by Willa Reece
I led the way into the kitchen and watched Tom, more at home than I was, carry the bucket to the sink where he upended his load of berries and turned on the spigot.
“Thank you for your help,” I said.
He’d been a friend to Sarah’s mother. That’s all I knew. That and his care of the garden even after Sarah and her mother were gone. His clothes were faded, but clean. A checkered flannel shirt tucked into blue jeans held up by a worn leather belt. His boots were also leather and worn with extra-long laces wound around the shafts as if to help hold them together. He turned from the sink, still holding the empty bucket. And I guessed I also knew the look in his eyes. Haunted. Lonely. Maybe a little bit mad.
Jacob Walker had warned me of danger on the mountain. Wild animals. The Sect. A murderer who had never been caught. But I swear I saw no harm in Tom. At least none intended toward me.
“Always,” Tom hoarsely whispered.
And I wasn’t sure if he meant he’d always help me or if he’d always be here, year after year, to pick blackberries, no matter who was here to can them.
“Come back for a jar of preserves when they’re ready,” I said. And then my cheeks burned because he looked taken aback, as if the berries were as much his as mine and of course he’d expect some jam.
Fourteen
Before I came to the mountain, a triple espresso half-caf latte was the height of my culinary achievements. Sarah was the cook and even she preferred pizza to almost anything else.
I carefully set up the kitchen for preparing blackberry preserves the same way I would have set up a mad scientist’s laboratory. Canning was easily as alien to me as test tubes and beakers full of mysterious chemicals.
When I’d cleaned the kitchen last night, I’d found a large copper-bottomed kettle in the cabinet by the stove. I’d scoured it well so it was ready for the washed berries I scooped into it from the sink. The remedy book was on the counter, propped open with a large wooden spoon I’d also found so I could refer to the blackberry jam recipe.
The instructions called for a three-to-one berry-to-sugar ratio. I measured carefully, noting that someone in the past had crossed out and scribbled over a higher sugar content. There was also an added note about substituting honey for sugar if preferred. I shied away from thinking about honey. Because bees. Even if my apology had been accepted, I didn’t know if I should go there.
I used a fork and a large glass mixing bowl to mash several cups worth of berries, but other than those, the recipe called for whole berries. Of course, they were so plump and full of juice that none would be left entirely intact by the time the process was complete.
I measured the lemon juice as carefully as I’d measured the sugar. My pulse quickened as I worried about spoiling the gorgeous berries from the garden. They were precious in that there would be no more until next year, so the pressure was on. But even more so because Granny was sick and Sarah was gone and somehow this yearly tradition had fallen to me. Mel Smith. Not exactly the Betty Crocker type.
Granny had warned me about the need for constant stirring as the sugar, lemon juice and berry mixture began to bubble. She’d also prepared me for the foam that would rise to the top and need to be constantly skimmed off and plopped in the nearby sink. This was the thickening process, and while I worked on stirring and skimming, the giant canner was on another burner beginning to steam sterilize the jelly jars.
When the blackberries were thickened, I would spoon the preserves into the jars, wipe the necks, and place on the lids specially made to seal vacuum tight to the hot jars. Then I would apply the rings, screw them tight and ensure the seals were completed by submerging the filled jars in a bath of boiling water.
The preserves would keep for months through the winter if I did the task right.
I worked through the afternoon and into the night. The kitchen was filled with heavy, sweet-scented steam and my hair was a damp riot around my face by the time I canned all the berries we’d picked. It took several batches of berry mixture to use all the blackberries and the jars Granny had provided. As the last jars cooled on the counter to the tune of lids pinging as they sealed, I read the part of the recipe that had been crossed out and was glad I hadn’t needed to deal with melting paraffin wax and pouring it into the jars over the jam to create a seal.
Apparently, even the Ross Remedy Book was updated from time to time to avoid botulism from tainted food.
Finally, rows of preserves so deeply purple they were almost black lined the kitchen countertop. You didn’t have to be a witch to appreciate a job (hopefully) well done. Canning wasn’t sorcery. It was stained fingers, stiff shoulders and frazzled hair. But, I still remembered the first taste of blackberry from the wildwood garden and I knew my afternoon hadn’t been spent on a mundane chore.
Much of the garden would sleep or even die in winter. Granny had explained the blackberry preserves would be handed out at Gathering for the wisewomen and their families to have during fallow months when nothing much grew in the wildwood. Along with frozen rye bread and dried roots and herbs, the berries I’d canned would maintain their connection with the wildwood.
Magic? Or community? Or a little of both. I’d always been apart, finding strength in being separated from others. Now I wasn’t so sure. Preserving the blackberries was my first major test before Gathering when I would suddenly be thrust into an entire group of women who believed… What did they believe exactly?
It had been a long time since the last lid had tinged when a sudden movement intruded on my satisfaction over the clean, cooling kitchen and trepidation over the coming Gathering.
The mouse was back.
The tiny creature climbed to the top of one jar and sat back on its haunches the way it had the night before. It washed its face nonchalantly as I watched. Unbothered by my presence.
“Well. Charmed, I’m sure,” I said. But I missed the sarcastic mark. Truthfully, I was charmed. The mouse was as brave and bold as I’d ever pretended to be. I knew I should shoo him off the shiny golden lid, but I also knew the warm jar was probably a pleasant seat.
And I could always wash it later when the mouse had moved on.
“You seem to be very clean for a mouse,” I noted.
He paused his facial long enough to look at me and blink. His whiskers twitched and I thought about standing up and offering him the pocket of my sweater as an alternative resting place. I didn’t. The fanciful idea that he was in any way related to the crocheted charm Sarah had carried with her was ridiculous. Brought on by exhaustion, nerves and the almost make-believe quality of the steamy kitchen.
“Not sure if CC is coming for Gathering, but I’ll let you know,” I said. I wasn’t sure if wisewomen had familiars like witches. There might be a clowder of cats at Gathering for all I knew. Of course, by the end of the month, I was sure the mouse would have moved on. I kept a clean house. There would be no crumbs for the creature to scavenge in my kitchen.
Mine.
I stopped at the thought. My face was too warm and I had to take a deep breath. I let it out slowly, and with it any thoughts of permanence. Claiming a space of my own seemed presumptuous. As if I’d borrowed a bubble of peace that was almost surely doomed to burst.
Fifteen
Sarah had scrubbed the kitchen down after the last pickles were safely sealed in their jars. Now she sat with carefully washed hands, a pen and the Ross Remedy Book open to the first blank page. Her notes along with all the edits she’d made as she perfected her first recipe were stacked at her left elbow. The final batch of pickles was lined up in a proud line on the counter across from the book.
The small, woody cucumber plants that grew in the wildwood garden had originally been cultivated from a wild species more than a hundred years ago. The cucumbers themselves were fully mature at three inches long with tough, nearly black peels and firm dark green flesh. Their flavor was grassy and bitter and the Ross women had mainly used them in digestive remedies and ointments meant to combat eczema.
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But, for as long as Sarah could remember, from her earliest days of toddling to the garden, needing her mother’s hand to stay on her feet, she had been fascinated by the toylike miniature cucumbers. Melody Ross believed fascinations lead a wisewoman to where she was meant to go. So as soon as Sarah was old enough to begin experimenting in the kitchen with herbs and spices and the pickling process, she began to come up with the recipe that would be her first contribution to the Ross Remedy Book.
Wildflower honey to offset the bitterness of the peel that she wanted to keep for its crisp crunch.
Dill for vitamin C and to fight infection and for the whimsy of its anti-witchcraft mythology. (Her mother had explained that dill weed hadn’t been allowed near the garden until 1955.)
A hardy variety of mountain peppercorn you couldn’t find in a store. Piney with a hint of spice that lingered on the tongue long after the pickled bite of cucumber had been swallowed.
Her mother had never interfered with her pickle project, but now that she thought she’d arrived at a final recipe, Melody Ross stood beside a single open jar. Sarah hadn’t tried a bite yet herself. Because the ultimate judge of whether her recipe was worthy of being written into the Ross book would be her mother.
Sarah placed both of her palms on the counter to steady her hands. Her whole body seemed to tremble with excitement and nervous anticipation. Her mother had already examined the appearance of the pickle jars. When she’d tilted the jars to the light, playful peppercorns floated in clear liquid, falling down and around the pickled cucumbers with a spicy snow globe effect.
But now the jar was open and her mother had speared a pickle with a long handled fork. She pulled it out and held it up, looking closely at it before she lifted it to her mouth and snapped off a bite with her even white smile. The crunch was audible and Sarah’s mouth spread into an answering smile when her mother closed her eyes as she chewed and swallowed.
“Better than I imagined those tiny cucumbers could ever taste,” Melody Ross proclaimed.
Sarah jumped down from her stool and grabbed the fork from her mother to take the rest of the pickle into her own mouth. The perfect balance of flavors and textures exploded as she happily chewed.
“You’ve done the wildwood proud,” her mother said. But her smile eased and she placed both hands on Sarah’s shoulders. “Our family has been given a sacred responsibility. We’re ambassadors between nature and humankind. It’s okay to be joyful, but we need to be solemn as well. And give thanks for all the garden gives us.”
“I know, Mama. I’m very serious about my pickles,” Sarah said. “I always knew. From the first time I picked one and held it in my hand.”
“The wildwood tells us everything we need to know. It gives us everything we need. We just have to listen to its whispers,” her mother said. “And heed its warnings.”
Her mother’s hands gripped her shoulders a little more tightly.
“People are growing too distant from the land. They take what it has to offer—wood, coal and water—and give nothing back. There are fewer of us living in harmony with the mountain. And there are people who want to destroy that harmony because they want to usurp nature and be above us all. When you write your first recipe in the Ross Remedy Book, it’s a rite of passage, Sarah. It means you want to accept your place as an ambassador, a caretaker. You’ll become a wisewoman. There’s pride in that, but there’s also weight. It’s a load you’ll carry the rest of your life. It isn’t easy. And it can even be dangerous. I’ve taught you to honor the wildwood with every step and every breath, but it’s up to you whether you accept this sacred duty.”
Her mother spoke in a ceremonial rhythm Sarah instinctively recognized. She was only nine years old, but she understood because the never-ending cycle between her family and the garden had always been a part of her life. She thought she might know who some of their enemies were and her heart pounded because she was old enough and smart enough to fear them.
But she was also a Ross. Melody Ross’s daughter. She would be brave.
“I accept,” Sarah said, with her back straight and her chin high. She reached for the pen and sat down in front of the open book. Her mother came to stand behind her, holding her shoulders in support as Sarah began to write.
Sixteen
I found Sarah’s recipe in the remedy book, easily paging to the place where she’d written it so many years ago. The book was so thick and full I hadn’t noticed Sarah’s handwriting before. That was the simple explanation. Her careful, rounded script had simply been hidden among dozens of unfamiliar, even archaic styles. But part of me wondered if the book had revealed it to me now. That it had somehow become synchronized with my dreams.
I ran my fingers over the ingredients and traced the loops of her signature at the bottom of the page. I’d never made pickles in my life, but the blackberry preserves had boosted my courage and the spicy flavor of Sarah’s pickles still lingered in my mouth after the dream.
Tasting Sarah’s contribution to the Ross Remedy Book was suddenly imperative to me. I’d never practiced any religion with conviction. There had been foster homes that had forced me to attend Mass or a Protestant Sunday school. I remembered one summer in particular when Sarah had cried every day when we’d been compelled by self-preservation to a Bible school in order to earn dinner for a week. I’d gone through the motions, watching the clock and disbelieving everything I was told. No one would save us. No person or deity. Only we could save ourselves.
But this symbiosis my namesake had believed in between her family as caretakers and the wildwood as provider appealed to me somehow. Maybe because Sarah had believed in her mother and the wildwood with every fiber of her being even after the relationship between the garden and her family had seemed to fail.
In learning from Sarah’s book, was I reestablishing a connection that had been lost? Had that been what Granny intended? Initially, I’d seen this as therapy. A working country vacation as a break from the city after all I’d been through. A sort of personal rehabilitation following grief and loss. The more I dreamed about Sarah’s past, the more I believed there might be more to this summer than that.
Over the next two weeks, my daily trips to the garden were no less momentous, but I got on with them alone. Well, mostly alone. The little mouse had become my constant companion and for some reason I couldn’t chase him away. The first time I noticed him in the woods I automatically assumed he had to be a different mouse than the one I was used to seeing in the house. But his crinkled whiskers and gray-and-white coloring were too distinctive to mistake. I saw him nibbling sunflower seeds from the wilted head of a tall-stalked flower while I was gathering walnuts. Then, I saw him napping in a milkweed pod that had busted open to release its seeds, leaving a soft bed of silken threads for a mouse smart enough to claim it. On that day, I snipped flowering mugwort while the mouse slept and then I gently tapped his bed to wake him when I was finished.
He would follow me back, or he wouldn’t, but I was compelled to let him know.
Sure enough, after I’d bundled the mugwort into bunches and hung them upside down on a clothesline I’d strung through the kitchen for drying herbs, the mouse appeared on top of the armchair nearest the kitchen.
“Is there a tiny pet door I haven’t been told about?” I asked.
But of course his only answer was a twitch of his crinkled whiskers.
“Good thing I’m scheduled to go to town tomorrow. You’re not much of a conversationalist,” I said.
I had more than a basketful of garden stuffs to take to Granny. Some for her own “edification,” like the peach cordial I’d retrieved from a root cellar she’d stocked last spring with ancient-looking green glass bottles corked with red wax. Some for her soap and moisturizer preparations, like dried lavender, and the mugwort for menstrual tea. Some I’d prepared for sale myself, like the walnuts I’d cracked until I’d replaced the blackberry stains on my fingers with a new blackish-green tint from their hulls.
I’d already been to town once to make Granny’s rounds. She was showing improvement. Her color was better. Her cough had cleared. And I was glad. Only disappointed that Joyce had been right about my removal. I hadn’t meant to be a burden or a drain. But I had been and it hurt my pride.
After I’d finished hanging the mugwort, I packed the willow basket and a wooden crate I’d also found in the cellar. The pantry held the blackberry preserves and the pickles I’d made after that. Sarah’s pickles. I’d known how they would taste from my dreams. But still, the first crisp tangy snap between my teeth had brought tears to my eyes. They would be shared at Gathering not sold in town.
When a knock sounded on the cabin’s front door, the mouse disappeared from the top of the armchair as if he’d poofed into thin air. But he reappeared on the counter beside the crate as if he’d joined me to face whoever was at the door as a united front.
“No worries, then,” I said, rolling my eyes at the diminutive backup.
I dusted off my hands and went to the door. Mindful of murderers, I peeked out the window before I turned the knob. I’d halfway expected it to be Tom, returned for his share of jam, but it wasn’t. The door still required a tug to open because I mostly entered and exited through the back. And, of course, my tug was too fierce, causing the act of opening to be a sudden and dramatic whoosh. Jacob stood on my front stoop. He stared down at the red galoshes I hadn’t yet had the heart to move.
“Oh. Hey,” I said, as lame as extra casual can sound after an awkward ta-da. I wasn’t sure if it was because of Lu or because of the bee balm, but my brain was rebelling against any idea of keeping the biologist at a distance. With a brush of his fingers on the bergamot’s leaves, he’d become “Jacob” to me.
Then, I saw he had a bundle of damp greenery filling the wide brimmed hat he held in this hands.