Rumors and Rustling in the Woods

Rumors and rustling in the woods 

Joe and Tyler, the girl’s name, had developed a routine. Saturday morning coffee while listening to the local radio-show, their favorite aired on 97.9. "Sunday Morning" the national television show and of course "Face the Nation" before church. This was Saturday, April 3, 2021.  They had tuned in late to the local show, the first call-in guest, a native Arkansan was saying, "No, Sir that ain't no rumor, they here a' right. I was fishin' on the river early yestaday morning and I seen one on the bank purty as Ya please."  

"So, it is true folks." The local host said. "Thanks for your comment sir.  We'll take the next caller.  This is Marge from Forest Cove. 

"I know they're in my backyard," Marge said. She wanted to be a part of something... anything. The Covid pandemic had her in self isolation and she was starving for conversation. This was her fifteen minutes of fame. 

"What did they look like? Can you give us a description?" 

"No." 

"Did you see them?" The radio host asked 

"Well, no," she replied. 

Skepticism entered his voice; he was beginning to believe this was a local just needing attention. She was most likely less credible than the first caller. Originally sounding more polished, her speech less country, Jack knew you can't judge people's reliability from first voice impression. This he had learned soon after he-himself had relocated to the small North Arkansas town. "How do you know they are in your back yard?" 

" I heard them," she stammered. "They rustle in the tree leaves and I hear them chattering among themselves." 

Forest Cove was an upscale settlement.  It began as a tourist lodge and then expanded to private homes, and finally burgeoned into a gated community, where wealthy locals and seasonal residents built new expensive homes.  Tyler and Joe lived seven-miles South of town, yet North of the junction where the White and Norfork Rivers converged.  One single road roamed off of Highway-Five down the center of the peninsula that jutted into Lake Norfork.  Their property, located just beyond the Loch Lomond an unincorporated individually owned trailer village.  Lots where retirees relocated for the climate and the proximity to fishing and lake living.  Now, the seniors had died off and the old trailer park was a settlement for the poorest of the working class. 

Joe and Tyler were lucky to find the property.  Once considered what some would call wealthy, they learned that expensive homes and fine furniture were only things swept away by the financial and mortgage crisis of 2008.  They had migrated from Colorado to Arkansas.  The small lot with beautiful views had a solid Dutch style barn and all the benefits of Lake living without the cost.  Their home was nestled between the 'trailer trash' of Loch Lomond and the elite of the Forest Cove subdivision. 

The challenges of such a lifestyle change took courage and desperation. Joe and Tyler’s migration paled in comparison to those leaving Central America. Refugees escape from desperation, they go in longing of change to protect and feed their young. They do it sometimes by abandoning what others would call helpless young ones to secure a place in the United States.  The young ones will live but only if they make it to America. Guatemala, Honduras and El Salvador offer nothing to babies, and nothing for future generations. 

Leaving Central America hoping to find shelter along the way and enough food to sustain them promised to be treacherous. Crossing the gulf had to be timed so that the winds, currents and hurricanes were avoided. It was rumored that the right shift crews had to be manning the oil rigs off the Texas gulf. Some crews often provided both rest and food, while others would at best ignore their trek and at worse impede it. Central American migrants had to travel alone or in small groups. Large groups were too easily spotted, thwarting their freedom. Destroyed hope. Renewed desperation. 

The plan was to arrive in the swamps of Louisiana where there was food, hiding places and solitude to regain strength. Others chose the land route North through Mexico hoping to evade the great Texas border crisis then migrate north into Colorado and West toward the coastal areas of the Pacific.   

But Tyler knew the rumors were true. The woman on the radio had heard them in the woods surrounding her home. Tyler heard them in the woods as well. The voices and rustling were distinguished from all the wildlife and birds that flutter about in the trees and crunched the fallen leaves. 

Should she feed them? She believed herself to be a good Christian and that God had created all living beings equal. She wanted to help. She was compelled to provide for these refugees. Would she be whispered about? What would the neighbors think or do if they knew? Consequences could be even worse, what would happen if word spread from these migrants to others? She may become a haven just as activists in a forgotten time when the underground railroad provided protection and food for slaves. Would a small act of kindness start something that couldn't be stopped? 

April 9, 2021 

The sun, so bright, Tyler felt it searing her porcelain skin. Sizzling heat had quickly followed the winter storm that paralyzed the nation from Oregon to Florida. Including the Texas power grid debacle, the temperature swings nagged of the obvious climate change like a church-elder's wife. These shifts of weather from ideal vacation destinations to devastations brought on by warm water hurricanes seemed proof enough for Tyler. 

It didn’t happen like a roaring train, instead the humid air slithered in, laying low first in the valley then rising up the ridge, hugging the ground like an ominous lake fog. Clouds eased across the Southern valley, stalking the beautiful sunny day, they swallowed the light. Dusk arrived at mid-day. The wind chimes clanked a furious warning. Joe and Tyler slipped through the patio door, secured the dead-bolt to shut out the sheets of rain battering the new siding just in time to evade the electric light currents streaking from their arm hairs into the milk sky. 

For almost an hour Tyler and Joe watched as the wind with its whining tantrum bent the champion Sycamore tree nearly to the ground. The tree registered as a national treasure stretched from the bottom forest land near the intermittent creek ninety feet up in search of sun. It’s three-hundred-year-old partner a smaller, but just as famous Persimmon swayed with the Sycamore like Fred Astair and Ginger Rogers. Dipping so low that Tyler feared they would break. On the patio, pinecones clattered down the roof and hopped about on the concrete like water droplets in hot oil. 

The refugees hiding in the woods would be drenched, hungry and cold. Tyler wondered, did Joe know? She considered what he would think. After the storm passed Tyler gathered old clothes, more aptly described as flannel rags, not fit to donate to Salvation Army, thread-bare sheets from the camper and plastic sheeting from her garden shed. Although most would call these bits and pieces of trash, the refugees could use them to protect, dry and shelter themselves from the rainy season. Tyler remembered the twine ball in her hobby cabinet she gathered along with a sweet beverage and the orange slices left-over from their afternoon snack. The cache was compiled and bagged to make her hike less cumbersome.   

Clambering over the rock ridge was a skill. It was like mounting a horse. Tyler found a foot hold just above knee height then bounced up swinging her leg over to straddle the boulder. She dismounted on the other side by leaning forward using her belly to rest on the back of the ledge while her toes searched for the narrow path. Once on solid ground Tyler descended into the rocky valley until she reached the flowing creek. The Persimmon, she thought of as the “Tree of Knowledge” because you could eat fruit from it, while the partner Sycamore became the “Tree of Life”, in this Garden of Eden. Under the Sycamore she left the bag of goods for the refugees. 

Returning to the barn, Tyler decided, she was in for a penny. 

April 10, 2021 

Sunrays oozed pink and orange through the dawn clouds. It felt like well-manicured finger nails on an itching back. Looking over the patio, across the south lawn toward the trees of “Life and Knowledge” with coffee cup in hand Tyler ambled to the granite rock gate-post to her secret garden. The large old gnome, white, gray and cracked, had left his sentinel point in the cave of the giant rock. Befriended by the old couple who sold the property to Joe and Tyler. He had been left behind when the old folks had moved to Southern Florida. They loved the Ozark spot but, withered and weak it was time to take up residence in the Senior Living complex before they broke a bone. They had left much, most Joe hauled to the land-fill. But Tyler liked the gnome so he had stayed in the small cave. During the storm’s wrath Grandpa Gnome had washed out of his abode, tumbled down the East rockface which gained him more pock marks. Tyler found the old gnome in a dazed sprawl on the mulched path eyes fixed heavenward.  

It was then, she saw the young male. It wasn’t a good look, just a peak as he jetted through the trees. He was in a gang. He flashed a sequined bandana around his neck. Funny the things left behind and those you can’t part with. Tyler shrugged, as she placed Grandpa Gnome back in the sentinel's shelter. Looking about she saw his family, the fairies, and wee people all nestled under the half round clay pots she had placed in the garden for their comfort. 

So began the ritual of leaving sweet beverage and left-over foods for the refugees, catching glimpses of them. She noted there were at least a dozen. For clarity she began assigning them names of her own choosing. The first male she had seen with the sequined bandana, she called Marco. Two other younger males also with red coverings about their necks she called Rubio and Rufus.  

Days later an adolescent female in pale green garb, feathered, bleached from sea-salt and sunshine, looked worse for the wear. She was shy. Tyler named her Annie. It was Annie that first ventured up on the patio knocking on the double door. Tyler was late with the food stuffs. Unsure if she had been bullied into coming or she came out of desperation because the others beat her out and she was starving, Tyler fed her on the patio instead of under the Sycamore tree.   

Carrying the liquids as she scaled the rocky ridge and hiked the path down to the occasional creek, Tyler found and named more of the refugees. The rowdy aggressive young males had been joined by young-adult females, infants and adolescents. They had formed a new gang, the bullying, beatings and pecking order had been established. Marco ruled, Rubio and Rufus were enforcers but the females had become just as mean, scrapping for their place in the new society. The Sycamore and Persimmon trees provided protection for them. Annie was an outcast existing on the fringes of gang life with no family or friends of her own. She was the in-between. She was too old for the females to accept and protect her as one of their young, too plain to draw the attention of young males. Annie was useless to them. They would either bludgeon her out of the gang or starve her out.   

Leaving the others Annie became a regular visitor on the patio, she thrived and became comfortable moving about in the flower garden. Tyler noticed she liked the Cardinal vines and the trumpet vines the best, always stopping to inhale the luscious scent of each bloom. Moving from one to another with pollen on her nose and lips.  

Tyler had taken Spanish in Junior High School but that was decades ago and Annie had a Central American dialect. Their communication was rudimentary, but even without language they became wary friends.   

In mid-May another female came to the patio garden. She didn’t come with Annie but came just the same. She was scruffy, battle-scarred with torn coverings. Tyler quickly noticed she was hateful and pushy. Without provocation, she rushed toward Annie then threw her onto the hard concrete floor of the patio garden. Tyler rushed out like a mother protecting a child. “Get out now.” Tyler screamed. The new intruder whizzed off, leaving only a rush of Air. Tyler picked Annie up still stunned but conscious. Vowing early on none of the refugees would come into the house, Tyler made a bed for Annie which she covered with wire fencing and an old tent cloth to protect her while she recovered. Days passed, Annie was failing and Tyler struggled. The young adolescent wasn’t supposed to be in the country, she had no way to pay for health care. If she died no one would know or care. Tyler couldn’t get the young female to eat, but she couldn’t take her to the hospital either.   

June 5, 2021 

As usual Tyler awoke in the pre-dawn hours and slipped silently out through the bedroom door, letting it slide shut behind her. Then she got a mixture of sugar water and electrolytes for Annie. Padding out onto the patio Tyler pulled back the tent flap. The new solution was a waste of time and money. Annie was dead. 

Wrapping Annie in the sheets, Tyler carried the rigor stiffened body through the secret garden. Placing the cloth wrapped body on the rock ledge while Tyler mounted then straddled and slipped to the path below. Once she had her footing, Tyler lifted the young body from the ledge, and trudged to the forest bottom.  Buried beneath the “Tree of Life” even though there was no life left for Annie. Maybe there was never meant to be a life for her, somethings aren’t meant to be. Mostly Annie had lived and died anonymously. But Tyler knew and the hateful Scruff-girl knew, because Tyler let her die and the Scruff-girl had murdered her.   

After the heart-wrenching deed of moral duplicity was complete, Tyler wiped the salt droplets from her cheeks. Posturing was a communication in gang life. Tyler did a little of her own posturing. She stomped about in the leaves, broke branches and used the jagged limbs to bash the tenuous homes the others had made. Get out, don’t come back. That was the warning she conveyed. If it didn’t work, she would have to tell Joe what she had been doing and she would have to alert the local authorities. 

June 14th, 

There was no food, no drink, no meager clothing. The group had elected Scruff-girl to scavenge provisions, someone must or they would all perish.  

Scruff-girl knew where to get all that they needed. But how? The woman would never willingly provide for any of them, especially not her. Scruff-girl was in an awkward position. The gang would beat her out if she failed and the woman on the bluff would likely kill her for what she had done to Annie. Scruff-girl was the next gang fringe member to die if she couldn’t provide something useful for the others.   

Waiting on the patio, Scruff-girl planned her attack. When the woman arrived, she would rush at her, knock her to the ground and hope the head trauma would cause immediate death. Scruff-girl feared the woman, much larger than the Guatemalan refugee, would slap her down without mercy. Yes, the attack had to be swift and accurate. The woman always left the patio door open. After succeeding in the killing, Scruff-girl would then sneak into the house and take all she could carry. 

The woman named Tyler emerged onto the patio carrying a large cup of coffee. Good, thought Scruff-girl, she would be distracted. Without another moment to debate the outcome, Scruff-girl rushed the woman, hitting her in the head. But the woman reacted quickly, she threw the hot coffee into Scruff-girl’s face then shoved her to the ground with a deathly thud. Tyler had killed the intruder almost before she knew it was Scruff-girl. Now, Tyler was a murderer. This time she carried the lifeless body through the garden, laid it on the cliff rock and rolled it over the edge. Watching as the body tumbled and hit against the jutting rocks it landed beneath the Persimmon tree.   Tyler felt no remorse for Scruff-girl. She only felt remorse for herself, for what she had become.   

It was only an hour later when the Sherrif deputy knocked on the door. The neighbor had called to report Tyler’s suspicious hikes in the woods. The old man had nothing better to do than spy on his only neighbors. They were good people and boring most of the time. But Tyler had started hiking into the woods in the early dawn hours and digging holes. then this morning she pushed something over the bluff. What could a man do but, report the unusual activity. 

When the deputy, a big man, looked about noted the evidence of Tyler’s story, shook his head in awe, made out the report and left. 

Tyler alone next to the creek on the forest bottom, resolved all were guilty of sin. She was guilty, maybe not as the law saw it. Should she have provided for these refugees? Forgiveness was due all God’s creation, but most of all love. Tyler decided she would feed these migrant hummingbirds again. She loved all of God’s creation, now she mourned for Scruff-girl and wondered which would be the next one sent to the patio to steal fearing the mortal consequence of failure.