Part 46 (1/2)

On Monday she was charged, on Tuesday she was tried, By the laws of her country she had to abide.

If I knew where she lay, to her side I would go.

Round sweet Becky's grave pretty flowers I would strow . . . .

When I was done, not a clap, not a voice. I went off the little stage, wondering to myself about it. After the show, Rilla, the zither girl, came to my room to talk.

”Folks here think it's unlucky to sing that Becky Hoppard song, John,” she said. ”Even to hark at it.”

”I seem to have done wrong,” I said. ”I didn't know.”

”Well, those Hoppards are a right odd lot. Barely come into town except to buy supplies. And they take pay for curing sickness and making spells to win court cases. They're strong on that kind of thing.”

”Who made the song?” I asked.

”They say it was sung back yonder by some man who was crazy for Becky Til Hoppard, and she never even looked his way. None of the Hoppard blood likes it, nor either the Worral blood. I know, because I'm Worral blood myself.”

”Can you tell me the tale?” I inquired. ”Have some of this blockade. Mr. Luns left it in here, and it's good.”

”I do thank you.” She took a ladylike sip. ”All I know is what my oldest folks told me. Becky Hoppard was a witch-girl, the pure quill of the article. Did all sorts of spells. Junius Worral reckoned to win her with a love charm.”

”What love charm?” I asked, because such things interest me.

”I've heard tell she let him have her handkerchief, and he did something with it. Went to the Hoppard cabin, and that's the last was seen of him alive. Or dead, either-he was all burnt up except his buckle and teeth.”

”The song's about flowers at her grave,” I said. ”I saw some there.”

”Folks do that, to turn bad luck away.”

I tweaked my silver guitar strings. ”Where's the Hoppard place?”

”Up hill, right near the grave. A broken-off locust tree there points to the path. I hope I've told you things that'll keep you from going there.”

”You've told me things that make me to want to go.”

”Don't, John,” she begged to me. ”Recollect what happened to Junius Worral.”

”I'll recollect,” I said, ”but I'll go.” And we said goodnight.

I woke right soon in the morning and went to the dining room to eat me a good breakfast with Mr. Luns.

Then I bade him good day and set out of Trudo the same way I'd come in, on the gravelly road.

Rilla had said danger was at the Hoppard place, but my guitar's silver strings had been a help against evil time and time again. Likewise in my pocket was a buckeye, given me one time by an Ozark fellow, and that's supposed to guard you, too-not just against rheumatics but all kinds of dangers. No man's ever found dead with a buckeye in his pocket, folks allow. So I was glad I had it as I tramped along with my pack and my guitar.

As I got near to the grave rock, I picked me some mountain laurel flowers. As I put those round the stone, I noticed more flowers there, besides the ones I'd seen the day before. Beyond was the broken-off locust, and a way uphill above it.

That path went through brush, so steep I had to lean forward to climb it. Trees crowded close at the sides. They near about leaned on me, and their leaves bunched into unchancey green faces. I heard a rain crow make its rattly call, and I spied out its white vest and blotchy tail. It was supposed to warn of a storm, but the patch of sky above was clear; maybe the rain crow warned of something else than rain. I kept on, climbed a good quarter mile to where there was a cabin amongst hemlocks.

That cabin was of old, old logs c.h.i.n.ked with clay. It must have been built before the last four wars. The roof's split shakes were cracked and curly. A lean-to was tacked on at the left. There were two smudgy windows and a cleated plank door, and on the door-log sat a man, watching me as I climbed into his sight.

He was dressed sharp, better than me in my jeans and old hat. Good-fitting pants as brown as coffee and a bright-flowered s.h.i.+rt. He was soft-pudgy, and I'd reckon more or less fifty years old. His cheeks bunched out. His bald brow was low and narrow. He had a shallow chin and green eyes like grape pulps. His face had the look of a mean snake.

”We been a-waiting for you,” he said when I got there.

”How come you to know I'd come, Mr. Hoppard?” I asked him.

He did a creaky laugh. ”You know my name, and I don't know yours yet,” he said, ”but we been a-waiting on you. We know when they come.” He grinned, with mossy-green teeth. ”What name might I call you?”

”John.”

We were being watched. Two heads at one of the windows. A toss-haired woman, a skinny man. When I looked at them they drifted back, then drifted up again.

”You'll be the John we hear tell about,” said Hoppard. ”A-sticking your nose in here to find out a tale.”

”The tale of Becky Til Hoppard,” I agreed.

”Poor Becky. They hung her up and cut her down.”

”And buried her below here,” I added on.

”No, not exactly,” he said. ”That stone down yonder just satisfies folks away from the truth. They don't ask questions. But you do-ask questions about my great-great aunt Becky.” He turned his ugly head to the house. ”All right, youins,” he bawled, ”come out there and meet John.”

Those two came. The young man was tall, near about my height, but so ganted he looked ready to bust in two. He wore good pants and s.h.i.+rt, but rumpled and grubby. His eyes were green, too. The girl's frock looked to be made of flowered curtain cloth, and it was down off one rounded bare shoulder. Her tousled hair was as red as if it had been dipped in a mountain sunset. And she looked on me with s.h.i.+ny green eyes like Hoppard's, like the young man's.

”These is my son and daughter,” said Hoppard, a-smirking. ”I fetched them up after my fas.h.i.+on, taught them what counts and how to tell it from what doesn't count. She's Tullai. I call the boy Herod.”

”Hidy,” I told the two of them.

Hoppard got up from the door-log, on crooked legs like a toad's. ”Come on in the house,” he said, and we went in, all four.

The front room was big, with a puncheon floor worn down with G.o.d alone knows how many years, and hooked rag rugs on it. The furniture was home made. I saw a long sofa woven of juniper branches at back and seat, and two stools and an arm chair made of tree chunks, and a table of old planks and trestles. At the back, a sort of statue stood on a little home-made stand. It looked to be chipped from dark rock, maybe three feet high, and it had a grinning head with horns on it. Its eyes were s.h.i.+ny green stones, a kind I didn't know, but the color of Hoppard's eyes.

”Is that a G.o.d?” I inquired of Hoppard.

”Yes, and it's been wors.h.i.+pped here for I can't tell how many generations,” he said. ”Walk all round the room and them eyes keep a-looking on you. Try it.”

I tried it. Sure enough, the eyes followed me into every corner. But I'd seen the same thing to happen with a picture of George Was.h.i.+ngton in a museum, and a photograph of a woman called Mona Lisa.

”You all pray to that idol?” I asked.

”We do, and he answers our prayers,” said the girl Tullai, soft-voiced. ”He sent you to us.”