"Like tainting their memories?"

"Maybe. What do you think about that? Never coming back to your roots so you can be a great writer?"

Lou did not have to ponder this long. "I think it's too big a price to pay for greatness."

Before going to bed each night, Lou tried to read at least one of the letters her mother had written Louisa. One night a week later, as she pulled out the desk drawer she'd put them in, it slid crooked and jammed. She put her hand on the inside of the drawer to gain leverage to right it, and her fingers brushed against something stuck to the underside of the desk top. She knelt down and peered in, probing farther with her hand as she did so. A few seconds later she pulled out an envelope that had been taped there. She sat on her bed and gazed down at the packet. There was no writing on the outside, but Lou could feel the pieces of paper inside. She drew them out slowly. They were old and yellowed, as was the envelope. Lou sat on her bed and read through the precise handwriting on the pages, the tears creeping down her cheeks long before she had finished. Her father had been fifteen years old when he wrote this, for the date was written at the top of the page.

Lou went to Louisa and sat with her by the fire, explained to her what she had found and read the pages to her in as clear a voice as she could: "My name is John Jacob Cardinal, though I'm called Jack for short. My father has been dead five years now, and my mother, well, I hope that she is doing fine wherever she is. Growing up on a mountain leaves its mark upon all those who share both its bounty and its hardship. Life here is also well known for producing stories that amuse and also exact tears. In the pages that follow I recount a tale that my own father told me shortly before he pa.s.sed on. I have thought about his words every day since then, yet only now am I finding the courage to write them down. I remember the story clearly, yet some of the words may be my own, rather than my father's, though I feel I have remained true to the spririt of his telling.

"The only advice I can give to whoever might happen upon these pages is to read them with care, and to make up your own mind about things. I love the mountain almost as much as I loved my father, yet I know that one day I will leave here, and once I leave I doubt I will ever come back. With that said, it is important to understand that I believe I could be very happy here for the rest of my days."

Lou turned the page and began reading her father's story to Louisa.

"It had been a long, tiring day for the man, though as a farmer he had known no other kind With crop fields dust, hearth empty, and children hungry, and wife not happy about any of it, he set out on a walk. He had not gone far when he came upon a man of the cloth sitting upon a high rock overlooking stagnant water. 'You are a man of the soil,' said he in a voice gentle and seeming wise. The farmer answered that indeed he did make his living with dirt, though he would not wish such a life upon his children or even his dearest enemy. The preacher invited the farmer to join him upon the high rock, so he settled himself next to the man. He asked the farmer why he would not wish his children to carry on after their father. The farmer looked to the sky pretending thought, for his mind well knew what his mouth would say. 'For it is the most miserable life of all,' he said. 'But it is so beautiful here,' the preacher replied. 'Think of the wretched of the city living in squalor. How can a man of the open air and the fine earth say such a thing?' The farmer answered that he was not a learned man such as the preacher, yet he had heard of the great poverty in the cities where the folks stayed in their hovels all day, for there was no work for them to do. Or they got by on the dole. They starved- slowly, but they starved. Was that not true? he asked. And the preacher nodded his great and wise head at him. 'So that is starvation without effort,' said the farmer. 'A miserable existence if ever I heard of one,' said the holy man. And the farmer agreed with him, and then said, 'And I have also heard that in other parts of the country there are farms so grand, on land so flat that the birds cannot fly over them in one day.' "This too is true,' replied the other man. The farmer continued. 'And that when crops come in on such farms, they can eat like kings for years from a single harvest, and sell the rest and have money in their pockets.' 'All true,' said the preacher. 'Well, on the slowly, but they starved. Was that not true? he asked. And the preacher nodded his great and wise head at him. 'So that is starvation without effort,' said the farmer. 'A miserable existence if ever I heard of one,' said the holy man. And the farmer agreed with him, and then said, 'And I have also heard that in other parts of the country there are farms so grand, on land so flat that the birds cannot fly over them in one day.' "This too is true,' replied the other man. The farmer continued. 'And that when crops come in on such farms, they can eat like kings for years from a single harvest, and sell the rest and have money in their pockets.' 'All true,' said the preacher. 'Well, on the mountain there are no such places,' said the farmer. 'If the crops come fine we eat, nothing more.' 'And your point?' said the preacher. 'Well, my plight is this, preacher: My children, my wife, myself, we all break our backs every year, working from before the rise of sun till past dark. We work hard coaxing the land to feed us. Things may look good, our hopes may be high. And then it so often comes to naught. And we still starve. But you see, we starve with great effort. Is that not more miserable?' 'It has indeed been a hard year,' said the other man. 'But did you know that corn will grow on rain and prayer?' 'We pray every day,' the farmer said, 'and the corn stands at my knee, and it is September now.' 'Well,' the preacher said, 'of course the more rain the better. But you are greatly blessed to be a servant of the earth.' The farmer said that his marriage would not stand much more blessing, for his good wife did not see things exactly that way. He bowed his head and said, 'I'm sure I am a miserable one to complain.' 'Speak up, my son,' the holy man said, 'for I am the ears of G.o.d.' 'Well,' the farmer said, 'it creates discomfort in the marriage, pain between husband and wife, this matter of hard work and no reward.' The other man raised a pious finger and said, 'But hard work can be its own reward. ' The farmer smiled. 'Praise the Lord then, for I have been richly rewarded all my life.' And the preacher seconded that and said, 'So your marriage is having troubles?' 'I am a wretch to complain,' the farmer said. 'I am the eyes of the Lord,' the preacher replied. They both looked at a sky of blue that had not a drop of what the farmer needed in it. 'Some mountain there are no such places,' said the farmer. 'If the crops come fine we eat, nothing more.' 'And your point?' said the preacher. 'Well, my plight is this, preacher: My children, my wife, myself, we all break our backs every year, working from before the rise of sun till past dark. We work hard coaxing the land to feed us. Things may look good, our hopes may be high. And then it so often comes to naught. And we still starve. But you see, we starve with great effort. Is that not more miserable?' 'It has indeed been a hard year,' said the other man. 'But did you know that corn will grow on rain and prayer?' 'We pray every day,' the farmer said, 'and the corn stands at my knee, and it is September now.' 'Well,' the preacher said, 'of course the more rain the better. But you are greatly blessed to be a servant of the earth.' The farmer said that his marriage would not stand much more blessing, for his good wife did not see things exactly that way. He bowed his head and said, 'I'm sure I am a miserable one to complain.' 'Speak up, my son,' the holy man said, 'for I am the ears of G.o.d.' 'Well,' the farmer said, 'it creates discomfort in the marriage, pain between husband and wife, this matter of hard work and no reward.' The other man raised a pious finger and said, 'But hard work can be its own reward. ' The farmer smiled. 'Praise the Lord then, for I have been richly rewarded all my life.' And the preacher seconded that and said, 'So your marriage is having troubles?' 'I am a wretch to complain,' the farmer said. 'I am the eyes of the Lord,' the preacher replied. They both looked at a sky of blue that had not a drop of what the farmer needed in it. 'Some people are not cut out for a life of such rich rewards,' he said. 'It is your wife you are speaking of now,' the preacher stated. 'Perhaps it is me,' the farmer said. 'G.o.d will lead you to the truth, my son,' the preacher said. Can a man be afraid of the truth? the farmer wanted to know. A man can be afraid of anything, the preacher told him. They rested there a bit, for the farmer had run clear out of words. Then he watched as the clouds came, the heavens opened, and the water rushed to touch them. He rose, for there was work to be done now. 'You see,' said the holy man, 'my words have come true. G.o.d has shown you the way.' 'We will see,' the farmer said. 'For it is late in the season now.' As he moved off to return to his land, the preacher called after him. 'Son of the soil,' he said, 'if the crops come fine, remember thy church in thy bounty.' The farmer looked back and touched his hand to the brim of his hat. 'The Lord does work in mysterious ways,' he told the other man. And then he turned and left the eyes and ears of G.o.d behind." people are not cut out for a life of such rich rewards,' he said. 'It is your wife you are speaking of now,' the preacher stated. 'Perhaps it is me,' the farmer said. 'G.o.d will lead you to the truth, my son,' the preacher said. Can a man be afraid of the truth? the farmer wanted to know. A man can be afraid of anything, the preacher told him. They rested there a bit, for the farmer had run clear out of words. Then he watched as the clouds came, the heavens opened, and the water rushed to touch them. He rose, for there was work to be done now. 'You see,' said the holy man, 'my words have come true. G.o.d has shown you the way.' 'We will see,' the farmer said. 'For it is late in the season now.' As he moved off to return to his land, the preacher called after him. 'Son of the soil,' he said, 'if the crops come fine, remember thy church in thy bounty.' The farmer looked back and touched his hand to the brim of his hat. 'The Lord does work in mysterious ways,' he told the other man. And then he turned and left the eyes and ears of G.o.d behind."

Lou folded the letter and looked at Louisa, hoping she had done the right thing by reading the words to her. Lou wondered if the young Jack Cardinal had noticed that the story had become far more personal when it addressed the issue of a crumbling marriage.

Louisa stared into the fire. She was silent for a few minutes and then said, "It be a hard life up here, 'specially for a child. And it hard on husband and wife, though I ain't never suffered that. If my momma and daddy ever said a cross word to the other, I ain't never heard it. And me and my man Joshua get along to the minute he took his last breath. But I know it not that way for your daddy _ here. Jake and his wife, they had their words."

Lou took a quick breath and said, "Dad wanted you to come and live with us. Would you have?"

She looked at Lou. "You ask me why I don't never leave this place? I love this land, Lou, 'cause it won't never let me down. If the crops don't come, I eat the apples or wild strawberries that always do, or the roots that's there right under the soil, if'n you know where to look. If it snow ten-foot deep, I can get along. Rain or hail, or summer heat that melt tar, I get by. I find water where there ain't supposed to be none, I get on. Me and the land. Me and this mountain. That ain't prob'ly mean nothing to folks what can have light by pushing a little k.n.o.b, or talk to people they can't even see." She paused and drew a breath. "But it means everything to me." She looked into the fire once more. "All your daddy say is true. High rock be beautiful. High rock be cruel." She gazed at Lou and added quietly, "And the mountain is my home."

Lou leaned her head against Louisa's chest. The woman stroked Lou's hair very gently with her hand as they sat there by the fire's warmth.

And then Lou said something she thought she never would. "And now it's my home too."

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR.

FLAKES OF SNOW WERE DROPPING FROM THE BELLIES of bloated clouds. Near the barn there came a whooshing sound and then a spark of harsh light that kept right on growing. of bloated clouds. Near the barn there came a whooshing sound and then a spark of harsh light that kept right on growing.

Inside the farmhouse Lou groaned in the throes of a nightmare. Her and Oz's beds had been moved to the front room, by the coal fire, and they were bundled under crazy quilts Louisa had sewn over the years. In Lou's tortured sleep she heard a noise, but couldn't tell what it was. She opened her eyes, sat up. There came a scratching at the door. In an instant Lou was alert. She opened the door and Jeb burst in, yipping and jumping.

"Jeb, what is it? What's wrong?"

Then she heard the screams of the farm animals.

Lou ran out in her nightshirt. Jeb followed her, barking, and Lou saw what had spooked him: The barn was fully ablaze. She ran back to the house, screamed out what was happening, and then raced to the barn.

Eugene appeared at the front door of the farmhouse, saw the fire, and hurried out, Oz at his heels.

When Lou threw open the big barn door, smoke and flames leapt out at her.

"Sue! Bran!" she screamed as the smoke hit her lungs; she could feel the hairs on her arms rise from the heat.

Eugene fast-limped past her, plunged into the barn, and then came right back out, gagging. Lou looked at the trough of water by the corral and a blanket hanging over the fence. She grabbed the blanket and plunged it into the cold water.

"Eugene, put this over you."

Eugene covered himself with the wet blanket and then lunged back into the barn.

Inside a beam dropped down and barely missed Eugene. Smoke and fire were everywhere. Eugene was as familiar with the insides of this barn as he was with anything on the farm, yet it was as though he had been struck blind. He finally got to Sue, who was thrashing in her stall, threw open the door, and put a rope around the terrified mare's neck.

Eugene stumbled out of the barn with Sue, threw the rope to Lou, who led the horse away with a.s.sistance from Louisa and Oz, and then Eugene went back into the barn. Lou and Oz hauled buckets of water from the spring-house, but Lou knew it was like trying to melt snow with your breath. Eugene drove out the mules and all the cows except one. But they lost every hog. And all their hay, and most of their tools and harnesses. The sheep were wintered outside, but the loss was still a devastating one.

Louisa and Lou watched from the porch as the barn, bare studs now, continued to burn. Eugene stood by the corral where he had driven the livestock. Oz was next to him with a bucket of water to dump on any creep of fire.

Then Eugene called out, "She coming down," and he pulled Oz away. The barn collapsed in on itself, the flames leaping skyward and the snow gently falling into this inferno.

Louisa stared in obvious agony at this ruin, as though she were caught in the flames herself. Lou tightly held her hand and was quick to notice when Louisa's fingers began to shake, the strong grip suddenly becoming impossibly weak.

"Louisa?"

The woman dropped to the porch without a word.

"Louisa!"

The girl's anguished cries echoed across the stark, cold valley.

Cotton, Lou, and Oz stood next to the hospital bed where Louisa lay. It had been a wild ride down the mountain in the old Hudson, gears thrashed by a frantic Eugene, engine whining, wheels slipping and then catching in the snowy dirt. The car almost went over the edge twice. Lou and Oz had clung to Louisa, praying that she would not leave them. They had gotten her to the small hospital in d.i.c.kens, and then Lou had run and rousted Cotton from his bed. Eugene had gone back up to look after Amanda and the animals.

Travis Barnes was attending her, and the man looked worried. The hospital was also his home, and the sight of a dining room table and a General Electric refrigerator had not comforted Lou.

"How is she, Travis?" asked Cotton.

Barnes looked at the children and then pulled Cotton to the side. "She's had a stroke," he said in a low voice. "Looks to be some paralysis on the left side."

"Is she going to recover?" This came from Lou, who had heard everything.

Travis delivered a woeful shrug. "There's not much we can do for her. The next forty-eight hours are critical. If I thought she could make the trip, I'd have sent her on to the hospital in Roanoke. We're not exactly equipped for this sort of thing. You can go on home. I'll send word if her condition changes."

Lou said, "I'm not leaving." And then Oz said the same.

"I think you've been overruled," said Cotton quietly.

"There's a couch right outside," Travis said kindly.

They were all asleep there, each holding the others up, when the nurse touched Cotton's shoulder.

She said softly, "Louisa's awake."

Cotton and the children eased the door open and went in. Louisa's eyes were open, but not much more than that. Travis stood over her.

"Louisa?" said Cotton. There was no answer, not even a hint of recognition. Cotton looked at Travis.

"She's still very weak," Travis said. "I'm amazed she's even conscious."

Lou just stared at her, more scared than she'd ever been. She just couldn't believe it. Her father, her mother.

Diamond. Now Louisa. Paralyzed. Her mother had not moved a muscle for longer than Lou cared to think about. Was that to be Louisa's fate too? A woman who loved the earth? Who cherished her mountain? Who had lived as good a life as one could live? It was almost enough to make Lou stop believing in a G.o.d who could do such a terrible thing. Leaving a person with no hope. Leaving a person with nothing at all really.

Cotton, Oz, Lou, and Eugene had just started their meal at the farmhouse.

"I can't believe they haven't caught whoever burned the barn down," Lou said angrily.

"There's no proof anybody burned it down, Lou," replied Cotton, as he poured the milk and then pa.s.sed the biscuits.

"I know who did it. George Davis. Probably that gas company paid him to."

"You can't go around saying that, Lou, that's slander."

"I know the truth!" the girl shot back.

Cotton took off his gla.s.ses. "Lou, believe me-"

Lou leapt up from the table, her knife and fork clattering down and making them all jump. "Why should I believe anything you say, Cotton? You said my mom was going to come back. Now Louisa's gone too. Are you going to lie and say she's going to get better? Are you?"

Lou ran off. Oz started to go after her, but Cotton stopped him. "Let her be for now, Oz," he said. Cotton got up and went out on the porch, looking at the stars and contemplating the collapse of all he knew.

Flashing across in front of him was Lou on the mare. A startled Cotton could only stare after her, and then horse and girl were gone.

Lou rode Sue hard through the moonlit trails, tree limbs and brush poking and slapping at her. She finally came to Diamond's house and slid down, running and falling until she reached the doorway and plunged inside.

Tears streaming down her face, Lou stumbled around the room. "Why'd you have to leave us, Diamond? Now Oz and I have n.o.body. n.o.body! Do you hear me? Do you, Diamond Skinner!"

A scuffling sound came from the front porch. Lou turned, terrified. Then Jeb raced through the open door and jumped into her arms, licking her face and breathing heavy from his long run. She hugged him. And then the tree branches started rattling against the gla.s.s, and an anxious moan came down the chimney, and Lou held especially tight to that dog. A window banged open, and the wind swirled around the room, and then things grew calm, and, finally, so did Lou.

She went outside, mounted Sue, and headed back, unsure of why she had even come here. Jeb trailed behind, tongue hanging low. She came to a fork in the road and turned left, toward the farm. Jeb started howling before Lou heard the noises herself. The throaty growls and ominous thrashing of underbrush were close upon them. Lou whipped up the horse, but before Sue could get rolling faster, the first of the wild dogs cleared the woods and came straight into their path. Sue reared up on her hind legs as the hideous creature, more wolf than dog, bared its teeth, its hackles straight up. Then another and another came from the woods, until a half dozen circled them. Jeb had his fangs bared and his hackles up too, yet he didn't stand a chance against so many, Lou knew. Sue kept rearing and neighing, and spinning in little circles until Lou felt herself slipping, as the wide body of the mare seemed to grow as narrow as a tightrope, and was also slicked, for the horse was lathered heavily after the long run.

One of the pack made a lunge for Lou's leg, and she pulled it up; the animal collided with one of Sue's hoofs and was temporarily stunned. There were too many of them, though, circling and snarling, ribs showing. Jeb went on the attack, but one of the brutes threw him down and he retreated, blood showing on his fur.

And then another beast snapped at Sue's foreleg and she went up again. And when she came down this time, she was riderless, for Lou had finally lost her grip and landed on her back, the wind knocked from her. Sue took off down the trail for home, yet Jeb stood like a stone wall in front of his fallen mistress, no doubt prepared to die for her. The pack moved in, sensing the easy kill. Lou forced herself up, despite the ache in her shoulder and back. There wasn't even a stick within reach, and she and Jeb moved backward until there was nowhere else to go. As she prepared herself to die fighting, the only thing Lou could think of was that Oz would now be all alone, and the tears welled up in her eyes.

The scream was like a net dropped over them, and the half-wolves turned. Even the largest of them, the size of a calf, flinched when it saw what was coming. The panther was big and sleek, muscles flexing under charcoal skin- It had amber eyes, and fangs showing that were double the size of the near-wolves'. And its claws too were fearsome things, like pitchfork hooked to knuckle. It screamed again when it got to the trail and headed for the wild pack with the power of a loaded coal train. The dogs turned and fled the fight, and that cat followed them, screaming with each graceful stride.

Lou and Jeb ran as hard as they could for home. About a half mile from the house they once more heard the crash of the underbrush next to them. Jeb's hackles went north again, and Lou's heart nearly stopped: She beheld the amber eyes of the cat out of the darkness as it ran parallel to them through the woods. That terrifying animal could shred both girl and hound in seconds. And yet all that thing did was run next to them, never once venturing out of the woods. The only reason Lou knew it was still there was the sounds of its paws against the leaves and undergrowth, and the glow of those luminous eyes, which looked free-floating in the darkness, as black skin blended with stark night.

Lou let out a thankful cry when she saw the farmhouse, and she and Jeb ran to the porch and then inside to safety. No one else was stirring, and Cotton, she a.s.sumed, had probably left long ago. Her chest heaving, Lou looked out the window, but never saw a sign of the beast.

Lou went down the hallway, every nerve still jangling badly. She paused at her mother's door and leaned against it. She had come so close to dying tonight, and it had been awful, more terrible than the car accident even, for she had been alone in her crisis. Lou peered inside the room and was surprised to find the window open. She went in, closed it, and turned to the bed. For one dazed moment she could not find her mother in the covers, and then of course there she was. Lou's breath became normal, the shivers of fear fading as she drew closer to the bed. Amanda was breathing lightly, her eyes closed, fingers actually curled, as though in pain. Lou reached out and touched her and then withdrew her hand. Her mother's skin was moist, clammy. Lou fled the room and b.u.mped into Oz standing in the hall.

"Oz," she said, "you're not going to believe what happened to me."

"What were you doing in Mom's room?"

She took a step back. "What? I-"

"If you don't want Mom to get better, then you should just leave her alone, Lou. Just leave her alone!"

"But Oz-"

"Dad loved you the best, but I'll take care of Mom. Just like she always took care of us. I know Mom will get better, even if you don't."

"But you didn't take the bottle of holy water Diamond got for you."

"Maybe necklaces and holy water won't help Mom, but me believing she'll get better will. But you you don't believe, so just leave her be." don't believe, so just leave her be."

He had never in his life talked to her this way. He just stood there and glared, his thin, strong arms dangling by his sides, like needles at the end of thread. Her little brother really angry at her! She couldn't believe it. "Oz!" He turned and walked away. "Oz," she called again. "Please, don't be mad at me. Please!" Oz never turned around. He went into his room and shut the door.

Lou stumbled to the back of the house, then went out and sat on the steps. The beautiful night, the wondrous i2ht of the mountains, the calls of all kind of wildlife made no impression at all on her. She looked at her hands where the sun had leathered them, the palms rough as oak bark. Her fingernails were jagged and dirty, her hair knotted and lye-soaped to death, her body fatigued beyond her years, her spirit given way to despair after losing almost all those she cared about. And now her precious Oz no longer loved her.

At that moment, the hated mine siren boomed across the valley. It was as though the mountain were shrieking in antic.i.p.ation of the coming pain. The sound seemed to splinter Lou's very soul. And next the rumble of the dynamite came and finished her off. Lou looked to that Cardinal graveyard knoll and suddenly wished she was there too, where nothing else could ever hurt her.

She bent over and wept quietly into her lap. She hadn't been there long when she heard the door creak open behind her. At first she thought it might be Eugene checking on her, but the tread was too light. The arms wrapped around her and held her tight.

Lou could feel her brother's delicate breaths on her neck. She stayed bent over, yet she reached behind her and wrapped an arm around him. And brother and sister stayed there like that for the longest time.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE.

THEY RODE THE WAGON DOWN TO McKENZIE'S MER-cantile, and Eugene, Lou, and Oz went inside. Rol-lie McKenzie stood behind a waist-high counter of warped maple. He was a little ball of a man, with a shiny, hairless head and a long grayish white beard that rested on his slack chest. He wore spectacles of great strength, yet the man still had to squint to see. The store was filled to nearly overflowing with farm supplies and building materials of various kinds. The smell of leather harnesses, kerosene oil, and burning wood from the corner potbelly filled the large s.p.a.ce. There were gla.s.s candy dispensers and a Chero Cola box against one wall. A few other customers were in the place and they all stopped and gaped at Eugene and the children as though they were apparitions come haunting.

McKenzie squinted and nodded at Eugene, his fingers picking at his thick beard, like a squirrel worrying a nut.

"Hi, Mr. McKenzie," said Lou. She had been here several times now and found the man gruff but fair.

Oz had his baseball mitts draped around his neck and was tossing his ball. He was never without them now, and Lou suspected her brother even slept with the things.

"Real sorry to hear 'bout Louisa," McKenzie said.

"She's going to be fine," said Lou firmly, and Oz gave her a surprised look and almost dropped his baseball.

"What can I do for you?" asked McKenzie.

"Got to raise us a new barn," said Eugene. "Got to have us some things."