October

October 2, Monday

Again, it was time. Eliza waited; Joe struck the table; the meeting had begun.

“Come to order. Go ahead, Patsy.”

The names were called and answered. The first vote was taken.

Then Joe spoke. “Next is receiving public comment.” She prepared herself to listen; there would be much to hear.

She had become familiar with this way of speaking. It was ritual speech, not what was used commonly. Each one spoke as if from their heart, as if what they said was well accepted and apparent, as if everything was one color. The rhythm of the words was ritual, the emotion hopeful or fearful, angry or thoughtful. In the first months Eliza had mistaken that the speaking was heartfelt; now she understood it was only ceremonial, for no one truly believed what was said; and everyone listening, and the speaker, understood that the words should not be thought of as truth.

There was some said about The Factory and The Zoning, and there was much said about The Shopping Center, and much more said about The Road, and the future and the past and jobs and values and life. Many spoke of The Mountain.

Ayawisgi.

Eliza listened, to what the speakers said, and to what was spoken through them. She heard the unheard voices and knew the unseen speakers and felt the conflict rising like a flood.

There would soon be violence.

What was her part? The Warrior said as always, but with increasing strength and anger, Do not desecrate, do not defile, do not violate.

Finally she closed her eyes and withdrew. The tempest was too great. She was only pulled back by Joe’s voice, like gravel.

“We will continue with our agenda now.”

This was the next ritual. Many statements of very obscure meaning, each followed by a few words by Louise or another, then a vote. And as always, she heard nothing.

“Eliza?”

“I vote no.”

And she even smiled. Were the words as murky to the Warrior as they were to her? He offered her no guidance on any of them.

But then there was a discussion she did understand, in part.

“Now we have a request from Mr. Roland Coates for a zoning change for his commercial property on Hemlock Street in Wardsville. Could you describe this, Steve?”

“I could try.”

There was already a weariness in the room, but those listening came awake.

“Mr. Coates is presently functioning under a special-use permit,” Steve Carter said. “It allows him to operate the factory, but it does not allow any substantial changes to the size or use of the structures. Now, Mr. Coates, you’ll correct me if I get any of this wrong?”

“I sure will.” Roland Coates was watching, very awake.

“Okay. Mr. Coates is involved in some business deals where it might be necessary to make substantial changes. Due to the confidential nature of the deals, he can’t specifically tell us what the changes would be. So the request will be to grant a new special-use permit. It would be for any industrial or commercial structure and use, with specifics to be added within twelve months. That’s all correct?”

“That’s what I want,” Roland Coates said.

“Let me get this straight,” Randy McCoy said. “We’re voting to let Mr. Coates do anything he wants, and he’ll tell us later what it is?”

“That’s about it,” Steven Carter said.

“Is that even legal for us to do?”

“I don’t know. It doesn’t seem like it should be.”

Joe spoke. “This comes from the Planning Commission without a recommendation for or against.”

“Right,” Steve said. “We only had two members present, so we couldn’t vote. By the way, Joe, do you think we could maybe get some new people on the commission? We have one vacancy and it seems like some of the other members aren’t that interested.”

“We’ll put that on the agenda,” Joe said. “We’ll have to find someone. Now on this special use request, What would you say, Lyle?”

“Well, Joe.” Lyle was such a funny man! “It’s special use. You can kind of do what you want.”

“Joe.” This was Louise. “I think we should try, at least. I know especially in Mountain View that people are worried what might happen, but Mr. Coates has been here his whole life, and I don’t think he’ll do anything that would hurt anyone else. I don’t think he’s trying to fool anyone, either. I think it really is that he can’t tell us.

Louise turned to look out at the audience. “And I’ll say something else that might make people think twice about rejecting the request. Everybody knows Mr. Coates is all for Gold River Highway, but I just wonder about this zoning. Maybe if he got the zoning he wanted, he wouldn’t need the road as much.”

“How would that work?” Randy asked.

“I’m just sort of thinking it. It’s not that I know.”

“Or,” Randy said, “maybe you do know but you can’t say it, the same way Roland can’t say it, either, and since Byron works there you might have heard some of what’s supposed to happen.”

“Oh, just never mind!” Louise said, with an anger that surprised Eliza. “I just think we should vote.”

“Is there a motion?” Joe said.

“I move,” Louise said. “Joe? What if it fails?”

“He would have to wait two years before he can apply again, unless there is a substantial change in the application.”

“Would approving the road count as a change?”

“That would count,” Joe said. “Is there a second?”

“I’ll second,” Steve said. “If we don’t vote tonight, the Planning Commission will get it back.”

“Go ahead, Patsy.”

“Mrs. Brown?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Carter?”

“No.”

“Mr. Esterhouse?”

“No.”

“Eliza?”

Of course, it all meant very little. She only knew that for Louise, and for Roland Coates, it meant very much.

“I vote yes.”

“Mr. McCoy?”

“Good gravy.”

Randy seemed confused; Eliza had come to recognize this in him. Did he ever receive guidance?

“I guess the right thing, not knowing where we stand on the highway itself, is to vote . . . um, no.”

It was a struggle for him to say this, but those listening had no struggle. Eliza hadn’t seen this type of celebration at a meeting.

“That’s two in favor, three opposed,” Patsy said.

“Motion fails,” Joe said. “And our last item is a report on renovations to this meeting room.”

“Oh.” Steve said this after a wait. “The plywood. I looked at it before the flood. I think we could take it down. I just didn’t want to do it by myself. It’s heavy.”

“I’ll have Kyle help you,” Randy said.

“Anything else?” Joe said. “Then this meeting is adjourned.”

“Now, Louise,” Randy said, finding her there in her big coat at the back door, “I just want to say I do appreciate everything you said up there about Roland and his factory and all, and I just hate having to choose between Mr. Coates, who is such a pillar of our community, and my friends and neighbors, but it seemed like, with the votes we’ve had all going against Mountain View, they really deserved to have their way for once.”

“I was just hoping so much we could get the zoning the way Mr. Coates wanted it,” she said. “And then we wouldn’t need that road.”

“Do you really think it would have worked out that way?”

“It might have. Mr. Coates did say a few things to Byron that we’re not supposed to let out. Now I don’t know what to do! I don’t want that new Regency place, with a big road running right out of town to it, and Byron is beside himself worrying that the factory’s going to close down, and he’s so worn out working these long shifts.”

“I’ve been hearing about all that,” Randy said. “It sounds like they’re building the biggest pile of desks and bookshelves there’s ever been.”

“It’s all just going into that warehouse in back,” Louise said. “They can’t sell it all. I just don’t know what’s going to happen!”

“I’m expecting Roland to express his disappointment to me,” Randy said. “Maybe Everett will have a kind word, to make up for it.” Then he noticed something out in the parking lot that took his mind completely off Roland and Everett and even the road. “Well, now, look at that.”

Eliza was standing, straight as a telephone pole like she always did, and the young man who’d driven her to the meeting was sitting in his car, and the hood was up.

“She’s having trouble?” Louise said. “Let’s see if she needs help.”

“She’s got help. Don’t you see who’s there under the hood?”

Joe didn’t even try fixing new cars. But old cars without all the gadgets, sometimes just the smell could tell what was wrong with them.

And he couldn’t just walk past and leave them.

“Try it again,” he said.

The boy turned the key.

Joe stood up and came back to lean in the window. “Pump, I’d say.”

“Fuel pump?”

“There’s no gas even getting to the engine. You got gas in the tank?”

“Yeah.” The boy had his hair tied in a long tail. But the car had been taken care of properly.

“Had any trouble with the pump before?”

“No, but it’s old. I was going to replace it.”

“They go sudden like that,” Joe said.

“Is that garage down the block open?”

“Not since the flood. You’d have to go to Marker to get it fixed, or Asheville.”

“I can fix it. I just need a new pump.”

“Might be that Gabe could get you one. Or the junk yard.”

“Yeah. Okay. So I need to figure what to do now.”

“Do you need a ride?”

“I can stay in town. I just need a ride for Eliza.”

“Thank you,” Eliza said. Joe Esterhouse closed the door for her and she watched him walk around to his own door. What hard work this truck had seen! It was written on the seat and the steering wheel and the doors how many miles there had been, and with what effort.

Joe sat beside her and started the engine. “Where do you live?”

“Do you know Cherokee Hollow?”

He only nodded. Then he began his driving.

She sat with him in silence. She could always see something of the interior of a woman or a man, but Joe Esterhouse was only a wall. He had always been that to her, from the moment she had met him. She had assumed there was anger behind the wall, at first, but now she couldn’t tell at all.

“Where’s Gulotsky from?”

There had been ten minutes of silence as she had tried to understand anything in him. Now he was looking into her!

“At first it was Ganolvsga.”

“That’s Cherokee.”

“Yes. But too hard. A government man changed it so he could write it more easily.”

Then he said, “Wind.”

She was surprised! Did he really know?

“The wind blows. And I was Ayetsasdi. Laughter! No one knows those words anymore.”

“There were still people speaking it seventy years ago.”

“My parents did, and my husband too.”

Then silence again. Dark, also. They turned from the paved road to the old road, and he slowed. There was no sign whether he had driven this road before.

“All the way to the end,” she said.

“Not much back there.”

“Just me!”

“You aren’t with your husband now?”

“He died. Many years ago.”

Through the last trees and to the stream, and the truck stopped. Joe got out and came around to her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’ll be all right now.”

“If you don’t mind, I’ll check inside for you.”

This was an act of courtesy. She led him to the steps and to the door and opened it for him.

He had a flashlight, suddenly very bright, and he searched the whole room. This was more than courtesy.

“I will be all right,” she said again.

He stepped forward to see better into corners. He was looking into her—deeply! But she wasn’t fearful of him. The flashlight went dark, and it was very dark, and the moonlight filled the room very slowly.

“You’re here alone?” he asked.

“Yes. But there isn’t danger.”

“I don’t like that boy’s fuel pump breaking.”

She didn’t understand. “Zach’s car?” She lit the kitchen candle.

“You need to be taking care,” he said. “At least until this road vote is over.”

“The road.” She could see Joe’s face, for the first time since the meeting. “What power does it have? There is such anger and war over it.”

“There’s no trouble like there is with a road.” He stared into the candle’s single light. “Greed and fear and hate. And each one having his own way. Will you be voting no on it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’ll be safer if you do, and if you let people know it.”

“Safer?”

He turned to look outside. The flashlight pushed aside the dark.

“What did you have planted?” His light had found the garden.

“Oh, everything! Here.” She lifted the curtain to the pantry closet.

Joe turned back to the room and turned off the light. “Rose cans about that much.”

“I’ve only finished. There is so much.”

“Why do you say you’re safe here?”

“I am safe.” It seemed he would understand. “The Warrior. This is his place.”

“Ayawisgi?”

“You . . . know?”

He nodded his head, not in agreement, but in acknowledgment of what surrounded them. “Ayawisgi, Warrior, that’s what the word means. The mountain.”

“The strength of the mountain. Its spirit. Its purpose. It is the Warrior, the Ayawisgi.”

“Is that from your parents? They were Cherokee?”

“My father taught me. Do you know about the ancient spirits?”

“I know of them. They aren’t right for churchgoing people.”

“You think they don’t exist.”

“It might be they do.” He walked out to the porch, to stare at the peak above them, pale under the moon. “There’s evil behind this road.”

“The Warrior is against this road.”

“There’s evil on that side, too.”

She accepted Zach’s ridicule, and even Jeanie’s disapproval. She had never heard a man who understood in this way.

“The ancient powers aren’t good or evil, they only are.”

“No.” He said it with certainty. “They’ll be one or the other. And what’s not good is evil.”

“What is good?” She didn’t believe him.

“Only the Lord’s good.”

Which Lord? He had said it simply, as if anyone would know what he meant. She remembered—at the funeral for Wade Harris—how she had felt.

“I don’t understand.”

“You should be careful, Eliza. Good night.”

October 6, Friday

“You’re home?” Louise went running into the front hall.

“We’re home,” Byron said, with Matt right behind him. “Both of us.”

“Did Mr. Coates let you out early?”

“Mr. Coates just let us out, period,” Byron said. “No Saturday work tomorrow, and half shifts next week, and Matt’s laid off.”

“Laid off? What’s wrong?”

“It’s okay, Grandma. The job was only for a few weeks.”

“It’s not okay.” Byron stomped past them toward the television. “Mr. Coates is giving up, and that’s what’s wrong.”

Louise went running after him. “Giving up?”

“That’s what he said. Said he’s run out of money, and he has a warehouse full he can’t sell, and he’s not going to make payroll for this last week.”

Matt was in the kitchen and Louise was right by Byron. “You’re not getting a paycheck?”

“The man’s trying as hard as he can! But nothing’s working out for him. He thought maybe he’d got one of the store chains to take a shipment, but it fell through. And there’s more. He called me up to his office to talk.”

“Just you?”

“Just me, except he wanted you to know. He said he talked to the people buying the factory to tell them how high production had been with all the extra shifts, and how that might prove they wouldn’t need to expand the factory to get what they wanted out of it.”

“What did they say back to him?”

“It just wouldn’t make a difference. They want the road and they want the zoning and that’s that.”

“Oh, Byron!”

“And that’s that with the whole shebang. At least we’ll all get a rest now. And he says he’ll get caught up on payroll as soon as he can.”

“We’ll make do,” Louise said. “But what am I going to do with you?”

Eliza was silent. Zach beside her followed the old roads, circling the mountain. These were roads that had been before roads were driven, or ridden. They climbed: the road, the car, them; through the northern gap, and the vale of swift Galvquodi was beneath them Now Galvquodi, the sacred, was called Gold River, and with the gold leaves and gold light, it was a good name. The whole world of the valley was gold and black, and the sun was far to the west.

They descended.

The road was never straight, and its distance was never in sight. But it continued and they followed it. When there were turns, Zach knew his way.

Above, the sun descended. The gold became dull and red, and the trees dark silhouettes, and the ridgelines just lines in the mist.

Ahead, a thick, rounded spire was above the trees, and the road curved to it. This crossroads was called Tyrol Church.

They reached it quickly and Zach stopped beside another car.

He opened her door for her and held her hand as she stood. Then they walked together.

Cornelia stood to meet them. All around stood stones.

“Thank you. Eliza.”

“Cornelia.”

“Thank you for coming.”

“Of course!”

They sat on the stone bench, side by side. Zach withdrew, to his car, to wait.

“I don’t know why—I needed someone.”

“I do know.”

“How did you feel?” Cornelia asked.

“How you are feeling now.”

“Does it ever end?”

“It changes.”

Cornelia led her the few steps to the stone that had Wade’s name. “Today is our anniversary. Wade said we’d go on a trip.” Then silence and growing dark. “This is as far as we got.” Her finger touching the stone. “The end of the road. Why? Where does the road go? Here? Is this all? Does it really go nowhere?”

“Life doesn’t end,” Eliza said. She felt the cold of the questions and the mist all around her.

“But it has.”

“It just becomes different.”

“Then it isn’t life. Life is talking to him and being with him.”

Eliza only knew what she had been told, by her family, by the Warrior. But now it seemed hollow.

It had all become so cold.

She knew these churches and of the people who had built them, who had fought and buried the ancient knowledge. Now she stood in their shadow and fought herself with the knowledge she had.

“I don’t know,” Eliza said.

October 10, Tuesday

“Sue Ann, does it ever happen to you that you hear something, or see something, or both, and maybe you think there’s something strange, or odd, at least, about it, or maybe you don’t even, but it’s just poking around back there in your brain, and you don’t even know it is, and then all of a sudden, just for no reason, you figure it out or have some new idea about it, or just see it different?”

The two of them were cleaning up in the kitchen together after one of Sue Ann’s wonderful dinners.

“No,” she said.

“Well, I do,” Randy said, “and in fact I just have.”

“What was it?”

“It’s about Everett Colony and Wade Harris.” Neither of those was the happiest person to think about, and the combination even less so, but it was strange enough to mention. “And this is from something Ed Fiddler said. Everett Colony took fifty thousand dollars, cash, out of the bank on a Friday back in the spring, went to see Wade Harris that Sunday night, and came back to the bank Monday morning and put the money back in. And Cornelia said Wade didn’t have a chance to tell her what they talked about, but it left him real thoughtful. And that Monday night was when he had his accident.”

“What does that mean, Randy?”

“I wish I knew. But does seem strange, though, doesn’t it?”

October 13, Friday

“Here they come!”

Louise came running up to the front of the salon to look out over Becky’s shoulder, but she couldn’t see anything over the people all up and down the sidewalk.

Boom, boom, boom.

“I hear them,” she said, and pushed out into the crowd.

Oh, they needed something to cheer everyone up. She needed something!

The last week had been a disaster! Byron home at noon every day. He was at such aimless loose ends and grouchy by evening, she knew that wasn’t going to work at all. So then she’d just gone to the salon for the mornings and been home with him afternoons, and that was hardly better. And Matt had gone home to Angie’s, so it was just the two of them. Too bad he wasn’t here to watch.

There they came!

Out from behind the post office, at the front, was Gordon Hite in his sheriff’s car with the light flashing.

Whoop! whoop! to break a person’s ears. Why did he have to do that?

Then three pickups loaded with hay bales and the homecoming court sitting and standing in them, waving and smiling. They were so cute!

After them were the cars and trucks pulling floats, mostly trailers with plywood cutouts of a Cherokee doing something mean to a lion, with students throwing candy from behind signs for Wardsville Drugstore or the Imperial Diner or whoever was sponsoring them.

And all the time the drums and trombones getting louder, and finally there was the band in their red and gold uniforms just like an army! Forty of them playing their hearts out as loud as they could.

Louise’s heart was fluttering itself!

She waved her American flag as hard as she could.

Then there were the Boy Scout and Girl Scout troops, and the Future Farmers of America, and the 4-H club, and Grace Gallaudet in a car with the top down representing the founding family of Wardsville. And last was the fire truck with the whole football team sitting along the top and the cheerleading squad in front, and everyone on the sidewalk cheered their loudest.

What could be more exciting?

“I think that was the best ever,” she said to Becky as the last of the parade turned the corner and headed up the hill to the high school.

October was going as hard as it could, every tree putting its whole heart into color, and not a cloud in the sky all day. And now it was dark, Randy was sitting on the forty-yard line, four rows up, and there were four big galaxies of stars on telephone poles at the four corners of the field, brighter than it had been at noon, and the sky blacker than midnight.

“There he is,” Randy said to Sue Ann, pointing at the players galloping out from the locker rooms, and Kyle right at the head of them all.

“Cherokees, Cherokees, roar!” The crowd was on its feet doing just what the cheerleaders were telling them, and almost every person had on the school colors. Sue Ann had on her blue and yellow sweater he’d bought her when they were still just high school sweethearts.

They called out the names of the starters, and Kelly ran out from the other cheerleaders to give her brother a kiss on the cheek when they called his name, and the crowd thought that was so cute they gave the two of them another big roar, and Gordon Hite topped off the cheering with a whoop from his sheriff’s cruiser siren. Then the band was striking up the national anthem and all the hats came off, and everyone was singing, and then there was the biggest roar of all.

“Hoarde hasn’t lost yet this year,” said a voice behind him.

Even Luke Goddard wasn’t going to make a dent in this evening. “They haven’t played Jefferson County yet,” Randy said to him, and turned back to watch.

Hoarde County won the coin toss, and the Cherokee defense got down to business. They did a fine job of it, too, a good four and out, and then Kyle came pounding out, as confident and assured as an army general, with his troops behind him.

They didn’t huddle on that first play. But right as they lined up, Kyle must have seen something he didn’t like with the way the other team was set, or something he did like.

“He’s calling an audible!” Randy almost couldn’t believe it. Here it was the very first time they touched the ball, and the boy was dropping the play the coach had sent him in with and was calling his own. Jimmy Balt took off in motion to the right side.

“Hike!” The whole field heard him, and Jimmy was off like a shot, with half the Hoarde County defense after him, and the other half scrambling in over Kyle’s line. It had been a good try, but he’d signaled too strong he was passing, and Jimmy was never going to get clear, and the pocket was crumbling.

Then Kyle swung left and let off with a rocket, and Kenny Fiddler was as wide open as a yawn on the forty-five, and the ball settled into his arms like a baby, and he was gone.

“There he goes, there he goes!” Randy was shouting in Sue Ann’s ear, and Kenny was a bullet right down the sideline, and Hoarde County never had a chance in the world of catching him, and there wasn’t a man within ten yards of him when he crossed the line.

The crowd went as wild as it should have after that, and Gordon was even whooping his siren again, which seemed a little excessive. The boys had Kyle up on their shoulders and the officials were waiting for the siren to stop.

But the siren kept up and the police car was moving, pulling away from the sidelines and out to the parking lot, and there were more sirens, getting louder as the crowd got quieter, and there were lights coming right up Hemlock. People were climbing up to the top of the stands to see what was happening on the street behind them, and Luke was pushing his way through the middle of them.

“The furniture factory . . . ”

The words just came rippling down the stands, part spoken and part felt, and then part smelled, an acid, smoky smell that caught people like a rough branch rubbing their cheek on a dark walk.

“What is it?” Byron hadn’t said hardly a thing, just listened, and Louise couldn’t stand it.

“I’ll be right there,” he said finally, to the telephone. “I’m going out,” he said to her.

“What is it?”

“Fire at the furniture factory.”

“Well, I’m coming, too!”

“Then let’s be going,” he said, turning off the television, but he still gave her a minute to pull some fried chicken and sandwich supplies from the kitchen.

Luke was back down from the top of the bleachers, and he stopped just a minute next to Randy. “Fire, and a big one, and getting bigger even while I was watching.”

Then he was gone and Randy looked over to Sue Ann. “I should probably go over to see, and maybe it’ll help Roland for me to be there, as he’ll be worrying about insurance as soon as he thinks of it.”

“I’ll stay here and watch the game,” she said.

“That’s exactly what you should do, and I’ll be back by half time.”

Byron had to park a block away from Hemlock, in Mountain View, there were so many cars everywhere, and fire trucks and police cars closer to the factory.

There were lights all around, too, especially at the high school.

“It’s the football game,” Louise said.

Byron didn’t waste a second getting out and trotting off. Louise took her time following after him, a cooler in each hand.

When she got up to the factory, it didn’t make sense at first. The red glow was in back. She could see flames spurting up and sparks flying, and spinning red and blue lights from the police cars and fire trucks. There was a big crowd, too, and lots of them in blue and yellow from the high school, and over all a terrible smell of smoke.

But the factory lights were on with people in and out the front door, and it didn’t seem hurt at all.

Then Byron came running out the front door and was on his way around, and Louise caught up with him.

“Where’s the fire?”

“The warehouse. The whole thing’s going up.”

She ran with him, her coolers bobbing on either side, to where the firemen had the crowd stopped.

“Oh my goodness!” The flames looked a mile high, throwing chunks and embers way up into the night, and painting the back of the building red. All of that, and the heat on her face and the smoke in her eyes, and Louise was mesmerized.

All three of the county’s fire trucks were parked in as close as they could and the fire fighters were squirting water as hard as the hoses could, but the fire had the whole warehouse building covered.

“I think we’ll have to let it go.” The fire chief just shook his head. “We’re going to get someone hurt soon if we stay in too close.”

Randy was standing on Roland Coates’ other side, and the poor man was jumping one foot to the other, mopping his forehead, going from one fit into a dozen.

“Just keep it from the factory! We can lose the warehouse—it’s ruined anyway—just keep it back from the factory.”

One corner of the burning walls fell in and launched a geyser of sparks like the Fourth of July, and they rained down on the factory roof.

“Watch those! Get that quick!” Roland went scampering off and had the closest fireman by the shoulder, trying to point his hose up to the roof, before Gordon Hite could pull him back.

“Keep the roof wet,” the fire chief shouted, and the hose did turn and dowse the place the sparks had landed, but Roland was still too close and got a dowsing himself. He came back soaked and with his fire put out.

“They’ll keep the fire away from the factory,” Randy said to him. “It’ll be safe.”

“That’s the whole month of production! Half a million dollars of furniture! And the lumber stock, too! All of it’s gone!”

“Now, Mr. Coates, the insurance adjustor will be here first thing in the morning, and everything will be taken care of, and it’s all covered.”

“I know it’s covered!” Roland was as bedraggled and dejected as a puppy having a bath. “It better be covered! I told you I wanted everything I could get for fire!”

“It’ll be all right,” Randy said.

“No matter who set the fire!”

‘Who’ was sort of what Randy was thinking himself. Especially with Mr. Coates so determined to have as much fire insurance as he could get.

It was a lot to think about.

“Grady!”

“Oh, hi, Louise.” He sure looked exhausted. It would all be especially hard on him, being on the volunteer squad and working at the factory, too.

“How’d it start?”

“I don’t know. But it sure did. The whole two months’ work up in smoke.”

There was a big crash and everybody jumped, and the warehouse roof fell in and the fire exploded out.

That whole inventory! So Mr. Coates wouldn’t have to find anybody to buy it after all.

“Now, tell me if I can believe my eyes,” Randy said, settling down next to Sue Ann. “That scoreboard says twenty-four to three?”

“And Kyle’s doing so well,” she said.

The last quarter was just starting, and even if the fire wouldn’t be going out until it was good and ready, it was still less exciting than the Cherokees putting the finishing touches on their biggest game of the year.

“It’ll be a busy day tomorrow,” he said. “The flood, and now this. Fire and water, you could say.”

October 14, Saturday

Steve looked around from the computer screen.

A bright yellow plastic wheelbarrow was winding its way across the floor, filled with envelopes. Attached was Josie.

“Here is your mail, Daddy.”

“Thank you very much.” He spoke as seriously as she had.

After the official transfer, and the exit of the vehicle, Steve took the big NCDOT Asheville envelope and peeked inside. Ah, yes. Environmental statement, nice and thick. And core sample data.

He’d been thinking about this data. They had supposedly drilled 150 feet into the mountain to see what it was made of. Not just any mountain would take a 130-foot cut.

In fact, not many engineers could really evaluate a cut that huge. NCDOT sure didn’t do it routinely. And they’d been in such a hurry.

In Chapel Hill, though, was a man who could. Steve still had fond memories of his geology classes. Surely Dr. Lombardi would be pleased to answer a few questions.

It had been a busy day, just like he’d told Sue Ann the night before, with the adjustor coming up from Asheville first thing, and Roland needing all the calming down he could get. Now Randy was finally back in his armchair to get a little calming of his own.

And he needed all the calming he could get.

Most of the time, selling insurance was a straightforward affair, and he enjoyed doing it, and it gave him a heartwarming feeling to know that people had just the right coverage in case something did happen. And if something should happen, then the check was in the mail right away. And even when there was some question about exactly what was covered and exactly what the loss had been, it usually got resolved, and even if the customer wasn’t completely happy, Randy had never really seen the underwriter do anything but the best they reasonably could, under the circumstances.

But once in a blue moon, really, or even less, a case popped up where something wasn’t straightforward. He’d even worked with Gordon and his force when the authorities should be involved, where there was fraud or worse involved, because insurance claims could mean a lot of money.

Not that even for a minute did Randy think Roland Coates would ever do anything that wasn’t upright and proper. And while it was true that he had specifically asked about fire coverage, that didn’t have to mean anything. But it was also true that he had a warehouse full of unsold furniture and a drawer of unpaid bills, as most people in town knew. All of that didn’t have to mean anything, either, as coincidental as it had been. Surely anybody seeing poor Roland that night, and today, too, would see how truly torn up and beside himself he was.

And, well, Roland was no actor.

And, hard as it might be to imagine, Roland might be more upset than even just the warehouse burning would explain.

So Randy had had his little talk with the adjustor, the two of them just by themselves, and he’d said what he had, and he certainly hoped he’d done the right thing.

October 18, Wednesday

Steve was getting to like Kyle McCoy. The kid was hyper-courteous, but apparently he still liked to pulverize opposing football teams and basketball teams and anybody else who it was acceptable in polite society to maim.

And now they were on ladders directly under a hundred-pound piece of wood, removing the nails that kept it from falling on them.

“Do you know how long this has been nailed here?” Steve asked.

“No, sir. My father might but I hadn’t ever noticed it myself.”

The opposite corner was Julius Caesar, in a robe, with his hand up and leaves in his hair. That, however, provided no clue to what was in this corner—symmetry of design was conspicuously absent. The two scenes adjoining the plywood were pilgrims at Plymouth Rock, and some other character who was either Charlemagne or possibly Theodore Roosevelt, or even Marilyn Monroe, but probably not.

The last nail was coming out. Steve had his end loose, and then Kyle dropped the hammer and they were holding the whole thing by themselves.

“Here we go,” Steve said, and slowly they stepped down the ladders and laid the plywood on the floor. “Wow. Thanks.”

Kyle smiled, a pure clone of Randy. “Yes, sir.”

Then they looked up.

“What is it?”

“I can’t tell,” Kyle said.

It was a profusion of jagged green lines and green triangles and other green shapes, squarely in the artistic tradition of the rest of the ceiling. But where the rest was supposedly realistic, in this section the realism overwhelmed itself by the great number of details in its small space. The result was in pure abstraction, accentuated by one straight, bold brown line through the middle.

“Maybe it’s a Picasso,” Steve said.

“More like Jackson Pollock,” Kyle said.

“What?”

“I’m taking Art Appreciation.”

“They teach Jackson Pollock at Jefferson County High School?”

“No, sir,” Kyle said. “But I’ve been looking at books on my own at the library.”

“It would be hard to throw paint at a ceiling.” Steve looked up. “Does it say something?”

“I’ll get up and see.” At the top of the ladder, Kyle was inches from the ceiling. “It does, but it’s hard to tell. ‘TS40’? Or something. Way back in the corner. It’s kind of scratched up.”

“Oh, well. Maybe somebody knows.” Steve lifted the edge of the plywood and leaned it against the wall. “I wonder what we should do with this. I’d hate to be arrested for stealing it.” He had to laugh. “The sheriff would grab any opportunity.”

“Yes, sir. You crossed him back during the flood and he’ll remember that.”

“I won’t forget, either,” Steve said.

“Is there anything else I need to do for you, Mr. Carter? Otherwise, I’ll be needing to leave, now.”

“No. That’s fine. I’m meeting someone in a couple minutes anyway.”

Joe parked his truck in the courthouse lot and walked in the back door and up the stairs. Steve would be waiting in the main room.

“Thanks for coming,” Steve said, and they sat at the tables. “You probably want to just get to business.”

“That would be fine.”

“Okay. I’ve been finding a lot of stuff about Gold River Highway and the new shopping center. I think you need to know about it.”

Such a young man. And smart, but he had sense, too. “Go ahead. And I’ll tell you a few things.”

“Okay. I’ve got a copy of the contract between the Trinkle family and Regency Atlantic. They signed it last year, and Regency says they’ll only carry through with buying the land and building on three conditions—the taxes get paid, the deed is settled, and Gold River Highway gets built. The first two were settled, so that means that last year, both parties were expecting Gold River Highway to be approved by this December. You said you knew who had pushed it through the Assembly?”

“Jack Royce. It was the Trinkles that paid him.”

“Paid?”

“That’s how it usually is.”

“Right. So you already knew how it happened?”

“Only some.” But he still didn’t know the important part. “Who’d be against the road?”

“Against it.” Steve shook his head. “I don’t know, beside everyone you know. Just that whole gang who’ve been against it since January. Everett Colony and his friends.”

Since January.

“Are you okay, Joe?” Steve asked.

That was likely it. The weight of it came down on him.

“What are you voting on this road?” Joe asked.

“Uh . . . I don’t know yet,” Steve said. “Everyone wants me to vote yes. I just can’t stand thinking what they’ll do to the mountain.”

“Tell people you don’t know. Tell anyone who asks.”

“Okay.”

“Is there anything else you know?” Joe asked.

“I guess not. I know a lot more now about how NCDOT works, but that doesn’t matter for this. Oh, I know. Joe, can you tell me anything about that corner of the ceiling?”

“Oh, that.” Joe turned to look. It was about the way he remembered from thirty years back. Somehow, looking at it took some of the weight back off.

“What is it?”

“It’s a Bible verse.”

“It is?” Steve stood to look at it closer. “Why was it covered?”

“The board decided it wasn’t fitting for the courthouse.”

“Oh. Because it was religious?”

“That’s what they said. I didn’t see it was a problem.”

“You voted against uncovering it.”

“Just so you others wouldn’t have the trouble of deciding what to do with it.”

“Right. What is it?”

“He knew right off,” Steve said to Natalie.

“So what was it?”

“I thought it said TS40. But it was Isaiah 40. It was an I, not a T.”

“What does that say?”

“He recited it. From memory.” Steve held up Max’s Sunday school Bible. “Check this out. ‘A voice is calling, “Clear the way for the Lord in the wilderness; Make smooth in the desert a highway for our God. Let every valley be lifted up, And every mountain and hill be made low.” ’ ”

“Why would they have that on the courthouse ceiling?”

“It was supposed to be about founding Wardsville in the wilderness. Isn’t it weird, though? We uncover it right before we vote on building a road over Mount Ayawisgi?”

October 20, Friday

“Louise! Louise, come out here!”

She did! She came flying out of the kitchen into the hall, and there was Byron standing at the front door with his eyes wide open and his mouth open even more.

“What is it?”

“You won’t believe it!”

By now, she’d believe anything. When he was home, all Byron could talk about was what a frenzy Mr. Coates was being in every minute—up and down, hot and cold, and driving himself to distraction.

“Just tell me!” she said.

“Mr. Coates called us all up to the front, the ones who were there, just when we were finishing up for the day. He looked as bad as I’ve ever seen him. And he said, ‘I’ve got bad news, terrible news, and I don’t even want to tell you, but I will.’ It was only a dozen of us there with him—that’s all that were working today. And he said, ‘The insurance company and the State Police have been asking questions and looking around, looking at the warehouse and how the fire started and who might have thought to do it.’ ”

“ ‘Thought to do it’? Oh, Byron. I’ve been so scared that Mr. Coates had done it.”

“I think that’s crossed a few minds. But that’s not what he said. ‘So they just told me,’ he said, ‘the police want to arrest Jeremy for it.’ He couldn’t hardly say Jeremy’s name.”

“Jeremy!”

“Jeremy. And sounds like the boy got wind of it, because he’s gone.”

“What do you mean, gone?”

“Not at his place in Asheville, not been at his job all week, no sign of him.”

“Why did they ever think it was him?”

“It sounds like it was the insurance company asking questions first, and they put the police onto him, by what Grady and Doris are saying.”

“Poor Jeremy.” It was terrible. Somehow, it didn’t seem like a surprise. But it was so terrible. Jeremy running away, and how must Mr. Coates feel?

“And the worst of it,” Byron was saying, “is that I think Mr. Coates knew it all along.”

And it was because of that terrible road!

“There it is.”

Yes, it was. Eliza stood with Steve Carter beneath the strange markings. They confused her.

“I don’t understand it,” she said.

“Right,” Steve said. “I had to ask Joe. He remembered it from before it was covered up.”

It had seemed important to uncover it. But now, it was not what she had thought it would be. “Does it have a meaning?”

Zach was leaned back in a chair, waiting for her, but also looking with her at the ceiling.

“Yeah,” Steve said. “It’s from the Bible. It’s actually a verse about making a road. ‘Every valley be lifted up and every hill be made low.’ ”

“What is the road for?” she asked.

“Well, for God. ‘Make a way for the Lord’ is what it says.”

Bring down a mountain. For a road! Two Powers in opposition, in absolute conflict.

“Randy McCoy, good evening.”

“Randy? It’s Louise.”

Randy put his head down on his hands. He’d been expecting the call, not that that meant he was ready for it.

“How are you, Louise?”

“Well, better than I was a little while ago.”

“What can I do for you?”

“I’m calling to see what you’ve already done.”

She didn’t sound angry. “Only what I had to,” he said.

“Did you tell your insurance people that Jeremy started the fire?”

“That’s what I had to do.”

“Oh, Randy.” No, she wasn’t angry. Her voice in the telephone sounded just so sad. “Did he?”

“I think he did, Louise.”

“And now he’s run off?”

“I guess I’ve heard that, too.”

“You could have called me, Randy. If I’d known before Byron did— maybe I could have been more ready. These weeks have already been so hard on him.”

“I wanted to call. The police and the insurance investigator told me not to. They didn’t want word to get to Jeremy.”

“But why did he do it?”

“He was thinking it might break up Roland’s deal to sell the factory. I won’t say that makes much sense, but it seems more and more people don’t use any sense in what they do.”

“How do you know what he was thinking?” Then she said, “And how did he know to run off?”

“Maybe somebody talked to him.” The week had been hard on Randy, too.

“You two were in school together, weren’t you?”

“We were, Louise, and we even played basketball together.”

“Then good night, Randy.”

“Good night, Louise.”

October 23, Monday

“I didn’t say that!” Steve had the Wardsville Guardian in his hand. “I didn’t say it!”

“I know you didn’t,” Natalie said. “ ‘People in Gold Valley are mighty worked up about the road, Steve Carter said.’ You couldn’t talk that way if you tried.”

“ ‘Mighty worked up’? Good grief. He asked how I was planning to vote, and all I said was that I knew most people in Gold Valley were strongly in favor. That’s all I said.”

“He’s translating so people in Wardsville can understand.”

“Whatever. So it says I’m voting for it, Joe’s voting for it, Randy’s voting for it, Louise is undecided, and Eliza could not be reached but might be voting for it.” He looked at the headline, Unpopular Gold River Highway Passage Nearly Certain. “I didn’t say I was voting for it. Natalie— my faith in the press has been shaken.”

Then he thought about Joe. “I’m supposed to tell people I haven’t decided yet.”

“Now, that’s not what I said,” Randy said, and it had been worth a walk to the newspaper office to say it. “Luke, you know I said that many of my constituents in Wardsville were against the new road, and some were for it, and that I was still listening to their comments.”

“That’s what you said, but a good reporter goes past what the person says to what he means. Especially if the person’s a politician.”

“That sounds like a bad reporter to me, if it means putting words in my mouth that I never said.”

“I didn’t say you said you were voting yes; I just said that you were voting yes. You as much as said it anyway. You said many of your constituents were against it, so it’s obvious you were hinting that you couldn’t say you were for it, even though you were. And why would you hint that you were if you weren’t?”

“I won’t even try to understand that.” He wouldn’t have even if he had tried. Randy was so tired of the road! “Do you know how many calls I’ve got since this came out?”

“They have a right to call you. Now look, Randy.” Luke hadn’t even put his feet down off his desk. “After Steve Carter was so upset by the road plans back in July, and Louise Brown was so upset by the shopping center plans back in August, most people are thinking the road’s as good as dead. But I don’t think it is, and as an unbiased news service, I don’t want my readers to be misinformed. They need to be making their voices heard and not be assuming it’s all over. Whether they’re against it or for it.”

“Whether they’re against it, is what you mean. And they aren’t all against it. And by this article, I’d say you’ve told the whole county that it’ll pass unless someone does something about it.”

What an amazing e-mail.

Steve read it, and read it again. He started fishing through the links.

What a great e-mail.

Dr. Lombardi was the smartest man on the planet.

Everything was there. Calculations—elegant, complete, indisputable. It was all perfect.

The man knew these mountains so thoroughly, he hardly even needed the core samples.

Based on this e-mail, the proposed130-foot cut for Gold River Highway over Mount Ayawisgi was . . . doubtful. Impossible, possibly. The rock structure was fragmented and might not support it. A forty-foot cut was the maximum anyone could be sure of. Deeper than that would take a lot more sampling and analysis.

Forty feet would mean . . . Steve started his own calculations. The grade would have to be more than the allowable maximum. It would be too steep. And that would mean . . .

Steve leaned back in his chair. His first thought was to call Jarvis. But the state was not committed to the project until the Jefferson County Board voted. If he called now, the project could collapse. And the 130-foot cut might actually be possible—it was just no one knew.

If he waited until after the vote, then the state would be committed, within the budget. But they might have to reengineer the whole thing and just build the best thing they could with the money they had. And probably that would be the road they should have planned in the first place.

But they really wouldn’t know what they were voting for in December—Big Road or Little Road. Should he tell anyone?

He’d talk to Joe at the November meeting.

October 25, Wednesday

Bright sun, just up to the treetops, burning the mist. Joe breathed the morning in, warm for October.

Rose was feeding the chickens. He watched her from across the garden, mostly stalks and brown but for a few vines. The tree shadows cut black through the haze low by the stream.

Sounds cut through the air, too.

Just the scratch of the feed tossed in the coop and the hens pecking, and the stream behind. Hens sounded put out and bothered.

Not a breath of wind.

Joe took a step toward her.

Sun and shadow striped the ground, dark and light, mixed everywhere. Tricky, and hard to see plain.

The chickens gabbled and clacked and Rose dropped the cup back in the feed bag.

“Step forward,” Joe said. “Slow.”

She did, not looking back, but just at him.

“Keep on, and slow.”

She took five steps and he nodded, and she looked back and saw the copperhead.

“Just let it be and keep an eye on it,” he said.

He walked to the barn slow and steady, and then back to where he’d been, and Rose stock still, and the snake close by the chickens, and them fussing all out, skittering around the coop, beside themselves and keeping its attention.

They squawked loud and the snake shuddered, and the echoes died, and Joe set his rifle down from his eye. He went to his wife and took her hand, and they went together back to the house and left the enemy dead, to clean up later. It was still twitching.

October 30, Monday

“Now, what would you think of doing this on a computer?” Randy stared at the tax ledger, which seemed to get bigger every year, and it was already more than big enough.

“I wouldn’t complain a bit,” Patsy said. “We just have to buy the computers and that special software.”

“Which was special expensive. And then type all this into it.” Randy opened the book. “Which would take about forever. And no matter what those salesmen say, it doesn’t work right the first time, or the second time. Anyway, it’s just four times a year. Two times to send out the tax bills, and two times to list the unpaid taxes in the newspaper.” At least they had Patsy’s computer to type up the newspaper ad, instead of handwriting it like they did not that long ago. “So let’s get this show on the road.”

He started skimming the pages, checking the balances. The sixth page was the first stop.

“Tax parcel 01-0235, 4260 Coble Highway, Marvin and Hazel Garner, $324.62.”

“Six hundred what?”

“Three hundred twenty-four and sixty-two cents.” And on they went, page after page.

They kept it up until lunch, which was as far as they were going for the day because Randy had appointments in the afternoon. “We’ll finish Tuesday,” he said, putting a bookmark in where they’d stopped. “I’ll tell Luke we’ll have it for him Wednesday morning.”

“That’ll be a record, Randy. Finishing in two mornings.”

“Guess we’re just getting good at it. Who needs a computer anyway? You know, I wonder if it’s less names than last time. Do you have the last ad somewhere?”

“It’s in the back of the book.”

“Now isn’t that smart, to keep them in there.” Randy opened to the back, and there were the last few ads—the one from May and the two from the last year. He took out the November ad from a year ago. It was the whole page, all those names and numbers. He looked at the back of the ad, which was the front of the newspaper.

“Well, look at that.” It was the front page story on Mort Walker dying in his barn. “A year ago.”

“That’s done.” Joe put himself in the chair by the door to pull off his boots. Mud an inch thick on them. “Don’t think it’ll freeze hard.”

“Are there apples left?” Rose handed him his house shoes.

“Some.”

“I’d be glad for a few more.”

“I expect you’ll get that.” He had his clean shoes on but he stayed in the chair. He just didn’t feel like standing up.

“I’d make a pie for the church dinner,” Rose said.

“That’d be nice.”

Rose was raising a racket washing the pots. Joe thought over tomorrow and what there was to do.

“Might look at the fences in the morning.”

“What’s that?” She turned back to look at him.

“Might look at the fences,” he said. “Leonard’s putting his cows down that way next week and they’ll be right into the south field if they can be.”

She was back to her clatter, and he leaned his head against the wall.

“Are you all right, Joe?”

“Just tired.”

He got himself up on his feet to look out the window.

Clouds were coming in over the moon. Thin wisps of them up high, and a haze just thin like steam down closer to the ground. The smell of it had the autumn smoke in it and a small part of roots and pond water.

“Doubt it’ll frost at all tonight.”

“What about rain?” Rose asked.

“Not tomorrow or next day.”

Still a bunch of pots piled by the sink. Always were after she’d been canning. He put his head down to see the thermometer outside the window better.

The window cracked loud in his ear. Then he felt his cheek stinging. There was a big loud clang of pots.

What fool thing was happening?

He straightened up to look at the window. There were just a few pieces of it left in the frame. Most of it was down on the floor in a mess.

“Joe . . .”

He looked around to Rose. Two pots on the floor that she’d dropped. She was staring at him, eyes open big.

Something was wrong.

She was leaned on the counter funny and she started drooping over.

He just started to move and she hit the wood floor, on her side, all bent and haphazard. He got up close to see her looking up at him, eyes wide and red staining her clothes.

“Joe . . .” He could hardly hear her.

“I’ll take care of you,” he said.

“What happened?”

“Don’t know.” She was sheet white. “I’ll get you to help.”

He left her there while he took the phone and called the neighbor. He didn’t even know who answered.

“Rose is bad hurt and I’m taking her to the hospital in Asheville.” It was all he said and then he hung up.

She was just looking at him and her mouth was open and she was breathing heavy but slow. He picked her up and held her right to him and carried her out the kitchen door.

He set her in the front seat of the truck and put the seat belt on her to hold her up and then started up the dirt road toward the interstate, driving as fast as he could.

It was a road he’d driven all his life. It was hard to think.

Just on the interstate flashing red lights came up behind. He didn’t slow down, but the sheriff’s car came up beside him. Gordon was on the passenger side with a deputy driving, and he just pointed ahead. Then the sheriff’s car pulled on in front with lights still flashing and Joe followed right behind.

Rose wasn’t moving, just staring at him, until her eyes closed.

“I’ll take care of you, Rose. Don’t be worrying.” And he followed the red and blue lights, not so sure where he was going.

His own breathing was getting hard. The lights ahead started moving one side to the other, and the steering wheel felt like it was shaking. The truck bucked a minute, then was driving smooth again.

Then there were more flashing lights and a siren. Gordon was back beside him, waving him to the side, and he did go to the side and the truck was bucking again over gravel, and then it slid over more to the side, leaning, and there was a harder buck, and then he picked up his foot off the pedal and sat, suddenly all still but the sirens screaming. The lights were right up around him. Both doors of the truck opened and hands were reaching in, and he stood up out of the door and got pulled over into the back of the ambulance all bright and crowded and with Everett Colony’s voice. And Rose laying out straight and wrapped in a white sheet, and hands still holding him, and the sirens and bumping and Rose white as the sheet, and no idea where he was or what was happening.

October 31, Tuesday

“Randy McCoy, can I help you?”

“Hi, Randy. I’m Marty Brannin. I think we’ve met a few times?”

“Sure, Marty. Sure we have, and I remember you.” Randy took a breath. “And I guess I know why you’re calling.”

“About Rose Esterhouse.”

“I’ll be glad to tell you everything I know.”

“I’ve read the papers.”

“The Raleigh paper?” That would be a surprise, that it had got that far.

“The Asheville newspaper had the most, but it’s in the paper here, too.”

“Well, then, this is what else I know. Rose is out of danger, but they’re not sure how much she’ll recover. But I was down in Asheville this morning and you could worry about Joe as much as Rose. He’s taking it real hard.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“Um, well, not really,” Randy said, and it was still very hard to even think about. “I was there in the room with him, but he wouldn’t say a thing. Well, to tell the truth, Marty, I’m not sure he knew who I was exactly.”

That got a long quiet out of the telephone.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“He’s eighty-one years old, Marty, and it’s been a real shock to him.”

“Then maybe I’ll try seeing him myself.”

“Give him a while.”

“I will. The papers say the police are looking for a man who set a fire up there last month.”

“Jeremy Coates, that’s right. Jeremy’s been real upset about our new Gold River Highway project, and he’s been trying to stop it however he could, and the sheriff here’s pretty convinced he’s the one they want.”

“I see. Well, they’ll get him soon, I’m sure. Thanks, Randy.”