Land of a Hundred Wonders-I don’t care what everybody else thinks-the parlor where my spiritual advisor does her crystal readings and fortune-telling… the baptizing creek… the graveyard… the honey and potion stand-is more than just a tourist attraction. It’s my Sanctuary: A sacred place of refuge. Think Divine: Beautiful. Blissful. Hallowed. Now triple it.
Colored glass hangs from every bush, mostly red, since that’s the color well-known for its awe-inspiring properties. And there is good growing dirt where healing herbs are thriving. Plants when ground up or liquefied or baked in the oven will help people feel better about being alive. There’s plenty of bush basil for nervous headaches and wandering rheumatism. Balmony for piles. Daisies, whose roots you can milk boil and feed to puppies so they’ll get no bigger, thrive along her rickety fence. And there’s so many sunflowers. Their seeds get brewed into a drink that ya can give to babies suffering with whooping coughs. (Remember Miss DeeDee from the Miss Cheryl and Miss DeeDee story? Miss Lydia helped her eyes by making her a potion out of baby carrots.)
But despite my spiritual advisor’s vast and miraculous powers, she doesn’t have something for everything that ails. “Ya got a plant for memory you could give me?” I have asked her time and time again, ’cause I don’t remember ’til it’s too late that she’ll always reply, “Sometimes not rememberin’… it’s a blessin’,” looking sad beyond anything I previously thought was considered sad-looking. A kind of sorrowfulness so vast, so churning, that if you’re not careful, you could lose your footing and slip into it.
No matter what the rest of the place looks like, the Hundred Signs of Wonder that line the front of her house in no particular order are always painted fresh and easy to read. Each one more deep in its thinking than the next.
WONDER # 57
THY MUST SUMMON COURAGE UPON ENCOUNTERING
THE EVERLASTING FLAME
WONDER # 26
SINNERS MUST MAKE RESTITUTION FIRST IF THEY
SEEKETH REDEMPTION
Like everybody else who comes to Miss Lydia for spiritual advice, I’ve spent hours upon hours pondering her words of wisdom. I bend down to straighten:
WONDER # 15
THE HIGHWAY OF LIFE HARDLY EVER TAKES YOU TO
WHERE YOU’RE HEADING
"Ain’t that the God’s honest truth,” Cooter says, reading over my shoulder. He’s tied the horse and donkey up to a sycamore branch, leaving enough rein so they can graze.
“Gib?” Miss Lydia calls out from her porch in that raspy voice she’s got. “Cooter?”
“Yes’m,” he calls back. “It’s the two of us.”
Miss Lydia looks like a left-behind rag doll in the wide-back chair. She’ll never talk about it, but I heard she used to be quite a bit taller. The explosion she was in melted her some, I guess. Like always, she’s got on a gauzy scarf of purple, the forgiveness color, that wraps around her head and hides the side of her scarred face. She NEVER takes that scarf off. Says it gives her an air of mystery.
“Where’s Keeper at?” she asks as we come up the steps to her veranda.
I look both ways, shrug. “Thought he was right behind us,” I say, not really bothered since I know that dog can take care of himself. So does Miss Lydia. (Just so ya know, even though she will not admit to it, I believe she was the one left Keeper back out next to the Dumpster at Top O’ the Mornin’ for me to find right after I got home from the hospital. After teaching him his few good tricks.)
The lavender shawl I crocheted her is set on her shoulders ’cause even though it is sopping warm, Miss Lydia is almost always on the chilly side. Shuckin’ beans into a white bowl she’s got on her lap, she tells me, “Your mama’s been missin’ you.” And then to Cooter, “What happened to your leg?”
“The sheriff.”
Miss Lydia puts her bean bowl off to the side and goes through the door of her house, leaving behind the smell of the camphor oil she massages into her puckered skin, wind chimes tinkling in her wake. There’s gotta be a thousand of ’em hanging off of every tree. (Besides their favorite-soul music-Miss Lydia tells me the dead truly appreciate hearing the wind stroking the willows.)
Cooter says to me, “Don’t get comfortable. The posse’s gotta be on our tail.”
Coming back out the screen door, Miss Lydia’s holding one of her special poultices that she makes out of clay and peppermint oil. “This’ll draw out the pain,” she tells Cooter. “Bring me your knee.” Removing the bandage, she smooths on the mixture in gentle strokes, and asks me, “Billy do it?”
“WHAT?”
“The knee, Gib,” she asks. “Did Billy doctor the knee?” Miss Lydia’s just been making mannerly conversation since we got here, ’cause a course, she already knows the sheriff was the one that messed up Cooter AND that Billy was the one who doctored his knee. That’s because she is Omniscient: All knowing. E.G., she can hear things only an animal can. Knows when a storm is coming days before the wind changes direction. And if you are still doubting her mystical powers, this should convince ya. Miss Lydia knows things about the crash and she wasn’t even there.
“What’s troublin’ ya?” she asks me, still applying the poultice.
I hardly know where to begin. “Well… Grampa is in Texas and Clever is havin’ her baby and the Brandish Boys are comin’ for us ’cause the sheriff lied and told them that Cooter is guilty of murderin’…” She might not know about the deceasing of her brother, Mr. Buster Malloy. Then again, she’s got extra-strong communication with the spirits, and they’ve probably already informed her that Buster has joined up with them. NOT the ones residing in heaven. Not after what he did to her. “We gotta call up to the hospital to check on Billy and Clever. May we use your phone?”
“Ya could if the storm hadn’ta knocked it out,” she says, wiping the leftover clay onto the grass and replacing the bandage. “Ya better put the animals in the shed.”
"Pardon me?” I say.
“They’re comin’.” She pats Cooter’s leg, and he doesn’t wince at all. “Git now.”
Ya think she’s right in her head or wrong in her head, Miss Lydia is not the kind of person you question, so Cooter scurries even faster than me toward Dancer and Peaches. Of course, this is the moment Peaches has chosen to show off her stubborn. She’s dug in.
Miss Lydia calls from the porch, “Leave her, Gib. Go quick.”
The shed’s just a piece from the house, closer than the barn. Cooter’s already halfway there, dragging Dancer behind him, and swearing a streak.
I hear the posse now, too, on the other side of the trees. They’re arguing about what direction to go off in. They could head toward Cray Ridge, Browntown, or make the turn our way. Above the rustling, the grunting, the sneeze of a horse, the sheriff hollers out, “Looks to me like the tracks lead off to Lydia’s. We got ’em now, boys.”