The fall line, p.15
The Fall Line, page 15
“If you weren’t leaving town, I’d have already invited you to go with me.”
“I can’t wait to hear about your reaction to them.”
“I can’t wait to find out what it will be.” Jordan laughed. “You be careful on the road.”
“Thanks,” Maddie said. “You be careful on the river.”
“I’ll do my best to be safe.” Their mutual concern for each other’s well-being was charming. “Oh, hey, what about the chickens?”
“They’re going with me, of course,” Maddie said lightly. “I have a specially designed travel crate for them.”
“Seriously?” Jordan couldn’t imagine traveling for hours with chickens in a car and taking them to someone else’s house.
Maddie chortled. “I’m joking with you, Jordan. I keep my neighbor supplied with eggs, and he keeps an eye on them when I’m out of town.”
“I’m so gullible.” Jordan laughed at herself. “But you were so convincing. You’re really a good storyteller. Hey, speaking of which, you never told me about the Palmer House spirit.”
“Spirit? You mean ghost? There’s not much of a story to tell other than a few reported sightings of a young woman in a yellow dress. How’d you hear about her?”
“Jenn told me.” Jordan spoke truthfully but omitted last night’s experience with the spirit. She wanted to continue talking with Maddie but knew she was keeping her from leaving. “We’re avoiding hanging up, aren’t we?” Jordan’s cheeks hurt, and she realized she hadn’t stopped smiling since she picked up her phone.
“We might be,” Maddie said. Somehow her voice sounded like she was smiling, too. “How about we hang up on the count of three?”
“If you want to get to New Orleans before sunset, we’d better.”
“One…two…” They counted together, but on the third count, neither ended the call, and they burst into laughter.
“I’m hanging up now,” Jordan said. “For real.”
“Me, too.” Maddie laughed. “Seriously.”
“Okay, okay. Bye, Maddie.” Chuckling, Jordan moved the phone away from her ear, hearing Maddie’s delightful laughter continue as she ended the call.
* * *
An hour later, after having eaten a granola bar and banana for breakfast during the drive, Jordan turned on to the tree-shaded gravel road leading to the Cahaba River. Scanning the river as soon as she saw it in gaps between the trees, she hoped for a view of the lilies. The water level had dropped, and the lilies were no longer submerged, clusters of their long, dark-green leaves visible. She spotted a few white blooms in the distance, but none close to the river’s edge.
She parked the 4Runner behind a line of cars in the turnaround at the end of the road near Caffee Creek. Slipping her sling pack over her shoulder, she traveled light, with just a sketchbook, pencils, small pan of watercolors, and a water bottle. As she walked past a group of adults letting their kids play in the shallow water near the river’s sandy edge, she noticed a hand-painted sign nailed up high on the trunk of a tree: Do not leave dirty diapers. The thought of soiled diapers littering the ground repulsed and aggravated her. If someone had gone to the trouble of climbing the tree to attach that sign, diaper-dumping must have been an actual problem here. The volume of trash she’d seen scattered along the roads in Alabama was appalling, although Tennessee wasn’t much better. She didn’t understand people’s careless disregard of the environment.
The trail to Hargrove Shoals began on the other side of Caffee Creek, a tributary that flowed into the river. Knowing it would require a water crossing, she’d worn shorts and water sandals, expecting to get her feet wet today. The water, surprisingly cold, came up to her calves as she waded across. As she glanced up the creek, she admired the cascade of water flowing through rocks and boulders. Was Old Red still up there, waiting for a meal to amble past? The big copperhead reminded her of Leda. Would Jordan really see her again today?
When she paused on the other side to shake sand and gravel out of her sandals, the confluence gave her a sweeping view up and down the river. Above the mouth of the creek, the river was wide, shallow, and noisy as water rushed through the striated lines of bedrock crossing the river at a diagonal. Below, it was dark and deep, ripples on the deceptively smooth surface indicating the hydraulic power beneath.
Following the shaded and well-worn sandy path, she encountered a small group of middle-aged birders along the way. They pointed to the tree canopy overhead, clutching expensive binoculars and arguing over which species of warbler they’d spotted. She exchanged nods and hellos as she passed, and after fifteen minutes of walking, she quickened her pace when the stand of lilies, known as Hargrove Shoals, came into view.
They were spectacular, stretching as far as she could see, clusters of creamy white blooms resembling a thin layer of snow on top of lush, green foliage. A handful of people already stood there, dispersed among the plants in the water. As she removed her phone from her pocket to take a few photos before wading closer to the flowers, she realized she’d forgotten to bring its waterproof case. Silently cussing, she captured a few images and vowed to be careful while in the water. After putting her phone in her pack, she stepped into the river.
What she’d expected to be an easy stroll through shallow water along the rocky shelf to the lilies turned out to be tricky. The surfaces were slick with algae. Jordan took short, shuffling steps, working her way slowly to the nearest blooms. The rock was also dotted with small aquatic snails that she tried her best to avoid stepping on, slowing her down further. Seeing so many was a good thing, as their presence indicated clean water. She’d read about the Cahaba pebblesnail, a small, light-colored gastropod with a distinctive tan stripe that lived only in this river. It was thought to have gone extinct because of mining pollution. Just a few years ago, a grad student who’d noticed snail populations rebounding since the Clean Water Act went into effect in the early seventies was hopeful that the snails might have survived and went looking for them, finding them in a small section of the river. Although that area was north of where she was, she kept an eye out for their distinctive pattern. Given what was upstream—dense urban areas, industry, mining, and farms—a single catastrophic spill could wipe them out. The author of the article she’d read was optimistic that the populations could rebound. Water quality, in general, was better, and since a small dam on the river had recently been removed, a host of other species was recovering. She’d read with fascination how the tiny larvae of mussels dispersed by catching rides on the gills of fish. Collectively, they grazed decaying plants, filtered water, and provided a food source for other animals. Overlooked and disregarded, snails and mussels having free range were key components of a healthy ecosystem.
As she moved closer to the lilies, at what seemed like, well, a snail’s pace, an idea for a painting depicting those interrelated connections began to form in her mind’s eye. She tucked the thought away as she approached the first cluster of flowers.
Up close, the shape of the lilies reminded her of amaryllis, the pretty hybridized flowers that bloomed off long tubular stems with leathery dark-green leaves, the bulbs of which were offered for sale during the winter holidays. Unlike the showy garden amaryllis, the Cahaba lily flowers were far more delicate. Seeing them in person now, she was glad she’d read up on the plant’s anatomy because it helped her fully appreciate what she was observing. The lily’s unpoetic-sounding scientific name, Hymenocallis coronaria, meaning “beautiful membrane crown,” didn’t do it justice. The flower was sensually beautiful, like something Georgia O’Keeffe would have painted. The cup-shaped flower was the crown, a thin, circular membrane with frilled and pointed edges framed by six long, spidery tendrils. Six thin stamens radiated from the edge of the crown, each capped with yellow, pollen-swollen pillows called anthers. A thin, sticky filament, the stigma, emerged from the yellow blush of the flower’s throat. Although the flowers relied on pollinators to keep the gene pool diverse, each one was self-contained, with both male and female parts. And it survived only in clean, swiftly flowing water. Jordan respected the inherent wildness of a plant that would wither and die in a domestic garden no matter how carefully tended.
The people in the distance moved among the flowers like the native bees buzzing around her, attracted to the blooms’ nectar. She’d noticed that they all had wading sticks, and now she understood why. The bedrock, fragmented and often jagged, sloped down into dark, unknown depths. She reflected on Leda’s tragic drowning. She’d known the river well, it seemed, and had still lost her life due to a slip and fall. Imagining her own foot sliding and getting stuck in a crevice encouraged Jordan to be cautious and take it slow.
She paused on a flat, wet rock mid-river in front of a wide channel to wipe the sweat trickling down her forehead. She’d hoped to make it all the way to the other side, but she wouldn’t be able to cross here without risking getting her sling pack wet and not without some difficulty. The channel was deep, the flow swift. Water was always more powerful than it seemed. A refreshing soft brush of a slight breeze on her skin felt good and carried with it a subtle, sweet scent. Bending low, she put her nose to the nearest lily bloom and smelled a delicate fragrance reminiscent of honeysuckle. From what she’d read, the flowers bloomed for one day only. Today just a portion of the plants around her were blooming, and they were all heavy with buds, seemingly ripe and ready to emerge.
After taking a long drink from her water bottle, she retrieved her sketchbook and pencil from her pack. She made several quick gestural drawings of the landscape as a warm-up and then a suite of detailed drawings focusing on the lilies. While drawing, she entered an almost meditative state and eased into the flow of translating what she saw into marks on the page. The process also made her more attuned to the variety of textures and colors, and how the water flowed through the shoals. In art school she’d learned about Leonardo da Vinci’s fine pen-and-ink drawings of natural forces, like flowing water and violent windstorms, and that he drew from observation as a method of attaining deep knowledge. Drawing helped her appreciate abject things, like spiders and spindly-legged insects. When she illustrated some for a freelance job, they gave her the heebie-jeebies at first, but the more she drew them, the more she felt curious instead of anxious.
Eventually she couldn’t make any more marks on the paper without overdoing the drawing, so she stowed her sketchbook and pencil back in her pack and retrieved her phone to take images for source photos. After she captured as many close-ups of the lilies as she could, she set her camera to panorama and held it at arm’s length, panning the phone around her. While she shifted her feet to complete the arc, her right foot, closest to the ledge, slipped. Her leg scraped painfully against the sharp edge, and her foot plunged into the fast-moving water, the current tugging it and catching the sole of her sandal like a paddle. She lost traction on her left foot and slipped again, tipping backward. Sensing that she was falling, she instinctively put her hands out to catch herself and watched helplessly as her phone arced through the air, hit the water with a splash, and disappeared into the depths of the river as her butt hit the edge of the rock.
“Fuck!” Unharmed save for a scraped calf, she sat on the wet rock, her legs dangling in the current, staring at the spot where she’d last glimpsed the phone as if she could will it back into her hand. “Fuckity-fuck.”
The water-resistant phone could withstand a quick dunk, but it might not survive an extended soak, assuming she could retrieve it. She considered wading into the current to feel around for it, but then she’d risk getting her pack and art supplies wet. She glanced about, looking for an exposed dry rock where she might put the pack, but didn’t see one. A small, fuzzy butterfly landed on the front of her shirt, distracting her. It was a silver-spotted skipper flashing its silvery white spots, rhythmically opening and closing its wings. A dainty, seemingly fragile thing, it flitted off effortlessly, as if taunting her with its ability to cross the river with ease.
Movement in the water caught her eye, something dark and shadowy darting beneath her toes. She pulled up her feet and scooted back on the ledge. She wasn’t sure what she’d witnessed. Glancing up, she looked for a passing cloud casting a shadow. The sky overhead was clear blue; the only clouds visible were to the north and just beginning to appear over the top of the hillside. The shadow passed again. Something was definitely there, its shape unclear. A big fish maybe? It probably wasn’t a turtle; they seldom roamed in rocky shoals and strong currents. Scanning the water, hoping to glimpse whatever it was, she recoiled when a pale hand popped out of the water, clutching her phone.
Leda’s head emerged next, covered with a wide grin. “Looking for this?”
“Leda! Oh my God, yes.” Jordan reached for her phone as Leda floated to her. “Thank you!”
“You’re welcome. You’re lucky I arrived when I did.”
“Lucky and very grateful.” She powered off the phone quickly and grabbed a bandana from her pack to wipe it down.
“What do you think of my little piece of heaven?” Leda bobbed in the water as if there were no current. Water rolled off the surface of her dry hair, and her makeup was perfect.
Jordan puffed air in her cheeks, trying to find the right words as she stuffed the phone into her pack. “It’s wonderful. I don’t think words can do it justice.”
Leda nodded. “Can I see your drawings?”
“Sure.” Jordan removed her sketchbook and flipped to the first gestural sketch and held it up for Leda to see, moving slowly through the next few pages. Leda appeared impressed.
“Oh, I like this one,” Leda said with exuberance and pointed at the drawing of a lily root grasping a rock. “They look like they’re clinging on for dear life, don’t they?”
“I guess they are,” Jordan said, turning to the last sketch of a snail. “I’m not sure what species this is. I was hoping I might find a pebblesnail. They were thought to be extinct but have survived somehow. I know this isn’t one of them.”
“The little stripeys?” Leda asked. “They used to be everywhere, and then they all but disappeared. But I’ve been seeing them again.” She pointed an index finger. “I’ll be right back.” With a grin, she disappeared under the water’s surface.
Alone again, Jordan remembered that she wasn’t the only person exploring Hargrove Shoals. She glanced over her shoulder to see a few people wading downstream from her, one setting up a tripod and camera with a big lens. She wondered if they, too, could see Leda, or if it looked like she was talking to the river. Hopefully, they weren’t paying her any attention.
When Leda returned after a few minutes, she held out a cupped hand with three snails the size of a nickel. The spired shape of the coiled shells and tan stripes was instantly recognizable.
“Oh, wow.” Jordan leaned forward to have a closer look, wishing she could use her phone to take a photo. “Do you mind holding them so I can draw?”
“Not at all.”
Jordan got out her pencil and sketchbook and made several sketches, some of just the snails and some including Leda’s hands, which remained unnaturally still, something a living person in the water couldn’t do. Making friends with a spirit was unexpectedly handy. What would have happened if she’d tried to take a picture of Leda? Would she register in the image, or would the photo just show some strange orb or hazy shadow?
“You look very serious when you’re drawing,” Leda said after Jordan finished and turned the result around to show her.
“I do? I’m not surprised, though. I really focus when I’m working,” She stowed the sketchbook in her pack. “I guess you probably ought to get my models back into the water where they came from.”
Leda dipped her hands in the water, refreshing the snails. “Something marvelous happens here, but only at night. If you come back when the moon’s full, I’ll show you.”
“I don’t know that I can.”
“Why not?”
“The reserve closes at sunset.”
Leda rolled her eyes while pushing back from the ledge. As she floated away slowly, her form seemed less distinct, as if she were dissolving in the water, her voice taking on a teasing tone. “The river never closes, Jordan.”
Leda disappeared completely and didn’t return. Jordan shuffled carefully back to the riverbank and found a shady spot with a log that made a good bench. Then she got out her watercolors and sketchbook to add a wash of color to a few of the drawings. As she brought the sketches to life with the dip and swish of the brush on paper, she considered Leda’s proposition. What did she want to show her, and, more worrisome, how could she get back to this place at night?
Chapter Eleven
On her way back to Palmer House from the river, Jordan stopped by the college library to use a computer. With her laptop useless because of the cracked and bleeding screen, she needed one to find detailed instructions regarding her water-soaked phone. She discovered only that she should wipe it down with a soft cloth, tap out any water accumulated in the charging port, speakers, and microphones, and wait before turning it on again. Some sources said six hours, though others recommended forty-eight. Hopeful it would be fine, she decided to split the difference and try powering it up in the morning.
However, she couldn’t text Maddie as promised. Jordan checked their email exchanges. The phone number included with Maddie’s signature was for her office. The best Jordan could do was email her, explaining that she had returned from the river safe and sound, but her phone hadn’t, and hope Maddie was checking messages.
After that, she looked at online maps as she considered how to reach the lilies at night. By canoe seemed the most direct way. She canoed every summer with her family on camping trips, but most of her experience was on flat water. She could rent one, put in above the preserve, and float down to the stand. With a full moon and clear weather, visibility would be good, but that plan presented problems. She’d have to paddle back up to her car, and going solo wasn’t the safest thing to do, especially on a river she wasn’t familiar with. Since the only people she really knew here were out of town, no one would realize if she went missing. It was an adventurous fantasy for a few minutes until reality caught up with her.
