Wild Thing

by Vicki Blue

A cold wind blew through the cabin, threatening to extinguish the small flame in the corner potbelly stove - a flame nourished to life by the few remaining scraps of kindling in the wood box.

On the floor, a girl with a wild mane of ash-blonde hair edged along the walls on her hands and knees, searching for the hole that allowed the breeze in. By the ancient rocker - the sturdiest piece of furniture in this shack she called home - she felt a blast of cold hit her face. She blinked hard against it.

“Grandma, I found it!”

“Thank God.” A stooped woman, looking far older than her 63 years, shuffled across the floor and peered down to where light was coming through the wall. “Now to find somethin’ to stuff it with. Where’s that book you‘re always doodling‘ in? We can use a few pages from that.”

“No we ain’t!” The girl’s blue eyes flashed so angrily that the older woman recoiled a bit. “I’ll find somethin else.”

“We ain’t got nothin’ else!” We done used every rag in the house.” The older woman threw up her hands in exasperation.”

Still the girl glared. “Well you aint usin my book.” She sat back then and pulled at the hem of her skirt until she tore a three-inch strip from the fraying hem. Defiantly, she held the scrap up to her grandmother. “See. I found somethin.”

“Now why in the world did you want to go and do that,” the girl’s grandmother erupted. “That’s your last decent dress. It aint like we can go down to town and get you another one. Your dress should be matterin’ more to you than some book you read so much you know it by heart. I swear, Purty, you should have been born a mule.”

“I wish I wuz a mule. Mules get more to eat.” Purty stuffed the rag in the hole and then stood and turned to her grandmother. The old woman was just standing there, hurt swimming in her eyes. The girl sighed and walked over to take her grandmother in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Granny,” she said. “I know you try hard. We both do. I just get sick of trying so much. I’m tired. And if I’m tired at twenty I can’t imagine how tired you must be.”

The older woman put her hands over her face. “I told your mama. I told her when she was dyin I couldn’t do this. But she wouldn’t think of sending you away with anyone who wasn’t family.”

“Grandma.” Purty took the older woman in her arms. “It’s gonna be alright, OK.”

“How can you say that?” her grandmother whined. “We don’t even got no more food.”

“We got yams!” Purty said, trying to sound optimistic. “And I saw them deer near that orchard the other day. I know I can get me a clear shot at one of those fat does I go out this evening..”

“Purty, I know what else you saw over there, too. You told me.” The old woman broke from her granddaughter’s embrace and went over to the kitchen area of the shanty, where she pulled out two sweet potatoes and set them on the counter. “People don’t put ‘No Trespassin’ signs up on property unless they mean it.”

“I ain’t seen nobody over there.” Purty took her patched coat from where it hung on a nail and donned it. “City folk buy up land here all the time. They slap those signs up on it but don’t stop to think us mountain folk can’t go to the store for food like they can. We eat what we can get and if it be on their land then so be it.” She took the gun from the corner where it stood and pulled a box of bullets from the shelf, removing and pocketing a handful. “Besides. Once they buy the land they don’t come back to it. Mr. Jenkins told me that’s called an ‘investment.’ Folks buy stuff and sell it later for more money.”

“Well it sounds crazy to me. ‘A fool and his money are soon parted.’ That’s what my Pa told me. The safest place for it is in the mattress.” The old woman walked over and pulled the collar of the coat tight around her granddaughter’s neck. “If you think it’s safe I won’t stop you.” She smiled, the edges of her eyes crinkling. “Besides. I’m getting’ tired of possum and rabbit. Not that I‘m complainin.’ The Lord has provided.”

“No Grandma. We’ve provided for ourselves.. Since I was a little kid I set the snares that caught us our food. And you’ve provided with the gardens you’ve planted. God ain’t had nothing to do with it.”

The old woman raised her hands and when another pained expression crossed her wrinkled face, her granddaughter softened and hugged her. “Let’s not fight. Especially not this time of the year - not so near Christmas.. We’ll never agree on this. I’ll bring us home some venison, OK? Why don’t you bake some bread to go with it.”

The old woman pulled the shawl tight around her shoulders as she watched her granddaughter walk down the rickety porch steps. When Alma Cain’s only daughter, Mae, had died, she’d wanted to die, too. It was Purty, who kept her going. The seven-year-old had put off her own grief and anger to deal with Alma’s. Alma had been overwhelmed by loss. Purty’s paternity had never been known and since her birth the trio had lived in Alma’s tiny house. Mae, left heart-broken by being so poorly used by a man, had sworn them off and prayed throughout her pregnancy that she’d not give birth to a son for fear the boy would look like his dad. She’d screamed in agony and fear through a difficult delivery, but when she looked between her infant’s legs she rejoiced that her prayers had been answered.

For Alma, the baby represented another mouth to feed. But it was hard not to fall in love with such a beautiful baby. Family was what mattered most, after all, and since Alma’s husband had died she felt grateful to have Mae and Purty. Alma had always believed one was only truly poor without family so in that regard - despite the meager lifestyle she’d always lived - she’d felt rich. When the mobile free clinic misdiagnosed her daughter’s appendicitis as flu, the reality of Mae’s condition came too late to get help. It was during a snowstorm that the young woman’s appendix had burst, a horror followed by the septicemia that had killed her.

Alma had laid on the floor by the bed for hours and had only come to her senses later when she looked out to see a grim-faced Purty trying to dig a grave in the hard ground outside. It was then that she realized the magnitude of honoring Mae’s deathbed wish. While Purty seemed strong, she would carry the scars of her mother’s death the rest of her life. There would be anger. And defiance. Alma, who had been blessed with the Gift of Sight could see it on the horizon, sense it the way one senses a coming storm. But what could she do? She’d promised her daughter, and the child was the only family she had left.

It had taken them hours of work to dig the grave and even after they’d burned the soiled bedding and scrubbed the floors, the scent of death had still clung to the cabin. But through it all, Purty had not cried. She’d merely sniffed occasionally, and when she did her grandmother would take her into her arms and encourage her to cry. “It’s OK,” she’d say to Purty. “It’s OK to cry for your mama. Just know she’s with God.”

But Purty would only push her away. “There is no God, Grandma. Don’t you go tellin’ me there is.”

The words had stung Alma Cain, for she had always had a strong faith in the Lord. “I’ll give her time,” she thought, “for that’s what Purty needs. Love. Time. Prayer.” But the passage of each year only seemed to harden the girl’s heart until all Alma was left with was the hope only fervent prayer could bring.

Now she sometimes wondered if she’d live to see her granddaughter’s faith restored. A hard life had left her arthritic, and each season saw her a little more stooped and gnarled than the previous one. The herbal remedies that had always been so dependable no longer completely eased the pain and swelling in her joints. More and more she’d come to rely on Purty to bring in food and firewood. It brought Alma solace that she could still cook and do other household chores, but she fretted that such a beautiful girl as her granddaughter had no aspirations beyond living in a cabin with an old woman and haunting the woods, drawing pictures of what she saw.

Alma noted that Purty had taken her sketch book along with the gun and could imagine her sitting in one of the blinds she made, sketching chipmunks and squirrels as she waited for a deer to come into view.

She’d never told Purty, but she was sure that the girl’s artistic talent had come from the father who’d never stuck around long enough to see her born. He was an artist, and had given Mae several thick sketchbooks, some paints and pencils in the hopes that she would adopt his interest. The simple and lovely Mae had not; sex turned out to be their only bond, and a thin one at that.

Mae had refused to throw the art supplies away and had put them in a box under the bed where they stayed until the day Purty turned twelve. There had been no money for a gift, so Alma pulled the things from under the bed and given them to her granddaughter, explaining that they’d been a gift from her father to her mother.

Purty had immediately put pencil to paper with such a natural proficiency that Alma was left in awe. Over the years, there had been money for pencils, but not paint. So the industrious Purty had made her own from plant extracts. The brushes had held up well, but she’d made more in other sizes she needed, using the hair from trapped stoats and weasels.

Alma, who had at first been hesitant about giving her the gift, had sense been glad she had. Purty’s creativity. It gave the girl joy to draw and paint what she saw; Alma could only hope that one day the girl would look at her sketches and see in them the gift God had granted her.

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Anyone watching Drew Copeland clearing undergrowth would be more likely to think him a seasoned woodsman than the spiritual leader of a thriving non-denominational congregation.

Despite the chill, he’d shed his coat and his muscles strained against his shirt as he wielded the axe, putting his 6’4” frame into each powerful swing. He’d just felled yet another tree when he heard the found of footsteps. It was Calvin, walking towards him with a hammer under one arm.

Calvin, lacking his brother’s fitness, huffed and puffed as he came up the rise. “That’s it, Drew. The last of the No Trespassing signs are up.”

Drew leaned his axe against a stump and wiped the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve. “Good. I hate to have to even have to post them but the sooner the locals realize this place is off limits the better. They’re welcome to visit - unarmed - once the land’s been established as a retreat.”

“Yeah, gun-totin’ hillbillies running amuck across the grounds could be a problem.” Calvin sat down on the ground and looked around. “Not to be insulting, but that’s got to be all that lives back here.”

Drew smiled. “Well, I prayed we’d find a remote place and this is what the Lord showed me. Hopefully the local residents will warm up to us once we’re established and able to reach out to the community. Besides, who in the community would be hostile to us in the Christmas season?”

His brother shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t see much community down there. The nearest thing that passes for a town is like, what, seven miles away? Are you sure you heard the Lord right when he said this was the right place?”

Drew grinned at his brother, his teeth gleaming white in his handsome face. “Absolutely sure. I heard him as clear as I’m hearing you.”

“Whatever you say, Reverend.” Calvin said. He was completely unfazed by his brother’s claim. Some may have found it odd, but Calvin believed his brother’s words entirely. Since Drew had been a small boy he’d had a sense of purpose peculiar to one so young. He’d lacked the mischievousness of his peers and had an exceptional sense of right and wrong that served as an example for others. He rejected vice and temptation, but not in a way that ever came across as sanctimonious or preachy. It surprised no one when he became leader of a youth group that grew and grew as he attended seminary until it evolved into a full-fledged, spirit-filled church.

“Reverend Drew” was more than a man of faith; he was a man of action, insisting that the congregation pay for the modest sanctuary as it was built. Debt, he admonished, was for the worldly and a church’s building must not be richly adorned but humble. What riches the church accumulated were to be shared with the downtrodden in the spirit of Christ.

His message drew in more and more and more people and as the work of the church grew, so did Drew’s vision for it. And when he’d announced that God was calling him to build a retreat for those who needed a quiet place to find the Lord the congregation had been fully supportive. He and the church board had looked at several parcels of land, some more accessible and less rocky. But when he first saw the West Virginia acreage with the afternoon sun slanting through the trees, he recognized it from his dreams.

But there was a lot of work ahead of Drew and his congregation and he knew it. The land had to be cleared and the trees used to erect cabins strong enough to withstand the winter snow pack. But he embraced the work fervently, his efforts part praise and part supplication to a God who had not yet granted him the one thing he truly desired: a wife.

It wasn’t that Rev. Drew Copeland lacked female attention. Every single woman in his church from budding teens to middle-aged widows harbored a secret guilt for desiring their pastor. But in a sea of eligible women who wanted him, the pastor knew that to pick one would cause jealousy and anger among the others. So he prayed for God to bring him a woman from outside the congregation, a woman who would fully understand and accept that God’s plan called for man to be head of the household.

But now he had other things to occupy his thoughts, like whether or not there were enough big trees on the property to build all three cabins and if not how much it would cost to haul lumber into the mountains.

Drew was discussing this possibility with Calving when he realized his brother had stopped listening and was instead staring at something further down the hill from where they were sitting.

“Calvin, what in the world are you staring at?” Drew craned his neck and began peering into the woods, trying to see what his brother saw.

“Deer,” said Calvin. “Three of them, and big, too. Look it’s a buck and two ---”

A shotgun report interrupted his sentence, shattering both the stillness of the woods and the trunk of a sapling less than three yards to their right.

Drew leapt to his feet, instinctively grabbing his brother as he did and hauling him away from where the shotgun shell and impacted.

“Hey! Hey!” he called. “Hold you’re fire! There are people up here!”

“What the ---?” Calvin was still confused, his face ashen as he looked from the tree to the direction from where the shot had come. The sound of crows and deer crashing through the underbrush was the only sounds they could hear now. “Crazy hillbillies,” he said.

Drew shot him a disapproving look. “Well, these crazy hillbillies -as you call them -are our neighbors. They were obviously aiming at he deer and possibly don’t realize the land has been put off limits.”

“They’re probably too illiterate to read the signs,” grumbled Calvin.

“All the more reason to go down and talk to the guy.” Drew began walking, tugging his brother along as he went.

But Calvin pulled away, his face a mask of disbelief. “What? Are you crazy? We can’t go down there. Haven’t you ever seen that move Deliverance?”

Drew snorted. “That’s fiction,” he said. “These are just mountain people and most of them are strong in faith. I’m sure whoever fired that shot will understand if we ask them to restrict their hunting to less hallowed ground. Come on.”

He began walking down the mountain, trailed by a grumbling Calvin. “You’ll see,” Drew said. “It’ll be some kid or something.” He stopped then and pointed. “See? There he is.”

Calvin scanned the hillside until he saw what had captured his brother’s attention - a slight grey-coated figure kneeling on the ground, its face obscured by a floppy brown hat. The hunter, which he now judged to be a teenaged boy, as fiddling with a gun that appeared to be jammed.

“Hi there, young fella,” Drew said as he approached. “Need some help getting your gun unjammed?”

The figure shook his head but didn’t otherwise respond or otherwise acknowledge the pair.

Calvin shot Drew a look, which his brother ignored.

“You may not be aware, but you almost killed us when you fired on those three deer. You hit a tree just a few feet away from us, so this is probably a good time to tell you that’s just the kind of danger we worried about when we posted the land. See, this whole area is going to be a church retreat.”

The figure on the ground tensed and looked up. When it did, the Reverend Drew Copeland found himself staring down at the prettiest - and angriest - face he’d ever seen.

“How nice,” Purty sneered. “Ya’ll rich city folks can all sit and read your Bibles while the local folks starve.” She looked down at her gun. “Now I wish my aim had been worse. Then maybe I could have hit you.”

“Hey,” said Calvin, taking a step forward, but Drew put a hand up to stay his advance.

“Calm down, brother,” he said. “This young lady is just angry, but that’s because she doesn’t know us. Once she does she’ll realize we want nothing more than to be good neighbors.” Drew held out his hand. “Miss, let me introduce myself. I’m Reverend Drew Copeland.”

Drew held out his hand, smiling down at the girl. He waited as she stared at it as if she’d never been offered a handshake before. “Patience,” he said to himself. “Patience.”

But it wasn’t a handshake that he got. In fact, he wasn’t sure what had happened until he was down on his knees, as the stabbing pain in his crotch writhed like a snake into his lower abdomen. Drew tried to rise, but fell over, groaning in agony.

“She kicked you!” Calvin said in disbelief. “That little creature kicked you!” He knelt down beside his wounded brother, gently helping him back to a kneeling position. “Are you all right?”

“I don’t know!” Drew said, gasping. The girl had scored a direct hit on his left testicle. He felt overcome with the need to wretch and closed his eyes against the urge.

“Do I need to go get help?”

“No,” said Drew. “Just give me a few minutes.”

Calvin sat looking helplessly at his brother until Drew managed to slowly go from sitting to standing. When he saw Drew take a few hobbling steps he breathed a sigh of relief.

“Praise the Lord,” he said. “You can walk. Let’s get out of here.”

“Not yet,” said Drew.

“What do you mean?” asked Calvin.

Drew leaned down and picked something up from the leaves - a book. “Our little friend left something behind. It’ll give me just the excuse I need to go complete some unfinished business.”

“You’re kidding, right?” Calving asked.

“No,” said Drew, donning his coat and tucking the book inside. “I need to return this book to our new neighbor.”

But Drew wasn’t about to tell his brother the primary motivation for visiting his assailant. As he’d been writing in pain on the ground, he’d gotten another message from the Lord: the girl who’d kicked Drew was destined to become his wife.

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