Chapter Text
“She knew very well she was not in Kansas anymore, and though the sun shone brightly and the birds sang sweetly, there was a hush in the air that made her heart beat faster.”
- L. Frank Baum, The Wonderful Wizard of Oz (1900)
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This story begins on June 23, 1969. The day Judy Garland’s death was announced in the news. Coincidentally, Dorthy happened to be named after Garland’s character in The Wizard of Oz. But she mostly went by Dottie.
You might say Dottie had strayed from the yellow brick road, too busy poking at the weeds and wild plants along the way. It started when she was little, her mind darting off in every direction, never quite where her feet were, so it was no wonder she one day had ended up running straight into a weedy ditch full of nettles.
She screamed her head off, the kind of sound that made birds take off from trees, until her mother came running. As her mother ran cool water over Dottie’s stinging arms, she sighed and said in that tired and motherly way. “Funny thing is, these nettles you’re so mad at? People eat them, boil them down, turn them into tea. Good for the blood, they say.” She said it not as comfort, but fact. Like the world was full of little betrayals like that, sharp things with secrets.
Dottie didn’t find that funny. Not then, not with her arms covered in welts and her pride scraped raw. But the words stuck with her anyway. The idea that a plant could hurt and heal at the same time. That something could sting you bloody one moment and be steeped into medicine the next. It unsettled her. It intrigued her. Every root, every petal, every leaf seemed to carry a story after that. Not just of beauty, but of risk. A tale of cure or curse, depending on how you handled it. The contradiction fascinated her and she’d been following that thread ever since
Now she was nineteen and about to finish her first year as a botany student. She was set on pharmacognosy, the part that didn’t just care about how plants grew, but what they could do to the body. That’s why, when Beverly first mentioned the Appalachian trip, Dottie's ears perked up. It sounded romantic. Wildflowers and long roads. Sky big enough to get lost in.
Still, for all her fascination, Dottie wasn’t the first to say yes.
They were sitting on the low concrete ledge outside the student union. The sun bouncing hard off the asphalt. A campus bulletin board nearby was layered with faded flyers. Vietnam teach-ins, stolen guitar notices, an ad for a light show at The Depot. A radio player from an open dorm window was playing Dylan slow and slurred. Dottie unconsciously tapped her foot against the concrete along to the rythm.
Beverly was perched cross-legged beside her. Her eyes were hidden behind round glasses, too big for her face. She stretched her arms overhead, content like a cat. “I say we take off for the hills” she said, grinning. “Find some backwoods trail, crash under the stars and let Dottie do her flower-child thing. I mean, don’t you want to just drop out for a while and see something real?”
She tossed a pebble toward Allen, her boyfriend, who sat on an upturned crate with one foot tucked under the other, rolling a cigarette with slow, careful fingers. The paper was thin as onion skin between his thumbs, the tobacco loose and golden in the sun. His denim jacket was faded at the seams and he worked like he had nowhere else to be. He didn’t look up, just tucked the paper with a flick of his thumbs and gave it a neat twist.
“I’m in” he said simply, striking a match on the heel of his boot. “Fresh air. Ground under your back. Beats the dorm.” He took the first drag, eyes on the edge of the sky like he already saw the ridge line in his head. Trails, firewood, weather.
Carl was leaned against the wall, arms folded tightly across a thick volume on clinical ethics. “I still don’t see the appeal” he muttered, his voice dry as old paper. “We’ve got running water, electricity, beds here…”
Allen exhaled slow through his nose, smoke curling lazy in the air. “I’m telling you” he said, gesturing with a half tilt of his hand, cigarette between two fingers “there’s no cure for a city-rotted soul like fresh mountain air and a good, hard hike.”
His eyes flicked over to Dottie. “You can’t tell me you aren’t itching to see what’s up there. All that uncharted plant life. You’ll be in your element.”
She looked up slowly, her fingers still caught in the crease of her notebook. “There’s wild ginger up there” she admitted, almost shyly. “And goldenseal. I’ve only ever read about them.”
Beverly’s smile spread slow, like sunlight creeping across stone. “See? I knew you had that itch” her voice soft but shining. “You belong out there, for real.” She leaned back on her hands, eyes drifting toward the sky. “Somewhere quiet, green. Where the good stuff grows wild.”
Carl groaned. “Wonderful. You two will be drinking moss tea and chanting to the moon while I die of exposure.”
“You won’t die” Allen said, flicking ash off the end of his cigarette without looking up. “You’ll just bitch the whole time, eat all the food you didn’t pack and come home acting like the trees traumatized you.”
Julien was sprawled in the grass nearby, one knee bent, one shoe off, his sock grimy from the pavement. His hair was long and his shirt had paint on the sleeves. A pencil was tucked behind one ear and his sketchbook propped on his chest.
He looked like someone who lived between places: part campus, part dream, part wherever the road went next. He scratched the side of his nose “I’ll illustrate it.” he offered. His voice was light, almost lazy. “Day one: Allen sets himself on fire trying to cook beans. Carl saves the day with gauze and calm disapproval.”
Then, casually, like it didn’t matter at all he added: “I’ll drive.” he dragged the tip of his pencil across the page, squinting into the light like he was sketching something no one else could see. “Van’s got a full tank and the back’s cleared out.”
No one spoke for a second. Carl glanced up at him. “So you’re in?”
Julien gave a vague nod, still focused on the sketchbook.
Carl turned to Dottie, he leaned in a little, his voice low. “You’re really entertaining this?” he asked, not harshly, just low. The kind of voice to make her think twice. “Sleeping on rocks? Hiking for miles to see leaves?”
Dottie’s gaze shifted to each of them in turn. Allen, the ex-soldier turned psychology student. Beverly, a bright, searching spirit tangled up in anthropology and half-finished poetry notebooks. Julien, fine arts major and restless dreamer, forever sketching the world as he saw it. Carl… Carl, her fiancé, so careful. Studying medicine and the order in the body the way she studied plants.
She took a quiet breath, her heart tapping hard against her ribs. “I… I think it sounds wonderful” she said finally, her voice firmer than she felt. “I want to see it. Really see it. Not just in books.”
He looked like he might retort, but his mouth pressed into a thin, thoughtful, line instead before his shoulders slumped a fraction in defeat, for a moment his eyes softened. “I suppose… if you really want to go.”
Allen took one last drag then dropped the cigarette to the ground and crushed it under the toe of his boot with a slow twist. “Settled” he said. “We’ll rent the tents and leave at sun-up.”
~
They pulled out just after dawn. The van coughing to life with a shudder and a backfire that made Beverly cheer. Julien was behind the wheel, hair tied back, eyes still soft with sleep. One hand on the wheel and the other curled loosely around a tin mug of lukewarm coffee. A Joni Mitchell song hissed softly from the radio.
In the back: two canvas tents, five bedrolls, a coil of rope, a dented cook pot, iodine tablets, tin cups, matches in a glass jar and one small axe wrapped in burlap. Food was split between two packs: rice, beans, oats, dried apples, trail mix in baggies knotted tight. They’d packed light. Everything they brought, they’d have to carry.
Carl sat beside her, one knee angled toward hers, their legs brushing with every curve in the road. He held a book in one hand, thumb marking his place, eyes scanning the page in that steady, quiet way of his. Their rings caught the morning light now and then, simple silver bands.
Power lines followed them for a while, then veered off toward places they weren’t going. The van rattled on. The city slipped behind them in the rearview, all cement and heat and the road unspooled ahead, steady and green.
Dottie shifted every few minutes, adjusting the strap of her seatbelt, crossing and uncrossing her legs, watching trees blur past the window, drumming her fingers lightly against the seat. Stillness pressed too close, it made her skin buzz.
After a while Carl reached over and took her hand, lacing his fingers through hers. The tapping stopped. Their rings met in the middle, warm against the skin.
The road had narrowed, shouldered by rockwalls and stretches of damp ferns that spilled right up to the edge of the gravel. The van hit a bend and tilted slightly, gear shifting with a clatter in the back. Julien slowed down around the tighter bends, one hand slung loosely across the wheel. The radio crackled once and cut out. No one bothered to fix it.
Allen sat shotgun, one arm resting out the open window, fingers tapping occasionally against the door in time with the road’s rhythm. His Vietnam boonie hat, wide-brimmed, green and darkened at the band, sat low over his eyes, shading his face as he watched the treeline roll past. From time to time he leaned forward, scanning the curves ahead like he didn’t quite trust the map or the van or anyone else to get them there.
The mountains were all around them now, layered deep and blue in the distance. The Appalachians didn’t rise sharp, they rolled. Older than names, older than roads. Shaped by time and weather, softened by centuries.
Julien cut the engine and for a moment everything stilled. He opened the door. Gravel crunched under his Converse, the canvas soft with wear, laces uneven. He stretched with both arms overhead, groaning like an old man for effect. He grinned as he scratched the back of his neck as the dust settled, then ran a hand down the side of the van like he was thanking it for getting them this far.
Allen opened the back and passed down their packs one by one. Everything was tied, rolled, rationed. If it didn’t fit on their backs, it didn’t come. Zippers rasped, buckles clicked as they checked their straps, adjusted weight, tucked away last sips of coffee and maps.
Allen adjusted the axe on his belt, checked the leather loop and hitched his pack higher with a motion worn into him by repetition. “Let’s move” he said, turning toward the trees.
Beverly tied a bandana around her head, her curls wild around the edges. “Trail's giving good vibes” she said, half-laughing “You feel that?”
Carl took in the trailhead. Just a break in the undergrowth, half-swallowed by fern and shade He raised an eyebrow. “It’s giving wet socks and bug bites.”
Beverly elbowed him. “It’s giving earth wisdom, man. Shut up.”
Carl folded the map one more time before tucking it into the front of his jacket. He didn’t speak. Just fell into step behind Allen, close enough to track his pace, far enough not to lead.
Dottie lingered last. She shifted her pack higher on her back. It wasn’t heavy, but it pressed in all the same. The air smelled like damp rock, decaying leaves, something sharp and medicinal she couldn’t place. She looked once over her shoulder as the road disappeared behind them.
They walked all day on a trail that wove like an old ribbon through the hardwoods. Chestnut oak, sourwood, sweetgum were cutting between thickets of rhododendron. They stopped here and there to drink, to breathe, to rest.
It was late afternoon when a clearing opened into a patch of tall grass and young maples. Everything buzzing softly with summer. Somewhere nearby, water moved and sunlight flickered through the canopy in gold patches. A few birds trilled.
Allen shaded his eyes with one hand and called back over his shoulder, not loud, but with a smile in his voice.
They made camp as the light dipped into evening. Tents staked beneath the trees, sleeping bags unrolled, boots toed off with relief. Somewhere beyond the ridge, a faint thunder echoed, so low it went unnoticed. They were tired, sun-warmed and full of that quiet kind of satisfaction that came from moving all day.
~
The morning light was honey-thick, catching on every dew bead and spiderweb and turning the forest edges soft. Beverly knelt by the water, her hands plunged wrist-deep into the shallows as she scrubbed at a bright red bandana. She sang tunelessly, words coming in and out of shape, something like "Crimson and Clover" but too off-key to place.
Carl lounged nearby on a smooth rock, reading a thick book. Every so often, he tilted his head to listen, rolled his eyes and turned another page.
Dottie sat a little apart from them, her knees drawn up, notebook propped against her thighs. She pressed a sprig of wild mint between two pages, carefully flattening each leaf.
Julien was perched on a mossy stump, sketchbook balanced on his knees, his bare feet dangling in the cool current. He flicked glances at Dottie, then back to the page, quick flicks of graphite catching her profile.
Allen was crouched by the bank, sorting their sparse collection of camp cookware.
A faint roll of thunder drifted in, so far away it sounded like an echo under the earth. Julien glanced at the sky, still pale blue. Only wisps of cloud drifting lazily above the tree line. "Did you hear that?"
Beverly laughed, shaking her head. "Hear what? You mean the trees? The birds?" She hung her bandana on a branch to dry and dropped backward on to the moss. "I’m starving. What do we even have? Those awful ration bars Allen packed?"
Dottie tucked her hair behind her ear, glancing up the slope. "I saw some wood sorrel and more wild mint higher up. Could make a decent salad."
Carl wrinkled her nose. "Ugh! You mean weeds, right? You and your plant obsession. You’d have us eating fried beetles and dried bark."
Dottie smirked. "Wood sorrel is a good source for vitamin C and lemony and fresh, actually."
Allen, carefully arranging their last few cooking pans, finally looked up, his eyes narrowing in mock disapproval. "Listen here you forest witch, if you even think about making me eat your hedge clippings, I’ll report you to campus health services."
Julien snorted a laugh and continued sketching again, having followed the interaction from his spot.
A subtle heaviness had pressed down on the clearing as if someone had dropped a thick wool blanket over the whole hollow. The air suddenly sticky, clinging to their skin, making shirts press against their backs and hair frizz at the edges.
Beverly stood, twisting her hair up into a messy knot. "It’s like a damn steam bath” she complained, fanning her neck with her hand.
Carl flipped a page and gave a lazy shrug. "It's just mountain humidity."
Dottie shifted her notebook, wiping sweat from her temple with the edge of her wrist. She scanned the creek, frowning. The water, which had been slow and glassy earlier, now curled around rocks in restless eddies, swirling small bits of foam at the edges.
A sharp gust of wind tore through the gorge, strong enough to lift Allen's hat and send it rolling toward the water.
"Hey!" he shouted, scrambling after it, laughter ringing out at first, until he saw how quickly the hat spun and disappeared into the fast current. The water now had a sudden restless churn. Tiny whirlpools gathered at the edges, twisting and collapsing just as fast.
A sudden rush of sticks and small branches shot past Julien’s feet, spinning and crashing downstream in a tangle of limbs. He flinched backward, nearly losing his balance.
"What the hell?" He shouted, leaping up onto the dry rock, his sketchbook nearly slipping from his grip. Carl sat up straighter now, eyes tracking a flock of thrushes scattering from the canopy.
Then the sound started, it came out of nowhere. First a distant vibration, so low that Dottie almost thought she imagined it, then it grew to a faint tremor beneath her boots, like a distant drum echoing under the earth.
Julien turned, his face pale. "You guys hear that?"
Allen’s jaw clenched. "That’s not thunder."
The roar rose, echoing in the gorge, growing louder to a sound that vibrated in their chest. A roar like a train hurtling through trees, not rhythmic, not distant, but fast and hungry.
Beverly’s eyes went wide. "What is it?!" she screamed, stumbling backward so fast her heel caught in the soft earth. She nearly lost her footing, arms flailing, water splashing up her calves.
Allen's breath hitched. “Climb!” he shouted, voice cracking like a whip. “Everyone up. Now!” He lunged for Beverly, his hand closing around her arm, firm and urgent, hauling her toward higher ground.
Julien dropped his pencilcase into the mud and bolted for the nearest roots and rocks jutting from the hillside, hands grabbing for anything that would hold.
Dottie didn't think, just moved. Muscles snapping to motion before her mind caught up. Her pulse pounded in her ears, louder than the roar behind them, louder than anything else. Her hands clawed for purchase wherever they could in the hillside. The tufts of grass, damp clumps of moss, dry roots that jutted out like bones from the hillside, steep and slick beneath her.
Carl pushed up to follow, but the ground quivered under his boots. A thin sheet of mud slid away with each frantic step. His boots slipping as he grabbed a sapling for balance, his face white, jaw clenched tight. A heavy branch snapped behind them, echoing like a gunshot, making them turn their heads.
The first wave appeared in a single crashing motion. A wall of muddy water hurtling around the bend. Logs and branches churned inside it, It moved too fast, heavy, swallowing stones, tearing at roots. Beverly shrieked again, slipping on a slick patch of moss as Allen dragged her up by the wrist, her shoes scrabbling for any hold.
Carl turned just in time to see a massive log, half-submerged and spinning in the current, bearing down toward him with brutal, mindless force. His eyes went wide. One arm shot out, scrabbling for anything solid.
His fingers caught at a tangle of wet roots as the log struck his leg with a sickening crack. Flesh gave. Bone split. The impact threw him sideways and the scream that tore from his throat and echoed up the gorge was nothing human.
He collapsed, crumpled into the mud, leg bent horribly beneath him, bone jutting at an angle that defied sense.
Allen dove without hesitation, dropping to his knees for his hands to lock around Carl’s shoulders just as the water surged again, rushing higher with a roar that drowned out every thought. His boots slid, his heels dragged through the muck as the current pulled to tear and take, not just Carl, but both of them.
The water was up to Carl’s thighs now, cold and fast, swirling with branches and debris. Allen gritted his teeth, shifted his stance and dug in, planting one foot against a rock that gave just enough grip to hold. With a strained grunt, he hauled Carl’s upper body up, wrenching him free of the current still battering his legs.
"Move! We have to get higher, he’ll drown down here!" Julien screamed, voice nearly swallowed by the deafening roar. He too lunged forward, his bare feet slipping once in the mud, then grabbed Carl’s other arm with both hands. Together, with frantic, jerking motions, they dragged him up the slick bank. Their shoulders straining, their feet skidding, Julien grunted with the effort, his shaking hands locked under Carl’s armpit.
Carl’s body hung like dead weight between them, his broken leg trailing behind at a grotesque angle, leaving a dark, streaking trail in the mud. The slope offered no help, just wet leaves and loose earth sliding beneath them. He let out a guttural cry as his leg knocked hard against a protruding rock.
When they finally collapsed on a narrow ledge above the flood Carl’s head dropped limply against Allen’s chest. His breath came in short, ragged bursts. His face had gone the color of ash, lips white, sweat streaking through the dirt and blood on his brow. His eyes fluttered, but didn’t focus. The smell of blood was sharp now, metallic and wrong, mixing with the rot of churned earth and sweat.
Dottie had dropped to her knees beside him, landing hard, not even feeling it. Her hands found his fingers curling around his mud-slick and trembling hands. Her own body shook with adrenaline and horror and the tears that spilled freely down her cheeks smeared trails of mud across her face.
The rush of water below thundered on, consuming everything, the last of their camp: tents, bags, sleeping rolls, Beverly’s bright red bandana, Carl's book, Julien’s scattered pencils. All ripped away and spinning into the wild froth.