20—Mississippi

Abstract

FICTION 20-Mississippi Ron Day Come in Comefurther in. What? The man stopped and cocked his head, listening for the direction of the voice. Must've imagined it he said, realizing he'd not seen anyone in a while now, but he was sure he'd heard someone up ahead. Hiram Couch had been following the whisper for a while now. That wasn't what he started off following, though. It was a wheedledee he'd heard. He could recollect the last time he'd heard one "wood thrush," she called it, and it had been at her burying. The Couches had a cemetery right close by the church; her people had their own graveyard and she wanted to be by her mam. Hiram remembered walking up here with his oldest girl, Sarah, and her young'uns, and as he was resting a little while Sarah's boys covered up the casket, he had heard the wheedle-dee sing. It lit right on the branch of a blackgum beside the grave. I'd forgot that was a blackgum! he said, and looked around to see if he could see it now. If he could spot a big blackgum, big, because it had already been a right smart sized tree when they buried Martha Sue and that had been fourteen years ago. Damn! He'd been trying to remember when she'd died! He guessed that being here so close to the graveyard must have helped him remember a few things. He remembered that Brother Carnes had sung "Brightest and Best," even if it was a Christmas song, but Martha Sue always said she wanted it sung at her burying. About the time Brother Carnes and Sister Miracle had finished, that was when Hiram heard the bird and saw it light in the blackgum near the edge of the graveyard. That graveyard was on the side of the hill. It must be a little further in he realized, and turned to see which hill it might be. He couldn't see too far, but the ground was rising just ahead of him and as he moved in that direction (had to hurry, he remembered; he'd been headed somewhere) he thought he could hear it again. Farther in...comefarther in. Ron Day is a librarian at the Pineville, Kentucky, Public Library. His work has appeared in Appalachian Heritage several times in the last decade. 87 He couldn't say exactly where it was coming from, and he still couldn't see anyblackgums. There was abig stand ofbeech right across that little creek, and a lot of hemlock going up the hill a way, but he thought he must be close because he could smell apples. There was an old orchard right forgainst the hill, and the graveyard right above it, he thought, and he could picture it clear as a bell. They were June apples and weren't much good, but one would taste pretty good about now. Lord, he was tired. He hadn't walked this far in a long time, but he'd rest a little right up ahead, and maybe if Martha Sue was at home (and her daddy wasn't) he'd pick him an apple or two and they'd set under that apple tree and— No. Wait. Martha Sue was dead. Ha rm further in. Funny that whoever he was hearing sounded kinda like her though. That was what had thrown him. He just wished they'd step out from the trees and quit teasing him like this. He couldn't traipse all over the damn mountain. Or maybe he could. Hiram sat on a log right near where the stream forked and ran down toward the road. No, the road was over there, but Hiram had barely sat downbefore he felt like he could go on further and didn't need to rest so much as he'd thought. He stood up again and started to set off, thinking he mightwhistle a little to keep his rhythmup. He used to do that when he plowed. "Wildwood Flower." "Wayfaring Stranger." But as he began to whistle he found he had no breath after all, and...