Goldenseal

by Gill McKnight

  Even more intrigued, Amy crunched up a well-worn path and around to the front porch. There she hesitated. The door was hanging by its hinges, its wooden panels snapped clean in two. Broken porch furniture was scattered out over the dirt path. All was silent, eerily so considering this was a scene of recent and incredible violence.

  “Hello?” Amy’s voice wobbled. It was too late to beat a retreat; if someone was inside they knew she was here by now. “Anyone… home?”

  Silence. Amy was more than a little relieved. She cocked her head and listened. Nothing. There was definitely no one in the cabin.

  Slowly she mounted the porch and carefully stepped over the remains of the door. It was a one-room shack, in a shambles. Every stick of furniture—which consisted of a bed, table, and chair— was in pieces. Newspapers, bed linens, torn-up books, and spilled foodstuffs littered the floor. Even the wood burner lay on its side, its cast iron door torn off, the chimney pipe bent.

  Amy entered, and broken glass and crockery cracked under her boots. On the window sill, tucked beside the gingham curtains, lay a roll of cherry-flavored candy. A bizarre nod to normality in amongst such chaos.

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  Amy yelped in fright as the voice rang out directly behind her. She spun around to find herself nose to chest with Claude. “Jesus, Claude. I could’ve dropped down dead.”

  “Sorry, hon. Didn’t mean to scare you. What are you doing out here?” His kindly eyes smiled down at her as he stepped out onto the porch. She followed him out the door and down onto the packed earth path.

  “Walking. Looking for plants. What is this shack? Why are there bars on the window? Why’s it all broken up?”

  “It’s an old storage hut.”

  “With bars? It looks more like a jail.”

  “They used to keep dynamite there in the forties.” He drew her further along the path, leading her away from the cabin and onto a nearby track.

  “What did they want dynamite for?”

  Claude chuckled at the relentless questions. “It was to blow open a new logging road up near Leapers Bluff, but the war came along and work stopped. Least that was what I remember being told as a kid.”

  “So why are there furniture and books and stuff in there? Is someone living there?”

  “Told you. Storage. Marie keeps stuff there for furnishing the other cabins.”

  Amy frowned. She wasn’t buying it. “Claude, someone was staying there. It had been lived in. And now it’s all smashed up,” she said.

  He shrugged indifferently. They were a hundred yards or more from the cabin and he was leading her along a trail parallel to the river. “Dunno. I suppose it could be used to rest up if someone was out this far on a night hunt. I’ll let Marie know it’s been vandalized. She’ll know what to do.”

  “But who would come all the way out here to smash up a storage room?”

  “Vandals. Losers from town.”

  “All the way out here?”

  “Young idiots. No doubt poaching. They enjoy destroying Garoul stuff. Probably kicked the door in and wrecked the cabin for the sheer hell of it—”

  “But, Claude, the door was broken from the inside.” She looked anxiously at him. He frowned darkly at her logic. “Somebody kicked their way out.”

  “Look, Amy. I don’t know. I’ll tell Marie about it later. Right now all I want to do is get you back to the compound.”

  “Where is everybody? What’s happening? Have you seen Leone?”

  “We’re out hunting.”

  “I haven’t heard any gunshots for it being such a big hunt. Is it bear or cougar you’re after? Or wolves? Is it whatever’s shredding the—”

  “We’re hunting, that’s all there is to it. That’s where everyone is, and that’s why you’re getting out of here quick. Okay?”

  “Why can’t I stay with you? After all—”

  “No arguments, Amy. I’m taking you to your cabin.”

  “But why—”

  “Nope.”

  “But when—”

  “Nope.”

  “I didn’t—”

  “Nope.”

  “Rhymes with rope?”

  “Nop—Ha ha. Very funny.”

  “Do a deal with you, Claude. Take me to the parking lot and lend me your truck. I need to pop into town for a quick message. I was trying to catch up with Elicia to grab a lift with her, but she went into the forest instead.”

  “What? Elicia’s in the forest?” Claude’s head whipped around.

  “Well, I think so. I saw a red coat. And it looked like her from the back.”

  “Are you sure it was Elicia?”

  “I don’t know. She never answered when I called. Hey, I recognize this path.” They had taken a few back routes that had eventually opened up to one of the main trails into the compound. “I can make it from here on my own.”

  “Are you sure?” Claude dithered. Amy knew he was torn between taking her all the way to his truck or returning to the hunt now that she was so close to safety. She pushed him a little bit more.

  “Of course I’m sure. Give me your keys. It’s only five minutes down the path. I’ll be fine.”

  He handed her his truck keys. “Okay. Leave them under the visor when you’re done. And be good.” With a wave he headed back the way they had come.

  Amy trudged on to the parking lot, mulling over the wrecked cabin. Okay, so Claude had no answers. But he had no questions either, and to me that’s strange. And for a man out hunting, why didn’t he have a gun?

  Claude drove a beat-up Toyota truck. Amy hesitated by the hood. The fender was dirty and thick with mud, and looked like it had been that way for weeks. No way had it hit a deer last night. This truck had not impacted with anything recently, other than muck. Leone had lied about the accident, the deer…and her bloody clothing.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Virgil Bloomsy looked delighted as Amy entered the library. “Back so soon? You must be a quick reader.”

  “Actually, I didn’t bring the book.” she said apologetically. “I’m afraid I forgot it. I can bring it back tomorrow, if that’s okay?”

  “My dear, there is absolutely no hurry. Bring it in when you’re ready. In fact, feel free to borrow anything else that catches your eye. Remember you’re a library member now.”

  “Thank you. I don’t suppose my friend Elicia dropped in earlier?”

  “I think I saw her across the street. She didn’t come in here, but she could be at the store. You are my first, and probably only, customer today. It’s always quiet coming up to a holiday weekend.”

  “Okay. I’ll go find her. But first I’ll have a quick peek at your shelves, seeing as I’m here.” Amy moved to the back of the library, keen to find more volumes on code breaking. Now that she had the link between the illustrations and the numbers in the recipes, she needed more information as to how the keys worked. She stood and read the spines for inspiration, at a loss at what direction to go in next.

  So, I have some weird numbers hidden in recipe amounts, and some weird book page sizes, and some weird marks on Connie’s artwork. What would Captain Midnight do? He’d wave his decoder ring at it, and it would all make sense, that’s what he’d do. She sighed, wishing it really were as easy as that.

  “You seem to like those code games. Does Connie still play word puzzles? I could give you a few magazines to pass on to her.” Virgil passed, his arms stacked with books.

  “What? Oh, no. I’m not sure if she still does.” Again, Amy was reluctant to tell the townsfolk anything about Connie’s current health. Not even Virgil, who claimed to be a friend. In fact, Amy had never heard Connie mention him, and her natural reserve made her hesitate to tell him any personal business.

  She was still scowling at the spines when he passed by again.

  “Can I help you with anything? You seem a little bemused.”

  “No. Not really.”

  He fluttered around her for a second longer, and suddenly sh
e found herself grasping at straws. “It’s more like a number puzzle anyway. Not words. I’ve got numbers, and on another page lots of squiggles.” She shrugged, scanning the shelves before her. “And I’m not sure how the two match up.”

  “Oh, numbers and graphics. That’s different. Sounds like cipher-text. You need the key.”

  “I need the whole goddamn door.”

  “Maybe it’s a pigpen.”

  “Huh?” He had her attention now.

  Virgil gave a sharp little smile. “Yes, the pigpen, one of the most basic ciphers. Also known as the Freemason’s cipher, as it was used by the Knights Templar in medieval France.” He launched into a mini lecture. “If there are multiple keys, then you have layering, cipher over cipher. That would be difficult to break, but not impossible. Once you have one of the keys, of course.”

  “There’s that key again.”

  “Well, you are more than welcome to bring your numbers and squiggles in and we can try together.” He waved a hand around the empty library. “As you can see I’m hardly run off my feet. A good puzzle would certainly help while away the time.”

  Amy saw it as an offer made more out of loneliness and boredom, than a burning need to help. Even so, she was reluctant to share, especially as there was a connection to Connie’s work and the Garoul Press. If it did turn out to be some promotional code game embedded in the anniversary almanac, it was not her place to make it public through her own nosiness. Her gut instinct was to keep her research to herself.

  “…and that’s why it’s called the Caesar cipher, because it’s attributed to Julius Caesar. Today, of course, any Boy Scout could decrypt it in five minutes…” Virgil was in the middle of another narration, unaware he’d lost Amy ages ago. She tried to concentrate but felt annoyed that he was eating into her time with useless information. What she needed to do was pick the right book and go and find Elicia. Not stand here listening to Virgil rattle on. “…but frequency analysis can help break the plaintext into recognizable word patterns.” Now he’s just showing off.

  “Oh, but you don’t have any text, just numbers and sigils, isn’t that right?” His question brought her back to the conversation with a snap.

  “Mmm, yes…sigils. Well, weird marks really…” Did I say sigils? There are marks, but I never implied they were mystical.

  “I’d really love to see them…”

  “Oh, they’re in a heavy old book, and it’s not my place to remove it from the cabin—”

  “Ah, it’s one of Connie’s books, is it? She has such a wonderful collection. You know I’d be happy to drop by on my day off?”

  “To be honest, Mr. Bloomsy, it’s not my book to play around with. I may be interfering with—”

  “Please, call me Virgil. Well, the offer is there if curiosity gets the better of you. I can suggest a few other books that might help?” He started reaching for his selection when she interrupted.

  “To be honest…Virgil, I should be working in the studio, not clowning about with puzzles. Maybe I’ll let the runes rest, while I do what I’m being paid to—”

  “You think they’re runes?” He jumped on her words.

  Amy blinked at the overt enthusiasm. “I really have no idea.”

  “But they might be runes?”

  “I don’t know. I wouldn’t know a rune from a road sign.” She was beginning to feel cornered. He pulled back, as if realizing he was being too pushy, and shoved his hands in his pockets, nodding, but he looked tense. His lips pursed and his cheeks flushed brightly.

  “Well, I’d better go and find Elicia,” Amy said. She was glad of the excuse to leave. Virgil was just a little bit too bored for her liking. It was a pet hate of hers, people who expected others to alleviate their boredom, rather than make their own entertainment. He had a whole library, apparently to himself. You’d think he could find something fun to do.

  She thanked him again and left, heading over to the pharmacy and Johnston’s store to see if Elicia was there, though she seriously doubted it. There was no sign of Jori’s Jeep, and Amy could think of no other way for Elicia to get into town.

  A quick glance through the window told her Elicia wasn’t at the pharmacy. Next, she dropped into the general store. Norman Johnston glared at her from behind his counter.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Johnston. Can I have a bottle of water, please?”

  “Still or sparkling?” he asked huffily.

  “Sparkling, please.” Just like you. She managed a bright smile despite his lack of courtesy.

  “Seems quiet around town today,” she said as he checked her change. She noticed the way he had grabbed at her five-dollar bill and fondled the coins he took from the till. He was having a love affair with money; she bet the whole town knew it.

  “People startin’ to head off for the Labor Day weekend.” He gave Amy her change, his face vexed.

  “I’d have thought with school out there’d be a ton of teenagers just hanging around here drinking Cokes and coffees?” She casually twisted the cap off her bottle, deciding to linger and chat. Maybe she could clear up something that was troubling her. Something Claude had said.

  Norman Johnston eyed her suspiciously. Amy suspected most of his customers paid begrudgingly for his overpriced goods and left as glumly as they’d arrived. Her hanging around and chatting had him flummoxed.

  “They’re all over at Covington.” He bitterly spat out the name of the largest town in the area. “It’s got a mall.” He might as well have said gonorrhea from the look of distaste that crossed his face.

  “Oh, that’ll do it.” Amy chuckled as if he’d said something clever. Norman rearranged his chewing gum display and eyed her carefully. Slowly, he relaxed.

  “Better to have them out from under your feet,” she said, noticing his thawing attitude. “I was out walking in Little Dip earlier and found what looked like an abandoned hut some kids had trashed.”

  Norman frowned at this, and for a moment Amy worried she’d misread him completely. Luckily, now that he trusted her with his considerable opinion, he was eager to enlighten her.

  “Damn kids would never go into Little Dip. Nobody likes it there…too much strange stuff. And the Garouls are all over everything. You can’t have nothing around here without the Garouls taking it off ya!”

  Even with the abrasive history between the townsfolk and the Garouls, Amy was still surprised at his vehemence.

  “Oh. Well, maybe I was mistaken. What strange stuff?”

  “Humph.” Norman sniffed dismissively, but continued. “I remember you from when you were a brat, hangin’ out with all them other Garoul brats. You know fine rightly what I mean. There’s a creature in that valley, and you all know it! Even the animals know it. And that bitch Marie Garoul and her mother before her were witches if ever I seen one. That’s why they don’t want anyone near. That’s why you won’t help the town.”

  Amy was aghast. All that crap coming out the wrong hole.

  “Hey. Just a minute, Mr. Johnston. I spent every summer in Little Dip, year in, year out, and the Garouls are lovely people, and there’s nothing going on in—”

  “Hah. Believe what you want,” he rudely interrupted. “I got no time to argue. I’m running a business here. Now, if that’s all?”

  “Not only is it all, I believe it will be everything,” Amy replied haughtily, and primly stomped out, leaving her half-drunk water on the counter.

  Her mind was in a whirl. Unpleasant as it was getting it, at least she had confirmation that the storage cabin probably wasn’t vandalized by local kids. I knew it. Claude was talking trash through his ’stache.

  Amy had done all she could. The mysteries were piling up around her until she felt buried alive. She could give no more time to strange codes and spooky cabins. What she needed to do was an honest day’s work in the studio. Even Nancy Drew had to pay her bills. Sighing, Amy returned to Claude’s truck and sat a few moments thinking over her morning.

  Leone’s weird story about the de
er still didn’t sit right with her. Her fingers played with the key fob and she half smiled at the silly little picture on it of a pig wearing a nun’s wimple. Claude had such a childish sense of humor. The picture reminded her of an image she’d seen somewhere before. Perhaps in a childhood storybook?

  With a shrug she started the engine and pulled out of the graveled parking lot, heading back to Little Dip and the sanity of her studio.

  Amy made a light lunch and sank thankfully on the couch, resting her tired feet on the hearth, toasting her toes. A small metallic glint winked at her from beneath the dresser. It caught her curiosity, and with a little burst of energy she went down on her knees and reached for the glittering object. It turned out to be one of the bullets she’d dropped when she was searching for the scarf and found Connie’s Bearcat revolver instead. She held it up to the light, twisting and turning it until it twinkled in the firelight. She decided she liked it, so shiny, and new, and silvery. It was dangerous and pretty all at the same time.

  The clock chimed, reminding her it was time to move to the studio. Without a further thought she dropped the bullet in her jeans pocket, like a lucky charm, and headed off to work.

  It felt so strange and nostalgic to sit at Connie’s workbench. As a child she had spent so many hours sharing Connie’s special space with her, watching every movement Connie made, hanging on her every word. The young Amy had thrived at Connie’s side, soaking up her knowledge like a germinating seed.

  Some kids stood on a kitchen stool and eagerly watched their moms bake, waiting to lick the spoon as reward for helping to mix and fold, weigh and measure. Others held the flashlight for their dad as he rummaged under the car hood, passing him tools as he changed a filter or checked for loose wiring. Through such simple acts children learn, and develop skills and interests. Bonds are built, and memories made.

  Amy’s mother did not bake; she drank. Her father had no car; he took taxis to airports and disappeared for months at a time. But Connie always had a stool for her to stand on, always needed brushes or palette knives passed to her. Patiently passing down her own recipes. Not for cheesecake and shortbreads, but for sketching, watercolor, and detailed illustration. Slowly, Connie shaped the raw talent of the child at her elbow into as gifted a craftswoman as she was herself.