John Hart - Down River

“Jesus.” I was looking at a vineyard, countless rows of lush green vines that filled the hollow beneath us. “How many acres?”

“Four hundred under vine,” Dolf said. “And it has been one hell of a job.” He nodded, gesturing through the windshield. “That’s just over a hundred acres there.”

“What the hell?”

Dolf chuckled. “It’s the new cash crop, the future of North Carolina agriculture, or so they say. But it ain’t cheap. That vineyard went in three years ago and we won’t see any profit for at least two more, maybe even four. Even then there’s no guarantees. But the soy market has stalled, beef is depressed, and loblolly doesn’t grow any faster just because you want it to. We’re rotating in corn and we’ve leased land for a cell tower, which pays well, but your father worries about the future.” He pointed at the vines. “There it is. We hope.”

“Was this your idea?”

“Jamie’s,” Dolf said. “It took him two years to convince your father, and there’s a whole lot riding on it.”

“Should I even ask?”

“It took a fortune to get the vines in, and we sacrificed producing crop. The farm’s lost a lot of cash flow.” Dolf shrugged. “We’ll see.”

“Is the farm at risk?”

Dolf eyed me. “How much did your old man pay for your ten percent?’

“Three million,” I said.

“That’s about what I figured. He says we’re okay, but he’s tight-lipped about his money. It has to be hurting, though.”

“And this is all riding on Jamie?”

“That’s right.”

“Damn,” I said. The risks were enormous.

“It’s make-or-break, I guess.”

I studied the older man. The farm was his life. “You okay with that?”

“I turn sixty-three next month.” He looked at me sideways and nodded. “But your dad’s never let me down before, and I don’t think he’s planning to now.”

“And Jamie?” I asked. “Has he ever let you down?”

“It is what it is, Adam. Guess we’ll see.”

We were silent for a moment.

“Is my father going to sell to the power company, Dolf?”

There was a hard edge in his voice when he answered. “You worried about missing out on the windfall?”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re right, Adam. It’s not. But I’ve seen what this money has done to folks around here.” He stared through the glass, his eyes distant. “Temptation,” he said. “It’s making people crazy.”

“So, do you think he’ll do it?”

Something shifted behind the old man’s gaze, and he looked away from me, down to the long rows of promising vine. “Did your father ever explain to you why this place is called Red Water Farm?”

“I always assumed it was because of the clay in the river.”

“Thought not.” Dolf started the truck and turned around.

“Where are we going?”

“The knob.”

“Why?”

“You’ll see.”

The knob was the highest point on the farm, a massive upheaval of granite that could pass for a small mountain. Most of it was wooded slope, but the peak was barren, the soil too thin for much to grow. It commanded a view of the river’s northern approach, and was the most inaccessible part of the property.

Dolf started speaking when we reached the bottom of the knob, and his voice rose as the truck slammed its way up the weathered track that led to the top. “Some time ago this was all Sapona Indian country. There was a village nearby, probably on the farm, although its exact location has never been determined. Like most Indians, the Sapona didn’t want to give up their land.” He gestured up the track ahead of us. “Their final fight happened right up there.”

We came out of the woods and onto the plateau. It was covered with thin grass. At the northern edge, the granite rose out of the earth to form a jagged wall thirty feet high and a quarter mile long. The outcropping was riddled with cracks and deep fissures. Dolf parked at the base of it and got out. I followed him.

“By the best count, there were maybe three hundred people living in that village, and they all fled here at the end. Women and children. Everybody.” Dolf plucked a long blade of grass from the stony soil and shredded it between his fingers as he waited for his words to settle into me. Then he started walking along the stony face. “This was the high ground,” he said, and gestured at the rock face with a grass-stained finger. “The last good place to fight. You can see everything for miles around from up there.”

He stopped and pointed to a narrow fissure in the stone, at the very base of the wall. I knew the spot, for my father had often warned me to avoid it. It was deep.

“When it was over,” he continued, “they threw the bodies in there. The men had been shot, of course, but most of the women and children were still alive. They threw them in first and piled the dead on top. Legend says that so much blood soaked into the water table that the springs ran red for days after. That’s where the name comes from.”

I felt the warmth fade out of me. “How do you know that?”

“Some archaeologists from Washington excavated the pit in the late sixties. I was here when they did it. So was your daddy.”

“How have I not heard about it?”

Dolf shrugged. “It was a different time. Nobody cared so much. It wasn’t news. Plus, your grandfather only agreed to the excavation if they kept it quiet. He didn’t want a bunch of drunk idiots up here getting themselves killed looking for arrowheads. There are some dusty papers on it, I’m sure. Maybe at the university in Chapel Hill or somewhere in Washington. But it was never news. Not like it would be today.”

“Why did my father never tell me?”

“When you were young, he didn’t want to scare you. Didn’t want you worrying about ghosts and such, or the nature of mankind, for that matter. Then when you were older, Jamie and Miriam were too young. By the time you were all grown, I guess he just failed to get around to it. It’s no mystery, really.”

I edged closer to the pit, and my feet scraped on the raw granite. I leaned forward, but was not close enough to see down into the crack. I looked back at Dolf.

“What does this have to do with my father selling?”

“Your old man is like those Sapona. As far as he’s concerned, some things are just worth killing for.” I looked hard at the man. “Or dying,” he said.

“That right?” I asked.

“He’ll never sell.”

“Even if the farm goes bankrupt over Jamie’s vines?”

Dolf looked uncomfortable. “It won’t come to that.”

“You willing to bet on it?”

He declined to answer. I moved closer and leaned out over the cruel mouth, looked down the shaft. It was deep, lined with sharp protrusions of hard stone; but the sun angled in. I thought that I saw something down there.

“What did those archaeologists do with the remains?” I asked.

“Tagged ’em. Hauled ’ em off. Sitting in boxes somewhere, I’d imagine.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. Why?”

I leaned farther and squinted into the gloom. I got down on the warm stone and hung my head over the edge. I saw a pale, smooth curve, and below that a hollow place, and a row of small white objects, like pearls on a string; and a large dark hump of what appeared to be stained, rotting cloth.

“What does that look like to you?” I asked.

Dolf got down next to me. He stared for a good minute, wrinkled his nose, and I could tell that he smelled it, too, the faintest lick of something foul. “Jesus Christ,” he said.

“Do you have any rope in the truck?”

He rolled onto his side and the metal rivets of his jeans rasped on the stone. “Are you serious?”