by Willa Reece
“Well, he’s here now,” I said. The basket was full, but I lingered. I hadn’t told Granny about feeling rejected because I hadn’t yet shared with her the pull I felt toward Lu and Jacob. It was such a deep and pervasive thing. Why talk about heartbeats and blood circulation. It just was, indefinably there.
“Maybe. He’s here and he’s not here. I can’t explain it. I don’t understand,” Granny said. She opened her eyes and shuffled items in the basket as if she was embarrassed by her moment of weakness.
“He’s holding something back,” I said. “And it might be my fault.” The basket still sat on the counter. I gripped its handle tightly without picking it up because I’d taken myself by surprise. I’d been ready to trust the wildwood about Jacob last night. I’d been ready to accept the connection. He had walked away from that readiness. I’d felt rejected, but what had I really done to deserve his trust? I was still an outsider by most mountain standards. I was definitely still guarded and defensive most of the time.
Granny put her hands on her hips and looked at me, hard. She didn’t say a word. She didn’t have to. I knew she was waiting for me to go on.
“There’s… something… happening. Between us. And Lu. Between all three of us. A growing connection. And maybe I’m the last person in the world anyone with any sense would want to be connected to.”
I finished in a rush that made Granny soften, smile and step forward to place her hands on either side of my head as if she needed to hold me in place before I decided to fly away.
“Whatever is going on with Jacob Walker was going on with him before you even arrived. Stop blaming yourself for the difficulties and darkness in this world, Mel. You cannot take that on. It’s just another way of adding layers of insulation between yourself and others. Another kind of armor that keeps you apart.”
I let the warmth of her palms and the truth in her wisdom soak into me.
“But a trio…” I tried to begin again, only emotion weighted my tongue and tightened my throat.
“Do you think Sadie, Kara and Joyce were always so easy together? The kind of ease they’ve developed takes time. And none of them, not a one, has as much power as you do. Sparks are flying.” Granny teasingly tugged my hair as she lowered her hands. “In more ways than one. It’s completely natural. Let them fly. Just be prepared to accept the connection when it happens. Because it will. The wildwood doesn’t play.” Granny pointed to the basket and I picked it up. I had deliveries to make and townspeople counting on us no matter what else was going on. “Oh, not to say nature can’t be mischievous, and Jacob Walker can be too. Don’t let his strong, silent act fool you. He’s quick to tease once he knows you. And his watchful eyes don’t miss a thing! But, Mel, the wildwood knows what it’s doing. If it’s urging you, Jacob and Lu to come together it’s because you’re needed. As a trio. More powerful together than apart.”
I paused on my way to the door and looked at the woman who had taught me so much in such a short time. When we’d made the rye bread together, I’d felt a camaraderie I hadn’t felt before. But now, with all my fears and weaknesses out on the table, I felt more than friendship. Granny was family. My family.
“I’ll do my best,” I promised.
“I know,” Granny said. She put her hands in her pockets, rummaging around for space. “We all will. We’ll all do our best.”
As I walked out the door I heard her whisper “I just hope it will be enough.”
As I walked from back door to back door around town, I bumped into more deputies on foot, handing out fliers and going from house to house. Several ladies’ auxiliaries from local churches had also been mobilized. They had their own almost-uniform of cardigan sweaters and sensible loafers as well as hard hairstyles that didn’t move no matter the breeze.
The women bothered me more than the deputies. They were like the Sect women in too many ways. Flocking without thought in whichever way they were directed. Had they never seen the mad look in Moon’s eyes or the youth of some of the pregnant girls he herded through town? Did they really value choice and individuality so little? And what of the babies forced to be born and grow up in an oppressive community ruled by fear? Lorelei had run away for a good reason. I only wished I could find her so I could help her get away.
Violet Morgan was in the salon when I pushed my way through the front door. No one else was there. Including Becky, who must have stepped out. Violet had a head full of the foil folds that indicated she was having her hair colored. The acrid scent of peroxide burned my eyes and nose. She dropped a magazine onto the table in front of her when I walked in.
“I’m not going to judge you for reading an article about an actor,” I said. The sexy Swedish actor who smiled from the cover of the entertainment magazine had won multiple awards. His acting ability paired with his natural charisma was deadly. I didn’t blame Violet at all.
“I wasn’t.” She leaned over and pushed the magazine away.
“Did you like the preserves?” I asked. I shared my best smile, but it must have been scary because Violet blanched like I had snarled.
“Tom helped me gather them,” I continued.
“Please. Stop. You can’t…” Violet began. Her eyes darted from me to the door. I wondered if Hartwell Morgan ever checked up on her mid-appointment. To be sure she wasn’t chatting or looking at sexy magazines.
“… be your friend?” I supplied the impossible finish for her. Hoping that by saying it aloud she would hear how ridiculous it sounded.
“Yes. That. We can’t. Hartwell doesn’t like…” Violet stalled again. I took pity on her and lost all trace of flippancy. She really was miserable. And I already suspected her husband was nothing to laugh about.
“… women like me,” I said.
“I don’t think he likes anything, really,” Violet said. She sagged against the back of her chair, still having the presence of mind to protect the foil on her head by tilting her chin forward.
“I heard he wants to be governor,” I said. I hadn’t only heard it. I’d spent some time at the tiny library in town to confirm the rumors. Mildred Pierce was a widow who kept several rooms’ worth of books and historical materials in the bottom story of a large Southern colonial near the courthouse. Much of it devoted to the town’s founding family. The Morgan family was a popular topic in newspapers and websites that leaned toward extremism—tax cuts for multibillionaires, corporate interests, doing away with environmental regulations. I walked over and took several bottles from the basket and placed them on the stylist’s station. I could get payment later.
“It’s all about the natural gas pipeline,” Violet explained. “He needs more political clout to enable the energy companies to extend through Morgan’s Gap. He’s heavily invested in fracking.” Real talk. Not the breathless niceties she was allowed to say.
“Fracking destroys everything,” I said. I’d seen photographs of mountains in Tennessee and Kentucky completely denuded of life. I’d taken the opportunity to research more than the killing on my laptop when I was visiting Granny’s. I knew more about the process now than I had and I felt even more confident in my placement of the “No Pipeline” bumper sticker on my truck.
Most of the mountaintops got washed away by high-powered water cannons to get to the shale layers that held pockets of oil and natural gas deep beneath the ground. Cheaper and safer than mining. So much worse for the environment. Especially when you considered the construction of the pipelines and the inevitable leaks of methane and oil during transport.
“I know,” Violet said. She leaned over and opened the magazine I thought she’d been reading to reveal a smaller magazine hidden inside the larger one. She hadn’t been reading about the Swedish actor. She’d been reading about the environmental impact of fracking and pipeline construction. The article was paired with horrible photographs. Streams full of dead fish. Children who had to have clean water shipped in on container trucks because their local ground water was contaminated.
“The wi
ldwood would be devastated,” I said.
“No more chanterelles or blackberries,” Violet said.
“No more rye bread or pickles,” I added.
“Hello, ladies.” The bell above the shop door jangled and a deputy stepped into the salon. Violet flipped the magazine closed and sat back on her chair. I lost my equilibrium because the natural, open expression she’d shared with me changed so quickly to one of polite blankness. “Just gonna leave a stack of fliers here.”
The deputy tossed a handful of fliers on the table. There was no photograph of Lorelei. Only a crude drawing and a physical description. But Violet gasped and her face shone as white as the peroxide on her hair.
“Hartwell knows. He’s called in help from the next county. And the state police. Don’t worry. We’ll find her,” the deputy said.
He left as quickly as he’d arrived. I held tight to my basket and met Violet’s frightened eyes.
“If they find her, it won’t be good. It’s never good for the ones who run if they’re caught,” she whispered. “Not that it’s good for those of us that don’t run. We’re all caught, sooner or later.”
Like dot matrix art that finally reveals itself to you when you focus your eyes right, Violet Morgan became clear to me. She was a Sect woman. She might no longer wear the homespun dress or the kerchief in her hair, but she had the look in her eyes.
“Moon gave me to Hartwell when I was sixteen,” she said. There was shame in her voice. As if she thought she should have run like Lorelei. Anger bubbled up from the place in my gut where fury for men like Moon and Hartwell always lived.
“He had no right. He didn’t own you. Or your future. And Hartwell doesn’t own you now. You aren’t a possession,” I said.
“I know that. I’ve always known it, really. But they don’t let you go. They will never let me go,” Violet said. Tears welled up in her eyes until they were thick pools I couldn’t believe she didn’t spill. But crying would smear her perfectly applied makeup.
She’d always had to be so careful. I could see it in the way she held herself even now as we spoke about unspeakable things that everyone in Morgan’s Gap knew but didn’t mention. The whole town was culpable. Including me. Because I had seen that flock of frightened women and I hadn’t known what to do. How do you save a person who has been caged in a culture of nonentity since birth?
Granny had been trying. Maybe her whole life. Melody Ross had tried too. She’d saved the ones she could, but how many had died in the woods or been given away, chattel to men like Hartwell Morgan? Violet’s cage was gilded, but that didn’t make her life sentence any less harsh.
I remembered Jacob telling me the Sect had broken off from the Mennonite church fifty years ago. No wonder Reverend Moon was part of a rogue group. Even the most backward religion wouldn’t turn a blind eye to what basically amounted to trafficking. Would it? I shuddered.
“Moon signed over almost all the land he owned to Hartwell. That land provides a strip straight through the county along the National Forest. In exchange, Moon lives undisturbed in the way he sees fit. Hartwell and his supporters and the supporters of the pipeline protect the Sect. I have nowhere to go,” Violet said.
I left my basket on the table and wrapped my arms around her stiff shoulders. I ignored the sting of peroxide in my eyes. “You could come to the wildwood with me. We’ll figure something out.”
“I would never bring my troubles to anyone else’s door. If I ran to the wildwood, Hartwell would follow me. Tom… People depend on the wildwood being a peaceful place. A sanctuary. I wouldn’t destroy that,” Violet said. There was a thread of steely resolve in her soft voice I hadn’t heard before.
“But Hartwell wants to. It isn’t only about money, is it? He hates the wildwood because of Tom,” I guessed. “And he knows you care about Tom.”
“Tom is Hartwell’s brother,” Violet said. “He ran away a long time ago, but after my marriage he checked on me. Always in secret, but he came to see if I was okay. No one else did. No one but Granny. She helped me with the birth control pills.”
The scarred man everyone called Mad Tom was a Morgan.
He’d run away from home, but he had found a new one. In the wildwood. With Melody Ross? I couldn’t be sure based on only an expression in an old photograph.
“One of them,” the pregnant Sect woman had said before she’d run away.
She must have been talking about Tom Morgan. But why would she be afraid of the Morgans? Hartwell had his docile wife. Why would his family seem a threat to Lorelei? I knew his support of the Sect ran deep. Moon had purchased it with the land he’d signed over to Hartwell. And with Violet. But what other arrangements with the Sect did Hartwell enjoy? My blood turned cold in my veins.
“We’d better get you rinsed, Vee!” Becky gleefully shouted in a singsong voice that drowned out the bell above the door as she pushed it open. “Oh, hi, Mel. I didn’t expect you today.”
“I needed to help Granny with a few things so I decided to make my rounds while I was in town,” I replied. “You can pay me for that moisturizer later. Go ahead and take care of Violet’s hair.”
I made sure to keep my goodbye to Violet casual even though my mind was racing. Had Tom’s family had anything to do with Melody’s death? And what about the car crash that had killed Sarah? The Ross women had no political clout and the wisewomen were a tiny ragtag group of people. Would Hartwell have really thought they could stand in his pipeline’s way? Had he seen them as enough of a threat to justify murder?
I reached for the reassuring warmth of Charm before I remembered he had stayed at the cabin today. I kept seeing the fracking photographs superimposed over the wildwood garden every time I closed my eyes. But, worse, I heard the cree-cree of the weighted rope in the black locust tree.
He never slept. There was a spot where he curled on the back of a chair, but when his eyes were closed and his respiration slow and steady he was still ever alert. He had been made to be alert, watchful, ever ready.
Charm had watched his mistress leave from a hidden corner at the top of the kitchen cabinets where cabinet met interior wall. The outer walls were log. They provided no place for him to travel without being seen. He preferred the walls that had been constructed with several porous layers of material. Ones pervious to his sharp teeth and digging feet. He’d established a route from the kitchen to the upstairs to the attic in the wall that held the cabinetry.
But he waited for the sound of the truck to fade away before he entered the small hole he’d gnawed in the wall. Because his instincts warred inside of his fuzzy chest. She was going alone to wherever she went. Empty pocket. Cold shoulder. His head grew dizzy with the sense she was driving toward danger without him. Not good. Bad. The same way snakes were bad. Lurking. Coiled in wait to strike. Someone, something lurked around his mistress. The one he’d been sent to aid. It was wrong to let her go without him. Wrong to leave her alone. Yet, it was also right. There was another instinct driving him. A Thing That Needed to Be Accomplished.
Once the sound of the truck had diminished to nothing in the distance, Charm entered the wall. He followed the route he’d made up, under and around wiring, through several more holes he had diligently chewed until he came to the place in the attic where a loosened corner of ventilation screen allowed him to reach the outside.
He paused, as a real mouse vulnerable to predators should. Rising up on his hind legs and lifting his nose to the air. He sniffed, but smelled no predatory death close enough to endanger him. Wings, claws, fangs were all busy flapping, scratching and chewing elsewhere.
The logs the cabin had been constructed with long ago were rough-hewn and easy enough to grab with his handlike feet. He ran down log by log, zigzagging to find the purchases he’d marked with his scent by using them time after time.
Then he paused at the ground sheltered by the shadow of the house.
He sniffed again and this time he caught whiffs of animals very unlike the birds, cats and snake
s he needed to fear. Just as he still held hints of lavender, mint and chamomile forever in his gray-and-white fur, he smelled fur and feathers and scales that contained wildwood fragrances deep within their atoms.
The garden called them as it called him. And they must go as he must go. To the source. To their reason for being. To the other half of their mistresses and masters. To the wild.
Charm ran from the cabin to the wood line. His small mouse legs were only slowed by the quick mouse instincts that kept him from being eaten until he finally reached the garden clearing. Others had already assembled, still others came from the trees, the undergrowth and the sky at the same time as him or shortly thereafter.
A deer-who-was-not-a-deer foraged beneath the sunflowers. Charm joined him there, picking up the fallen seeds, not to satisfy a mousey hunger, but to answer the call that had brought him here in the first place. He was the living connection between human and the wild. As were all the creatures merging into a crowd around him. A bright red bird that still held the scent of the wax paper from which it had been made with precise folds and whispered wisewoman’s words fluttered down. It perched on a bowing sunflower’s head and plucked a seed that hadn’t yet fallen to the ground, cracking it open with its sharp once paper beak. A mink, sable brown and slinky, slithered from out of the briars. Its fur smelled of mothballs and its eyes were a solid beady black, but too wide and too open because they had once been buttons sewn into a velveteen toy for a child.
After a while, the trees were filled with as many birds as leaves, and a thick assorted pack of dissimilar creatures formed a strange menagerie snaking around the garden and by the stream.
Last of all came the handsome russet fox they’d been waiting for. He stood at the mouth of the path that led from the cabin, arriving from the same direction Charm had arrived from. Sometimes, recently, Charm had ridden on the fox’s back, clinging to the bristly ruff around the fox’s neck. Unlike many of the other creatures, the fox’s scent was very nearly the scent of an actual fox. He’d been quickened many years ago, fashioned by a woodsman’s hands out of fragrant cedar and rubbed to a fine polish with linseed oil. He smelled strongly of those things, but also of the moss he slept on and his forest home. The fox rarely went to town. He never curled into a pocket or on the back of a chair. His connection to the wildwood was greater than all the other wisewoman-made creatures because his master had left him for a long time.