Midnight on Black Mountain

I’ve always loved horses, ever since I was a little girl. I am lucky enough now, at the age of eighteen, to have my own horse. Yes, I have the finest horse imaginable. Black as night, majestic, sure footed, strong. Able to speed like the wind, but dependable and gentle. Dark as night, coal black, he is. I call him Midnight.

He’s a very tall horse. I don’t know exactly how many hands he stands, but most people around here say he’s too much horse for a wee girl like me to handle. When they say that, I tell them, inside my own mind of course because I dare not say it out loud, to mind their own darn business. Me and my horse get along just fine. I can handle him, and he can tolerate me. Matter of fact, I would even say he loves me – you see he’s proven it many times. 

Me and him, or should I say, Midnight and I, for I must talk proper now, we have a real job to do. I am a Packhorse Librarian. What’s a Packhorse Librarian, you ask? Well, the answer is simple. Packhorse librarians bring books to people, and we do it by horseback. I get to ride Midnight everyday and deliver books to people. It’s my job, and it’s an important job. See, people ‘round here don’t have much. Not only that, but they don’t know much either. It’s my job to help them learn and give them the world. I travel round the foothills and mountains of Kentucky and bring them books. 

My route specifically is up Black Mountain. Each day, I wake before the sun is even up, around 4:30 in the morning. I have to start that early to get my whole route in. On a normal day, I travel about twenty miles on Midnight. We start our day by getting loaded up at the main center, over at the County Seat.

Today, my load is two saddlebags worth, a heavy load. My work is seasonal, or cyclical. At different times of the year, I deliver different things. Right now, we have a lot of school books because school is in session. The school, or Center 1, is my first stop of the day. It’s a one room country school, made entirely of logs, and this part of my ride is usually fairly smooth. 

School runs from July through February, during the off season for farming. Come February, when the schools close, my load gets much lighter. During that time, books are only delivered to kids for pleasure reading. Most kids ‘round here don’t have much time for reading. Everyone works, starting at a young age. 

A lot of times the parents give me a hard time if I leave books at their houses during harvest time. They’re afraid their kids will lay around reading and stop working. If the family stops gathering their crops, they'll starve. It’s as simple as that. I heard from another librarian that one farmer even poisoned a librarian’s mule, because he didn’t want her bringing his kids books. He thought the books were poison to his family and would ruin their lives, so he felt justified in poisoning the poor animal who supplied them. Who would have ever thought being a librarian's mule could be so dangerous?

After I heard that, I shook in fear and kept a close eye on Midnight. I would simply die if anything ever happened to him. He has seen me through many rough times. When the creek bed floods at the bottom of Black Mountain, he often has to trudge through mud, bearing his heavy load. It’s not an easy ride, but Midnight, he never complains, he just keeps trudging along. One time, I couldn’t even keep my feet in the stirrups. If I did keep my feet there, I would have sunk knee deep into the mud. I had to keep my legs straight out to my sides, until they ached and felt like they were falling off. But, Midnight, he just kept going, plodding along, one foot after the other. 

Another time, we had to swim through the creek. It was freezing and we both got drenched. Luckily, Midnight’s saddlebags are waterproof and our previous cargo, the books, at least didn’t get wet. I don’t know their monetary value, but my books are worth their weight in gold. Besides their entertainment value and use by school children, the books also provide practical, potentially life saving information and advice to grownups.

After stopping at the school, my next stop is at the cabin of a young expectant mother, soon to have her first child. She is kind of nervous about the upcoming birth. I give her books on hygiene and baby care. I don’t know anything about babies, but I know the books will teach her what she needs to know. It’s the only thing she has for now, the only way to learn. I know for a fact the doctor won’t come around here. She will give birth in her cabin with the only help coming from a local midwife, who hopefully knows what she’s doing. At least with the help of her book learning, though, hopefully the midwife will do it right and the baby will enter this world fine. 

I have to be strategic. As with the farmers, not everyone accepts me and my books. Sometimes, I have to worm my way into their homes. I have to charm my customers by bringing books on subjects I know are important to them, like canning and the Bible. I have one family who only wants me to read to them from the Good Book. When I visit them, I feel like a travelling preacher.

I’m not overly religious but my family attends church regularly and I do know some scripture. When I read to the family, I hope and pray I’m giving them what they want, but I have my doubts. They seem like fire and brimstone people, wanting a fiery sermon and miracles. Or maybe they are even snake handlers, I’m not sure. Supposedly, there is a verse in the Bible that says if you believe in God, it’s okay to handle snakes, or something like that. At least that’s what some people believe ‘round here. I hear there’s even a church somewhere on Black Mountain where people have those snakes. 

I sure hope these people aren’t members of that church. I don't want to run into any snakes. I have no clue what Bible passages I should read to them, so I fall back on my favorite, the 23rd Psalm. Maybe it’s not exactly what they want to hear, but I find most churchy people find these Bible words comforting. “Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. For thou art with me. Thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.”

I hope the solemn promise in those words gives this family comfort too. I am no preacher, but I do the best I can. I always try to give each one of my customers what they want and need. Although The Good book says that the rod and the staff bring comfort, I say that books do too, and it’s my job to provide that comfort.

The saddest thing I find is at the last stop on my route. There I find a crippled little boy, greatly in need of comfort and books. He lives in a two-room log cabin with his parents, a grandmother, and an older brother. To get to his place, I journey on Midnight through majestic gorges of jagged rocks and foot bridges made of logs that pass over trickling creeks winding their way down the stone black mountain face. The way is slippery. We avoid the log bridges wherever possible.

Although those bridges are supposed to help people cross those creeks, to me, they appear to be death traps. They are much too narrow and slippery to be safe. My misgivings about the footbridges prove to be correct. I later discover that the crippled boy broke his back, crossing on foot across one of those log bridges. It was slick and he fell hard, permanently becoming paralyzed. Maybe if he had gotten immediate medical attention, his fate would have been different, but by the time his family sought help, the damage had been done. The boy will never walk again. 

He and his family live way up Black Mountain, almost to the very top. It’s a steep climb for Midnight and I. Poor Midnight has to work hard. The people who live on the mountain have to work hard too. The boy’s father is a coal miner scratching out a living, while his mother tends a stony garden for a meager assortment of crops. The crops, coal miner wages, and whatever game they hunt are the only things lying between them and starvation. 

I see a long barreled rifle hanging over the fireplace, and I suspect that someone in the family uses that rifle to hunt squirrels and rabbits. Rabbit and squirrel stew are a delicacy in these parts, but I can’t bring myself to eat either. I live in fear that one day one of my customers will ask me to stay for dinner and I’ll have to think of some excuse to regretfully decline. No way am I eating squirrels or rabbit. 

I am a townie and prefer fried chicken over stewed rabbit. This looks like the kind of place, though, where people eat whatever game they get their hands on. It’s a hard life, I know. As I enter a small dimly lit room, I notice an old woman sitting at the foot of the young boy’s pallet. His grandmother, no doubt. 

The lines on her face are strongly etched, furrowing her face even more deeply as she sucks on a corn cob pipe. The smoke swirls around her head, emitting a toasted warm smell. A fire flickers and water boils in a metal pot hanging from a suspended rod over the fire. I suspect she’s brewing herbal tea she made herself. She probably forages for herbs on the mountainside and knows just what to take to brew tea with healing properties. I pray that whatever she makes will do the boy some good, but I have my doubts. 

Since she is doing her part to heal the body, I try to heal the mind, or at least bring the little boy some comfort. I know what he likes – books with brightly colored pictures and fun stories – stories that involve cowboys and Indians. Sure enough, the first book he reaches for has a bright red cover and shows a cowboy on horseback, riding a fine black horse, one just like Midnight. I tell the little boy about Midnight, just after we finish reading. He turns his head and smiles.

“Do you think I’ll ever sit a horse again? I really want to learn to ride like one of those cowboys in the book. Or like you on Midnight.”

“I don’t know, Billy. I hope so.” I say with a small smile, trying to be encouraging.

“I don’t want to ride no mule,” he says in disdain. “Everyone round here has mules, but I want myself a horse. Someday, when I’m all grownup, I’m gonna ride that horse up and outta here.”

He stops to consider his words. “Or maybe I’ll ride down the mountain, I don’t know which way I’ll go. I do know that I’ll stay away from those slippery log bridges this time.”

When he says that, I feel a lump in my throat. 

The boy continues. 

“ I do wanna see what’s on the other side of Black Mountain.”

The least I can do is match his enthusiasm, although I doubt he will ever walk or ride again. I don’t know the extent or severity of his injury, but I know it isn’t good. Nevertheless, I try to put hope into my voice.

“That sounds like a good plan, riding that horse,” I say gently. “In the meantime, I know a way you can travel without even going anywhere.”

“How?” he asks with doubt in his voice.

“Through the pages of a book,” I say, forcing a smile. “You tell me wherever in the world you want to go, any country or state, and I’ll try my best to find a book about that very place.”

“Really?” he asks hopefully. “That sounds swell. And will you learn me? So I can read it to myself, too? When you’re not here, I mean.”

“I promise. I will teach you how to read that book,” I say, correcting him gently. “I’ll do my best to find whatever it is you want to read about and we’ll read it together until one fine day when you can read it. All by yourself, “ I say emphatically. 

I tell myself right then and there I will move heaven and earth to find just the right book for him. Then I will teach him how to read it. We will work together. I envision placid afternoons spent in front of the fireplace, diving into a good book, probably about horses. He has so little in life. What little he did have was cruelly taken away from him when he hurt his back. If he can’t go outside and get fresh air and color in his wan cheeks, at least I can open up the world to him through a good book. I truly believe that books are magical, transporting people to wherever they want to go and planting colorful images in their minds. 

I had once heard that Abraham Lincoln had read by candlelight in a log cabin. Old Abe went on to become President of the United States. Who knows what heights my young friend can climb to if he does the same thing and reads? Maybe he can someday climb up and over Black Mountain, onto a better life. 

“I have to be going now, Billy” I say gently. “But Midnight and I’ll be back next week. Tell me,” I paused, “what kind of book should I bring next time?”

“Hmmm,” he thinks for a minute. “Can you bring me another one about horses?”

Author's note: As a librarian and a horse lover, I find the history of Packhorse librarians fascinating as they travelled on donkeys and horseback, serving impoverished, rural areas deep in the Appalachian Mountains. The first Pack Horse Library was established in 1934 in Kentucky.