Ron Rash: Serena

Pemberton looked at the ridge dubiously. There was no discernable way up, nothing but mountain laurel and rock.

"Is there a path?"

"Not but the one we'll make getting there," Galloway said. "Mountain laurel covers up a place so fast you've barely got time to look behind and see your own footprints."

"There's not an easier way?"

"Not to my knowing," Galloway replied. "I'll haul that rifle in the crook of my arm if you want. Might make it easier for you."

"I'll carry my own damn gun," Pemberton said.

Galloway stepped into the mountain laurel. The plants quickly enveloped him up to the chest. Pemberton followed, gripping the rifle just below the trigger, the barrel held skyward so that only the stock brushed the plants. Galloway stepped through the tangles with no attempt to watch where his feet set down. The laurel soon became sparser as the land's angle increased. The sun was at their back, and its heat settled directly on the ridge. Pemberton's hunting outfit had not been uncomfortable in the woods, but here only a few stunted fir grew, nothing to give any shade. They moved around the barn-wide rock. The soil was loose, thinned by granite Pemberton now realized was the undersurface of the whole mountainside. Galloway gauged his steps, moving a few yards sideways to find where the foothold would be best. Pemberton's breath became labored. When he had to stop and rest, Galloway looked back.

"If you're not born to this skinny air a fellow will lose his breath easy up here."

They stood a minute in the outcrop's shadow. Galloway studied the jut of rock and pointed to his right.

"Seems last fall that I went around that side."

Galloway stepped edgewise and angled his way out of the rock's shadow, no soil beneath their feet, only granite. The last few yards Pemberton leaned forward and used his free hand to keep from slipping. The granite was hot to his touch. A thought crossed his mind that this could be another of Serena's japes. When they were almost level with the outcrop, Galloway veered a few steps more to the right and stopped where a spring flow created a natural basin. The older man sat by the pool and laid the tote sack beside him. Pemberton sat as well and tried to slow his panting. Below, the whole meadow unfurled, beyond it to the west Sterling Mountain that marked park land. Galloway pulled two sandwiches from the sack, unwrapped the butcher's paper and inspected one.

"This is turkey," he said, and offered Pemberton the other. "Your missus said you was partial to beef on your sandwiches. She had the cook slab it up good with mustard too."

Pemberton took the sandwich and ate. It wasn't particularly good, too much mustard and the bread tasted moldy, but despite the hangover he found the hike and bear crawl up the ridge had given him an appetite. He finished the sandwich and cupped his hand in the creek and drank, as much to wash the sandwich's taste from his mouth as thirst.

"That spring up top gives cold water even in the dog days," Galloway said. "You'll not find better water."

"It's damn sure better than that sandwich."

"A shame it's not to your liking," Galloway said, feigning disappointment, "especially after the missus made it up special for you."

Pemberton cupped his hand and drank more. The sandwich did not sit well on his stomach, and he hoped the cold water might help.

The sun was full upon them, and the granite gathered the midday heat and held it in the rock gaps. Pemberton yawned and might have napped a few minutes, but his guts began cramping and nausea followed. He thought of last night's drinking and wished again he'd been more moderate.

He checked his watch. Almost three o'clock. Galloway opened the tote sack and removed a plug of tobacco and the hawkbill, which he unlocked by setting his foot on the handle, using thumb and forefinger to free the blade. Then he set the plug on his knee, picked up the knife and slowly pressed the blade into the tobacco. Galloway placed the larger portion back into the sack, locked the knife and put it back as well. Each step was done with the solemnity and preciseness of ritual.

"Best go ahead and get up on that ledge," Galloway said.

Pemberton studied the outcrop.

"How do I get up there?"

"Stand on that smaller rock," Galloway said, pointing with his hand. "Then put your foot in that crack above it."

"Then what?"

"You got to hoist yourself the rest of the way. Grab hold of the ledge with your left hand, then drape your yonder leg up and hoist yourself over. It's flat as a skillet on top, so you ain't going to roll off."

Pemberton scanned the far edge of the meadow, searching for a glint of binoculars. He turned to Galloway, who examined the cut of tobacco as if searching for some flaw in it.

"If this is a rusty Mrs. Pemberton put you up to…"

Galloway met Pemberton's eyes. He lifted the black plug of tobacco to his mouth and used his index finger to tuck the wad behind his back molars. Only then did Galloway speak.

"It ain't no rusty."

Galloway brushed a few loose stems of the tobacco off his jeans but made no move to get up. He looked into the spring as if searching for something.

"I'd be of a mind to get on up there if I was you," Galloway said. "Won't be too long before the meadow starts to shadow up. Soon as it happens that panther will start making his way out of the park."

Galloway squirted a brown stream of tobacco juice into the spring and stood.

"When you get up there, I'll hand you your gun. It'll be easier that way."

Pemberton studied the outcrop, imagining foot and hand placements. There appeared to be no other way. He gave the rifle to Galloway and climbed up on the smaller rock, raised his left hand to grip the ledge top's surface. He put his full weight on the rock to make sure it was steady, then placed one boot toe in the crevice. As Pemberton lifted the other foot, he raised his right hand and placed it beside the left. Pemberton took a deep breath and kicked his right leg over the outcrop and rolled onto the ledge, arms spread outward so that he turned over only once, faced the sky.

A buzzing filled the air, and Pemberton first thought he'd disturbed a hornet's nest. He felt a stinging in his calf and raised his head to see a rattlesnake retracting into its coil. Three other snakes coiled less than a yard from where he lay, filling the air with their warnings. One of the snakes lunged and Pemberton felt its fangs strike his boot, snag a moment, and pull free. Then he was rolling off the ledge, hitting first the smaller rock and then the ground and then sliding and tumbling farther down the ridge. Pemberton stalled his descent a moment by clutching a sapling, but the roots jerked free from the thin soil and he continued tumbling downward until level land and mountain laurel stopped him.

Pemberton did not move as he waited for his body to tell him what damage had been done. His left ankle throbbed, and one glance at its odd angle told him the ankle was broken. Two, maybe three ribs were cracked as well. The hunting knife had opened a deep gash in his arm. Pemberton told himself he would be all right, but at that moment the venom that coursed through his veins announced itself, and not just in the leg. He could taste the poison in his mouth, though Pemberton couldn't understand how this was possible.

He stared upward, and for a moment Pemberton had the sensation that he was actually falling away from the earth and toward the sky. He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he felt the earth solid beneath him. Pemberton raised his arm and saw the bleeding had not stopped. But at least not an artery, he told himself. Pemberton took a handkerchief from his back pocket and pressed it against the gash. The cloth quickly saturated, so he took a pair of wool socks from his jacket and pressed them against the wound. The socks were soon blood-soaked as well, but when he removed them the bleeding had lessened.