Iris counted on Uriah telling his
parents after a day or two, and maybe moving to the Bethpage cabin a day or two
after that. She ate her evening meal with the Hitts, looking politely demure,
to create the right kind of impression. But the Hitts ate in their normal grim
silence, and she did not possess the courage to broach the subject on her own.
She made up her mind to be patient. She imagined that Uriah might want first to
consult with his father.
She was right. Uriah had left
the barn in high spirits, fully meaning to tell his mother there and then. But
his courage failed him as he crossed the open ground between the barn and the
Hitt cabin. He was a strong man, and not afraid of much - he certainly feared
no man not brandishing a gun. But the prospect of a confrontation with Capitola
alarmed him. He knew his mother could rage up at the slightest thing, and he
also knew that she claimed to have certain powers learned from her folks down
South. She claimed to be able to make both folks and animals sicken, merely by
wishing them sick, and had often threatened him in her anger.
He decided to speak to his
father first. He could have spoken that afternoon, but he was a cautious man,
and liked to work through important matters with care. So he waited for a few
days until the two men were due to go up to the still to grind corn for their
next batch of straight squeezin’s - the first step on the way to brewing good
‘shine. He also made good use of the intermission, because it was plain that
Iris had set her mind to working on him. She grew rather more fond in their
barn encounters, and Uriah was not a man to refuse a gift.
But then the two men went up to the still,
and Uriah knew the time had come to talk to his father. The two men worked in
silence, Jedediah feeding corn, Uriah cranking the grinder handle, until he
stopped and mopped his brow.
‘We got any of that six year
old, Paw?’
The Hitts kept some of cousin
Lem Motlow’s first class sour mash for special occasions, and Uriah considered
the occasion merited good whisky.
Jedediah nodded without
speaking. He knew his son had been shaping up for a serious discussion for some
days since, and had a fair idea of the probable subject matter. But he was a
cautious man, and he wanted no blame. Capitola could be a terrible woman when
enraged, and he was sure Uriah was on a path to enraging her.
Uriah unearthed the bottle of
whisky from under a heap of straw, sat on a full sack of corn to uncork it, and
held it towards his father. Jedediah
shook his head.
‘You go first, son.’
Uriah took a long swallow,
wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, hawked, and spat into the dirt before
holding out the bottle. He cut himself a plug of tobacco from the pouch he kept
in the pocket of his bib-alls as he waited for his father to drink, scuffing
his booted feet in the dirt. It was a sure sign that he was unsettled.
Jedediah spat in his turn. It
was as though the two men were working through some kind of ritual. ‘It be your
woman.’ His voice was flat, neither question nor engagement.
Uriah took a deep breath,
lifted the whisky bottle towards his mouth, thought better of it, and then
raised it again. He spat again. ‘Damn, thet’s good.’
His father waited.
Uriah was silent for a long
moment, and then spoke slowly. ‘Well, Paw, you’re right. She’s increasin’, and
she wants her own place.’
Jedediah held out his hand,
took the bottle of whisky, swallowed, and then swallowed again. He held the
bottle up to the light. They had drunk perhaps a third between them, and now it
was time for speaking.
He cut himself a plug of
tobacco and chewed thoughtfully on it for a couple of minutes. Then he sucked
in the beard edging his lower lip.. ‘Well, son, I ain’t got nuthin’ to say on
thet. But hev a care yo’ don’ cross your Maw.’
‘You reckon she’ll tek it
bad?’
‘Do a bear shit in the woods?’
‘Will you talk to her?’
Jedediah thought long on his
son’s question, and then shook his head. ‘Ain’t fer me to say nuthin..’
‘But she listens to you.’
‘When it suits.’
Uriah’s face darkened. ‘I’m a
grown man now, Paw. I gotta right to ma own place.’
‘Tell that ta yo’ Maw.’
Uriah hed out his hand, and
Jedediah passed the whisky bottle in silence. The younger man looked at the
bottle, shrugged, and corked it again. Whisky would not help him solve this
dilemma. ‘How d’you figger I should play it?’
Jedediah shook his head as
though seeking to shake off some presage of misfortune, and sighed. ‘Jes’ go,
son. Jes’ go. I’ll come up see you, once you’ve bin in there a few days.’ He
paused. ‘She talked yo into tekkin’ her back to Woodrow’s ol’ place?’
Uriah nodded, and his father
hawked and spat into the dirt.
‘Figgers. She’ll feel at home
back up there.’
‘Will yo’ bring Maw with you?’
Jedediah shrugged again.
‘Mebbe. There’s no tellin’ with your
Maw. She’s wanted your gal out of the house long enough, but she’ll tek against
your goin’. There’s no way to tell what she’ll do.’
Uriah sighed. Maybe the
railroad would hire him, house him, and cut through all these complications. He
returned to the grinder, bracing himself for a fresh bout of work. But Jedediah
did not move.
‘Son, you sed you’re gonna be
a father.’ He pointed at the straw hiding the whisky, and he looked for all the
world as though he might now be smiling. ‘I guess we got something good coming
there. Ain’t we gonna drink to your boy?’
Uriah beamed as he held out
the bottle. ‘He’ll call you Pap Paw.’
‘We’ll tek him fishin’.’
‘One day we’ll pass the time
of day in here, and we’ll drink ourselves flat.’
Jedediah frowned. ‘Mebbe. But
he ain’t gonna do thet in a while.’ He turned to look at the grinder. ‘Well, we
better get back to pushin’ this stuff through. Elseways we’ll never finish ‘fore
nightfall.’
The two men finished their
work as the sun began to grow low on the western horizon. They each took an
extra swallow of cousin Lem Motlow’s first class sour mash to bolster their
courage, and walked slowly back to the cabin. Both knew they were walking into
trouble.
Uriah found Iris waiting for
him by the barn door, and nodded at her grimly. This was no time for fooling
around in no hay. ‘I spoke to Paw. He says we wanta go, we gotta go. Pack up
what you need while I harness the mules.’
Iris nodded silently. But
inside she was dancing. She hurried to
the cabin and began to pack up her bedding. There was not much to go: some
sacking dresses, a couple of shirts for Uriah, his Sunday wearing and best hat,
his good boots and her Bible. She could help Uriah drive Albert and his hens
into their coops when the mules were ready to go, and Daisy just needed roping
to the back of the wagon. She supposed Woodrow would have left her churns and
butter molds at the cabin, for he had no cow to offer Widow Law, along with
everything that she might need for growing food. He was not much of a man for
working the soil. She guessed she would not have to do much clearing on her
vegetable patch either, for it was still a touch less than three months now
since her leaving. She recalled with a
slight smile that she had put in several rows of potatoes before she left. She
and Uriah would eat good come the fall.
She carried her bedding out to
the wagon, and then returned for the rest. She found Capitola barring her way.
Uriah’s mother seemed calm, but there was a dark look in her black eyes that
portended no good at all.
‘What’re you doin’, missy?’
Capitola’s tone was menacing.
‘Uriah an’ me are gonna set up
at Woodrow’s.’ Iris’ flat reply matched her mother-in-law in hardness.
‘Jes like thet?’
‘Jes like thet.’
Capitola turned back towards
her stove and picked up a knife. Iris stepped back quickly out of the cabin
onto the porch. She did not think the older woman would attack her, not now
that she was with child, and Capitola must know that she was pregnant because
of the way her body had begun to fill out. But she knew her mother-in-law for an
unpredictable woman.
However Capitola walked
straight past her, ignoring her completely, to stop as she stepped off the
porch step. She turned to face Iris, her face contorting into what might have
been intended as a smile, but looked more like a death rictus.
‘Well, seein’ as yer also
gonna be a mother, I guess we all need to call down the Lord and all his
blessin’ on yer.’
Iris stared at her.
‘I’ll fry us some chicken,
with milk gravy like where ma folks come from.’
With that the older woman
hurried away.
Iris stood pensive for a
moment, and then shrugged. She imagined Capitola would seek vengeance by
slaughtering the biggest chicken she could find. But hens are only hens, and
eggs come easy enough.
She was helping Uriah stow their
belongings on the wagon when Capitola returned. She glanced at her
mother-in-law quickly, and then stared in horror. Capitola was holding the
feathered corpse of Albert, her rooster, by the neck in one hand, and his head
along with her knife in the other.
She rushed to blocked
Capitola’s path. ‘What’ve yer done?’
Capitola raised Albert’s dead
body triumphantly. ‘He were the biggest, and the best.’
‘But he’s Albert.’ Iris began
to sob, clutching at her stomach. She recalled the day when she had brought
Albert home as a little gold chick, just a little ball of tiny fluff and down.
It must have been going on three years since. She had kept him in a box by the
stove, and fed him on morsels of corn meal mixed with warm water. He had
learned to expect his food, popping his tiny head expectantly over the edge of
the box. Then he had grown, and begun to crow. Just a small gargling sound at
first, and Woodrow had only grunted in his sleep, because he had always been a
heavy sleeper. But a tiny crow had fast grown to an agonized strangulated sort
of yowl, and Woodrow had woken, and made her turn Albert out with the rest of
the fowl. Mind you, he had then learned his place in life fast, and the hens
had all seemed to take pleasure from him. Maybe roosters were better company
than men.
Capitola looked surly. ‘He’s
only a chicken.’
‘He’s Albert.’ Iris repeated
her words brokenly.
Uriah came down from the wagon
and looked at the two women. ‘Why’ya howlin’ up such a fuss?’
Iris pointed at Albert’s
corpse. ‘Your Maw done up an’ killed my rooster.’
Uriah shrugged. He did not
want any part of this fight between women. ‘So, he’s jes’ a chicken.’
‘Jes a chicken?’ Iris rested
her hands indignantly on her hips, her tears running freely now. ‘Lord help me,
husband. That were ma rooster, ma one and only rooster. Your Maw done kil’t
him, and we ain’t got no broody hens, and we ain’t gonna hev no chicks no more.
‘Sides, he won first prize at the fair last year. I bought that rooster with my
own money.’ Her sobs began to increase in strength and intensity. She knew that
Capitola had picked on Albert deliberately, and this was one attack she would
not accept. For a moment she thought of snatching Capitola’s knife and
inflicting a matching fate on her mother-in-law.
Now Jedediah emerged from the
barn to see what all the noise was about, and Iris glowered at him. ‘Your woman
done killed ma rooster.’
‘Your woman? Your woman?’
Capitola raised her knife threateningly, her own temper starting to rise. ‘What
kind of way is thet to talk to me?’
Jedediah moved quickly. He
snatched Capitola’s knife with one hand, and pushed at Iris with the other.
‘You go get on thet wagon.’
Iris’ sobs ebbed. She looked
at Uriah. ‘We better go get ma hens in a coop, afore your Maw teks any more of
them.’
With that she strode off
haughtily, her face still streaked with her drying tears, leaving the Hitts in
a speechless cluster. Then Uriah shrugged, and scuffed his boot in the dirt. ‘I
guess I’d better go ‘long with her.’
Jedediah nodded.
‘So long, Maw.’ Uriah spoke
without looking straight at his mother. It was an off-the-cuff, over the
shoulder sort of farewell. Capitola did not reply. But her hands tightened on
Albert’s remains.
Iris and Uriah rode up to
Woodrow’s cabin in silence. She was a little anxious about how she would find
things on her arrival - she had visited the cabin a couple of times, more to
escape the Hitts than for any other reason - and had found nothing changed. But
misfortune always strikes when least wanted, and she feared that Woodrow, or the
Widow Law, might have come up and removed things that she counted on finding
there.
But the cabin was just as she
had last seen it. She stood on the porch step, breathing in the evening air,
and then suddenly became brisk. ‘Right, I’m gonna fire up the stove and bake
some biscuits. You get everything down out of the wagon, husband, and then take
Woodrow’s rod and go down the pond and find me a nice big catfish. We’ll eat
fried catfish tonight, and mebbe a mess of corn and ‘maters, if some are still
out there.’
Uriah hesitated. He had just
come through a bruising encounter, and felt he deserved some consoling.
Iris grinned at him, stepping
up to him to place her hands on his shoulders. ‘You go fishin’, boy, and we’ll
eat real good, and then you’ll get what you’re wanting.’ She pushed him away as
he tried to close up on her. ‘No, Uriah, you go fishin. You start thet sort of
thang ‘n you’ll never eat in a month of Sundays.’
Uriah walked off a little
dolefully. But to tell the truth, he felt good. He was now a proper man, with
his own place, and his own woman, and a son on the way. He would find himself a
real big sonofabitchin’ catfish, even if it meant wading into the pond and
hauling out with his own two bare hands.
Meanwhile Jedediah had eaten
fried chicken in silence, and taken himself out onto the porch step with a pint
of ‘shine. He felt unsettled, and a little fearful. He knew that Iris had
angered Capitola mortally, and that he would have to live with her anger. He
knew that he could whip his wife - he had done it before. But he liked a quiet
life, working with his son, visiting neighbors and customers from time to time,
and taking his marital rights when he felt a need. Now he was stepping out into
uncharted territory.
Capitola was busy. She had a
small shed, down the hill from the outhouse, that she kept for her own private
purposes, collecting herbs from the woods and pastures around the cabin to brew
up into potions she sold to some of her acquaintance, and wild ginseng roots
she traded with a pedlar who visited her regularly. Her face was stern, and her
manner preoccupied, as she placed her Aladdin lamp on a table at the back of
the shelf and set a chipped enamel basin beside it. Then she reached up to a
shelf and took a jar filled with earth, placing it squarely in the basin, took
a stub of paraffin candle from one of her apron pockets, and set the candle in
the jar, pressing it down firmly so that it would burn level. She lit the
candle and watched it fire up, then took Albert’s head and six of his long
iridescent blue tail feathers from a second pocket. She had tied each of the
feathers carefully with a sliver of knot grass, and the feathers matched the
wild iris purple of Iris’ eyes. She set these out carefully on the table. Three
feathers to one side of Albert’s head, three to the other. She reached again
into her apron pocket, and drew out a square of dress sacking. It was stained
brown, and she had gone to a great deal of trouble to secure it, for it came
from a dress worn by Iris that had mysteriously vanished one day, and the brown
stain was the stain of Iris’ blood, before she had ceased her monthly
bleedings.
She inspected her display, and
nodded approvingly to herself. Then she closed her eyes and began to sway from
side to side, holding to the table and resting her weight on her hands. She
began to hum, in a tuneless monotone, and suddenly she spoke.
‘Blood turn black and flesh
turn blue, my curse on you, since you force me. My curse on your face, my curse
on your eyes, my curse on your breath, my curse on your sighs. My curse on your
child, and let it not survive, my curse on your life, and may your days end
shortly. May you sorrow quickly, sickenin’ in your pain and grievin’. May your
endin’ be without mercy, and may I be there to joy in your goin’.’
She slowed, no longer swaying,
and took up one of Albert’s feathers in her left hand to hold it in the flame
from the candle. Then she took up his head in her right hand, pressing it to
her lips, and ran her tongue over the sightless eyes, first one then the other,
pressing the head of the dead cockerel to the square cut from Iris’ dress.
‘Powers that rule us, come to aid me. Powers of day and night, take my bond.
Take a life, and take my obedience. But wreak your wrath to the full.’
The candle suddenly flickered
up around the burning feather, and the cockerel’s limp head seemed to come to
life for a moment, twitching in her hand. She started back, as though she had
seen some unknown demon in the flame. But the fire died down again, and she
burned each feather in its turn, until she was left with no more than the
scorched quills, a limp dead head, and a small stained square of weaving. They
seemed sorry survivors. She watched the last embers die away, and nodded, as
though she had completed a pressing, but difficult task. Then she left the shed
and walked up the slope back to the cabin. She stopped just behind the outhouse
to bury the evidence of her spellwork in a shallow grave. Jedediah was now
sleeping, the pint jar empty in his hands.
Capitola kicked him hard. ‘Yo’
ain’t sleepin’ out here, old man. Get inside.’
She watched him pull himself
drunkenly to his feet and lurch off towards his bed, and spat in the dirt. Men
weren’t much count, when it came to reckoning.
Iris dreamed a strange dream
that night. She had fried catfish for her man, and the fish did him credit, and
they had rolled back and forth in their bedding like two young hounds in their
courting, for now there was no one to gainsay them. But in the end they had
tired, and they had slept. But she had slept fitfully, and woken once or twice
sweating freely. She had dreamt a black
cloud lowered over her, settling on her like a vulture to tear at her belly,
tearing her unborn child from herself.
When she woke she clutched her belly to make sure the baby still rested
securely, then moved closer to her husband. But Uriah had eaten well, and
slaked all his needs, and he was snoring.