Charlie waited a few minutes, until he could no longer hear the men’s movements through the wood. The cold had soaked into his joints and stiffened his legs. He was grateful to move again.
He helped his mom up, and they moved in the opposite direction from where the men had gone. Charlie knew that they had to leave this valley tonight, but they now had to go back up the Drop, farther from the road. He did not think that Mom and he could survive the cold night, but he knew that, even if they did, the villagers would find them in the light of morning. He wondered what Hickory Heck would do. Dad would also know what to do. Charlie wished he were here.
As they slowly made their way upslope, Charlie wondered about the noise from the forest that had sent the men scrambling. He had heard it before, during his long afternoons in the woods.
Charlie was thinking about this when he walked right into a man who stood as still and as tall as a tree. Charlie looked up and saw the one who knew the forest best: the one who moved through the trees like the wind and made a noise only when he wanted to be heard.
53
Simms and Harp stagger through the dark with their flashlights, but I see better by the light of the moon. They trample the undergrowth and clutch at the frozen trees, but I pick my way through without a falter or a sound. I am a forest creature.
The air is clean between the mountains. Clean and pure as my fasting soul. That is what happens when you do not eat. The excess of this ugly world burns away and takes with it all of its doubt and distractions. You reach a place, beyond the hunger, where everything is clear. You see the Lord’s language everywhere. You can read it in the flutter of a crow’s wing. You smell it in hints left by the cold east wind. He is everywhere, and he sees our every weakness.
The boy is ahead. I can smell his mother, and he would keep her close. He’s a good boy. They all were.
Simms says something smart, and I grip his neck in a move fast enough to make his eyes bulge. The boy is too close for us to risk making any noise. I show my teeth and know that Simms can feel the low growl building in my chest. He remembers what I did to the Bishop boy.
The elders doubt that the youth of this village possess the strength to do what must be done. Will they be able to carry our burdens once we have gone? I wonder if my own grandpappy had such worries. Still, the blame for their weaknesses is not theirs alone. Our young people were not raised the way we were. They do not yet understand the importance of this village to his plan. They have not yet seen how we are tested in this in-between place, this cold valley between heaven and hell.
But they will.
Time was that every Sunday sermon would be of the Winter Siege and of the sacrifices of the Swann family, but that fell away when Mark and Liam died in the fire. We thought the line of Swann to be at an end, and we despaired and believed we had failed him. We believed that the unredeemed world had grown too corrupt to save. In our anguish, some of our old ways fell aside. Our village withered like an unwatered field. Some families died, others moved away. We did not teach our children all of the things they should have known. But our greatest failure was to doubt him. Through his providence, the line of Swann has been restored, and so has our chance at redemption. We will not fail him again, and we will again teach our children the ways of our forefathers.
When the time comes, I will have my June tighten the chain around the boy’s bare chest. I will let him fix his tearstained face upon hers to beg for his life. I will have her watch as the cold slowly takes its grip. In the morning, I will have her help unclench his frozen fingers from the unyielding iron and carry his rigid body to the cemetery of his ancestors. Then she may truly understand and one day teach her own children.
The boy is close now. The mother’s scent lingers in the cold, thin air. Simms and Harp shine their lights over the wood. They mutter to each other and look at me from the shadows of their faces. I watch the branches sway and wait for the wind to whisper me its secrets. A pain surges from my stomach. This suffering builds my determination. The pain makes me stronger.
And you will be rewarded, says the wind. I smile at the darkness. Through the forest, a noise rings out: a rattling among the trees. Simms and Harp chase after it. Perhaps this is the reward the wind has promised. Harp has fasted, and so has Simms, but not the way that I have. My line has ever heard his word with great clarity. Perhaps the boy is deeper in the woods, or perhaps he lingers here with the scent of his mother.
The road to salvation is not straight. It is broken with trials and stained with blood. Perhaps the time for the boy to be found has not yet come. Perhaps it is God’s will that we follow this noise in the dark.
What have we poor men ever been but wanderers in the dark?
Moving through the trees, I soon catch up to old Harp. He pants like a broken plow horse. I feel the flush of his face through the sharp air. He has misused his body, and now it takes little for it to fail him. He smells of cigarettes and liquor, though they are forbidden in this season. He turns around, disoriented in the dark because he does not hear the Lord’s voice. How could he, with a mind so weak and a body so corrupted? A disgrace to his family.
Harp stops and tears the scarf off his neck, gasping for air. The artery beneath his chins throbs in the moonlight. It would not be a hard thing to take his life from him. His jowls are weak; my teeth are strong. It would be a mercy. Not all of the old ways have survived, but perhaps they should live again. It is not strictly true that our ancestors survived their terrible winter by wheat flour alone.
If I close my eyes, I can already taste the metal notes of his blood. I can feel the slick of it as it overspills my mouth to drench my chest.