by Vicki Lane
“In there,” she points and I can’t tell at first if this is her Prophesying or if she can smell them too.
Dorothy is all a-tremble with eagerness to face those three and snatch her Calven back. She has built up her own ration of Power with her love for Calven and her anger at the ones who have took him from her. It’s a kind of a Power, that mixture of love and hate, but it ain’t easy to direct.
I study on this; I want the shield of their prayers; yeah, buddy, at this pass I need every bit of help there is. But I can’t have these two at my side, particularly Dorothy, who might fly out in some unconsidered way when I need to be concentrating all my strength. Besides, it’s the Little Things that I am placing all my hope in and they may not come out in the face of all that prayer. As Granny Beck told me, the Jesus people treated them bad, back of this, calling then evil spirits and such, so prayers is as like to spook them as not.
I think about this as we all start into the woods. Those two’ll not turn aside from danger just on my say-so but there’s another way. Slowing my pace to let them go on ahead, I put up my stick and ask the trees for their help.
On the next instant, there is a squawk. A big old iron-wood has thrown out an unexpected root across the path and Dorothy has tripped and would have fell but for Belvy having ahold of her.
“Oh, my Lord,” Dorothy whispers, fighting back her tears, “here I’ve gone and turned my ankle.”
She tries to walk like it don’t hurt but after a few steps she is shaking her head.
“It ain’t no use,” she says. “It’ll be all I can do to hobble to the road. What shall we do? Belvy needs—”
Belvy holds up her hand. “Dorothy, we’ll make our way back together. Prayer ain’t weakened by distance. We’ll do our part from there while Birdie carries on alone. I know that’s how she wants it,” and she looks me in the eye, “ain’t that so, Birdie?”
As they start for the road, I hear them praying, but as soon as they are out of my hearing, I make a beeline straight for the laurel hell. It seems to me that I fly along as if I was a young girl, the branches bending out of my way and the path flattening before me.
I sing the Calling Song as I go Oh hee, Oh hi, Oh hee, and all around me there is the answering hum and buzz of the Little Things and the low tapping of the drums, like a thousand little beating hearts. It is as if no time has passed and I am the same girl that called them so long ago and, just as then, they are swarming to me on every side.
You came, I say and I feel their answer humming in the air.
We came.
It ain’t for me, I tell them. It’s two lost children, facing the old Evil and in dreadful need of your help. And I can feel the strength of the Little Things swelling and they are carrying me on with them towards the children and it is most like I had wings.
At the edge of the laurel hell I pause and listen. There are angry voices not far away and all at once there is the boom of a single gunshot. It echoes around me, but before it has died away, I am hurrying on, twisting through the web of gnarly branches, moving unhindered like in a dream.
And like in a dream I bend and wiggle and wind through the thicket of crooked stems and trunks, my old body suddenly snake-supple. The laurel twigs that catch at my hair and clothes slide away, letting go their hold as quick as they touch me. At times, I think that John Goingsnake is just behind me; at others times, it seems he is carrying me and calling me Granddaughter.
It still seems like a dream when I go a little farther and, in the middle of the laurel hell, there is a kind of a clearing, like a dancing ground. They are all of them there, posed like folks set out for a dance square, except that one of them, a big feller, is laying still on the ground. Over to the side is a rock ledge with an open place beneath and I know that more of the Little Things are waiting there.
Calven is standing with his back to me and on his right hand is a strange bald-headed fellow. His body is young but behind his dark glasses is the wrinkled face of a Raven Mocker and he is holding a young girl by one arm and pointing a big revolver at her head.
And there, just beyond the Raven Mocker, is Prin. She looks as bad as a woman can, who is still young and what most would call pretty. Her bleached hair is like a rat’s nest and there are scratches on her face where the laurel has caught her. The worst is her eyes—black-rimmed and empty as holes in the ground. I believe that she is at the end of her road, her partnering with Evil having all but eaten up her soul.
I knew that the Drawing Spell I worked up in the burying ground with Prin’s hair would bring her back but I hadn’t meant to call the Raven Mocker as well. Magic is tricksy, like Granny used to say, and you may get more than you bargain for when you cast a spell. Still and all, now that I’ve laid eyes on the Raven Mocker, it’s my bounden duty to get rid of him before he does more harm.
Mr. Aaron and the black man named Rafe and the locomotive took care of the only other Raven Mocker I ever faced—and for a moment I wish that Mr. Aaron was here to help me through this one last trial. I don’t doubt that he has had his finger in bringing us all to this place but now he ain’t nowhere near.
Soul clap its hands and sing, and louder sing …
It is Mr. Aaron’s voice, saying them words in my head, and I can feel him pushing me on, telling me that after all these years I must claim my Powers and stand alone.
And I know that I can.
I am singing my song silently now but the Little Things are singing back. They are massing in their nests and burrows beaneath the rock ledge, ready to help these innocent children, as has been their care and concern for all of time. When the moment is right, they will see the young uns safe.
Knowing that they are there and willing to help frees my mind considerable and I begin to pay attention to what the Raven Mocker is saying.
“… old Darrell had just too many ideas about how to manage this. Besides, now there’s one less to split the ransom with. We won’t have no need for Darrell down in Mexico, will we, Princess?”
They can’t see me hid away back in the laurels, and when I begin the next part of the Magic, humming low and clear, the Raven Mocker begins to swing his head around, jittering and twitching and looking behind him. The smell of his fear grows, an ugly yellow smell of rotten eggs mixing in with his usual nasty dull black scent.
“Is that you making that noise?” he hollers, pointing his gun at Prin, and she is crying now, not making a sound while the tears roll down her face. She shakes her head no and the Raven Mocker whirls around to look behind him again.
“Come out of there!” he shouts, and fires one shot, and another and another. The sound of the shots bounces around, setting the dark leaves a-tremble and waking small tinkling echoes.
The Raven Mocker waits. Then, as the sounds of the gunshots die away, the drums begin.
The beating of a thousand or more tiny drums, coming from everywhere and nowhere, and each beat trapped and repeated in your ears—it’s a frightening thing and can drive a body mad in no time, especially when they don’t know what it is.
The Raven Mocker opens his mouth in a great howl and the smell of death and fear and ancient evil pours out with the cry. He begins to shake his head, like trying to fling off something that had landed there. The gun is still in his hand but it is jerking all around, and with his other hand he is brushing at that ugly bald head of his. He ain’t paying no attention to the children, and I see Calven realizes this.
And now the Little Things, hundreds and thousands of them, begin to pour from their nests and burrows and swarm about the Raven Mocker, who howls and gibbers and dances like a puppet on a string. As the Little Things swirl around the evil creature, filling his ears with their song, Calven leaps right at him.
“Heather, run!” the boy cries and snatches her away from the Raven Mocker as the Little Things rise up in a great cloud till the children in their midst can’t be seen at all.
The Raven Mocker snarls and raises his pistol, beginning to take aim at the sw
irling cloud that is moving away back into the laurel hell … moving in the direction of the road.
The words of binding are in my mouth and I am lifting my hand to destroy the weapon when the Raven Mocker turns and sees me. His mouth opens in a snarl like a rabid animal’s.
“What rock did you crawl out from under, you damned old witch?” he growls, pointing the gun at me. “I would have thought you dead and buried long since.”
Some of the Little Things are still swarming all round his ugly face and he bats at them with his free hand while he stares at me like he can’t believe what’s happening.
“This is your doing, ain’t it?” he cries out, and I can see he is summoning up his strength. The Little Things go on humming and singing around him but he stands still in the midst of them, paying them no mind now, even as they dart at his face and hit against them old dark glasses.
They are crawling on his hands as the gun rises and comes to bear. I see them plain as I look into the black eye of the pistol barrel. I ain’t scared for I know that come what may, the children are safe and I am redeemed.
The Raven Mocker puts out his tongue and runs it around his pale lips. He steadies the gun and it is pointed right at my head. “I’ll kill you and eat your heart, old woman. You don’t have that many years to give me but it’ll be a pleasure taking them from you.”
At the corner of my eye, something is moving.
Chapter 58
Valley of the Shadow
Monday, May 7
(Dorothy)
Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of Death, I will fear no evil …’ ”
Like pale birds seeking roosts, the words dodged and darted through the shadows of the darkening woods as Dorothy and Belvy made their slow way toward the open slope where daylight lingered. Their faces were wan, their gait limped and faltered, but their voices, speaking the familiar words in unison, were strong.
At the end of the psalm, Dorothy halted, leaning on the crooked branch she had found to use as a cane. She wiped her face with her hand, then looked at the prophetess who stood tall and gravely serene at her side.
If I could have her faith, Dorothy thought. Strong in the Lord …
“Belvy …” The words were hard to say but she knew she couldn’t go on till she had spoken her fears.
Taking a deep breath, she began again, “Belvy, I’m sick with worry … worry for Calven and for that little girl … I can say I’ll fear no evil but the fact is, I’m afraid for them and I’m afraid for Birdie.”
Dorothy turned to gaze back into the depths of the woods, shuddering at the sight of the close-growing trees. Was it just a trick of the fading light that made the twisted trunks seem to move and crowd even closer together? It’s my nerves makes me think that, she told herself and went on.
“You see, Belvy, it’s on my account Birdie went in there. I didn’t have no right to ask it of her … and as she marched off away from us, right into the heart of that laurel hell, I thought I saw … I thought there was something in her face—my uncle called it fey. He’d been in World War II and he said there was this kind of a look he’d seen on men before a battle … before they died …”
Aunt Belvy looked down at her. “Dorothy Gentry, Birdie is doing what she must. There was a debt owed … and long overdue. I believe that Birdie saw this moment as a chance to pay that old debt …”
Dorothy stared. “Whatever are you talking about? Birdie ain’t never—”
The prophetess spoke on. “… and having paid at last, she’s free. Safe in the arms of Jesus.”
“Safe?” Dorothy clutched at the comforting word. “Is this a Seeing you’re having?”
Belvy took her elbow and tugged her into reluctant movement. “Call it a Knowing—of course Birdie’s safe. Come on now, let’s us get out of these woods.”
There were uniformed men, guns drawn, waiting by a sheriff’s department SUV, as the two women limped out into the open. Dorothy, holding to Belvy’s arm with one hand and wielding her crooked branch with the other, called out, “Don’t shoot! It’s me—Dorothy Franklin, the one what called you uns!”
The men looked at one another in astonishment, then lowered their pistols. The tallest came toward them, holstering his gun. “Miz Franklin? Are you two all right?”
“We’re fine, young man, thanks to the Lord.” And no thanks to you, Aunt Belvy’s tone said. “What took you uns so long?”
Sheriff Mackenzie Blaine looked back at one of his men. “We took a wrong turn somewhere—didn’t help that vandals have pulled down most of the signs along Bear Tree. Can you tell me what were those shots we heard just a little before you two came out? We—”
The questioning was interrupted by the arrival of a second patrol car, which pulled to a stop beyond the SUV. More uniformed men, guns at the ready, joined the others in helping the two old women to sit down at the side of the road. Once they were settled, the sheriff continued his questions. Where were the three criminals? Where were the children? Who had been responsible for the gunfire?
Dorothy, pale with exhaustion and pain, began to speak. “We started in, looking for Calven and Heather, but I twisted my ankle and Birdie”—Dorothy’s voice cracked—“Birdie went on while Belvy and I came back.”
“Birdie?” The sheriff’s eyebrows shot up. “You don’t mean Miss Birdie from Ridley Branch—” He turned to his deputy and Dorothy caught the words “… about ninety years old, God help us.”
“They’re every one of them back in there, Sheriff.” Belvy spoke with the quiet authority of a prophetess. “Deep in that laurel hell. But as for the gunfire … I couldn’t say.”
She paused, shut her eyes, and it seemed to Dorothy that she was consulting some inner voice. When at last she spoke, her tone was deep and oracular. “Be not afeared for the little children; they have fled the evildoers. There’s one has fallen—”
Dorothy turned in amazement, her heart in her throat. “I thought you said that Birdie was safe! You said there weren’t nothing could harm—”
Belvy’s eyelids fluttered open. “Why, Dorothy, Birdie is just fine—”
“Well, thank the Lord!” Dorothy stared into the serene brown eyes, then, suddenly assailed by doubt, “Are you sure? I thought you hadn’t seen her.”
“Dead or alive,” the prophetess continued, “Birdie is saved for hers is the side of the angels. She marches with the Lord of Hosts and the Hosts of the Lord are with her …”
The sheriff and his men exchanged skeptical glances and moved out of earshot. After a brief conference, four of the men plunged into the woods, moving quietly in the dimming light. The sheriff returned to his car and began to speak into his radio. Occasional bursts of static and garbled words broke out from the vehicle, harsh interruptions in the evening still.
Sick with apprehension, Dorothy stared after the men as the woods swallowed them. At her side, Belvy began to pray. A moment passed and Dorothy forced herself to join in. Their words rose toward the darkening sky in an overlapping series of petitions.
“… under the shadow of Thy blessed wings, O …”
“Lord of hosts, strong to save, protect your servants …”
“… for Thine is the Power …”
In the back of her mind, it seemed to Dorothy that somewhere in the woods, something was moving, a growing, swirling humming of a thousand tiny sounds, swelling louder and louder as it approached. She glanced at her companion. But, rapt in her prayers, Belvy seemed not to notice the oncoming sound.
I got to keep praying like Belvy. Ain’t nothing else I can do to help Birdie.
Dorothy bent her head to the task and prayed—prayed with all her heart and soul—prayed till the words came of themselves. And even as the droning surrounded them, drowning out their voices, still the women prayed, lips moving silently in the whirlwind of sound.
And suddenly … all was quiet.
Dorothy looked up to see Calven, hand in hand with Heather, stumbling out of the woods. The chi
ldren were wide-eyed and out of breath but seemed unharmed. The protecting cloud that surrounded them—
Dorothy blinked her eyes. For a moment there … in the fading light … it had looked as if there were a cloud about the pair.
She blinked her eyes again. No cloud, just two frightened children running toward her. Her vision blurred by tears of joy, she held her arms open wide to embrace the two.
“Calven! Oh, my boy! Thank you, Jesus,” Dorothy cried, crushing him to her. “And little Heather! Come here, child!”
The children flung themselves down beside the weeping woman, hugging her, rubbing their faces on her shoulders, and jabbering with excitement and relief.
“All praise to His Holy name!” Belvy raised wrinkled hands in witness. “His be the glory!”
As her eyes began to clear, Dorothy looked over Calven’s head to see bobbing lights in the dark woods. The lights danced and played through the trees, slowly growing nearer.
“Sheriff!” a voice called. “We got a man and a woman dead back in here.”
“She did it on purpose!” Calven’s voice was cracking. “She stepped in front of his gun so we could get away.”
To Ms. Dorothy Franklin:
We are ready to execute the commission for the stone you chose (No. 35–PGp), the polished pink granite. Enclosed find suggested designs—the lamb motif seems especially appropriate.
In our recent conversation, you suggested some lines of scripture. Am I correct in assuming that these following lines are those to which you referred? I have underlined the sections that seem most suitable.
15 As the Father knoweth me, even so know I the Father: and I lay down my life for the sheep.
16 And other sheep I have, which are not of this fold: them also I must bring, and they shall hear my voice; and there shall be one fold, and one shepherd.
