Christopher Scotton The Secret Wisdom of the Earth

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.The mine operation was completely barren of trees, grass, or any vegetation.The huge oaks and rich green of Jukes and the surrounding mountains made this place seem like a wholly different planet, one that had its normal color bled out.In the valley beyond the far trees, I recognized the twisting road that ran through the middle of the Mitchell farm.The fields were empty now, and I traced the line up to the cul-de-sac.Two of the barns had been carted away, leaving flat concrete.The third was a pile of beams and boards splayed like pick-up sticks.The old Mitchell house was nothing but a single sidewall, chimney rising above the fist of brick like a middle finger raised to rebuke.The trail from the woods disappeared, so we picked our way over rocks and gray mud down to a roadway of gravel and more mud.Huge tire tracks were filled with rainbow water from the recent rains.We followed the rutted way that ran on the valley fill around the curve of the first flattop.The road rose and merged with the plateau that had once been Indian Head.We walked among the rock piles—rock that had been hidden underground for millennia—now exposed and stacked like displaced corpses.Pops’ face was a twist of anger.“Indian Head was not a large mountain, but notable for a huge rock formation at its summit.When you saw it from the south, it looked exactly like an Indian warrior in profile.” He turned halfway around to orient himself to the history.“It was about sixty feet high and just an amazing sight—you could see it for miles.Folks around here called the Indian face Red Cloud because the rocks had a reddish tint to them, but the legend goes back hundreds of years to the Shawnee who lived in these mountains before the white man.It was said that any brave who could scale the face would be able to steal some of the warrior spirit’s bravery and would be protected by the gods in battle.No one ever achieved it and many braves died trying, until a white hunter, captured by the Shawnee and sentenced to a torturous death by the Shawnee chief Blackfish, negotiated a reprieve if he could scale it.He did and was adopted by Blackfish himself as his son.The Shawnee called him Sheltowee, but we know him as Daniel Boone.“Since then, generations of Missi County boys tried to prove their courage climbing up the face of Red Cloud—only thirteen actually made it.”“Did you ever climb it?”Pops smiled.“I did.But not until my third try.” He looked up at a place in the air where Red Cloud had been.“That’s a story for another day.Let’s get on down the road.” Pops moved out with dispatch, his pace quickening to escape the tortured landscape.We were able to keep pace on the flat land, down into a slight depression that was once Corbin Hollow.On the side of the track was the rusted boom of an abandoned dragline, its broken cable curled like a waiting snake.The road thrust upward sharply to the next plateau.Pops’ pace gave him separation and he achieved the top a minute before us.He stood there on the edge and surveyed the rubble as Buzzy and I scrambled up the slope.“This used to be Sadler Mountain.In front of us was Wilmer Hollow, where the Kracken family lived.” He waved his hand at the filled-in valley below us.“Sold it all to the Company for thirty-five thousand dollars and moved to a trailer park somewhere in central Florida.” He shook his head at the inequity of the math.“Kevin, I told you about the Sadler Mountain War, and, Buzzy, I know your grandfather has told you about it.My father and your grandfather led the efforts to unionize the mines in the thirties.Then Bubba Boyd’s father had my dad killed and your grandfather led a revolt against the Company.They were lifelong friends, my dad and your grandfather.He and about thirty miners holed up on this mountain for three months, launching a series of guerrilla raids against the Company.The Boyds imported ‘peace officers,’ who were nothing more than hired guns, and sent twenty up to root the miners out.Not a single one came back.Then they sent up sixty to try and flush em out; they retreated after a day.Your grandfather was a handful as a guerrilla fighter.He and his Sadler Mountain boys brought the mines to a standstill.Finally, Washington, D.C., sent down the federal marshals to get everything running again.The union prevailed, and life for the miners started getting better after that, thanks to your great-grandfather, Kevin, and Buzzy’s grandfather.They were true men—something for you both to live up to.”“My grandaddy tole me stories.I always thought it was him tellin porky pies.”“You need to pay attention to your grandfather and show him the respect he’s earned.Those stories he tells you are all true.”“Yes, sir,” Buzzy said, chastened.We walked up the fifteen-foot berm to the top of the slurry pond.It was the size of two football fields end to end.The first few inches of water were clear, casing the obsidian ooze like window glaze.And below it, the infinite black maw of slurry, murky and foul, as if everything malevolent in Medgar was spawn of this disconsolate brew.We stood on the edge, silently watching the span of black lap the berm top.Buzzy took up a softball rock and tossed it into the muck.It hung in the air for a moment, then hit the surface with a dull plonk, disappearing under the effluent.The lake surface smoothed itself, removing all evidence of disorder.“Let’s get off this dump and into the trees.We can pick up the trail over that way.” Pops pointed with his walking stick and moved out.The top of the Sadler Mountain ruins were crisscrossed with ruts and berms, and it was a difficult hike to the edge of the trees.“It’s an old game trail that leads down into Prettyman Hollow, so it’s gonna be tough to spot [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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