Light to the Hills: A Novel (13)

“That there’s an s, Sass,” Mama had told her. “It looks like a snake and sounds like one. Ssss. You say your name thataway.” But that was all she could remember and, as far as she knew, all her mama could tell her. Keeping a cabin in the mountains didn’t much call for book knowledge. As long as you could cipher a few numbers to know your wages at the mine or the lumberyard, as long as you could make change at the store for supplies and maybe trade folks what you grew or made with your own hands, people got along all right.

Stories came from corn shuckings or hog killings, from setting up at a neighbor’s wake or helping a new mama with the young’uns. Side-splitting tall tales and sobering remembrances of hardship and loss were spun ’round the fire of an evening, sometimes with a guitar or mandolin chiming in. Now and then, on a special occasion or a particularly fine day, you might make it to the church on the slope over in Pickins to hear a tale or two from the Good Book. All the rest was memory. Recipes, songs, nursery rhymes, family history, and knowledge of signs or tokens. It all came from words told over and over until they stuck fast in the head and heart and became easy as breathing.

Sass spotted one s, then another, and another. She practiced looking for them like they were real snakes, like the one that hid in the leaves near the sang patch. Each time she saw one, she whispered its sound, sss, under her breath, until it sounded like a whole nest of serpents hid beneath the kitchen table.

“What’re you up to, girl?” asked Rai. She placed a steaming bowl before her daughter. “Sounds like you done sprung a slow leak.”

“Nothing, Mama. Just playing. These taters smell good.”

As if on cue, three tousled children tumbled out from behind the curtain partition and scooted into chairs at the table. Sass slapped the cover of the book closed and cleared her place to make room for the others. Mama bent down and lifted Hiccup to settle her in her lap. Plenty of years from being a baby, Hiccup still managed to get coddled like one.

“Good morning, Glory!” Rai said. “Did you have sweet dreams?” Hiccup nodded sleepily while Cricket and Fern dug into their breakfast. “Tell Mama all about them. Cricket, when you finish up, the goats need milking.”

“Yes’m.” Cricket yawned with a mouthful of potatoes, then slumped in his chair. Mornings were the only time he wasn’t bright-eyed and bushy-tailed.

“Fern, you and Sass can go find me a poke or two of berries if there’s any left the birds ain’t got. Hawk’s been scouting outside this morning, so we should put some limbs atop the chicken pen just in case he gets tired o’ mice and takes a mind for some easy supper.”

The girls nodded. It was a good thing Sass had nabbed a chance to sit a minute before the day got started. Once Rai’s gumption got going, the chores were endless. The sun was already full in the kitchen window.

“Where’s Finn and Daddy?” asked Sass.

“They must have had some holdup in the mine. Lord willing, they’ll be here ’fore long.”

Sass studied her mama’s face, and despite her calm, a current of worry tugged at Sass’s insides. A holdup could mean lots of things, many of them unthinkable. Likely, a horse went lame or they lingered to talk to one or another of the men on the next crew going in. Sass couldn’t remember if she’d dreamed of sunflowers last night or not. She’d meant to. She screwed up her face and thought of a whole field of them, their black faces with yellow petals swaying in the bright sun. She hoped her breaking a promise didn’t cause something dire to happen. Thinking of the biggest, brightest flowers now surely would make up for it.

The morning wore on, with no sign of the men. Cricket milked the goats and gave them a handful of corn, Sass tended the hens, and Fern drew water and collected some dandelion greens to soak and boil for supper. The girls headed out into the woods where a patch of wild gooseberries grew to gather a poke or two, as Mama had asked. The birds and other creatures had picked the bushes nearly clean, and it took almost an hour of picking carefully underneath leaves and back into the thickest patches of brambles to fill their empty mason jar with the small green fruit.

They dillydallied on the way back, knowing once they were within range of Rai’s sight, she’d dream up other chores for them to do. It was a fine day, and Sass dreaded the thought of sitting bent over inside, piecing a quilt or mending someone’s overalls. Fern was much more of a homebody, but Sass preferred the outdoors, wading in creeks and climbing the rocks and ridges behind their cabin. She chanced upon lots of treasures this way—buckeyes for her daddy to keep in his pocket for his rheumatism, black walnuts and hedge apples, flat stones perfect for skipping on the creek, or wildflower seeds she’d wrap in a kerchief and save for planting later around the front yard.

She and Fern chatted and sang on the way home, trading opinions on which kind of pie each liked best and what kind of boy they expected to marry someday. Fern had many more ideas about this than Sass had.

“Boys just give you more work to do once you get growed,” said Sass. “Mama hardly ever sits down to rest.”

“Don’t you want someone to be sweet on you? Someone who thinks you’re pretty?”

“Daddy and Finn think I’m pretty.” Sass made a face. “’Sides, sounds like a lot of bother and fuss. I’d rather go fishing.”

Fern laughed in that superior way she had that made Sass yearn to yank her sister’s braid backward. She ignored her and marched on toward home.