Karen Harper - Deep Down

Vern Tarver, who owned the sang store and historical museum in town, had argued that if George Washington knew the value of ginseng and Daniel Boone made money selling it, why should folks today have to change their ways? Appalachians over the centuries had considered hunting anything, anytime, their God-given right and couldn’t abide the government telling them what to do. Not when sang money had brought many of their kin through the Depression or tided them over in other tough times.

Mariah figured it didn’t take the likes of Vern Tarver to know sang roots were worth as much as one thousand dollars a pound in Asian markets. It was next to useless to try to tell Eastern Kentuckians to let the sang alone for a few years till it matured or to be sure to replant the precious berries when they dug up a site, no matter if the new sheriff said times and laws were different now.

The Chinese buyers who came into Vern Tarver’s store, smooth as they were with their clean hands and hard cash, Mariah liked less than poachers or careless diggers. The big money market encouraged ripping out roots, legal season or not, and she knew Vern was only too happy to play middleman to get his cut. No use trying to talk sense to him, ‘specially not since she’d told him to stop trying to sweetheart her. He’d near on had a fit when she’d told him no to his fancy marriage proposal, and if he couldn’t accept that, just not to come ‘round no more.

Yes, she saw the footsteps with the hoe marks heading toward her deep woods sang patch. If that fancy GPS thingamajig or the tiny cell phone the government had given her worked worth a darn in these hills and hollers, she’d use them right now to call Sheriff Drew Webb, tell him to watch in town for illegal sales of prime, old roots. She’d have him stake out another spot she knew. She could give him the location by the landmarks she always went by, never mind satellite coordinates that were no good, no how here. Why use things in outer space to find where you were, when you knew these woods like your own back forty?

Mariah hunkered down to examine the torn ground where someone had dug out the patch of sang—four-prongers, at least, if she rightly recalled her notes from last count. In all her forty-eight years, this was the weirdest-looking dig she’d seen. Odd hoe marks, strangely curved, pierced the ground in a pattern. A big hoe, a sharp one, but not carelessly used. No, the slashes in the earth were exact, deep and powerfully placed.

She couldn’t picture anyone from Deep Down doing this so precisely, then stuffing their prizes in the usual pillowcase or backpack and just hightailing it back to town. Strangest of all, the lopped-off yellowing plants and their red berries were laid out in designs around the edge, like some foreign work of art.

Then, even through the muted roar of the falls and the rustling leaves, she heard a sound she couldn’t place.

What in creation? A footstep? Someone snapping a branch? She’d been a wildcrafter almost all her life, picking wild herbs, mushrooms and moss to sell to outsiders as far away as Highboro or even Lexington. She knew the normal forest sounds and scents, but some new, heavy smell—fetid and yeasty, or was it moth balls?—came to her on the breeze.

Slowly, in the middle of the ravaged, rearranged sang patch, she stood. Turning her head, she tried to pierce the narrow shafts of sun stabbing almost horizontal between the tree trunks. For once, this vast, deep woods seemed to press in on her. Mariah had never claimed to have the sixth sense of some mountain women, including her own mother, but she sensed danger now. Someone else was out here close, something waiting for the shadows to deepen, maybe for her to leave. It could be a bear, but she didn’t think so. They liked to make themselves real scarce, and they didn’t smell like that. It wasn’t skunk, she thought, as her nostrils flared.

Hair prickled on the nape of her neck. Maybe she’d surprised a digger who’d rubbed some sort of homemade liniment or bug juice on his skin, and he was watching, waiting. Maybe he knew she’d recognize him and didn’t want to get caught without a license, afraid she’d tell Drew Webb.

For the first time in her life, alone in the woods, Mariah Lockwood tasted bitter, raw fear. She’d surprised poachers and diggers before, and they could be as dangerous as those who grew the stuff and guarded it with shotguns and no shut-eye. But she’d always just made a quick retreat or told them she’d keep quiet. When a mountain person made a vow, that was that. So why did this feel different?

Hefting her pack with her precious records and lists of landmarks, Mariah edged back toward the path she’d taken coming in. She wouldn’t walk the rocks of the creek this time, but hightail it back to the old logging road.

Then, about thirty feet away, she saw something blocking her path.

She let out a half grunt, half scream. The sun-streaks behind the large, dark thing blinded her. Was it a bear? This was not some sort of prank or joke. Pure menace reeked from it, along with that smell.

She threw her trembling arms over her head to make herself look larger and shouted in a loud voice, “Bear, go! Go!” Not only did it not run, but it took a step forward and lifted something in its paw or hand.

Not a bear, no, it held itself more erect. And bears didn’t use tools. Bulky, maybe human, but grotesque with that fur—that obscured face and strange-shaped head. Despite all the legends of forest creatures, none told of an Appalachian yeti or big ape. It had something shiny and sharp in its paw or hand. Hellfire, had that thing been digging sang?

Though it would take hours in the dark to get back down to town another way, she turned and fled. Her pulse pounded in her ears; her innards nearly let loose. The things in her pack bounced; the shoulder strap slipped down her arm so the pack almost tripped her. She hadn’t run dead out in years … dead out.

Her breath rasped in her throat. Was this a nightmare, and she’d wake up? Was that thing a haint like folks said appeared from the dead? A shape-changing monster from one of Seth’s Cherokee myths?

She took a tumble over a tree root and lost her pack. She scrambled up again, on hands and knees at first, then stumbling, staggering. It was coming after her in wide strides at a jogging pace, breaking tree limbs, hitting something against tree trunks. With stark fear in her soul, she was sweating, shaking. She did not look back at the thing, but looked into her heart. Jessie, she thought, so far away, so smart. Proud of her, she was, though sometimes she regretted giving her away, sending her away … Away … She had to get away …

Despite the heat and humidity hitting her like a hammer, Dr. Jessica Lockwood was excited to get out of the plush, air-conditioned lobby of her Hong Kong hotel. Most people at the conference spoke decent English, but for this foray outside she’d hired one of the translators, Sunny Chan, to accompany her to nearby Ko Shing Street, also called Ginseng Street.

It was only a little after seven in the morning—that would make it just after 7 p.m. of the previous day at home, she thought—and she was astounded by the impact of the oppressive weather and the push of people, both in business suits and traditional clothing. Cursing her naturally curly, flyaway tresses, sprung loose by the instant steam bath of humidity, she shoved her chin-length hair back behind her ears and headed out.

The crowds seemed as oppressive as the heat. However much she had travelled for research or relaxation, she never quite seemed to shake the habit of judging everything against quiet, little Deep Down, the tiny Appalachian town with a population of 127 where she was reared—raised up, as her mother would put it. Sometimes in her head, the slow, flat drawl of her mother’s voice battled with the undulating speech of Elinor, the Lexington professor who had been her guardian from the time she’d turned sixteen.