Banner Elk Breeze

  Banner Elk Breeze

  By

  Ed Robinson

  Copyright 2018 by Ed Robinson

  All rights reserved. No part of this work shall be reproduced in any manner without the written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Leap of Faith Publications

  This is a work of fiction. Any actual person or place mentioned is used fictitiously. Though some of my work is based on my real life experiences, most of it is a product of my imagination.

  For my wife Kim Robinson, who not only condones my adventures but actively participates in them. Without her, I’d have few stories to tell.

  Contents

  Prelude

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Author’s Thoughts

  Acknowledgements

  Other Books by Ed Robinson

  Nonfiction by Ed Robinson

  Prelude

  This is the first installment of a new series, Mountain Breeze - but actually, it is a continuation of the adventures of Meade Breeze. Our hero starred in eleven editions of the popular Trawler Trash Series, based in Florida and the Caribbean.

  His fictional move to the mountains of North Carolina parallels my own relocation. I not only attempt to write what I know, but I also write what I live.

  It is my hope that previous followers of Breeze will enjoy the new setting, and that new readers will go back and enjoy the first series.

  Long Live Breeze!

  One

  Pop Sutton was dead. There was no doubt about it. The entry wound in his back was crisp and clean, about the size of my index finger. The exit wound was a mess of blood and tissue the size of my fist. His body was cold. He’d been dead for a while. He lay between his pot plants hidden high up on McGuire Mountain. I thought that Pop and I were the only people who knew of his little weed farm, but obviously, there was a third person.

  Whoever it was, they’d decided that his crop was worth killing him for. I first met Pop quite by accident. Not long after Brody and I had moved to the mountains, I decided to explore my new turf. We traveled around the area finding waterfalls and hiking trails for a bit, but what I really wanted to do was get to know the mountain that we lived on. It was mostly wild, with only a half-dozen cabins scattered about. A lovely little creek ran through our property. Its source was high up the mountain. I decided to follow it, seeking its origin.

  Brody didn’t care to climb the steep rise or scramble through the brush, so I started out on my own. At times the undergrowth was too thick to be passable. I doubled back and hopped across the slick rocks to cross the creek in search of an alternate route. It was tough going. I’d been working on gaining my mountain legs and getting into better shape, but I wasn’t prepared for the steepness and poor footing.

  It took me most of the day to make it the three miles or so that I climbed. I was beyond exhausted and ready to turn back. The creek rose even further above me. I sat on a boulder to rest for a minute. That’s when I saw the pot plants. Fifty or so scraggly green plants were spread in an irregular pattern on a semi-flat spot on the hillside. A thin overhead canopy shielded them from above but allowed enough light through for growth. There were no obvious trails in or out. I was still trying to comprehend what I was seeing when I felt the cold steel of a pistol barrel press against the back of my neck.

  “You lost, mister?” a voice asked.

  “I live here,” I replied.

  “I don’t think so,” the man said.

  “Not here, exactly,” I explained. “Down the mountain some. We just moved here a month ago.”

  “One of them cabins that Richard McGuire built?” he asked.

  “Exactly,” I told him. “The one directly next to the creek. I was following it to see where it came from.”

  I normally practiced a strong sense of awareness. I stayed vigilant, always studying my surroundings. It was a skill that had kept me alive during many troubled times. This man had managed to sneak up on me without my knowing he was there. I thought that I was alone in the higher reaches. I never saw a single sign that any man had ever stepped foot here until I stumbled onto the weed farm.

  “Them folks down there usually mind their own,” he said. “They ain’t curious about the world outside their window. Tend to stick to the civilized attractions, ski resorts and such.”

  “I’m accustomed to being alone with nature,” I said. “Just wanted to see what was up here.”

  “Well, it ain’t a moonshine still,” he said. “I wish you hadn’t found it though.”

  “The name’s Breeze,” I said. “I happen to know a little about growing pot. I know a lot more about the distribution side. So I don’t care if you raise some weed up here. It doesn’t bother me a bit. Do your own thing, man.”

  He removed the weapon from my neck and took two steps back. I rose and turned to look at him. The gun was not in sight. He was a slight fellow, with a long mountain man beard full of gray. He stood maybe five-four. He wore dirty denim coveralls and a droopy brown hat made of an indistinguishable material. His fingernails were caked with dirt. His clothes were badly worn. He needed a good bath and a cheeseburger.

  “The name’s Pop Sutton,” he said. “You may have heard of my daddy.”

  “Can’t say that I have,” I said. “You want to come with me back down the mountain? You’re welcome to sit for dinner. Maybe clean up some.”

  “That’s mighty neighborly of you mister,” he said. “But I tend not to ask for charity from strangers, ‘specially Yankees.”

  “Now, now,” I said. “I took you pointing your gun at my head, but I won’t tolerate being called a Yankee.”

  “Where ya from then?”

  “Most recently, Florida,” I told him. “Always below the Mason-Dixon Line.”

  “Well then maybe I can tolerate you living on my mountain,” he declared.

  “Your mountain?” I asked. “I thought it was the McGuire’s mountain.”

  “Richard owns two-hundred acres next to where your cabin and them other ones is built,” he said. “This up here’s no man’s land ‘cept a man who can claim it. I done claimed it.”

  “You live up here somewhere?” I asked.

  “That don’t concern you,” he answered. “But I know where you live, case the cops come a calling.”

  “I don’t do cops,” I told him. “I’ve been on the wrong side of the law enough to be shy of them.”

  “You some kinda outlaw?” he asked. “Come up here to hide from the law?”

  “Not so much the law these days,” I said. “But I’ve spent my time hiding from them.”

  “This is as good a place as any to keep a low profile,” he said. “Hell, ain’t too many folks even know I’m alive in these parts.”

  “It’s getting late, Mr. Pop Sutton,” I said. “I’d like to head back down the mountain if you don’t mind. Your secret is my secret, and the offer of dinner still stands.”

  “You go ahead,” he said. “I appreciate the gesture, but I don’t associate much with people.”

  “I can understand that,” I told him. “Is it okay if I poke around up here in the future? I’d really like to find the source of that creek.”

  “It’s a nice little spot,�
�� he said. “Hard to get to. Real pretty view if you can find it.”

  “Maybe I’ll cross paths with you again,” I said. “Keep that pistol to yourself next time, okay?”

  “I ain’t no killer,” he said. “I was just surprised to see someone up here.”

  “I mean no harm,” I said. “I’m serious. You can go about your business without any worry about me.”

  “I’ll hold you to your word, Mr. Breeze,” he said. “Now go on fore it gets dark.”

  The climb back down was much easier, but I barely made it back to the cabin before sunset. Brody was concerned. I assured her that I was fine before telling her about meeting Pop Sutton.

  “Do you think he lives in the woods up there somewhere?” she asked.

  “He sure looked the part,” I said. “But I can’t imagine surviving the winter up here without good shelter and heat.”

  “Just like you to meet a character in the middle of nowhere,” she said. “You have a way of attracting them.”

  “A weed growing, homeless hillbilly,” I said. “That certainly qualifies as a character.”

  “You think he’s anything to worry about?”

  “No,” I answered. “I promised I’d keep his operation a secret. I think we came to an agreement.”

  “So you didn’t find the origin of the creek?” she asked.

  “Nope,” I said. “I guess it’s further than I thought. It’s tough going up that mountain too. I’ll need to start earlier and take some supplies with me.”

  “I can put some power bars and bottled water in a backpack for you,” she offered.

  “You sure you don’t want to tag along?”

  “I’m happy right here,” she said. “You can go play in the woods alone, mountain man.”

  I set out at the first hint of light the next morning. I moved faster than the day before, covering the now familiar ground. I made it to Pop’s weed plants in two hours. There was no sign of him. I continued following the creek. My progress slowed as I picked my way through the brush. Occasionally, I had to venture away from the water to make it through. I could always hear the sound of rushing water, which helped keep me going in the right direction. Other than that, it was quiet on the mountain. No traffic sounds disturbed me. There was no air traffic in the sky above me. After four hours, I had to stop and take a break. My hamstrings burned and I was out of breath. I sat on a downed log and wiped the sweat from my forehead. Pop Sutton appeared like Scotty had beamed him down.

  “I’ve seen drunk bears walk the woods quieter than you, boy,” he said. “You done spooked every critter for a mile in every direction.”

  “I wasn’t trying to be stealthy,” I said.

  “You gotta move smooth like smoke up here,” he said. “You’ll come across all sorts of wildlife if’n you stay quiet.”

  “I’ll try to keep that in mind,” I said. “You been following me?”

  “I tracked you after you passed my crop,” he said. “Figured you was looking for the spring that makes this creek.”

  “I am,” I said. “Can’t really say why. Just something I wanted to do.”

  “Since you made it this far, I’ll tell you a little secret,” he said. “You coulda drove your car to the White Rock Baptist Church and hiked about a half-mile to this very spot.”

  “Now you tell me,” I said. “I’m only a half-mile from the road?”

  “Give or take,” he said.

  “I didn’t hear any cars go by,” I said.

  “The woods is thick and the creek drowns out the noise,” he said. “Might hear a truck or a loud motorcycle now and then. Ain’t much traffic up here as you know.”

  “How far to the spring?” I asked. “I’m about to run out of mountain.”

  “Another half-mile,” he said. “But it’s best to leave the creek for a bit. C’mon. I’ll show you.”

  I followed him, trying to be quiet. We soon came to an open grassy area. The walking was much easier. I asked why there were no trees on this part of the mountain. He used a long stick to part some tall grass and pointed down. He exposed a flat stone with thinly etched markings. It was a tombstone. He continued poking with his stick and a few more stones appeared.

  “Used to be the church cemetery,” he said. “Bout two hundred years ago. Was a dirt track down the hill to what is now Pigeon Roost Road. They brought pine boxes up here on a horse-drawn wagon.”

  We walked to the other end of the graveyard meadow before re-entering the woods. Pop wore some kind of soft shoe that looked more like cotton than leather. He made virtually no sound. He could duck branches, and bob and weave so as not to disturb the vegetation. I tried to mimic his movements. I had a lot to learn. When I stepped on a twig and made a loud cracking sound, he stopped in his tracks. He slowly turned to give me a look of disapproval. I was out of my element in the mountains. My world had been sand, water, and mangroves. I vowed to myself to learn the ways of the woods.

  Finally, we arrived at a small pool surrounded by rock. There was no water running into the pool. A narrow channel in the rock fed the creek. It dropped steadily and widened until it resembled what ran by my cabin. The circle of rock and the pool of water held the trees back. The opening to the sky was almost a perfect circle. The sun shone down like a laser beam on the pool. It was midday now. Any other time of day and this phenomenon wouldn’t exist.

  “Good timing, greenhorn,” Pop said. “Not many folks have ever laid eyes on this. Not recently, anyway.”

  “Thanks for humoring me,” I said. “Just wow. This is awesome.”

  “Don’t go running tours up here or nothing,” he said. “This is between me and you.”

  “I’m honored,” I said. “Really, thank you.”

  “Too cloudy most days anyhow,” he said. “Especially during the winter months. You get this effect maybe a hundred times a year.”

  “You sure know a lot about this area,” I said. “Grow up here?”

  “Born and raised in Maggie Valley,” he said. “Before my daddy moved us across the line to Cocke County, Tennessee, but I’ve been crawling around this mountain for years now.”

  “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned your father,” I said. “He must have been important to you.”

  “I wasn’t very important to him,” he said. “He was too busy sitting by a copper still or running the back roads with no lights.”

  “Moonshiner, huh?”

  “You really ain’t never heard of the great Popcorn Sutton?” he asked. “I thought everybody knew who he was.”

  “Popcorn?” I asked. “Is that how you got called Pop?”

  “Daddy called me Little Pop all of my life,” he said. “I hated it. I hated him for it. After he went and killed himself, I was older then, somebody called me Pop. I was so happy to be rid of Little Pop I just accepted it. Stuck with me ever since.”

  “What’s your real name?”

  “Marvin,” he said. “Marvin Junior, but nobody ever called me that.”

  “Why did he kill himself?”

  “Got busted one too many times running liquor,” he said. “He was already on probation. Judge sentenced him to some actual jail time. He always said he’d kill himself before he went to jail. Kept his word on that score.”

  “How long ago was this?”

  “March 2009,” he said. “I’ve been hiding out up here since soon after he died.”

  “Moonshining in 2009?” I asked. “Not sure I get it.”

  “Folks think that anybody can just run to the liquor store and buy a bottle anytime they want,” he explained. “I reckon that’s true most places, but Cocke County remains a dry county to this day. So’s half the surrounding counties. Driving an old beat up truck all the way to Boone costs more in gas than the bottle’s worth. Plus daddy made good corn liquor. His shine was in demand.”

  “You never wanted to follow in his footsteps?” I asked.

  “He wanted me to,” he said. “But I never had a taste for it. Moonshining de
stroyed whatever little feeling of family we ever had. Daddy made himself famous with it. He was real proud of that. His celebrity status consumed him. He cared more about his legend than his own kin.”

  “So you decided to do your own thing, but shun society doing it.”

  “Something like that,” he said. “Ain’t fond of most people, like I told you.”

  “But you’re talking to me,” I said. “Helped me find the start of the creek.”

  “Can’t have you trampling all over my part of the mountain unattended,” he said. “It’s in my interest to see you don’t muck things up.”

  “How do you manage to survive up here?” I asked.

  “I sell dope to survive,” he said. “I don’t need much. Most years I make enough to get me through.”

  “Most years?”

  “Depends on the weather,” he explained. “The soil up here is black gold. Thousands of years of mountain erosion and decay make it like Miracle Grow for dope. I got the creek to provide all the water I need if it doesn’t rain enough. I’m hidden right nicely. Problem comes with the timing of the harvest.”

  “Short growing season?”

  “Sometimes,” he said. “The plants don’t start budding out good until the equinox. Equal amount of day and night tells ‘em to start producing good buds. The more time they get before the first frost, the better quality plant I get to take to market. The end buyer is real picky about quality. If the frost falls too early he don’t pay much.”

  “What do you do then?”

  “I scrounge what I can,” he said. “I know which cabins are empty during the winter. I try to leave a light footprint. Most folks don’t ever realize I took a couple cans of beans or an extra blanket out of the closet.”

  “What do you do for shelter?”

  “I got a place to lay my head,” he said. “The cold don’t bother me much. It’s the rain that gives me trouble.”

  “You know where I live,” I told him. “If you ever get in a bind, you can call on me.”

  “I steer clear of Richard’s part of the mountain,” he said. “Don’t need for him to know I’m up here.”