WSITM 6: Ye-Lu-Le - To the Center

Ye-Lu-Le - To the Center

“Some people meet the way the sky meets the earth, inevitably, and there is no stopping or holding back their love. It exists in a finished world, beyond the reach of common sense.” - Louise Erdrich

That night, after my talk with Evan, I slept well and soundly. All I could remember of my dreams was dancing barefoot around a fire with Casey. He was singing a song that made me smile though I couldn’t understand the words. When I woke, it was to find Zelda curled beside my left ear purring. “Oh you liked that one, did you?” I said, scratching beneath her chin. “Okay, let’s get going. I need to call Manuel, get a copy of the map to Anna, and coordinate a time to go up to the Light House with Nigel and Evan.”

“Meooow,” Zelda replied, reminding me that she expected to be fed.

“But of course your highness, of course,” I laughed. I threw off the covers, stretched, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

Two hours later I had showered, dressed, and collected everything I would need to copy and mail. I’d even called and spoken to Manuel. I apologized for blowing up at him at our meeting, told him about my conversation with Evan, and our plans to visit the Light House. He was his usual gracious self. “Think nothing of it, Madison,” he said. “You’ve been under enormous stress and I shouldn’t have sprung Evan on you like that.”

“It was a bit of a shock,” I agreed. “And to be clear, Manuel, I do not need hand holding. Next time, if there is a next time, just tell me what’s going on.”

“All right,” he replied. “I’m going to take you at your word. There’s something else I think you should know.”

“Uh oh, what is it?” I asked.

“Expect another letter from D. He told me he was writing two. One that would be delivered immediately after he passed and a second that would be sent only if you accepted his offer.”

“Oh,” I said, feeling my stomach drop.

“I don’t think it’s bad,” Manuel said. “And before you ask he didn’t let me read it. I just got the feeling that he felt things were unfinished between you.”

“That’s the understatement of the century,” I said.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Manuel asked. “Or would you like me to be there when you open it?”

“No, I don’t think so,” I said. “I’m just having a hard time imagining what more he might want to say.”

“Okay, well keep me posted. You know I’m always here.”

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By the time I returned from copying and mailing the map to Anna, the mail had arrived. In it was another manila envelope addressed to me in D’s familiar and mostly illegible handwriting. I carried it and the rest of the mail inside, gave Zelda some attention, then sat down at my desk to read.

Dear Madison,

If you are reading this letter, it means you have accepted my offer to become the custodian, keeper, guardian, and protector (all of the above) of the Light House. I meant it when I said that I wanted the decision to be yours and that either choice was fine. However, the fact that you are reading this letter makes me very happy.

By now, you’ve spoken to and no doubt wrestled with Faith. She can be prickly, opinionated, and protective of those she loves, but try not to hold it against her. And please don’t let her keep you from Casey. He could use a friend like you.

Hopefully Manuel has followed through and introduced you to Evan. I know you’re aware of him because you described him once to me as “the Tattoo Guy” who never said a word at meetings. “I bet there are a lot of stories behind those tattoos,” you said. I agreed but didn’t offer any information. Those stories are Evan’s to share, but it is important for you to know the part he’s played in my life with Richard.

So I am going to ask you to remove your scientific, journalist hat and come with me on a little journey. We’re heading into unfamiliar territory where not everything we encounter can be explained or proven but everything is interwoven and has meaning. It is a strange, and for scientifically trained folks such as ourselves, maddening place. But please bear with me because this was Richard’s world and is the reason the Light House exists.

Up until now, you have been remarkably circumspect when discussing Richard. You never asked, and I never volunteered how we met, fell in love, and became partners. It’s not that I was ashamed or afraid of how you’d respond - your writing about others affected by AIDS and ability to chronicle their narratives has been exemplary - characterized by empathy, respect, and devotion to the truth. No, my reticence had to do with wanting to keep this piece of my life all to myself. It feels a bit like how I used to hoard Halloween candy. But keeping something all to yourself prevents others from enjoying it too, and isn’t sharing half the fun? Okay, enough with the analogies

The year was 1970, and if I have my dates right, you would have still been in elementary school. Back then I was quite concerned about appearances and my reputation at the college. I dressed and acted the part of a wealthy, dapper, British-educated college professor intent on becoming tenured. I’d already published papers on the endangered Virginia Big-eared bat and was doing research into red wolves. Though I never sought to hide my sexual persuasion, I never brought it up and was careful not to do or say anything that might cause suspicion. In short, I was a classic closet case which my family encouraged. But 1970 was the year my father’s health began to decline, and I was tasked with reviewing and taking over the management of the family properties. One of those was the 18,000+ acres of land in the Smoky Mountains.

If you’ve done your research, you know how most of the land in that area was acquired. I was mortified to learn that our property was part of what I’ve come to think of as genocidal theft - a genuine crime against humanity. So against my family’s wishes, I decided to pay a visit to the property to see for myself what I was about to inherit.

The roads leading up into the mountains were steep, winding, and in need of repair. We’d just had what locals call a “Blackberry Winter,” which is essentially a spring cold snap that happens right about the time the blackberry bushes start to bloom. As a result, some of the roads had small patches of black ice on them, making driving dangerous and nerve-wracking. By the time I reached the turn out for the trail, it was much later than I’d hoped to arrive. I almost turned around and headed back, but the thought of trying to drive those roads at dusk was alarming. In the end I talked myself into staying with reminders that I’d faced much worse in the field before and had plenty of camping gear in the back of the Jeep. “What’s the worst that could happen?” I asked myself. “You might have to spend the night in a sleeping bag? Let’s go!” So I parked, loaded my day-pack with snacks and water and pulled out the survey map I’d procured from the public records office.

According to the map, the walk from the trailhead to the actual entrance to our property would take about 20 minutes. The start of the trail was marked by a rusty, NO TRESPASSING sign riddled with bullet holes and nailed to a tree. “Okay, that’s encouraging,” I thought as I stepped onto the trail.

The walk to the entrance was uneventful except for some green brier vines that snagged my jacket and a black rat snake who glided off when he saw me approaching. The actual entrance to the property turned out to be a gate made of wooden slates with chicken wire strung between them. One of the hinges had come loose so the only thing keeping it from falling to the ground was a large blackberry bush sharing space with poison ivy and scrub grass. I remember thinking, “Oh hell, that’s all I need, a bad case of poison ivy.” On either side of the gate, strands of barbed wire were strung between rotting wooden posts. Many of these were leaning at precarious angles. It was a safe bet that one of them would be down somewhere along the fence line and give me a way to cross over onto the property.

I walked about a quarter of a mile before finding a break in the fence and had just stepped over the barbed wire when a tiny screech owl dropped from the sky and landed on a fence post inches from my face. Startled, I took a step back and stood very still. My heart was beating fast but my mind was already taking notes - admiring his bright yellow eyes, gray and white feathers and angled ear tufts that gave him the look of a grumpy old man. For such a small bird (maybe six inches in height) he was quite a presence but I felt no fear, only a quiet sense of wonder. I have no idea how long we stood there staring at one another, but by the time he took off with a wild, sharp cry the sun was low on the horizon. It was time to get back to the Jeep.

That night I cooked freeze-dried stew on my little propane stove and spent the rest of the evening curled up in my sleeping bag reading James Mooney’s intriguing book, “History, Myths and Sacred Formulas of the Cherokees” by flashlight. After my encounter with the owl, which my “Peterson Field Guide to Birds” identified as an Eastern Screech Owl (Megascops) I was particularly interested in the chapter titled, “The Bird Tribes.” But the only raptor covered in depth was the eagle. Apparently the spirits of eagles are so powerful that only someone with special training was allowed to capture, kill, or pick up their feathers.

The next morning, I woke cold and stiff in the back seat of the Jeep. After a cup of weak coffee and some trail mix I shouldered my pack, headed back up the trail, and retraced my steps to the break in the fence. Once over the barbed wire, I slipped and slide my way down a slight embankment that ended in a shallow bog filled with pond scum, bulrushes, and cinnamon fern. The ankle deep water immediately filled and soaked my boots and socks which did nothing to improve my mood. I slogged my way to the bank, removed and poured the water from each boot, then consulted my map.

Apparently the bog was an extension of a small stream that led towards the only building on the property. Labeled “mining cabin,” it reminded me that the property was originally acquired in hopes of starting a productive mine. There was also talk of establishing a paper or textile mill on one of the fresh water tributaries flowing out of the watershed that fed the stream. But according to family records not much had ever come of either plan. A mine was established and workers hired, but protests by neighboring landholders over the use of toxic chemicals shut the mine down. The decision was made to stick to tobacco farming - the family’s original source of wealth - and the land was left untouched for decades.

I was eager to see what if anything remained of either the cabin or the mine, so decided to press on. It didn’t take long to fall under the spell of the forest. Filtered sunlight dappled the ground and sparkled on the water and the familiar calls of birds - thrushes, cardinals, robins, and even a disgruntled hoot from a sleepy owl - kept me company as I walked. The air was full of the scents of wet earth and pine sap, and I caught glimpses of deer, squirrels, and even a family of otters splashing in the shallows.

The cabin, when it finally appeared at the far end of the small, stream-fed pond, turned out to be little more than a glorified log cabin with a shed attached to one side. Years of disuse and inclement weather had destroyed the door and left the windows gaping. I scrambled over and around the boulders that marked the edge of the site and approached the building cautiously. The roof looked like it might collapse at any moment, and I was sure all kinds of critters had taken shelter inside the cabin over the years. After stomping around and making as much noise as I could, I poked my head in through the door and took a look around. Aside from layers of dust and the remains of wooden bunk beds, the only other contents was an ancient pile of bear scat.

A quick glance at the sky told me an afternoon shower was brewing and I needed to get back to the Jeep. I took a few more minutes to check out the shed at the side of the cabin where I found a large wrought iron cook store covered in moss and inhabited by mice. “Sorry to disturb, guys.” I said in response to their alarmed squeaks. I left the shed and retraced my steps to the pond. The mine would have to wait for another day.

At the water’s edge, I discovered there might be an easier way to circumnavigate the pond than the one I had taken. A narrow trail led away to the right, providing a faint but clear path through the underbrush along the water’s edge. Relieved not to have to bushwhack my way back to camp, I turned right and began walking as quickly as the roots and loose rocks on the trail would allow. When the trail began to widen, and I saw human footprints in the dirt, it suddenly occurred to me that I might not be the only person on the property. I knew the easement shared with our Cherokee neighbors was still in effect, and it would make sense that they would use this path to come and go. Nevertheless, the idea that someone could be watching me was unsettling. I picked up my pace, still hoping to beat the storm.

When I heard the first rumble of thunder in the distance, I knew I was running out of time. Late afternoon storms were common this time of year and could be both violent and dangerous. “Dammit,” I swore under my breath, focusing my attention of my feet so I wouldn’t trip. At this point I’d forgotten all about the possibility of other people being close by, which explains - at least in my mind - why I didn’t notice when a slender, brown-skinned figure stepped onto the trail in front of me. Richard, who thought the whole situation was hilarious and never let me forget that I almost plowed right into him, held up his hand and said, “What took you so long?” Apparently he’d been watching me since I’d arrived yesterday and had been waiting for the right time to introduce himself.

“Holy shit!” I exclaimed, stopping dead in my tracks. “You scared me half to death.”

“I can see that,” Richard grinned revealing a mouth full of slightly crooked white teeth. He was dressed in disintegrating jeans, a threadbare t-shirt, and loafers. On his left shoulder sat a tiny gray and white owl, which I assumed was my visitor from yesterday.

“Who are you, what are you doing here, and is that a screech owl?” I asked.

“I could ask the same thing of you,” Richard replied with an amused grin. “But maybe answers to your questions can wait until we find shelter. The storm is about to break.” As if to make his point, there was a bright flash of light followed almost immediately by a crack of deafening thunder. “Come!” Richard yelled. “Hurry!” He turned and led us through gradually thinning stands of trees until we reached a small clearing in front of what looked like a mine shaft. “Here,” Richard said, motioning me inside. Outside there was another lightning flash and crack of thunder followed by the first big, fat drops of rain.

Inside, the mine smelled of dust and the faint but familiar scent of bat guano. “Whew,” I said, trying to catch my breath and regain my composure. “Thank you for helping.”

“No problem,” my companion replied. “You okay too?” he asked, reaching up and stroking the chest of the owl who gave a low hoot and closed his eyes.

“My name is Desmond. Desmond Dinsmore III,” I said holding out my hand. “But people call me D. And who might this be?” I asked nodding towards the owl.

“Richard,” my rescuer replied, shaking my hand firmly but briefly before releasing it. “Richard Walkfar. And this is Wahuhi. I rescued him when he fell out of his nest and he’s been with me ever since.” Up close he was older than he had appeared at first with frown lines creasing his forehead and crows feet at the edges of his eyes. His skin had clearly seen a lot of sun and there were streaks of gray in his hair. He had the high cheekbones and aquiline nose I usually associated with Native Americans but I didn’t want to assume.

“Nice to meet you both,” I said. “I believe I may have met Wahuhi yesterday up by the entrance gate. I own this land, or most of it anyway,” I added.

“I know. I recognize your name,” Richard said. “My people own the land that borders yours and have an easement that allows us to visit your property. I was here today visiting my parents and planting trees.”

“Planting trees?” I asked, confused.

“Cedar trees. It’s an old Cherokee tradition based on the belief that the Creator gave us cedar trees so that the spirits of our ancestors could live on within them.”

“Oh, so your parents?”

“Have passed,” Richard said, “But I spend time with them in the cedar grove and plant new trees to honor those whose names were lost in the ‘Nunna daul Tsuny’ what you call the trail of tears in English.”

I nodded but was silent not knowing what to say. I liked that Richard seemed fine with the silence and didn’t try to break it. “You should remove your wet shoes and socks,” Richard finally said after several minutes. “Cold feet are bad for the body.”

“Yes, I suppose I should,” I said, shrugging out of my backpack and sitting down with my back against the stone wall. “I wish I’d thought to bring a spare pair of dry socks with me.”

“May I?” Richard asked, squatting down in front of me and gesturing towards my soggy boots.

“By all means,” I said, wondering what he planned to do.

First he gently transferred Wahuhi from his shoulder to mine. The little owl didn’t seem surprised or upset by this. In fact, he shuffled a couple of inches closer to my head and snuggled up against my left ear. “He likes you,” Richard said with a smile. Next, Richard undid the laces on my boots and slid them and my soggy socks off my feet. In the gray half-light and strobe-like flashes of lightning my long bony feet and toes appeared almost skeletal. Seeing them stretched out like that in front of me made me feel self-conscious and slightly embarrassed.

Ignoring, or perhaps not even noticing my discomfort, Richard rubbed his palms vigorously together. Then he wrapped his hands around first the arch and then the toes of my left foot massaging gently as he went. His hands were warm, dry, and comforting. “You neglect your feet,” he said looking up and meeting my eyes. “Why?”

“I do? I mean I don’t know. What do you mean?” I stammered. Having my feet rubbed by this quiet stranger was wonderful, but it was also unnerving. I had never given much thought to my feet except to clip my toenails and apply lotion when they got dry. “Who was this guy anyway?”

“Your feet are your connection to the Mother,” Richard said. “They are your lifeline to the Earth. They ground and balance you.”

“They are? They do?” I said.

“Look, I’ll show you,” Richard said. He got to his feet and slipped out of his loafers in one fluid motion. Then he spread his legs wide and began wiggling his toes in the dry dust of the floor. “Never bind your feet, Mr. D,” he said giving me a hard stare. “They must always be free to touch the earth.”

I nodded and watched as he danced in a circle in front of me, first prancing on the tips of his toes then stomping flat-footed causing mini dust clouds to rise from the floor. His feet, I saw, were brown and ropy with strong tendons and veins standing out across the tops and thick callouses covering the soles. I had no trouble imagining him running barefoot through the woods as a young boy or taking part in dance ceremonies. He was clearly enjoying himself so I said nothing until he suddenly realized he had an audience. “Enough of my foolishness,” he said, blushing as he squatted back down and leaned against the wall beside me.

“That looked like fun,” I said, touched by his spontaneity and shyness. “Maybe you can teach me one day.”

“Teach you?” Richard asked, looking up and meeting my eyes.

“About how to unbind my feet. How to find balance,” I said. For a long moment we looked, really looked at one another for the first time.

“It will be a pleasure, Mr. D.,” Richard said with a small smile. “A very great pleasure.”

There were several more pages left to read, but I set them aside as I absorbed what D had written. He’d always claimed that he wasn’t a “real” writer - that his words were confined to scientific analysis and papers. But this was not only wonderful writing, but deeply personal as well. In this second letter, he’d entrusted me with the most private and vulnerable parts of himself - trusted me to know how to protect and share them when and if it was time. It was a gift that meant more than anything he’d ever said or done when he was alive. I set the pages down and let myself feel, feel it all - the loss, the grief, the trust and love - then picked up the phone to call Evan. It was time to visit the Light House.

Copyright 2024 by Jena Ball. All Rights reserved.

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