Goldenseal

by Gill McKnight

  “He was so. He had to be seven pounds at least. Maybe even closer to eight. I’ll bring him over for your dinner tomorrow,” Amy said.

  “More like five, maybe six pounds.” Leone pointed out the discrepancy and was primly ignored.

  “It’s a deal. You deliver, and I’ll broil it with rosemary and garlic lemon for supper.” Marie was very happy at the offer of a hefty trout. “Now, are you sure Leone can’t be of use tomorrow?”

  “I could drive you up to the logging road and halve the hike time?” Leone pushed.

  “No, thanks. The light up there’s good. I can head out early if the weather’s fine and have plenty of time to set up. Believe me, I’ll work faster without you looking over my shoulder.” Amy was adamant on retaining control over all aspects of her work environment. “I don’t need a guide. I know these mountains and valley well, remember?”

  Marie shared a dubious glance with Leone but conceded. Leone looked as if she would argue on, but took her mother’s lead and stayed silent.

  “Okay. Now that that’s sorted,” Marie defused the conversation, “how about we look at the illustrations I’d like you to complete for Connie? Let’s discuss it over coffee and I’ll show you exactly what we need.”

  Amy knew this was the crux of the dinner invitation, the editorial chat. She was already more than a little concerned at retouching Connie’s work. From what she had previously seen the illustrations were superb and definitely didn’t need her to do anything other than admire them.

  Marie returned from the kitchen with a pot of coffee in one hand and a pie dish in the other.

  “I thought we could all take a slice and sit by the fire.”

  They retired to the fireside, each with a plate of pie and coffee. Marie and Amy shared the couch while Leone took the overstuffed armchair.

  “Okay,” Marie began. “We’ve called you in at Connie’s suggestion as she is currently incapacitated and we have a tight deadline for this work.” She reached for the portfolio already sitting on the side table and extracted the two illustrations she had shown Amy last evening.

  “This one is goldenseal, growth above ground. And this one is its root ball.” She next produced a slip of paper with several black curlicue marks scrawled across it. “And these are the marks Connie hasn’t managed to incorporate.”

  Amy frowned in confusion. “What are these? They have no relevance to the plant.”

  “It’s a sort of an embellishment Connie adapted for the Garoul Press Almanac. The marks are much smaller than this, of course. Very unobtrusive. These are not to scale,” Marie explained confidently.

  Amy’s brow knit over the separate papers. “Why on earth would she augment goldenseal with marks that didn’t apply to the botanical accuracy of the illustration?”

  “Kind of like a certifier?” Leone leaned forward in her chair. “Like a signature for Connie’s work. It’s traditional for our artists to include them, but before Connie could finish these two illustrations she became ill. The marks that go with these particular illustrations still need to be added. Some squiggles belong to one, the rest to the other.”

  “It was agreed from the start that Connie wouldn’t use her recognized signature but a series of marks we use for cataloging and other indices.” Marie supported Leone’s words.

  “But she would have added any marks, superfluous or otherwise, at the same time she did the illustration. I told you last night, to go back into these could warp the paper.” Amy squinted over Connie’s work, still not happy with the explanation. “And Connie uses a lightweight hot press paper. It could cockle and scan incorrectly if I were to tamper with it. I can’t understand why she didn’t add these…marks as she painted. Was she interrupted?”

  There was an uneasy silence between the Garoul women. Amy glanced up from her inspection to find them exchanging another look. What are they not telling me?

  “Well,” Marie said hesitantly, “neither Leone nor I are artists, and I certainly don’t know all the ins and outs of Connie’s work methods. We don’t use certifiers on every illustration, but these two definitely need them. So, you’re saying you can’t do it?”

  “I’m saying the chances of destroying Connie’s work are too high to risk it. I can do the insets for you, but as far as touching up Connie’s existing work? I think you need to leave these extra marks out or else get your designer to add them in digitally after they’ve been scanned. If an illustration is damaged at this point it will seriously threaten your deadline.” Amy was blunt in her assessment. What they were asking her to do was crazy.

  “Oh dear. Well, you know best, Amy. We need to keep on track. The deadline is too close to take any chances. If Connie’s work were damaged we’d really be in trouble. Let’s push on with your list of insets. How do things look now, Leone?”

  “Despite losing Connie we’re not too far behind schedule. Amy has less than five weeks to deliver thirteen insets. I know that’s tight, but the plants are already here in the valley and in season. All Amy has to do is find them. Your last copy edits are done, Mom. The text is ready for proofing.” Leone looked over at Amy. “I’ll be proofing in Mom’s back office for the next few weeks. Until we get to the reprographic stage, then I’m back in the city to oversee the move to film.”

  “Do you still print in Vancouver?” Amy asked, full of interest. The Garouls ran a print house too, north of the border.

  “Yes, Garoul Print is still up there. I’ll fly up and approve the proof copy in late October. The almanac has priority and the presses are already booked up for us. We should be on time for our release early next year.”

  They all nodded in agreement. It was a tight but doable schedule.

  “Would you mind if I took these with me?” Amy indicated the portfolio with Connie’s work. “As a reference to her more recent styling. It might come in handy later when I begin my own work.”

  “Of course.” Marie happily handed the folder over.

  “Thanks. It’s late and I need an early start tomorrow.” Amy collected her coat from the hook by the door, calling over her shoulder, “I’ll drop by tomorrow sometime with the trout and my devil’s club sketches. With any luck I’ll be able to show you the henbane ones, too.” She was buttoning her coat when Leone rose to pull hers on, too. “For heavens sake, Leone. I don’t need an escort tonight. Marie, tell her I don’t need any help to find my own goddamned front door.” She pulled her flashlight out of her pocket to prove her point.

  “I’m sure Amy will be okay, Leone. Look, she’s even got a flashlight.” Marie put a restraining hand on Leone’s arm.

  Leone shrugged. “Okay. Good night, Amy. Maybe I’ll catch you tomorrow.” She settled back in to her chair. “Call me and I’ll give you a lift up to the logging road.”

  “For the last time, I don’t need a lift.” Amy was unable to hide her exasperation. Embarrassed at her outburst, she turned to Marie. “Thank you for dinner. It was fantastic.”

  She collected Connie’s folio and said good-bye, stepping out into the crisp night air surprised to get away from Leone without more of a fuss. Maybe a full belly and a warm seat by the fire had damped down her hero reflex.

  Amy was glad of the walk home alone. It gave her time to stargaze as she gathered her thoughts. And she had plenty to think about tonight, Connie’s illustrations being foremost in her mind. She knew instinctively Connie would never misrepresent a specimen she was illustrating.

  Connie had been her teacher from an early age, when Amy had first displayed an interest in art and nature. It was not that surprising. Amy came from an artistic family. Connie was already a recognized wildlife artist, and Amy’s English father was as famed for his abstracts as he was for his drinking. Both her parents preferred to view reality through the bottom of a rose-tinted bourbon glass. If Connie hadn’t been there for her, giving her all the love, care, and attention a young child needed… Amy shuddered to think how miserable her life could have been.

  As it was, she whiled away
her childhood years at an upstate New York boarding school, yearning for the holidays when she could escape to Little Dip and see her beloved aunt Connie. Amy was always fearful that maybe one year her parents would decide to drag her off on vacation with them. But it never happened. The dreaded year never came.

  By the time she was in her late teens her father was in an early grave, bequeathing his daughter his artistic genes and Anglo American citizenship. At least with her British passport she could freely live and work in Europe. Her mother, Connie’s sister, was on her third marriage and had moved to Argentina. Amy rarely saw her now, and it didn’t seem to bother either of them. They orbited each other like distant planets.

  In contrast, Amy was a satellite to her aunt’s life. No matter how far her wanderings took her, Connie had always been her constant. Between telephone calls and e-mail they kept up with each other’s lives. Frequently, they’d meet in exciting European cities and tour the galleries and art shows together.

  Amy kept a tight hold of those she loved. Besides Connie, many of the Garoul family kept her in the loop regarding Little Dip and all its news. It was important for her to know that home, Connie’s home, was always there for her. Then came the frightening phone call from Marie, and Amy’s world had splintered apart, the needled shards penetrating to her core. Connie was ill, hospitalized. And now Amy was back in the valley trying to complete her work and understand what the hell was going on.

  Signatures and catalogue certifiers, my ass. No way would Connie add erroneous marks to her work. I’m going to check this out for myself. Connie simply doesn’t work like that. And she knew just where to look—Connie’s own library. Her shelves held every book she had ever contributed to, as well as a vast selection reflecting her own private interests. That would be Amy’s starting point.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Connie’s book collection was impressive. It was a bibliophile’s paradise and had more than tripled in size in the time Amy had been away. Connie’s range of interests seemed to have expanded with it, the primary themes being the natural world, botany, art, and the esoteric. Amy wondered how many Connie had actually contributed to, or were these merely a reflection of her reading preferences?

  She went directly to the shelves she knew housed Connie’s earlier work for the Garoul Press, and in particular the older almanacs. Connie’s working partnership with Marie spanned over two decades. Amy pulled out a few at random,1988 and 1997. They were large leather bound volumes of an irregular size, slightly larger than quarto. The almanacs were produced to a bastard size.

  These babies must be expensive to churn out. Amy suspected they were created for a specialized clientele rather than the general public. Ultimately, they were for a collector’s niche market and had to cost a small fortune.

  For good measure Amy also selected a third, more recent book Connie had worked on, but not for Garoul Press. The comparison might prove useful.

  Comfortable on the couch, she slowly began to browse the first of the almanacs. The pages were matte and thick, creamy to the touch, and oozed luxury through her fingertips. The tactile lusciousness, combined with the exquisite world of Connie’s artistry, totally immersed her. Before her eyes petals rippled in a soft breeze, grasses flowed across paper, leaves rattled and crunched, and the turn of each page wafted her with an imagined floral bouquet. Engrossed, she sat for over an hour drifting through Connie’s delicate world, lost to the time and motion of this one… until she saw it.

  A mark.

  A series of sigils, to be exact, embedded in Angelica sylvestris. Angelica, a favorite herb of hers; Amy had drawn it many times, root and stem, bloom and seed head. So often, in fact, that she immediately noticed the adventitious lines and swirls in the illustration. If she hadn’t already known this specimen inside out, and had a professional interest in its representation, the markings would have been almost undetectable.

  Most of the markings were applied to parts of the plant, but a few floated through the background and were the easiest to pick out. Quickly Amy flipped forward a few pages and concentrated on Cnicus benedictus, or blessed thistle, a plant she was unfamiliar with. There was nothing. Did that mean there were no marks there or that they couldn’t be seen with a layman’s eye? Had she only noticed the angelica markings because she happened to know every last whisker of the herb?

  Sighing, she sat back. This would need a lot more investigation than a quick look. And what did the marks mean? She’d have to find that out, too. She was certain they made no reference whatsoever to Connie’s artistic signature, or any cataloguing system Amy knew of. Certain now that there was more going on than either Leone or Marie were prepared to tell her, she set the almanacs aside and stretched.

  Why were these markings endorsed by the Garoul Press, and did they have anything to do with Connie’s collapse? Amy placed the almanacs on Connie’s desk. She would need to go through all of them with a fine-toothed comb. She picked up her third and final selection and glanced at the spine. Witchery for Wooers. The publisher was The Wiccan Wheel.

  With a wry smile she opened it. She hadn’t known Connie contributed to books like this. It looked rustic and quaint. It had probably been a fun project to work on. There were few full-page illustrations inside, but two of them, renditions of a yew and a gingko tree, she easily recognized as Connie’s work. Here her usual signature was employed, making the Garoul sigils seem even more suspect.

  Well-worn and loved, the pages spilled open in her hands, easily cascading from beginning to end. This was more a friend than a book. Amy was content to casually dip in, halting here and there to cast an idle eye over amulets, charms, scrying spells, and love potions. There were chapters with recipes for fragrant oils, herbal sachets, and incense cakes. Even one on magical candle making, with scents and dyes, and the inevitable candle spells.

  Green is for Venus.

  Musk, Ambergris, and Myrtle her scent.

  Burn through to first hour of sunrise.

  Call your love ’til candle’s spent.

  Gently she closed the covers with a smile. She had to admit it was a charming book. She would have been proud to contribute artwork to something as delicately fashioned as this. An editing coup and marketing masterpiece, it vibrated with positivity and promise. It would make a lovely gift, and was beautiful to browse through.

  But I can’t see anyone actually believing in this stuff, never mind practicing any of it to woo a lover. I mean, lighting green candles to Venus and calling people to you…how daft can you get?

  She headed wearily to the bathroom. It had been an intriguing day, full of ups and downs. Her first working day back in Little Dip was, objectively, a success. She had found and recorded her first specimen, fit in some brilliant fishing, and had a lovely dinner at Marie’s. The editing problem with the extraneous markings she knew would make sense once she properly understood what was going on.

  The only real blight had been the animal lurking in the woods, and the fact that it had been bold enough to sniff out the fish. That alarmed her, though her initial feelings of unease had now numbed. No harm had come to her; she had just been spooked. Nevertheless, she was left with a vague feeling of disquiet she could not consciously identify.

  As she brushed her teeth, her mind wandered back to the more comforting moments of the day. Surprisingly, she found herself thinking of the time spent with Leone, laughing and joking as they strolled home from the river, or sipping ginger tea before a log fire mulling over her morning’s work. Even dinner at Marie’s had been fun. Sitting around a table with Leone and Marie sharing good food, good wine, and good conversation. A surge of old emotion, old memory, broke to the surface, flooding her with bittersweet nostalgia. Immediately, she forced it down and sealed it shut, entombing it deep within. She rinsed and spat its residue into the basin along with the toothpaste. She knew where this softening of her heart would lead, and she knew she didn’t want to go there. She had no love left for Leone Garoul. Not anymore. With one long, stern star
e in to the mirror she turned away to prepare for bed.

  Soft, yellow lamplight spilled from the cabin window. Outside, yards from her door, Leone settled under the cedar trees waiting for the lights to douse and the cabin to plunge into darkness.

  Ten minutes later the cabin’s lights went out. Its sole inhabitant now settled for the night, Leone focused steadfastly on Amy’s darkened windows. All was still. Immobile in the shadows, she waited a further hour before turning away and melting into night, as soft as a velvet shadow.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  A beautiful dawn chorus greeted Amy on her second morning. Before she could even blink herself awake, a smile was on her face.

  This place is magical. I always wake up happy here. She kicked the quilt to the foot of the bed and quickly padded down the ladder to start her day.

  Soon she was washed and fed, and almost out the door when she thought to bring a scarf. The daily forecast promised chill northerly winds. She fumbled in the small dresser by the door. Connie also favored scarves for the cooler fall weather. Amy scrabbled through a nest of knotted silk and wool, trying to extract one from the jumble. Her fingers brushed against cool metal near the back of the drawer. Carefully, she pulled away swathes of colorful fabric to expose the metallic gleam of a Ruger. Amy held the Bearcat revolver in her hand, frowning. She peered further into the drawer and found an opened box of bullets.

  Gingerly she set the box of bullets on the dresser and examined her find. It was not a hunting gun. Connie had always declared she was a fisher, not a hunter. She had never cared much for guns and weaponry, so why did she have a firearm tucked away in her cabin?

  Amy remembered the claw marks around her fish and the ill ease she had felt. Had Connie not felt safe? Perhaps the gun had always been lying neglected at the back of the drawer? A token to American household security out here in the middle of nowhere? Pushing the weapon and its accompanying bullets back where she’d found them, Amy let it go. She had enough to get on with today. She tied a silk scarf around her neck and headed out to work.