9. Flame-Flares
If, in view of his reception by "the Cappers" or the attitude toward him of that active member of the wets met on the road, Calvin Parker wondered that he was allowed to settle unmolested in the shack on Fallaway Rim, he would have been enlightened by occurrences in the home of the Metcalf 's the night of his arrival.
Their dwelling was called a "house," in distinction from regional cabins, because of its size and the luxury of separated rooms. It stood for the "quality" of former generations of Metcalfs. Back a safe hillside distance from Roaring Fork, a stream which occasionally lived up to its name, it had an impregnable look. A wide "stoop," furnished with flower boxes, a hammock, and several chairs of home construction, lent It an air of modernity that obscured Its hewn-log, mud-plastered construction.
The road of approach was flanked proudly by ancient oaks. From the back yard, on the far side of the stream, rose imposingly the Vernaluska Mountain, after which the only daughter of the present line had been baptized, better known locally as "Crumbly Bald," because of certain Internal rumblings which, at epochal intervals, had scolded from the crevasses and fissures that marked its top like the lines on an aged face.
The reluctant dusk of the Blue Ridge had fallen. Vernaluska Metcalf had lit the kindlings of the "parlor" fire which usually cheered the social hour of their day, and now sat in a low rocking chair to "tend" the sparks. Upon the upper of her crossed knees rested a mountain-made dulcimer; in her fingers was a goose quill, with which she began to pick an African melody from the strings, humming softly as she played.
The tune gained in erraticism from her mood, for her mind was not upon it. She did not consciously hear the noise of steel against thick china which told her that her father was finishing a belated supper in the kitchen. Neither did she feel interruption in the rattle of dishes and pans that bespoke the "redding up" passion of the household autocrat, "Miss Emmy" Worth, her dead mother's sister.
More eccentric grew Vernaluska's tune through the necessity of stamping out the sparks coughed from the fire across the wide hearth; more luminous glowed her hair, as if borrowing light from the blaze. But her face did not lighten.
It was set from weariness and worry. All day, through the arduous tasks which fell to her share - from the early morning churning, the weekly "once over" of the house, the preparation of the noontime, principal meal, the milking of the cow - she had been debating a point of policy. To-night she must argue it to a successful conclusion before the domestic circle.
Grave doubt teased her mind whether the silence of last evening regarding the new arrival at Dismal Gap had been advisable. Should she not have put her men folk on guard by reciting full details of the, overturned coach and later appearance of the stranger at the post-office? Might not her reticence precipate any possible overt act of result, rather than curb it?
The recent confirmation of the authority of the drys by the ballot she realized to have made tvvo distinct, opposing cliques within the family. One was a triumvirate, composed of her father, who was intolerant of any opposition to his without-the-law traffic; of Sandyred, her equally dynamic younger brother, and of Rex Currie, in himself not the least of her problems. JVIiss Emmy didn't count; she just "suffered along" in life, leaning the way of the strong. So that the other clique was herself - a self rapidly hardening in resolve to conquer the three, her unwitting enemies.
"Your pappy will be the death of me yet; he don't never do a sensible thing if he can holpen it." This plaint from the door recalled her to the moment.
"What's he done now, Miss Emmy, beyond being late to supper?"
"And what's likely more important to him, he'll be the death of himself," the good woman continued. "He's sopping - been in the Fork again, I suspect. He won't change for me."
"Well, he will for me.''
Rising, Vernaluska laid the dulcimer on the mantel and started for the kitchen. There, she spoke to her redoubtable forebear after a way of her own, as if he were a bad boy subject to her control.
"Thomas, why can't you keep out of the Fork? 'Pears to me you get worse behaved every day. Don't you know that rheumatism is one powerful affliction? Get on your Sundays at once and come sit up to the fire I"
"The idee of wasting fuel In the hearth, with spitfire Verney around!" chuckled the old man. "But don't worry. I'll be with you directly."
The girl returned and lit the oil-lamp on the center-table. By this illumination she glanced appreciatively around the room, whose adornments attested resource and labor which she of their accomplishment alone knew.
The walls were papered, yes; certainly a distinction, If only In such newspapers as had come within her reach. Forming a frieze just below the ceiling were press Illustrations cut out and pasted with Infinite care. Here and there were well-balanced groups of pictures - the head of a handsome woman who, for reasons better known to the outside world than to Vernaluska, had achieved notoriety; a scene of a city street during the "rush" hour, a wrecked ship, a burning building - what not.
Softening the outline of the windows was draped a meshlike fabric of tiny pine-cones, strung and knotted together In a unique, hand-made design. Cushions, fat from goose feathers or pungent balsam and covered with a regard for the association of colors that deserved better material, lent ease to chairs and benches.
On one end of the table, beside a closed violincase, squatted a brown earthenware bowl full of pussy-willows. Conspicuous upon the mantel, through its graceful shape, stood a tall jug of the same crude material.
To this the girl's eyes swerved, upon It lingered with an expression of critical admiration. Taking a ruler from the table drawer, she stood off, squinted her eyes for perspective, began measuring the upturned handles of the jug, as painters do drawings on canvas.
Soon her father emerged from the chamber which he occupied with the boys, duly attired in "store" pants and slippers.
"Sandy's slow-moving to-night. Not through his barn chores yet?"
"I reckon not, Tom."
"And Rex?"
To this Miss Emmy supplied answer with manifest resentment: "Rex must have found business good in Dismal Gap to miss two whole days' victuals."
For a moment the patriarch stood blinking back at the fire of hickory logs. His tuftlike brows drew together in a frown. Evidently the slow blaze of it did not please him, for he strode over to the fuel box, rummaged among its contents, selected several lengths of wood more to his liking. After placing these upon the burning hickory, he drew up the huge, sway-back chair of home construction sacred to his occupancy.
With a look of expectation. He awaited the effect upon the fire of his addition. Soon a sputter of sparks shot out, to be gulped in the colorful flames for which linwood is remarked.
The old man leaned forward, dropped his leonine head into his two huge paws, again emitted his odd, deep-throated expression of approval. He seemed not to hear the porch door open and shut, so diverted was he.
"Oh, you beauties of blue flames!" he muttered.
"You-all have the color for me, the life, the light!"
Irritated, Miss Emmy seized the hearth-broom - a bundle of wild sedge wrapped with wire to the end of a stick - and began to ply it against the sparks.
"You do make a power of work, Tom Metcalf, just when Verney's got the house broomed up ! Why you can't do with a hickory burning is what I don't never see."
The recalcitrant made no defense. He stretched his hands clutchingly toward the lively light; continued to chuckle and to mutter.
"Once I could get you-all fast in my grip - once I could feel the burn of you on my palms ! Why run you-all so fast up the chimney, blue flames?"
Sandyred, who had entered, flung his hat over a wooden peg and crossed to the group. He stopped behind his parent's chair; listened, waggled his head in the midst of a deep-drawn sigh. His glance swerved, as if at a word, to meet that of his sister. Her face, also, was drawn with anxiety; but soon pride in her handsome brother won him a smile.
At nineteen, Thomas Metcalf, Jr. - known best along the ridge by his descriptive nickname - had the fully developed figure of a man grown and a height of six feet one. His coloring, like the girl's own, hair as well as skin and eyes, was a direct Inheritance from "Old Tom" who, In turn, had Inherited it from former Old Toms of the Metcalf line. The chief present difference was due to the fact that the erstwhile auburn of the parent's hair and brows had become so admixed with the white of advancing years that it was lightened almost to the color of hemp.
Already the son's face was showing lines around eyes and mouth - hard lines that bespoke the strain of the vocation into which he had been pressed. A certain alertness of glance and movement that could scarcely have come from nerves in one of such superb physical condition suggested long acquaintance with danger, a consequent habit of the defensive.
The old man looked up. "Throw on some more linwood, Sandy. It's warming to the heart - lights up the hope of them that gather round."
The younger added several of the swift-burning sticks and stood watching the reflected animation on his father's face, rather than the conflagration itself.
"Ho, there, you flames, one day you-all will be mine - mine! I'll find you yet, for certain sure."
Again brother and sister exchanged troubled glances. This prediliction for the linwood flare, these more or less incoherent comments were no new thing. But of late they appeared to be obsessing the mountaineer, so mentally solid on other subjects. For long the two had united in a campaign of counteraction, a policy of pointing the prosaic, as it were.
Miss Emmy, however, had not their patience. Nearly the same age as Old Tom, eminently sane, she frequently vented her irritation, as now.
"Ain't it time you trapped that field-mouse what's using in your head, Tom Metcalf?" she snapped. " 'Pears to me it's gnawing your brains worse each and every day. If you can explain this blue-flame jabber, don't it stand to reason you'd best do it and ease off your mind? Maybe so we'd help you find them. What are they, anyhow, that you want to burn your hands? Why do you hope to grip them? What will it profit you if you do? If you can't explain "
"How be you feeling this evening, Missy Em?" Interrupted Sandyred.
'Torely, thank God!" Despite her devout expression, the spinster frowned rebelhously into her nephew's warning glance. Sandyred was her especial joy in life, even as was Vernaluska Old Tom's, although the expression of her worshipful attitude toward him was guarded and ofttimes deceptive.
It was accepted as a family fact, however, that he alone could curb her mania for reforming the persons, as well as the properties, of the household, could file down the saw-toothing of her corrections. Now she jerked a vehement up and down of the chin to his silent hint.
Old Tom turned restlessly in his chair. "Do us," he suggested, "one of your mimics - the revivalist."
The youth, always glad to entertain with the chief of his talents, was more than ready to-night. To coax his father's thoughts back to the normal concerns of life, to make him laugh and forget - this effort he long had shared with his sister in their home life.
Springing around the table, that he might use it as a pulpit, he struck an attitude, rounded his eyes, puffed his cheeks piously; then, after the florid manner of negro camp-meeting artists, began to exhort.
His ability at Impersonation had been ''born In him." When yet a toddler he had begun ''taking off" the cock-sure turkey gobbler, the lost calf, the Jane mule disporting herself in the face of discipline. Later, his interests had enlarged beyomd the barnyard, and he flattered the wild creatures of the woods with his emulation. His first teacher at district school, the circuit rider, his own father - none escaped his genius as he grew older and contemplated human possibiliticj.
Independent of make-up or costume, with inimitable realism of fervor and dialect, he now invited their attention to the horrors of hell and the preference of paradise. He asked for confession of guilt from each in sepulchral tones; he pounced upon inaccuracies in their supposed defense with especial applications and startling violence; he convicted them seperately and collectively; at last doomed them to eternity's taxing torments in the bottomless pit.
The severity of Miss Emmy*s feelings had relaxed considerably by the denouement. Old Tom was laughing like a boy.
"Be I black or white?" she demanded.
"Lead me to the mourner's bench," he implored.
Sandyred mopped the pleased look on his face as he sank back into a chair. When well in command of the superiority to praise which was an affectation of his nineteen years plus, he shifted the onus of entertainment to his sister.
"And now, Verney, leave us-all hear the rest of that story - you left off at the bottom of the column yon side the door."
The girl took the lamp and walked over to the indicated section of the wall. She mounted the chair which Sandy placed for her, found the place in the newspaper fiction. She and her brother selected their improvised wall-covering advisedly, its chief qualification being that no page of a tale need be turned - perforce an impossibility - to reach its climax and end.
This particular yarn, a syndicated thriller of the West, had held them for several nights. In their honor code, Improvised for the continuance of general Interest, had been Incorporated the rule that none might read for himself. Last night, as always, Vernaluska had cut off at a tense paragraph. Glancing down at the three expectant faces lifted In the fireglow, she saw that no reminder was necessary. She turned, focused the light, and began :
"Facing the leveled rifles of the rustlers, Tex Masters began to fear that the clutch of circumstance was at last to prove too much for him. He dared move neither hand to his holsters, for the dear sake of the girl astride the horse behind him.
"The hot, prairie wind blew her silken tresses against his cheeks and twined them, like loosened strands of the lariat of Fate, around his muscular neck. In that vital moment, on the threshold of death, he knew he would not have untwined them to save his life.
" 'I love you. Heart of Heaven,' he murmured hoarsely. Whatever comes, remember only that I love you!'
"A shot battered the brazen air. Hearing It, Tex calculated swiftly, then leaned instantly to the left. A grim smile twisted his sun-bronzed face, as a drop of blood splashed from the tip of his right ear upon his cheek.
"Amaze held his dare-devil spirit enchained, as he felt a swift movement at one elbow, then at the other. In the same split-second two steel points projected from under his armpits, clutched by two white hands. Two simultaneous, well-aimed shots barely anticipated the first forward plunge of their mount; then "
At this point of Interest the reading suddenly ceased. Vernaluska's light had blown out.