by Jaye Wells
Billy’s low growl warned her of someone’s approach. Distracted by the noise, she didn’t notice the thorn on the bush until it impaled itself in her fingertip. She yelped and pulled the injured finger to her mouth. The flavor of copper spread on her tongue in the same instant the man emerged from the woods.
She had the shotgun in her hand before she’d made a conscious decision to grab it. Over the long barrel, she finally took her first good look at the visitor. He’d stopped just past the edge of the trees. He raised a hand to push the straw hat back from his brow. The sunlight bounced off his white hair, which fell across the scar on his forehead.
She lowered the shotgun from killing height to her hip, where it would still serve as a warning to mind his manners. “Damn it, Virgil. You scared the tar out of me!”
“Mornin’,” he called. His sweet-tea tone was far too friendly to be natural.
“What you doin’ way out here?”
He walked several feet forward. She adjusted the shotgun on her hip. He stopped. “There’s no reason to be ornery.”
She watched him. The silence filled with memories of sixty years of haunted history between the good deacon and the mountain’s only witch. Of course, she wasn’t a witch at all, but a granny woman, skilled in folk remedies. That never stopped him from tellin’ his parishioners she was a bride of Satan, though. ’Course, his parishioners were also her best customers. Not that she’s tell him that and risk his wrath.
Finally, the smile on his lips tightened into a pucker, as if he’d belatedly realized he’d put a little too much lemon in that sweet tea. “I need some advice.”
A laugh escaped her like a bird shooting out of the underbrush. The sound disturbed Billy, who woofed as he came out of his slumber. “That’ll be the day.”
He stabbed the walking stick into the dirt a few times. “You got any of that apple pie shine?”
“Thought you didn’t drink.”
He sighed. “For the business I come to discuss I’m willing to make an exception.”
She sucked her teeth as she looked him over for signs of trickery. Virgil Fry had been born with a silver tongue in his mouth, but he rarely used it on her. He learned real early that she was immune to his verbal sorcery, which was why he’d done his best to turn everyone against her. Hell, she hadn’t seen the man since Rose’s funeral, and she wasn’t even sure he’d known she was there.
“Maypearl, please,” he said. “I need yer help.”
It was the naked pleading in his tone that decided her. She’d known Virgil her whole life, but that had been the first time she’d heard a lick of vulnerability in his voice.
She grabbed her basket of rose petals. “C’mon, then.”
25
Hoodoo
Deacon Fry
The old bat had made him beg. When he’d finally admitted to himself that he was setting out for her house, he’d been prepared to jump through some hoops. She’d always enjoyed making him squirm. Back when they were in school, when all the other kids would shrink away from him, Maypearl always stood a little taller and watched him with those gypsy eyes that seemed to see right through his skin and into the dark spots in his bones.
The steps creaked under his boots and that old hound dog gave him the side-eye. The only way he could have felt less welcome would have been if she’d hung a No Deacons Allowed banner over her door.
He shouldn’t have come.
“Well,” the old bat yelled, “you comin’ in or what?”
He leaned his walking stick by the door and stepped inside. The scent of dried herbs tickled his nostrils. The damned placed smelled like a hippie hideout. Looked like one, too. Colorful quilts covered the sofa and chairs. Beads hung from every doorway. Each window had some sort of colorful geegaw or doodad hanging from their frames to sparkle in the afternoon sun. All of this confirmed his suspicions that Granny Maypearl’s famous visions were the result of smoking drugs.
Of course, her pagan ways also made her the only person in Moon Hollow who could advise him about his predicament. The good Lord sure did have a warped sense of humor sometimes.
She wasn’t in the living room. “Where’d ya go?”
“Kitchen.” The muted reply came from a doorway on the far side of the room.
The room he entered was larger than the living room by double. Something was steaming inside a large pot on the stove. Dried bundles of herbs hung from hooks in the room’s corners. A large window over the sink let in enough light to give the room a cheerful feeling, but it couldn't dispel the constant chill he’d carried in his bones since the day Jack died.
Maypearl stood at the stove. Humming to herself, she placed a small pan on one of the gas burners. She poured some liquid into the pot from a chipped ceramic pitcher. Then she took a handful of pink petals from the pocket of her apron and added those to the pot.
“What you makin’?”
The long, gray braid down her back twitched as she turned to peek at him. “Rose water.”
“Hmmph.” He’d suspected her of cooking some sort of devil’s potion, but she’d just been making some toilet water.
“I got tea.”
“I’m fine.” He didn’t trust any tea that came out of that old witch’s kitchen. He noticed she hadn’t offered him any of her famous apple pie moonshine like he’d asked for earlier. Knowing her, it hadn’t slipped her mind.
“Suit yerself.” She turned back to the stove.
Why didn’t she ask him already? “May I sit?”
The braid twitched again as she shrugged.
He pulled a chair from the table and lowered his aching joints into the hard seat. He’d be paying for that long walk up the mountain for the next few days. Still, he maintained a dignified posture so the old witch wouldn’t forget who she was speaking to.
Except she wasn’t speaking to him, was she?
He cleared his throat.
She tapped a wooden spoon on the lip of the dented copper pot. Turning from the stove, she wiped her hands on her apron before taking a seat at the table. Once she settled, she placed her hands in her lap and watched him. He tried not to squirm like a young boy being held back after class by the schoolmarm.
“You heard about Jack?”
She pressed her lips together but nodded. No words. Didn’t she know she was supposed to say something now? That she was supposed to help him through this? Did she think it was easy, him coming here?
“Funeral is tomorrow.”
She pulled a sprig of some herb from a mason jar on the table. It looked like a tiny Christmas tree branch. She lifted the spiky twig to her nose and inhaled, as if trying to fill every tainted space in her body with a clean scent.
“You going?”
She looked up and smiled. “Would you let me in that church if I wanted to?”
The words sounded uncomfortably like she was daring him to lie to her. “You could come to the cemetery.” He paused. “Like how you came down for Rose’s services.” He’d seen her hiding behind the tree trunks, trying to blend into the shadows.
Her expression didn’t change. “Of course I did. Rose was my heart.”
The words were simple and spoken softly, but they hit him directly in the center of his chest. He licked his lips. He should never have mentioned Rose. That trail led to tricky ground.
“Anyway,” he said, shifting on his seat.
“Did you come all the way up here to invite me to the service, Virgil?” The patronizing patience was gone. He definitely shouldn’t have brought up Rose.
“I think I will take that tea after all.”
She watched him.
He grabbed a stem of the green herb from the jar and sniffed. The green scent reminded him of the shrub his wife kept by the back door of their house.
“Virgil?”
“Yes?”
“Why are you here?”
He tossed the herb on the table. Now or never. “You ever seen a ghost?”
Her frown deepened. At least sh
e didn’t laugh at him, but, then, that’s why he’d come to her. Out of everyone in Moon Hollow Maypearl was the last one who’d make fun of someone for believing a bit of hoodoo. “Maybe so,” she said, finally. “Have you?”
He shrugged. “Could be.”
“Jack’s?”
Hearing his name like that, so soon after he’d mentioned the ghost, so soon after he’d seen the ghost, made his skin feel too tight. He shrugged because he worried speaking might summon the spook directly into that kitchen.
She leaned forward and looked at him over the rim of her spectacles. “When?”
“Few times.”
“Where?”
Everywhere. “Here and there. Last time was,” he paused to sigh, “was just a bit ago at the funeral home.”
“Tell me what happened.” Her tone was all-business, a professional getting down to work.
He told her most of it. Told her about the hallway and the scent of blood and the cold, cold air. But he didn’t mention the word that had haunted his brain ever since the specter whispered them into his ear.
Revelation.
He was almost done telling her the parts he was willing to share when a hiss sounded from the stove. The water in the pot had boiled over to sizzle on the hot burner. She rose from her seat and removed the pot from the flame. As she pulled down a sieve from an overhead rack, he caught her face in profile. Her features were pinched tight, as if she was concentrating on more than just pouring the rose water through the strainer. Had she heard stories like his before? She’d betrayed very little expression while he spoke, and when she’d asked questions, her tone was quiet, not afraid or suspicious.
“Anything else happened?” Her back was toward him as she worked with the rose water. It made answering easier.
“Just dreams.”
She nodded. “Anyone else besides Jack in the dreams?”
He started to tell her no, but stopped. The image of Jack dancing in fire and blood had vexed him all day, but now that they were talking about it, new elements of the dream revealed themselves in flashback. It was as if her question had opened a door on the rest of the dream. But he couldn't tell her everything. No one could ever know everything. “Rose was riding on a crow’s back through the graveyard.”
Maypearl froze and spun slowly to look at him. “You’re sure?”
“Yes. There was also something about a bear down in the mines, but I think that was just because of something Angus said.”
She set down the bowl of pink water and wiped her hands on her apron. “What did he say?”
He leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his belly. “Oh nothin’.”
“I can’t help you if you’re not honest.” And there was that look again; he could feel it probing inside him, trying to find all his shadows.
He sighed. “Angus said when they brought in Jack’s body it looked like an animal had gotten hold of him. A bear, maybe.”
She frowned. “Bears don’t go into the mines.”
He ran a finger over the table’s scarred wood. “He was found in an abandoned shaft. One of them the kids climb into from the woods?” To fornicate, he thought. Sin holes, he called ’em. “Angus was thinking maybe Jack disturbed a sleeping bear by accidentally breaking through a shaft wall.”
“But the mine shafts are too deep for—“
He spoke over her. “Anyway, that’s all the dreams I been having.”
She clucked her tongue and turned toward a cabinet. Pots clanged together as she rummaged through the shelves. Finally, she pulled out two small bottles with sprayer lids. She filled each with rose water. Once the second lid was screwed into place, she spoke again. “It’s about time for Decoration Day.”
“Is it?” He concentrated on the herb he now recognized as rosemary, and he began stripping the little spikes off one at a time.
“You know damned well it is. It’s already mid-May. Usually it happens earlier in the month.”
The unexpected question made him stop torturing the rosemary. “What does that have to do with Jack?”
She snorted and waved her hand to dismiss the notion. “A proper Decoration is more than a picnic in the cemetery and you strutting around like the cock of the walk giving speeches about temperance. It’s about honoring the dead and making sure we do right by them.”
He tossed what was left of the stem onto the pile of broken leaves on the table. With a sigh, he leaned back in his chair. “Maybe we’ll skip it this year. Town’s going through enough with Jack and your Rose only a month ago. ”
“Jack and Rose are the reason you have to do a Decoration, Virgil. The proper rites must be observed.”
He shook his head. “Don’t go spouting your pagan mumbo jumbo to me, woman. Rose received a proper burial according to our customs, as will Jack.”
“Your own daddy oversaw the Decorations for years. He respected the traditions. You saying he’s a pagan, too?”
“Watch your mouth. My daddy was a good man. If he followed the rituals it was only because it was tradition, nothing more.”
She crossed her arms. “Yeah, well, your daddy never asked me if I saw ghosts with fear in his voice.”
He rose abruptly. “This was a bad idea.”
“No, the bad idea was not doing the rituals like you was supposed to. Jack died during the dark moon.”
He stared at her because he had no idea how to respond to such a random statement. Finally, she took mercy on him and explained.
“Spirits get restless when there’s no moon. If proper precautions haven’t been taken, bad things can happen.”
He wanted to ask what sorts of things, but then he remembered he didn’t believe in any of that stuff. He shouldn’t have come. He just was having an episode was all. Lack of sleep and stress were playing games with his mind. Didn’t help that his own home had been filled with wailing and carrying on ever since Sarah Jane found out her beau had died. He just needed to get a handle on things again. Once the funeral was over, things would get better. “I need to leave.”
She didn’t try to stop him, but she thrust one of the bottles of rose water into his hand. “Here.”
He frowned down at the bottle. “I’ll give it to Sarah Jane.” Maybe it would make her stop sobbing for five seconds, Lord willing.
“It ain’t for Sarah Jane, you old fool—it’s for you.”
“I—“
“Spread it around every window and door leading out of the house for protection.”
“Sounds like magical bunk to me.” He tried to hand the sprayer back to her, but she resisted.
“Don’t think of it as magic, so much as aromatherapy. The scent is calming and promotes peace.”
He paused in his effort to force her to take the bottle. Peace and calm were two things his house could definitely use. He unscrewed the cap and sniffed the water. The soft scent was pleasing and he felt an easing of tension that had gripped his neck ever since he saw that unspeakable thing in the woods. He replaced the cap and stuck the bottle in his pocket. He didn’t thank her for it because that would mean acknowledging he’d accept a gift from a heathen witch.
He turned to go without another word. But just before he escaped the kitchen, she spoke again. “You want them ghosts gone for good, you gotta do the magical bunk.”
Pausing on the threshold, he turned to look at her. “I’m not saying I’ll do it, but what would it entail, exactly?”
She didn’t smile. For that he was grateful. “If you want to be rid of the haint that’s vexing you personally, you gotta get yerself a tater. Don’t wash it and don’t peel it. Cut it in half and hollow out a little bit of the meat. Put something of Jack’s inside. Don’t have to be anything special—just something he owned. Reseal the tater with two long nails and bury it near his grave.”
He made a raspberry sound with his lips. The idea that the evil thing he’d seen would be scared away by a damned potato was the funniest thing he’d heard in weeks. “I’m wasting my time with t
his blasphemy.”
She shrugged. “This ain’t going away, Virgil. There’s forces at work in these mountains that your Bible can’t begin to tame.”
“You dare speak such heresy?”
“I’m speaking the truth.” She shook her head sadly. “You can keep lying to yourself, but that won’t stop what’s coming. You don’t want to protect yourself from it? Fine. But if you want to save Moon Hollow, you’re going to have to do a proper Decoration.”
Instead of arguing, he simply tilted his chin, hoping she’d read it as a simple acknowledgement that he’d heard her. As he walked out the front door and down the steps of the porch, the rose water sloshed in his pocket. He hadn’t decided whether or not he’d go through with Decoration Day, but Granny Maypearl hadn’t laughed when he’d told her about the ghost. If anything, his story seemed almost to verify something she’d suspected on her own. He hated the idea that he was playing right into her paranoid beliefs, but he was feeling pretty paranoid himself.
As he walked away from the house, he decided he’d see how things went at the funeral. But just in case, he was going to see if they had any potatoes at home.
26
Testing The Bead
Cotton
Moonshiners judge the proof of their whiskey by shaking it in a large clear glass jug. The bubbles that form are called “the bead.” Large bead that dissipates quickly indicates high alcohol content. A fine bead that disappears slowly means the proof is lower.
To Cotton, Rose’s death had tested the bead of his family. Shaken up, they each staggered around, bumping into each other. Ruby’s feelings were big but they popped fast. But Cotton’s bead was finer—more brittle—and taking much longer to disappear.
Another test involved fire. Moonshine was poured into a spoon and lit. If the distillate was safe the resulting flames would be blue. Tainted batches burned yellow. If a radiator coil poisoned the batch with lead, the flame would have a reddish tint. A common refrain among mountain folk was, “Lead burns red and makes you dead.” But if methanol was to blame, the flame would burn invisibly.
