by Taylor Brown
They turned to find the sun dawning before them, borne white and complete over the eastern serrations. Rory rode atop the mule, having no new leg yet made, and Granny led them from the burial summit, clucking and coaxing by turn. They were nearing the edge of the high woods when a wind rose moaning as from the ground itself. Rory watched as the leaves and needles rose fluttering from the forest floor, swirling about Granny’s knees, whispering around the gray cannons of the mule. He watched with yet greater awe as Granny’s hair rose swirling above her head, a crown of whitening fire.
EPILOGUE
The mountain blazed with snow, fallen from the black maw of the previous night. The sun hung high and white, the sky a cold blue. A sound came throbbing through the naked twists of trees, whumping like a heart, and a crimson coupe turned the bottom of the drive. Eli was at the wheel. He parked beneath the wide crown of the chestnut tree and stepped to the porch. He seemed older than he used to, taller. His beard was combed, straight as the blade of an ax. He cocked his head toward Eustace’s six-wheeled truck, white-ledged with snow.
“Is it done?”
Granny nodded. “It’s done.”
“Nobody’s gonna hear from him?”
“There’s few with ears that big.”
“Good.”
He climbed the porch and stood before Rory, holding out his upturned hand. In the flat blade of his palm lay the keys to the coupe in the yard, joined by a metal ring.
“Maybelline II,” he said. “It’s the least I could do.”
Rory rose, still getting used to his new leg.
“It isn’t your fault,” he said. “None of it.”
“He was blood.”
“There’s blood blood,” said Rory. “And there’s family.”
Granny nodded, packing her pipe.
“You said you needed a car today,” said Eli, putting the keys in Rory’s hand. “See if you want to give her back.”
Rory closed the keys in his fist and squeezed his friend’s shoulder, hard. Then he limped to the edge of the porch steps, staring out. There sat the coupe, blood-bright against the snow. Above this stood the spirit tree, bone-pale against the sky, the great crown of antlers studded with noonday glints. A hundred tiny ghosts sighing in the wind. He wondered if Eustace was one of them now, trapped there, moaning through the glass mouth of a bottle. Wordless. Just another sound, another wind on the mountain. The tree seemed to twist slightly, as if by muscular shift, and Rory closed his eyes. There it stood, pulsing in the black night behind his eyes, a white bolt of power erupted jaglike from the earth. A tree made purely of light.
He opened his eyes, setting his new hat on his head. A fedora, midnight-black, risen from the white castle of a hatbox. He was going into town today to pick up Christine. She was coming with him to Raleigh, to meet his mother. Already he could see the twin lamps of his mother’s eyes, as if she were looking, for the first time, upon a creature she had birthed. She would shine, he knew. Her ribs swelled like the bones for wings, her heart too full for the narrow path of the tongue.
Eli leaned against a porch post, crossing his arms.
“What you want to tell the rest of the mountain when Eustace don’t turn up?”
Granny’s rocker creaked.
“Tell them it’s gonna be a hard winter,” she said. “But come spring we’ll have something new for them to haul. Something the law ain’t even caught on to it yet.”
“What’s that?”
Like an answer: the spark of a match.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
To my parents, Janet and Rick Brown, who have remained a well of strength and faith during the rockier legs of this journey. You have always believed in me, which is the greatest gift any parent could give their child. May other sons and daughters be so fortunate.
To Christopher Rhodes, who is not only my phenomenal agent but also my steadfast friend and confidant. I am so grateful for your kindness, wisdom, savvy, taste, and love. May our meditations be consistent and fruitful.
To Jason Frye, my first and oldest writer-friend, whose mentorship and faith, along with his keen eye and steady hand, were integral to the creation of this book. Search him out for manuscript services, you writers. May my secret weapon be yours.
To a dog named Waylon, who lived with me in the mountains and who brought such constant joy and light to the darker moments of a young writer’s story. May you always run. And may your mother’s heart heal around your loss.
To my team at St. Martin’s, including George Witte, Sara Thwaite, Jessica Lawrence, Courtney Reed, Karen Richardson, and so many more. Thank you so much for welcoming me into the family. I am honored and thrilled to work with you sweet and fierce and brilliant people. May I do you proud (and sell lots of copies).
To Lauren Miller, witch woman and trauma worker, who first took me root-digging and whose expertise in herbs and tinctures and potions proved invaluable in the writing of this book. May you always find your hawthorn grove.
To Wiley Cash, who has been so incredibly generous with his time, direction, and wisdom. May our trunks long be full of ARCs.
To David Joy, who writes of contemporary Appalachia with such sweet and bloody power, and who has been so kind to my work. May we bark at the moon one of these nights.
To Steph Post, whose support and encouragement mean so much to me. May the foxes grant our wishes.
To Ashley Warlick, whose insight and wisdom always seem to arrive at the most crucial of moments, and to my whole Greenville family. May our cocktail napkins always be so fruitful.
To Katy Simpson Smith, Matthew Griffin, and Kent Wascom, who write books of such unbelievable power and majesty and who make New Orleans so special to me. I am awed and grateful, every day, to call you my friends, and I get such a thrill every time I see your names in the bookstore. May our next meal be sooner rather than later.
To the crew at Bespoke Coffee and Dry Goods, who let me keep working even as the brooms come out and the chairs go up on the tables. It means more than you know. May I long be your bodyguard.
To the Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance (SIBA) and all of the booksellers across the nation, who have been kind enough to read and recommend my work. I can call so many of you my friends, and that has been the greatest unexpected gift of this whole journey. May you love Granny May as much as I do.
ALSO BY TAYLOR BROWN
The River of Kings
Fallen Land
In the Season of Blood & Gold
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Taylor Brown grew up on the Georgia coast. He has lived in Buenos Aires, San Francisco, and the mountains of western North Carolina. His fiction has appeared in more than twenty publications, he is the recipient of the Montana Prize in Fiction, and he was a finalist for the 2017 Southern Book Prize. The author of the novels Fallen Land and The River of Kings, Brown lives in Wilmington, North Carolina. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Epigraphs
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
I. Harvest Moon
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
II. Half-Moon, Waning
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
III. Sickle Moon, Waning
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
/> Chapter 18
IV. New Moon
Chapter 19
V. Sickle Moon, Waxing
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
VI. Half-Moon, Waxing
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
VII. Hunter’s Moon
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Also by Taylor Brown
About the Author
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
GODS OF HOWL MOUNTAIN. Copyright © 2018 by Taylor Brown. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.stmartins.com
Cover design by Danielle Christopher
Cover photographs: woods © Joachim Schenk/Eyeem/Getty Images; car © Patricia Turner/Arcangel
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Names: Brown, Taylor, 1982– author.
Title: Gods of Howl Mountain: a novel / Taylor Brown.
Description: First edition. | New York: St. Martin’s Press, 2018.
Identifiers: LCCN 2017043677 | ISBN 9781250111777 (hardcover) | ISBN 9781250111784 (ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Family secrets—Fiction. | Mountain life—Fiction. | Smugglers—Fiction. | Healers—Fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3602.R722894 G63 2018 | DDC 813/ .6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2017043677
eISBN 9781250111784
Our ebooks may be purchased in bulk for promotional, educational, or business use. Please contact the Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department at 1-800-221-7945, extension 5442, or by email at [email protected].
First Edition: March 2018
