by Green, Jeri
But she had to eat. She had to feed her kids and keep them clothed. Not to mention keep a dry roof over all their heads. Like a lot of things, it wasn’t what Alswyth wanted to do, but what she had to do.
So, she had done it. She’d clenched her teeth and kept her mouth shut and drove their bus. Just like they wanted. And she had kept their small house in town and raised her girls alone.
Now, she was forever entombed inside a vehicle she’d hated at the bottom of a gorge with tons of rock and dirt and only the smallest part of a fender exposed to the elements as her tombstone and grave marker.
Chapter Seventeen
Dougal Orner wanted to take Chandra Elanor by the hair of the head and pull her back into his truck. It was an image he liked to replay over and over in his mind. What did she see in his cousin, Berth Carlisle, anyway? And to top it off, Dougal’s own mother had given Chandra her blessing to start seeing Berth!
“Dougal takes you for granted,” Estill had said when Chandra complained to her one night.
Women.
They all sided together.
Dougal wanted to laugh when he saw Chandra with Berth that next week. But it was no laughing matter. They’d hooked up so fast it made Dougal’s head spin. And Berth Carlisle, of all people, now had Dougal’s girl on his arm. It was more than disgusting. It was downright criminal. That hayseed was nothing but a local yokel whose daddy had scored big in investments in the stock market.
Probably had some insider slipping him advanced tips on when to buy and when to sell. Everybody knew the Carlisles were inbred ignoramuses from way back. They just had a talent for making money.
Dougal was sure it was the Carlisle loot that had attracted Chandra in the first place. It could not have been his cousin’s looks. Berth was uglier than homemade soap.
But Dougal could do nothing. He sat in his truck and watched while Chandra gave Berth all those sweet little smiles that used to be his.
And what was this!
He couldn’t believe his eyes. Chandra was giving Dougal’s cousin some serious sugar, right there on Main Street! That was it, Dougal decided.
His anger boiled as he sat there, remembering his mother urging Chandra on. After it was all over and Chandra had left, Dougal pitched a fit. What was wrong with his mother? Had she suddenly gone senile?
“Dougal,” Estill had said, “let her go. I’ve talked to Chandra. I don’t know how to say this, but she’s lost her spark for you.”
Lost her spark! And since when did his mother side with anybody else other than her own son! It was unnatural! Estill was his mother. Not Chandra’s. But the way she had talked about the girl, you would have thought Chandra suckled at her breast, not him.
Dougal stuck a big chaw of tobacco in his mouth to keep from gritting his teeth.
He had not grown up in Estill Orner’s house for nothing. Time for something really bad to happen. He’d show Berth Carlisle who was the big man in High Rock County.
Even if it killed him.
* * *
Estill Orner knew her son was unhappy. The crystals told her that much. So did the fact that she was Dougal’s mother. Being a woman and knowing her son, it wasn’t hard to figure out the cause of Dougal’s unhappiness. Girls. Namely, one girl named Chandra Elanor.
That vixen had strung Dougal along for years.
Since they were young teenagers, Dougal had been smitten. It was Chandra’s aura, and she’d held Dougal under her spell. Estill knew that Chandra was a twin. Worse still, she belonged to Granny Dilcie’s clan. Those two things were like double whammies. Dougal didn’t stand a chance.
Dilcie was into healing and helping. She was an aged herbalist who looked to the Ancients and to Nature for remedies and charms. But for Estill, that kind of magic was child’s play.
Estill knew that in the realm of the other worlds, the strongest magic lived in the darker spheres where demons and devils dwelled. As a young girl, Estill had walked to the crossroads one pitch-black night. She had met the Black Man. He was not, like some thought, called that because of the color of his skin. The name described his heart.
He was the real deal. Swarthy, handsome, with a voice as deep as a well. His eyes were black and fathomless. He smelled of char and soot, like smoked meat.
There was a full moon that night. The crickets and frogs sounded like a riotous orchestra with no band leader. Bugs buzzed around her head. Like legions.
Estill took off all her clothes and left them on her back porch. The air was soupy, unusually humid. No breeze stirred. She saw a bat swoop low, diving in front of her face before flying off into the night.
Estill heard the hoot owl in the far distance. A whippoorwill trilled from some far tree branch. She knew exactly where to head. Her foot never stumbled. As she walked up to the crossroads, all noise ceased. An eerie silence, like the world was suddenly blanketed by snow, came down all around her. She saw heat lightning flash in the west.
She got down on her back and spread her arms in the center of the road and waited.
He appeared out of nowhere, a tall elegant figure dressed in black from head to toe.
“Good evening, Estill,” he said. “I was expecting you.”
She rose from the dirt and stood in front of him, searching his dark eyes. Flames burned inside of them. Was it madness, she wondered.
His finger lightly touched her cheek. The long fingernail left a small dark circle, like a beauty mark, at the exact point of contact. He had branded Estill. From that second on, she was his. The mark never faded.
That had been long ago, when the blood that pulsed inside her veins was vibrant and full of youthful energy. She was older now, with a grown son.
Estill was a small woman with long, thick, black hair. Here and there, the gray had streaked its waves. She gathered the unruly mop of hair in a rag string and tied it loosely at the nape of her neck. Unlike most women in the backwoods, Estill preferred to wear men’s pants and work shirts. More practical, she thought. Especially when she took to the saddle on her horse, Midnight.
Estill never married, though she’d lived with Glenitt Selvin for many years. They had one son, Dougal. Glenitt refused to give Dougal his last name. That was fine with Estill. Orner was a fine mountain name and would do for Dougal as well as any other.
Glenitt came and went as he pleased. Theirs was a loose arrangement. He sent her money at irregular time. Twenty dollars here. Forty there. Not much, but enough to ward off starvation in lean times.
Estill lived off the land. She foraged in the woods surrounding her cabin, utilizing the plants and bark of trees for food, medicine, and teas. Dougal grew up wild and untamed and with Estill’s blessing. Her own father had been a harsh disciplinarian, and Estill swore that no hand would ever hit her son in anger.
Estill read Tarot cards, tea leaves, coffee grounds, spider webs, and clouds, not unlike the other granny witches around the area, but she always dwelt on the darker side, the omens and curses rather than the cures and protection. Despite this fact, many knocked on her door, for Estill Orner was the best around when it came to ‘seeing” in her crystal ball.
Estill shunned the old ways of granny witches, of helping her neighbors and family just for the sake of helping. She charged her customers a fee. Whatever they could pay. If not in currency, then in an animal or herbs.
Estill wanted more. More for herself and more for Dougal. That was the one thing that had driven her all her life. She had little education, but what she did have was a very old book of spells and incantations.
Where did it come from?
Estill would never say. Some folks guessed it had been given to her by the Black Man she’d met that night at the crossroads.
Whatever its origin, it was all she needed.
Estill Orner had the power to make very bad medicine.
Chapter Eighteen
The old cabin had stood in the back country for generations. It was situated in a little glen near a clear running stream. It was thoug
ht to have been abandoned decades ago, for the surrounding forest had slowly encroached upon it, engulfing it in a wall of vegetation and trees. Still, its weathered logs stood defiant and strong against their advance. The land and the old cabin belonged to the Ralgnild (Ru-kneeled) clan. Everyone thought that all of the family died or moved off the mountain years ago, but that was not the case.
The pristine forest surrounding the dilapidated cabin was filled with all species of wildlife. Their songs and cries filled the air. If you listened hard enough, you could hear the roar of a mountain panther or black bear. The sights and sounds of life abounded throughout the glen, except in the area immediately surrounding the old cabin.
There, the grass refused to grow. The hardpan was barren of trees. It formed a packed ring around the little house that turned to mud and muck during rainy spells.
The raucous nocturnal chorus of chirping crickets, heard elsewhere in the woods at night, was silent here. No lightening bugs flew near the cabin. The golden flashes of miniature neon lights were absent in the ebony darkness outside its window. The air hung heavy and black as a tomb. No songbirds trilled their joyous calls. Silence surrounded the cabin like a tourniquet. The only birds ever seen on the roof were black ravens. Occasionally, a pair would dare to nest in the eaves of the old building.
Honeysuckle vines managed to clamber up the old rock chimney. The wooden shake shingles were ragged, and a few were missing from the sagging roof. The windows still bore the wavy bubbled-glass panes that belonged to the original owners.
The whole place looked forlorn and abandoned. Two empty rocking chairs sat on the porch, along with a rusted coffee can and a dead plant. A huge flat rock served as a step. Over the door hung a large bundle of dried leather beans strung together for protection and good luck. They were covered in spider webs and looked as if they’d hung for about as long as the cabin had been standing.
But looks were deceiving. The cabin was not deserted. It only appeared that way.
The lone occupant was a little old woman, one of the Ancients. She had lived her whole life in the protected glen of this mountain spot, chopping her own wood and growing her food in the garden she kept in a short distance from her home. Long summer days were spent storing the harvest for the barren winter months. Surviving kept her occupied. She was not lonely. The spirits kept her company.
Aurora Ralgnild was the seventh daughter, born to her parents on the seventh hour of Christmas day. That fact alone told everyone she was gifted with the “powers.” And if that was not enough, Aurora was born with a caul covering her head. Her family instinctively knew that, like her granny, Aurora would have the “sight.”
And they were right. For as long as she could remember, Aurora had been connected to the spirit world, both living and dead.
She could look into people’s souls and see things that were going to happen. Aurora’s predictions were uncannily accurate. Her prophecies always came true. If some folks had a sixth or seventh sense, Aurora was blessed with many more beyond that.
The little girl child was also born into a family of beautiful women. It was evident quite early on that this baby’s attractiveness would surpass both her mother and her sisters. Her beauty was breathtaking. Thick raven tresses cascaded down her shoulders in undulating waves of silky softness. Her skin was smooth and unblemished. But it was her violet eyes that were her most amazing feature.
And it was her violet eyes that showed her darkest secrets.
As a very young girl, Aurora discovered the traveling circuit preacher who rode the mountains on a white mule was not all that he appeared to be.
The preacher was quite popular among the people. He was fond of little girls, too.
Too fond.
Aurora tried to tell her mother to stay clear of this man, but what adult listens to the warnings of a small child.
“Children are born liars,” the preacher said. “Born into Adam’s sin. Children have wicked imaginations. Do not be fooled by their angelic faces. Do not be fooled. Dismiss their evil stories. They live in a make-believe world.
“Oh, Mothers! Oh, Fathers! Cast out the imps that fill your children’s minds. If you spare the rod, you will reap the harvests of sorrow. Mark my words.”
The preacher was handsome and, even though he was a stranger, his warm laugh and easy way made the mountain folk accept and trust him as a real man of God. His charm was his protection. He wore it like a mantle. His Bible stood between him and the usual wariness and suspicion that local people had for outsiders. And he used it like a sword to cut away at their suspicion and natural shyness.
When little Ocey Sodder went missing while picking blackberries, no one but Aurora knew who was responsible for the little girl’s disappearance. Aurora tried to tell her father what had happened.
“It’s the preacher,” she said. “He took Ocey. Daddy, it’s the preacher man.”
“Such vile lies!” her father screamed. “Wicked imagination. Spare the rod and spoil the child!”
Aurora received the beating of her life.
Her father was outraged. What had possessed his little girl to accuse the nice preacher man?
It was the beginning of Aurora’s silence. From that time forward, the little girl kept whatever she saw to herself. As she grew, the visions multiplied. But still, she refused to tell anyone. No one would have believed her. They would only call her impure and evil.
She kept the secret locked deep inside that her father helped deliver her teenage cousin’s baby. That after it was born, it was her own daddy’s hand that cupped over the little one’s mouth, smothering the little girl to silence its cries. She never told a soul that her father took the tiny body and wrapped it in cloth. That he took it out into the woods, and buried it in an unmarked grave. She saw it all in a vision.
But who would have believed such stories about such a kind and decent man?
No one.
They would have laughed at her wild tales.
Called her crazy.
Or worse.
And Aurora’s cousin and her father kept the secret, too. They never said a word about what had happened that day for as long as they lived. It was just as well. The baby was dead and buried.
Aurora had learned her lesson well. The visions came, one after another, but she locked them inside her heart.
She was mum the day her sister, Carlyss, married Everand.
She did not tell Carlyss about the death dream.
Aurora watched her sister and Everand speak their vows before the preacher in her parents’ house. Carlyss looked so pretty in her white dress. She had white flowers in her hair. Everand was so handsome in his Sunday finest. He looked so proud. They looked so happy.
What would they say if she told them the truth? If she pulled the veil back and let them see tomorrow? Would they thank her? Would they curse her?
She knew the answer.
She looked on as Everand kissed Carlyss and vowed before God Almighty to love and protect her until death. She watched them, knowing that her sister’s days were numbered.
Everand would soon slay Carlyss in a fit of anger.
In her dream the night before her sister’s wedding, Aurora saw Everand as clearly as if he’d been standing in front of her. His features were distorted in anger. His face was red. His eyes were filled with hatred. He stomped out to his shed. His knuckles were white and his jaw muscles twitched as he exited the shed. The ax was in his hand.
There was a fight. Heated words. The battle had gone on for days. Neither would give an inch. But Everand was the man of the house. He should have his way. He would have his way, he decided, storming out of the house.
Carlyss heard the screen door slam. She ignored it. There was supper to fix. Even if Everand pouted and refused to eat, Carlyss was hungry. She would finish the meal and place it before him and if he refused it, she’d toss the leftovers out the back door. Let him cut his nose off to spite his face. It was no concern of hers.
Her siste
r was standing at the stove with her back to the room. Everand entered the house as quiet as a cockroach. He raised the ax high into the air and swung it down onto the back of Carlyss’ head with all his might.
Aurora had awakened with a scream. She was sweating and clutching the coarse sheeting.
“What is it?” Carlyss had said.
It was the eve before her sister’s wedding, the last night she and Carlyss would share a bedroom.
“Nothing,” Aurora said. “Nothing.”
“It’s just a dream, Aurora,” Carlyss said. “Just a bad dream. You forget it, right now. Go back to sleep. Before you know it, it will be morning and my wedding day! My wedding day, Aurora! I can hardly wait!”
Nobody would believe the horrific nightmare she’d experienced that night would ever unfold. The couple were radiant and smiling as they stood there eating homemade cake.
So in love.
Yet doomed.
Everand and Carlyss had been married scarcely three months before they sent for Bill Whittaker to arrest Everand for Carlyss’s murder. Both families were beside themselves. Aurora’s parents had lost a daughter, and Carlyss was sentenced to death. He was electrocuted before the year was out.
Tragedies, glad tidings, bad luck, and deaths, Aurora knew them all before they happened. And she kept them all locked inside her beautiful head. She had to.
She had tried to tell them, to warn them. But they would not heed. They would not listen. They only punished her and beat her naked little legs with a keen switch until they were striped purple and bleeding.
* * *
Aurora never let her elders know that she could talk to the dead, either. If they beat her for trying to tell them the truth about the living, what would they do to her for conversing with the spirits?
Aurora didn’t want to think about it.
She had been surprised at her first encounter. She’d talked to the spirit out of childlike curiosity. More surprisingly, the ghost had talked back to her.
