Perhaps God’s work started in small ways.
She’d wanted a sign. Maybe this, after all, was the one she’d been waiting for.
Christy went to the door. The children began to appear as the day broke. In twos, in clumps, dancing, skipping, running, their faces filled with hope and joy. And sometimes, yes, filled with darker things—loneliness, hunger, fear, even anger.
She was surprised when she saw Fairlight Spencer walking toward the school, her children by her side. She was carrying a little leather pouch in one hand. The other held the toddler named Little Guy.
“Fairlight!” Christy exclaimed. Strangely, when Fairlight returned her smile, Christy felt like she was seeing an old, very dear friend.
“I tell you, these children hardly slept a wink last night, they were so excited about school,” Fairlight said. She handed the leather pouch to Christy with a shy smile. “John found this a couple days back, over yonder by the bank of the creek.”
Christy opened the pouch and reached inside. At the bottom, she felt the cool smoothness of metal.
“My locket?” she whispered.
Slowly she removed the necklace. The chain was gone. In its place was a thin braid of the softest yarns, in blues and greens and blacks and violets.
“I spun and dyed the yarn myself. I know it ain’t the same. I sent John and Clara back to look for the chain, but it must have fallen in the creek when you fell in.”
Christy grinned. “You heard about that?”
“Word travels fast around these here parts.”
“So I hear.”
Fairlight peered at Christy, her face lined with worry. “The braidin’ is all wrong, I know—”
“It’s beautiful,” Christy insisted. “More beautiful than before. All the colors of the mountains.” Her eyes overflowed with tears. “Thank you, Fairlight. It means more to me than you can know.”
Gently Christy opened the locket. The pictures were damp, but unharmed. Her loving family gazed back at her. Christy closed the cover and slipped the braid over her head. She felt the silver heart, close to her own heart again. It was part of her old life, and now, with Fairlight’s gift, part of her new one as well.
“Let’s start those reading lessons soon, all right?” Christy said.
“I can’t hardly wait,” Fairlight said eagerly.
Christy nodded. “Neither can I,” she said with sudden feeling.
She took a deep breath. The morning sun was full now, a glorious red-gold, filtering down through these mountains that were her home. She felt a tiny, cold hand take hold of hers.
“Ready?” Little Burl asked.
Christy smiled down at the little boy. “Did you ever see a baby learn to walk, Little Burl?” she asked, and then, at last, she knew the adventure she had longed for was about to begin.
Silent
Superstitions
Contents
The Characters
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
The Characters
CHRISTY RUDD HUDDLESTON, a nineteen-
year-old girl.
CHRISTY’S STUDENTS:
ROB ALLEN, age fourteen.
CREED ALLEN, age nine.
BESSIE COBURN, age twelve.
WRAIGHT HOLT, age seventeen.
ZACHARIAS HOLT, age nine.
BECKY HOLT, age seven.
VELLA HOLT, age five.
ISAAK MCHONE, age twelve.
SMITH O’TEALE, age fifteen.
ORTER BALL O’TEALE, age eleven.
MOUNTIE O’TEALE, age ten.
GEORGE O’TEALE, age nine.
MARY O’TEALE, age eight.
THOMAS O’TEALE, age six.
RUBY MAE MORRISON, age thirteen.
JOHN SPENCER, age fifteen.
CLARA SPENCER, age twelve.
ZADY SPENCER, age ten.
LUNDY TAYLOR, age seventeen.
ALICE HENDERSON, a Quaker mission worker from Ardmore, Pennsylvania.
GRANNY O’TEALE, great-grandmother of the O’Teale children.
SWANNIE O’TEALE, a mountain woman.
NATHAN O’TEALE, her husband. (Parents of Christy’s students Smith, Orter Ball, Mountie, George, Mary, and Thomas.)
WILMER O’TEALE, the retarded, epileptic O’Teale son.
DAVID GRANTLAND, the young minister.
IDA GRANTLAND, David’s sister.
DR. NEIL MACNEILL, the physician of the Cove.
JEB SPENCER, a mountain man.
FAIRLIGHT SPENCER, his wife. (Parents of Christy’s students John, Clara, and Zady.)
One
She’s a witch, I tell you! Ugly as a coot, with hardly no hair. She’s got monstrous red eyes and fingernails like the claws of a hawk!”
Mary O’Teale paused to warm her hands by the pot-bellied stove in the one-room schoolhouse. Her listeners crowded closer. “Old Marthy’s her name,” she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Late at night when the moon’s as full as a pumpkin, she comes ’round, makin’ mischief. If she takes a dislikin’ to you, she’ll sneak inside while you’re a-dreamin’ and put a curse on you.”
As she listened from her desk, Christy Huddleston couldn’t help smiling. Eight-year-old Mary definitely had a vivid imagination. Christy knew her students loved to tell each other “haunt tales.” But she worried about the younger children. They were easily frightened, and she didn’t want the stories getting out of hand.
“You’re just talkin’ to hear yerself talk, Mary,” said Ruby Mae Morrison, a thirteen-year-old with vibrant red hair and a personality to match. “Ain’t nobody ever seen Old Marthy.”
Mary jutted her chin. “My great-granny has,” she replied. She inched her right foot closer to the old stove. Like most of the children at the mission school, she did not own a pair of shoes. Even now, in January, Mary and her friends walked to school barefoot.
Ruby Mae twisted a strand of hair around her index finger. “You’re sayin’ Granny’s seen a witch, up-close like?”
Mary nodded. “Granny saw Old Marthy make someone eat a witch ball.”
“What’s . . . what’s that?” asked Ruby Mae.
“A witch ball’s a bunch of pine needles, all wrapped ’round and ’round with a person’s hair.”
“What happens when you eat it?”
“At the strike of twelve,” Mary whispered, “you turn into a big, hairy old bat. And there ain’t no turnin’ back, neither!”
Christy cleared her throat. “You know, it’s almost time for school to start,” she said, giving Mary a patient smile. “Maybe we’ve had enough of these silly stories for one day.”
“But Teacher, they ain’t silly,” Mary said. “They’re haunt tales.”
“Girls,” Christy asked gently, “are any of you afraid of these scary stories?”
No one answered.
“Well, let me ask you this. Are any of you afraid of the dark?”
Vella Holt, a tiny five-year-old with auburn pigtails, climbed onto Christy’s lap. “Oh, yes’m!” Vella exclaimed. “It’s scary to have to leave the firelight and walk into the shadows to bed. Most nights, I put the covers over my head.”
“Children!” Ruby Mae scoffed.
Christy couldn’t help grinning. Christy knew for a fact that Ruby Mae still liked to sleep with a tattered rag doll.
“It gives me prickles to peer at the dark,” Vella whispered to Christy. “I’m always scared for fear I’ll see a ghost.”
“I’ll let you in on a little secret,” Christy said. “I was like that when I was a girl.”
“You was?” Mary exclaimed.
“I’d lie there in my bed, shivering and shaking, thinking of all the stories I’d heard about ghosts and witches and whatnot.”
“So how’d you get over it?” Ruby Mae asked.
“One day they sang a certain song at Sunday school. Seemed as if it was just for me. I’ll sing it for you—
God will take care of you
Through every day, o’er all the way,
He will take care of you,
He will take care of you.”
Mary nodded thoughtfully. “That’s right nice. I like the sound of it.”
“So whenever I was scared of the dark,” Christy continued, stroking little Vella’s hair, “I’d sing those four lines over and over to myself. And you know what, girls? After a while, the love of God was more real to me than any old ghost. Pretty soon all the ghosts went away. Ever since then, the dark has seemed friendly and cozy.”
Mary reached over and gave her a shy hug. “Sing it again, Teacher, will you? Then I won’t disremember it.”
As Christy repeated the song, more of her students rushed into the schoolroom that also served as a church. She watched them as they entered—ragged, pale, probably hungry, almost always dirty. And as she sang, she was reminded once again of the beauty in those eager faces, and that the task set before her was a huge and difficult one.
When Christy had arrived here just a little over a week ago, she’d been full of high hopes about her new job as a teacher at the mission school in Cutter Gap, Tennessee. She’d never dreamed her class would contain sixty-seven students, ranging in age from five to seventeen. She’d never imagined that she’d be teaching in such primitive conditions, with just a handful of worn books and an assortment of borrowed, battered desks. A few of her students had basic arithmetic and reading skills, but most had never set foot in a schoolroom before.
Christy finished the song, but Mary and the others kept singing it over and over. Teaching school in Cutter Gap wasn’t going to be an easy job. Christy had quickly discovered this during her first long week at the mission school. But as she listened to Mary and the others raise their voices in song, she had the feeling it might just turn out to be more rewarding than she’d ever hoped.
That noon, Mary and her older sister, Mountie, slowly climbed up the steep hill behind the school. The dinner spell—Teacher called it “noon recess”—was almost over. But Mary wanted to get a look at the new ice slide the big boys had made. After the last snowstorm, the boys had created a long, narrow trail by packing down the snow. They’d drenched it with buckets of water, then let the slide freeze. Everyone agreed it was the best sliding hill anyone had seen in a long time.
Mary clutched Mountie’s hand when they reached the top of the slide. Several of the older boys were lined up, waiting to belly-flop down the icy chute. Some of them were using an old rag rug for a sled.
“Chicken.”
Mary cringed when she heard the familiar voice. She turned to see Lundy Taylor approaching.
“We ain’t chicken,” Mary replied. She squeezed her big sister’s hand a little tighter. “We just don’t want to.”
“Don’t want to ’cause you’re chicken,” Lundy said with a sneer.
Mary watched as her big brother, Smith, sped down the steep icy path. He slowed to a stop at the edge of the schoolyard.
“Besides, Teacher said only the big boys could go,” Mary said.
“So how’s come you’re up here?” Lundy demanded. “You and Mush-mouth?”
Mary stared up at the big boy looming above her. Lundy was seventeen and she was only eight, which was bad enough. It didn’t help that he was the biggest bully in the state of Tennessee, maybe even in the world. It was too bad Lundy and her brother were friends. Still, she had to stand up for her big sister. People were always picking on Mountie because she couldn’t talk like everyone else.
“Don’t you go callin’ Mountie names,” Mary said. She put her arm around Mountie’s thin shoulders. Mountie was two years older than Mary, but she needed a lot of protecting.
A bell clanged loudly. Mary looked down to see the new teacher on the porch, ringing the bell. She was so beautiful! After four days of school, Mary still couldn’t get over it. Maybe it was because Teacher came from a big city. Or maybe it was her fancy clothes—shoes of real leather and a red sweater so soft you could melt for the feel of it.
But Mary was pretty sure there was something else that made Teacher so beautiful. It was her eyes, wide and blue as a June sky. Every time Mary looked into those eyes, she felt safe and warm, the way she felt all wrapped up in one of her Granny’s quilts. Those were magic eyes. Pure magic.
The bell clanged again. “The dinner spell’s over,” Mary said.
Lundy held up a hand. “Not for Mush-mouth, it ain’t.”
Mary could hear trouble in his voice, but by the time she yanked on Mountie’s arm, Lundy’s strong hands had already clamped onto her sister’s shoulders. Mountie’s eyes were bright with fear.
“Let her go, Lundy!” Mary cried. “You’re hurtin’ her!”
“Whatever you say,” Lundy said, shoving Mountie aside.
Mary grabbed Mountie and turned to leave, but suddenly Lundy’s big foot was in the way. Mary felt a slight push on her back.
She tumbled forward, Mountie’s hand slipping from her grasp. Mary landed hard on the ice-covered slide. It felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. The ice was slick, and Mary could feel herself slowly gaining speed. She grabbed for a bush as it whizzed past, but she couldn’t hang on.
Faster and faster, she was flying down the mountain, screaming hard, her voice lost in the cold wind.
Mary reached out her hand again, hoping for something to slow her fall. Her palm smacked hard against something, and then she was flipping in an endless somersault, ’round and ’round. The school and the trees and the sky went topsy-turvy. Somewhere, up high, she could hear Lundy’s dark, loud laughter.
Then she hit, plowing head first into the trunk of a big oak. The world was very quiet. Lundy’s laughter had vanished. Mary’s arm burned like fire. And though she’d stopped tumbling, her head was still spinning. She could hear the shouts of other children; then everything went black and silent.
Two
As Christy ran across the schoolyard with Mary in her arms, she said a silent prayer. Please let Mary be all right. Please, God.
Thank goodness Miss Alice was home today. Alice Henderson, who had helped found the school where Christy taught, lived in a small cabin near the main mission house.
“Miss Alice!” Christy called as she made her way up the cabin steps.
The door opened to reveal a lovely, regal-looking woman wearing a crisp, blue dress. “Christy!” Miss Alice exclaimed. “What on earth—”
“She went down that icy slide the boys made,” Christy said breathlessly.
Miss Alice held open the door, and Christy carried Mary into the cozy warmth of the cabin. Several of the local women were gathered by the fire, sipping tea from china cups.
“Prayer meeting,” Miss Alice explained.
“That’s my Mary!” cried a wiry little woman. Her thinning gray hair hung in a long braid down her back. She wore a drab brown skirt and a faded calico blouse buttoned high on her neck. Her milky blue eyes were set deep in skin crisscrossed with fine wrinkles. And her lips were stained by tobacco juice.
The woman bustled over, leaning on a wooden walking stick for support. “Put her down,” she said to Christy. “She ain’t your kin.”
“I’m fine, Granny,” Mary mumbled, still dazed by her tumble down the hill. She had blacked out for a moment after hitting the tree. But she’d regained consciousness by the time Christy reached her.
“Christy, this is Mary’s great-grandmother,” Miss Alice explained. “Granny O’Teale, this is Christy Huddleston, our new teacher at the mission school.”
Granny did not answer. She tried to tug Mary out of Christy’s arms, but Mary hung onto Christy’s neck, refusing to go.
“Put her down, I’m a-tellin’ you,” Granny commanded. “Lordamercy, what have you done to my little Mary?”
“Some of the children said she was tripped,” Christy said.
“Is that what happened, Mary?”
The little girl nodded, but refused to meet Christy’s eyes.
“Who tripped you, sweetheart?” Miss Alice asked.
Mary buried her head on Christy’s shoulder.
“Lundy Taylor,” Christy muttered. “I’ve no doubt. He was up there with her.”
“It might—” Mary began. “It might have been an accident. I can’t rightly recollect how it happened. We’uns was all up there, and it was mighty slippery-like.”
Christy exchanged a glance with Miss Alice. Mary was probably afraid to accuse Lundy. He terrified the younger children. Even Christy felt nervous around the hulking bully.
Miss Alice led Christy to her bedroom. Christy set the little girl down gently on Miss Alice’s quilt-covered bed. Granny trailed behind, muttering something Christy couldn’t quite make out.
“Why don’t you two give me a minute to examine Mary and make sure she’s all right?” Miss Alice said.
“I promise I’m fine, Miss Alice,” Mary said quickly. “My arm’s pretty banged-up, is all.”
“Looky here,” Granny said. “Any doctorin’ needs doin’, I aim to do it.”
“I’d be proud to have your help, Granny,” Miss Alice said. “Why don’t you let me take a look at Mary first? Then you can take over.”
“I need to get back to the other children,” Christy said. She hated to leave, but Mary did appear to be all right. Her right arm was badly scraped. The beginnings of an ugly bruise were already visible. And there was a small knot where she’d bumped her head on the tree. But Mary was smiling calmly, apparently enjoying all the attention.
“I’ll let you know how Mary’s doing,” Miss Alice said. “You go back to work.”
Christy knelt beside the bed. “Mary, you take care of yourself, understand?”
Mary nodded. “Will you keep watch on Mountie for me? The others . . . they like to pick on her.”
“Of course I will,” Christy said. She took the little girl’s tiny, cold hand in her own.
Suddenly another hand, withered and spotted with age, grabbed hold of Christy’s. “Don’t you go near my girl, you hear?” Granny cried.
Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder Page 9
