Southern Fried Weirdness

By Rosanne Griffeth

After the blazing leaves fell to the forest floor and toads burrowed deep in cold mud and birds fell mute, he entered the mountain woods to set his traps and snares. In the lean-to shack, pushed against the side of a cliff where Creek tripped beneath Mountain, Joban the Trapper slept.

Perhaps silly Creek, with her gossiping babble told them. Everyone knew she couldn't keep a secret and carried tales both sour and sweet to ears that could hear (Water carrying Sound on her hip as she does). She also carried other things when she fought with Sky and sometimes Rain, howling and screaming, growing grim and foaming in rage--not herself. Perhaps they saw Joban as his boots broke the rime, seeking blood spreading in snow where his traps found their mark. Perhaps Winter Sun cleaved Sky, glanced off Joban's eyes showing the line of his jaw and the set of his brow.

However they found out about him, Chestnut and Mountain Magnolia fancied Joban the Trapper more than any man they'd seen their live-long days. Huddled together, the sisters giggled and cut their eyes, whispering how he should choose this one or that.

We shall take turns visiting him in dreams to see which he will love, said Magnolia, so sure of her charm. Chestnut blushed, agreeing but not as sure.

Magnolia, the comelier of the sisters, danced--her form lithe and twisting. In the spring, she wore pale green dresses of clinging silk,soft on the cheek as Wind's kiss. She was cool and fragrant like the blossoms she wore in her white-blond hair. When Magnolia came to Joban at night, she sat with him beside the water and let her fragrance befuddle him, let him forget mid-Winter, let him see her white, white skin, pale blush. She placed her hand, skin like suede, on his cheek--kissed him and tasted him, opened her thighs to him, bucked her hips against his hardness. Oh, Joban, she said, love me best, and I will make you the happiest of men.

Joban woke in the mornings after her visits hungry, smelling of magnolias, his loins sticky, his cheeks hot.

Everyone said Chestnut had such a pretty face. They said she was statuesque, all broad shoulders and wide hips. Chestnut towered over men, though Joban, came closest to looking her in the eye. Chestnut roasted nutmeat on the fire and fed him fry bread made from nut flour, kneaded in bowls of richly turned wood, broken pieces of herself. Her dark hair tickled the back of his neck as she rubbed his shoulders with hands strong, work-roughened. Her fragrance, wet earth, ferns and rain-soaked moss, startled Joban with sweetness. When he turned to look into her eyes, he couldn't help but kiss her. She blushed red and trembled like a storm before melting into him, quaking desirous, eyes only for him. Joban came to love touching her shoulder to see her shiver for him, only for him.

Joban woke from dreams of Chestnut feeling warm, well-fed and strong. He did not forget these dreams and one night on winter's shank, he told Magnolia to leave his dreams--that he had given his heart to Chestnut with her helpful heart and trembling limbs.

Magnolia bloomed early that year, to show Joban how wrong he was. She saturated the woods with her fragrance, throwing flower petals as love notes for Creek to deliver to Joban. Still, Joban refused Magnolia.

The day Chestnut talked to her sister, Creek quarreled with Sky. Creek, most often laughing and smiling, spewed violence along her banks, cursing Sky with rapids and foam. Chestnut pleaded with Magnolia, saying it was not her fault Joban loved her best, and she could not rein her heart. Who was she to question a soul's desire?

Magnolia's white hair spread about her, enveloping her in tendrils of fog. I curse you, Chestnut, she said, I curse you to never grow old.

And Magnolia pushed Chestnut into Creek, who howled and carried Chestnut away, drowning her in the torrent. She swept downstream where Joban found her cradled in Rhododendron's roots. Joban, screaming sorrow, pulled her from Creek.

Joban sought Magnolia, finding her standing at Creek's side, twirling the ends of her white hair. Magnolia wept and told him she loved him, would love him and all his kin, always and forever. If ever I catch you away from this here Creek, Joban told her, I'll cut you, I'll cut you where you stand, you vicious, useless tree.

This was why the chestnuts died in the mountains, but every once in a while a sapling will rise but never grow old. And this was why the wild mountain magnolia only grows on creek banks. And this is why--some say--the descendants of Joban the Trapper were loved by Mountain Magnolia and why they were cruel to her.

Rosanne Griffeth lives on the verge of the Great Smoky Mountains National Park and spends her time writing, raising goats and documenting Appalachian culture. She holds an MFA from the University of South Carolina. Her work has been published or accepted by MsLexia, The Potomac, Now and Then, Pank, Night Train, Keyhole Magazine, Smokelong Quarterly, Thieves Jargon and Six Little Things among other places. She is the blogger behind The Smokey Mountain Breakdown.

Copyright © 2009, Rosanne Griffeth