Page 10 of Where the Rivers Merge

Resurrection fern (Pleopeltis polypodioides) is an epiphytic fern species that is native to the southeastern United States. The name comes from its remarkable ability to seemingly resurrect itself after periods of drought, its withered, brown fronds transforming to lush green within hours. It typically grows on the trunks and branches of large hardwoods, like live oak.

1909

After a rough start, Tripp’s first summer at Mayfield began in earnest. Summer was a time of ease, and we’d have plenty of fun together . . . once Daddy got the June planting done.

Rain or shine, the fields were planted. Daddy rose before the sun to work on the land, managing the animals and fields. He worked side by side with his team as stout oxen lumbered slowly through the muddy fields, planting the rice seed. The swampy low country could not bear the weight of the new mechanical equipment that boosted rice production in other states.

Mama would shake her head and say, “That man’s no better than a beast in the harness.”

She complained how rice production in the low country was dead and gone and how they should just give up and move to the city.

We knew Daddy never would leave Mayfield. He said his family’s blood ran in the creeks and rivers here. Some days he’d come back quick in his step, praising the Lord for such bountiful land. Other times, like after a full moon tide inundated the fields, he came back to us walking like a man twice his age and asking the heavens why the Prince of Darkness continued to plague him.

There were magical moments too. The family gathered when the floodgate, called a trunk, was lifted. We watched in awe as the water slowly seeped into the fields, enough to cover the seeds. If it weren’t for the water, the ricebirds would claim most of the seeds and it would be a loss. Daddy watched, a gleam in his eye, and said with satisfaction, “That’s the way it’s always been done.”

After the planting, the whole household breathed deeply in relief. He and Mama took long, slow walks alone in the soft evening air. Sometimes we’d hear their laughter ring out when the sun started sinking in a hazy, fiery red. Clementine commenced making lemonade and sweet tea in ample amounts to assuage our thirst. Mama didn’t mind if we wore our field clothes or how dirty our nails were, at least not as much. She professed she was glad we were old enough now to take care of ourselves. She opened the windows and doors and let us loose to play in the fields and swim in the river while she sewed or read poetry in the shade.

The earth also eased up as the days warmed. The sun shone hotter, baking the muddy, gooey soil that tired one to walk in, turning it into loam that sprouted green shoots and wildflowers. The streams ran full of bream and trout. We kids were warned of snakes—hoary old copperheads, rattlesnakes, and coral snakes—and took off with fishing gear in our hands. We barely had to drop a line in with a wiggling worm to have a fine catch.

It took a while for Tripp and Covey to become friends. I expected them to get along like peas and carrots, but it turned out there was some pepper in that mix.

The day after Tripp’s arrival, I sneaked out to play with Covey. The midday sun beat down on the lawns and dusty paths. Covey and I sought shade under a large oak tree. I sat cross-legged on a patchwork quilt. Beside me, Covey giggled as we threaded stems of clover to make crowns. Our weaving was interrupted by the arrival of Tripp. He strode across the grass in his city clothes, in stark contrast to Covey’s and my worn cotton summer dresses and muslin aprons.

His eyes narrowed in puzzlement and he cleared his throat to announce his presence.

I looked up with a bright smile. “Tripp! Meet my friend Covey. Covey, this is Tripp.”

I held up the ring of clover proudly. “You’ve come just in time. Covey and I are making crowns.”

Covey glanced up, her dark eyes meeting Tripp’s gaze with a mixture of wariness and curiosity.

Tripp shifted uncomfortably, glancing around as if expecting someone to reprimand us. “But . . . shouldn’t you be playing with . . . the other children?”

he asked me cautiously, struggling to articulate his thoughts.

“Covey and I play together all the time.”

Tripp seemed taken aback. “But . . . well, she’s a Negro. We can’t play with Negroes. Least while, not in Charleston,”

he mumbled, his gaze flickering between Covey and me.

“Well this is Mayfield. And she’s my best friend,”

I replied, my gaze steady as I met Tripp’s uncertain stare.

“Huh. Then okay, I guess, if your mama and daddy say it’s all right.”

Tripp stood there meekly, holding his hands in front of him, as though wishing to stay yet uncertain.

I reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “Covey’s the best at making up stories. And she knows the names of most all critters and trees and plants on Mayfield. You should hear the adventures we’ve had.”

Tripp managed a small smile in return. He glanced once more at Covey, who regarded him with caution. “Okay,”

he said, this time with more gusto as he planted himself between me and Covey. His eyes brightened with his smile.

As the afternoon wore on, both Covey and Tripp seemed to relax as the three of us played together under the shade of the oak tree.

For most of the days that week, we got together and, pretty soon, were inseparable. When we weren’t fishing or playing games of make-believe, Covey, Tripp, and I spent hours filling metal buckets full of big, sweet berries and, in late summer, the large, musky scuppernong grapes that turned bronze on the vine. Mama liked to say scuppernong grapes were the first signal of fall. Heyward was especially good at finding cooter eggs, but Tripp, being tenderhearted, cried if anyone attempted to bring a turtle to the kitchen. Clementine welcomed our bounty and made jams and pies and delicious soups. She often shook her head while cooking and professed aloud how with all the ducks and turkeys and deer in the woods, and all the fish and crabs in the sea and rivers, and all the berries in the fields, a family could live like kings and queens at no expense.

Summer was a fecund season—the sheep had lambs, the cows had calves, and there were kittens to be found in the barns. I liked sheep well enough. They were sweet but dumb as dirt. Sometimes a ewe rejected her baby. That sent tenderhearted Tripp into tears for worrying about the lamb. But Daddy showed him how to take the orphan lamb in one hand and a different mama’s lamb in the other, and gently rub them together. That way the smell of the good mama’s lamb spread onto the orphan. Most times, that mama gave the orphan a sniff, thought it was one of hers, and she nursed it. Tripp had such joy in his eyes when the orphan was accepted, and after that, Daddy let Tripp work with the lambs. When he told Tripp he had the gift for working with animals, Tripp walked in high cotton for weeks.

For me, the highlight of that summer was returning to the tree hollow. Tripp was begging to see the big tree he’d heard so much about. I wasn’t sure I could even find it again, but Covey led the way from her cottage through the woods to my tree.

The tree didn’t look much different. Her limbs stretched far out over the clearing, so low some of them rested on the earth. There was a majesty about her that you just knew she was ancient. I approached the hollow slowly, my feet cutting a path in the soft grass.

Tripp slapped his forehead and muttered, “That there’s the biggest tree I’ve ever seen.”

It was true. Even when the three of us held hands, we couldn’t reach clear around her trunk.

“I told you,” I said.

“How do you reckon a tree could grow that big with a hole in its body like that?” he asked.

“A hole don’t mean the tree is ailing,”

said Covey. “Wilton says a tree like this has lots of sap running through it, like our blood. When the innards decay, all the rot helps feed the tree as it grows.”

With reverence, I reached out to touch the bark. The leaves of the fern that grew on the tree bark were now brittle and dry. “But the fern’s all curled up, like it’s burnt. It was all green when I last saw it.”

Covey slowly ran her hand over the tree trunk, smiling as the fronds tickled her palm. “This here’s resurrection fern. The leaves always look dead when they’re dry. Only they ain’t dead at all. When it rains, the fern comes back to life, all green again. That’s how it got its name. Like the Lord’s resurrection.”

I looked at the thick layer of fern climbing up and cloaking the tree trunk and branches. “The fern doesn’t hurt the tree, does it?”

Covey shook her head. “It’s like a queen’s fine cloak.”

I smiled, liking that comparison a lot. I remembered the night I’d found the tree hollow. The rain was falling, and thunder rumbled. Then, the resurrection fern was indeed a bright green. I went to the hollow and scooted low to look inside the dark cavern. I remembered it was big enough to hold me, and maybe two or three more.

Tripp grabbed my arm, holding me back. “Careful, Eliza. Critters might be in there.”

“And snakes,”

added Covey, her eyes wide.

“I don’t remember any critters or snakes,”

I said, matter-of-fact, then stretched out my arms into the dark hollow and commenced clapping loudly, shouting, “Scoot! Scoot!”

Behind me, Tripp and Covey hooted and hollered at the top of their lungs. Then we stopped and listened, poised to run. If any animal or snake was in residence, I felt sure they’d have come out. When nothing stirred, I crawled in.

Once I was through the opening, the hollow opened up into a cavern. Teeny bits of light peered in through cracks in the wood, and dust motes that were stirred up by my crawling floated in the air. As my eyes acclimated to the dark, I gazed around in wonder. The hollow rose high up, almost high enough for me to stand, and the crevices created great arches that soared over my head and disappeared in the dark. The composted floor, mingled with patches of moss, was soft on my hands and knees, and the green grew along the inside of the tree like wallpaper.

Tripp and Covey crawled in, and we gathered in the center of the hollow. Together we sat in silence as we marveled at the towering inside of the cavern.

“Might could get Heyward in here too,”

I said in a hushed voice.

“Why are you whispering?”

asked Covey.

I tried to explain how the hollow felt like sacred ground. There was so much history inside this moss-encrusted monument. Hundreds of years of different animals seeking shelter. Countless birds nested. Squirrels hid nuts. Maybe a slave hid here escaping bondage. Or an Indian passed a night here while hunting. Sitting inside this tree, I felt connected to something bigger than myself, and it mystified me. But how could I explain all that?

I shrugged. “Feels like I’m in church.”

Covey giggled and bumped my shoulder. “You ain’t never been to my church. It’s too quiet in here for that.”

“This is the best fort ever,”

Tripp said, his head turning from left to right. His eyes gleamed in the dim light, and he leaned forward with excitement. “Listen! We should make this our secret place. Just ours. We can have secret meetings and stuff. Maybe camp out in here.”

“Uh-uh,”

Covey said in protest. “I ain’t sleeping in here. Night’s when the animals look for shelter.”

“I’m not afraid of no skunk or raccoon,”

boasted Tripp, leaning back on his arms.

“Then I reckon you aren’t bothered by those daddy longlegs over your head,” I said.

With a yelp, Tripp sprang to my side of the hollow, knocking me flat against the wood. “Where? Where’re the spiders?”

“Damnation, Tripp, get off me!”

I hollered. “They’re more afraid of you than you are of them.”

Tripp gave his scalp a good scratching. “I wasn’t scared.”

“Well, don’t fret.”

I brushed the dirt off my legs. “They’re not spiders. They don’t have venom. There’s nothing in my tree hollow but harmless bugs and moss.”

I leaned back, grinning. “Feels right homey here, don’t it? How come it took us this long to come back?”

I asked Covey. “Tripp is right. This is a perfect hideaway.”

“And we can’t tell anyone about it,”

said Tripp.

“Except Heyward, of course,” I said.

Tripp shook his head. “Not even Heyward. We have to pinky-swear.”

He stuck out his raised little finger.

Covey leaned in. “Okay. I swear.”

I had to think on that a minute. No one wanted to include Lesesne. He couldn’t be trusted. But it didn’t feel right not to include Heyward. Then again, my older brother was making himself scarce this summer, acting all grown-up and too good to play with us kids. Well, he deserves what he gets, I thought.

“Okay,”

I conceded. “But if we’re going to have a secret club, a pinky swear isn’t good enough. We need to do something more powerful.”

Tripp grew alert. “Like what?”

“A blood oath.”

Covey looked at me with a frown. “That sounds like hoodoo. I don’t fool with that.”

“It’s not hoodoo or conjuring. It’s more like a sacred promise. Life or death. You’ll see. Anyone got a safety pin?” I asked.

Covey went to the strap of her pinafore and unhooked a pin. The apron slumped down her chest. “Here’s one.”

I took the pin, then wiped my hands clean on my own muslin pinafore. Then, taking a breath, I stuck the tip of my index finger with the pin. A bead of blood instantly appeared. Covey and Tripp both gasped and shrank back.

“Come on, sissies,”

I cajoled. “I thought you said you wanted this to be a secret club. We have to be blood brothers.”

“Sisters,”

Covey amended.

“Brother and sisters,”

Tripp corrected.

We kneeled close together. First, I held Covey’s hand. She didn’t flinch as I pricked the tip of her finger. I took my bloody fingertip and in the slow manner of ceremony, pressed it against Covey’s pricked finger. We looked in each other’s eyes and I felt a surge of affection for my best friend.

“I do solemnly swear to be your blood sister, loyal and true, for the rest of my life. Now you say it.”

Covey licked her lips and spoke in a hushed voice as she repeated my words.

Next I faced Tripp. His eyes gleamed with anticipation mixed with fear. I admit, I was impressed he didn’t whimper when I pricked his finger. Blood appeared and I pressed my fingertip to his and made the oath.

He grinned so wide he could barely speak. “I do solemnly swear to be your blood brother—and your husband—loyal and true, for the rest of my life.”

I dropped my hand. “Aw Tripp, you’re spoiling things. You can’t say ‘husband.’ We aren’t getting married, you dufus!”

“We are too.”

“Not now we aren’t!”

I shook my head, frustrated with his claims. “Aw, go ahead now and swear to Covey.”

The two completed the ceremony, swearing to be loyal and true.

“We should add on pain of death,”

said Tripp, holding up his index finger.

Covey and I lifted our pricked fingers and we all said in unison, “On pain of death.”

Little did we know on that summer afternoon, when the sun shone bright overhead and the world was innocent, that those words would one day come back to haunt us.