Somewhere in the blue mountains of Kentucky is a holler.  It’s not a particularly large holler, and, in fact, exists as part of a vast valley between two immense hills.  Somewhere in the valley smaller hills rise up—earthy blue-green rhytids—and between the hills exists the holler, called Rabbit Holler.  It is populated with poplar trees and black walnuts, shaggy hickory trees and smooth-barked maples.  The occasional black locust, branching and gnarled, bursts forth from the ground.

At the bottom of one of the nondescript squat hills that borders the eastern edge of Rabbit Holler is a hole in the ground big enough for a man to fit into.  Dropping down inside the hole, such a man will find himself in a small damp patch of cold darkness big enough to stretch himself out comfortably on the smooth rock floor.  In the spring, mayapples cover the hill like a raised carpet of green umbrellas, concealing the cave along with the dull orange-brown-gray of the leaves that make up the forest floor.  The green smell of young plants and the clear trickle of spring water fill the air. 

I discovered the cave when I was nine years old.  I had just learned to set snares, and I was out looking to see if I had caught anything.  Secure a string or wire with a slipknot at one end to a stake and stake it into the ground so that the snare opens about seven or eight inches up.  I hadn’t caught anything that day, but after I got done checking my snares I walked around pushing over dead trees, and nearly fell into the cave.  I remember thinking it was a solemn place, and that I was the only one who knew about it. 

It was a little bit easier to climb down into when I was younger, and it was an unremarkable cave—damp, cold, dark, quiet–except for one thing.  A spring of water slowly flowed from the far wall, filling the air with a low trickling sound.  The water from this spring was cold and pure like the first drops of water that trickled into Creation.  It flowed so smoothly and clearly that you could hardly see it, especially in the dim light of the cave.  I drank my fill.

Before long I got the idea to tote an old brown jug to the cave and carry it back to the house.  As I got older, I would carry more.  I offered some of the water to Mom and Dad, but they already knew about the cave.  They said I should keep it—that our well water was good enough for them.  My brothers and sisters wanted to drink it, but they were too lazy to carry water on their own.  My first few trips to the cave I wanted to share, but after having carried so many gallons, I got stingy. 

At twelve, I went to work cutting tobacco in the summer.  I was strong from carrying so many jugs of water, and I was eager to make some money to help the family buy a truck.  You carried a knife and a spear tip with you, cutting plants and staking them.  The knife was just a long stick with a sharp square piece of metal at the end. The spear tip was shaped like a bell, to help spread the big sticky leaves.  You’d walk down the row chopping at the stalks of the plants with your knife.  Jam a stick into the ground, fix your spear tip to the top, and then impale the plant.  It was dangerous because you were trying to go as fast as you could—we weren’t paid hourly.  I saw a man put a spear through his hand once.   A good cutter could cut and load a hundred sticks a day.  At twelve, I cut about 70.  Ten cents a stick.

I’d bring a big hunk of cornbread and a mason jar full of water from the cave spring for lunch.  Even after it had warmed up, the water from the spring was refreshing and pure and energizing—at least as much as the cornbread.  After drinking a jar of that water I’d stand up straighter and cut faster for a couple of hours.  It was hard work, but as a result I grew wiry and strong.  I could lick kids five years older than me and twice my size. 

Eventually I grew big enough to strike out on my own, so I went into town, got my chauffeur’s license, and started driving long haul for Peabody.  I didn’t have much in the way of possessions, and I was taking up too much space at home, so it was a good fit for me.  I lived in my truck but would visit home every couple of months to give the folks some money and fill up a couple of jugs of that sparkling clear spring water that tasted so much like home.  On occasions I invited others into my truck they would notice the jugs and assume moonshine.  Though they were often disappointed when I told them what the jugs held, it seemed like most of them agreed with me they had never known water could taste so good.

I shared my spring water with people from all over the country—I even brought it over into Mexico and Canada once or twice.  Everywhere I went, if I was known, I was known for never shutting up about my water.  Either you had to try it, or I didn’t have any for you to try but you’d damned sure love it if I did.  Over time, I traveled through almost every state.

I also managed to save up a lot of money, since I didn’t pay rent or utilities.  When I decided to settle down, I started looking for land.  I got a great deal on a hundred acres in southeastern Indiana.  There were hills covered in grass and foxtail and black-eyed Susans.  The woods were full of straight poplar, hickory, oak, and walnut.  There were mushrooms and ginseng.  The hay fields were overgrown with blackberries and raspberries. 

First, I cleared a spot at the top of the highest hill and hauled an aluminum house trailer up there so I’d have someplace to stay.  I bought a tractor and some other tools and implements.  I built a sawmill and a large work shed full of table saws, sanders, planers and everything else I felt I needed.  I dammed up three different ponds and stocked them with fish.  After clearing the fields so I could grow hay, I fenced off pastures and populated them with cows.  I even built a pigpen.

It took a few of years, but my fields and gardens were producing crops and my pigs and cows were producing meat when I got a letter from two of my younger brothers, Cecil and Everett, asking if they could visit me.  They had recently come of age and were looking to get out into the world a bit.  Of course, I asked them to bring some water from the cave spring when they came up. 

I picked them up from the Greyhound station in Brookville in the spring of ’68.  Cecil, as always, was short and round, serious and talkative.  He read a lot, and always wanted to talk about what he was reading about.  Most of the time, though, his audience wasn’t familiar with the subject matter, and he spent so much time explaining he might as well have been talking to himself.  Everett was the youngest of us all—there were eleven of us—with dark eyes and dark hair.  He was also quiet, and only really spoke up to tell a joke.  They handed me a case of quart jugs full of water from the cave.  I hadn’t had water—not real water—in four years.  I greedily sucked down a quart of it before getting into my truck at the bus station.  A policeman stopped me, but I gave him a drink and he agreed that it was the best water he’d ever tasted. 

My brothers slept on cots in my living room and helped me with my cows and fields.  They helped me build a new house to replace the old trailer.  We spent all our time together, mostly working, sometimes talking, always thinking about the next improvement that needed to be made to the property.  Some nights we would go out drinking and looking for women.  The bar in town—the Longbranch—was known as a rough spot.  There were often fights, sometimes stabbings—though we were never involved in the latter.  Though I never married, Everett and Cecil both eventually settled down with women.  I sold them each an acre of land for a dollar and let them cut down trees to build their houses.

I would go back and visit my parents every couple of years, bringing back as much spring water as I could.  Eventually they died—cancer got one, then the other.  Everett doesn’t talk to Cecil or me anymore.  After Dad died, and mom came down with lung cancer, he went nuts over alternative cures.  He got her doing some kind of fungus cleanse that was supposed to kill the cancer.  Cecil and I talked her into going back to the doctor, but it was too late.  The cancer had metastasized all over her body through her lymph system.  Everett and a couple of our sisters blamed us for her death, since we talked her out the fungus treatment.

Cancer.  Such an evil, vile, merciless disease.  An indiscriminate demon.  It affects so many.  After all this time you’d think they would have found something more.  Something better than poisoning the victim to the brink of death only to tease them back to live out the last of their lives in pain and sickness.  Money runs the medical industry.  There’s no money in the cure; only the treatments.  It tears apart lives.  It tears apart families. 

The last time I visited Rabbit Holler was ten years ago, when we buried Mom and went through the house—nothing more than an old shack, really—for heirlooms and valuables.  Margot, Esther and Everett refused to talk to the rest of us.  We let them go through the house first.  I brought some water back, of course, and savored it, not sure when I would be back for more.

Six months ago, I was diagnosed with skin cancer—from being outside in the fields and gardens every day, I suppose.  We stopped the chemo a couple of weeks ago.  For a while, it seemed like it was working, but the cancer started growing again.  I’ve been living in a rest home for the past couple of weeks.  Today, Cecil is coming to visit, and he is bringing with him some water from the cave spring in Rabbit Holler.  It’s all I want before I die. 

He arrives, carrying with him an old brown jug like I used to have when I was a boy.  I can’t help but stare at it as we exchange pleasantries.  He tells me I look good, lets me know how our sisters are doing.  He says Everett is upset at him because of some decorations he and his wife put up.  He gives me the jug.  I lick my lips, and, trembling, try to pull the cork out, but I don’t have the strength.  He opens it for me and hands it back to me.  I bring it to my lips and let the pure cool water flow into my mouth, covering my tongue and filling my cheeks. I swallow, and my face falls.  “What’s wrong?” Cecil asks me.

It tastes like rust.