by Vicki Lane
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF VICKI LANE
IN A DARK SEASON
A Romantic Times Best Mystery and Suspense Novels of 2008 Pick
Anthony Nominee for Best Paperback Original
“The precise details and many mysteries are all skillfully drawn together at the end, and the main characters are clearly developed, complicated people who have lives outside the mystery. Elizabeth Goodweather is a perfect protagonist who shows that there can be intelligence and romance after 50.”
—Romantic Times
“Vicki Lane is a born storyteller in the finest tradition of Sharyn McCrumb. Lane’s best yet, In a Dark Season, is a haunting, lyrical tale of the Appalachians, as heartbreaking as it is magical. Brooding, suspenseful, and superbly written, Lane’s Marshall County mysteries rank among the best regional fiction anywhere today.”
—JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING
“Suspenseful, atmospheric, and beautifully written.”
—SARAH GRAVES
“Lane craftily deepens the swiftly moving plot with liberal sprinklings of Carolina folklore.”
—Publishers Weekly
OLD WOUNDS
“Lane is very adept at creating complex, multi-faceted stories that move effortlessly from one time period to another and characters with incredible depth. She is also a master of using sensory details to make locale come alive. Old Wounds exemplifies these talents. Readers weary of reading too many mysteries featuring frothy amateur sleuths won’t find a better antidote than Old Wounds!”
—Mystery News
“Vicki Lane is quite simply the best storyteller there is. Her books, like her Appalachian home, have everything: mystery, suspense, beauty, heart, and soul.”
—JOHN RAMSEY MILLER
“A story so exquisitely written and perfectly paced, you will not want to put this book down. Old Wounds is a powerful and very personal mystery for the thoughtful Elizabeth Goodweather to solve.”
—JACKIE LYNN
ART’S BLOOD
“Lane’s sharp eye for detail gets put to good use in this second installment of her Appalachian series.… The widow Good weather is a wonderful character: plucky, hip and wise. The dialogue sparkles with authenticity, and Lane generates suspense without sacrificing the charm and mystique of her mountain community.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Lane mixes the gentle craft of old-time quilting with the violence of a slaughtered innocent.”
—Greensboro News & Record
“Lane is a master at creating authentic details while building suspense.”
—Asheville Citizen-Times
SIGNS IN THE BLOOD
“Vicki Lane shows us an exotic and colorful picture of Appalachia from an outsider’s perspective—through a glass darkly. It is a well-crafted, suspenseful tale of the bygone era before ‘Florida’ came to the mountains.”
—SHARYN MCCRUMB
“Signs in the Blood turns the beauty of the Appalachian hills and a widow’s herb and flower farm into the backdrop for modern menace. This clash of the traditional and the modern makes for an all-nighter of satisfying suspense.”
—Mystery Lovers Bookshop News
“For readers familiar with the sound and feel of mountain life, this book rings with a resonance that is true to the life it describes. For everyone else, this book opens a peephole into a world both hauntingly strange and achingly beautiful.… Regional mystery lovers, take note. A new heroine has come to town and her arrival is a time for rejoicing.”
—Rapid River Magazine
Also by Vicki Lane
In a Dark Season
Old Wounds
Art’s Blood
Signs in the Blood
The Day of Small Things is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Dell Mass Market Original
Copyright © 2010 by Vicki Lane
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Dell, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
DELL is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.
eISBN: 978-0-440-33971-7
www.bantamdell.com
v3.1
Threescore and ten I can remember well;
Within the volume of which time I have seen
Hours dreadful and things strange; but this sore night
Hath trifled former knowings.
William Shakespeare, Macbeth (II.4.1–4)
An aged man is but a paltry thing,
A tattered coat upon a stick, unless
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing …
William Butler Yeats, “Sailing to Byzantium”
To Kate Miciak,
who wanted to let me spread my wings
and, so doing, let Birdie spread hers.
And, as always, to John.
Acknowledgments
First of all I must thank Karol Kavaya and Madelon Heatherington, members of my former critique group, who wouldn’t let me kill off Miss Birdie back in the first book. Who knew how many readers (including my editor) would love this woman so much?
For all who’ve asked, Miss Birdie is not based on anyone I’ve ever known but is a composite, enhanced with a very generous dose of my own imagination. In this connection, I have to note, with sorrow, the passing of two of my friends and neighbors: Mearl Davis and Grace Henderson, two strong mountain women and great ladies who shared some DNA with Miss Birdie.
Thanks go also to Kathy Hendricks, who told me a story of a mother and a daughter that gave me an idea. Judith Arnn-Knight pointed me to useful websites. Nancy Meadows loaned me the diaries of her aunts Inez and Odessa, and their names as well; Tammy Powell shared some old-time names and ways. Thanks to Kathryn Stripling Byer, North Carolina’s poet laureate, whose work is a continuing inspiration; to Mary Pat Franklin, who answered questions; and to Calvin Edney, who told me about the hatpin lady. (Sadly, there really was one.)
Thanks to Ann Collette, my wonderful agent, who always cheers me up when I begin to have doubts about my alleged career; to Deb Dwyer, the sharp-eyed copy editor who catches my mistakes and leaves lovely comments in the margins of the manuscript; and to Randall Klein, who has dealt kindly with my unusual additions to this book.
And to all the readers who send me supportive e-mails, and especially to the readers of my newsletter and (almost) daily blog, who have lived and suffered through the long, long birthing of this book: You all have kept me going through some dark moments. I hope you enjoy Miss Birdie’s story.
(And now, on to the next book and the resolution of that cliff-hanger.)
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Part I - Least: Dark Holler, 1922–1938
Chapter 1 - A Birth: Dark Holler, 1922
Chapter 2 - The Peddler: Dark Holler, 1927
Chapter 3 - The Girl Who Can Read: Dark Holler, 1930
Chapter 4 - The Quare Girl: Dark Holler, 1930
Chapter 5 - In the Barn Loft: Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 6 - Brother’s Girl: Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 7 - Anointed in the Spirit: Ridley Branch, 1931
Chapter 8 - Saved: Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 9 - The Gifts: Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 10 - The Story of John Goingsnake: Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 11 - The Story of
John Goingsnake (continued): Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 12 - The Story of John Goingsnake (the end): Dark Holler, 1931
Chapter 13 - The Yard Dog: Dark Holler, Summer 1935
Chapter 14 - The Healing Plants: Dark Holler, Fall 1935
Chapter 15 - The Threefold Law: Dark Holler, December 1935
Chapter 16 - Young David: Dark Holler, Fall 1936
Chapter 17 - Snowflower Kitty: Dark Holler, Spring 1938
Chapter 18 - The Doctor Papers: Dark Holler, Spring 1938
Chapter 19 - Crossing the River: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Part II - Redbird Ray: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 20 - Rebirth: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 21 - Dancing: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 22 - The Attraction: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 23 - Mr. Aaron: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 24 - The Wandering Jew: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 25 - The Prize: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 26 - Redbird Flies: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 27 - At the Injun Grave: Gudger’s Stand, 1938
Chapter 28 - Odessa and Inez: Dewell Hill, 1938
Chapter 29 - A Letter: Dewell Hill, 1938
Chapter 30 - When the Snow Flies: Back to Dark Holler, 1938
Chapter 31 - The Taste of Joy: Dark Holler, 1938
Chapter 32 - Burying Least: Dark Holler, 1939
Part III - Miss Birdie: Ridley Branch, May 2007
Chapter 33 - Looking Back: Tuesday, May 1, 2007
Chapter 34 - The Burying Ground: Tuesday, May 1
Chapter 35 - On the Path: Tuesday, May 1
Chapter 36 - Morning Light: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 37 - Family Ties: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 38 - Calven, Phone Home: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 39 - Memories: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 40 - With Signs Following: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 41 - Prophecy: Wednesday, May 2
Chapter 42 - Schooling: Thursday, May 3
Chapter 43 - Witchery: Friday, May 4
Chapter 44 - Going to Water: Friday, May 4
Chapter 45 - Working: Saturday, May 5
Chapter 46 - The Face in the Mirror: Saturday, May 5
Chapter 47 - Wildcat Reach: Saturday, May 5
Chapter 48 - A Bag of Oranges: Sunday, May 6
Chapter 49 - Keeping Vigil: Monday, May 7
Chapter 50 - Among the Quiet People: Monday, May 7
Chapter 51 - Got to Make an Escape: Monday, May 7
Chapter 52 - A Gathering Storm: Monday, May 7
Chapter 53 - Ronnie Winemiller’s Sweet Ride: Monday, May 7
Chapter 54 - The Warriors: Monday, May 7
Chapter 55 - The Laurel Hell: Monday, May 7
Chapter 56 - The Old Magic: Monday, May 7
Chapter 57 - Root and Branch: Monday, May 7
Chapter 58 - Valley of the Shadow: Monday, May 7
Chapter 59 - I Alone: Monday, May 7
Chapter 60 - The Mule
Epilogue: The Sound and Smell of Joy
PART I
Least
Dark Holler, 1922–1938
Chapter 1
A Birth
Dark Holler, 1922
On the evening of the third day of labor, the woman’s screams filled the little cabin, escaping through the open door to tangle themselves in the dark hemlocks that mourned and drooped above the house. The weary midwife, returning from a visit to the privy, winced as a series of desperate shrieks tore through the still air of the lonely mountain clearing.
Pausing to readjust her loose dress and collect her strength for the battle ahead, she glanced up at the brooding trees and shook her head. “Seems like all them cries and moans is going straight up into them old low-hanging boughs—just roosting there like so many crows. And the pain and grief, it’ll linger on and on till every wind that stirs’ll be like to bring it back—miseries circling round the house again, beating at the air with their ugly black wings.”
The country woman frowned at such an unaccustomed flight of fancy. “Law, whatever put such foolishness into my head? I’m flat wore out, and that’s the truth—else how would I come to think such quare things? But hit’s a lonesome, sorrowful place fer all that and a sorrowful time fer poor Fronie. Here’s her man not yet cold in his grave and her boy tarrying at death’s door—ay, law, hit’s a cruel hard time to birth a child—iffen hit don’t kill her first.”
Hurrying back into the small log house, the midwife pulled on the clean muslin apron that was the badge of her calling. The screams broke off and the expectant mother lay panting on the stained and stinking corn-shuck tick, her breath coughed out in hoarse rasps. Long dark hair, carefully combed free of tangles in vain hope of easing the birth, fanned in damp strands around her death-pale face. The anguish, the fear, the anger that had passed like a succession of hideous masks over the laboring woman’s gaunt countenance were replaced by an otherworldly absence of all emotion.
Then a great ripple surged across the huge belly swelling beneath her thin shift, and the woman’s face contorted once more. Her mouth gaped but nothing more than a strangled croak emerged. Gasping with pain and frustration, she twisted her misshapen torso and clawed at her heaving belly.
The midwife caught at the woman’s hands and held them till the contraction passed. “It’ll be born afore sundown or they’ll be the two of ’em to bury,” she whispered to the frightened girl standing at the bedside.
“I ain’t never seen no one die.” The girl’s wide eyes brimmed with tears. “My daddy, he was already gone when they fetched him home from the logging camp. Miz Romarie, I’m bad scared.…”
The midwife patted the girl’s bony shoulder and then reached for the bottle of sweet oil that stood on a nearby stool. “We ain’t got time fer that now, Fairlight. You catch hold of yore mama’s hands whilst I see kin I turn the babe and bring it on. Hold ’em tight now, honey.”
Black night had come and owls called from the sighing hemlocks as the exhausted woman bent an expressionless face to her red, squalling infant. At last she spoke. “It’ll allus be the least un, fer there won’t be no more. Reckon that’ll do fer a name—call it Least.”
Chapter 2
The Peddler
Dark Holler, 1927
(Fronie)
What the Lord in His wisdom has done to me don’t seem neither right nor just. To bear nine children and then to lose them as I have. And my husband Hobart gone too. They ain’t none left on the place save Little Brother and the least un—and she not yet five years of age and naught but a hindrance and a worry. Brother’s a good worker, I give him that, but me and him can’t seem to agree—he says I’m too hard and lights out of here for ball games and singings and whatnot every chance he gets. Though he’s not but sixteen, I do believe that if he would marry and bring home a stout girl, a hard worker to help here on the place, hit would settle him some.
I am plumb wore with all the work there is to do. Brother and me topped the corn by moonlight last night—laid by all them tops for cow feed come winter—and today I can’t hardly go. My hands is red and cracked and the joints is swole till they look like they belong to an old, old woman.
I feel like an old, old woman too. Forty-six years of living and no more to show for it than a farm that’s getting away from me, a child what ain’t right, and a boy what’s never happy lessen he’s going down the road. Ay, law. I have heard the preacher say this life is a misery and we best think on the world to come. Ha. Reckon first we got to get through this world the best we can.
The peddler come by this evening just after dinnertime. I needed some domestic in the worst way—Least is near bout growed out of her dresses. She would just as soon run naked but it ain’t fitten. I’ve cut up and made do with what few rags Fairlight left behind, but even those is going fast.
“What fer ye, Missus?” the peddler says, when I come out to his wagon in the
road. My house is the onliest one up this way; naught but the graveyard lays beyond. Mr. Aaron, the peddler, is nigh as dark and lean as his mule. First time I seen him, I thought he might be one of them niggers I have heard tell of, but he said no, his folks was from Roosia, not Afriker. I don’t know nothing of such places, having no schooling to speak of, but I figger they must be over the water somewheres.
