Wicked Weaves

by Lavene, Joyce

  The police accepted Mary and Roger’s statement that they had been together in her apartment above Wicked Weaves when Joshua was killed. It wasn’t something I liked to think about, but it was a good alibi.

  I sat with Mary on the back steps at Wicked Weaves the morning I left to go back to my normal life. She was humming and working on a fanning basket that was rich with multicolors of tawny bulrush and rusty pine needles. It was a work of art as unique and beautiful as any painting in any museum.

  “You done good,” she commented on the ten baskets I was taking home with me. “I didn’t think you’d do it at the beginning. You surprised me, Jessie. A good surprise. I’m going to miss you.”

  “I’ll miss you, too.” I started to hug her, but her dark face said that wasn’t allowed. “I’ll be back next summer. Maybe I’ll have a few more baskets and you can sell them for me.”

  She made a noise from the back of her throat that I took to mean, No way. I laughed and told her I was only joking. “Is Jah back at school?”

  “Yeah. He left yesterday. But he’ll be back, too. He said to tell you good-bye.”

  “I don’t think he liked me very much.”

  “People never like folks who show them the hard truth about their lives. Finding out about Ham was a hard truth. I’m not giving up on him, either. The doctor says he can be well again. I’ll wait.”

  I stood up to go, hoping to see Chase again. We’d said our good-byes last night and again this morning. I wanted to see his face one more time, but it didn’t seem to be in the cards. It was probably just as well. I already missed him more than I should have. This was going to be a hard summer to put behind me.

  Mary and I said good-bye, and I picked up my backpack to leave. Roger, who’d become chummier in the past few weeks, said good-bye and told me he’d put my apprenticeship application on top of the pile. “Thanks. I think I’d be good at glass blowing.”

  Mary made that sound again. “Except instead of bleeding all over, you’d be full of burns. I don’t think you’re cut out to do anything that involves fire, Jessie girl.”

  I ignored her. I knew in my heart I was meant to be a glass blower. I was right about being a basket weaver. When you’re determined enough, not even a lot of pain can stop you.

  Epilogue

  It was the end of October. The weather was getting colder, which meant I was scrambling for sweaters. After the warmth of the summer, the autumn winds were too chilly.

  Debby was in my second-year history class. We’d been sharing lunches as well as reminiscing about the summer at Renaissance Faire Village. She was texting Fred the Red Dragon, ignoring my sage advice about leaving him behind.

  I was going to meet her with a thermos of soup in my hand as I walked across the campus of USC-C. I was having trouble with my advice about Chase. I thought about him a thousand times a day. Myrtle Beach wasn’t that far away. I could’ve driven down any weekend, but I held myself back. It would get better on its own.

  There was a hint of rain in the air and piles of brown leaves on the ground. I walked across them, listening to them crunch under my feet. If I’d been a poet, I would’ve likened them to the brown crunchy thing my heart had become. I missed Chase. I wanted to be with him again. I wanted to forget my stupid rule about leaving the summer behind me. For the first time in five years, I wanted to wallow in my misery for the man I loved.

  I heard someone call my name and turned, smiling. What I saw took my breath away and destroyed my thermos as it crashed on the sidewalk.

  “How about lunch?” Chase was dressed in a black suit with a striped tie and a crisp white shirt. He was leaning against his shiny BMW as he opened the passenger door for me.

  “What took you so long?”

  Ye Village Crier

  Greeting and salutations!

  It is fall again and time for another Renaissance Faire Village newsletter! I had a great time learning to weave baskets with the help of master basket weaver Mary Shift. I created several of my own, wrought from sweetgrass, a plant that grows wild on the Southeast shore. It was a painful process, but I mastered it.

  Basket weaving is the creation of any container made from vegetable fibers and formed into whatever shape you choose. It dates back at least 12,000 years, earlier than any pottery ever found. All of our ancestors, no matter where they were from, had basket weaving in common. They were used as tools of life: to carry eggs, fish, flowers, and bread. Baskets were even used as burial vessels.

  Basket weavers like Mary Shift still gather many of their own materials. Supplies in some cases have grown short as development has displaced many native habitats. There are five types of basketry: coiled, as I learned this summer, uses primarily rushes and grasses; plaiting uses wider, flatter materials like palm or yucca; twining uses roots and tree bark to create baskets; wicker and splint, probably the best known, use reed, cane, and willow.

  Basket weaving has never been duplicated. While many crafts can be made with machines today, baskets are still handmade. Most basket weaving techniques date back hundreds, if not thousands, of years and are still done much like they were by our ancestors.

  My next apprenticeship at Renaissance Faire Village will be with Master Craftsman Roger Trent at his shop, the Glass Gryphon. Next summer, I’ll learn to make glass art.

  Jessie

  Little-Known Facts of the Renaissance

  One question I am frequently asked by first-timers at Renaissance Faire Village: Why is there so much ale?

  The answer to that lies in the Renaissance time itself. Most water was not filtered or purified, and many people bathed in it and let animals drink from it. What was left was used for the basest kind of sanitation. No one wanted to drink water and get sick.

  So we at Renaissance Faire Village like to keep this tradition. Even the lowliest peasant could have small beer, a weak form of ale that probably tasted like warm dishwater. Full ale was only consumed at taverns and pubs with neighbors or on special occasions. Wine was only consumed by the wealthy lords and ladies.

  Prosperous English peasants in the sixteenth century had a limited diet. They might eat two to three pounds of grain as bread or pottage, a few ounces of protein, and three pints of small beer per day.

  The common grains to eat were rye, oats, and barley. There wasn’t much wheat. Meats were expensive and usually only appeared at special feasts.

  Eggs, cheese, and vegetables were common. The peasants used herbs, onions, leeks, and garlic to season their food. Cabbage, turnips, parsnips, peas, and beans were also staples of the kitchen.

  Fruit was available but scarce and always cooked.

  A pottage or pudding was common fare for both peasants and wealthy lords and ladies. It could be made with oatmeal, cracked barley, rye, or wheat. It would be cooked with milk, honey, currants, and spices, a little like our hot cereal today.

  A peasant would have made this pottage his entire meal, maybe once or twice a day. For a lord or lady, this would have been a side dish, accompanied by meat.

  The language of the Renaissance was colorful and different than our language is today. If you plan to visit a Renaissance faire, you might want to consider changing your language as many of the residents do.

  If not, at least you will be able to understand them!

  Yes—aye: “Aye, that is a juicy apple!”

  No—Nay: “Nay, I do not want cheese.”

  You—thou or thee: “Thou art standing on my foot.”

  Listen—hark: “Hark! Methinks a cart is approaching.”

  Excuse me—I crave pardon: “I crave pardon for blundering onto your foot, sir.”

  Please—I pray you or pray: “I pray you be gentle with my turkey leg.”

  Wow or Cool!—marry! (A contraction of by Saint Mary!): “Marry! You handled that ax well, good sir!”

  Good-bye—fare thee well: “Fare thee well, my lady!”

  The knighting ceremony was held at the age of twenty-one for any young man who had been a good page
or squire and was hosted by a lord for the position. Becoming a knight was an important matter, accompanied by a ceremony and vows for the young man and a party for the entire village.

  A candidate for knighthood knelt all night in prayer before the ceremony to prove his worth. In the morning, following a religious ceremony, a knight’s armor was buckled in place in front of whatever lords and ladies could be assembled. His sword was girded about his waist, and spurs were attached to his feet. He knelt to receive the pass upon his shoulder, which was dealt by his lord with the flat of his sword.

  The ceremony was followed by jousts and other merriment to celebrate the occasion and test the new knight’s skill and bravery. Afterward, the knight rode out in quest of adventure to slay some evildoer or rescue a damsel in distress. His family was blessed by his fortitude and waited breathlessly to hear tales of his shining good deeds.

  Ye Olde Recipe

  BANBURY CAKES

  These delicious little fruit-filled pastries were first mentioned in English text in 1586. They were originally sold in little baskets and wrapped in white cloths to keep them warm. The cakes have been made in Banbury since that time, inspiring poets to create sonnets for them. They are that good!

  2 oz. butter, melted

  4 oz. raisins

  4 oz. currants

  2 oz. mixed peel

  4 oz. coarsely ground brown sugar

  1 level teaspoon mixed spices

  1 lb. puff pastry

  Egg white

  Caster sugar (powdered sugar)

  Preheat oven to 425° F.

  Mix the melted butter, raisins, currants, peel, sugar, and spices together in a bowl, combining well.

  Roll out the pastry on a lightly floured surface and, using a saucer, cut into about 16 circles. Divide the fruit mixture evenly between them, then dampen the edges of the pastry circles and draw up into the center, sealing well. Turn over and, with the hands, gently form the cakes into ovals, then press down very gently with a rolling pin.

  Make 3 diagonal cuts across the top of each cake, then brush with egg white and sprinkle with caster sugar. Place on lightly greased baking trays and bake for 15 to 20 minutes or until golden. Serve slightly warm.

  MAKES ABOUT 16.

  Turn the page for a preview of the next book

  in the Peggy Lee Garden Mysteries

  by Joyce and Jim Lavene . . .

  A Corpse for Yew

  Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!

  Muscadine

  Botanical: Vitis rotundifolia

  These grapes are native to the southern United States. They were discovered by Sir Walter Raleigh who wrote home of their abundance. The Algonquins called muscadine Ascopa meaning sweet berry tree. The Mother Vine is the oldest living vine known, from the time of Sir Raleigh, and still grows on the coast of North Carolina. Some vines are male and some are female. Male vines provide pollen but do not produce grapes. Female vines produce flowers that catch the wind driven pollen from the male vines and produce fruit.

  “You stomped on that skull, Margaret. Mind your feet!” Peggy Lee pulled her booted foot back out of the knee-deep mud and debris. She still couldn’t believe she’d agreed to accompany her mother on her outing with the Shamrock Historical Society. One of the first things her mother had done after moving to Charlotte last month was to entrench herself with the local history museum. Somehow, she’d managed to drag Peggy into the group as well.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t enjoy and appreciate history, but plants were more her thing and she wished she was home in her garden. She looked at some nice, fat cattails as they swayed gently in the afternoon breeze.

  “We need you over here.” Lilla Cranshaw Hughes beckoned her daughter then lowered her voice. “Please stop daydreaming. You’re making me look bad in front of Mrs. Waynewright. You know I can’t tolerate that.”

  Peggy slogged away from her mother, her redheaded temper bubbling beneath her calm exterior. Just because her hair was mostly white now didn’t mean she didn’t get just as angry. Especially with her mother. Why she couldn’t be more like her pleasant, even-tempered father, she’d never understand. And why her mother always brought out the worst in her was a lifelong mystery.

  One thing was for sure; she had to find a polite, well-mannered way to get herself out of her mother’s historical group with its petty little jealousies and problems. She had more important things to do. She had a life her mother’s intrusion had disrupted. She was probably needed at the Potting Shed, her garden shop in Center City. But her cell phone, miserable, traitorous wretch that it was, hadn’t rung in over an hour. Next time, she’d tell her assistant, Selena, to call her.

  Peggy rehearsed over and over what she was going to say to get herself away from her mother for at least an hour. She decided she’d lie, if needed, and tell her that Selena had called and she had to leave right away. She’d have to call someone to come and get her since she’d made the mistake of coming out with the group in the museum van. But she wasn’t above that, or lying, to get out of this mess, although a fifty-plus daughter shouldn’t have to lie to her mother anymore.

  “Grab this bucket, Margaret.” Lilla shoved a yellow plastic container toward her daughter. “You can at least do that. Jonathon will take care of handling the bones and such that we find. You probably aren’t trained for that, are you?”

  Peggy snatched the yellow container. She wouldn’t have said if she’d trained twenty years for the job. “No, Mom. I’m a forensic botanist. We only look at living matter on bones if we have to. And I hate to tell you this, but Selena just called from the Potting Shed. I have to go back. Something’s wrong with a shipment and she needs me.”

  It wasn’t too big a lie, really, Peggy soothed her conscience. Selena was having problems with her boyfriend. She pushed aside a low-hanging muscadine vine as she inched through the heavy mud. A trickle of the spring-fed creek still ran under the mud, keeping it moist, making walking through the stuff even more difficult.

  “They’ll get along without you,” her mother said. “We need you here. Have you ever seen such a mess?”

  Peggy looked around herself. The worst drought North Carolina had ever seen had brought lake levels down so low that piers stood five feet above dirt where water had once been. Boats were dry docked. People who lived in expensive lake houses tried to decide if they should get out before it got worse.

  Already many cities in the Piedmont, including Charlotte, were down to less than three months of water. The governor and city officials had declared several state of emergencies, restricting people to lower water consumption and raising the price of the water they used. The governor had challenged the populace to emulate his twenty-six-second showers in the face of the calamity.

  Brown grass and dirty cars had become badges of heroism in the area as people did without to try and wait out the drought. Those with green lawns, who secretly watered at night, paid the price with stiff penalties such as having their water service interrupted. Stores were emptied of their low-flow shower-heads and residents put bricks in their toilet tanks to use less water per flush.

  The local wildlife and fish were suffering as well, as the lakes and other water resources dried up in the baking hot fall sun. Sweltering temperatures added to the problem as they caused evaporation and massive fish kills. Deer migrated into the city to find shelter when the leaves fell from the dry trees, while frogs and other amphibians retreated into an early hibernation away from the parched topsoil.

  But Peggy thought the strangest thing she’d seen from the drought was Lake Whitley. The one hundred-acre lake, created by damming Little Whitley Creek, had completely dried up. Besides the expected pieces of old boats and lost fishing poles at the bottom of where the lake had been, there were almost one hundred graves.

  “It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Jonathon Underwood was standing beside Peggy as the ladies of the group, all ladies except for Jonathon, argued over who was going to take photos of the find. “Who wou
ld’ve thought we’d ever see this village again?”

  “Or these graves.” Peggy looked up at him. Jonathon was well over six-feet. She moved her foot away from a chest cavity separated from the head and arms. “Why didn’t they move the graves before they dammed the creek?”

  “They did move some of them, actually,” he told her. “These were the ones left behind. The state charged the relatives of the dead with collecting them and making sure they were moved to higher ground. These people didn’t have any family left behind to take care of them. Most of the graves are from the early 1800s. As you can imagine, many of their relatives had moved away from the village or died by the early 1900s when this happened.”

  Peggy had only met Jonathon that morning when they all set out together for the dry lake. He was a sober, serious man with gentle brown eyes and a boyish mop of brown hair. He was the director of the Mecklenburg County History Museum and was far more patient with her mother and the other ladies than she’d ever be. “Did you know this was under the lake all these years?”

  “Oh yes. There are maps of the village. You can see over there where the old town hall stood.” He pointed to what was left of the structure, little more than four partial stone walls. “And over there is where the school was. Whitley Village was one of the first towns in this area to have their own academy. Teachers came here from across the state to train in their profession then they went on to other schools.”