That Which Never Flows Downstream
written by: G. Rod Hamilton
October 2nd 1913
The purest of waters run cold over the sandy bottom in Gile Creek, while its reflection mirrors the overhanging sycamores and rich blue sky with barely a ripple. It’s a fine place of respite when I want a break from working on the farm. I take a match to my clay pipe and puff at the satisfying tobacco. My eyes fixate on fallen leaves riding on the lazy flow until it goes around a bend on our property and out of sight into other parts of the county. At times, my wife Rebekah joins me down here, and those times are good for our long talks.
We’ve worked hard over the years to grow this land and to make our home well, despite hardships endured along the way. This is our 18th year on this homestead, and I couldn’t think I’d live a happier existence anywhere else.
I sit here on a cut log among the surrounding green of the grassy bank, just taking it all in.
I reach down into the creek and pick out what looks like a silver coin, but once I pull it out, I find it’s only one of the many small stones submerged out here. I examine it for a moment, perturbed that my eyes tricked me. Its wet surface gleams bright in the sun. As I toss it back in the water it makes a noisy plunk. I wonder If any human will ever touch that particular stone again. The odds are probably too great to know.
Across the creek and up the grassy hill on our neighbors’ property, I see their family cemetery with its many headstones. I have always thought that would be a nice final resting place in view of this serene gully. There’s probably a couple hundred years running in those plots up there. I do wish we had our family cemetery on my land, but my parents came here from Carolina, and so I’ve not seen ours, but I suppose it’s probably on a quiet hill like this one.
Funny thing is, it looks to me like the head and shoulders of a man standing among those grave markers under the big shade tree on the lot. Two eye shapes catching light. Maybe it’s just a mix of shadows and light, hard for me to see that far with good detail. If it is a man, he’s standing still as a statue.
I focus down on the creek bed. Some minnows catch my eye, gathering under the shade of a water plant off to the right. It’s interesting how the sun rays will light up their tiny scales for a split second making them look more colorful than they usually do.
It seems that the midday sun is climbing really quick and soon I’ll have to get back and tend to the horses. I was hoping the strange pain in my gut I’ve had this morning would go away while sitting here, maybe a few more minutes will help. The ache stokes concern in me of my own mortality as I am aged over 50. Our family history hasn’t been the kindest to us after that milestone. I remember hearing folks say that after death we are merely reduced to dust and after so long, not even a memory exists of us unless we are famous or notorious. I hang my head at the thought, gazing into the sand between my outstretched legs. I suddenly feel sadness creep over me like a slithering snake.
I take a peek back up to the cemetery.
Truth be told, I don’t know much about the lives of my ancestors beyond my grandfather, and I doubt my neighbors would either if it weren’t for those names carved in limestone. I imagine it keeps their stories alive for longer when they’re right there in your back forty.
It pains me to think that my past relatives will have no one to know much about them as time goes on.
When my gaze shifts back down hill, I’m shocked to see a fellow on the opposite side of the creek. He sits with head down, much the same as I do, but his overalls are much dirtier than mine.
“You’re the one from up there, aren’t you?” I say pointing up the hill. The man looks directly at me, his face wrinkles run deep.
“I’m Corliss, howdy do,” he says.
I tell him my name is Richard but cut off my words when it dawns on me there are black holes behind those glasses where Corliss should have eyes. Anxiousness explodes in me like dynamite through a coal mine. Am I chatting with a spirit or something even worse?
My heart is pounding.
“Why are you here?” I nervously ask, nearly dropping my pipe.
“Because you see me, other folks don’t,” he states in a gruff voice.
Everything about him seems out of sorts. A crooked neck, a sunken chest, and oddly long fingers.
“I’ve been wondering, looking for my family,” his scraggly grey whiskers move with his empty void of a mouth.
“Have you seen ‘em?” I figure a lost soul might say such a thing. This is as horrific as it is heartbreaking.
“No, sir,” I say. He looks down at his dirty shoes.
“I jus’ went to sleep one night and when I woke up, everyone was gone.”
There was a lengthy pause while I thought of a good way to say what I know he needs to hear, but there’s no good way.
“Um, Corliss, I’m sorry to inform you, but … I think you’ve died, sir,” I say, trembling at this observation.
“Dead?” He snapped. His grey brow wrinkled in despair, “How’d I not know?” He asks himself with an agitated tone.
“I guess sometimes our eyes deceive us and our hearts mislead us,” I tell him, rather ironically guessing that he has neither right now.
My fear grows not knowing why I’m privy to this meeting. Is he a death token? Do I see him because I am next to suffer his fate?
“What do ya suppose I do?” He says with the helplessness of a child.
I thought about it for a moment.
“I reckon you should go up that hill and find your name. Just lie down there and wait for a light to follow,” I tell him, adding, “You’ll find them there, your family.”
He looks up at me as blank as a sun faded sign and mumbles, “I’ll be takin’ that advice,” in a broken man’s voice.
From behind me I hear, “Richard.” It’s Rebekah calling out to me. I turn to see her ambling down the wooded path.
“I wouldn’t come down here,” I tell her. I scurry to get to my feet, I need to prevent her from witnessing this encounter with Corliss, she may faint at the sight of him.
“Why not, is there a snake? I ain’t afraid of it.” She continues down in full view of the creek.
I tell her, “You’re not going to believe this but…” I turn and point across the creek, but Corliss is gone now.
“What won’t I believe?” She asks. I decide not to let her know what happened.
“Um…I thought I saw a black bear in them woods, but it could’ve been a shadow.”
“Well, next time you come down here, bring the shotgun,” she says with ample concern.
My eyes search the creek as if the man fell in. “Yeah, I probably should.”
I now see a change in Rebekah’s face. It has a glowing to it, more so than just from the usual sunlight on her skin. It’s as though the lines around her eyes have smoothed out.
She looks confused as I gaze in amazement at her.
Her teeth are as they were when I married her many years ago. Her eyes flash a youthful glimmer, and the grey strands are gone from her hair. I hug her tightly, she in turn pats my head.
“Are you okay, Richard?” She says, rather surprised. Her voice is that of a teenager.
“I’m just happy to see you,” I say, hardly believing my own eyes.
She smiles at me, “C’mon on up, I made stew for supper, you look like you need something to eat.”
As we head back up the path, I look at her again and this time when our eyes meet, she is back to her normal self, the 48-year-old I know so well.
“You’re just a sight for sore eyes,” I say.
She shakes her head, “Must be the sun today. It’s getting to you!” She says with a giggle.
I smile back.
Maybe it is the sun.
I try to reason with myself as to why I saw what I did.
Was the sun at just the right pitch that the reflections of Gile Creek had flooded the banks like the water does at times? Somehow it reflects an era that has already been. After all, reflections are one thing in that creek that will never flow downstream.
Maybe Corliss had that same conversation countless years before I ever moved here, but this time I was in optimal light for him to appear to me with his appeal for help.
I will sleep better thinking of that phantom as a strange anomaly and not a foreboding omen of my future.
Lucky for me, this phenomenon also reminded me of the qualities I saw in Rebekah that made me fall in love with her way back when. The qualities that those photographs on the mantle will never capture so in-depth.
When we get to the top of the hill and our red barn comes into site, she turns to me and says, “I’m not sure if you saw a bear, but you had to have seen that old man down there.”
I tense up, “You saw the old man?” This is not good. I don’t want to have to tell her about him, neither one of us will sleep for a week, but she has this way of making me tell the truth.
She flashes an impish smile “Yeah, I think his name is Richard!”
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