Wildwood Whispers

by Willa Reece

  Currently, Charm perched on top of a satchel handbag Sarah had given me several Christmases ago. I understood the gift better now than I’d understood it then. On black denim fabric, embroidered foxes cavorted—running, jumping, standing up on their back legs and leaping over unseen obstacles. I imagined that Sarah had liked the foxes in the remedy book too. I’d tossed the satchel onto the passenger seat without realizing that Charm had hitchhiked inside of it, but he seemed no worse for wear. His whiskers were exactly as crinkled as ever. His nose a shade of pink too bright for nature and much more like a skein of yarn. He twitched it at me while I wrestled the truck to town, only occasionally cursing at a stubborn gear or the steering wheel’s loose handling.

  Someone had painted “farm use” on the rear tailgate with black paint, but I planned to ask Granny about the truck’s legalities. I figured even in Morgan’s Gap I would need tags and an inspection sticker, although I laughed at the idea the old smoking relic would pass any kind of fair inspection.

  I made it into town and pulled into a free parking spot near the farmers’ market. All the parking meters were covered with knitted covers like colorful scarves gone rogue and I wondered if they were official or if one of Granny’s friends had decided to make parking free for the day with an impromptu yarn bomb display.

  The covers made me grin, as did the chaotic atmosphere of the street and the market pavilion. Like a barn, the pavilion had a bright red metal roof, but it was open on all four sides so the rows of booths under its shade were visible. More shoppers than I would have imagined walked up and down the aisles. I noted the plates on the vehicles as I passed. There were some from as far away as North Carolina and West Virginia.

  Charm tried to climb onto my shoulder, but I transferred him to the pocket of my jean jacket instead. I wasn’t sure Morgan’s Gap was ready for a pet mouse familiar even on a market day.

  Once I had entered the circus of people and wares, browsers and artists, craftsmen and customers that made the open marketplace seem like a big top under its red metal roof, I knew no one would have noticed a mouse on my shoulder. Not when there was so much going on and all sorts of other distractions.

  I passed a fiery kiln used by a glassblower who was shaping a multicolor swirling blob on the end of a long metal pipe. He blew into the end of the pipe at intervals only he understood while a small crowd oohed and aahed over the hollow glass sphere taking shape. Spheres he’d already completed were hung on a nearby rack by gossamer nylon threads. The colorful glass tossed a prismatic rainbow over passersby.

  “Only twenty dollars,” a young woman said, noticing my interest.

  My low-key lifestyle rarely required me to tap into savings, but I was acutely aware I no longer earned a steady paycheck. I couldn’t afford pretty baubles no matter how much I could imagine the amethyst sphere brightening the cabin’s kitchen.

  “Maybe next time,” I said, tapping the one I most liked with a fingertip to make it gently spin. The woman wasn’t a pushy salesperson. She smiled and nodded and spoke to the next potential customer stopping by.

  Thankfully, Sadie’s booth was nearby so I wasn’t tempted by anything else before I found her. She sat in the middle of four tables that held completed baskets. Like some of the other artisans, she was weaving a basket as a means to draw attention as well as add to her stock. Arranged all around her chair in neat, easily accessible containers were the supplies I’d seen in the back of her minivan, as well as a tub of water she used to soak the branches to make them supple and easier to maneuver. Her gloved hands moved so quickly it was hard to keep up with what she was doing. Had her mother slowed down the process for teaching or had Sadie simply picked up the technique by some superhuman means of observation I didn’t possess?

  My heartbeat kicked up a notch when I noticed the honeybees that came and went while Sadie worked. She wasn’t wearing her earrings today. But actual bees would occasionally rest on her lobes in between flights as if they were comfortable there. Sadie never shooed them away. After a while, I accepted that there would be no overwhelming buzz in my head and no repeat of my previous mistake. Either because there were only a few bees or because I was gaining a little more control of myself—the gardening, the canning, the constant immersion of myself in the wildwood. And, of course, Charm. I had my own familiar now. I didn’t need to borrow Sadie’s.

  “There’s another chair. Mom wasn’t feeling well today. Come sit with me awhile,” Sadie said. I’d seen the other chair. A quilted pad covered its seat and its back was a rounded Windsor meant to hold a much larger woman than me. I sat, but the chair made me feel like a child even though my legs touched the ground.

  “This one will be too small for you. I like to keep smaller ones on hand for people who want to use them for storage or decoration. Or for children,” Sadie said. The bottom of the basket she was weaving was round. The staves on the side were longer branches that had been woven into the base. Sadie was currently weaving the sides of the basket by twining soaked branches in and around and out the staves. Around and around. When one branch was finished, she reached down to pick up another to begin the next row. Again and again. It was soothing to watch and satisfying to see the basket take shape. She used only three tools—and she told me about them as I watched. A bodkin looked almost like a screwdriver. It had a sharp metal shaft that narrowed down to a point and was used to create slots to begin the cross-shaped base of the basket. There were small clippers used to trim the length of branches and a knife used to sharpen the edges of any branches that needed to be inserted into slots the bodkin had made.

  “I don’t kill trees for my materials. I take trimmings from anyone who offers. I rarely have to ask. I hunt for deadfall in the spring. There are always trees that are felled by ice and snow over winter,” Sadie murmured. It almost seemed like a crooning lullaby she was singing to the developing basket in her hands. A reassurance that its life hadn’t begun with death.

  “Willow and birch,” I noted.

  “Willow and birch are my main materials, but I’ll work with most any, really. Oak and ash are pretty,” Sadie said. “You can choose whichever of the larger ones you like. Picking a basket is more complicated than material, size or shape. It’s more personal. You’ll know which one when you touch it. Try,” she continued. She nodded toward the stacks of baskets on the tables. So many I was overwhelmed at where to start. But I rose at her direction anyway.

  I’d known they would be expensive, but I swallowed hard when I saw the tiny sticker price tags on the larger baskets that would be right for my needs. I was glad I hadn’t splurged on the glass orb. This was a business expense, but it would put a noticeable ding in my savings.

  “Don’t worry about the cost. Granny says you’ve more than earned the price of my best basket with all the work you’ve done for her since you came to town. Plus caretaking at the cabin,” Sadie said as if she’d read my thoughts.

  At that, I allowed my hands to trail more firmly over the baskets. I’d been afraid Sadie was going to try to give me one. I could accept one as payment better than I could accept one as a gift. The oak and ash baskets were made differently than the branch baskets. Their sides were woven with split strips so their color was pale and bright, but it was the branch baskets that seemed sturdier.

  Again and again, I was drawn back to the willow.

  One in particular seemed to get stuck in my hands. Sadie had woven it with very narrow branches that were almost vines. Because of the size of the branches, it had taken many more rows to complete the entire basket. I turned it over and over again, loving the smooth feel of it against my palms. Its color was dark brown, but with a greenish tinge like the moss I’d seen on the wildwood floor. And Sadie had created a pattern with the green and brown variations of the branches that reminded me of the bean kaleidoscope on the dresser.

  There was no price sticker on this basket. From its beauty and its size and the strength of its handle and construction, it was worth too much for me to tak
e. But when I tried to place it back on the table, Sadie interrupted.

  She had risen from her chair without me noticing. I’d been so focused on the basket in my hands.

  “That’s the one. I knew it. I knew it was special when I made it. Never put a price on it. I knew it was for someone. Just didn’t know who. Now I do. Don’t you dare try to set it back down. It’s yours. Was yours before you touched it,” Sadie said.

  My eyes burned. It was crazy. I hadn’t known I was coming to Morgan’s Gap until the morning I got in my car with Sarah’s ashes. There was no way Sadie had woven this basket for me and yet my hands and my heart believed it.

  “I hope you’ll use it for years to come,” Sadie said. She patted the side of the basket and then she patted my cheek. “Now go use whatever money you were going to spend on a basket. I have to get back to work.”

  I turned from Sadie’s stall, blinking back the salty moisture burning my eyes. I wasn’t used to presents. And certainly not presents handmade with such care. Accepting the gift meant I also had to accept that I was important to Sadie. Hard, but doable. That Sadie had become important to me was harder. I could fight back the tears, but I couldn’t deny the cause of them.

  Caring made me vulnerable.

  I hooked the basket in the crook of my arm the way Sarah always hooked the basket in my dreams. I slowly walked away as Sadie began to weave the small basket again. It was difficult to feel Sadie’s support and also, somehow, wonderful. With the basket on my arm, I was wholeheartedly taking my place in Morgan’s Gap. I didn’t go straight back to the glassblower’s booth. There might be other, more practical things I should buy first.

  Faces I recognized from my delivery days in town stood out in the crowd. Many spoke and remembered my name. Some blushed and hurried away. A few asked after Granny’s health or asked me if I had any more blackberry jam. Soon I was moving from display to display as if I was part of the circus not a detached observer.

  “He found you some chanterelles this time, Vee. I set them aside in case you made it by today.” An older woman behind a table filled with wild foraged fungi of every shape and size imaginable handed a small nylon sack filled with bright yellowish-orange funnel-shaped mushrooms to Violet Morgan. Violet’s hair and makeup weren’t as perfect as they’d been in the hair salon. In fact, her hair was tousled and her eye makeup smudged. As if she’d been crying. But her clothes were as old-fashioned and perfect as they’d been before. She wore a dress with a nipped waist and full skirt and a shirtwaist bodice. For some reason imagining a closetful of nearly identical dresses made me feel a little sick.

  “Hi, Mrs. Morgan. I hope you liked the jam,” I said. It was a mistake. I’d been lulled by the mostly easygoing manners I’d encountered.

  Violet whirled and looked at me with the chanterelles “he” had collected for her clutched to her chest. She didn’t answer my question. She only hurried away and disappeared in the crowd.

  “Oh, Lord. She scares easy,” the woman who had given Violet Morgan her mushrooms said. “Mad Tom’s the same way. He forages for me, but he doesn’t like to talk much.”

  “Tom sent Violet Morgan the chanterelles?” I asked, dropping the offensive use of mad.

  “Yes, but don’t let on. That husband of hers hardly lets her out of his sight. She comes by once in a great while. Tom always leaves something with me she’ll like. Chanterelles in fall. Running cedar around Christmas. Queen Anne’s lace in spring. Not sure how they met, but it’s harmless. They’re both too backward to take it too far,” the woman said. “Lord knows, Hartwell doesn’t do a thing that makes her smile.”

  “I’ve met him. I won’t say a word,” I said. But I couldn’t reconcile the eccentric woods dweller I’d met with a man who’d send secret presents to the mayor’s doll-like wife.

  Twenty-Two

  I didn’t purchase any mushrooms for myself, but I did end up buying several bags of homemade candy. I couldn’t resist Lynn and her children. Andy, Randy and Sandy waved me over, and for the first time I thought that maybe Randy was the tallest, Andy the oldest, and Sandy the one whose shoes were always untied. Their carefully lettered sign said that proceeds from the sale of the candies they’d made would help the Humane Society. Sarah and I had always had a soft spot for orphans, animals or otherwise.

  And sweets.

  I savored a dark red cinnamon drop while I continued from booth to booth. I planned to make my way back around to the glassblower’s spheres, but I was interrupted by the quiet appearance of Jacob Walker from out of the crowd. He didn’t seem to notice me. I stopped in my tracks before I reached the booth where he had paused to look at hand-carved hiking sticks. People flowed around me without complaint as if I was a rock thrown into their stream.

  The walking sticks were works of art. From here I could see the handles and knobs had been carved into all sorts of animals and the staffs had been made from carefully chosen saplings shaped by climbing vines. I wasn’t surprised Jacob would be interested in the carver’s wares. But the amethyst orb he held by its nylon thread did surprise me. It spun around and around as he idly twisted the thread in his fingers, catching and throwing the sun in a dance of purple to lavender light. There was no mistaking the one I’d wanted because each of the glassblower’s spheres was unique.

  An accidental nudge from a person trying to pass around me finally urged me forward. I’d intended to thank him if I saw him. I couldn’t back down now because the actual seeing made my pulse a little quick.

  He still hadn’t seen me. With his free hand, he turned a walking stick this way and that examining its cleverly carved handle, which looked exactly like a running fox. I stopped beside him, noting that each bristle of the fox’s whiskers and each hair on its back and tail had been perfectly rendered in the cherrywood. Two shiny obsidian chips had been glued into the proper places for its eyes. Like the fox sketches in the remedy book, this fox had been rendered with such personality it seemed like it might leap off the hiking stick at any moment.

  “I’ll trade you the walking stick for the orb.” I had no idea how much the walking stick cost. I only knew that Jacob Walker was bound to have it. I could see the connection between him and the tiny wooden beast. It was graceful and quick and from the wildwood after all. Just like the man beside me.

  He let the hiking stick slide back into its place in the table, which the carver had modified with several dozen holes to hold the shafts of the canes to display them. Then, he turned toward me, lifting the glass sphere so its purple prism fell across my face.

  “I wouldn’t have guessed you’d like colorful baubles,” Jacob said. I glanced at the slowly rotating orb and back at the man who always seemed too determined to read me.

  “The cabin is plain. And if I stay I’m going to need to make it mine,” I said. My chin lifted because he wasn’t wrong and it annoyed me. I’d never collected things, colorful or otherwise. Because you either had to leave possessions or lug them when things went south and neither was a great option. Jacob made me think twice about why I was drawn to the orb and why I hadn’t bought it right away.

  And that was annoying.

  “I don’t need another hiking stick. I have a graphite one. Works great in rough terrain,” Jacob said.

  “But you want the fox,” I argued. “Just like I want that.”

  I tilted my head toward the sphere in his hand. The crowd around us had somehow herded us closer together than we’d been before. He wasn’t a huge guy. Not tall. Not broad. But he was… noticeable. The scent of woods and autumn air was perpetual around him. It had to be an aftershave and, yet, so subtle and natural. Not cloying like cologne. Maybe the wildwood scented my skin and hair and clothes now too and I didn’t even notice it.

  “If you want it, it’s yours,” Jacob said. He lowered the sphere to my hand and I accepted it without meaning to. When he released the string, the warm brush of our calloused fingers together was slight and fleeting. Again his fingers on bergamot petals crossed my mind.r />
  “I wanted to thank you for sending Lu with the lock,” I said. My voice sounded funny. I’d received too many gifts since I’d come to Morgan’s Gap. And I certainly couldn’t accept the sphere from Jacob, even if there was no way I wanted to let it go now that I held it in my hand.

  “She’s your friend. Seemed like she’d be welcome,” Jacob said. Now that his hands were both free, he pushed his hair from his face and settled his weight back on his heels. He didn’t step away from me, but he allowed more air to flow between us as if he needed the space. I immediately filled my lungs and regretted it when he did the same, as if we’d both been holding our breath.

  “She is and was,” I said, to cover the regret. “I feel better with the stronger bolt. I’m used to living in places that aren’t exactly safe, but it’s different in the country. The cabin is so isolated that—”

  “You should go back to Richmond,” Jacob interrupted. The space between us narrowed again. He leaned in, saying the words urgently, but quietly as if he didn’t want anyone else to hear him warn me away. Again. It wasn’t the first time he’d told me to leave. But it was more personal. We’d spoken several times. He’d seen me working and learning from Granny for months. He’d seen the fruits of my labor even if he hadn’t tasted them himself yet.

  “I’m staying.” This time I didn’t mean for only the summer. There was nothing for me back in Richmond. I was making a place for myself here. And I could no longer imagine a life without Granny, Sadie, Joyce and Kara. Plus the more I learned in Morgan’s Gap and the more I dreamed about Sarah’s past the more I wanted to know.

  “I warned you the wildwood wouldn’t let you go,” Jacob replied. This time his deep, masculine whisper was warmer than it should have been. His eyes were warm too and I immediately recognized why I’d chosen the greenish-brown willow basket I held on the crook of my arm. Charm stirred in my pocket. He sensed my distress or my sudden stiffness woke him. One way or the other, his movement urged me to take a step backward.