey

A MYSTICAL GLIMPSE INTO AMERICA'S PAST. When Green Leaves Fall encompasses the gamut of elements in great classic fiction, from history and suspense to romance, poetry, mythology, and faith. Add to this the author's exceptional character development that brings the people in the novel alive and the breathtaking imagery of the untamed world they discover. The story begins in the summer of 1909, when the sleepy little mill town of Devlin, W.Va., awakens. Best friends, Morgan Darrow and Dewey Baughman, leave boyhood behind in the wild mountain forests as they assist surveyors Lowe Yancy and Black Jack Clark on their expedition for the Watoga Lumber Company. When Lowe first sees the noble giant trees of the Big Timber, he is awed by their creator, and his journey to find peace and absolution in his life takes a new direction. The team faces many obstacles along the way, and learns that subduing the violence of other men is often much easier than conquering that of nature. Adventures of the heart also await them in Devlin, as Morgan and Dewey both fall in love, and Lowe's eyes open to the love he relinquished long ago, but never forgot. Set in the days of post-Civil War West Virginia, When Green Leaves Fall captures life in a small company town, where the company has the power to influence even hopes and dreams. In the tradition of John Steinbeck, Robey's novel explores a unique time and place in America's past through the hearts and voices of his memorable characters, and allows his readers to experience the last of the magnificent uncharted forest that once graced our land. The novel was inspired by the author's great-grandparents, who lived, worked, and raised their family in the small lumber mill town of Nallen, W. Va.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Outskirts Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781977229137

Jack A. Robey

Jack Robey's inspiration for this novel came from his great-grandparents, residents of a small West Virginia lumber mill town. He graduated from Virginia Tech with a degree in forestry and served his career with the Northern Virginia Regional Park Authority. In 2006, he retired to Virginia's Shenandoah Valley with his wife, Diane. Also a gifted poet, he passed away in 2013.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

All but two were gone. The plush green canopy of summer had long since succumbed to the shorter days and the cold, ravaging winds of December. Now there were just two red leaves clinging to the young isolated maples, which grasped for light and life against the high shade of the pine grove. It was these same pines that would carry death to the young, unguarded woodland. The leaves, the trees, the creatures, the community of the forest, even the grove itself, would falter and fail against the rush of the implacable foe. Fire had come to take them all.

The two leaves played upon a growing breeze as distant flames inhaled the clean breath of the wilderness. They had danced before on many a wind, and high on their branch, they would dance just once again. They had not known fire, only the peace and beauty of creation. And now it was upon them.

At first the burn moved as a thin bright line inching slowly across the forest floor. The leaves, still damp from the morning’s mist, matted the ground and smoldered before igniting. Their smoke moved ahead of the flame as both crept slowly up the ridge toward the grove. In their wake, a pristine wood, once warmed by autumn’s color, now lay wasted and cold in the black monotones of a charred earth and the singed bases of the trees.

Then the fire quickened as it pressed itself into a dry bed of needles. Fueled by the volatility of resins, fed by unceasing gusts of air, it loosed new fury upon the hapless pines. It leapt from root to crown, from limb to limb, from tree to tree, until all that was once ever green was left dark and lifeless. The trees dissolved in the hot, swirling light, exploding almost instantaneously, one behind the other.

The leaves now played on a different wind, on the upward drafts of a heated thermal. They jumped and bent with each spike of the approaching flame, barely dodging the touch of fire. When the flame withdrew, they pulled against the tether of their stalks and then rose again to avoid the surging blaze.

It was a moment of time before one leaf broke free and lifted skyward, only to meet the glowing ash, then burn. The second dipped against the flame and was gone. So it was for every living thing.

The young Shawnee stood in disbelief as the wind suddenly shifted. He had set the fire as he was told by his elders.

Burn the leaves and thickets that we might move the buffalo and elk toward our winter camp. The spring will bring back the young shoots and tall grass for more to graze next year.

And so he did. With his torch of gathered pine knots, he spread a line of fire a thousand yards across the width of the long valley. The fire would move along the banks of the narrow stream, riding the soft wind at its back. It would not want to climb the steep hills with their rocky cliffs and talus. Neither would the herds climb to seek other meadows. They would move with the stream. They would stay with the sweet water and thick grasses until the flames bid them run.

Then, where the stream met the great river, the buffalo, the elk, the deer and all the beasts of the valley would cross into the waiting spears of his hungry people. His family would not know the cruelty of winter this year, for he was giving them life with his fire, which would race until it tired at the edge of the waters. It was the perfect plan, except in this world where the Shawnee lived with the whims of nature and where nature had contempt for the plans of man.

Flames eased across gentle hillocks, urged by a slow, unbroken breeze, and small herds scattered before a low blaze that steadily swept the vale. But as the mid-day sun warmed the land, the wind revealed its betrayal. With sudden ferocity, it turned into the faces of the young Shawnee and his kindled fire and threw them both toward the fortified walls of the mountain.

The youth moved quickly up the hill and into a shaded wood, where a thickening haze now hugged the ground. The swiftness of his feet whirled the smoke up and away behind him, but despite his speed, he could not be free of it. Tree after tree, hill after hill, he pushed through the forest ever upwards with a fading hope that he might flank the fire before it trapped him against the distant seam of rocks.

The conflagration found momentum on the steep sides of the ridge, and threatened to overtake the wary young warrior. He knew well the danger. He could hear the snapping of a distant blaze. He could almost feel the warmth of its light. There was one escape, only one diminutive chance for survival. He must race the fire up the mountain through the pine grove, ascend the crags and hide in the shallow pools of the rocky dome. One chance…race the fire through the pine grove.

He ran. The Shawnee ran with the strong legs of youth and the fearful mind of a child. He had little time, though the blaze was not yet upon him. The mountain was steep, and he would lose precious minutes sliding among the leaves and stones. He did not know a way through the crag and would need every moment, every measure of strength and energy to scale the steep cliff.

No man could outrun the fire once it touched the pines, so his life was wagered against his speed through the open hardwood forest. He must quickly make time. He must clear the pines before the fire reached the edge of the grove. There, it would rage into the high crowns of the trees with such intensity that stone would seem to melt beneath his feet. The air would give no sustenance to his body, and huge incendiary balls of flame would rain upon the mountaintop far ahead of his approach. The consequence of failure was death, slow and torturous, and the utter horror of it impelled him to press far beyond his human limitation. He understood. The savage force would surely yield merciless destruction to whatever dared defy it and to any who might flee its terror. Nature intended no exceptions. He ran. He ran.

The Shawnee was not afraid to die. He was a warrior, a hunter, a survivor of a most primitive way. He had faced death on many occasions and was assured of his place in the hereafter. But death? Not by fire, not now. He had reason to live.

He passed almost effortlessly through the oaks and poplars and chestnuts of the lower forest. The ground was firm and the grade moderate. He was used to running long distances, especially in the spring when men conducted raids against their enemies to the north. The sky above him remained clear and for a brief moment, he forgot the menace that was crackling at his heels. He paused at a brook and pressed his face to the water, sipping and splashing to dampen his long black hair and naked chest.

As he turned to look back into the valley, he saw new signs of the smoke that moved in advance of the fire. He tried to leap the brook, but fell on the slippery rocks. He tried to rise, only to fall again in the soft mud of the bank. It was a nightmare come alive, as his attempts to move were thwarted by the simplest of obstacles. Finally, he gathered himself and was again vaulting toward the pine grove.

The Shawnee found no relief. Saplings choked his way through an endless thicket of small trunks and needles. Even his eyes could not penetrate the dense pine barrier, but his legs nevertheless powered forward into the grabbing, gouging web of limbs. The smoke was now heavy and his lungs nearly burst for the want of air. He gave little notice to the throbbing ache in his legs and feet or to the burn of his sweat as it coated the wounds of a hundred briars and jutting branches. His flesh was torn, his spirit faltering, but he ran.

It was not long before he heard the deafening quake of the canopy fire. The pines were ablaze. Fifty yards…He would be clear. Twenty-five yards…He could not breathe. Ten yards…The heat blistered the skin of his back.

Strange though, his mind began to give comfort from the pain. His movement was steady and his thoughts were elsewhere. What would become of his family or of the beautiful child he was to marry in the spring? He pictured them, and then, only her. He saw her dark eyes and shining black hair. He remembered her as they would chase through the meadow. She was agile, graceful. He thought of her laughter, her tears, the softness of her sun-browned skin. He thought of the children they would have, of the days growing old with her, of his caring for her and her love for him. He could not die. He could not burn. He must find his way through the crag.

With the fire closing in, he had lost his opportunity to climb the wall of rock before him. He had no time to think, but only to react using his training as a hunter. He veered to the right along the base of the cliff and sprinted with his final burst of power along a well-worn deer trail. Both the trail and the Shawnee warrior disappeared among the boulders that climbed to the dome above.

He had nothing left. The flames of the crown fire were carried by ash over the precipice and began to ignite the thin grasses of an upland field. He desperately crawled across the fiery grounds toward the pools that lay as mere depressions in the granite bedrock. The rainwater trapped within could save him. The massive dome of rock would not burn.

The Shawnee tried to stand to continue his race to the safety of the stone. But his legs failed him and he fell back to the ground in despair. He could no longer sweat against the sweltering heat and he could not cry for his lost future. The running and the fire had siphoned the last of the water from his limp body.

Suddenly, he could feel the hard, cool surface of rock beneath him, and through his stinging eyes, he could make out the silhouette of an oak tree, a massive white oak that stood defiant against the daunting smoke and flame. And there were others beyond, arboreal giants rising up from the lee of the mountain, trees with the girth of a chieftain’s lodge and with immense, ungainly limbs grasping at the graying sky. There, by the oak, would be the pools, and there, in the distant shadow of the big and towering timbers, a healing brook might flow.

But he lay still upon the rock and was now blind to all, except the memory of a Shawnee girl.

CHAPTER 1

It was hot, uncommonly hot. A fierce sun broke upon the morning, and by midday, even the shadows had wilted. Those who could now sought their usual shelter, only to find false refuge. Porch rockers and paper fans, shady groves and sweet spring water, even damp towels cooled with the melting remnants of block ice proved unavailing. It was simply too hot, much too hot for remedy.

Morgan Darrow had all but conceded that point when he found some measure of relief in the narrow gorge just south of town. A low stream lapped the base of a long curving cliff, while the dirt lane he was travelling and adjacent train tracks crowded the steep rail cut on the opposing side. The natural effect of such a canyon was, of course, wind. Air pressed through the gap with a surging velocity, lifting dust devils from the road and tossing dry leaves into the stream. Warm as it was, the breeze still whisked the sweat from his neck and face, and he was grateful.

Morgan looked to the sun with disbelief and to the high ridge beside him. Far above the gorge, a second wall of cliffs jutted beyond the tree tops. It was baffling why he had never before noticed the feature, especially being so close to home. In the heat that enveloped him, he thought about the Shawnee warrior who once raced to such a precipice with fire at his feet and smoke in his lungs. Whether true or not, the old tale had lingered in these mountains, and every boy grew up scanning the crests and wondering if this crag or that bluff just might be the place, known by tradition as the Shawnee Scarp. Someday, when the weather was again merciful, he might climb to find the answer. Though, for now, it seemed a most unlikely quest.

Morgan heard the gurgles and could almost smell the purity of the brook. It was difficult to resist the refreshing cool that hovered over the gentle flow, and as he neared the water’s edge, he gladly acquiesced. He loosed the knots that bound his boots, rolled off his socks and hurriedly plunged his legs shin deep onto the cold, sandy bottom. His toes curled, and he sighed with a sudden sense of deliverance.

An unexpected drought had settled on the hills and threatened to steal the last days of an otherwise perfect spring. The stream, as usual, was an early casualty. It ran shallow, and the once steady roar of rushing water was now reduced to a quiet burble. But there was enough water to give some movement to the brook, and the mere sound of it soothed Morgan like a lullaby. He stretched back on the leafy bank, his feet still in the stream, and he listened to that quiet song of nature until his mind was adrift in the flow.

There must have been dreams in the short peace that followed, but if so, they were forever lost to a startling clap and the subsequent explosion of droplets that pelted the boy and 20 feet of the ground around him. Morgan reeled from the splash just in time to glimpse a second boulder plummeting through the air. It hit flat against the surface of the brook and after soaking its intended target, settled harmlessly on the murky bottom. Yanking his bare feet from the water, Morgan gasped and shook off the cold spray that now dripped from his face and shirt.

Hey there! Seems to me you’re all wet, cried a familiar voice.

Morgan turned to find Dewey Baughman standing over him, no shirt, no shoes, his trousers rolled above his knees. The skin under his left eye was purple and puffy. His nose was disfigured and swollen. With the back of one hand, he unconsciously dabbed at a flux of sniffles, while with the front of the other, he wiped the glistening sheet of perspiration from his forehead.

Unkempt and uncomfortable, Dewey was more mired in misery than even he would confide. The dust from a long walk up the road collected on his belly, brow and cheeks, and as the sweat moved down his body, it left white tell-tale lines against his skin. He was big for a boy of 17, and big men, regardless of their age, were not meant to endure such weather.

Morgan responded rather tersely, I could have done without the shock. A simple ‘hello’ would have sufficed, don’t you think? Why don’t you grow up?

To tell ya the truth, such a notion never crossed my mind, Dewey answered, completed unaffected by Morgan’s tone. What’s to be gained by growin’ up?

Well, Dewey, if you haven’t figured that answer by now, I reckon there’s no chance of me convincing you to change your ways. Morgan pointed to the broken nose and black eye. Though, by looking at you, it seems like others have tried. How did that happen?

A little scuffle at the pool hall.

The pool hall? I thought you weren’t allowed in there.

Some days I am, some days I ain’t. It depends on whether or not they’re servin’ them damn wood hicks.

Well, now you know why you should stay out of the place. There’s a lot of trouble in that part of town, especially when the crews come off the mountain. Did you win your fight?

Some fight. This big fella pushes a little fella, and the little fella hauls off and punches me.

Morgan leaned over to inspect the eye. He landed a good one, I’d say. Did you hit him back?

Nope. With my face throbbin’ so and me feelin’ all that spinnin’ and blur, I didn’t think much on gettin’ even. I just hauled ass out of there.

Dewey, as long as we’ve been friends, I’ve never known you to run away from a battle. Next time, maybe you should. I don’t recall you ever having won one.

Don’t tell your Ma ‘bout this, Morgan. Ya know how she hates fightin’. I wouldn’t want her thinkin’ poorly of me.

Sure, whatever you say, but good luck hiding that shiner. It’s going to last awhile.

Dewey fingered the recent distortions of his face. Does it look that bad?

Pretty bad.

Damn, he said. I’ll never hear the end of this one. His eyes showed genuine concern, but only for a moment when he stepped from the shadows into the broiling rays of the sun. Lordy, it’s hot out here! he whined, moving the conversation to something more relevant. I’ve damn near stripped down to nothin’ and I still can’t cool off. I swear it’s 110 degrees even in the shade.

Morgan laughed unsympathetically. It feels a bit more tolerable after people sneak up and soak you while you’re napping. Thanks a lot, by the way.

Don’t mention it. Dewey waded into the brook. Oooo…that is nice. Yes, sir…real, real nice! Jesus, Morgan, in all your days, can ya recollect a more deplorable run of the temperature? I’ve been cookin’ out here for hours, and I swear this sun ain’t gonna quit workin’ on us until we’re all chicken fried up and sweatin’ out gravy. Oh, yeah, I’m really likin’ this water. Too bad it ain’t deeper.

Dewey watched with satisfaction as his friend was forced to use an already damp shirt to dry his face. I nailed ya but good this time. You’re wetter than trout spit. Hell no, I ain’t gonna grow up! And just what would ya do if I did? There’s no fun without a few shenanigans. Your life has too little excitement as it is.

Morgan wanted to ignore the barb. He knew that Dewey was anticipating his response, and he struggled to withhold comment in the spirit of their lifelong competition of wits. Despite his intial reaction, he was neither surprised nor annoyed by the sudden intrusion to his privacy. In fact, he rather enjoyed the refreshing effects of the water and was certainly grateful for the companionship. That being said, he knew better than to acknowledge such antics or be baited into reprisals. Dewey simply enjoyed a good war of words and pranks too much to ever lose one, and Morgan’s only true means to a victory was in disregarding the enemy altogether.

What’s that? The cat’s got your tongue? Come on, Morgan, ya gotta say somethin’ back at me. Your mind is burnin’ with a fiery retort. I just know it. I can smell the smoke.

Dewey prodded, but Morgan resisted, at least until that moment when the smothering heat and the incessant noise of the goading combined to shatter his will. At that point, he had lost the battle.

Dewey Baughman, you can scare the peace from a Sunday morning prayer! Did you know that? Why do I bother with someone so intent on driving me to insanity? To you, the pleasures of sin are but blessings from God. You curse and complain and connive, and still, no one has the heart to condemn you. No one, except me, that is…me, probably your only real friend. I just don’t get it. Frankly speaking, I don’t have the slightest idea on what it takes to bridle the devil that’s in you, and that fact doesn’t bode well for your future.

Dewey grinned as he offered his rebuttal, Devil, huh. Hey, I’m not the only one who sleeps durin’ them prayers.

Morgan scowled, Just what in the world are you talking about now?

Call it what ya will, but that preacher goes on and on and on with his prayin’. I’ll give ya odds that half the congregation dozes off every Sunday. I just happened to be the only one that dropped a hymnal on Mrs. Barrett’s toes. Frankly, if the woman hadn’t screamed, people would’ve paid me no mind at all, and the prayer would’ve gone on another ten or 15 minutes. I think I did folks a kindly favor, and yes, now that ya mention it, I do feel right good ‘bout it. Christ, it is…so hot…out here!

Morgan was astounded. He asked again, What are you talking about?

Church, that’s what! Beatrice Barrett and our long-winded parson. You know.

Yeah, I know. I forgot all about your escapades in church last week. Believe me, I now regret saying anything.

Then, I reckon I’ll accept your apology, Dewey said smugly.

My apology! Who started all this nonsense? Who got who wet? Morgan shook his head in disbelief at Dewey’s customary twist of reality. There was no point in saying more.

Dewey had always been Morgan’s best friend. He had a habit of showing up when he was not needed and most of the time when he was. He would talk Morgan’s ear off, curse with the devil and complain like a caged, hungry bear. Still, his heart was warm and his way, despite a generous amount of imperfection, was gentle and easy to abide.

Ya gotta agree, that was one damn fine splash. I angled it right into ya…. not an easy throw from where I was standin’, boasted Dewey.

Yeah, real fine.

The boys eventually settled on the bank of the stream, their feet dangling in the cool, wet shallows. From time to time, they would reach down with cupped hands to taste of the brook or rinse their faces of the gathering beads of sweat. There were no words between them, just similar thoughts about their simple life in the mountains, about the future and where the fates would lead them. Such were the moments that made them brothers. Even at such a young untested age, they were men enough to know that the quiet understanding between them was always the true cord that had thus far bound them together.

What a life, muttered Dewey, feeling the heat finally dissipating from his body.

Yes, it has its moments, and this sure seems to be one of them, Morgan agreed. He was again almost to the point of dozing. What have you been thinking about?

I don’t know. Not much. Quite a lot. I don’t know. My mind keeps jumpin’ from one thing to another. Mostly, I’m just lovin’ this cool feelin’ around my toes. Why do ya ask? Ya got somethin’ on your mind?

I think I’m bored. Don’t you ever get bored?

Well, we can find somethin’ else to do, if ya want.

No, I mean I’m bored with everything. I’m not unhappy, mind you, but I want more out of this life and don’t have a clue what it is or where to find it. You know what I mean.

No, not really.

Understanding Dewey as he did, Morgan was not particularly surprised by the response. We’re different in that way. There’s no fire anymore, and I’ve been thinking I need to rekindle one before too long. A home in the hills is not the place for everyone, I suppose, and I’m considering moving on once school is done.

That’s a hell of a thing to say. You love these mountains.

And that’s the whole problem. I don’t want to go, but…

There’s no ‘but’. It’s just the heat talkin’. This weather can cook a man’s brains.

Morgan knew that Dewey Baughman would never leave the small world he had always known. He would remain content with whatever the people and nature around him chose to share. He would feel little anticipation and even less disappointment so nestled in the shadows of the Alleghenies, and for him, the path to happiness was just a short walk around a very familiar corner. Morgan envied him that. His own trail was much more obscure.

Life isn’t as simple as you try to make it out, Dewey. Sooner or later, you’re going to face some tough decisions, just like me.

Yeah, but I ain’t gonna worry ‘bout ‘em just like you. The older ya get, the more ya fret. You’re worse than all them damn sissies up at the school house, swoonin’ and whinin’ over every little thing. Jesus!

That’s not fair, and you know it. Morgan now tired of the conversation, especially the cursing. For the love of God, Dewey, why do you always take the Lord’s name in vain and insist on slipping that one four-letter word into every utterance? Seriously, it’s begun to worry me. Your language gets worse every time we’re together.

Dewey considered the question. He had heard it on numerous occasions, and after what he had just said, he knew that Morgan deserved a thoughtful answer, if not an apology. Unfortunately, he was not accustomed to offering either one.

What word exactly?

You know full well what word.

Ya mean ‘damn’?

It’s not at all becoming. You are better than that.

No, I keep tellin’ ya I’m not better than that. I am who I am, and I like my words just fine.

The air was boiling around him and Dewey’s eyes burned with sweat. Right as it was, Morgan’s sermon seemed as annoying as the temperature. Dewey struggled to reposition and suddenly slapped at the brook with the flat of his hand. Water sprayed in all directions.

It’s much too hot for your lectures, Morgan. I swear ‘cause it’s fun, and I reckon it’s fun only ‘cause it aggravates you so. That’s my way of keepin’ you in your place. Now, enough of this talkin’, there’s too much hot air as it is.

I’ll stop the lectures when you stop the cursing.

It’s a deal, Dewey said, extending a hand to seal the pledge. He placed his shirt in the stream, and then, applied it to the back of his neck. Whew! Just when the hell will we see some relief from all this heat?

Ah, Dewey! You just promised me, and there you go again.

What, ‘hell’? ‘Hell’ ain’t no cuss word. It’s a place, sure enough.

Not the way you use it.

Damn, Morgan, you are sure in a foul mood today, and I know just why. Ya wanna know why? ‘Cause it’s hotter than hell out here. There! I got it right this time. I hope you’re happy. Dewey nodded and smiled with satisfaction, indicating that he had made his final point in the matter. Before Morgan could reply, he shifted his attention. Hey, I just got me an idea. It’s a ways yet to the river, but let’s go swimmin’!

Morgan laughed at the futility so common to his discourse with Dewey Baughman. You are hopeless. Do you know that? And I’m giving a great deal of credit more than you actually deserve.

He lifted himself from the edge of the water and began restringing the top laces of his boot. He tipped the boot while smacking its leather side, and a small pebble dislodged and fell to the ground. He did the same for the other, then, looked up at his friend. Swimming? That sounds pretty good to me, and a little more water might just clean up that filthy mouth of yours.

Not likely.

By way of the road, it was another two dusty miles to Avery’s pool, a natural swimming hole at a sharp bend in the Charity River. The river ran deep most of the year along that particular stretch, and the hole sometimes reached eight to ten feet to a sandy bottom, even during the dry months of summer. On the outer turn of the bend, a ragged cliff towered high above the pool. The ages had carved an array of steps and ledges across its face, giving purchase to those daring souls who would leap or dive into the dark green water.

Anchored on the opposing bank, a large sycamore stretched 70 feet or more over the middle of the Charity, where it could drink freely of both the river and the ample sunlight. To this tree was fastened a long, thick hemp rope, heavily knotted near its base to form a crude seat for a swing. Some time or another, an intrepid lad had shimmied 40 feet up that wide trunk to secure the rope, and throughout the season, scores would trust his work as they released their grip to plummet into the chilling depths. It was the perfect swing, the perfect swimming hole, the perfect river for two young men seeking refuge from the relentless heat.

Dewey was melting with every step. Listen, Morgan, I can’t see me walkin’ another whole mile to that river. What ya think ‘bout crossin’ ol’ man Avery’s pasture and makin’ up some time?

That works for me, Morgan replied. He had his fill of argument for the day and was pleased to finally hear something on which both could agree.

The boys left the road through a part in the high weeds and walked up a narrow game trail toward the pasture. A cottontail led the way for much of the distance, then raced off into the deep grass as the two reached the rail fence of Mr. Avery’s field. Vultures soared above them, but all else in nature seemed safely tucked in holes and shadows, well beyond the reach of the raging sun.

With a single bound, Morgan cleared the top rail and continued on, while Dewey climbed over and managed to attach himself by means of a long chestnut splinter hooked deep in the crotch of his pants. He crashed forward dragging a portion of the fence behind him. The rail, the splinter and a swatch of faded gray fabric tumbled to the ground as the boy stumbled in a vain attempt to maintain his balance. A covey of grasshoppers flew for their lives as he rolled hard onto the field. When he again stood, it was as a scarecrow coated in the straw now clinging to his sweat.

Morgan looked over his shoulder, but moved steadily into the field. Are you all right? he asked, still walking.

Yeah…yeah, no harm done. Let’s keep goin’. Dewey lumbered closely behind him, probing curiously at the gaping hole of his trousers.

It was still a fair distance to Avery’s pool, but after crossing the ridge by way of their shortcut, the boys finally left the pasture and slipped into a large stand of trees. They found themselves perched above the cliff. Hot, fatigued and ready for a good swim, they contemplated jumping simply to avoid the treacherous hike to the base. But the height of the cliff was formidable. They hesitated, each waiting for the other to make a decision.

Let’s do it, Morgan said, finally breaking the deadlock.

Ya think?

It’s the quickest way that I know of.

Dewey, of course, was hoping for a different, less daring kind of decision. Ya mean jump? From right here? I was thinkin’ of gettin’ a bit lower. If I hit the river at this height, there ain’t gonna be any water left to swim in. I’m goin’ to that ledge down yonder.

Suit yourself. I think I’ll try it from here. We’ve done it before.

What, clothes and all?

Look at us. We’re dripping already. That river certainly won’t make us any wetter.

Morgan braced himself for the long leap over the edge, careful not to look too closely lest he lose his nerve. He closed his eyes tightly and waited for his courage to peak. It never did. He was dissuaded in the split of a second by the sounds of an enormous splash and the subsequent violent thrashing of water. He peered over the ledge, but from his vantage point could only see the froth and ripples of the action below. Dewey had either jumped or fallen, but either way, something was clearly wrong.

Dewey! he yelled loudly. Dewey, answer me!

There was no response from his friend, but a high-pitched scream suddenly rose up from the river and left him faint against a sudden rush of fear. His knees buckled, and he steadied himself to avoid tumbling down the rocks.

The screams continued, and in response to their alarm, Morgan scrambled along the side of the cliff to where he might better see, and without forethought, he sprang from the nearest outcropping into the black pool below. He surfaced amidst a ring of foam and bubbles, expecting to find his friend seriously injured or drowned, but was relieved to see Dewey standing chest-deep in the pool, choking up what he would later describe as half the Charity River from his lungs.

Hey, are you all right? Morgan asked, treading water.

I am, but I ain’t too sure ‘bout her.

He was attempting to focus on a young woman flailing desperately from her position near the bank. As he wiped the wetness from his eyes and regained his composure, Dewey could recognize Sadie Buck cowering in the shallows.

Get away. Go away! she screamed repeatedly. Get away! Silver sprays of water cast violently in every direction.

At first Dewey assumed a snake had intruded on the pool. Perhaps a bee or horsefly was harassing her. Maybe worse. He could not imagine. As he moved to her aid, her hysteria became frenzied, and he finally halted in utter bewilderment. He could not begin to understand her fright until he realized that he, himself, was the threat. He suddenly knew why and stood motionless as he affixed his stare upon a solitary figure on the shore.

Auralee Buck was beautiful in her own way. She was Sadie’s older sister by one year and at 17 had developed into the better part of womanhood. Her tall and powerful build, her well-curved torso, her rosy, rounded cheeks, and her brilliant red hair had had their effect on Dewey many times. She had always been one of the smartest girls in school, and with the advantage of her size and full figure, she wielded a confidence and attitude that made the boys tremble. He had often thought of her in that very special way that drives young men beyond all reason. He had longed for her and yet never had the courage to say a tender word.

Auralee now stood naked before him, baring all the blessings that God had bestowed upon her body. Dewey ignored the continued screams of the younger sister and aimed his complete attention at the shore. He would not allow shame to interrupt his gaze, and he committed to memory every turn and indentation of her ivory form, her large breasts still wet from the river, her legs pink from the cold.

Damn, he whispered. He could only stare, and for that long moment, the girl would not walk away.

Morgan ignored the rivulets that flowed freely down his face and neck. He was drenched, but felt nothing of the water. His muscular chest heaved with each full breath. He had not seen Auralee, and he no longer heard the cries for privacy so dramatically demanded by Sadie Buck. He was drawn to a third girl, who stood calmly in a shadowy recess of the pool and watched him as he moved ever closer. Her hair fell damp across her shoulders, and black mud adorned much of her youthful face. Waist deep in the water, the softness of her skin and the perfect substance of her young breasts were revealed to any who would see. But Morgan would only view the azure of her eyes, eyes that shimmered like the afternoon sun glancing and dancing across the ripples of the river.

Neither spoke. Their eyes, not their lips, expressed the soulful message of their newly awakened hearts.

Sunday mornings could never be the same. Morgan awoke when the dawn’s first beam of light probed the gap of his curtains and settled on the goose down pillow by his head. He was groggy from a lack of sleep, the image of the girl at the river still playing on his mind.

He dressed and staggered down the narrow staircase on his way to the kitchen. Annie Darrow was already at work preparing breakfast.

Good morning, son, she said quietly. How about fetching some cooking wood for your mother? I’m running short.

Morgan nodded sleepily and moved toward the back door without a word.

Wait, Morgan. Come and give me a big hug first.

He placed his arm around his mother’s shoulder as she swept back a wave of his hair and kissed his forehead.

You look so tired.

I’m all right, Ma.

He pushed the warped screen door that led to a small porch, then grabbed an axe and a log of seasoned oak from the wood bin. In no time at all, he reduced the piece to a small pile of one-inch kindling.

Morgan’s mother was the strongest of women, God-fearing, hard-working, family-loving. She seemed to live only for the happiness of her children and for the selfless support of her husband, who year after year did less and less to warrant her loyalty. Lawson Darrow was a good provider for the material needs of his family, but it was Annie who provided the love, the discipline, the touch and care so necessary to every child. And it was Annie who had earned the eternal adoration of her eldest son.

Morgan often wondered about his parents. Their past was always a mystery to him. It was a secret, the kind where some details are disclosed while others, the more telling ones, remain carefully guarded. He wondered why his father drank so heavily, as if to kill some chronic, incurable pain. He wondered why his mother seemed so melancholy when she reminisced in the privacy of her garden or in the quiet comfort of her small maple rocker. His parents shared lost days and forgotten dreams. That much had been evident since he was a child. But as a young man, he now felt the depth of their disappointment in one another, and he wondered if they would ever see beyond the past to find their peace together.

As the saw filer at the Watoga Lumber Company, Lawson held a critical position maintaining the jagged cutting teeth of the huge bandsaws. The quality of his work defined the efficiency of the mill, and consequently, he was better compensated than most employed in the industry. He was a fair man, much of the time. Though not religious, he was never one to deny others their own way. When Annie insisted that the children be raised in a godly home, Lawson allowed her the freedom to manage the spiritual training as she saw fit. He tried hard to conduct himself properly for the benefit of his children, but whiskey had stolen so much of the man that Annie once loved. At times he was vulgar and violent, angry at things less transparent than the wind. At times, he was simply gone. While he never brought harm to them, too often his family was made to feel the fear and resentment of his wrath.

Annie spoke to Morgan, Is Jacob up yet? He’s a hard one to stir.

I’m not sure, Ma. He was still asleep when I got up. That boy may seem glued to the bed, but when his feet do hit the floor, he’s running over me like a holy terror. I tried not to wake him.

Morgan shared a large pine bed with his brother. Jake was six years old, 11 years younger than Morgan, but had already become the shadow that followed Morgan’s every step. He was one of those special gifts of life that came to Annie later than she would have wanted, but he remained her unbridled joy.

She pleaded with her son, Please, run up and rouse your brother and sister. Breakfast is almost ready, and I haven’t heard so much as a rustle.

When Jacob and his sister, Cora, finally made it to the kitchen, their father already had downed his customary feast of eggs, country ham and hash browns. Using his last large bite of buttermilk pancakes, he sopped the remaining blend of yolk and potatoes. It was the Sunday breakfast, Morgan’s favorite, but the boy had little appetite and was satisfied with a simple piece of toast sweetened by his mother’s black raspberry preserves.

Lawson took a last sip of his coffee. We don’t sleep all day in this house. If you want breakfast, you’ll rise at a decent hour. Do you understand?

Cora and Jake dropped their heads in obedience to their father. They responded in unison, Yes, Daddy.

Make sure you do, because there will be no meal for you this morning. It’s disrespectful coming late to the table, and I’ll not have it… from any of you! I will have respect.

Annie tried to intercede. Lawson, the children were not given a time for breakfast. Today is Sunday. We always let them sleep….

Don’t counter me, Annie! Someone around here needs to teach them about manners.

Yes, they do, and hopefully by example.

Lawson saw the stern expression on Annie’s face and wisely gave up the argument. He grunted in anger and stormed from the kitchen.

Morgan rose slowly from the table and opened the ice box, where a bottle of milk sat cool against the block. He poured two glasses for his siblings as Annie handed the children their breakfast. She said softly, Your father didn’t understand. Now, say your blessing and eat before it all gets cold.

The First Methodist Church of Devlin. It was a strange name considering there never was, nor ever would be, a second or third. It was a rather substantial structure for a country church, but simple in design. Local stones selected from the rapids of the Charity River and timbers milled in town blended well against the nature of the surrounding hills. Six large gothic windows, each glazed with colored panes, lined both sides of the sanctuary. Two more windows straddled the twin front doors that opened into the vestibule. The inner walls and ceiling were faced with tin, pressed and painted to resemble a master work of molded plaster. Along the chair rail that encircled the room, a delicate floral pattern of olive green, and rose and lilac weaved subtle color throughout.

Still, it was a humble church. Almost everything, including its furnishings, was built by the hands of those who came to worship, with the exception of the front windows. These were adorned with magnificent stained glass mosaics commissioned in New York, one of the Christ at prayer in Gethsemane, the other of Adam and Eve huddled in their shame at Eden. They were a prized gift from Charles Austin Devlin, in honor of his son’s 13th birthday, and meant as a cultural contribution to the mill town he had established eight years before from his corporate office in Pittsburgh. A brass plaque below each panel displayed his name, as did one of the oak pews, in recognition of his single visit to Sunday services.

Nestled among green fields and stately elms on a knoll above the edge of town, the church lifted its steeple high above all, except the mountains and the rolling clouds. Its bell rang pure and rode easily on the country air, surpassed only by an occasional crack of summer thunder or the frequent howl of a steam whistle.

Of course, there were other churches, Baptist and Catholic ones on Market Street and a small Brethren congregation that met at the Moose Lodge on Sunday mornings. The Presbyterians made their presence a few miles down the valley, but for the most part, First Methodist stood as the spiritual icon of Devlin. At one time the Baptists seemed to contend for this honor, as their attendance swelled and the construction of a new brick wing was considered, but the ‘hell-fire and damnation’ and the double thy tithe sermons of the new minister came once too often. Predictably, many of the citizens migrated back to the Methodists for a kindlier reading of the Bible. And all were welcome. Every faithful child of God, and even his less so righteous neighbor, was welcome.

The paddock in front of First Methodist Church was an indication of a changing era. A single motor car now parked on grounds once reserved for an array of horses, buggies and farm wagons, and loosely aligned in a long, curving row, the diverse conveyances displayed a technological harmony that would not survive the decade. The unexpected change toward a horseless society would simply come too fast.

Morgan never understood why, or even how, his father happened to afford the only other motor car in Devlin. It was a rather classy and expensive vehicle, a 1905 Model F Ford, and even the town’s more wealthy residents could not claim such a luxury as their own. Perhaps they had no need for it. Morgan suspected that the Ford was payment for the sale of Lawson’s family property on the Gauley. The estate was a good piece of bottomland, and some retiring lawyer out of Charleston was anxious to have it for his dabbling in agriculture. The new farmer, obviously, had no need of a vehicle that was stymied by the muddy wallows so prevalent on the highway, and Lawson Darrow had no love for the land. It was a poor trade, Morgan always thought, considering the heavy splatter and cakes of dirt that forever coated the car’s fenders and spoked wheels.

Morgan stopped at the front of the church and reminded Jacob to hold the door for his mother and sister. Then he parked his father’s Ford on the damp grass of the field and looked to the white cross atop the country steeple. The bell had ceased its ringing. He was late.

While the piano sounded out a prelude to worship, Morgan took his seat next to Cora. He scanned the sanctuary and noticed Dewey fidgeting on the wooden pew to his right. He nodded a greeting to his friend, but Dewey rightfully kept his focus toward the altar, toward his minister, and of course, toward Auralee Buck, who sat just two rows away. She was devout, poised, and, to Dewey Baughman’s ogling eyes, incomparably alluring.

Cora nudged Morgan with her elbow, but he ignored her. She nudged again. Stop that, Cora, he said softly.

She leaned toward his ear and whispered, Have you ever met Sarah Dabney?

No. Sh-sh-sh! It was an abrupt response, audible to some who turned their heads with an eye of disapproval. He smiled sheepishly in silent apology.

Morgan had forgotten the sanctity of the place. For the moment, he was savoring what little he recalled about the unknown girl at the swimming hole. No one, nothing, had ever settled so heavily on his mind. He had hoped to see her at the service, considering she was a friend of the Buck sisters, but such hope was perhaps just foolish expectation. She likely attended some other church, or maybe none. She may even practice another religion altogether. Who was she? He was desperate to know. What did she really look like, where did she come from, how did she feel about him? There were no answers for such questions. He and Dewey had left the river so fast that he had learned nothing about her, and now, his heart was clamoring for a mere sign that the girl was even real.

Of course, he might ask Auralee or Sadie, that is, if he could ever talk to them again following the incident at the pool. Surprising the girls like he did, they must think him rather perverse. No, it was difficult enough just coming to church and facing them from across the room. In his embarrassment, what could he possibly say?

Cora was not deterred by his lack of interest. I’ll have to introduce you. You will like her. She’s sitting next to Sadie. But Morgan was not listening.

Dewey Baughman continued to fidget. It was unusual for him to be anxious for a church service, but in this case, he knew Auralee was a faithful member of First Methodist. She had aroused his emotions to such a stupor that for the past 20 hours he could not eat, sleep, move, curse or otherwise function normally. Church made him even more desperate, forcing him to wrestle with the options of repentance or lust.

As the congregation stood and sang the opening hymn, he only hummed the verses because of his fixation with Auralee’s swaying body. Her back was straight and her head high as she voiced each familiar stanza. Her hips rocked with the steady cadence struck firmly against the keys of the piano. Dewey’s mind drifted during the prayers as he envisioned her standing alone on the bank of the Charity. He was thankful that he had seen her so completely exposed, and yet, ashamed that he was in God’s house feeling no remorse at all for the passion that vision now conjured. It was Sunday, which gave him some provocation to temper his thoughts, but for Dewey, temptation was the master of conscience. He wanted Auralee and felt he would do just about anything to be with her.

Dewey ventured a prayer of his own, Lord, I think I’m in love with Auralee Buck. I never really seen who she was until now, not really, and what I seen yesterday and what’s been in my heart ever since is grabbin’ at me and tearin’ me up inside. I reckon I need your help. I guess I’d give up just ‘bout anything if I could…well, if you could… persuade her to like me.

Dewey remembered Morgan’s lecture regarding his inappropriate language. I can stop my cursin’ if ya want. I’ll stop my complainin’. You just tell me which one. Please, Lord…please… I feel this is right serious between me and Auralee. I thank you. Amen.

It was a silent prayer, and when Dewey opened his eyes and looked up at the cross beyond the altar, he felt he had just undergone a spiritual transformation. He would try hard to keep his covenant with God, and he knew as sure as faith builds confidence, that in a short time, he would have his precious Auralee.

Morgan took no notice of the young woman next to Sadie. When the service concluded, he moved quickly toward the open doors of the church. He firmly shook the pastor’s hand, commending him on the meaningful sermon that he unfortunately never heard, then, hurried back to the motor car. His mind had never been so clouded. He was vulnerable to a deep and wonderful emotion that he could not hide from those who knew him well, and he was not yet ready to share the intimacy of his feelings. In his father’s Model F Ford, he would be alone with his thoughts.

Morgan was not sure what he had become, but he knew he had changed. Without a word, with only a look, the girl had transformed his every desire, his every dream. She appeared in his every thought and was the center of his every plan. Yet, he did not know her. He did not know her name or voice, where she lived or how she came to be by the river bank, drenched, her face disguised with mud. The pool was an eternity away, and so was this girl he loved but did not know.

Cora startled him, Morgan, come out of there. I’d like to introduce you to my new friend, Sarah Dabney.

Morgan was reluctant as he slipped from the black leather seat and his solitude, but gracious as he extended his hand in fellowship. At first, his eyes were cast down, a habit of boyish bashfulness, but he slowly raised them to receive an unexpected gift of the girl’s bright and embracing smile. He saw the blush of her wind-blown cheeks, the slight upward turn of her nose. He saw her silky hair, a dusty yellow of harvest wheat, flirting with the gentle breeze. And he saw the sparkling blue of her eyes.

Morgan returned the smile as he pressed her delicate hand into his palm. With the breath of his sigh, he spoke her name, Sarah.

CHAPTER 2

Lowe Yancy and Black Jack Clark moved painfully slow in the evening’s dim light, assembling what would be a poor semblance of a camp. Usually, they would take the time to set a proper tent, or at least, stretch an overhead tarp. They would clear the sticks and rocks from the site, lay out their cots and bedrolls, then feed, brush and hobble their pack animals. Usually, they would dig a fire pit and fill it full with orange glowing coals in preparation for a late, satisfying supper. And usually, before the day was done, they would clean and service their equipment, review their drawings and calculations, and talk quietly about the state of the world or the endless wonders of the southern Appalachians. Usually.

Camp had become a routine matter for the men. They conducted it with acute precision, being well-versed from their years of experience. But today had been one of those especially difficult trials, long and hot and fraught with needless errors. It had been a day where every effort was taxed by either bad luck or carelessness. As a result, neither man had any notion of keeping with the evening protocol. Camp would be where their heads first touched the ground.

After weeks of hauling equipment and urging a reluctant horse over logs and streams, hills and ledges, the men were not at all surprised to find that they had stumbled into the middle of nowhere. Of course, they had been there before. It had always been a remote and elusive place over the years, a mystical place with ever changing scenery, a place that would occasionally appear to them, but only when their ability and resolve to push harder or farther waned to near nothingness.

This time it appeared as an upland meadow, full of the offerings of spring, of wild flowers and succulent green grasses, of calling birds and sweet fragrances floating on a breeze. The ponds that swelled the lazy creek screamed with the songs of peepers. There was the infrequent splash of a trout or otter, leaping out or slipping in, that rippled the still surface of the water and swayed the rushes where a heron held its stoic pose.

The meadow was a shared domain, but the dams and pointed stumps and crisscrosses of barkless trunks, each too large to move, gave testimony to the gnawing orange incisors that had whittled back the forest’s edge. It was the beaver’s home, engineered by instinct and constructed by persistence. It became the refuge of many a woodland creature, and the men, too worn to set their own camp, sensed their welcome as well.

Come morning, spring beauties and lupine would paint the ground with hues of snow and sky, and other flowers, such as trout lilies and blue violets, May apples and red columbines, would drip with dew. Robins would flock across the loose soil probing for breakfast, and cardinals would flutter from willow branch to maple limb and back again. In the morning, everything would sing anew. Everything. Lowe Yancy and Black Jack Clark were counting on it.

Perhaps it was best that evening hid most of what the meadow offered. Beauty deserves delight, and the men were no longer capable of such feeling. So very tired, they would gladly accept any plot of earth as a proper bed on which to rest, but here, here in the middle of nowhere, they were granted the cool air and clear water and soft, flat ground needed to restore their exhausted bodies. It was a kind place, and for that, they were at least thankful.

You gonna want yo supper, Mr. Yancy? Black Jack asked, moving sluggishly after tending to the horse. It be my night to cook. We ain’t had us a bite since noon. You gotta be starvin’.

No, I’m not hungry. Make it easy on yourself.

You think, maybe, we should set up de tent?

Lowe looked at the sky and saw crisp detail in the face of the rising moon. No, it’s a clear night. Frankly, I’m done in, Jack. I’m calling it a day.

Yessa, I reckon dat de one thing left to do. I gots to throw some water on my face, but I’ll be settlin’ in just a bit. I done run out o’ steam.

Lowe had barely enough energy to speak. Once I’m down, I’m dead until morning. You sleep well, my friend. With that being said, he fell upon a musty, wrinkled tarp and gathered it like a satin sheet around his shoulders. He murmured in the comfort.

How about some coffee? Some jerky? Mr. Yancy, you ought eat somethin’, Black Jack insisted.

No, nothing for me, but you do what you want, Mr. Clark.

There was no need for formality between the two men, but Black Jack had gotten into the habit years ago, and Lowe, unable to fully break him of it, mimicked his method.

You gonna sleep like dat, clothes and boots and all? No blanket neither? Black Jack spoke in a motherly tone.

Lowe had almost nodded off. He sighed, I’ll never know the difference. You sure have a mess of questions for a beat up, tired old boy. You must’ve been surveying a different line than the one I ran today.

I is beat, sure enough, too played out to even recollect how to rest. Hmm…. Still, it don’t seem right, you sleepin’ with dem boots.

The grass rustled as Black Jack positioned his bedroll against the empty pack saddle. He knelt down, his dark face daubed in moon glow, and he spoke as if only to himself. He knew that Lowe would understand, despite the man’s coolness to most things religious.

Lowe had never learned to follow or to accept another’s charity, and, consequently, never acknowledged any debt for his deliverance. But for Black Jack, it was different and all so simple. Only those who knew the course should lead the course, and others should wisely remain close behind. It was the mantra that guided his walk through life. He was a man of deep faith, and his God knew well the way from dismal to sublime. God had crossed that very ground before and had led him, had led both of them, to the serenity and safety of the meadow. Of this, Black Jack was certain. He now whispered his few humble words of gratitude.

Hey, you put in a good word for me, Lowe interrupted, not meaning to be disrespectful.

"I always do, but you know’d dat all along. Every time