Рита Браун - Tall Tail

Tulli thought there was plenty to fix at the cabin, but even then he had sense enough to keep his mouth shut.

—

At the big house, Ewing and Rachel put away his papers when the storm started. It was too dark to read, anyway. Rachel liked helping her father. She listened closely to him when he spoke of buying land. Catherine did, too, but she was more interested in her father’s multiplying business holdings: tobacco, hemp, corn, buildings by a landing on the James River in Scottsville, properties on the Atlantic down in North Carolina. Rachel liked the land itself. Watching her husband, Charles, create plans for building interested her. She couldn’t pass by places now without imagining a house or barn on a special site with good drainage.

Ewing enjoyed his daughters’ company. He liked teaching them. Both were prudent and never bleated about what they knew. Both sisters learned very early to listen. That way, you learn a lot more than you do if you talk.

Father and youngest daughter retreated to the kitchen.

“Knew it would be bad,” Bettina announced. “Knew it would be bad when the chickens ran under the henhouse. Chickens always know. Uh-huh. Always.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the sky so black.” Rachel observed the fury outside the kitchen door, opened it, as it was on the north side of the house. Wind blew small limbs, odds and ends not tied down in front of them, but didn’t blow into the kitchen, as the wind came from due west.

Ewing sat down at the kitchen table. “I remember a storm like this when Isabelle and I were first married. Just about blew us to bits. The river rose suddenly. No one understood why, ’cause there wasn’t that much rain. Must have been 1759, 1760.” He shook his head. “Where does the time go? Seems like yesterday.”

“Does,” Bettina forcefully agreed. “Seems like yesterday I could touch my toes.”

“You can still touch your toes. Put your foot on the chair,” Rachel teased her.

“You just wait, Miss.” Bettina laughed and so did Ewing.

The storm blew over; clouds hung, though. The sun set, but the only sign was a glimmer of lighter clouds over the mountains.

Everyone checked outside. Branches down, a farm wagon tipped over on its side. Not too bad, considering.

Catherine and her beloved John walked home.

Charles met Rachel as she reached the low gate. “I was worried about you,” he said to his wife.

“I stayed with father.” She looked around. “Let’s open up these shutters. Just in case the heat comes up. Hope it doesn’t. Be lovely to sleep in a cool night.”

They opened the first-floor shutters. Charles opened the ones upstairs.

Later, Piglet was curled at the end of the bed as Charles built small stairs so he could get up and down. He and his humans slept soundly.

Rachel never imagined she would allow a dog on the bed, but Piglet didn’t seem like a dog; plus, it made Charles so happy. She reminded herself that Piglet went through the war with her husband, so nothing was too good for the corgi, and of course nothing was too good for Charles.

In the middle of the night, the farm dogs set up a howl. Piglet awoke and howled, too.

Charles ordered him, “Pipe down.”

“There’s someone here,” the corgi answered.

The other farm dog called out, “Intruders!”

No one paid any mind. The humans went back to sleep.

“There’s someone here!” Piglet insisted.

Wednesday, September 15, 1784

Piglet, nose down, followed a trail of fresh blood. Yesterday’s thrashing rains and the early morning’s cool temperature helped the scent stick. Above, the low clouds showed no promise of dispersing, nor did they show promise of more rain. The stagnant cloud cover also helped the corgi.

His nose filled with information. A grouse had scuttled at wood’s edge near an hour ago. An entire flock of wild turkeys left their distinctive signature scent as well as a few feathers. Once he got into the woods, a vixen was close. Then Piglet picked up traces of fading human scent. Someone had brushed by thick bushes.

Intrepid, Piglet continued. In the few places where blood splashed, the odor was overpowering. Otherwise, he followed drops magnified by the dew.

A rocky overhang stopped him. Good place for a bear, but this small cave under the overhang was disguised by saplings and bushes. Strong now, the smell of blood made the corgi cautious. He ducked behind joe-pye weed, high and blooming. He could hear humans talking, crying.

A deep voice ordered, “You go on. They’ll miss you before they miss me.”

Bettina stepped out; worry creased her face. “I can’t come back until dark.”

The deep voice that Piglet now recognized as the slave Father Gabe called softly, “No worry. I’ve got rags and good water here. I’ll stop by the kitchen. So you’ll know.”

Not a small woman, Bettina stomped away.

Piglet crept forward, belly low to the ground, until he could peer into the disguised place. A young man lay with his back against the rock, a deep diagonal wound across his broad chest. Next to him sat a beautiful woman, or she had once been beautiful. Her eye socket had been damaged. The cheekbone underneath had been smashed. Her right hand, wrapped in a clean cloth, bled through. Tending to them was Father Gabe, an old man with medical knowledge and some folks said more than that. He gently placed a compress on the woman’s cheek. She didn’t wince. The young man would awaken, then fall back to sleep. Piglet knew he’d lost a lot of blood because he’d followed it all the way here.

Turning for home, the little fellow wanted to tell Charles, but how?

—

Ewing Garth was up at dawn. He walked into the kitchen for his full breakfast at seven in the morning. He’d brushed his teeth, nestled in his chair to be shaved, then dressed. This was a leisurely morning, which he preferred. The big breakfast prepared him for the day. While he was never averse to eating, a big breakfast could hold him until one or two o’clock, when a light meal sufficed until supper. But in the summers and early fall even supper was light, unless he was entertaining.

Serena, a young woman helping Bettina, had her back to him and was just putting the finishing touches on Ewing’s poached eggs. He was most particular about his eggs.

“Good morning.” He beamed.

“Morning back at you.” Bettina turned, eggs now on the dish, placing it before him. “Serena, where’s Master’s coffee?” Returning to Ewing. “Chicory coffee this morning. That bit of tang to the air just whispered to me, ‘Chicory for the master.’ ”

“Bettina, you’re a mind reader.” He savored those eggs and that cup of coffee.

Now placed before him were biscuits light as air, an array of jams and honey. They came from the summer kitchen, still in use due to the fact that the day would heat up, no point using the kitchen even in the cool of the morning. The last thing anyone wanted was for heat to be hanging around as the mercury climbed upward.

Serena placed a plate of sausages in front of him, along with condiments.

“Serena, did you make this sausage?”

“Yes, sir.”

He tasted one, then nodded his approval. “Bettina, your pupil is learning her lessons.”