Manroot (11 page)

The Judge surveyed the scene, his mind a mass of confusion and fury, fast
turning to disgust.

“
Cover yourself, you bitch,” he spat down at her, then he slammed the door, turned out the porch light and ran to the bathroom, where he retched for half an hour.

As the door slammed, she fell over on the slats, thankful for the dark.
The robe was torn, no longer covering her. She gasped in quick shallow breaths. Everything swam before her; lack of oxygen made her faint. She lay as if in shock, too stunned to sob. That was when she became aware of the stealthy noises, shadows creeping nearer – and again he grabbed her, stilling her words, “Oh God, please, no!” as out of the darkness they came. Her fists beat at them like a moth against the flame. The first one lowered himself on her. She could not cry out, as he pulled roughly at her breast. They formed a circle and watched; the whiskey made them bold. It was a silent struggle. She felt another lower himself above her face. They rolled her this way and that, pinching and clawing at her; three of them took their pleasure of her at once.

The scent of them made her gag
– the whiskey, the musk of them. There was no way, nowhere to escape…there was only one place she could go. In her mind she retreated under her bed in Gallup, where she often hid as a child. Away now, she saw the dust gather in the corners, the specks flying in the sunlight. ‘I must hide,’ she told herself, and she stayed there – a tiny ball, where nothing touched her, even though they violated her in every way possible. It didn’t touch her, for she was far away, crying silently for the soul that died.

Frieda found her in the early dawn just as the rooster crowed
– spread-eagled on the slats, dried blood on her legs, their issue caked in her hair and over her body, her eyes wide open, staring, without seeing the dawn.

“
My God! Oh my God, what has he done to you, that no-good bastard – and him a judge! Who will judge him?” Frieda half-carried and half-dragged her into the kitchen. Propping her on a chair, she washed her. The cold water made her stir. Her eyes unset, and she began blinking rapidly. Frieda held smelling salts under her nose; she shook her head from side to side, becoming aware.

“
Stay here,” Frieda commanded, and ran to Katherine’s room, but she could find no clothing there that was not torn to shreds, except for the gray cape. She brought fresh clothing of her own, all far too big. She put on a cotton slip; the panties would not stay up. Over Katherine’s head she threw a long gray housedress of her own and wrapped the cape around the trembling girl.

“
Wait, Katherine, do not move. Stay still – I’ll get the doctor.” She ran quickly to the lobby to telephone, but returned some minutes later to find Katherine gone. “Katherine!” she called, her voice loud and frantic in the beautiful April morning. She called until she was hoarse.

Blindly, Katherine stumbled through the woods.
She ran and ran until she could run no further, then, collapsing into a heap of pampas-grass, she slept for a whole day. She awoke as a hare crept close to her, staring; she caught his essence, felt the terror of his days. Her eyes fluttered, and he scampered away. She heard the call of the jay, alarmed at her presence. And she heard Justin’s words, meant to wound: ‘
She’s just like an animal…just like an animal.’
They echoed in her mind. An animal, she thought. What a noble thing to be. They were not dishonest or deceitful. They did not misunderstand---. A pain high in her abdomen gnawed at her; she mistook it for hunger. Sitting up, she found berries ripe and juicy, and ate. Stretching, she reached for it…the forgotten talent. Straining with all her might she brought it to her. She heard them, the creatures in the woods…they spoke to one another, and she knew of what they spoke.

By noon Frieda had prepared a bundle of necessary things. She called at the edge of the woods. In the pack she had included some pots, a tin of kitchen matches, utensils, and two notebooks full of recipes. Frieda knew she had taught the girl well; she could survive. Frightened that with each day she would be father and father way, she went and got Bruce, who was terrified now that his world had shrunk further. Taking Bruce and leading him to the edge of the wood, she implored him to call, ‘Katherine.’ He was frightened, but she urged and begged, and he didn’t understand any of it, but he did as she asked.

His voice bellowing and calling to
‘
Katherine
’ made Katherine pause and wonder. Bruce so recently injured – what did he want? What was it she could do for him? There was nothing she could do for herself. Yet quietly she crept closer; she could see through the veil of trees, Frieda leading him, and between them they carried a knapsack. She could not go to them; she felt now she could not go to anyone. She heard Bruce’s voice grow hoarse with calling. She saw them place the sack on a rock, then turn away, walking back toward the hotel. Frieda led him by one arm; his other arm flailed the air, searching for obstacles, his new world of darkness, his new cross to bear.

She went forward and saw her two notebooks lyi
ng atop the bundle. She knew these things were meant for her. Regaining her strength, she wandered through the woods, following the sound of the water. She thought she was following the bend of the Meramec, but she was mistaken. She was following Kiefer Creek.

The warm months went by in a succession of forgotten days.
Food was plentiful and sometimes, when she found a small cave, she dared to cook. Often around the caves or water she saw the print of the bobcat. It lived here, too. She felt no fear of them, the animals that lived with her; she felt closer to them, much more so than to the humans she had left behind. At night she looked up at the heavens and wondered, how did one ever escape from the curse of being born under an unfortunate star? It seemed tragic to her that any of them, the stars that glittered there, could be unfortunate. She did not mourn for her lost love, nor even feel the degradation that had sent her here. That part of her had died. Like the squirrel, the muskrat, the possum, the gentle fawns…even the bobcat…she spent her days as they did, searching for food, drinking from the clear creek, seeking out a warm place to rest and sleep. She did not think of the child. She had not told him, for then she had not been sure. Now she ignored her pain, pretending it did not exist, for if it did, it, too, was as helpless as she was, and in her womb they had tainted her and the fetus. The pain came often; it was a gnawing pain that tore at her insides. She pushed it away and escaped under her bed in Gallup…creeping under the small bed, feeling the soft dust in the corners, and watching the motes of it floating in the sun. It could not find her there, when she hid so carefully.

Around the creek she found the wild peppermint plant, which grew
in wet places, its purple flowers and dark green foliage easily visible. Chewing it, she knew it was a remedy, and it made her want to sleep. She also found yarrow, which grew alongside the road. She could spot its tall heads with their white flowers and its finely cut gray-green foliage. When she was sure that no one else was about, she would creep to the roadside and pick some, not wishing to be seen.

She placed the leaves from the yarrow in her shoes, for she knew it to relieve blisters.
She used it to bind up her scratches and wounds as well. The wood and land were abundant; gathering dill and swamp rose for food, soon she felt the cold of autumn. The fetus grew. She must stop, for the time was drawing near; yet still it twisted and turned within. Holding on to a willow tree, she felt its restless soul within. ‘Tell me, spirit, what should I do?’

She implored the sun god, god of the wind…
all things in nature that she knew to be divine, yet none answered, or gave direction. Never, but never, would she call on the God of her father. She felt the spirit of creation around her, yet none could be reached. In the late autumn she saw the gold of the manroot, its five-fingered plant growing low in the dark, damp places. She filled her sack, digging only the old ones, careful to plant the berries just under the leaves, scattering some as the birds would in nature. Chewing the manroot gave her renewed strength. She found no roots in the man-shape; those she dug were large and old – she knew this by the number of knobs on the stem. And they were straight. She didn’t expect to find one so special again. Frieda had told her…they were prime and very, very special. An early frost warned her she must find shelter, for the thing that grew was near its time. Two days ago, she had passed a fine house on a hill. Near it lay an abandoned cabin. She must try – she could pay. Frieda had told her of the manroot’s value, and by now she had gathered an entire sackful.

Doubling back, she trie
d to remember certain trees, rocks, streams. When she was dizzy and exhausted, the hares whispered to her; she turned and found her direction. A morning’s walk, and the house lay before her. Going to the back door, she knocked, hoping whoever answered it would be kind.

The door swung open.
A rotund woman in a flowered housedress answered, then started to close the door in her face. “We don’t want any gypsy around here.”

“
Please, ma’am, I’m not a gypsy,” Katherine whispered, swaying, threatening to faint.

Ha
nnah peered out to see who might be lurking behind her. Seeing only the girl, her face painfully gaunt, wrapped in a tattered cape, she softened. “I can give you some food. Wait here.” And the door slammed with a finality.

‘
Please,’ she whispered to the god who resided in the giant oak behind her. ‘Please,’ she implored a cloud which passed overhead.

When Hannah reopened the door, she practically fell in.

“You can’t be sleeping here,” Hannah told her. With her foot she began moving her along, trying to hand her a bundle of food.

“
What is it, Hannah?” Her mistress’ voice came behind her.

“
Some gypsy, I think. I was givin’ her some leftovers. I would have given them to the dog anyway.”

Elizabeth
joined her on the doorstep, her face troubled at the sight of the pathetic girl. “Can you stand?”

Katherine nodded.
“Yes.”

Between them, they led her inside, to the table.

“Hannah, I think hot tea.”

A steaming mug was placed before her.
She cupped her hands around it and drank noisily.

“
Who are you, and what do you want?” Elizabeth asked.

“
I’m Katherine Sheahan. My father and I were going to St. Louis; he got ill and died. I’m alone,” she lied.

“
Should we call the sheriff?” Hannah asked.

“
No, please,” Katherine begged. “I just need someplace to rest. I saw the cabin…in a day or so I’ll be fine…I can pay.” Weakly she tried to hold up the sack to prove it.

Both women looked puzzled at the bedraggled burlap sack.

“It’s ginseng. I can sell it at Castlewood, and I can pay for the use of the cabin.”

“
I don’t know,” Elizabeth began, sorry that this problem had landed on her doorstep, and tired of it already. While deciding, they heard the sound of the car. She looked at the cook for assistance. “It’s the Judge.” They stood there feeling helpless with their problem.

“
Where is everybody?” he called, and he strode through the kitchen door.

They felt foolish.
“It’s a young girl…her father’s dead, and she’s wanting to rent the cabin.” The words rushed out of Elizabeth in a flurry.

“
Yes.” Hannah spoke up, feeling responsible for the problem. She was the one who had opened the door. “She can pay…she has a sackful of ginseng.”

He stepped further into the room; drew back as if he
’d been slapped when he saw her, how wretched she looked, her eyes hollows of pain, eyes grown large in a wan face.

Gruffly he said, “
All right, all right, have Tom clean it out,” and he pretended anger to cover his feelings. “Is this why dinner’s late?”

He backe
d out of the room, feeling as though he had been hit in the stomach. In the library, he stared into the fire. What had been between them had been another time, dreamlike. Now in his life he felt nothing – numbness an integral part of him.

Sipping the scotch, he told himself it was some lack within him that had made her into something she was not.
He tried to dismiss her as just another servant girl who liked men and presents. Then the horror that was etched in his mind flicked like pictures in the nickelodeon and for the first time he saw it as it really was.

How could he have been so stupid, he that sat on the bench judging?
The meaning of his whole life’s work was in jeopardy now, for he had failed to see. The beast of jealousy had clouded his view, and he had blamed her, unfairly. He had doubted and condemned her when in truth she had been the victim. They had raped her and he, the judge, had just stood by and let it happen.

He knew she was as he had first thought
– ‘genuine.’ Too late, everything in life comes too late. This was a different girl, a different time. He had let love slip through his fingers like water through a sieve. There was no recalling it. Love, pure and honest, did exist. He knew it now.