The Princess Club / Family Secrets / Mountain Madness

by Catherine Marshall

  “’Course not. You’re welcome any time, like I said.”

  “That’s a fine birdhouse.”

  Edward held it out at arm’s length. “My birdhouses now are not as fine as they used to be. I’m gettin’ on, I s’pose. My hands get tired and my eyes do, too.”

  “You know, there’s a store back home in Asheville, where I come from. They sell handmade things, quilts and pottery and such. I’ll bet you anything they’d be willing to sell your birdhouses, too.”

  Edward looked at her doubtfully, as if he thought she were making fun of him. “Naw.”

  “Seriously. I could send one to my mother, if you’d like. She could show it to the shop owner.”

  Edward shrugged. “Ain’t got enough for sellin’.”

  “Suppose . . . suppose you taught some of the local people how to carve them? They could help you—”

  “I done told you. I don’t want nothin’ to do with nobody.”

  “I’m sorry,” Christy said. “I didn’t mean to push you. Especially since the real reason I came was to say thanks.”

  Edward blew wood shavings off the birdhouse. They fluttered to his feet like bits of snow. “Thank me for what?”

  “For helping us get Bird’s-Eye to destroy his still and pour out his moonshine.”

  “He’ll build another ’un, mark my words.”

  “Perhaps. But not on your mountain, at least. And he admitted he was behind the pranks, like we asked. You’d be amazed how fast word spread about that. He explained everything. How he’d put chicken blood on one of his own tattered shirts and hung it in the tree. How he’d made the big tracks using a piece of wood he’d carved and an old pitchfork. It’s like I told the children—there’s a logical explanation for everything.” Christy laughed. “He told everyone he’d seen you, too, but I’m not sure anyone believed him. It was sort of like that old story about the boy who cried wolf one too many times.”

  Edward set the birdhouse aside. “Telephone line’s a-comin’, then?”

  “Yes. They’re making real progress on the poles already.”

  “I’d best be goin’ into hidin’ for a while, till they’re done and gone.”

  Gently, Christy reached for the little birdhouse. It was only half-done, but she could already see the outlines forming. “It’s the church!” she said.

  “I reckon.”

  “You’ve seen it?”

  “Once. ’Round midnight, right after the preacher was finishin’ it up. Fine job he did.”

  “He’d be pleased to hear that. David doesn’t fashion himself much of a carpenter. I think he’d rather stick to being a minister.” She smiled. “You’d like him.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I wish you’d come visit us at the mission house sometime. Everyone would love to meet you.”

  Edward stared up at the pale blue sky. “Ain’t likely.”

  With a sigh, Christy set the birdhouse down. “I know this is none of my business, Edward. But the other night while we were waiting for Bird’s-Eye, Clara mentioned the Seventh Cavalry. At the time, I couldn’t remember its significance. But later, when I got home, I took out my history book, and all of a sudden it came back to me.” She paused, almost afraid to say the words. “The Seventh Cavalry fought the Battle of Little Big Horn— Custer’s Last Stand.”

  Edward gave a slight nod. He was looking at Christy, but his milky eyes were somewhere far, far away. “I ran from that bloody place in the Dakota Territory. And I never looked back. I been here on my mountain ever since.”

  “So many died that day,” Christy said softly.

  “I was ridin’ with Major Reno. There was one hundred and twelve of us troops, green as new grass. We attacked the Sioux at one end of the Indian camp, and a fool thing it was, too. We was way outnumbered. The fightin’ was . . .” he winced at the awful memory, “somethin’ terrible. Lookin’ back, I think those Sioux just wanted to be left alone on the land they loved, same as me. But I didn’t know that then.”

  “It must have been horrible.”

  “Ain’t no words to describe it. I saw men, troops and Indians alike, fight brave as you can imagine. In the end, Major Reno pulled us back, what was left of us. Some called him a coward.” He sighed. “S’pose that’s what they’d call me, too. Soon as I got the chance, I run off. I was just a boy, mind you. Bloody and tired and scared o’ dyin’. Later, I heard about Custer and his men. Two hundred sixty-four troops, all dead. All those lives, wasted.”

  A lone tear fell down Edward’s cheek. Christy reached out and touched his hand. “Edward,” she said gently, “that was a long time ago. Haven’t you suffered enough?”

  “Maybe so. But it’s been too long. I don’t know how to be around people anymore.”

  “Sure you do.”

  “Even old men can be afraid, you know.” He managed a half-smile. “Even the Boggin.”

  “I know a little about fear myself,” Christy admitted. “Truth is, that day you found me pinned under the tree, I’d come up here to prove something to myself.”

  “Prove something?”

  “I was afraid of you, Edward . . . or at least of the thing everyone called the Boggin. And it made me mad, and sad, too, because if I was afraid of you, that meant I had to be afraid of this beautiful mountain, too.” She paused. “And I loved this place too much to let that happen.”

  Edward nodded. “I’m glad you were brave enough to come. But I’m not like that. I’m somebody who learned how to run away a long, long time ago. And now it’s too late.”

  “You ran away from the worst side of human nature, Edward. And believe me, it’s never too late to change.”

  “Maybe so. Maybe not. You know what they say about teaching old dogs new tricks.”

  “I taught my poodle Pansy to roll over when she was twelve years old and fat as one of the hogs living under the schoolhouse.”

  Edward laughed. “You’re comparin’ me to a fat ol’ poodle dog?”

  “Hardly.” Christy stood. “Edward, do you suppose you still have family living?”

  “I had a younger sister in Raleigh. Could be she’s still around. Mary Davis was her name, after she got hitched.”

  “Wouldn’t you like to get in touch with her?”

  Edward shook his head. “I’m afraid I just plain wouldn’t know where to begin, if I did.”

  “I understand. Well, I should be going. But will you at least think about visiting the mission someday?”

  “I’ll think about it. That’s all I’m promisin’.”

  “It wouldn’t be like visiting strangers. After all, you already know about everyone in Cutter Gap. Don’t you think they’d like to know about you?”

  “I ain’t so sure.” Edward went over to the nearest pine tree. He pulled down a little birdhouse. “Here. This ain’t got no residents yet. Send it on to your ma to show to the shopkeeper, if’n you want. I ain’t promisin’ anything, mind you. I’m old and stuck in my ways.”

  Christy grinned. “Funny—that’s just what everyone said about Pansy.”

  Nineteen

  Nine weeks later . . .

  “I can hardly stand the waitin’ another minute!” Clara cried.

  “Settle down, Clara,” Ruby Mae teased. “This ain’t the first call we’ve got.”

  “Practically, though,” Clara said. “’Sides, it’s the first one that’s come from out o’ state. And it’s the first one we’ve had such a big jollification over.”

  She gazed around the mission house happily. It seemed like all of Cutter Gap was here for the big occasion. The parlor was decorated with vases of wildflowers. Pies and cookies were waiting to be eaten. And all over the walls were pictures the children had drawn—pictures of the way they imagined the Boggin would look when they finally got to meet him today.

  She adjusted the bow in her hair nervously. Miz Christy had given it to her in honor of the special day.

  “Quit playin’ with that bow or it’ll fall right apart,” John teased.
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  Clara punched him in the arm. “John, you think he’ll really come? Miz Christy said he was powerful scared.”

  “He’s come to the mission house twice now,” John pointed out.

  “’Course, there was only a few people to visit with then. Everybody in Cutter Gap is here today.”

  Suddenly, a hush fell over the room. Every head turned toward the door.

  Edward stood in the doorway. He bit his lip, staring at the huge assembled group.

  Clara could see the panic in his eyes. She rushed over and took his hand. “Everybody,” she announced, nice and firm and proud as could be, “this is my friend, Edward Hinton.” She pulled him inside. “You’re late, Edward. I was afeared you weren’t a-goin’ to come, and Miz Christy and the preacher fixed up the finest surprise you ever did—”

  Then it happened, right on schedule. The brand-new, fine-as-could-be telephone began to ring.

  A hush fell over the crowd.

  It rang again, a jangly, silvery noise like tiny bells coming alive.

  “Confound it all, if that ain’t the most beautiful sound I ever did hear!” someone cried.

  “Ain’t somebody goin’ to answer it?” Granny O’Teale demanded.

  “Edward, why don’t you do the honors?” said Christy. She gave a sly little wink at Clara.

  “I don’t think . . . I don’t know if I’m ready for . . .”

  “Come, come, there’s nothing to it.” David led Edward toward the phone.

  “Just pick up that earpiece and say ‘hello,’” Clara explained. “Miz Christy done taught us all how.”

  Edward hesitated. Again the phone jangled.

  “Hurry up!” someone hissed. “Or they’ll give up on you!”

  With a trembling hand, Edward lifted the earpiece and put it to his ear.

  “Talk into that cone-shaped thing,” Clara whispered.

  Edward cleared his throat. “H—hello?”

  He listened. His eyes went wide.

  More long moments passed. Clara waited, breath held.

  “Mary?” Edward whispered. “Mary, is that really you?”

  Clara reached for Miz Christy’s hand and squeezed it tightly. They both smiled.

  “Finally, Miz Christy,” Clara whispered, “he ain’t the Boggin no more.”

  About the Author

  Catherine Marshall

  With Christy, Catherine Marshall LeSourd (1914–1983) created one of the world’s most widely read and best-loved classics. Published in 1967, the book spent 39 weeks on the New York Times bestseller list. With an estimated 30 million Americans having read it, Christy is now approaching its 90th printing and has sold over eight million copies. Although a novel, Christy is in fact a thinly-veiled biography of Catherine’s mother, Leonora Wood.

  Catherine Marshall LeSourd also authored A Man Called Peter, which has sold over four million copies. It is an American bestseller, portraying the love between a dynamic man and his God, and the tender, romantic love between a man and the girl he married. Julie is a powerful, sweeping novel of love and adventure, courage and commitment, tragedy and triumph, in a Pennsylvania town during the Great Depression. Catherine also authored many other devotional books of encouragement.