“Soldier’s Song” by Danita Dodson

Appalachia Bare is pleased to present Danita Dodson’s Second Prize entry for our Folklore Short Story Contest entitled “Soldier’s Song.”

Danita Dodson is an educator, literary scholar, and the author of three poetry collections: Trailing the Azimuth (2021), The Medicine Woods (2022), and Between Gone and Everlasting (2024). She is also the co-editor of Teachers Teaching Nonviolence (2020). Her poems have appeared in Salvation South, Amethyst Review, Jarfly Poetry Magazine, Heimat Review, Bronze Bird Review, Tennessee Voices Anthology, and elsewhere. She is the winner of the Poetry Society of Tennessee’s 2024 Best of Fest prize, selected by William Wright. She lives in the small town of Sneedville in Northeast Tennessee, where she hikes and explores local history connected to the wilderness. For more, visit her website: danitadodson.com

 

“Soldier’s Song”

Everywhere he looked, the earth around him was broken. Sadness overwhelmed him. But the memory of a green forest kept him believing that there were places where bright-leafed trees would again sooth his heart, and where clear streams would again babble healing truths. George Thompson closed his eyes and remembered.

He had lost track of time, though he guessed only weeks had passed since they’d put him in Soldier’s Cave. Its upper chamber served as a Civil War infirmary. Given the absence of a major battle in the Gap, the cavern hospital nursed soldiers felled by disease rather than by war wounds. George had been one of them, ill with dysentery. Left behind when his company withdrew, he had been tormented by the abandonment, but marching on with them wasn’t the hand he’d been dealt.

The Cumberland Gap, though a vital spot in the region’s war effort, saw little action until 1862, when President Lincoln ordered Union forces to occupy it and liberate the “loyal citizens of East Tennessee.” However, it was a dreadful place for soldiers. Cut off from the grid in a remote location, their provisions were meager, including food. Not long after George arrived, Confederate troops blocked the Gap’s north entrance in Kentucky as well as the southern entrance in Tennessee. Although Union soldiers held ground, the siege took its toll when the Confederacy cut supply lines. In reaction, General Morgan directed his Union troops to promptly abandon the Gap, moving through Kentucky and into western Virginia. Their last assignment there was to blow up the munition storehouse and push the heavy artillery down the mountainside. Though George had lain ill, he’d still been aware that he was in the midst of ferocious chaos.

After the Union’s retreat, Confederate nurses had cared for him, but George had grown to fear his close proximity to the enemy. He lay prone for many days, a high fever pillaging his mental capacities. Perhaps the monsters in his mind were demons caused by the illness, though they felt near and real. Sometimes he played his harmonica, which calmed him. He reached for anything, with his hands or his mind, that might steady him to sanity. Once, he found a piece of charcoal from the fire used to cook meals, and on a cave wall he drew the figure of a small man. Beside it he wrote his name. George. He had wanted to write more. I am here. I ain’t a-goin’ to die.

Even in his feverish state, George had realized he couldn’t stay at Soldier’s Cave. He began to understand that the monsters were his fears. He felt sure one of three things would soon happen. The Rebs could make me go with ‘em to fight. Another possibility was equally dire. They might take him to a dreadful prison like Belle Isle. Or they might kill him. Count him as one more casualty. Because a Confederate reign of terror had risen over East Tennessee against Loyalists, remaining in the Gap was dangerous for a stranded Union soldier, sick or well.

George had decided he’d find his way out of the mountaintop cave and down into the forest below. However, he was so frail he couldn’t walk. When he tried to move, his whole body ached. He spent countless days staring at the cave walls. Sometimes he talked to other soldiers, but mostly he kept quiet, drawing deeper into the music in his head because he soon lacked strength to play his harmonica.

Then one night George had been awakened by singing. He strained to look at the pallets on the cold cave floor, but the sick soldiers slept on, unaware of the music. It didn’t come from any of them. Though his body ached, George rose from his bed to move toward the beautiful singing. When he approached the sound, it shifted and suddenly appeared to be coming from behind him. He slowly spun around but saw nothing. Then the song seemed to rise from his pallet, so he returned to it. Once he did this, it stopped.

George gave up and lay back down. Keeping the melody in his mind, he hummed it with closed eyes. When he did, the song came again from outside him. He opened his eyes and turned his head to the right. Then he saw it. Standing above him, about two-feet tall, was a strange figure cloaked in white attire, adorned with feathers of iridescent hummingbirds. His long hair cascaded to the ground, seemingly spun from moonlight, and his delicate wings fluttered as he sang. The song was both mournful and sunlit, blending pain and joy into an intricate tune. It was like nothing George had ever heard before, but also like everything that ever existed. He let the healing notes wash over him in a melody that seemed to go on forever, all through the night, and into eternity.

When the singing stopped, George looked into the small man’s eyes, finally speaking. “That’s beautiful. I’m sick in this cold cave. But ye make it feel more like home. Thank ye. My name’s George. Who are ye?”

The winged man had spoken to him in a surprisingly deep voice, cut from caverns and soil. At first, the words sounded strange to George. Then suddenly, he understood them. “I’m Yahula. I come from the Dogwood Clan of the Yûñwï Tsunsdi’ people, who have lived ages in this Cherokee earth. We lead lost wayfarers back to the path. I’m here to help you. Come with me.”

George recalled how Yahula had led him out of the cave, down the mountain, and into a beautiful grove where hemlocks and rhododendrons were interwoven. When he saw the green trees glowing, he felt connected to them, embedded in their roots. Yahula led him straight to the creek, directing him to drink. Then the little man whispered and coaxed a pumpkin from the earth. Moments later, he gave George a steaming bowl of stew, followed by herbal tea. How the food appeared so magically he couldn’t even imagine. And though he might have dreamed it, he swore Yahula had commanded a fox to snuggle with him while he slept, like a comforting toy given to a child at bedtime.

Slumbering for days as Yahula nursed him, George had felt the fever diminish. During his recovery, he and his new friend didn’t spend much time talking. Instead, they made music. The little man sang and beat a drum, and George played his harmonica. He couldn’t remember ever being this happy before. Cherishing these days, he wondered if he would ever feel as contented again.

On the final day, Yahula had said, “You are better. I will leave you now. Rest another day and then wind your way up that mountain and back down. The road will be there. It will be broken at first. Follow it home. Life will not be easy here on out, though likely you’ve already had some hard days behind you. But you will be alright. Put on these clothes. They won’t make you look like you’re at war. I can’t promise you’ll never fight again, but I can promise you’ll forever carry strength in your heart.”

George had felt tears coming to his face, slightly embarrassed that he, a grown man, was crying. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter. Yahula accepted him as he was. George whispered, “I’m beholden to ye. Will be for always. You seem like kin to me. Bless ye, Yahula.” He didn’t expect to speak these words. But they made him know that whatever he faced, a measure of gratitude each day would help him survive.

Yahula had smiled radiantly. “Don’t tell anybody about me. If you do, it’ll be bad luck.” Then he laughed with a benevolent joy and spread his wings. When he jumped, he transformed into a bird, flying from tree to tree like an ethereal dandelion seed on the wind. His presence was as transient as sunlight filtering through tree branches. In a wisp of smoke, Yahula had disappeared, his laughter dissolving into the rustle of leaves.

Now, as George walked through the broken landscape, he couldn’t believe what lay before him. Thousands upon thousands of tree trunks lay scattered like corpses in a wicked geometry to prevent rapid military charges. Using nature as an unwilling participant, a warring army had skillfully constructed this valley of death.

He looked at the ravaged earth, realizing that war cares little for trees or men. He would be branded a “deserter,” but he decided he would chase the green way of life no matter what. It was a way filled with peace and love. Encouraged by his recollections of the healing he’d experienced in the forest, he pressed onward, trusting the little man’s promise that the road would lead home. Sometimes you have to stand up straight and keep walking. As the voice of Yahula whispered in his mind, George held up his harmonica and played his new song.

 

**Featured image credit:  Tobias Bjørkli – Pexels, cropped