Chapter XII
Granny Elkins straightened up from her bent over position and studied the boy seated against the concrete and iron of the old bridge above the cut off to Sprig’s Hollow, Tennessee. She saw that he was a wild, skittish thing with great wounded eyes and not quite right. ‘Tetched in the head,’ the old ones called them. She spoke to him gently, putting her basket of herbs down at her feet.
“Where did you hie from, boy? Are you hurt? I’m Cassie Elkins, folks call me Granny,” she prattled away at him like a skittish foal and slowly approached him. He wore only an old, dirty coat over a hospital gown with his bare legs hanging out. Old sneakers were on his feet, minus laces or socks. Both of his wrists were tightly bandaged with some blood seeping through.
She reached out her hand and after some hesitation, the boy took it. She felt the instant electricity and knew he was one of those with sight and what afflicted him.
“Ah,” she sighed, reading his torment. “You was sent to me to learn to shield your mind. Think of a shiny glass ball that thoughts bounce off of. Nothing can enter the mirror, it bounces off.”
She pulled gently and the boy got up with a grunt of effort and walked with her like an old man.
Trucks and neighbors passed by the odd couple as they traveled slowly down the gravel lane to her house in the Hollow. Long before they reached her wooden porch, the entire Hollow knew she had taken in a stray.
She sat him down in the rocker in the kitchen and put him to shelling black-eyed peas with an ease that said he had done it before.
“Huh. You’re a country boy,” she grunted. They worked in a comfortable silence; the only noise in the old maple kitchen was the sound of the peas hitting the bottom of the ceramic bowl and the ticking of the Grandfather clock.
When it banged 4 o’clock, it was she that jumped, the boy sat placidly, not making any eye contact. “UPS will be here soon,” she said and that’s when she noticed the white band on the boy’s arm. He let her look at it as she read his name, birth date and the person responsible for him. Pulling a sharp pair of shears from her pocket, she cut the thing off and put it away where it was hidden.
The honk from the delivery driver did not startle either one, she reached around behind and picked up two butcher paper wrapped parcels and went out to meet the driver. He came in for his customary ice tea with mint sprig and eyed curiously, the silent boy.
“Miz Elkins. Got more Ginseng for that store in NYC? This your grandson come to visit?”
“No.” She didn’t elaborate and he picked up the package and handed her the clipboard to sign.
“See you in a few days,” he said cheerfully and handed her the empty glass. He left and the boy seemed to relax although he had not moved a muscle and she sensed the fear that the boy felt.
“He’s okay,” she said gruffly. “Known him all his life, read his life lines when he was twelve. You hungry?”
She didn’t wait for an answer but busied herself making sandwiches and ice teas for both of them. She put pimento loaf on homemade potato bread with lettuce, tomato and mayo on a plate, added a kosher pickle spear and sliced everything into quarters. She gave him a straw in his ice tea, sat down at the table and blessed their food. She did not wait for him but ate her sandwich neatly, crunching on the crisp pickle between bites. Finishing, she frowned as she locked at the untouched plate in front of the boy.
“You’ve forgotten how?”
She picked up a quarter and held it in front of his face. He leaned over, opened his mouth and she placed the small piece inside. He chewed slowly, not a flicker of emotion crossed his countenance, and he kept his eyes off to the distance.
“I know your name, boy. I know what happened to you so I hid your name band. I won’t call you by that name. How does Mark sound? Well, Mark, you need something to wear. Eat some more.”
It took an hour but she had infinite patience and she saw that he cleaned his plate, drank the entire glass. She took him to the bathroom, pottied him like a baby and washed his face and hands.
He was drooping by that time and she led him up the narrow stairs to the small bedroom with its high, twin iron bedstead, down comforter and crisp cotton sheets.
Digging through the old cherry dresser, she found a set of child’s long johns and put them on his skinny body, lifted him into the bed and covered him.
“Go to sleep, Mark,” she said gruffly. “Remember, in your sleep, the feelings can’t hurt you.”
Fear flickered across his face but then smoothed out. His bandaged hands lay atop the blanket and he seemed lost under the mound of linen. Obediently, he closed his eyes and sank into a dreamless sleep.
Midnight came before she fell asleep in the big bedroom at the back of the house. Moonlight streamed through the big windows as she settled under the quilt she used year round. Mist hugged the bottoms and most times of the year, a chill settled in these low hollows and the older she got, the worse she felt the cold.
She slept only a few hours; it was the sensation of eyes on her that woke her and she sat up to stare at the boy’s silent figure standing at the foot of her bed.
“Can’t sleep?” she asked. “Or nightmares?” She smelled urine and comprehension dawned.
“Ahh,” she sighed. She remembered being so frightened that she’d wet her bed. Throwing back the covers, she got up and took care of the boy and his sheets. She soothed him, made no fuss, knowing that the slightest hint of condemnation would shatter the fragile personality trying to emerge.
He was warm and clean when she was done. His eyed gleamed feral in the dark but she was not afraid of him only for him.
They developed a set routine. Every morning, she woke to find him standing at the foot of her bed; most times dry. If he was not, she knew he’d had a nightmare but in his silent world, he did not scream his terror but endured it quietly which made it worse, she knew.
They ate breakfast, usually an egg from her free range chickens, and then spent the morning feeding the hens, gathering eggs. Lunch was a sandwich and after, long, rambling walks in the woods where she dug for ginseng, morels, fiddle heads and other herbs.
Most of her neighbors were aware that she made a living as an herb woman but would have been surprised to learn that she made a more than comfortable living at it. Her herbs sold as far away as Asia, her ginseng alone was as expensive as $800.00 a pound, known for its potency and extra kick.
Afternoons were reserved for the locals who came by for arthritis remedies, headache powders and tonics. She no longer did the palm readings and love potions; the power she felt when she used her sense awed her yet she knew the boy’s far outweighed her own.
He’d been there two weeks when she decided to walk into town for a treat for him. She didn’t get far up the gravel road before a battered pickup truck stopped and waved.
“Hello, Miz Elkins,” said the grandson of the postman. She’d known him since he was born and he worked at the grocery store. “Need a ride into town?”
“Me and the boy. Won’t be no trouble?”
“Nope. Climb on in.”
She picked up the boy’s hand and gently tugged him forward. When she grabbed the door handle, she received the same impressions that the boy did.
“Picture a mirror, Mark. Bounce the pictures off it.”
She showed him how, touched delicately the outer skin of his mind and helped him build the first fragile barrier.
“Danny Byrd, don’t go out tonight with your friends,” she said abruptly. “If you do, you won’t come home. You die.”
He looked taken aback, swallowed. “How, Granny Elkins?”
“Hit and run, out on Crane Hill Road. Stay home.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He pushed the door open and she put the skinny child next to the window and seat belted him in.
“How’s your stray doing, Miz Elkins?” He put in the clutch and drove off slowly as if he sensed he carried precious cargo.
“He’s eating three meals a day, putting some weight back on. Still won’t talk, won’t make eye contact. He’s learning to be at peace. Somebody done him a powerful bad thing and he’s hunkered down in his head afraid to pull himself out of the hole.”
“If anybody can cure him, Granny, it’ll be you. He’s a pretty boy. Got real unusual eyes. Never seen them that color before, like them purple gemstones. You know his name or where he comes from? Maybe his folks miss him.”
“He ain’t got any folks. And he can’t tell me his name,” she retorted tartly. “You never mind poking your nose into his business or I’ll hex you, Danny Byrd.”
He swallowed. “Didn’t mean nothing, Miz Elkins. Was just curious where he comes from, finding him sitting on the bridge on Sprigs Hollow Rd. in the middle of nowhere.”
“He was sent to me, Danny. He’ll leave when he’s ready.”
She put out her hand to brace against the dashboard as they took Dead Man’s Curve and down the long hill into town.
Set in a scenic valley with a crystal clear trout stream running through the center of the valley was the pretty little town of Sprig’s Hollow. Its stores were eclectic, in well-kept Victorians, its economy firmly based on Tourism not coal mining or forestry like a lot of other towns in Tennessee. Overflow from Memphis and Dollywood stayed in her charming Bed and Breakfasts and Granny sold a lot of herbs and canned goods to the tourist shops.
There were even bus tours out to her place on rare occasions. She enjoyed dressing and acting the part of their preconceived image of the wise old witch woman of the mountains.
Danny let them out at the library and the pair climbed the marble steps to enter the dim wooden hallways. The hush seemed to fold around the boy with welcome arms and she caught his evident interest in the books. On his own volition, he left her side and stroked the leather bindings of the oldest books as if they were old friends.
She left him to find the computer terminals, swiped her library card and went on the Internet to search Google for the boy. What she read startled and amazed her and frightened her. There were many powerful, important and dangerous people searching for the child.
“Mark,” she called and he was there at her side.
“Come on, we need to get you some decent clothes.” She exited the screen and took him to Tigger Blue’s, a unique one of a kind clothing store that featured locally made outfits from fabrics created on home looms, produced by home raised sheep, cashmere and cotton.
He wouldn’t let the clerk touch him but stood nearly naked in the changing room while Cassie Elkins tried on a small wardrobe of shorts, t-shirts and jeans. She brought him everything from socks to underwear, loose comfortable stuff that he could play in and get dirty. She paid the enormous bill with a debit card.
“Ready for some ice cream, Mark?” She murmured and they walked out with delivery arranged for the purchases save for the outfit he now wore.
The ice cream parlor had a line nearly out the door to the sidewalk and she was careful not to let anyone touch or come near to the boy. “Double dip chocolate mint for me,” she announced. “Double dip chocolate heavenly hash. With sprinkles, the rainbow kind.”
The girl behind the counter smiled. “Sugar cone or waffle?”
“Sugar,” she decided. The boy actually reached up to grasp the cone and hold it tightly. Granny gently pushed him past the crowd and to an outside table where they sat under an umbrella with yellow sunflowers and slowly licked their treats. Chocolate dripped down his hands and smeared his face, she watched with silent glee as he made the first attempt to rejoin the world that he had shut out. His face bore a look of enjoyment and a faint contentment that lasted until he licked his fingers and the woman at the next table made a rude comment over his lack of manners and obvious mental state. Granny fumed as the shutter slammed on his face and he retreated behind his mask.
“No wonder your children hate you,” she snapped to the woman and saw her shrink back in her chair. She rose hurriedly and left without giving a backwards glance or other comment. Granny Elkins stroked her hand across the boy’s face and they both stepped onto the sidewalk to start the long walk back home.