Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

She smiled. “That’s nothing that would affect your health.”

  “I know that.” But I didn’t. Not deep down inside. “She’s also an yerbero, an herbalist. I’ve been recording some of the names of uses of plants.”

  She froze. “You haven’t taken any of these herbs, have you?”

  “Yes. Because Francesca wants me to experience the effects.”

  She lost all her objectivity in a heartbeat. “Please tell me you’re not that dumb. Herbs are medications. It’s hard telling what you’ve ingested that is harmful for you. Like all medication, what works for one person can have an inverse reaction on another. Do you remember all the names of the herbs?”

  “There were so many. None of them should have been harmful.”

  “Perhaps. But, Keith needs to know. I’ll call that woman and ask.”

  “She won’t answer the phone. You’ll have to go through her great-granddaughter.” I gave her the number.

  “Let me talk to Keith, first. He can listen on the extension and might be able to understand some of the medical details.”

  I heard only one side of the phone conversation, but it was clear Cecelia didn’t understand what they were talking about. Josie asked her to tell Francesca that I was quite ill after yesterday’s session. She insisted that Francesca tell her the names of any herbs I had taken.

  “New deal, Lottie,” Keith said after they hung up. “I know this work is important to you. But herbs are out. Spells and rituals won’t hurt a thing.”

  “Okay.” Seen in the light of their logic, it was easy to agree. I would simply take Francesca’s interpretations at face value. From a historian’s standpoint, it was better technique anyway. Josie was right about the effects of drugs. What cured one person might have an adverse effect on another. My personal reactions were contaminating the data.

  ***

  That evening Angie walked down to the pond with Josie and Tom. Tosca rested in the special bed she used when she came to Western Kansas. Her sorrowful eyes were full of unspeakable tragedy. Keith glanced at me, smiling at Tosca’s little shudder when Josie and Tom went outside together. Tosca had lost her place. She no longer sat in the front seat of the car—literally and figuratively. Her mistress’ heart belonged to another.

  Keith left the room and came back with a buddy poppy. He had bought several of the crimson crepe blossoms sold by the Veterans of Foreign Wars. He knelt beside Tosca’s bed and gently removed her rose and white ribbons. He twisted the wire attached to the poppy around her topknot. The little dog looked up at him and allowed herself to be lifted up and comforted against his broad chest. When he set her back down again, she stayed at his side. The poppy was not the flag—would never be the flag—but it would do.

  He went into the music room. I had changed into a soft yellow sundress with an eyelet bodice and a full skirt. I joined him and took my guitar down from the closet where he had built racks and stands for all the instruments. We sing well together and enjoy harmonizing on old countrywestern duets.

  He suddenly began a riff of shut-out chords that I could not possibly follow, then softly launched into an ancient Webb Pierce song. One even the most avid music fans rarely heard. Keith has a wonderful voice and held nothing back. What he would not express verbally was always there in his music.

  “I live every day for you. I breathe every breath for you.”

  I shut my heart against the pain of realizing how much he wanted to keep me safe. I knew he was bothered over telling me to stop sampling the herbs. It had been just short of a direct order.

  “And if I’m mean and make you blue. It’s my way of loving you.”

  I couldn’t look him in the eye. Tears welled up as I recalled the times I had scared the hell out of him since I became involved in law enforcement. His wounded eyes! It was as though some composer had written this song just for us. Had anticipated just such a time when a man needed to speak these words and a woman needed to listen.

  “I can’t help these things I do. It’s my way of loving you.”

  He looked at me. Sheepishly. Subtly offering an apology. He was deeply aware of the price I paid indirectly for Regina’s suicide. The price I paid for enduring his watchfulness, his excessive protection. His fussing over my happiness. I knew it grew out of old memories and the general wretchedness of the long, hot summer as much as anything.

  He sang directly to me, with words he would never be able to frame on his own. The situation was too delicate. But he wanted me to know he was sorry.

  I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find the words. There was a song. One that was just right, but I couldn’t remember what it was. And even if I could remember, I didn’t need a song to tell him how I felt. There was a better way. I rose and went over to him and sat on his lap and he pulled me against his chest.

  Then words didn’t matter anymore.

  ***

  When my two stepchildren and sister returned from the pond, they trooped into the music room. Angie looked even more miserable than when she had left. Tom and Josie held hands and gave Keith and me nervous looks.

  “We think it’s time to tell you. I case you don’t know this already…” Tom cleared his throat.

  “We’re dating,” Josie said brightly.

  We didn’t know what kind of a response they expected. Congratulations? It wasn’t as though they had announced an engagement. Disapproval? They were adults. They could form relationships with whomever they liked.

  The look on Keith’s father/brother-in-law face was not that of surprise. The look on my stepmother/sister face was surely that of polite resignation.

  Angie left the room.

  “Well, now. This calls for drink,” Keith said.

  ***

  I greeted Margaret cheerfully the next morning, asked her to sit down and apologized magnificently, magnanimously, effusively. It was everything a wounded soldier could ask for. She swelled with pride, fluffed her hair and graciously accepted my exaggerated highfalutin explanation that I had “been under a lot of pressure,” but “I knew that was no excuse for treating her so rudely, and would she please forgive me?”

  And man this damn office, when I have to be gone. Come back, Little Sheba.

  “We all have days when we are not ourselves, Lottie. But, it really wasn’t like you.”

  “I am nearly finished at the compound. That will free up more time.”

  In fact, I intended to finish with Francesca in a couple of weeks. I was still troubled by my inability to remember anything about the last session. It was a clear sign that I needed a vacation. Fat chance of finding time for that. A day-spa perhaps? Something to take my mind off a crime case where every lead fizzled out.

  Sometimes when people or a situation are upsetting to me, and I find myself obsessing over the reason why, I find that it’s best to simply stay away without trying to understand the why. And clearly my relationship with Francesca was falling into that category. Just thinking about the old woman upset me.

  “You have a number of calls from people in response to your ad. Two persons with French ancestry, a couple of African Americans, and a Jane Jordan has been trying hard to set up an appointment.”

  “Jane. Yes, move her to the top of the list.”

  “Really Lottie, there’s no reason to include people who aren’t well-known in a county history book. We should stick with our own kind and not go trolling for all these outliers.”

  I will not get into another fight with this woman. I swear I won’t.

  I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then twenty.

  “Think of how unusual this will make our book, though,” I said cheerfully. Blatant manipulation, but she was falling for it hook, line, and sinker. “In the future people will admire our more cosmopolitan approach to diversity. In fact, you will probably have many, many opportunities for public speaking since you played a big part i
n this decision to become more inclusive.”

  I used all the right buzzwords. Ah yes, public speaking! Her face brightened at the thought of giving speeches—the darling of every history organization.

  “Yes.” She sat up straighter and stretched her neck. “Yes, I can see how we will be setting the standard for excellence.”

  Worrying that she would change her mind and launch into another ethnic diatribe, I headed her off with a steady stream of chatter until I could head out the door. “Goodness, it looks like another day without a drop of rain. Are you sure you will be all right here? I’m nearly finished at the compound. Then I can move on to some other family.”

  “I’ll be just fine. I was in charge of this place long before you were here, remember?”

  I ignored the barb and waved goodbye.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  When Francesca and I walked into the Old House, the first thing I noticed was a red crystal jar sitting in front of what I silently referred to as “harmful row.”

  “What a beautiful…” My voice trailed off and I looked at the jar with bewilderment. It had never been there before. Francesca and I were the only ones who ever came into the room outside of Teresa when she came to clean. There was a sharp pain in my forehead. “Where did that come from?”

  “You mixed those herbs. For me. The seeing herbs.”

  “The ones that will allow you to see faces?” I asked, thinking her belief as harmless as a senior citizen grabbing a jar of gingko off the shelf at a vitamin store. “Do you need help taking them? Will they require a tea?”

  “Do you not remember anything about your last visit?” She was as still as a statue.

  “No, and it scared my poor husband half to death. And my sister.”

  “I know. They called Cecilia. She told me.” There were tears in her eyes. “I never meant to harm you.”

  I sniffed the earthy aroma of the hanks of plants suspended from the ceiling. Outside, a breeze rippled through the cottonwoods sending them silver side up. A low-hanging branch scraped across the roof. “In fact, they believe that I have stronger-than-normal reactions to medication. They both insist that I stop taking any of these drugs.” I shrugged like a teenager who was saying “Mommy won’t let me.”

  “You have become like a daughter to me.” Her voice trembled. “I do not want to hurt you. Yes. I can see that you must stop taking the herbs, and simply record my information.”

  It was that easy to step back.

  “But mixing can’t hurt me. I’ll wear a surgical mask so I won’t breathe in any of the substances. The rituals and incantations are still a go. I’m not worried about them.”

  I was that ignorant.

  “Shall I begin by fixing you a cup of the seeing herbs, Francesca?”

  “No.” Her voice was sad. “There are other things I must tend to first today. There are a number of things I would like to give you before I die.”

  “You’ve never talked about dying before.”

  “That is because I could not. It wasn’t time.”

  Giving things away. Time to go. This was suicide talk. She caught the concern on my face.

  “Do not worry, Lottie Albright. I will not hasten my own death by the poor earthly methods used by people who do not wish to live. I shall simply die. I want to talk of happier things today. I own a number of things that Cecilia and George would not appreciate. I would like to give you my madstone. If I do not, it might be carelessly tossed out some day.”

  “You have a madstone?” A madstone was priceless.

  She beamed at my astonishment. “And mine comes from an albino deer.”

  “A witch deer?”

  Witch deer! How had these words come to mind in a heartbeat? How easily I had slipped into her kind of thinking. How very, very easily. The stone from a brown deer was the lowest ranked. One from a spotted or a white deer was better—but one from an albino was the most powerful of all. Only in this house, this room did I seem to take leave of my senses. My rational mind disappeared. I even thought with her words.

  A “witch deer!” I would never ever use those words outside of this room. I was thinking in another language, as easily as though I were learning French.

  “Yes, a witch deer. A pure white deer with pink eyes. A madstone so powerful it not only cures rabies, it will cure rattlesnake and spider bites.”

  “Oh, Francesca. I would be honored.” So many cultures believed in madstones—the prized hair ball from the stomach of a deer. It was even mentioned in The Old Farmer’s Almanac and old editions of Webster’s Dictionary. I knew a museum in Missouri had one.

  A madstone could cure rabies.

  After being boiled in milk, the stone would stick directly to the wound and draw out the poison. When it fell off, one boiled it in sweet milk again to remove the toxin, and the process was repeated until it wouldn’t stick any more. That’s when one knew all the poison was out. Charging for its use was forbidden. That negated the power.

  There was another hitch. The victim had to come to the person with the stone. The owner could never go to the patient. If a Kansas museum didn’t want it, where could I keep it?

  I tried to imagine the expression on Margaret’s face when someone came to the historical society asking if I would cure them of rabies. Would someone at the Kansas State Historical Society understand if I passed it on to them? Perhaps scientists would like to put it under a microscope.

  How could I not accept this gift?

  “Thank you. What a treasure.” Rabies cures aside, I knew the stone’s historical value. Who knew how many other such items she had here?

  “Go to the chest again.”

  I headed for the south corner, then bewildered, I hesitated. How did I automatically know where the chest was located? Why did my hands know the keys would be kept in the third unlocked drawer?

  My hands trembled and I waited for the next instruction.

  “Second drawer down this time.”

  Each drawer except the third was locked, but the same key served them all. I opened the second drawer.

  “Take it out. It’s yours now.”

  “Oh, Francesca.” The smooth stone lying within was grayish-brown in color. The madstone! She was right. It didn’t look remarkable. Just a stone to be tossed aside.

  “Pick it up. Take it home with you.”

  “Thank you so very much.” I didn’t know where to put it. I didn’t feel right about tucking it into my jeans pocket.

  “There are several squares of leather in the next drawer down.”

  Unnerved that she had read my mind, I murmured a quick thank you and wrapped the stone in the scrap of leather and put it in my briefcase. I decided to put it on a shelf in Keith’s office. If he noticed it at all—and I doubted he would—I would simply tell him it was a gift from an old lady and would cure rabies. The truth, the whole truth, would be regarded as a charming fiction.

  “Thank you. I will take good care of this.”

  I could not look away from her eyes. They were fixed on mine. Her voice dropped to a whisper. “The only thing I ask of you in exchange for the madstone and some of my other treasures is a little more help compounding mixtures. There are only a few more. Ones that will require the use of rituals. A few chants. Nothing more. You will not be required to say any of the words.”

  I wanted to take a deep breath of pure clean air instead of inhaling the carbon dioxide-laden soup pervading this room. The hanks of plants seemed alive. There were beads of sweat on my forehead, yet I shivered.

  Unnerved by her unwavering gaze, I looked away before my brain turned to mush. Looked away and forced myself to settle down and think. I was an academic, therefore theoretically capable of abstract thinking. Reason told me that if I refused to help this lonely tragic old woman I would be acknowledging fear of the powers of darkness. Powers I knew didn�
�t exist.

  “Help me,” she pleaded softly. “Help me.” She looked down helplessly. “These hands.”

  “Sure,” I said cheerfully. Why not? “You know I will.”

  “There are only a few. I’ve decided not to take the seeing herbs until we are done.”

  “I’m glad this won’t take too much longer. I need to compare your work with that of other ethnic groups.”

  She smiled. “No other person has my skills.”

  “I’m sure. But some of the drugs will overlap.”

  “I have been thinking of many other things since your sister called and told Cecilia you were harmed by our last visit. How is the KBI doing with the investigation of my great-grandson’s murder? They have not been here to talk with me.”

  “As far as I know they have not learned a thing. Sam and I are out of the loop. They have no confidence in our abilities. We have no new information at our county level, either.”

  “When you first came here, I told you Victor was going to file a lawsuit. I have decided to tell you why. I showed Victor a copy of a map that gave him the courage to take up the torch once again. He understood!”

  I wished Sam were hearing all this.

  “He was killed because someone wanted the map showing all the land my family owns.”

  I had been through all the court records, all the databases of recorded deeds. There was simply no record of this family owning any more land than was encompassed by Roswell County.

  It was though she could read my thoughts.

  “Victor didn’t believe at first, either. He was slow to understand. But when I told him our story and showed him a copy of our map, he understood. This map was passed down through my father’s people. A treasure map.” Her voice was hushed. She was scrutinizing every expression that crossed my face. “A valuable treasure. The most priceless treasure in the world. A treasure without equal.”

  I groaned inwardly, the thought crossing my mind that this old woman was teasing me. Making it all up.

  “So you think someone would have killed Victor because he wouldn’t tell them where to find this map?”