Jolene

by Mercedes Lackey

  “I ’spect we c’n do thet,” Maddie Holcroft agreed. “Y’all’s gonna hev t’ sits in the wagonbed; I know yore aunt ain’t a gonna mind thet—”

  “I don’ mind thet neither,” Anna pledged.

  Mrs. Holcroft’s eyes twinkled. “Got yore heart set on a purdy new dress, I reckon,” she teased. “An’ y’all wanter pick out th’ pattern yore own self.”

  Anna blushed and ducked her head.

  “Wall, so would I,” Sue piped up, with an elbow-nudge to Anna’s arm. “’Cept I got a purdy new dress fer Easter.”

  “I’ll let Matt know; y’all go ’round t’ Josh’s shed an’ go arst him when he thanks he’s a-gonna hev thet statchoo finished.” Maddie Holcroft shooed her, and included her daughter in the gesture, so both the girls ran off to the barn and the shed attached to it, where steady tink-tink-tinks told Anna that Joshua was still working on his piece.

  He had moved from the baby to the wings, which the last time she visited had only been a rough suggestion. Now each feather had been roughed out, using a chicken wing that lay on his workbench as a guide, and he was refining the details of the feathers with a smaller chisel and wooden mallet.

  Sue waved to Anna to be quiet, and waited until he had straightened up to stare at the wing for a moment before speaking. “Josh! Ma wants ter know ’bout when y’all’ll be a-finished with thet there statchoo!”

  “Why, when it’s done, a-course, goosey,” he said, not turning around.

  Sue stamped her right foot, which had a lot less of an effect than she likely wanted, since the sound was muffled by the straw on the floor of the workshop. “I’m serious! Ma wants ter know!”

  “And I’m serious t—” He turned and saw Anna. “Wall! I’m right sorry, Miz Anna, thet I didn’ know y’all was a-standin’ thar. Is thet why Ma wants ter know?”

  Sue tossed her head and sniffed. “’Course ’tis, blockhead. Miz Jinny wants ter go t’Ducktown fer some shoppin’. She reckons Pa won’t mind iffen you an’ him is a-goin’ down thar t’ deliver thet statchoo t’ Cavenel.”

  “An’ is Miz Anna a-comin’ too?” Joshua asked. She felt herself blushing for no reason, except that he seemed very interested in the answer.

  “Iffen yore Pa don’ mind and they’s room,” she replied for herself.

  “Wall then, it’ll be ’bout another week,” Joshua replied, combing his hair out of his eyes with the hand that held the chisel. Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, he looked right at her. “Say, ole Cavenel didn’t give me nothin’ but the name an’ the dates t’put on the base, but thet jest don’t feel like quite—” He groped for words.

  “Quite ’nuff fer a Ma what lost her baby?” she prompted.

  “Ayup, ’xactly. I don’ suppose y’all c’n think of somethin’?”

  “Happen I c’n . . .” She didn’t have to think long. “‘He has gathered th’ lamb in His arms.’ Thet’s kinda in Isaiah. It ain’t exact, but it’s close enough, I reckon.”

  Joshua beamed at her, making her blush even harder. “Say! Thet’s jest right!” He took a thick-leaded pencil from the pocket of his overalls and scrawled the words on his workbench, right above the name of the baby, and its birth and death dates. “Anna Jones, y’all is a smart gal! Thenkee!”

  “’Tweren’t nothin’,” she murmured, as Josh’s sister Sue looked on with amusement. “How’s it possible t’ carve stone, anyways?” she continued. “I mean, it’s so hard—”

  “Takes th’ right tools,” Josh replied with authority, as Sue lost interest and wandered off. He showed her the mallet and tiny chisel he was currently working with. “I gotta keep sharpenin’ the chisel, on account o’ it goes dull quick, which don’t happen near as fast if I was shapin’ wood. An’ I gotta use a soft wood mallet, not a metal hammer, on account o’ a metal hammer’d make the chisel bounce in th’ stone, an’ might could ruin th’ cut. Right now, I’m a-puttin’ in the detail on th’ feathers.”

  He bent over his work, and delicately etched in one side of the quill of one of the feathers, moving his chisel a fraction of an inch at a time, leaving dust to be blown away, rather than chips of stone. “I’d druther work on marble, which’d be a lot purdier, but marble ain’t got a chance in hell in Ducktown.”

  She furrowed her brows. “Why not?”

  “The rain,” he replied, starting on the other side of the quill. “Jest makes marble melt. Eats at it. Makes it soft, too. There was a couple’a headstones that th’ famblies had ter replace—good thang they had money—’cause y’all couldn’t hardly read th’ names on ’em no more. Whatever’s in th’ rain is th’ same thin’ as keeps things from a-growin’, I reckon. So all th’ carvin’ I does fer Cavenel, I does in granite. Makes it a lot harder, ’cause granite’s harder than marble. I needs special chisels, I gots t’keep ’em sharp, an’ I gots t’ re-harden ’em regular.”

  He finished the quill, and etched a few lines that suggested the vanes of the feather. “Now, I don’ wanter put in too much, ’cause thet’ll make it look unnatural. Jest ’nough that y’all look at it, an’ say t’yoreself, ‘Thet there’s a feather,’ an’ go on. It’d be better in marble.” He set the mallet and chisel aside and straightened up, shaking his hands vigourously. “I got a couple more feathers t’ go, an’ that’ll be th’ last o’ the carvin’. When I’m done carvin’, I’ll polish her up, same as y’all’d sand wood ter make it all sleek. Then all this’ll be smooth an’ shiny.” He picked the chisel and mallet back up, then looked at her intently. “Is y’all really innerested in this, Anna May Jones?”

  She flushed, and temporized. “Wall, it’s innerestin’ cause y’all’s the one a-doin’ it. I don’t reckon it’d be as innerestin’ if ’twas that Mistuh Cavenel what y’all’s doin’ it fer.”

  He chuckled; the corners of his eyes crinkled up, and she suddenly feared he might pat her on the head and tell her to go help Sue or something.

  “Wall, it’s a sight nicer t’be workin’ here with y’all watchin’,” he replied. “A feller does like t’hev a purdy gal takin’ a shine t’what he’s a-doin’.”

  She felt her cheeks flame and she didn’t know quite where to look.

  “It’s even better,” he continued, bending back over his work again, “when a purdy gal likes a feller’s company enough thet she don’t mind when he goes on a-workin’.”

  “How long y’all been a-carvin’?” she asked, wrenching her mind away from the undisputed fact that he’d said she was purdy.

  “Long as I been allowed t’hold a knife,” he replied, etching out the quill of another of the angel wing’s long feathers. “Afore thet, I was a-takin’ clay when I could git it, an’ mud when I couldn’, an’ makin’ things wi’ it. Reckon I was ’bout ten when I started takin’ trinkets like carved stocks an’ knife-handles t’the General Store t’barter, and Mistuh Cavenel seed ’em, an’ wanted ter know who was a-doin’ the carvin’. Next thin’ I knowed, I was carvin’ names an’ dates an’ sometimes a purdy liddle headpiece in headstones. Pay’s good ’nough thet between thet an’ th’ liddle stuff I carve, Pa don’t make me do farmwork ’lessen he has to. An’ thet ain’t too often, now thet Jimmie’s old ’nough thet he c’n do ever’thang I can. So I ain’t allus workin’. Sometimes I ain’t workin’ a-tall.”

  Now he glanced up at Anna with a raised eyebrow. “What I’m a-tryin’ ter say, Miss Anna May Jones, is thet I do gots free time now an’ agin, an’ I’d admire yore company iffen y’all gets free time too.”

  For a moment she felt too flustered to answer. Then she managed to choke out—“Y’all’d hev ter arst Aunt Jinny.”

  He nodded, as if that was a given, which of course it was. “So I could arst her when we’re all a-goin’ inter Ducktown t’deliver this here liddle angel. Or on th’ way back. Seems a fine plan.”

  “I—I’d—thet would be a fine plan,” she stammered. And then re
alized that she had spent so long down here that it was almost dinnertime, and her aunt would be waiting impatiently for her. “I gots ter go—”

  “It’s ’bout dinnertime, an’ Miz Jinny won’ like it iffen y’all’re late,” he agreed, and stuck out his hand. “So I’ll be a-seein’ y’all when I comes up the Holler t’ let y’all know we’re a-goin’ t’ town, then.”

  “A’course,” she said breathlessly, taking his hand and shaking it.

  She didn’t remember turning to leave, but she must have, because when she finally got control of her whirling thoughts and blushing cheeks, she was about to climb the stile over the garden fence, and her aunt was waving at her from the cabin porch.

  10

  AS they had promised, about two days after the rain, the two Cherokee came bearing mushrooms. This time when they arrived, Aunt Jinny was around the back of the cabin, and Anna was vigorously sweeping the floor and trying not to think too hard about Joshua and when he’d finally finish polishing that stone statue. It was a sultry morning; a lot of the wet from that torrential day of rain was still burning off. Her aunt was checking on the root cellar, to make sure the few things in there hadn’t gone moldy or started to sprout. If the latter—never one to waste anything, Jinny planned to try to find a place to wedge the growing plant somewhere into the garden.

  Anna was nearly done, had a nice pile of dirt in the center of the floor, and was actually facing the doorway, when she looked up and saw Elder Raven as he silently approached on the path to the porch. He paused on the doorstep.

  She opened her mouth to greet him, but what came out was not English. “Tohiju, Disquadisgi Kolvnv?” she heard herself asking.

  Elder Raven raised an approving eyebrow, and his son actually chuckled. “Thank you, I am very well, little sister,” he said in his own tongue. “We have brought mushrooms, as we promised your aunt we would do.” He set a split-willow basket on the table, full to overflowing with several kinds of mushrooms.

  “Aunt Jinny’s cleaning out the winter storage cave,” she replied, struggling for words for “root cellar,” and settling on an approximate term. But before she could say anything further, her aunt came in behind Young Raven to speak for herself.

  “You brought mushrooms! I’m greatly obliged,” said her aunt, also in fluent Cherokee. “Did you want more honey or jam in return, or is there something I can get for you when we go into Ducktown?”

  “Into Ducktown? So, your student grows strong enough to bear the evil of that place?” Elder Raven asked in surprise.

  “I expect her to be ready,” Jinny said calmly. “It will be in half a moon, more or less, whenever young Joshua finishes what he is working on.”

  “Well then, in that case, coffee, please.” Old Raven smiled broadly. “It is the one vice of the white man I find harmless, useful, and pleasurable. Especially on chilly or damp mornings, when I find it increasingly unwelcome to get out of bed, otherwise.”

  “It isn’t much of a ‘vice,’ then, is it?” Aunt Jinny joked.

  But Anna’s mind was racing through deductions given the little bits of information she had just gotten. If he wanted coffee, then he surely had a coffee pot, or at least a pan with a handle to make it in. And if he found it hard to get out of bed, then it followed that he had a bed, and somewhere for that bed to be. So the Ravens probably weren’t living in a cave, or a bark hut. And there was supposed to be a Missus Young Raven too. So . . . well, why not ask? The worst that would happen would be that Aunt Jinny would scorch her hide—verbally—for being too inquisitive. “Sir?” she said, carefully. “May I please ask you a question?”

  “Hmm,” Elder Raven replied, looking at her with great interest and some humor. “The fact that you ask me if you may causes me to think it will be impertinent.”

  “Anna May!” her aunt rebuked sharply, but Elder Raven waved a hand at her.

  “I should like to hear the question,” he said. “I may or may not answer it.”

  “How many of you Cherokee are there?” she asked. “Back there in the Holler, I mean.”

  Elder Raven and his son both laughed. “A good question,” said his son, looking to his father. “Are you going to answer it?”

  “I think that I shall,” Elder Raven said, his eyes bright with amusement. “Several. More than a family, less than a full clan. And before you ask further, I will tell you that we have little village of houses that are much like this one; we helped your Great-Grandfather to build his home, and when we saw how your Great-Grandfather built this stove—” he used the English word, so presumably there was no easy equivalent in Cherokee “—we liked it so much we all copied it.”

  “The Little People are a great help to us,” said his son. “They remained here when our people were Removed, so there are several clans of them here that help our small village. They confuse the trails, and make sure that no one sees our village or comes close to it. Unfortunately they were not inclined to do the same for your Auntie’s father, so we had to take other measures when the Yankee and Rebel soldiers came.”

  She felt her eyes widen. “Little People! I’ve seen one of them three times!” she exclaimed, and looked to her aunt, who nodded in confirmation.

  “It means they favor you and they recognize you as a medicine woman, like your aunt,” Old Raven told her. “But you must not tell anyone else but another medicine person about them, or it will be a great misfortune to you.”

  “It would be a misfortune enough just having other people thinking I am crazy,” she pointed out. “Which they likely would, if I began talking about Little People.” She paused, and added, “Can I visit you some day?”

  “One day,” Old Raven agreed. “When you know your own way about the woods, and your aunt does not have to bring you.”

  “And when we’re not busy, which won’t likely be until winter,” Jinny pointed out.

  “True, and you and I both must be back to our work,” Old Raven laughed.

  “Thank you for the mushrooms,” Jinny said. “As ever, it is good to see your faces.”

  “It is good,” both Ravens agreed in chorus, and then left as silently as they had arrived.

  As soon as they were gone, Anna turned to her aunt, who held up her hand. “Thet there was fust-rate Cherokee, so seems thet the Elemental critters larned it to y’all jest right,” she said. “And afore y’all go arstin’ me more ’bout Raven an’ his people, y’all need t’ find thet out fer yoreself. It ain’t my place t’tell y’all.”

  “I weren’t a-gonna,” Anna objected. “I was a-gonna arst y’all what we’re a-doin’ with them thar mushrooms. Is they good in potions?”

  Her aunt sighed with great satisfaction, and picked up the basket. “A-course y’all ain’t niver et mushrooms,” she said, as if reminding herself. “We’re a-gonna et ’em. They’s mighty good eatin’. An’ they don’t last, lessen y’all dry ’em, an’ even then, it’s chancy whuther or not they’ll keep. We’ll hev ’em fer supper.” Then she blinked, and added, “But don’t go pickin’ mushrooms and eatin’ ’em on your own. Some of ’em is pizenous, an’ some’ll jest make y’all sick. Wait till me or th’ Ravens c’n show y’all the difference atween ’em.”

  With that, she got a clean pot—much smaller than the usual soup pot—and dropped a bit of bacon in a frying pan. By the time Anna got back from feeding the chickens, collecting the eggs, and feeding and mucking out the pigsty, the pot was full and simmering on the hearth, and there was a rich and tantalizing aroma filling the cabin. Anna recognized the familiar touches of vegetables and herbs and of course bacon fat, but the meaty, earthy base of the scent eluded her.

  Her aunt laid out a cold dinner, since the day was already warm enough without further adding heat by fully firing up the stove. Already Anna could see the value in this kind of stove—when it was summer, you only needed to have enough fire in the hearth to cook food, not heat up that giant mass
of masonry—and all that stone and mortar absorbed so much of the heat from the hearth that it didn’t penetrate to the rest of the cabin. Not like a cast-iron stove, where the whole thing was either hot or cold.

  “I want y’all t’ go down the lane and git me some thangs,” Jinny said, as they finished up the dishes. “Flares, ac’chully. Roses’r bloomin’, an’ lilies. Time t’make scent fer soap.”

  “Yes’m,” she replied eagerly. This might be the best chore her aunt had ever set her. Picking wildflowers was hardly a chore at all. She listened carefully as Jinny gave her exact instructions, then sent her out with a bushel basket. The flowers weren’t going to be remotely heavy, even if she filled the basket, and if there was any coolth to be had, it would be down the lane under the trees.

  Wild roses were her first quest; Jinny had given her very particular instructions to locate a clearing off the lane where the rose shrubs had just taken over the entire place. And sure enough, within about a quarter of an hour, she pushed through bushes to find a riot of roses in various stages of bloom, bud, and developing hips. Jinny wanted things picked in a particular order—hips were as desirable as blooms, so the ripe, marble-sized hips came first, going into the bottom of the basket. Then, once she had picked as many as she could reach, a layer of leaves to keep them from moving around much. Then, carefully, the roses themselves. First buds just starting to unfurl, then another layer of leaves, then those in full bloom, picked at the height of the blossom, with just enough stem on them to keep them from wilting immediately. And she counted herself extremely lucky that this patch of roses was not only deliciously fragrant, but surprisingly thorn-free. Not thornless, but the thorns were small and considerably less trouble than blackberry thorns.

  Getting all the flowers she could reach filled up the basket about halfway, and the scent—well she thought she could easily get drunk on it. Next, she was supposed to go to the other side of the lane to gather tiger lilies.