Sadie's Mountain (40 page)

“It’s going to be okay. Look at all the people here,” I say, fake-shrugging my shoulders.

He hugs the curve and pulls over to the side of the road. He pulls out his phone and taps the screen.

“Reverend Morris?... Okay...Well, we’ll come out and take a look...” He squints his eyes, looking a few cars up ahead.

He puts his phone down. “They blocked the road but there’s a podium set up for the press conference. We’ll head back to get the horses after that. Okay?”

“Sounds good,” I say, swallowing hard. My body can hardly contain the nerves coming up like a mini earthquake. As I open the car door, the sounds of so many people knock me sideways. There’s honking horns and people holding signs. There are media vans with their antennas high enough to meet with their mother ships in town.

“Wow,” I say, as Dillon comes around to my side, protectively, and gives me his hand.

“There she is!” yells a man with a camera rushing toward us. “Are you Sadie Sparks, the author?”

“Yes.” I’m barely able to respond before I’m surrounded. Dillon squeezes my hand.

“How do you feel about the turnout to your Hands Across the Mountain Rally?”

I stop and smile. It’s the fake smile I reserve for my book signings and readings, for giving autographs. “I’m honored to be a part of this effort to stop the destruction of Gauley Mountain. I grew up here and this is an amazing town that doesn’t deserve this. Blowing the top off this mountain would be doing a disservice to the community. We’re a tourist town now and...”

“Don’t turn your lights on, then!” yells a man with a sign that says, “
Coal Keeps the Lights On.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but we’re opposed to this specific method for getting coal. Why don’t they come back and use the mines they left behind before they go blowing up a mountain as old as the beginning of time?”

Much of the crowd begins to surround us so I back myself into the tall dirt bank with trees sticking out of it like forks stuck in the mud.

“We don’t need no outsiders comin’ in here, no tree huggers takin’ away our jobs!” yells another man holding a dark black
“Coal”
sign with white letters.

Dillon has his arm around my back. He’s tense and full of angst. “Are you okay, Sadie?” he asks.

For a moment, I want to run, to hide under his arm like a baby bird. But this is my town, and these are my people. Out of the corner of my eye I see the white police cruiser that Donnie drives.

He gets out and stands near the crowd, moves his hand to his gun, and widens his stance, his face impassive. He’s trying to intimidate me. For a brief moment it works. I put my head down, squeeze my eyes shut. I have to will myself to stand up against the rape of Appalachia.

It’s not just momma wanting the mountain safe. In a way, what I’ve just realized is I want to protect Gauley mountain like I wasn’t able to protect myself from being used, emptied, and left to die. This is about momma, but this is also about me. About my family being safe, about my future children growing up on untainted land.

“I’m from Ansted,” I yell, defiantly, taking a step forward and grasping Dillon’s hand. I force myself to take Donnie out of my peripheral vision.

“Most of us are the descendants of coal miners who lived and breathed in these coal mines.  How many of you believe that Appalachia can be saved?” I hear a rumble of applause. The group who I’d met at the church the night my momma died are holding signs that say,
“Save our Mountains.”

 “The industry claims that rallies like this one are started by outsiders, by tree huggers. Well, that’s just not true.” Tears are forcing themselves down my cheeks and my fist is in the air before I even know it.

“None of us want the dust of coal pollution getting in our lungs or our children’s lungs,” I yell, and the people rumble, clap, and boo. “No one wants our beautiful rivers and creeks to disappear, to turn to slime. And no one wants to watch our mountains ripped to shreds, raped and emptied when there’s other ways to keep the lights on!”

 With that the crowd erupts upon us like hot lava. There are people crying, people up in each other’s faces. I see hands becoming fists. Horns are honking when Reverend Morris’ voice comes blossoming into the dimly lit scene like silken cloth. He speaks slowly, calmly, patting down the air with his hands.

 “We are not here to fight with anyone,” he says. “We only want to protect what’s been given to us by the grace of God. For the Lord said in Numbers thirty-five verse thirty-four,
’Defile not therefore the land which ye shall inhabit, wherein I dwell: for I the Lord dwell among the children of Israel.’
Please, Lord,” he starts to pray and the crowd begins to hush in waves of shushing and silence. “Bless this day in your name, Lord. Please send calming spirits to help us see eye to eye. We ask that you give us the resolve to continue to stay peaceful with our brothers and sisters who believe differently than we do. Thank you, Lord. Amen.”

Someone begins the sing,
“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound...”
and like putting ointment on a burn, collectively we all take a breath and begin to sing along.
“I once was lost, but now I’m found...”

“Let’s go get the horses,” Dillon says, into my ear. But when we turn toward the car, Donnie is standing in our way.

“Leavin’ so soon?” he laughs. His hand is still on that gun. I squeeze mine into my ribs to remind me I’m safe.

“Excuse us,” I say, and grab Dillon’s arm pulling him right past his brother.

“You can try, Sadie. But you ain’t gonna break it,” he says behind our backs, and I wince.

“Just ignore him,” I say, when we get our fingers under the lip of the door handle. I stumble inside.

As Dillon folds himself inside the car next to me, he hands me his phone. “Call your brothers and have them saddle the horses for us,” he says, curtly.

So, I do. And then I sit tight as we drive home in silence.

“What did that mean? You won’t break it?”

How do I explain this to him?
“He said it to me after the shed burned down,” I say looking at my knotted fingers. “He said I might be able to keep him away, but I’ll never break the link between us,” I say, peering up from my lashes.

“Like, because of what he did, you two are linked?” he says, tightening his grasp on the steering wheel.

“Yes.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?” he asks, his voice steel-plated, confused.

“What he did changed everything for me.”

“Yes, but...,” Dillon tries.

“And he’s right,” I interrupt. “It’s like a virus in my brain. It tainted my life up until I came back here and you forced me to deal with it. Every time I stand up for myself, every time I don’t do what he says, I feel that link getting weaker.”

He squeezes the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turn white. I know he’s angry with Donnie, but it feels like my fault.

“I don’t want him to be any part of you,” he says, putting his fist to his mouth.  “I wish I could erase him from the face of the earth.”

“Him being gone won’t change it.”

“What do you mean?” he asks.

“I was all the way across the continent and he still caught me in my dreams.”

“But when he’s arrested, it’ll change,” he says, optimistically.

“I have to change. I have to learn to live my life. To not let him or what he did affect everything I do. Once I can make those changes, I’ll be free.”

He shakes his head to acknowledge he’s processing what I’ve said. We crumble up Momma’s driveway and hop out of the car. I see that my brothers have Monty and their brown horse saddled and ready to go.

“I’ll do whatever it takes to help you get through this,” he says, taking me into his shaky arms.

“Why do you always say the right thing?”

He smiles. It’s the first time I’ve seen his smile in a long while. It warms me, sustains me.

“Just a sec,” he says, with his finger up so he can deal with the vibrating phone in his hand. When I walk up to them, my brothers hug me one at a time. It surprises me, but in a good way. When I turn back, Dillon is pacing.

“So you guys are heading up there on your four wheelers? We’re taking the horses up the back trail...meet us there...yep, the spot we agreed on last night by the clearing...Okay. See you in a bit.”

I look Monty in the eye as I rub his muzzle. “Can’t be nervous on a horse,” I say and Jake chuckles.

“You’ll do fine,” he says.

“Thanks, Jerky Jake.”

“Jerky Jake?” Seth asks.

“Yep. That’s his new nickname.”

“It’ll work,” Seth says, jabbing his brother in the ribs with his elbow.

I run my fingers through the black fur speckled with silver. “Be good to me, boy. I really need you,” I whisper to my horse. He makes the blowing sound and neighs. I stick my foot in the stirrup and swing my other leg over. I take a moment to feel connected, to make it real.

As Dillon walks effortlessly toward us, he stops, tilts his head to one side, and blows his nervousness out in one breath.

“It’s not too late to change your mind,” he says.

“I have to do this,” I say, looking down. When I look up Jake hands the reins into Dillon’s outstretched hand.

“I know,” he says. “Let me see your gun,” he says, swinging his leg over. I show him again, the unyielding metal that protects me, and he clicks his heels into the horse’s flank.

“I’ll follow you,” I say, as he takes off.

I wave to my brothers, click my tongue and nudge Monty with my heels just before we disappear under the dense canopy of the trees.

We are silent for the thirty-minute ride up the back side of Gauley Mountain. It’s ironic that this place seems so peaceful, but if the coal company has their way, it’ll be a warzone soon. All the trees, animals, native plants: gone, gone, gone.

I force myself to think about the mission. I need to let the media know where we are.

“Can I see your phone?” I ask.

“Here,” he says, reaching it over to me from atop his horse.

I scroll through the recent calls and find Jenny’s number. I hit send and listen to the buzz before she answers.

“Sadie?” she says.

“I need you to put out another press release.”

“What should it say?” she asks.

“The road was blocked by the coal company and by the police. We’re coming up on horseback. It’s possible some really good reporter might make it up the mountain to cover this.”

“Will do,” she says. “What about the blog post?”

“Just hold onto it,” I say. “If you don’t hear from us in an hour, give us a call.”

“Be careful,” she says.

“Okay, thank you. Bye,” I say, with nerves taking over my voice.

“I’m going to call Reverend Morris,” Dillon says, so I give him back his phone.

He uses the speakerphone so he can hold the reins. The phone buzzes loudly before Reverend Morris’ voice comes through as if he’s yelling into a cone.

 “Dillon!”

“Where are you guys?”

“We ran into a couple’a officers from Fayetteville waitin’ for us coming up the trail,” he says. “They sent us back down but we’re looking at the map so we can take another trail,” he says. “The coal company’s suspended demolition while all these people are protesting, and some of us are up here and they don’t know where we are.”

“Alright Reverend. We’ll be waiting for you. How many are still coming?” Dillon yells into the phone.

Far off, I hear the buzz and rumble of a four-wheeler coming up to my right but I can’t see anyone. “Did you hear that?” I ask. This feels all wrong. I wish we could turn around, but it feels like it’s too late.

“There’s still ‘bout ten of us,” he says, out of our speaker.

“Did someone make it past the cops?” Dillon asks.

“Not that I know of.”

“What were the cops riding? Motorcycles? Four-wheelers?”

“Four-wheelers,” he responds out of the speaker.

The buzz and rumble sound of a four-wheeler is getting louder. Monty stops and flings his head up in fright. He’s always hated loud noises. Dillon looks at me in a panic.

 “Let’s get off this trail,” he says and he yanks the reins to the left. I duck under a branch as Monty follows Dillon’s lead. He’s doing such a good job. An old horse running uphill at this pace. I pat his neck.

“Sadie,” he says, “we’re up here alone. We don’t have the group to protect us. I don’t want you yanking that gun out on cops, but just keep it in mind. I have mine, too, remember.”

I bristle.

It’s right at that moment that I know I’ve made a mistake. A mistake that I can’t take back, when a four-wheeler carrying Chief Donnie McGraw rumbles up out of the shadows of the forest.

 It’s so loud it spooks Monty. He bolts forward to get out of the way, when a loud bang shouts through the trees and leaves. Dillon’s shirt puffs up, and I’m trying to figure out why as he grabs his chest. His eyes are wide like at the windowsill and I finally understand.

He’s been shot
.

I jump down off my horse, feel the shock as my ankles protest the jolt, and run toward him screaming his name.

“Dillon!”

It’s a guttural scream. One that asks to go back in time and change everything. One that regrets. One that begs for mercy.