As she was sweeping the dirt yard, a memory surprised her. That of the bristly quickness of his “I do” kiss. She looked at her granddaughters helping to gather up twigs. The day before, they had placed a daisy chain on her head and insisted—with tickling—that she admire her reflection. But the river had allowed no glimpse of petals, only of the rippled fact that they were all laughing. She gripped the broom handle and had to remain motionless a moment—so ferocious was the long-ago sight of the river in roaring flood, bearing away their cow in the swirling, beyond reach of her flimsy prayer. Oh let her live let her live if some faraway stranger keeps her I won’t mind just let her live.

The thought of the kiss and the daisies and the prayer would have themselves been lost to the dark of her mind—but for the fact that her little grandson bumped into her. And so abruptly was Annie returned to herself that she had time to wonder how it was that one memory had suggested the next and then the next.

The younger girl was busy scooping up the mounds of swept-up sticks and pine cones. The older one was shoving the kindling under the kettle of rainwater. Annie peered inside. They’d need to add some river water.

But first Annie had them—Emmaline and Sally—look far up the slopes of the valley.

“See how the birches are leafing out? But the sweet gums still need more convincing.”

Emmaline pointed at the roof of the cabin. Three turkey vultures were holding their great wings to the warmth of the sun.

“Hold out your arms, girls,” Annie said. “Let’s show those old angels what they look like.”

At this, and without need of a downbeat, the birds lifted into the air.

Emmaline began the again-and-again of gathering river water. Sally opened up the bin of wood-ash and began scooping weightless handfuls, adding them to the kettle.

Old enough to make soap… twirled the thought, directionless as the petals of ash. Annie laughed at her grandson trying to catch one of the chickens. As she shielded her eyes, she saw that the three birds, or perhaps three other birds, were circling high above the cove, gliding outwards to the blues of the mountain ridges.

She took the tin of matches from the pocket of her dress, cupped the lit flame and held it to the kindling. The dog started barking in a way that meant a visitor, and raced down the path. Most likely the peddler, Annie thought, but she delayed telling the girls to bring out the baskets of eggs for trade. She began stirring the ashen slurry. By the time the dog returned, still barking, the sides of the kettle felt warm to her touch. Annie picked up her grandson and watched as a group of men made their way up the riverbank. The black fedora indicated Dr. Reynolds; behind him was the Baptist preacher; the third fellow was Mr. Dundee from the feed-store. The last man, carrying a briefcase, was someone she did not know. All four were waving, not at her but at the flies which seemed to be undeterred by the waving.

Annie told Sally to fetch her parents and brothers from the corn field. She added, whispering, “Tell them there’s a stranger here in need of local protection.”

The three townsmen sat down hard on the wooden steps of the porch. Mr. Dundee blotted sweat with a pocket rag. The other two used their sleeves. The fourth man, in jacket and tie, stood at a respectful distance. Annie told the stranger he must have parked his car down at Toomey’s lane, by the black gum tree. She enjoyed his startled expression even as he was trying to disguise his surprise with a broad smile.

The doctor called over to the stranger, “She’s a seventh daughter. Touched. Knows things.”

Annie countered that it was simple common sense. “Too early for you to have walked all the way from town. And you can’t help but notice that beautiful gum tree where the road ends.”

She told Emmaline to bring her little brother inside and brew a pot of coffee.

“Big news, Annie,” said Mr. Dundee. “President FDR in Washington, D.C., sent this gent here to talk to you. He’s with a group called the TVA.”

He used his hands to describe the government project. “Idea is to hold back the river so we can make electricit—”

The preacher interrupted, “It’s called ‘impounding the water’.”

Annie told the men to save their news for Iris and Ernie. She headed to the quiet behind the cabin. Kneeling at the earthen barrow, she dug through the dirt and straw until she reached one of the bedded cabbages.

From the front yard, the sound of Sally calling for her.

Annie whistled from her hiding place. She handed her the cabbage.

“Help Sis cook this up.”

The townsmen were giving the government man a tour of the property. Much was being made about the absence of a cow. The preacher was venturing loudly that it must surely be lonely living so far from people. Whatever further comment he was making was obliterated by the complaints of the mule being hurried up the path. Annie turned and watched the stranger as he caught sight of Iris. Hair so black it gleamed blue.

Annie did not immediately follow everyone inside. She unharnessed the mule and led him to the clearing with its single tree. Then she went to the river’s edge and listened to the water. The day and night of its voice. When she finally did climb the stairs and entered the daylit gloom of the cabin, she winked her approval of her granddaughters. They had made the coffee. They had lit the lamp and placed it on the table. Annie went to the back wall of the cabin and took down the propped board to let in a bit of a breeze.

“Now, Mr. and Mrs. MacKay,” the government man began but immediately faltered. Annie looked at her son-in-law’s watchful face. Ernie was one to look for the good in anything new and unexpected. She could feel how the flickers of excitement were nipping at him.

“You a buyer of some sort? We can sell you ginseng and chestnuts right now. By summer, we got plenty of corn.”

The government man began again, “Now, Mr. and Mrs. MacKay, I don’t have to tell you farming is a hard life. And the TVA engineers tell me this river floods a couple of times a year and ruins your fields.”

“We do just fine.”

“Well, I’m just saying I know you have a hard life.”

Annie watched defiance displace excitement.

“As I say, we do just fine. I’m matched to the work. Same way the river out there is matched to the tilt of the land.”

The day Iris told her she was going to marry Ernie MacKay, she said it was because he was a hard worker and had a nice smile. But Annie knew it was Ernie’s poetical nature Iris had fallen in love with.

“I’m sure you are, Mr. MacKay. I’m sure you are. But what I want to tell you is that we’ve assessed your ten acres at $400 which we are prepared to pay you, today, in cash.”

“Ernie,” burst in Mr. Dundee, “just think. You could clear your debts in town. And if you decide to keep farming, you’d have a heap of money to buy a new place, higher up. And the FDR government, they’ll even move your cabin for you. It’s quite a system. They number the boards, take the place apart, then put the whole thing back together.”

“Why would I want to buy land up on the balds? Think our children can dine on sand myrtle?”

“We’re just talking about a little higher up. Just so you’d be spared the floods. And the government man here says they’ll give you free fertilizer for the new fields.”

“All due respect, only one flood caught us by surprise. We know the moods of our river. If there’s a heavy rain after a long spell of dry, we’ve got two full days before we need to scramble to higher ground. Heavy rain in a rainy season, we’ve got just one day to clear out. Kids think it’s a play-party, living up there in the cave for a night or two.”

Doctor Reynolds began, “But when the TVA—the Tennessee Valley Association—begins its—”

The government man corrected. “Authority.”

Ernie set down his coffee. “It’s got no authority over us. My wife’s family, they’ve been on this land since way before your government.”

Annie felt herself straightening, her people’s people alert within her.

“My wife’s mother, she’s full-blooded. Her grandparents made that clearing you got a tour of. They wanted a grassy spot to pull in the deer.”

“Cherokee times. Most impressive. But I hope you have a deed?”

“You don’t need to see it. We’re not selling.”

“Now, Mr. MacKay, let me emphasize that what we’re proposing here is nothing like a hundred years ago. Absolutely nothing like that. Terrible the way the soldiers marched the Indians out of these forests. And shoving them all the way to the prairies. No, what the federal government’s offering you is a fair value for your property and then if you don’t want to take up farming elsewhere, we’ve got all kinds of jobs available. You could help build the new dam. Or work the smelters.”

“Not interested.”

Mr. Dundee slapped his knees. “$400, in cash, Ernie. All your troubles gone, just like that.”

“I’ve got cousins working in the lumber mill in Treemont. And a brother working at the Alcoa plant. Believe me, they’ve still got troubles.”

The preacher slammed down the tin cup with such force the last of the coffee jumped out. “Granny over there deserves some ease.”  He turned to speak directly to her. “Annie, there’s such a thing as a stove that turns on and off with a click.”

“Firewood’s never a burden.” 

He shifted in his seat. “Ernie, you going to let her mess up this deal for you?”

Dr. Reynolds gestured to the child in her lap. “Not right in this day and age to see pellagra. Boy needs meat.”

The government man made a show of opening up his briefcase.

“Mr. and Mrs. MacKay, the town just below the dam will have grocery stores with every kind of food you’d ever want.”

Mr. Dundee added, “That’s the future, Ernie. Anything you want, and folding money to buy it with. And everything’s clean, clean. You know what they call the power they get from the turbines? White coal. No more mines. Just pretty waterfalls. And behind the dam, the whole river valley is going to be one beautiful blue lake.”

Emmaline surprised everyone. “River fish don’t know how to be lake fish. They’d all die.”

Annie’s pride surfaced with an invisible shove. She took hold of the edge of the table and smiled at both girls. And thought of the time she was rinsing laundry in the river. Something muscled against her. It had a long, sleek body. A salamander, yes. But not one of the small, river-colored salamanders. This one was immense. A hellbender. A hellbender swiveling upstream. She gasped. Then she laughed at her own gasp. Then she studied her watery arm. It was the size and numbness of the great recluse itself.

Ernie’s chair scraped as he stood. “This is our home. The old ones are buried just past the meadow.” He placed his hand on Iris’ hand. Annie wasn’t sure if he would say aloud what she knew he was thinking.

“And three babies.”

The doctor rushed to make assurances. “And just to be clear, the TVA will not only move your cabin; they have a team that digs up the coffins and—”

“You can be sure it’s done with great respect,” the preacher interjected. “It’s called ‘to disinter’.”

“Kind offer. Not interested. But you’re welcome to rest a bit before you set off. Looks like the girls fixed you some food.”

Her oldest grandson stood by his father. “Taking the quickness from the river, that’s not right.”

The government man beamed. “You know, young man, in the past few months while making these visits, I’ve heard several farmers make that very point. But if you think about it, damming a river is no different than you harnessing up your mule, putting its muscle to work pulling your plow.”

“I’m meant to work. Our mule’s meant to work. Rivers aren’t meant to work.”

Again, pride fisted her. She watched Iris stand up, taking no care to hide the chill in her voice.

“We wish you folks well.”

When the government man did not close his briefcase, Iris added, “Mister, if somebody took my chores away from me, my mind would go flat as that lake you’re talking about.”

“Mrs. MacKay, my wife and children live in Knoxville. And I am reminded every time I stop back in the city that there is absolutely no shortage of chores for a young mother, even when she has use of an oven that turns on with a click. You need not worry about the liveliness of your days, Mrs. MacKay. But the difference is—all your cleaning and shopping and mending would be a little easier because your husband will be earning good money.”

The government man turned to face Ernie. “We’ll even pay you to clear your own slopes before you go. We have to keep the turbines safe from drowned trees.”

Ernie explained that he had made his decision clear.

The government man cleared his throat. “You see, Mr. MacKay, your farm falls within the ‘taking line’.”

“What’s your meaning?”

“The ‘taking line’ runs fifty feet above this cabin, well up the slopes. This will all be a lake.”

“Government can’t come in here like some kind of god.”

The preacher interrupted. “There’s not different kinds of gods. There’s only one. And, Ernie—more than your children need meat, they need saving.”

Annie watched him trying to slow his words, soften them.

“You come on into town and I’ll give them all a good foot-washing and—”

The government man said, “I know this has come as quite a shock, but you need to know that although you must sell your land, you’re being well paid to do so. And you are also doing a great service. This dam will help thousands of far off people. You’ll be a hero as well as a rich man.”

Doctor Reynolds said, “It’s called ‘eminent domain’.”

Ernie gave his full growling attention to the doctor. “Suppose you’ve been attending plenty such visits. Talking proud. Well, tell me this: how many farmers refuse? How many run you off with a rifle shot?”

Mr. Dundee said, “Only the one, Ernie. And the government condemned his land and he didn’t get one penny for it.”

Annie stood up. The immensity of what was coming for them was still high up on the mountain slopes, but it would arrive as a swirl of particular decisions that would have to be made quickly: Should they pack up the table, and the corn oil lamp? Should they leave behind the woodstove? And how to carry so many items? Use some of the money to hire a wagon? Rent a second mule for the journey to wherever they were headed? And when the graves were being dug up—to look, or to look away?

She went over to the wood-stove. She lifted the cabbage from the boiling water and set it on a plate. She took the knife from her pocket and sliced compact wedges of green. She added lard and carried the plate and some forks to the table. When the visitors waved away her meal, she gestured to the children to sit. They ate wordlessly.

Ernie was watching Dr. Reynolds watching the children. “They’re not starving, just growing.” Then he spoke to the government man. “And you’re not asking, you’re taking.”

“We are not taking, Sir. We are buying your land.”

Mr. Dundee coaxed, “This is all good luck for you. TVA could’ve picked some other river valley.”

Annie stepped outside, past the sleeping dog. She guided herself down the porch steps, concentrating on not stumbling. The kettle water was at full boil. She took a wooden spoon and skimmed some of the lye into a tin can. Possibly she and the girls could finish the soap-making before the packing was done. Soap would be good to have no matter how many grocery stores were nearby.

Through the sting of refused tears, she reviewed what she knew to be true. The government man was doing the job assigned to him and to do so, he was having to work far from his family. She tried to recall the name of the group that he was working for. Some sequence of letters that had flowed through her and had been lost. She could not fault the man for assuming that a cove, with a river and some bottomland fields and forested slopes, was much the same as any other cove. She had never been to a city, but the streets that Ernie’s brother described seemed as if they would likely be indistinguishable to her, one from another.

Eye level with the somersaulting steam, she thought about river fish that would not know how to become lake fish. And how the lake itself would not long remember where everything in this cove had been—the cabin, the clearing, the patch of daisies. She scanned the birches and maples, the beeches and sweet gums and felt ashamed that she knew something that they, in all their beauty did not: that there was a single, sharp cry waiting inside each one of them.

Annie set down the spoon. She walked to the river and knelt to look at the pinks and greys and greens of the pebbles beneath the clear water. Her mother had once reached into the stream and claimed a water-worn ruby, the color of purplish blood. Annie had no idea what had become of that gem. But as she stood up, she knew with a sudden, sure knowledge that the one job Ernie would never accept was to fell his own trees. 

Annie walked up to the clearing and joined the mule standing in the shade of the immense yellow buckeye. The young girl who grew up to become her grandmother had hidden somewhere very nearby this tree. Many times, Annie had heard the story of that day. The great line of loved ones making their way down the forever of the path.

Why, Annie fumed, had she never thought to ask her grandmother about the exact location of the hiding place? Why had she been content to merely listen for the next familiar detail of her grandmother’s story: how she had flinched hard at the sound of the rifle shot and realized only slowly that she had not been shot? One of the soldiers on horseback had simply fired into the air to impose order.

Annie ran her hand along the grayish, faintly wrinkled bark of the buckeye. She reached into her dress pocket and took hold of the knife, unfolding it with a gliding nudge of thumb and finger. She pressed the blade’s tip to the tree and by means of several, swift slices she drew the triangular shape of the farm—the beginning point, far up-river, and how it opened out on either side of the river, with space enough for corn and beans, turnips, cabbage, potatoes. She studied their land as it would look to her if she were somehow high above.

She dropped the refolded knife into her pocket and pinched at the edges of the small sheet of bark, tugging it from its place. The newly exposed surface of the tree trunk was a pale, yellowish white with innumerable tiny holes—as if there could be a daytime sky that was lit only by starlight.

Back at the soapmaking kettle, Annie listened. From the cabin, there came no sound of argument, only a steady flow of voices. She again unfolded the knife and slid it sideways into the width of the bark sheet, piercing it so she could hold it briefly in the fire. It was important that what she did next be accomplished while the government man was still inside the cabin. Important that he not already be hurrying back down the path, far beyond the possibility of his hearing her. It was important that he be very close by when he heard no shriek from her.

Annie lifted the sleeve of her dress and examined the sagging skin of her forearm.

I choose this she told herself, unblinking, unafraid. Then she held her breath, pressing her lips tightly together, and she indeed emitted no sound as she pressed the smoldering sheet of bark to the helplessness of her skin. The image of the farm claimed her arm, and within, the red of her muscles.

The unscreamed scream leapt beyond her skin and into the valley entire.

She stepped over to the ash bin and sprinkled a handful of softness onto the wound. The flakes were able to absorb the clear seepage. In the coming days, as the family packed, she would keep the burn clean so the scar would be precise.

She tossed the piece of bark in among the embers. She pulled down the sleeve of her dress. In the secret company of her farm, she moved up the porch steps and inside the cabin to find out if money was already being counted and if cabin boards were being numbered.

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Patricia Sammon (she/her) was born and raised in Canada and now lives in the Tennessee Valley, in the foothills of the Appalachians. Her short stories have appeared in literary journals such as Mid-American Review (Sherwood Anderson Prize), Narrative, December, Philadelphia Stories, The Chicago Tribune Literary Supplement (Nelson Algren Award) and New Millennium Writings. One of her short stories was anthologized in “Ordinary and Sacred as Blood”; another in “Alabama Bound”. Her short story “Hill Country” was included in the 2019 edition of “Best American Nonrequired Reading.”   

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