Eventide

by Sarah Goodman

  I followed behind while they walked to the car. There was no trace of the venom I’d seen in Miss Maeve only moments before. She bent over the crank handle, showing Abel where to hold and which direction to turn. Anxiety spun in my chest. I’d seen the pure malice in her eyes, and I couldn’t trust that side of her not to burst free again.

  “Abel, we shouldn’t trouble Miss Maeve,” I said, but my voice was lost in the clank of gears turning. Abel wrestled with the crank, his shoulders straining. It turned, but not quickly enough. The engine choked, then sputtered. I breathed a relieved sigh. Once Abel failed to start the car, I’d force the issue and insist we leave.

  While Abel kept struggling with the heavy crank, Miss Maeve slipped by me, stealthy as a cat, and climbed into the driver’s seat. Her slim fingers adjusted something under the dashboard. She caught and held my stare. Miss Maeve smiled coldly, and my stomach lurched. A sound like gunfire shattered the stillness.

  Abel’s shout of shock and pain came a split second later. I whirled around just in time to see him collapse to the dusty ground.

  21

  Every moment stretched, each detail viciously sharp. Abel clutched his right forearm. Blood seeped from between his fingers, falling in violent red drops.

  I flung myself down beside him. “Abel, are you all right?” The tremble running through my limbs didn’t show in my voice, but my shaking hands gave away my fear.

  He spoke through gritted teeth. “Engine must’ve backfired.” Beads of sweat sprang up on his forehead. He struggled to catch his breath and tried to sit upright. The effort sent a widening track of blood coursing down his arm. He collapsed back to the ground.

  “Let me see.” I gently uncurled the fingers of his left hand away from the wound. Bones protruded through his ripped skin, two jagged spears of dull white spattered with red. I swallowed bitter bile. Abel’s right hand hung at an angle so strange I hardly believed it belonged to the arm I cradled.

  A shadow fell across his face. I looked up to find Miss Maeve standing over us. She gasped convincingly, covered her mouth with trembling fingers, then thrust a handkerchief my way. I pressed it to Abel’s arm. Blood drenched the white silk, wicking up the swirling lines of a monogrammed letter M, turning it crimson.

  “Did I hear gunfire?” Mr. Lybrand pounded down the front porch steps and across the lawn. Behind him came Lilah, trotting to keep up. Her face registered first confusion at seeing me on the ground over the prostrate Abel, then horror as she took in his condition.

  “There’s been an accident. The car backfired, and the crank hit Abel,” Miss Maeve answered.

  Mr. Lybrand’s look of shock was gone just as quickly as it had come, replaced with an awful understanding. “What do you want me to do?” he asked. In that moment, I understood who was in charge.

  “He needs a doctor,” Lilah said. She slid her hand under Abel’s uninjured arm while I grabbed his shoulder. Together we shifted him to a sitting position. The bloody handkerchief slipped to the ground.

  “I need something to make a tourniquet, and water,” I said to no one in particular. “And carbolic acid, if there is any.”

  “The Doctors Pruitt.” Abel’s voice was weak, and his brief smile morphed into a grimace.

  “Uncle Reuben will get you to a doctor,” Miss Maeve said. “I’ll fetch something to stop the bleeding.” The worried lines around her eyes looked so genuine as she whirled and fled to the house, I could almost believe my own memory lied, that she hadn’t done this deliberately.

  “The closest doctor any good at surgery is in Siloam Springs.” Reuben Lybrand was careful not to look at Abel, who slumped against my side. Nor could he bring himself to meet my eyes. “We can have him there in about an hour.”

  Miss Maeve returned with clean linens, along with a jar of water and a stoppered bottle. She handed them to me with brisk efficiency. I tied a strip of linen tightly above the break, then diluted the carbolic acid with water, soaked the remaining linens in the mixture, and wrapped them around the wound. “This helps prevent infection,” I said as Abel hissed in pain.

  “Can I go with them to the doctor, Mama?” Lilah asked, worry crumpling her face.

  “No,” Miss Maeve said, just as I answered with a firm, “Yes.”

  My skin went hot and cold in quick succession. I didn’t want Lilah left alone with this woman. Mr. Lybrand knelt next to me, examining Abel’s wound. “There isn’t enough room for three in the front,” he said. “And Abel will need to lie down in back.”

  Miss Maeve wrapped an arm around Lilah’s shoulder, steering my sister as she went.

  “No, wait,” I said, trying to stand.

  Mr. Lybrand tugged me back down. “The girl is in no danger,” he whispered urgently. He met my panicking eyes, and understanding passed between us. “For God’s sake, don’t press the matter. Don’t make Miss Maeve angry. Just let her have what she wants.” There were no other options, so I nodded my assent. For the moment, anyway, I’d play along.

  He helped a woozy-looking Abel to his feet, and we got him into the back seat. “We need to hurry,” I said, flinging myself into the passenger seat. Mr. Lybrand hastily started the car, then took the driver’s seat, gunning the engine.

  I glanced over my shoulder to where Abel lay, eyes closed, his face tight with pain. I doubted he could attend to anything, but I shifted closer to Mr. Lybrand and spoke in an undertone anyway. “Who are you really? You’re not Miss Maeve’s uncle.” His gray eyes slid to meet mine, and I saw both defiance and fear. “And I know she’s Mary Mayhew.”

  The color drained from his craggy features, but he held his tongue.

  “She hurt Abel because of me, because I pried into her past,” I continued. Dust whipped against my face, harsh as the fear scouring my thoughts. “Will she harm anyone else?”

  Strangely, my frightened confession seemed to ease Mr. Lybrand’s mind. The tension around his mouth eased as he examined my guilt-ridden eyes. “I don’t believe so,” he said, carefully, turning back to the road. He stomped on the gas pedal, slamming me back against the seat. “Not as long as you behave yourself.”

  22

  The remainder of our trip to Siloam Springs passed in tense silence, broken only by Abel’s groans of pain. Each one was a blade in my heart. I was never so thankful for anything as when the surgeon placed an ether chamber to his nose and rendered him blissfully unconscious. The doctor set the bone and issued a grim reminder that such a serious injury would take a long time to heal, and the arm might never be exactly as it was before. We left the office with a still-groggy Abel, who thankfully went to sleep almost as soon as the car started rolling.

  Mr. Lybrand remained stonily silent on the ride home. Dread still twisted my gut when I thought of Miss Maeve. Her attack on Abel replayed in my head over and over. She’d proven herself dangerous, and capable of skillful deceit. As sad as I was for what she’d lived through, and as shameful as my father’s role in it had been, I couldn’t let her raise my sister.

  When we pulled into the farmyard, Big Tom charged toward us, scattering a flock of indignant chickens as he came. He flung open the door and wrapped a massive arm around his nephew. Abel shook his head as if to clear it while his uncle helped him out of the car. “Easy. I don’t need a broken rib to go with the arm,” he mumbled.

  Hettie pushed her way between them, her eyes falling to the heavy cast on Abel’s arm. “Miss Maeve brought Merlin home and told us you’d been in an accident.” She blinked hard. “The way she talked, we were afraid you might end up losing your arm.”

  “Nothing so bad as that, Aunt Het.” Abel put his good arm around her shoulder, just as Della appeared around the corner of the barn, her wide brown eyes shining with tears.

  “I’d just come for a visit when Miss Maeve brought the news. I was worried to death,” she said, looking as though she badly wanted to hug Abel but wasn’t sure how to navigate the cast. She settled for a peck on his cheek, then turned to Mr. Lybrand. “It’s a mercy y
ou were there and able to get him some help.”

  Big Tom extended a hand in thanks. “Much obliged to you, Mr. Lybrand.” My pulse pounded in my temples. It was sickening, hearing Miss Maeve’s loyal minion praised for helping clean up her crime scene.

  “Let’s go inside,” I said to Della and Abel. We helped ourselves to the dinner Hettie had left on the table, though I had little appetite and couldn’t keep from watching Abel with anxious eyes. Abel made slow work of the meal. After declining Della’s offered help, he gave up an attempt to cut a pork chop one-handed and settled for forking black-eyed peas into his mouth. “You’re going to have trouble climbing the ladder to the loft, too,” Della remarked. She made an unnecessary adjustment to Abel’s sling.

  “I’ll sleep in the loft until your cast comes off. You can have my room,” I said, trying to ignore a twinge of annoyance at the way Della’s hand lingered on Abel’s shoulder.

  Abel rose unsteadily, and shuffled to the kitchen to place his dish in the sink, grimacing when his arm jostled against his side. “I won’t argue. Think I’ll head on up to bed.” His words stilled blurred at the edges, the lingering effects of the anesthesia the doctor used while setting the bones.

  “Miss Maeve told me about the accident,” Della said. “I can’t believe you didn’t have your hand open when you turned the handle. My grandpa had a crank tractor once, and he said the metal rod can break your arm clean off it you don’t hold it right.”

  “I thought I did it just like Miss Maeve showed me,” Abel said, shuffling to the foot of the stairs. “I guess I messed up somehow.”

  I gathered the other plates and retreated to the sink, my thoughts a tangle. Knowing how polished Miss Maeve’s lies could be changed everything. When I’d sat with her in a sun-drenched schoolhouse to talk about what I’d seen in the woods the night before, she’d been so ready with an answer. But now I knew her concern was a clever façade. She was not only capable of skilled deception, but dangerous when backed into a corner. If Maeve lied so smoothly about her identity, it was likely she was concealing something about the goings-on in the woods as well.

  I scowled up at the pressed-tin ceiling tiles. I needed someone with knowledge of what went on in the woods.

  “Verity.” My pulse quickened at the sound of my name on Abel’s lips. I turned, hands still sunk in dishwater, to find him paused halfway up the staircase. “Thank you for everything you did today. You were calm when I got hurt, and it helped me not to panic.”

  Guilt threatened to overcome me. My interference in Miss Maeve’s past had brought this accident about. “You’re welcome,” I managed. Our gazes stayed locked across the small room, and I had a sensation that each of us felt the weight of things unsaid. I knew what I wasn’t voicing, but I wondered what his silent truths might be. He rapped his knuckles gently on the banister, then trudged upstairs.

  When we heard the bedroom door creak shut overhead, Della joined me at the sink and dried the last pot. My thoughts drifted back to Maeve, and the woods. “If I wanted to know more about the woods, and … something strange that’s happening there, who would I need to ask?”

  Della peered at me, curious. “I suppose Granny Ardith would be your best bet. Her cabin is the only other house close to the woods besides Mr. Lybrand and Miss Maeve’s place.”

  “You mentioned her that day I came to the store. Is she your grandmother?”

  “No, it’s more of a title, really. A granny woman is good at healing, with herbs and natural things. Some might lay a curse for the right amount of money, but Granny Ardith’s not like that. She’ll make a salve to clear your skin, pour herb candles to burn for luck, or string an amulet so you won’t get lost. Things like that. Why do you need to know about the woods?” Her brow puckered with worry. “I’ve heard rumors and such. Did you see something out there?”

  Footsteps sounded on the porch. I shook my head to tell Della we were done talking for now. She flashed me a questioning look, but said nothing as Big Tom entered, bending to avoid the wards still hanging over the front door. “Where’s Abel?” Hettie asked, coming in behind her husband. “Please tell me that boy’s resting.”

  “He is. But he’s going to need something for pain, maybe to prevent infection, too,” I said, thinking fast. “Della says Granny Ardith could mix up something to help. Do you mind if we go see her? I’ll be back before nightfall.”

  “That’s a fine idea. Hurry on back, though,” Hettie said, pressing a few coins into my hand.

  “I will.” I charged out the door with Della breezing behind me. We climbed into the fringe-topped surrey she’d driven over from town.

  “All right, care to tell me what’s going on?” Della asked.

  I could see no way around it. I needed help to get information about Miss Maeve. And if I was honest, I wanted someone to take this perilous journey with me. I just had to find a way to do that without endangering anyone. “You have to swear you won’t tell a soul.” I paused. “If it gets out that I’ve shared this secret with you, you could be in danger.”

  Instead of fear, I saw only interest shining in her eyes. “I can keep my mouth shut.”

  I clasped my hands on my lap and willed her to believe me. “Miss Maeve is Mary Mayhew.”

  The reins went slack in Della’s fingers. She turned her face toward me, lips parted in shock as we jostled down the rutted road.

  “I had a talk with the Mayhews that made me think it might be so. When I confronted Miss Maeve, she made it clear I was not to tell anyone. Or there would be consequences.” I took a breath. “And she hurt Abel on purpose to prove she was serious.”

  The surrey swayed and the horse’s hooves thudded against the dusty road, a slower echo of my pounding heartbeats. Della didn’t speak for an agonizing minute.

  “All these years, Miss Maeve lied about who she was.” She spoke slowly, as if trying words in a foreign language. “Why?”

  Miss Maeve’s failed elopement with my father, his abandonment, and the resulting death of their baby weren’t easy to discuss, but I steeled myself and told the story. Then, into her stunned silence, I poured the tale of what I’d seen by the well that night, and how I’d been certain Miss Maeve was dead. “And now that I know she lied about so much, I want to find out what else she’s hiding. And what’s really going on in the woods.”

  When Della finally spoke, all she managed was a breathy “Lord have mercy.” There was another long silence, filled only with the squeak and rattle of the surrey’s wheels. “I believe you,” she said at last.

  “You do?” I hadn’t realized just how badly I needed someone to share this burden with until that moment. “Even the part about her breaking Abel’s arm on purpose?”

  Della nodded. “Something didn’t sit right with me about Miss Maeve needing Abel to crank the car.” She worried her bottom lip with her teeth, thinking. “I’ve seen Miss Maeve crank that car herself before when she was leaving the store. Several times in fact, and she did it the right way. There’s no chance she’d show Abel how to do it wrong by accident,” Della said, steering us toward the wood’s outermost fringes. “And Granny’s a straight shooter. If something’s going on out there, she’ll tell you how the cow ate the cabbage.” Della met my baffled expression, adding, “Sorry. She’ll tell you the whole truth. Even if it might be hard to hear.”

  The path grew narrower. Gnarled branches like twisted fingers reached low, almost brushing our heads. I squinted into the mottled shadows, nervousness rippling in my stomach as we drew nearer the woods.

  “There it is,” Della said, pointing to a squat cabin tucked in an opening at the edge of the trees. Like Miss Maeve, Granny Ardith made her home on the edge of the woods without being properly inside their reach. All around the little shack, wild gardens of herbs and weeds ran amok, giving Granny Ardith’s home the look of an island floating in tangled green chaos. Rusted orange patches spread over the tin roof. The entire building listed to the side like a drunkard.

  A figure in a
tattered apron appeared on the sagging front porch. I couldn’t shake the feeling she’d somehow been summoned by our approach. Della’s horse whickered anxiously. “Granny Ardith’s place makes her nervous,” she said, cooing to the frightened animal.

  The old woman rested knobby hands on her hips. Her head was covered in steel-gray hair thin enough to show patches of liver-spotted scalp. “What’re you doing back so soon, girl?” she called in a rusted-gate voice. “I ain’t half done with the bread you brought me last time.”

  “I’m not delivering food today, Granny,” Della said as the carriage rolled to a stop in front of the shack. The mare stamped her hooves and snorted while Della stepped down and tied the reins to a gatepost. “We have a friend who needs a pain tonic.” She thumbed over her shoulder at me by way of introduction. “This is Verity.”

  “How do you do?” I said, climbing down from the surrey.

  Granny Ardith pulled a pair of wire-rimmed spectacles from a sewing chatelaine hanging off her belt and surveyed me from under sagging eyelids. “Can’t complain, wouldn’t help nothing if I did. I just got done making a fresh batch of tea. Y’all got time to sit a spell?”

  We exchanged a glance. “Of course,” Della said.

  We picked our way through the riotous garden, passing under the blank gaze of a scarecrow, and stepped onto the porch. The window to the right of the screen door was covered in a woven net made of what appeared to be hair. An iron horseshoe hung above the threshold, with a crude cross made of twigs tacked alongside it. “Evil-spirit repellents,” Della whispered.

  Inside the dim one-room cabin, a pot bubbled on the cookstove. Clusters of drying herbs and flowers hung from the rafters, their petals crisp and brown. A mound of vines several feet high lay heaped against the wall. Some were spliced thread-thin and dried to a light tan. Others still dripped nectar, their honeysuckle scent golden and sweet.