Wildwood Whispers

by Willa Reece

  Seven

  In October on the mountain, fall wrapped around Sarah when she stepped outside, even before the sun was up. She couldn’t see the changing leaves, but the slightly musty scent of them dying was in the air. And there was a chill unlike the chill of an August morning. By noon, the sun would chase it away, but it was sharper with a boldness that said it would be back, longer and longer each day. This morning, she snuggled into a pale blue hoodie, but in a few weeks she’d be needing the violet plaid peacoat waiting on a hook upstairs.

  It was apple butter time.

  All over Morgan’s Gap, folks were rising early and gathering their things—a favorite paring knife, an apron, boxes of mason jars that had been sterilized after they’d been emptied, as well as brand-new packages of lids.

  Sarah’s mom had already loaded their supplies in the back of the old Chevy truck she called “Sue.” They would drive into the town like everyone else to meet at the small cannery by Tinker Creek.

  There, the Baptist women would have already set up their yearly contribution, an ancient iron kettle lined with hammered copper large enough to simmer elephant stew, but intended only for the overripe apples that had been delivered the previous week from orchards all around. The Baptists also filled a couple of picnic tables with homemade ham biscuits, piled high and so buttery Sarah’s mouth watered just remembering the rich flavor from years past.

  The heavy oak paddle used for the constant stirring that would take place for at least twenty-four hours was the proud responsibility of the Presbyterian men. Every year they took turns making sure the heavily spiced apple mixture didn’t stick before it became the thick, smooth texture Morgan’s Gap was known for. By then, the apple butter would be almost black—a brown so dark it matched a Ross woman’s eyes, they said. And everyone knew a Ross had eyes that could flash dark as midnight when they laughed… or cursed.

  Sarah clambered up into the truck. As always, when Melody Ross climbed behind the wheel and turned the key she mumbled, “Sue has seen better days.” As if it was a prayer or a spell intended to keep the fifty-year-old vehicle running once its chugging engine turned over.

  The unpredictability of it probably contributed to how much Sarah loved the rattly vibration of the moth-eaten seat beneath her and the dusty scent of dried lilac her mother had hung from the rearview mirror. Tom was always bringing her mother flowers and, even though they grew plenty of flowers themselves, it was nice. Little bunches of blooms everywhere always made her mom smile.

  Melody had said nothing about the Sect women who had started coming to the cabin more and more over the summer. Or about who might have chased that first one through the wildwood. She’d been growing too quiet in the evenings and it wasn’t the easy silence of working in the kitchen or the herb pantry either. That kind of industrious quiet was the kind Sarah was free to interrupt anytime with questions or attempts to work alongside.

  No. Last night her mother had curled up in her favorite quilt on the overstuffed sofa in their tiny living room. She’d asked for Sarah to bring her charm and she’d placed her lips against his crocheted side so that her words were too muffled for Sarah to hear.

  But the air had tingled the way it did when Melody Ross was working a powerful spell.

  Afterward, her mother had sipped valerian tea, but even an extra cup brought by Sarah before bed hadn’t soothed her mother’s brow. That telltale forehead crinkle had caused Sarah to clutch her reclaimed charm all night long, and this morning the crocheted mouse was in the pocket of her hoodie just in case.

  It was apple butter time, but something not as pleasant was brewing on the mountain. Something Sarah didn’t understand. She could only feel it in her chest as if her lungs were squeezed before every breath. The Ross blood she shared with her mother made her anxious when something was wrong. Even when she couldn’t say exactly what wasn’t right.

  The horizon was pink when Melody parked with a firm jerk of her arm that set the old truck’s gearshift firmly in place. Today was always a good day to come to town. There wouldn’t be time for staring today, or whispers. Besides, all sorts of people came together to complete the task of peeling and cooking hundreds of bushels of apples. Baptist, Presbyterian, Methodist, Episcopal, and even Sect people, all hurried this way and that.

  And there were wisewomen in almost every group.

  Sarah and her mother didn’t go to church.

  “The ceiling of our sanctuary is the sky,” Melody Ross said almost every Sunday.

  Still, for apple butter, all transgressions were forgiven, so besides the herbalists there were also other sorts of “backsliders” mixed among the gathering townsfolk. Drunken Jack Whitaker, mostly sober at dawn but with bloodshot eyes as usual. Definitely not a Baptist, although his mother was already taking ham biscuits from a Tupperware container. The thought of salty country ham sandwiched between flaky crust made Sarah’s stomach rumble. Tiffany Banks in the highest heels and reddest lips Sarah had ever seen. Definitely not a Presbyterian, although her father was one of the stirrers.

  Sarah’s mother tied an apron around her lean middle and Sarah smiled because a Ross apron had more pockets than most. A giant wooden spoon stuck out of one, but all the others would be filled with net bags and paper packets she’d pass out to other women as the day wore on—for headaches and cramps, for sadness and fatigue, for rashes and sorrow and clear skin and undisturbed sleep.

  Sarah’s apron was getting too short for her and it had only two pockets, but she would be helping to peel so she had her own small paring knife. The knife had belonged to her great-grandmother Ross and the polished bone handle fit perfectly in Sarah’s hand.

  Her mother grabbed her and pulled her in tight against her warm body for a quick squeeze. She felt a familiar hand pat the pocket of her hoodie where her charm was hidden as if to impart an extra bit of potency to the crochet mouse hidden there.

  “Grab a biscuit before you get to work,” her mother said into her hair.

  She didn’t need to be urged twice. Especially because Lu was Baptist and she’d already seen her friend helping her sick mother to a chair near the biscuits and a large maple that would shade her once the sun rose high.

  Sarah headed toward the shuffle of people grabbing breakfast, but Lu had already seen (and probably heard) Sue arrive, so she came running with a biscuit on a paper towel.

  “I’ll have to stick close to Mama today, so I won’t be peeling,” Lu said.

  “Mom brought molasses cookies for after lunch. I’ll bring you some,” Sarah said around the mouthful of buttery biscuit she was already chewing.

  Lu ran back to her mother’s side while Sarah finished her breakfast on the way to the picnic pavilion where the peelers would be.

  She’d never heard anyone tell people where to work and what to do, but apple butter day always resulted in apple butter, enough for the churches to sell for fundraising and festivals and enough for each family to take at least a few jars home for their labor.

  The long tables under the pavilion were draped in checkered plastic tablecloths and the benches were already getting filled. The apples started off in bushel baskets. From there, they graduated into metal tubs where they bobbed in a spring-water bath until they were grabbed and peeled. Older, stronger teens lifted and shifted the baskets and tubs. Younger people and much older people pared with flashes of knives that had probably been sharpened the night before.

  Sarah took the last bite of biscuit and used the paper towel to wipe grease from her fingers before tucking it in her spare pocket with her paring knife. Large metal trash cans were set up for peels not garbage. Later they would be claimed by folks with hogs to feed. With her growling stomach satisfied, she walked down the length of the nearest bench until she found a place wide enough for her to sit. She heard a few giggles, but mostly people were too busy for teasing. And most of the kids she went to school with had given up ever getting a reaction from her.

  Wisewomen heard the whispers of the wildwood an
d no other whispers mattered.

  Sarah pulled her paring knife from her apron pocket and reached for an apple from the closest tub on the table. Around and around and around. Drop. Then, reach for another and around and around and around again. When all the apples in the washtubs were replaced by peeled apples, men came to carry the tubs to the corers who used longer knives to complete the harder task. There were several older men operating stainless steel appliances that cored and peeled the apples at one time as they turned long-handled cranks, but their apples were messier than the hand peeled ones, still speckled with bits of bruised fruit and red peel.

  Soon the sun was high enough to heat the sticky apple juice that seemed to coat everyone and everything. The sweetness attracted yellow jackets as busy as the peelers. Whirling and sipping, with their sharp rear ends ready, daring anyone to shoo them away. The bees drew Sarah’s attention from the task at hand, and for the first time she noticed the homespun fabric of a Sect woman’s dress beside her.

  A yellow jacket had landed on the back of the woman’s busy hand and she simply ignored it, bravely continuing to peel. Sarah looked up from the bee to the woman’s face to see if she was afraid. And suddenly she recognized Mary, the woman Tom had led away from the wildwood garden earlier in the summer.

  Sarah’s knife slipped.

  She nicked her finger with its sharp tip and quickly sucked the bead of fruit-flavored blood while she looked at the girl with eyes that felt too wide in her face.

  “Be careful,” the Sect woman whispered. Sarah knew she wasn’t talking about the cut or the paring knife in her suddenly trembling hand. Mary and her two simple words explained the tightness that had been building in Sarah’s chest since that day. But she was a Ross. She’d seen her mother handle life and death in the blink of an eye. She’d helped when no older and wiser hands were there. Sarah swallowed her fear and went back to peeling as if a premonition of danger and doom hadn’t filled her lungs when the woman spoke.

  Only after several ordinary-seeming minutes had passed did she risk a glance up at the world from beneath her lashes. Mary was still calmly peeling. Around and around and around. Drop. She’d been scared before. Out of breath. Panting like a rabbit running from a fox. Now, she was in town as if nothing had happened. Her kerchief was tight and neat. Her freckles and dark brown eyes as ordinary as anything. But she’d chewed her lips pink and tender like Sarah sometimes did when she was nervous. And Mary’s face was pink too.

  Had the work made Mary’s cheeks hot or something else?

  Sarah couldn’t guess Mary’s age. But she was younger than she’d thought. She was peeling after all, and this job was for young and old, not the in-betweens.

  “Always,” Mary whispered again. “Always be careful.” Her lips barely moved as she easily peeled the apple in her hands, still ignoring the threat of the bees all around.

  Ignoring.

  The.

  Threat.

  She was so brave about the bees while lots of other girls squealed and shooed them away. Sarah continued to peel, but she looked up and around at the rest of the people who had come to help. Outside the pavilion where the peelers worked there were other tasks being done.

  But not everyone had come to help.

  There were spectators too.

  Lu’s mother was reading a book to a circle of children too young to work, but across the path beaten from the parking lot to the cannery entrance, in the shadows of the building’s long, low overhang stood a man dressed in a black suit. He wasn’t working. He was watching. Sarah forced her hands to continue peeling even though the man’s shadowed face made her heart stutter. He wasn’t looking at her or the Sect girl. But his attention was hard and fast on something or someone in a way that made her think of rabbits and foxes all over again.

  Sarah followed the direction of the man’s attention only to see it was trained on her mother and Tom, near one of the big spice pots that bubbled on an open fire. Melody Ross would be one of the women responsible for the perfect mixture of cinnamon and cloves, brown sugar and ginger that would flavor the town’s apple butter.

  Her throat closed up and she dropped her apple and her knife.

  The shadow man was why her chest had been tight all morning.

  Sarah reached for the charm in her pocket, forgetting her sticky fingers. Her mother sensed her distress. From yards away, her chin rose from her spices and she met Sarah’s frightened gaze. Only then did Sarah realize she was standing.

  Tom must have noticed the change in Melody because he looked around to see what had bothered her. Sarah saw Tom look toward the shadow man. Did he recognize him? Could he see better from where he stood? Sarah couldn’t be sure. But Tom stepped between the shadow man and Melody Ross. Her mother looked back to her spices, scooping more brown powder from a large cloth sack to add to her pot as if nothing had interrupted her.

  Sarah understood.

  She sat, her heart beating so hard it hurt.

  Her mother’s calm meant there was nothing wrong. At least not here and now. Soon. Or later. There would be. But life had to go on even when something scary was felt or seen. Her mother had taught her that a long time ago.

  The Sect woman was gone. When Sarah had dropped her apple to stand, Mary must have slipped away. Standing wasn’t careful. Noticing the shadow man was bad because it might mean he would notice them. Sarah Ross knew that. Sensed it somehow with a sense that couldn’t be named. Did the Sect women know that too?

  But Sarah wouldn’t run away. That special sense she could never ignore told her the shadow man’s identity was important. The sun’s light would penetrate the shade of the building where he stood in another hour. So Sarah endured the careful work of peeling under his watchful presence while she waited for his face to be revealed.

  Because he watched her now.

  Sweat trickled down Sarah’s forehead and into her eyes. It stung behind her lashes like tears even though she refused to cry. Her body shook, but she didn’t stop the motions of her knife. Not again.

  Always be careful. Be careful. Be careful.

  Around and around and around and drop.

  After each apple, as she allowed each sticky orb to drop with a splash into the water, she flicked her eyes up to check on the shadow man. Each time she saw him still there, her heart stuttered and her breath caught as she reached for another apple. The building’s shade continued to shrink. The heat continued to rise. Older teens continued to come and fetch the tubs of peeled apples.

  And still the shadow man stared.

  Waiting to see his face was the hardest thing Sarah had ever done. She wanted Tom to make him leave. She wanted to go and hug her mother and never let her go. Instead, she peeled. She dropped. She flicked her eyes up for only a second. Three more apples and she’d be able to see. Two more apples and she’d be able to see.

  When the yellow jacket landed on her leg, it wasn’t nearly as threatening as the man in the shadows. She ignored it as well as Mary had. But the girl next to her didn’t understand about the shadow man or a Ross woman’s ability to sense more than most saw. Before Sarah could urge her to be careful, the girl beside her swatted at the yellow and black wasp.

  The sting was sharp and sudden and then burning hot. The heat spread beneath Sarah’s skin and she couldn’t bite back the cry that burst from her lips. There had already been a few stings that morning and the last one had resulted in an allergic reaction that had set all the adults on edge.

  Sarah didn’t have a yellow jacket allergy, but that didn’t stop numerous adults from running to check on her when she cried out. In the middle of all the fuss, Sarah risked another glance up to check the sun’s progress. The shade was gone. But the shadow man was gone too. Before she’d had a chance to see his face.

  The sting was nothing. As her former first grade teacher, Mrs. Bennett, held an ice pack to her leg, it was the shadow man’s disappearance that made Sarah’s skin go clammy. Autumn’s chill had found her again in the middle of a su
nny day and, this time, no amount of afternoon sun would make it go away.

  Eight

  A familiar tickle interrupted Sadie Hall’s morning basket weaving. She looked down to see a honeybee doing the waggle dance on her bare forearm. In seconds, she understood what the worker bee was telling her. It was time. Bees communicated with each other through a complex series of movements and emission of pheromones. They could indicate to their hive mates where the best food sources could be found with precise instructions. They could signal for danger and satisfaction.

  But today the dance on Sadie’s arm marked an important event.

  Swarm.

  A virgin queen would fly and begin a new hive. She would need to be presented with an alternative to a hollow tree in the wild if her hive was to become a part of the apiary Sadie cared for.

  Setting the basket she was working on to the side for future completion, Sadie stood and flexed her sore fingers. She looked down at her knobby knuckles and the thick calluses she’d developed over the years from twisting grasses and twigs into useful shapes. Her hands were a wisewoman’s hands like her mother’s and her grandmother’s.

  And like the women who came before, she reached for the bee balm to smooth into her palms and over each toughened digit to soften and maintain the flexibility she needed to continue her work.

  “Beekeepers, we are. First and foremost. The balm we make from the melted wax will help us to continue weaving, but it also soaks into our skin and makes us smell like home to the bees we keep,” Sadie’s mother had told her years ago when she was first taught to rub the ointment into her fingers.

  Hall women don’t get stung and they can take the fire out of a sting if they’re of a mind to.

  Their honey was prized for miles around—no need for labels or advertisement. Word of mouth was all it took to create demand. Some called it “mountain honey” and it was certainly that. Some called it “apple blossom honey” because the main food source for the apiary was the nearby orchard. But Sadie’s family had always called it “wildwood honey.” Everything they were and everything they possessed had come from the wildwood, and a wisewoman knew to give credit where credit was due.