The Princess Club / Family Secrets / Mountain Madness

by Catherine Marshall

  “You’re both too fast for me,” said their mother, pausing to catch her breath. “Look at us, all a-covered with mud! What’ll we tell your pa?”

  “We’ll tell him we got into a fearsome mud fight,” John said with a grin. “And I won.”

  “I want to win,” Clara said.

  “We’ll tell him it was a draw,” said Fairlight. She sighed. “I hate keepin’ a secret from folks this way. It just don’t feel right. But I s’pose a promise is a promise.”

  “Ma?” Clara asked. “Are you afeared?”

  “Don’t worry. I’m here with you.” She squeezed Clara’s hand. “Come on. We’re almost to the top.”

  They climbed on in silence. The rain made little tapping sounds as it hit the umbrella of trees over their heads. The ground was slippery as butter. Wet branches slapped at Clara’s arms, stinging her. With the sun blocked by clouds, it was nearly as dark as twilight.

  Clara wondered if they should have taken the other path up. It was much rockier, but it wasn’t as steep. Because there weren’t as many trees, John had been afraid someone would notice them heading up, so they’d come this way instead.

  At last the trees began to thin. Rocks replaced the underbrush. Up ahead, nearly at the summit, was the place they’d climbed so far to reach.

  It was a small, homely hut, even plainer than any of the cabins in Cutter Gap. On one side was a stack of logs. A small iron kettle hung outside the door.

  It was a sad, run-down place. Seeing it always made Clara glad for her own cabin, brightened by her parents’ love.

  But if the little hut made her sad, the space around it always made Clara smile. Hanging from tree after tree were the most amazing birdhouses Clara had ever seen. In fact, they were the only birdhouses she’d ever seen.

  The first time she’d seen them, Clara hadn’t quite believed her eyes. What a crazy notion, houses for birds! They had chimneys and windows and mailboxes and all manner of silly things a bird would never want.

  Soon she saw that the wonderful carved birdhouses were like palaces to the birds who were lucky enough to nest in them. And she had to admit that the carving was something to behold. Finer than anything even her own pa could do—and he was the best whittler in Cutter Gap.

  “Hello?” John called. He cupped his hands around his mouth and called again. No one answered.

  “He ain’t here,” Clara said.

  Cautiously, John poked his head into the little hut. When he looked at Clara, his expression sent shivers through her.

  “He’s gone, all right,” John said in a whisper, “and so is his gun.”

  Twelve

  Step, slide. Step, slide. Step, slide.

  It seemed that for every step Christy took up Boggin Mountain, she slipped back just as far.

  She paused, arm crooked around a thin pine, and tried to catch her breath.

  John Spencer had been right. This was a tough climb. Especially on rain-slick rocks. Even on a sunny, dry day, this steep incline would have been hard. But today, in the rain, it was well-nigh impossible. She’d taken the longer, rockier route, hoping it would be easier. But nothing about this climb was easy.

  Not for the first time, Christy considered giving up. She’d made it about two-thirds of the way to the top, after all.

  And she’d proved her point. That was the important thing. She’d faced her fear.

  Amazingly, she’d been more afraid back at the school, just looking at this mountain. Now, as she struggled to climb it, all her energy was focused on taking the next step, and then the next. The notion that she’d run into some wild-eyed creature called the Boggin seemed almost silly . . . almost.

  “Well,” Christy said to herself, “I’ve come this far. I might as well go to the top.”

  She started her slow ascent again. She aimed toward a spot near a ledge of huge rocks. That would put her fairly close to the summit. When she got there, she promised herself, she could rest again.

  Step, slide. Step, slide. This was crazy, all right. Brave, perhaps, but crazy.

  The rain quickened. It was cold on her neck. The wind swayed the great trees around her. She was glad she’d borrowed Miss Ida’s raincoat. Christy had told her she was “going for a little walk.” What would Miss Ida say when she saw the mud streaks on her coat?

  Step, slide. Step, slide. Suddenly Christy heard a strange grinding noise.

  She looked up to see a great boulder tumbling down the mountain. It hit a tree, then another, then continued on its way.

  There’d been rock slides recently because of all the rain, Christy recalled with a jolt. She stood rigidly, her heart pounding, her fists clenched.

  Was that all? Just one boulder and nothing more? Was it safe to go on?

  She took another tentative step, and then it happened.

  With a thunderous crash, the rocky ledge crumbled like a tower of children’s blocks. Tiny pebbles and giant, sharp rocks began to roll down the mountain. Boulders bounced as if they were rubber balls.

  Christy spun around. She cut to her left, running down the mountain as fast as she could, hoping the slide would pass right by her.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a huge boulder hit a pine tree dead-on. The tree splintered with a horrible cracking sound, then began to fall.

  She slipped, righted herself, and kept running. Her lungs burned. Just a little farther, she told herself, and she’d be safe.

  The boulders rolled and crashed and thudded. Most were to her right, but some seemed to be directly behind her.

  She wanted to turn to look. But there wasn’t time. She had to run. She had to keep running.

  Her skirt caught on a prickly shrub. She yanked it free. She stumbled. She ran another step.

  And then she knew it was coming for her.

  She heard the terrifying crash as the giant boulder hit a tree trunk directly behind her.

  The tree snapped like a toothpick. Christy felt its shadow over her as it fell.

  She looked up. She tripped. As the tree toppled, so did she.

  She tried to crawl, but the tree was coming down too fast.

  There was nothing else to do. Christy closed her eyes and covered her head. As she waited to die, she prayed.

  Thirteen

  Slowly, Christy opened her eyes.

  She wasn’t dead.

  In fact, she was very much alive.

  She tried to move but couldn’t. Sweet-smelling needles tickled her nose. She was trapped in the great arms of a massive pine tree.

  Christy lifted her head. She could just make out the huge boulder that had tumbled the tree. It was wedged against what was left of the trunk.

  She wondered how badly she was hurt. She had some scrapes on her face and hands, and her right ankle throbbed, but she doubted any bones had been broken.

  With all her might, Christy struggled to break free of the big tree’s grasp. The massive trunk lay just inches to her left. Another foot and it would have landed directly on top of her.

  It was a miracle that she hadn’t been crushed.

  “Thank you, God,” Christy whispered.

  Again she tried to free herself from the piney trap, but it was no use. The tree was huge, and she was not.

  Suddenly, to her surprise, Christy found herself laughing. Now that she was out of danger, her predicament almost seemed ridiculous.

  She could just see the surprise on the faces of her rescuers when they found her! Christy Huddleston, trapped by a man-eating pine tree. She’d gotten into plenty of hair-raising scrapes since coming to Cutter Gap. But Doctor MacNeill would tease her for weeks over this one.

  Unless . . .

  Christy gulped. Unless no one found her. Unless no one would even think to look for her here on Boggin Mountain.

  After all, she hadn’t told anyone where she was going. All she’d said to Miss Ida was that she was going for a walk. But nobody would expect Christy to have headed for the summit of Boggin Mountain. Nobody.

  How long co
uld she last out here without food, exposed to the elements? The awful possibilities marched through her head like an army. What if it stormed? How cold would it get at night? What if a hungry animal found her?

  She could scream for help, but what would be the point?

  No one came near this place. Everyone in Cutter Gap feared it.

  She could scream till her voice gave out, and the only ones to hear it would be the wild creatures hidden in the trees.

  And, of course, the Boggin.

  “No!” Christy said out loud, trying to calm her frantic heart. “I am going to be fine! And there is no Boggin! The Boggin does not exist!”

  Hearing the words made her feel better. She’d come here to conquer her fear, after all. She wasn’t going to give in to it all over again. Especially not now, when she needed to keep her wits about her.

  “Well, if no one’s going to show up to rescue me,” Christy said aloud, “I guess I’m going to have to rescue myself.”

  She felt a little silly, talking to herself. But the sound of a human voice—even it was just her own—was somehow reassuring.

  Lifting her head a couple inches, Christy surveyed her situation. She was pinned down by layer upon layer of branches—some thick, some not-so-thick. Her only hope seemed to be to try to crawl her way out, inch by precious inch.

  But that was easier said than done.

  As she struggled to move, Christy began to sing an old song she’d loved as a child. It had helped her through many frightening moments. In fact, it was one of the first things she’d taught her students here in Cutter Gap:

  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.

  She’d just started to sing it again when the loud snap of a twig silenced her. She hadn’t broken it. Someone in the woods had.

  “Is anybody there?” Christy called. “Please help me! I’m over here, trapped under this pine tree.”

  She paused. Nobody replied. Perhaps it had just been an animal passing by.

  Still, Christy had the same eerie feeling she’d had that day on the path, when she’d been certain she’d spotted the Boggin. The sense that she was being watched. The feeling that there was another presence lurking nearby.

  “Hello?” Christy called again.

  She struggled to lift her head. She looked to the left. She looked to the right. And then she saw him.

  He was only a few feet away from her. He towered over the fallen tree like some awful giant out of a fairy tale. He was clearly old. His hair and beard were long and white, hanging in wisps down to his shoulders.

  A horrible scar extended from his cheek to the spot where his right ear would have been. Even with his mane of hair, Christy could see that the ear was gone.

  But it was his eyes that Christy focused on. They were the eyes of an old man, milky with disease, shining like white moons.

  They were the eyes of the man she’d seen that day on the path.

  “You’re the Boggin,” Christy whispered.

  He came closer in two great strides. Only then did Christy see the gun and large hunting knife tucked into his belt.

  Christy stared in horror at the hideous creature towering over her. “Please don’t hurt me,” she begged in a terrified whisper.

  He didn’t respond. For a moment, he didn’t even move.

  Suddenly, he lunged toward Christy. She let out a scream before realizing that he was reaching for a branch of the fallen tree.

  To her amazement, Christy felt the weight of the tree easing. The old man could only lift the branches a few inches. But it was just enough to allow Christy the room she needed to crawl free.

  When she was safe, the Boggin released the tree. Christy smiled at him. “Thank you so much,” she said. “If you hadn’t come along, I don’t know what I would have done.”

  When he didn’t answer, she wondered if he couldn’t speak. He was staring at her with the same curiosity and fear he was probably seeing on her own face.

  “You’re the teacher,” he finally said.

  “Yes,” she replied in surprise. “How did you know that?”

  He didn’t answer. “Can you walk?” he asked.

  “I’m not sure. I think I may have hurt my ankle. Not to mention Miss Ida’s coat.”

  Christy tried to stand, but her swollen ankle would not take any weight.

  “I’ll help you,” said the Boggin.

  “Really, I’m fine.”

  “You can come to my hut.”

  “No,” Christy said, a little frantically. “I . . . I need to go home.”

  “I’ll wrap up your ankle so you can walk on it,” said the Boggin, as certainly as if he were Doctor MacNeill. “It’s a long way down, Miz Huddleston.”

  Christy took a deep breath. This was the Boggin she was talking to. The creature of nightmares and superstitious stories. This was the Boggin, inviting her to his hut so he could tend to her ankle. And he knew her name.

  “I . . . I don’t even know your name, but you know mine,” Christy said.

  For the first time, the old man showed a hint of a smile.

  “My real name don’t matter no more,” he said. “Boggin’ll do just fine.”

  Fourteen

  Christy and the Boggin made their way to the top of the mountain, step by slow step. She leaned on the tall old man for support, amazed at his strength. Twice Christy tried to start a conversation, but her questions were met with silence.

  She had so many questions, too. Was he a hermit? How did he know her name? Was he the one who’d been frightening the people of Cutter Gap? And if so, why?

  As they neared the summit, Christy thought she heard voices.

  “Did you hear that?” she asked the Boggin.

  He nodded. “My friends,” was all he said.

  The Boggin had friends? Christy thought in disbelief. As far as she knew, everyone in Cutter Gap feared him. How could he have any friends?

  Up ahead, a tiny hut in a clearing came into view. And then Christy saw who the Boggin’s friends were.

  “Edward! Christy!” Fairlight said. “Are you hurt?”

  John and Clara ran to help Christy the rest of the way. “There was a rock slide,” Christy explained. “A pine tree practically fell right on top of me. The Bog—” she stopped herself, “Edward saved me.”

  The old man shrugged. “I guess I might as well introduce myself formal-like, after all. My name’s Edward Hinton.”

  “Edward Hinton,” Christy repeated. “I like that much better than ‘the Boggin.’”

  “Me, too, I reckon.”

  “What on earth are you three doing here?” Christy asked.

  Fairlight glanced at Edward. “That’s a long story, I reckon. First things first. It sure looks to me like you need to set down and let me tend to that foot.”

  Clara retrieved a chair from the hut and Christy sat down gratefully. The hut, Christy noticed, was very small and crudely made. But surrounding it, dangling off of every tree limb, it seemed, were the most beautiful birdhouses Christy had ever seen.

  Some looked like the elaborate Victorian homes back in Asheville. Some looked like the brick row houses in Boston Christy had seen pictures of in books. One even looked like the White House. And all of them seemed to be occupied by very happy birds.

  “Those birdhouses,” Christy said, shaking her head in wonder. “They’re so beautiful!”

  “Ain’t they the purtiest things you ever did set eyes on, Miz Christy?” Clara exclaimed. “Edward made ’em all.”

  “They’re amazing,” Christy replied. “Just amazing.”

  “I whittle to while away the time,” the old man said. “Tain’t nothin’ too special. I used to make ’em more fancy-like. But the eyes are goin’ now. I have to go by feel more ’n sight when I’m whittlin’ the little things.”

  Quiet fell for a moment, broken only by the happy chattering of the bird
s in their custom-made homes. Edward cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll be gettin’ you somethin’ to wrap up that ankle with.” He knocked his head with his hand. “Listen to me! I plumb forgot my manners, I ain’t had company in so long—’ceptin’ of course for Clara and John and their ma. Can I fetch you somethin’ to drink? Or maybe to eat? I got some fresh fish I was goin’ to fry up.”

  “No, thank you, Edward. But I do have some questions I’d like you to answer, if you’d be so kind.”

  Edward sighed. “Now I remember why I don’t much like company,” he said wryly, and with that, he disappeared into his tiny hut.

  Christy looked at Fairlight and the children expectantly. “Well? Are you three going to explain to me why you just happen to be on the top of Boggin Mountain? What’s this all about, anyway?”

  Clara sighed. “Like Ma said, it’s kind of a long story, Miz Christy.”

  “I have plenty of time.”

  “See, Edward’s our friend,” Clara said softly. “We met him one day pickin’ flowers with Ma. Usually we never came up on Boggin Mountain, ’cause of all the stories and all.”

  “But that day, we kinda got carried away, lookin’ for jack-in-the-pulpits,” Fairlight said.

  “Anyways, I found this baby wren on the ground, sickly as could be,” Clara continued. “No ma, no nest in sight. And just as I knelt down to get her, I saw Edward. I like to nearly jumped outa my skin—” she lowered her voice, “’cause o’ the way he looks and all. But he picked up that baby wren, gentle as could be, and took her back to his place, and fixed her up as good as new.” She smiled. “And that’s how we got to be friends with Edward.”

  “Why didn’t you tell anyone?” Christy asked, leaning down to rub her tender ankle. “All those stories about the Boggin. They could have been put to rest for good.”

  “Ma and Clara and me promised we wouldn’t tell anyone we’d met him. Edward just wants to be left alone, Miz Christy,” John said quietly.

  “But why?”

  The old man appeared in the doorway of the hut. He was holding a strip of white cloth. “Because he doesn’t much like people,” he explained. His voice was bitter. “Because when you keep to yourself, no harm can come to you.”