Night at Chimney Cave

by Wilson Roberts

No one knows how he came to live among
us.  He moved into a log house in Beech 
Creek’s darkest holler, the hills steep, close, the
pines high, thick with needles.

                                                   Tall, pale and thin 
his mustache neatly trimmed, he wears a black 
suit, a wide brimmed preacher's hat, a starched white
shirt and shoestring tie.  His ways are smooth, his 
manner gracious.  Men in these hills grew to
admire him, women desire him.  Children  
ran after him at Mast’s Store in Valle 
Crucis, hoping he’d throw them coins, tousle
their hair or give them some of the finely 
wrapped chocolates he kept in his pockets.

In June, a month after he first appeared, 
he comes to the monthly summer barn dance, 
eyes glittering from lantern light, as he 
walks in, leans against a timber next to
the fiddler, teeth the sparkling silver white  
of the full moon.  He is dressed in a black
suit with buttons of gold.  Gold rings shine on 
his fingers, three fine gold chains dangling from
his neck.

	    As he enters the barn all turn.
He bows, rigid and courteous, before 
asking each woman in the room to dance. 
They spend the early evening in sweet
laughter, as he spins them across the floor,
the oldest and most bent over graceful
as a schoolgirl in his arms.  At last he
comes to Pretty Polly who curtseys as 
he stands before her smiling, holding his 
hand out to her.

	               “Would ye care to dance with 
me,” he asks, bowing from the waist.  

                                                 She stands
slowly and lets him fold her in his arms.  
The fiddler touches his bow to the strings, 
rosin curling like smoke as his notes weave
around the banjo’s tinkling notes, into 
the pounding of the bass the guitar’s beat.
At midnight, Mr. Fox swings her around 
the floor with flair and grace that leaves each raw 
boy there aflame, burning in amazement 
and wild with envy.

	                       “Ye must come walking 
with me tonight, Pretty Polly,” Mr. 
Fox says as the music ends.  The fiddler’s 
last notes linger in the air.  The lanterns 
hanging from the barn's hand hewn beams flicker
out.

	She is tempted, for he is a fair 
and handsome stranger, with dark shining eyes
his quiet manner, respectful, polite.

“I am pleased and flattered, Mr. Fox, but 
we do not know each other well enough 
for such a walk.  Perhaps some other time 
I might go with ye.”  
                                 She smiles at him, and 
those lanky mountain boys leaning against 
the walls, pining for love, see her smile and 
know it will fill their dreams for many nights.

His sleeve brushes her cheek as he takes her 
arm, leading her to the wide barn door where 
they stand in the moonlight.  Again he bows.  
Taking her hand he touches the tips of 
her fingers with his lips, his breath a soft 
breeze on her skin.
                                “Ye must do what ye think 
is right,” he says.  I shall look forward to 
that some other time of which ye speak, but 
should ye change your mind this night, I shall wait
for ye by the giant white oak tree at the 
top of Chimney Mountain.”

	                                  She laughs.  “A mind 
is a changeable thing, Mr. Fox, but 
whimsy is not a proper guide for a 
poor girl to follow.”

	                     Releasing her hand 
he climbs into his polished black carriage, 
snaps his whip over the black stallion 
harnessed to it, and rides into the night, 
with nary a creak of wagon wheel as 
he disappears beyond the thick trees at
the bending of the road.
 
                                        The next day there 
is talk in the community of Jen
Presnell, the daughter of Johnny Presnell, 
the blacksmith and his wife, Cory.  She did 
not come home that night, nor was she seen in 
the morning. By evening she still has 
not returned and a search begins, but she 
is never found although they look throughout 
the mountains for days seeking trace or word 
of her.

             The next month Mr. Fox returns to dance, 
again dressed in his black suit with its gold 
buttons and his gold rings and chains, his eyes 
agleam, his dark mustache set off against 
his silver white skin.  He honors the men,
asking after their land and families, 
complimenting them on their houses and 
well kept fields, and he flatters the women 
by asking them to dance, spinning them on 
the floor as though each held the key to his 
heart.  The talk about him centers on who 
he is that he should be so courteous 
and handsome.  Some say he must be a king 
or prince, come from a distant land seeking 
a bride. Others think him a rich merchant,  
All sure he has graced their community 
with his presence, making it a gentler, more
refined place.
 
           	After he makes the rounds of 
the women in the room he comes again
to Pretty Polly, and bowing deeply, 
asks her to dance.  She moves into his arms, 
flush with pleasure as he twirls her around 
the room.   Her hair, thick and dark red, catches 
the soft light shining from the lanterns hung 
from the barn’s timbers, carefully combed locks
shimmering like fiery daggers stabbing 
the hearts of all the young men watching them.
	
“Ye are the loveliest woman here,” he 
says, touching her fingers to his lips as 
the fiddler’s final notes fade in the air.
“I will be the most disappointed man 
on earth should ye not agree to come walk 
with me tonight in the silver moonlight.”
	
Pretty Polly is again tempted to 
walk with him, to hold his hand and wander 
up dark mountain hollers listening as 
he tells her of his travels through the world, 
of fine and distant places he has seen, 
of riches he has tasted.  Instead she 
listens to the counsel of her mind, thanks 
him for his offer, and tells him it would 
not be proper for her to go.

	                                 “With such 
A cruel rejection my heart shall surely
wither away.”  He holds her hand tightly.
	
She laughs with the light sound of a mountain 
brook, and pulling her hand away from his, 
she flashes her teeth, starry white in the 
moonlight.
                     “Mr. Fox, ye are flattering 
me and I must admit my heart wishes 
to go walking with ye.  We may yet do 
that, but we must await the proper time.”
	
“How will I know that time has come?”
                                                                 
                                                                Laughing 
again, she tells him she will let him know.
                         
“I suppose I must accept that for ye 
must do what ye think right, but should ye change 
your mind I shall wait for ye by the white 
oak tree at the top of Chimney Mountain.”
	
He bows and carefully touches her cheek
with his lips, so gently she thought it might
have been his breath alone that kissed her skin.  

He pulls away, so quickly she is sure 
It is but her imagination that 
she hears his warm voice in her ear whisper 
for her to come to him, his tone plaintive, 
his words ringing like commands to her heart.

“Goodnight,” my dear, he smiles.  “Perhaps ye shall.  
meet me tonight, while yet my heart is whole.”

He turns to leave, but just before he does 
she glimpses something dreadful in his glance.
She looks again, but sees only her face
reflected in his dark and smiling eyes.
.
She stands in the barn door and watches him,
walk from the moonlight into the shadow 
where his carriage is tied to a tree, her 
heart torn between desire to rush after 
him and climb on the seat as he clicks his 
tongue at the great black stallion, and her fear 
of him, his black eyes and alluring ways, 
fear of the voice that whispered in her ear, 
come, come.  She knows she will hear his voice through 
the night and nights to come; that it will sing 
a dark song playing for a dance she knows 
she must resist, a dance she is tempted 
to accept, letting him wrap her in his 
arms and spin her around to music she 
has yet to hear.

	              Mr. Fox cracks his whip..
The stallion lunges from the moon shadow 
of the trees.  Pretty Polly shivers in 
the summer night; she knows must not meet 
Mr. Fox by the white oak tree at the 
top of Chimney Mountain.

                                             In the morning 
Rosa and Jason Embry cannot find 
their daughter Anna Mae.  Afraid she is 
missing, like Jen, they start to search for her 
at once, but do not find her.  By nightfall 
Beech Mountain teems with people looking for 
Anna Mae, their voices calling her name 
echo from the surrounding hills, echoes 
answered only by other echoes.  She 
has not been found by August’s end when the
fiddler tunes up for summer’s final dance.

The night is clear, the moonlight silver white
as Mr. Fox arrives festooned with gold,
and as before he sparkles with grace and 
conversation, circulating through the 
room dancing with the women, enchanting 
men with his knowledge of their country ways.  
He speaks of crops and livestock, yet no one
sees calluses, smells barnyard on his clothes
nor sees a speck of dirt beneath his nails.

He stands in front of Pretty Polly, bows, 
and never takes his eyes from hers.  In them
she sees reflections of the lantern lights,
beside the silver white glare of the moon 
that glimmers through the cracks in the barn wall.  
In them she sees the room, the dancers and 
her face.  He straightens, takes her hand, begins 
to sway as music rises through the lofts
into the highest timbers of the roof, 
then, arms around her waist, he leads her to 
the dance floor, taking her into his arms.

“Ye surely lack no confidence, she says.”

He answers, “Nothing is sure except the
eternal darkness into which we all 
shall plunge, and that is why I must ask ye 
again to come with me, while we are yet
among the quick, while we may still enjoy 
the pleasures life provides.  Ye will walk with 
me this night, will ye not?”

	                               She touched his hand.  
“I have seen nothing, learned nothing to change 
my thoughts that walking out with ye would not 
be right.  Ye are a handsome charming man 
and it would be a pleasure if ye would 
call on me at my parents' home.  We could 
have dinner, sit upon the porch and talk, 
discover one another safely there.”

He laughs and spins her thrice around.  “Ah, but 
how would your parents feel should I call on 
ye in their home?”

                              She reddens.  “I am not 
a child.”

	   He laughs again and falls silent.
For her part Pretty Polly is content 
to dance with Mr. Fox, to feel herself 
in his arms and be spun throughout the room.  

The fiddler draws his bow across the strings,
the final note of the dance and Pretty 
Polly is still in Mr. Fox's arms.

“Tonight,” he asks.  “Tonight will ye again 
break my poor heart and send me back into 
the darkness of the mountains all alone?”

“I must and will until such a time as 
ye come to call upon me at my home.”

His voice grows harsh, his eyes are ice.  “I do 
not call.  Ye must come call on me.”

                                                        His arm
around her waist they walk to the door, stand
there, he outside in silver white moonlight, 
she inside, lantern light soft on her face.

“But should ye change your mind I’ll wait.” he said.

“I know,” she answered, “By the white oak tree 
atop Chimney Mountain.”

      His smile glistened.  
“At least ye harkened to me, even though
ye will not heed my plea nor ease my pain.”

“I harkened Mr. Fox.  Your call is sweet 
and sorely tempts my heart, though  I shan’t heed
the melodies it plays upon its strings.”

He leans down, whispering a kiss upon 
her lips.  As his face hovers close to hers 
she sees two other faces in his eyes, 
both drawn and gray.  He quickly pulls away.
In that moment only her face is in 
his eyes, lit by the lanterns hanging from 
the timbers of the barn.

	                              “Please come tonight.”
Then he is gone beyond the moonlit field
into the shadow where his carriage waits.
The hoof beats of his horse die in the night.

She stands alone and shivers in cold fear.
Black leathern wings cross the moon’s face, a fox
coughs from the woods and certainty descends,
a terrible gift she cannot ignore,
and running through the moonlit night over
the fields, she takes the old cross path, which leads 
up Rominger Holler, across the high 
ridges of the Beech to Chimney Mountain.
	
She finds the white oak tree, a dead stump with
stark jagged leafless limbs.  To the right of 
the tree is chimney cave.  On the left a
fall to a gorge three hundred feet below.
While moving toward the cave she hears a song
come from the night, the words as dark as sin:

Pretty Polly, don't go into that cave;
Pretty Polly, don't go into that cave;
Mr. Fox spent last night, digging your grave;
Mr. Fox spent last night, digging your grave.
She jumps as though stabbed to the heart with a 
sharp silver knife.  “Who sang that, she cries out.”

“I did, says a voice from above.”

                                                       She looks
and sees a small owl perched on the white oak.

“Heed me if ye wish to live through this night, 
and hide for I hear Mr. Fox’s horse.
I  pray ye do not let him find ye here.”

She hears the thudding of the stallion's hooves,
the snorting of his breath, the carriage wheels 
rattling on gravel as they come up the
steep rutted wagon trail leading to the 
top of Chimney Mountain.

	                                 Running across 
the open moonlight, she hides behind a
rock, just as Mr. Fox pulls his carriage 
up to the mouth of Chimney Cave.  He is 
singing.  Pretty Polly cannot make out 
his words, his tune like none she has ever 
heard.  His gold rings and buttons glimmer in 
the moonlight.  He climbs down and ties the reins
around the white oak tree.  Then he goes back 
and lifts a heavy bag from the carriage.
A muffled cry comes from within as the
bag twists and jumps in Mr. Fox's arms.

He lays it down by the mouth of the cave,
then starts a torch and sets it in a notch
lighting up the cave’s damp and stony walls.
He pulls the bag inside and with a knife 
slices the twine holding it shut.  He pulls 
the burlap back and Pretty Polly sees
a girl upon the floor.  Long shadows from
the torch light dance around her like figures
from a nightmare.  The girl cries out.  She pleads
with Mr. Fox.  He holds the knife toward her
and Pretty Polly watches from behind
the rocks, his back to the cave's mouth and as 
his victim screams, for mercy, for release, 
she creeps from hiding, grabs a heavy stone
and softly moves to the door of the cave.
	
She sees the dagger in his hand rise up, 
the torchlight shining yellow on the blade 
and hears the girl's voice pleading one last time
before the knife swings down into her neck,  
and Mr. Fox's nameless song alone
breaks on the sudden silence of the night.
He swoops down on the body before him. 

Holding the rock, prepared to crash it down
upon his skull, she sees the gray bodies 
of Jen Presnell and Anna Mae Embry 
against the wall.  Twisted and dry, they look
as though they were stuffed with leaves and cornstalks,
their mouths and eyes closed and sewn shut.  In the 
center of the cave is a wide-open 
grave, the earth from within piled to one side.

She gasps and Mr. Fox whirls, the knife still
in his hand, his white teeth red with blood, flesh 
dripping from his tongue.
	
                                     “Welcome to my home
dear sweet Polly,” he says, smiling.  Blood thick 
upon the knife, he holds his hand to her.  
“I’ve waited for ye so long, please come in.”
	
She throws the rock.  It hits his head.  He trips 
backward and stumbles on the body of 
the newly murdered girl.  He falls into 
the open grave.  She throws more rocks and stones. 
Each one draws blood from his face as it hits.
	
“Stop, please, stop,” he yells, raising his arms to
block his face. A rock gouges his left eye
from its socket.  He tries to put it back 
but his hands shake and flutter to his chest  
as he wards off the stones and rocks she throws.
	
At last his movement stops.  She takes the spade
that leans against the wall and working by 
torchlight, she starts to fill the grave, watched by 
the stuffed gray bodies and the freshly stilled 
eyes of the dead girl lying on the ground.
	
Stones and dirt clatter down on Mr. Fox, 
bouncing on his chest, his cheeks.  Soon his hands 
are covered and most of his face, his one 
remaining eye open.  It stares at her. 
It stays open as she drops dirt on it. 
Stones and gravel rattle against the spade. 
The torch burns out.  Moonlight casts shadows from
limbs of the dead oak on the cave floor and
shines on the new filled grave and bodies of
the murdered girls.


	                    She takes a deep breath, looks 
around and runs, back through the moonlit night, 
across the ragged slopes and down into 
Rominger Holler.  Tearing from the woods
and down the gravel road she thinks she hears 
something behind her, deadly without form. 
It leaps and reaches out.  She is shaking.
Small cries of horror tearing from her throat 
she races through the countryside.  She trips 
on roots, falls against rocks, cutting her hands, 
the thing racing behind her whispering 
through the brush, moving like wind.  It would 
descend on anyone who ran slower.  

When she comes to her parents' house, she throws 
open the door and calls for them.  Within 
minutes people are up and armed, riding
on horseback and in carriages to the
craggy top of Chimney Mountain where the 
white oak stands black against the moon filled sky.
the owl sitting where once there had been limbs
filled with green summer leaves.  Men and women 
with pitchforks, guns, hammers and clubs stare in
the cave.

               There in the moonlight Jen Presnell 
and Anna Mae Embry sit propped against 
the wall.  Blood still shines moist on the newly 
killed girl.  Orville Ward sobs for his lost Bess.

Pretty Polly moves through the crowd until 
she stands again in the mouth of the cave. 
Her eyes travel around.  She sees the dead, 
the mourning Orville Ward.  They rest at last 
upon the grave.  It is open, empty, 
the rocks and earth piled where they had been piled 
before she knocked Mr. Fox into it
and covered him over with rocks and dirt.
It is a black grave.  In the shadows from 
the moonlight it looks as though it leads to 
the darkest regions of the earth, into
the cold dark heart of the world.  Her heart jumps.
Short of breath, she pushes her way back to 
the outside fringes of the crowd.
 
                                                      The owl,
still in the tree, sleeps.  Mr. Fox's black 
stallion and carriage are gone and with them 
all peace Pretty Polly will ever know.