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  • A Servant of History
  • Ron Rash (bio)

A servant of history. Since accepting his employ with the English Folk Dance Society, that was how Wilson thought of himself and, in truth, a rather daring one. He was no don mumbling Grandgrindian facts facts facts in a lecture hall’s chalky air, but a man venturing among the new world’s Calabans. Wilson admired the humility of the phrase and had been annoyed when others, including a young lady he’d paid suit to, found the moniker amusing. So he had kept it to himself. A collector of British ballads, he answered when queried on the ship from London to Charleston and on the train that wound its way to this mountain village with the quaint name of Sylva.

After securing his belongings at the Blue Ridge Inn, Wilson walked the main thoroughfare one end to the other. Cabins and tee-pees and saloons were notably absent. Instead, actual houses, most prosperous looking, lined the village’s periphery. On the square itself, proprietors included a dentist, doctor and lawyer, even a confectioner. The men he passed wore no holsters filled with “shooting irons,” the women no boots and breeches. There were as many automobiles as horses and wagons. It had all been immensely disappointing. Until now.

The old man was hitching his horse and wagon to a post as Wilson approached. He did not wear buckskins but his long gray beard and tattered overalls, hobnailed boots and straw hat all bespoke a true rustic. He had spurted a stream of tobacco juice as an initial greeting, then spoken in a brogue so thick Wilson asked twice for the words to be repeated. Minutes passed before he had enough grasp of the accent to ask about old ballads.

“I’m a collector,” Wilson explained. “For the English Folk Dance Society.”

“England,” the rustic said. “It’s war you hail from?”

Wilson wasn’t sure if he had been cursed or questioned.

“Pardon?” Wilson asked, and the old man repeated himself.

“Ah,” Wilson said. “Where do I hail from?”

The rustic nodded.

“Indeed, I do come from England,” Wilson said. “As I say, I am in search of British ballads. Many of the old songs that have vanished in my [End Page 65] country may yet be found here. At least that is my employer’s hope. But, as a visitor to your region, I have little inkling who might possess them. The innkeeper suggested I find an older resident, perhaps such as yourself.”

Wilson paused, searching the hirsute face for a sign of interest, or even comprehension. He had been warned at the interview that the expedition would be challenging, especially for a young gentleman fresh out of university, one, though this was only implied, whose transcript reflected few scholarly aspirations. In truth, he had been the Society’s third choice, employed only when the first decided to make his fortune in India and the second staggered out of a pub and into the path of a trolley.

“Of course, aside from my gratitude, I have leave to pay a fair wage for assistance in locating such ballads.”

The old man spat again.

“I’ll scratch you up some tunes,” he answered, and nodded at the wagon, “but not cheer. We’ll have to hove it a ways.”

“And when might we do this?” Wilson asked.

“Come noon,” he answered. “You baddin at the inn?”

“Badding?”

“Yes, baddin,” the old man said, “sleepin.”

“I am,” Wilson said.

“I’ll pick you up thar then.”

The old man stepped onto the boardwalk, about to go about what business he had come for.

“May I ask your name, sir,” Wilson said. “Mine is James Wilson.”

“I go by Portis,” the old man answered once and then again, because the first time Wilson heard Iago Portis. Whether surname or given, Wilson had no idea.

They left Sylva at twelve the next day, Wilson’s valise settled in the wagon bed, he himself on the buckboard with Portis. Soon the landscape became more of what Wilson had expected. They passed handsome farms with fine houses, but as they went farther into the mountains, the dwellings became...

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