Old Dan

Old Dan lived up on th’ ridge somewhere—Some said it’us near Eagle Bluff, some said further off towards th’ lake, but it’us well away from th’ usual stompin’ grounds of th’ city folk who hunted up thataway. Nobody knew quite where... I hear tell that th’ Sherriff knew how to find his place, but only ever went up there alone—and even then, only when he needed th’ old man’s advice or help. There was stories, you see, ‘bout th’ old man on th’ ridge. He showed up at th’ General Store in Jacksboro for supplies ‘bout once a month. Sometime at weddin’s, sometimes to attend funerals, once or twice when a new baby was baptized—didn’t matter which church, if Old Dan graced your service, you counted yourself blessed. ‘Cause you felt you were.

He’d come walkin’ into town, pair of dogs at his heels, wearin’ a big, hooded wool coat like a mountain man would in cold weather or rain, well-worn overalls underneath, and big boots on his feet. He had a gray beard, and long silver-gray hair tied up in back like a Cherokee. Had a hat that looked like it could a come straight off a Rebel soldier or a riverboat man. That hat done seen some years, I’ll tell you. But it was clean, if a little worse for wear. Sometimes, he had a tall walkin’ stick made out of a Hickory saplin’.

He’d buy his vittles at th’ store, maybe trade the grocer-man a fine mess o’ watercress, or spinach greens, or a sack fulla fresh-picked corn for some of it. Always paid in cash, or old coins… Then he’d put his groceries away in a big ol’ one-strap oilskin sack he’d throw over his shoulder, and he walked out of sight back towards th’ ridge. Polite man. Quiet, too. Soft spoken, but he had an eye for th’ ladies—made ‘em feel special when he offered a word, tipped his hat, and he’d made more than a few of ‘em blush from a quiet remark and a gentle smile. And that voice of his was like magic—like silk on bare skin—many a fair maiden wished it was still fashionable t’ swoon when he sweet-talked her…

Nobody knew who his family was. Nobody knew how long he’d lived up on th’ ridge. And nobody knew for sure just how old he was. He was just always there, somewhere around, like the hills themselves, or the rivers, or the oak trees on the mountains. But all th’ same, people stayed away from where they thought his house was. Especially after that time th’ Revenue Men came runnin’ back down off th’ ridge like they was bein’ chased by a bear.

Seems they’d a-thought he must be runnin’ a still up there. Well, maybe he was, but nobody ever claimed to of bought any liquor offa him. So they marched themselves on up t’ th’ ridge, with their dogs and their guns and their shiny badges—and then come a-runnin’ back down like th’ Wrath of God was behind ‘em with th’ Flamin’ Sword, like right out a th’ Bible. Ol’ Dan turned their guns and badges in to th’ Sherriff when he come down th’ ridge himself a week or so later. Said they must a throwed ‘em down to run faster from whatever they’d a-thought was chasin’ ‘em. Said his dogs was barkin’ up a ruckus that evenin’—fit to chase off a mountain lion, he said—and he’d found th’ shootin’ irons and tin stars a-layin’ around on th’ trail when he next come down to go t’ town. Like he was just pickin’ up the trash left behind by careless hunters. Th’ Sherriff was always respectful to Ol’ Dan.

A few of the Revenue men told stories about comin’ up to a place on the ridge where the native rock grew out of the ground like the pillars of some ancient temple—half was melted and the other half hand-hewn—but hewn by whose hands? Human hands? Or Other? Some talked of a small house and a garden, and the sounds of a party in full swing. Or a quiet mansion surrounded by the feelings of good will, peace, and contentment. Still others talked of guard dogs—or were they bears? Or wolves the size of bears? Some wished to return, under other circumstances, to join that party they thought they’d heard. Others moved away—way out West to the empty spaces of the desert where they could be sure that nothin’ was sneakin’ up on them. And still others chose to retire, to move up to the ridges and valleys of the Smoky Mountains in search of some kind of peace and fulfillment inside themselves that they never knew they needed until that night…

Th’ old man always turned up for search parties when somebody went missin’ in th’ woods, or out by th’ lake. Him and his dogs would join th’ party, and almost always found th’ path where th’ folks got lost. Sherriff said they was good huntin’ dogs, that’s all. Nobody ever said a bad word about th’ old man. He was kinda stand-offish, but kind and generous to everybody.

Now, he did once have a throw-down with that so-called travelin’ Preacher that come through—and people was sayin’ Preacher was getting’ handsy with some of th’ children. Ol’ Dan showed up at th’ Preacher’s revival tent unexpected-like one evenin’, dressed in his finest Sunday-Go-To-Meetin’ clothes. An old suit that was clean, if a tad out of style, with a starched collar, and one a them-there string ties them Kentucky Colonels like to wear. Looked downright impressive, to hear tell.

Took th’ stage t’ stand by th’ lectern without any warnin’, and proceeded to give one of th’ most Hellfire and Brimstone sermons anybody could recollect ever hearin’. Started off with “Suffer Not Th’ Little Children” and went on about how th’ Fiery Pit was ready for them that dares lay a hand on th’ Lord’s Precious Little Angels—all th’ while givin’ a look to that Preacher that would a made a platoon of hardened soldiers quake with fear. Everybody was a-waitin’ on th’ lightnin’ to fall down on that Preacher—th’ old man’s sermon was that powerful. Preacher packed up in th’ middle of th’ night and run off to further pastures—and left his tent behind. Th’ fact that Ol’ Dan’s two dogs went onstage with him and sat—unbidden, to either side of the old man’s feet, showin’ their teeth to that preacher, an’ quietly growling a warning—didn’t do anythin’ to gentle th’ stories afterward none. Those dogs got respect from th’ people, too.

About them dogs… People said they was part wolf, maybe mostly wolf—or looked it, anyways. They was waist-high at the shoulder, and muscled like a full-growed bull, and walked like they was th’ Wrath Of God, incarnate. Children wasn’t afraid of them. Th’ local ne’re-do-wells feared ‘em, and th’ would-be toughs did too. One dog was dark brown, t’ other was black, both long-haired, and generally looked like them German Po-lece dogs, but th’ biggest you’d ever seen in your life. Th’ old man didn’t have to give ‘em commands. Just clicked his tongue and pointed, or just pointed without sayin’ a word, and th’ dogs went and did what he wanted ‘em to go and do—like they was a force o’ nature, but his to command. They didn’t frighten cats, neither. Th’ old man attracted cats like a magnet tugs on cold iron. But th’ dogs never even growled at ‘em. Nor they them, in return. Cats loved th’ old man. Birds too, but that was spooky... He named th’ dogs Thunder and Lightnin’. Thunder was th’ brown dog. Lightnin’ was th’ black one. They was always around th’ old man—even when you couldn’t see ‘em nowhere near. Some young tough’d start to give th’ old man trouble, and them dogs come outa nowhere—like storm clouds comin’ out from behind th’ ridge to drop a summer squall—or a tornado. They was always quiet too, leastways lest they wanted to be loud, and then they growled like a lynx th’ size of a bull. Ain’t nobody alive wants to hear that sound. No sir-ee!

Now, about those stories ‘bout th’ old man… One I heard tell of once concerned th’ day one of th’ local coal mines had a whole gallery collapse. Right about shift change, th’ night workers shuffled out lookin’ for their fellows on th’ day shift, and found a rockfall blockin’ th’ road out and in. Nobody heard the rockslide in th’ night. Nobody felt it happen, neither. It was just there that mornin’—like it’d always been there, right across the only road t’ th’ mine. Everybody got delayed goin’ home or comin’ in.

Nobody was the least bit happy ‘bout it… Then they heard th’ cave-in a-groanin and a-boomin’, and dust come a-boilin’ out th’ mine entrance like th’ hateful breath of th’ Devil his-self. Four of th’ miners were still inside, but over fifty was out—day and night shifts alike. One of th’ miners up topside claimed he saw Ol’ Dan standin’ way up on th’ hill from where th’ rockfall happened. But then, like magic, he was there in amongst ‘em, takin’ charge and givin’ orders like he expected to be obeyed—like he was in command all of a sudden. And th’ men found they was doin’ it, whatever th’ old man said to do. His quiet voice carried to every ear. Whatever he said had th’ impact of th’ Gospel, itself, and everyone there pitched in to clear th’ mine entrance so that th’ men trapped inside might have a ghost of a chance of getting’ out alive. I hear tell th’ old man waded in himself, throwin’ rocks aside like they was so much sponge-cake. Th’ dogs was there, a diggin’ and a scratchin’ at th’ rocks right next to th’ old man—and it seemed like half th’ cats in th’ county, too. There was even talk of an eagle flew down and started scratchin’ at th’ rocks like a chicken—flingin’ rocks out th’ way. ‘Twern’t long before everyone knew they’d need even more help to save those men inside th’ mine. Runners set out to alert th’ townsfolk—but that woulda took some time. Then th’ old man called th’ crows.

Way I heard it, soon as th’ runners set out, th’ old man stood up straight—taller than anybody ever remembered him to be, grabbed his walkin’ stick and jabbed it into th’ ground like it’us a fence post. Sparks flew from th’ tip of th’ stick when it struck th’ rock. Th’ old man tipped his head back, and started cawin’ like a crow. His voice echoed from th’ hills and ridges, getting’ louder and louder… Then th’ crows came. They came up like a thundercloud, darkenin’ th’ sky in their multitudes, circlin’ like a tornado—then split to head for all th’ nearby towns. Like rivers of ink in th’ cloudless blue sky, they set up such a ruckus in th’ towns that people just had to come outside and see what was th’ matter. And they came, following th’ path th’ crows marked out, until every able-bodied soul for miles around started headin’ for th’ mine.

Long story short, there was soon near a couple hundred folks at th’ mine, clearin’ away rubble until th’ men inside were able to crawl out. Not one life was lost that day. By th’ time th’ last man got out, th’ birds were gone, and when folks began to look around for th’ old man, well—he was gone too. But his stick was still set into th’ ground, as unmovable as an oak tree, stout as th’ old Hickory it’us made from. Nobody could budge it an inch. Then th’ mine gave an almighty groan as another collapse hit its halls. Coal dust and dirt boiled out like a chokin’ cloud. When folks remembered to look at th’ stick once more, it’us gone without a trace. Like a dam blockin’ a mighty river, when th’ stick was removed, th’ mine collapsed completely. Not one life was lost, that day.

There was another story. One time, a little girl of about 12 years or so got caught in a sudden snowstorm up on th’ ridge where she’d gone berry-pickin’ for her Granny to make a pie for th’ family’s Sunday dinner. People searched, but couldn’t find her. As it got too dark for even lanterns to guide their steps, they heard what they thought was wolves howlin’ in th’ distance. They shuffled home in th’ growing darkness, heads downcast, bereft of hope for th’ safe return of their little girl. Th’ family spent a sleepless night in prayer for th’ safety of their daughter. Churches held all-night vigils, likewise in prayer, until dawn of th’ following day. Came th’ sun th’ next day—even before th’ townspeople could once again set out to search, Old Dan in his heavy woolen coat came striding into town, big boots crunching th’ fresh snow with every step, dogs aside him, as he made his way to th’ home of th’ family of th’ missing girl. His coat was tied tightly about his waist, its sleeves empty, and his dog Thunder stood on hind legs to knock on th’ family’s door. Th’ mother of th’ girl wrenched th’ door open as if she was want to tear it off its hinges. Without a word, Ol’ Dan went in, opened his coat from the inside, and laid th’ little girl on her Granny’s feather bed. Covering her with a thick blanket, he turned and softly spoke to th’ mother and grandmother and father.

“Don’t try to wake her,” he said. “She’s in a healin’ sleep. She’ll want feedin’ when she wakes tomorrow mornin’. Give her whatever she wants, but please make sure she drinks this potion afore she eats anything.” He handed the mother a tall, old medicine bottle—like from the days before the Great War. “It’s just herbs to help her body heal from th’ cold. She’ll be tired for several days. She’ll eat like a horse, she’ll sleep a lot for th’ next few days, but she will heal—Completely. She won’t remember what happened after th’ snow began to fall. She won’t remember my finding her, takin’ her to m’house or feeding her, or giving her a potion to help her sleep without pain. She told me her name was Aurora, but I know you named her Beverly—after her great-grandmother. Fine woman. Did real good for herself. Call the girl Aurora from now on. She chose the name. It suits her. She’ll never be sick another day in her life. She’ll grow to be a strong woman. She’ll find a good man to wed when she’s grown—I’ll see to that! Oh, she’ll give you no end o’ trouble ‘til she takes a husband—after that he’ll have to watch his own steps! When th’ school here has taught her everything it can, tell her that I am willing to teach her herblore and medicine and all manner of practical things—but only if she so chooses to learn those. Her life shall ever be her own, but for now, she is under my protection. Blessings be upon this house, and to all who will dwell within it. Forever and ever… Amen.” With that, he bowed to th’ father, bowed to th’ mother, and took th’ grandmother’s hand, kissing it. “I remember thee, Rosemary,” he said to her. “Thy pecan pie is worthy of th’ Gods, themselves. You have ever been blessed, in my memory, and in th’ memories of th’ Others. When your Work is done, I will remember thee. For all my days, I will remember thee. Did I not tell thee once that thou will have a long and happy life, Granddaughter? I see that thou hast, indeed, gained everything thou wished to have. At th’ end of days, my house is ever open to thee—if that is still thy wish…”

Then he left. Back into th’ snow, dogs at his sides, to return to th’ ridge above th’ town, until needed again…

That’s just a small sample of the stories surroundin’ Ol’ Dan. Where he came from, when he came from, where his house on the ridge is, why he does what he does, how he does what he does… No one knows. Maybe he was there when the sun first ever shone over the Smoky Mountains. Maybe longer. As to why does he cares so much about his neighbors? Maybe the clue is in his name… Old Dan, Ol’ Dan, Ol’Dan, Odin? Perhaps… If so, then who are The Others the old man spoke of?

THE END

Bio: Dan L. Hollifield is a writer, composer, artist, and the Senior Editor & Publisher of Aphelion Webzine. He lives out in the countryside near Athens, GA with his wife, her dog, and several cats. 2023 will see his final year of gainful employment at a local factory after 46 years of working there. He has two books of his own on Amazon, as well as several short stories in various anthologies published both here in the US and in Europe. He currently has nine albums of instrumental music available on his Bandcamp page.

E-mail: Dan L. Hollifield

Website: Dan L. Hollifield's Author Page On Amazon
Dan L. Hollifield's Bandcamp Page

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