Some Dark Holler (The Redemption of Ephraim Cutler Book 1)

by Luke Bauserman

  Ephraim had carefully positioned each pumpkin bottom down when they were only the size of his fist. Each of them had grown well-formed and round, and now they were turning orange evenly on all sides. They were pumpkins to be proud of. “In a few weeks I’ll come plow the garden under for next year,” he said.

  The clatter of a passing cart approached, and they both turned. A russet-colored billy goat was pulling a small, creaky wagon, and a wrinkled old woman walked alongside it, smoking a clay pipe. Her bare feet, covered in red dust, were visible beneath the hem of her patchwork dress.

  Reverend Boggs groaned and stepped in front of Ephraim.

  “Good mornin’ to ye, Reverend,” the old woman said around the stem of her pipe. She had a swarthy complexion and pale hazel eyes. Her dark hair, streaked with gray, fell across her shoulders in two long braids.

  “Good morning, Nancy,” Boggs said with a frown.

  The old lady eyed the corn peeking out of Ephraim’s sack. “That’s some mighty fine corn ye got there. It’ll make a fine corn dodger.”

  “It will,” the reverend said. “What brings you to town?”

  The old woman reached down and scratched her goat behind the horns. “I’ve just been a-doctorin’ Mrs. Lemons. She burned her hand somethin’ fierce.”

  Boggs’s face stiffened.

  “They didn’t have much to pay me with. All they could give me were them there shucky beans.” She pointed to her cart. Inside, among dried leaves of various herbs and bottled tinctures, lay a single string of dried beans. “You wouldn’t be willin’ to part with some of that corn, would ye, Reverend?”

  “You know how I feel about your doctoring.”

  Nancy narrowed her eyes. Her lips formed a hard smile. “I know, I know. But I figured it wouldn’t hurt to ask. Sharin’ with an old woman just seemed like the sort of Christian thing I’ve known ye to do.”

  Boggs folded his arms. “I’m afraid I can’t give support in any way to a practice that isn’t in harmony with the will of God.”

  “Yeah. Well, me ’n’ you don’t see eye to eye on the ‘will of God,’ Reverend.” Nancy pulled out her pipe and spat in the dirt. “S’pose I’d best be movin’ on. Good day to ye.”

  She carried on, her goat trotting along beside.

  “Why don’t you like old Barefoot Nancy?” Ephraim asked.

  “It’s not her I don’t like, Ephraim. She’s a child of God just like you and me. What I don’t like is her witchcraft.”

  Ephraim’s brow furrowed. “But a witch ain’t the same thing as a granny doctor.”

  Reverend Boggs shook his head. “In the eyes of the Lord, it’s all the same. Meddling with life and death, sickness and health, through the use of strange herbs and unholy charms—it’s all interfering with the will of the Lord.”

  Ephraim shrugged and shouldered the sacks of corn. He walked to where Molly stood, tied the sacks shut, and threw them over the saddle.

  “You’d do best to stay away from her,” Boggs said. “A boy like you ought to pursue a life in the ministry. Have you ever thought about it?”

  Ephraim shook his head. “No, not really.” He didn’t think about much besides taking care of Ma.

  “Think on it,” Boggs said. “I have a few ideas I’d like to share with you—opportunities for your future. But you think on it first.”

  “I will. Thank you, Reverend.”

  As the reverend returned inside, Ephraim examined Molly’s hooves. “Looks like you threw a shoe,” he said, lifting a bare hoof from the ground. He pulled the reins over her head and led her out into the road. “We’ll have to stop at Manson’s and get a new shoe put on,” he said, patting the mare’s flank.

  Barefoot Nancy stood outside Manson Owens’s empty forge, waiting for the blacksmith to return.

  “You’re Lucretia Cutler’s boy, ain’t ye?” she said as Ephraim led Molly to the forge’s hitching post.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ephraim said.

  Nancy pulled the pipe from her lips and studied his face. Ephraim smelled the sweet scent of tobacco on her breath. “I’d recognize them blue eyes anywhere. Look just like your daddy’s did. There wasn’t a girl in this county that didn’t straighten her skirts when he’d walk by. I was already an old woman when I come to these parts, but if I weren’t, I’d’ve been right there with ’em, battin’ my eyelashes.”

  Ephraim’s face grew hot.

  “How old are ye?”

  “I’m sixteen, ma’am.”

  Nancy nodded. “I reckoned that was ’bout right. He was a good man, your daddy. Shame he didn’t make it home from the war to raise ye.” Nancy reached down and scratched her goat behind the ears. “He gave me Earl here in exchange for doctorin’ that horse of your’n. She was just a filly then.”

  She frowned, and her eyes grew distant. “That was back afore the preacher started accusin’ me of witchery.” She snorted. “He don’t know witchery from a hole in the ground. I’d like to see where in the Good Book he come up with the notion that doctorin’ is wickedness. Cite me a verse!” She raised her finger in the air. “Quote me scripture on it! My pappy was a man of the cloth, and he healed and cured ten times the folks I have, least that’s what Mammy told me. That preacher is so contrary, if ye throwed him in a river, he’d float upstream.”

  Nancy scratched Earl’s head. The goat pushed its head against her hand, willing her to continue.

  “Used to be that folks called me to take care of everythin’ from colicky babes to cows with the milk fever. Now they’d just as soon run me off as look at me. The reverend’s got ’em all afeared of my doctorin’.” Nancy winked at Ephraim. “It’s the least I can do to stop in and needle him from time to time. Got him good and riled this mornin’, didn’t I?” She wrinkled her nose in a smile.

  “He sure don’t like your doctorin’.”

  Nancy glanced down at her goat. “We was as plump as grain-fed hens afore that preacher come to town, weren’t we, Earl?” She sighed. “I guess there ain’t a solitary soul in this world who don’t fall on hard times some time or another. Earl and me has had our turn at ’em for a while now. But we keep hangin’ on, just like a hair in a biscuit, don’t we?”

  She looked back at Ephraim. “Ain’t nothin’ can be done ’bout it ’cept to wait for the hard times to leave and go lookin’ for somebody else. Could be Reverend Boggs they grab hold of next.” She grinned and shook her head. “There I go, sayin’ un-Christian things. I’d be lyin’ if I said I don’t think it though.”

  Ephraim had never spoken directly with the granny woman before. Her eyes twinkled kindly as she spoke, and he found himself smiling. He glanced at the lone strand of dry beans in her cart and felt a kinship with the old woman; he and Ma had known the groaning of empty bellies from time to time.

  He hefted one sack of corn off Molly’s saddle and placed it in Nancy’s cart. “You can have that,” he said.

  Nancy stepped forward and took his right hand in both of hers. Her skin felt thin and callused.

  “Thank ye.” Her hazel eyes disappeared in a web of wrinkles as she smiled and patted his hand. “You’re a good man, a Good Samaritan, just like your daddy.”

  Manson Owens walked in through the back door of the forge. “Mornin’, Nancy. Ephraim.”

  “Mornin’, Manson,” Nancy said. “How are ye?”

  The blacksmith’s cheeks bulged as he shook his head and blew out a breath. “A bear got into my bee gums sometime last night while I was out coon huntin’. Left ’em lookin’ like the hindquarters of hard luck. There wasn’t much left worth savin’.”

  Nancy clucked her tongue. “Them bears is ornery critters.”

  Manson nodded. “From the look of the tracks, this is an old’n. He’s got one hind paw turned inwards.”

  Nancy raised an eyebrow. “Sounds like Ol’ Reelfoot. Last I heard tell, he killed two of Franz Akers’s hogs.”

  Manson nodded. “I figure it’s him all right.” He pointed to a large wrought-iron trap hanging on
a peg. “We may not be eatin’ much honey this winter, but I assure you we’ll be fat on bear meat.”

  Nancy laughed. “Best of luck to ye. Reelfoot’s a clever one. I’ve heard a few folks say they was goin’ to get him, but no one has yet.”

  Manson smiled. “I built that trap special for him.” He shook his head. “But that’s enough about my bear troubles. What brings you by?”

  “I just stopped in to see if’n ye could trim Earl’s hooves. We’re headin’ to Pendleton County, and I cain’t have him go lame on the trail.”

  “Sure thing, Nancy.”

  Manson unhitched the goat from the cart and walked it into the smithy. A small stanchion sat in one corner of the shop. Manson guided Earl up the ramp and fastened him to a crossbar.

  “Ephraim, would you get a little feed from that sack over there and put it in the basket for the goat?” Manson pointed to the feed basket on the stanchion.

  “Yessir.” Ephraim put down his sack of corn and fetched the feed.

  Manson rummaged around in a wooden crate for a pair of nippers. He returned to the stanchion and lifted Earl’s muddy hoof in one hand. “If I don’t catch this bear in my trap, I may have need of your trackin’ ability, son.”

  Ephraim laughed. “Aw, I ain’t nothin’ special. I just get lucky, that’s all.”

  “You must get lucky every time I go huntin’ with you, then.”

  Ephraim felt himself turn red.

  “Don’t be shy, boy. When you’re good, you’re good!” Manson bent over to grab the goat’s foot, groaning as he did.

  “Let me get that for you, Mr. Owens.” Ephraim rolled up his sleeves and lifted Earl’s hoof.

  “Much appreciated,” Manson said. “All these years of smithin’ ain’t been easy on my back.”

  Across the street from the forge, a group of giggling girls sat on the porch of Coleman’s Dry Goods. Ephraim glanced over at them, and several looked away, giggling even louder.

  The door to the store opened, and Isabel Coleman stepped out. When she looked across the street, her eyes widened. “Ephraim!” She ran down the stairs and over the road, dark braids slapping her back. She entered the forge and wrapped him in a hug. Isabel and Ephraim had sat beside each other at the common school, and they had been friends ever since.

  “Good morning, Nancy. Good morning, Manson,” the girl said, curtseying to each of them in turn.

  Nancy smiled at the girl. “Well, ain’t ye as pretty as a speckled pup!”

  Ephraim couldn’t help but smile. “How was Charleston, Isabel?”

  “I just got back last night,” Isabel said. “I still wish you’d have come with us.”

  Ephraim looked at his feet. “I wish I could have, but you know how Ma is. Got to look after her.”

  Isabel nodded. “Well, when your ma gets better, you’ll both have to come. Aunt Eliza told me again that I can bring anyone I like. She lives by herself and has three spare rooms.”

  Ephraim felt a lump in his throat. When your ma gets better. Sweet Isabel, always on the sunny side. He felt no such hope.

  “You really have to see Charleston for yourself,” Isabel continued. “They have iced cream, buildings bigger than anything around here, and the city folk stay out late every night. The streets are lit by gaslights. You should see the clothes they wear!” Isabel’s eyes were bright, the way they always were when she got excited.

  Isabel’s aunt in Charleston sent for her once a year, and every time, Isabel came back to Sixmile Creek sporting fancy dresses, new dance steps, and foreign ways of saying things. She was turning into a lady.

  But meanwhile, Ma’s failing health was turning Ephraim into a caretaker. He didn’t expect Isabel to understand the gap that had opened between them or the pang he felt every time he saw her.

  Isabel clapped her hands together, her eyes twinkling. “Ooh! I almost forgot. Tonight is the stir-off at the Ewings’ place, isn’t it!”

  “It is,” Ephraim said. “Peyton mentioned it to me.”

  Isabel clasped her hands together. “Will you come? There’s going to be a dance.”

  Ephraim shifted from one foot to the other. “I don’t know.” He knew Ma would forbid it if he asked. He’d made the mistake of talking about Isabel for too long a few months ago. His mother, sensing her son’s heart wandering far from the cabin, had erupted into a fit of jealous rage.

  “Please come,” Isabel said. “I brought you a present from Charleston. I want to give it to you there.”

  A warm bubble rose in Ephraim’s chest. Isabel had been thinking about him while she was gone. “I’ll try,” he said quickly.

  “Good! It will be a fine time,” Isabel said. “I’ve got to head home now. Ma’s making stack cakes for the stir-off, and she told me to get a bushel of apples over at the Millers’ orchard.” She waved goodbye and ran back across the street.

  At the stanchion, Manson chuckled and raised his eyebrows. “She sure was glad to see you, Ephraim.”

  Nancy nodded. “I believe she’s sweet on you.”

  Ephraim pulled at the collar of his shirt. “She ain’t sweet on me.”

  Nancy laughed. “Don’t you disappoint her, now. You best be at that stir-off tonight.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Ephraim said, scuffing the toe of his boot on the floor. His face felt hot again.

  “That ought to do it,” Manson said, laying down the nippers and unhooking Earl from the stanchion. He stood up, wiped his hands on his apron, led the goat down the ramp, and hitched it back to Nancy’s wagon.

  “What do I owe ye?” Nancy asked.

  Manson shook his head. “Nothin’. You’ve done plenty for me and my family over the years. Trimmin’ your goat’s hooves is the least I can do.”

  “I’ve been done two good turns in one day,” Nancy said. Her voice sounded choked. She turned away from the blacksmith, blinking rapidly. “Thank ye both.” She led the goat out to the road and strode away, the wagon trundling along beside her.

  “Now, what can I do for you, young man?” Manson said, turning to Ephraim.

  “Molly’s lost a shoe.”

  “Well, bring her on in, and we’ll fix that.”

  Ephraim led the mare in and passed the reins to Manson. The blacksmith stooped and inspected the shoeless hoof.

  Ephraim glanced back at the road after Nancy. “I don’t understand it,” he said. “How could anyone not like Nancy?”

  “You’re talkin’ ’bout Reverend Boggs, I presume,” Manson said. His voice sounded strained from being bent over. He put Molly’s leg down and straightened, one hand clamped on his lower back.

  Ephraim nodded. “Him for sure. But the way Nancy talks, most people around here don’t like her like they used to. Did she really make a scene in church?”

  Manson raised an eyebrow. “She sure did. I was there.” He selected a few tools from his bench and placed them in the pockets of his leather apron.

  “I heard folks say that,” Ephraim said, “but I wasn’t there.” The Cutler family’s church attendance had been spotty when he was a child. It had taken several years of visits from Reverend Boggs before Ma had seen the value in Sunday worship.

  Manson pulled Molly’s foot up between his knees and began scraping dirt out of the sole with a knife. “Well, it weren’t too long after Reverend Boggs came to Sixmile Creek that it happened. Come to think of it, it was around the same time they hung Wes Sherman—’bout a year after the war. Everyone pitched in to build the church and Boggs’s house. I’m ashamed to say I don’t recall what the good reverend was sermonizin’ on that day, but he started preachin’ against doctorin’, said such things were a sin and them that did it were witches. ’Bout that time, Nancy stood up—she went to church in them days—and let me tell you, boy,” Manson glanced at Ephraim, “she weren’t a-standin’ up to say amen. She marched straight to the podium and slammed her fist down smack in the middle of the reverend’s Bible. The whole chapel went quiet as a graveyard. Every soul in the congregation had thei
r eyes on Nancy.” Manson shook his head. “Even old Hebe Washburne woke up to see what was goin’ to happen, and knowin’ him, he was probably sleeping off three quarts of red-eye liquor.” He pulled out a pair of nippers and started trimming the hoof.

  “What’d Reverend Boggs do?”

  “Nothin’ at first. Nancy leaned over that podium and said, ‘Listen here. The good Lord made every herb in these hills, and you mean to tell me that if I use ’em to help folks, He’s goin’ to send me to Hell?’

  “Well, you could just see the color risin’ in the reverend’s face. After she finished, he walked out in front of her and told the congregation that interfering in matters of life and death was contrary to the will of God.”

  Ephraim shook his head. “That’s what he told me this morning.”

  Manson held a shoe up to Molly’s foot, then moved to an anvil and sized it with a few blows from a hammer. “I think he could’ve stopped there and folks would’ve disremembered the whole thing, but he went on and accused Nancy directly. He said he had been out for a walk in the woods the night before—said he often took to the woods at night, because that was where he prepared his sermons. While he was out a-walkin’, he said he run across Nancy holdin’ concert with a demon. He claimed she was a witch and that her goat wasn’t no animal, it was her familiar. Then, he held his Bible up in the air and declared that anyone who sought the services of this witch was worthy of hellfire. He told Nancy to get out of his church, and when no one stepped up to defend her, she did.”

  “So which one of them do you reckon is right?” Ephraim asked.

  The blacksmith grunted as he drove nails through the shoe into the hoof. “I can’t rightly say. They’ve both done a lot of good for folks. But they get along like a drunkard and a temperance society. It’s a queer thing.”

  Ephraim deposited the sack of corn in the smokehouse and returned to the cabin. Ma sat wrapped in a quilt, slumbering in her rocking chair.

  He stood in front of the fireplace, studying his carvings along the mantel. He wanted to prepare a gift for Isabel. He still couldn’t believe that she had brought him something from Charleston! In a city far from Sixmile Creek, a place full of gaslights, fancy clothes, and who knew what other distractions, Isabel had thought of him. His heart swelled.