Рита Браун - A Hiss Before Dying

“There are many factors. I think the biggest one is banning certain pesticides.” Ned took his seat. “This whole struggle over chemicals like Roundup, the weed killer, is one of the toughest things we’re facing down in Richmond. What it comes down to—and this doesn’t really impact America’s symbolism—is, I think, now everyone understands the danger of DDT, but realistically how much do you want to pay for a tomato? Really.” The others looked at him, so he continued. “Without some chemical help, farmers will lose, in some cases, eighty percent of their crop. Some crops are fragile by nature. Think of all the bugs that can ruin apples, or deer eating them? We’ve got to find some sort of balance to protect our wildlife and our plant life, as well as provide affordable food for our people.”

“A balancing act. I guess all business comes down to that. Mine certainly does,” Andy said.

“MaryJo has to assure people she’s not investing in companies that use cheap labor in foreign countries. She even has a client who won’t invest in any company doing business with China. Half of what she does is hold hands.”

“Is MaryJo still working with Panto Noyes?”

Panto Noyes, a lawyer from one of Virginia’s unrecognized tribes, oversaw investments from people who considered themselves Native Americans. The Federal Bureau of Indian Affairs deemed otherwise. Virginia suffered for more than a century because the federal government refused to recognize any tribes. Given that Virginia began in 1607 and subsequent Caucasians and African Americans married Native peoples, proof was far more difficult than for someone from Montana.

“Ned,” Andy asked, “still working on getting Virginia tribes recognized? After a century-plus we did get, what?, eight recognized by the federal government? I know that’s a big deal for Panto.”

“I am.” Ned sighed as he looked at his cards. “I don’t know if there’s anything we can do for those unrecognized tribes or individuals. It’s complicated, and places like this schoolhouse created the complications.”

“How?” Fair finally held a good hand.

“Well, when Walter Pletcher got his damnable legislation passed for the state records in 1912 which said any blood not ‘white’ blood is ‘colored’ blood. I mean, that’s really it in a nutshell. What could anyone do back then? And kids who went to schools like this, who maybe didn’t live with their tribe, lived and worked outside those boundaries, they married each other. It can’t be untangled, truthfully. Doesn’t mean I and others won’t keep trying to provide some kind of benefits, to hold the federal government’s feet to the fire. The paperwork a person must fill out to prove tribal affiliation is just about impossible for most Virginians. And, of course, DNA proof is inadmissible. Pletcher muddied the waters by calling, legislating, everyone colored.”

“And it’s an issue way on the back burner,” Andy noted.

“Right now, anything that doesn’t involve the presidential election is on the back burner. These elections literally paralyze government every time around, and it seems in between now, too. Nothing gets done.” Ned hated it.

“That’s a good thing.” Fair laughed. “Remember what Ben Franklin said: ‘No man’s life or property is safe when Congress is in session.’ ”

They all laughed.

October 21, 2016 Friday

A shiny, fit pack of beagles stood, tails wagging, ready to rumble. The Master and huntsman, Dr. Arie M. Rijke, finished thanking Mary and David Kalergis for allowing the beagles to hunt Sugarday, their farm. The Blue Ridge Mountains occasionally peeked out from the ever-lowering clouds. The temperature hovered at fifty-two degrees but would surely drop, as it was already 3:00 P.M.

Sugarday rested on what was the old footpath that ran east and west even before the Europeans arrived in Virginia. At one time, this had been the Wild West. Just a few miles west was the site of the Revolutionary War–era prisoner-of-war barracks, a complex that once encompassed two hundred acres, with more added over time. All that was left of the active, overcrowded camp was a stone marker. A few of the old estates from that time like Big Rawly, or remnants of Cloverfields, Ewing Garth’s vast holdings, still stood.

The beagles cared little about the eighteenth century in Albemarle County. What the beagles cared about was flushing and running rabbits. Anyone who called a rabbit a “dumb bunny” had obviously never hunted one.

The little guys, patient as possible, eagerly waited while Dr. Rijke mentioned that the pack, founded in 1885, was the oldest continuously hunting beagle pack in America. Finally, touching his horn to his lips, he blew a few opening notes. Humans then walked over a rolling swell, hounds cast, set to work.

Harry, Fair, Susan, Ned, BoomBoom, and Alicia Palmer, BoomBoom’s partner, walked briskly with the thirty other foot followers. Their dear friend Miranda Hogendobber, in her late seventies and fit, chose to help set up the breakfast in the house. Mary and David generously opened their doors to the beaglers, many of whom, in truth, were muffin hounds. They walked and ran along just to get to the breakfast afterward. Hunters on foot with a pack or those on horseback, for whatever reason, have always called the repast afterward to restore energy and spirits a breakfast. Often the emphasis rested on spirits.

The four whippers-in positioned themselves with two forward and two behind. Wearing formal coats of a hunter-green thorn-repelling twill; white riding breeches and knee socks, also of green; sturdy shoes and baseball caps, black, with a white circle, an embroidered WB in the center, they were extra-alert. Some of the foot followers also wore Waldingfield Beagles caps.

Hounds worked a bit of covert, tails swishing faster, but no one spoke. Nor did the people in the field. Harry’s mother and father loved following the beagles. She had tagged along as a child and always felt close to them when hunting, even now. She liked to think, in spirit, her parents followed.

A chirp. Other hounds rushed to the spot. More furious sniffing. Bob Johnson, silver-haired, tall and lean, a whipper-in, deftly took a step back, as it seemed they might reverse. They did, and on full throttle, too. Then just as quickly they cut a corner, shot off to the right, flew over a still green pasture to dip toward the west in the direction of the strong-running Ivy Creek. They paused, lost, cast themselves. Amy Burke, a forward whipper-in, was on the right side. Her brother, Alan Webb, mirrored her on the left. Foot speed, highly desirable, took second place to experience. The wrong move by a young whipper-in might turn your quarry. It takes years to make a good whipper-in. Arie was fortunate to have that experience in most of his people. His youngest, fastest whipper-in, Jacque Franco, was absorbing as much as she could.

The Huntsman stood still, waiting. The field, led by Colonel Shelton, a powerfully built retired Army officer, staff in hand, waited close enough to see everything but not close enough to interfere.

A mature hound, a bit stocky, Empress, let out a bugle call. Cyber, much younger, ran to her. He opened and now the entire pack flew over the meadow. The rabbit could be seen up ahead at a distance using all his speed. The little white tail bobbled, then disappeared in a narrow wood. Hounds bulled through the brush. The cry intensified but changed in its tenor. Nor, strangely, did the beagles emerge from the thicket when the rabbit did. As Amy tallyhoed, the field also saw the rabbit. Hounds continued speaking, but no one quite knew what was going on. Was there a second rabbit? The staff didn’t want to spoil the sport, to turn the rabbit or confuse the hounds. After a suitable wait of about four minutes, Arie slowly walked to the edge of the thicket, beating back the bushes with his knob-ended crop. The whippers-in wisely stayed closer to the edge in case the pack should emerge.