“Did Evelyn give you a proper welcome this morning?” Colvin asked as he turned the head of the axe over and went to work honing the other side of the blade.
“Very much so.” Abigail was forced to shout over the screech of the grinding stone. The noise was aggravating and she wondered if it occurred to Colvin that he was being rude.
“Evelyn’s a delightful woman, isn’t she?” Colvin asked as he continued sharpening.
“Indeed.”
“And your first lesson with the children?”
“Very pleasant.” In truth, Abigail had done little more than learn her pupils’ names and discover their knowledge of the alphabet to be nonexistent.
“Glad to hear it,” said Colvin. “I hope you’ll find the work rewarding, seeing as how you aren’t getting paid for it.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Colvin removed the blade from the wheel and the irritating grinding finally came to a halt. “We can’t pay you—at least, not yet. Our clerk has no record of your employment with the company. He assures me it’s probable your papers will be arriving with the next supply wagon.”
A spark of alarm went off in Abigail. “When will that be?”
“Hard to say. Four days, maybe six if there’s Mohawk trouble in the valley.”
Four days.
Somehow, Abigail would have to complete her investigation and get out of Tahawus before the men from Witherbee & Rand arrived. Colvin already seemed suspicious by nature and he didn’t know how she would explain herself when the supply wagon arrived without any evidence that she belonged in the village.
“Don’t trouble yourself about it,” Colvin assured her while testing the blade again. “I’ll see to it that Bingham extends you credit for your needs until this is all straightened out. If you aren’t our new schoolteacher, why else would you be here, eh?”
Something about Colvin’s last remark made Abigail wary. Did he already suspect her? “Indeed,” she agreed. “It’s not as if a woman such as myself would venture out here for a holiday.”
“No, I suppose not.” Satisfied with the sharpness of his axe, Colvin set it aside and slicked his hair straight back from his forehead before helping himself to a seat on an overturned log. Reclining comfortably against the timber wall of his cabin, he folded one arm over the other across his chest.
“Truthfully, Mr. Colvin, there is a more pressing reason why I’ve come to see you,” Abigail said. She watched as Timber sauntered over, curled up next to Colvin’s boot, and gazed up at her with deep, amber eyes that very much resembled those of his master.
“Is that so?”
“It concerns one of the children I met in today’s lesson, a young girl named Hannah Gill.”
Colvin’s face darkened slightly but he said nothing as he waited for Abigail to go on.
“I understand the girl’s father was one of the men who recently committed suicide,” she said. “Is that correct?”
“Aye, it is.”
“Might I trouble you for some details regarding his demise?”
A look of mistrust crept into Colvin’s otherwise passive expression. “Exactly what is your interest here, Ms. Jacobs?”
Abigail had anticipated this question and had her answer ready. “As you may already know, Mr. Colvin, new work being conducted in what Johann Christian Reil has called psychiatry has revealed that childhood trauma may have a direct impact on future diseases of the mind.”
Predictably, Colvin chuckled to himself and shook his head. “Well now, that is one long sentence you just put together, Ms. Jacobs. Care to simplify it for me?”
“I’m concerned that the death of Hannah’s father may compromise her ability to form meaningful relationships with others later in life.” The lie came easy to Abigail; she was acutely conscious of the fact that the same could be said about her. “The more I know about the circumstances of her father’s death, the more I may be able to help Hannah cope with his loss.”
Colvin uncrossed his arms, reached into the breast pocket of his shirt, and withdrew a single boiled egg. Cracking it against the log on which he sat, he began peeling away the shell. “Fair enough,” he said. “If you think it’ll do the poor girl some good, I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
Abigail found something strangely amusing about the sight of this brawny mountain man carefully plucking at bits of brown eggshell and stacking them in a neat pile on the ground next to his boot. “Have you any reason to believe Mr. Gill was an unhappy man?” she inquired.
“None at all.” Colvin popped the egg into his mouth and devoured half of it with one bite. “Cy had been here since Tahawus was but a nameless, two-shack camp. His wife and daughter were among the first to join us once we’d built the family cabins. Cy kept a mean tweedledee on his fiddle at our monthly dances. He had his hard days just like the rest of us, but otherwise he took to the wilderness as if he’d been born in a burrow.” The egg disappeared with a second bite. Colvin gathered the bits of shell from the dirt and deposited them back in his pocket. “Attracts bears,” he explained with a wink.
“Bears?”
“Aye. Black ones. Big bastards. The scent of food brings ‘em to the village. We’ve a strict rule against leaving scraps lying about. I hate to shoot the poor beasts simply on account of one of us being too lazy to clean up after himself.” Colvin grinned at her as he swallowed.
“Mr. Colvin, why do you think Mr. Gill chose to end his own life?”
Colvin hunched forward and propped his elbows on his knees. His unyielding gaze seemed to be purposely engaging her defenses. “Out here, there’s something we lumberjacks call cabin fever. Have you heard of it?”
“I believe it’s a form of madness inspired by prolonged isolation. Am I correct?”
“You are.”
“Is that what you believe drove Mr. Gill to set himself ablaze?”
Colvin shrugged. “Life out here will get under your skin if you let it.”
“What about the other two men? What can you tell me about them?” This was the trickiest part of Abigail’s game. She hoped Colvin wouldn’t notice he was being baited.
“You certainly are a curious fox, aren’t you Ms. Jacobs?” Colvin goaded while smoothing Timber’s thick coat. The dog rolled onto his side and let out a long and contented sigh at his master’s touch.
“I ask only because I may have an alternate explanation for what motivated them to commit suicide,” Abigail explained.
Colvin’s hand froze in mid-stroke and he cocked an eyebrow. “Is that so? Do tell.”
“Are you familiar with ergotism, Mr. Colvin?”
“No, I’m not.”
“’Tis a type of poisoning related to the ingestion of contaminated grains. In the Middle Ages, it was often referred to as holy fire or Saint Anthony’s fire. In addition to some rather horrid physical effects, ergotism can also provoke symptoms such as hallucinations, melancholia, and mania.”
“You really think four of my men killed themselves because they ate bad grains?”
“I believe it’s a scientific possibility worth considering. This morning, Mrs. MacIntyre kindly brought me a loaf of rye bread for breakfast. As it happens, rye is the most common carrier of the ergot fungus. I’ve also learned that the skirmishes between the Americans and the Indians in the valley have prevented Mr. Bingham from maintaining fresh stocks in the general store. ‘Tis possible that his current supply of rye has been tainted from poor storage or shipping conditions.”
Colvin’s eyes narrowed slightly. “Just what sort of teacher are you, Ms. Jacobs?”
“A very well-educated one. Now, under the circumstances, ‘tis entirely possible that your men killed themselves while suffering from the melancholy or mania associated with ergot poisoning.”
Colvin ran a hand over the length of his beard. “An interesting theory. How would we test it?”
“As I said, ergotism often manifests physical effects as well as mental. Understandably, we have no way of knowi
ng if Mr. Gill or Mr. Prue presented such symptoms, their corpses having already been destroyed. But Mr. Colvin, I understand you were present for the internments of both Mr. Hawes and Mr. Beaulieu. Tell me, was there anything unusual about their bodies?”
“One man had shot himself in the gut and the other ate half of his own arm. Would that be considered unusual?”
“I mean aside from their self-inflicted injuries. Were there any strange marks on their flesh? A discoloration of the veins that may have looked like a flower blossoming?”
“Not that I can remember.”
“What about any abnormal bruising around their mouths?”
“No.”
“Any problems with their eyes?”
“What kind of problems?”
“A sort of cloudy film?”
Colvin shook his head.
That settled it. While Abigail had to admit the gruesome circumstances of each man’s suicide were extraordinary, there hadn’t been a single indication of spirit possession among them. She would break the news to Duncan after dinner. Part of her felt liberated by the revelation. While the rash of deaths still remained a mystery, she could at least be satisfied that nothing paranatural had driven the men to kill themselves. Tomorrow, she would start working on the problem of getting out of the village before the supply wagon arrived.
“Ms. Jacobs, if my men were under the influence of this poisoning you’re speaking of, wouldn’t we all be suffering from the same effects?” Colvin wondered.
“That would be a fair assumption to make, Mr. Colvin. But based on what you have told me about the lack of physical symptoms presented by the dead men, I would have to conclude that Mr. Bingham’s rye is safe after all.”
Abigail saw no reason to waste Bingham’s supply needlessly. She still had at least one more morning before she figured out a way to leave Tahawus.
And she very much enjoyed a good rye bread.
Chapter 14
Evelyn MacIntyre was dreaming that someone was calling her name. The voice was faint and distant, as if floating to her from across a vast ocean. While she slumbered, Evelyn took pleasure in the notion that it was the voice of her homeland calling her back to its craggy shores. It was safe to return; her mother wasn’t dead and Heath’s father wasn’t dead. Both waited for her in the grassy hills of the MacIntyre glen.
But then—very slowly—the lovely voice began to evolve.
The echo of her name became more vivid, more present, as if Evelyn was rising up from deep waters toward someone standing on a sandy shore above. The voice became so clear and distinct, it transcended her sleep and roused her to wakefulness.
Evelyn sat up in bed.
The small cabin was black around her—too black. An instant passed in confusion before she realized there was no moon. The clouds had closed in and there would be rain again tonight. The fire had gone low in the woodstove and a lonesome breeze whistled through the windowpane.
Blinking her eyes to clear her head, Evelyn looked to where her big and burly husband lay slumbering without a care next to her. Heath MacIntyre’s face was turned away from her. Only his broad shoulders and the red mop of his head were visible above the quilted blanket. Evelyn watched him as he slept, letting the low rumble of his breathing comfort her in the suffocating darkness.
Without thinking, Evelyn’s gaze drifted across the room to where the shape of a baby’s cradle stood barely visible in the gloom. Heath had spent a week’s worth of nights crafting it by the dim light of a lantern behind their cabin. The sturdy oak would last their family for generations to come. Evelyn imagined the cradle becoming a family heirloom, the only one they now possessed.
With a sigh, she lay back into her pillow and slid a hand under the blanket. Brushing lightly over her swollen and tender breasts, she brought her palm to rest on her belly. Should she and Heath be blessed enough to have a boy, they would name the child Eadan in memory of Heath’s father. The child would carry on the MacIntyre name here in their new home of America. The thought comforted Evelyn as she kept her palm where it was and waited for a kick.
None came.
Evelyn...
She froze.
This time it wasn’t a dream. Someone had spoken her name.
A cold prickle of fear stole over Evelyn as she lay there on her back. The voice had been hushed and ephemeral, as if the wind itself were whispering to her.
And yet, she had heard it as clearly as she heard Heath’s slumbering breaths rising from the pillow next to her.
Evelyn...
Evelyn’s heart lurched and constricted. She knew that voice! She hadn’t heard it for many, many years, but she knew it nonetheless.
It was the voice of an old, old woman.
It was that of her mother.
An icy tingle crawled across Evelyn’s flesh. It wasn’t possible! Evelyn herself had wrapped her mother’s body in its winding sheet. She had seen the milky whites of her mother’s dead eyes and shuddered at the hideous grin spread across the face of her mother’s stiffening corpse. She had sunk to the ground and sobbed at her mother’s lifeless feet.
Hear me, Evelyn...
The voice came to her once more, calling to her from somewhere beyond the timber walls of the cabin.
Somewhere out in the forest.
“Mother?” Even as the whisper escaped Evelyn’s lips, she couldn’t believe she had uttered it. She kept telling herself it wasn’t possible, but the sound of her mother’s voice was too real, too warm and inviting. How she missed that voice! How she missed the comfort it evoked, the sweet memories of youth and safety it rekindled. Tears sprung to Evelyn’s eyes. She had thought she would never again hear that kind and soothing voice.
Come to me, Evelyn...
Careful not to wake her husband, Evelyn slipped from beneath the blanket and stood next to the bed. For a brief instant she became conscious of herself, of what she was doing. Why had she risen? What was it about the voice that had drawn her to her feet? This isn’t possible, she reminded herself. It had to be a trick; whatever was calling her name wasn’t her mother. Her mother was dead, buried in a miserable grave far, far away.
Ancient stories sprang into Evelyn’s mind; stories she had heard as a child in the Old World. She recalled dreadful tales of the caioneag, a weeping spirit whose wails in the night portended catastrophe and death. What if her mother’s voice suddenly twisted into a ghastly wail? What if the caioneag had come for her?
What if it had come for her baby?
Evelyn crossed herself and whispered a prayer. She could feel her heart thudding in her chest. Sweat sprang to her palms.
Don’t be afraid, my child...
Her mother’s voice again. Soothing. Comforting.
The words banished Evelyn’s fears as if she were once more a young girl. She wanted it to be true, she wanted it to be possible. She knew she should wake Heath but she didn’t make a move. She looked to the candle on the nightstand but didn’t go to light it. She didn’t know why, but she remained there in the darkness, ears pricked, listening for the call, listening for the gentle whisper of her mother’s voice.
Come...
Evelyn didn’t pause to throw a shawl over her chemise as she moved toward the door. She heard Heath stir quietly in his sleep as the hinges creaked open. Had she woken him? Evelyn no longer cared. She hardly felt the chill of the breeze against her bare skin as she slipped from the cabin into the night.
Her mother’s voice had come from somewhere out here, calling to her, compelling her to follow it to its source... to follow it into the forest.
Here, Evelyn...
Evelyn no longer questioned what she was doing as she turned and strode past the cabin, seeking out the sweet, sweet sound of her mother calling to her. A gust of wind blew fallen leaves against her face but she paid them no mind. She paused behind the cabin. Heath’s tools were there, laid out on his workbench. What were they doing there? Heath would never have left them exposed to the elements. The steel would
rust in the rain...
Bring it to me, Evelyn...
Evelyn’s hand closed on the hacksaw.
Aye. Now come...
Her mother’s call was insistent and magnetic as it drew Evelyn ever deeper into the blackness of the forest. Evelyn couldn’t resist going to it, even as the snarls of underbrush bit and tore at her legs. The hacksaw was weightless in her hand as she moved between the trees. It was raining now, a fine drizzle that landed softly and saturated all that it fell upon. When had the rain started? How long had she been pursuing the voice through the trees? It was cold, but Evelyn didn’t feel the rising hardness of her nipples as they brushed against her wet chemise. She no longer felt anything, no longer heard anything but the lovely call of her mother beckoning her further from her home, leading her deeper and deeper into the forest.
Suddenly, she stopped.
She had arrived.
Evelyn stood in an empty hollow. Her breath blossomed in the cold as the rain fell gently upon her. A limitless blackness stretched away from her in all directions. How had she ever found her way out here? She didn’t know why, but she was certain this was the place. This is where she had been meant to come.
This is where her mother was.
“Why have ye’ brought me here?” Evelyn asked aloud. The sound of her own voice echoing in the silence seemed distant, detached, surreal. Maybe she had never actually woken up. Could she still be sleeping? It all seemed like a dream.
But the rain... the rain was so real, so cold.
I’ve come to save you, my daughter...
“Save me from what?”
Your baby...
Evelyn stiffened. “What about my baby?”
‘Tis going to kill you...
“No. That’s not true.” Evelyn’s mind recoiled but she couldn’t silence her mother’s voice.
‘Tis already dead inside you, Evelyn. You don’t feel it kick because it’s dead...
“No! Don’t ye’ say that!”
‘Tis gonna kill you too, deary. ‘Tis gonna split you wide open when it comes out and you’re going to bleed and bleed and bleed...
“Don’t say that!” Evelyn shouted. But secretly, she knew her mother spoke the truth. Her baby never kicked. It hadn’t kicked in weeks.
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 8
