by Janie DeVos
“Now, Sam,” Grandma started, handing him the knife, “cut the first slice, dear.” The way she said the affectionate term so kindly and tenderly, it seemed as though she were talking to a child. But then Samuel Harold looked as delighted as a child as he stepped back from the pie after eagerly blowing out the candle’s flame.
Grandma picked up one of the china plates as Sam began cutting the pie into sections. The china had scalloped edges (and a small chip, I noticed), and there were small deep pink roses painted in a circular pattern in the center of the ivory-colored plate. The small china cups were the same ivory color, and in the bottom of each was a rose that matched those on the plates. It was a beautiful, delicate old set, and I wondered if it had been some couple’s wedding present. As if reading my mind, Sam volunteered, “These belonged to my folks. They didn’t have a whole lot”—he smiled wistfully—“but what they had was worth savin’.”
We talked about simple things for a while as we ate the pie and drank the rich, hot coffee. We talked about weather, how cold it was getting already and how the Farmer’s Almanac predicted a hard winter. We talked about the new cow Sam had gotten, and whether or not he’d get another cat once Thomas was gone. Then the conversation turned to illegal alcohol, which had been brewed for generations in the western mountains of North Carolina, and long before Prohibition had been enacted. Most of the counties had been dry or alcohol-free since they’d been formed, but that didn’t mean that all of the residents’ homes were.
The mountain folks had depended on the homemade liquor to put meat on the table, bullets in their guns, clothes on their children’s backs, and sugar in their coffee (not to mention in their stills) for so long now that it just seemed to be an accepted—if illegal—way of life. But it was a risky business, to say the least, and frequently paid those employed in it with deadly wages.
Many a man on both sides of the law had shaken hands with the Grim Reaper while trying to protect a still or tear one down. And there were so many lawmen that were actually on the side of the ’shiners that it was difficult to tell who were really good guys or bad guys on any given day. It was an often-hostile game of cat and mouse, and all bets were off as to who was really winning.
“Charles Pottman was gunned down last week after runnin’ his shine over to Tennessee. Madison County Sheriff’s office got ’em. Dang fool didn’t even have anythin’ on him. He’d done delivered it all, but he thought havin’ ’em chase him in his brand new Dodge automobile was as fun as a barrel of monkeys. Stupid son of a bitch.”
“Watch your mouth, Samuel Harold,” Grandma scolded. “Tender ears a-sittin’ here,” she reminded him.
“S’cuse me,” he humbly replied. Then, “Them deputies on their horses took the short cut through the woods at Harney’s place, and caught up with Charles when they came out on the dirt road on the other side of the ol’ man’s tobacco fields. They just stood in the road waitin’ for Charles, and here he comes, just a-flyin’. Well, he slams on his brakes cause he can’t get around ’em, with them standin’ in the road ’n all, and, besides, he wants to let the ol’ boys have a good look at his new car. But when he got out, being as drunk as he was and not thinkin’, he went to pull his wallet out of his coat pocket in the hopes of bribin’ them officers into forgettin’ they’d seen him that night. The law, thinkin’ he was pulling out a gun, shot his ass—s’cuse me—dead. Then the deputies tied their horses to the back bumper of Charlie’s car, laid him out in the back seat, and drove him on back to his Mama’s house. They parked in the poor woman’s front yard! The coroner’s office was sent for to come and declare him dead—like they didn’t already know it, and his poor ol’ Mama a-settin’ there and knowin’ it, too! Lord, God, but that woman about come undone. She started rantin’ and ravin’, and carryin’ on so, and no one could do anything to calm that poor ol’ thing down. The damnedest part of it all was that one of the deputies finally gave her a swig of whiskey from his own flask to settle her down. And here they goes and kills her son over the same concoction they used to quiet the half-crazed woman down. Beats all, I swear. It surely beats all.”
Grandma had responded throughout the story with the occasional and properly placed “Oh no!” and “Do tell!” and “What a shame!” until Sam was through.
We stayed for a short while longer; then Grandma said she reckoned we’d better start back as it was getting late and she wanted to be home before dark. “Gotta help Anna with supper,” she explained, “and, I don’t intend upon bein’ a bear’s.”
I helped Grandma wash up the dishes, and then Sam walked us out. As he did, I looked back at poor old Thomas, who’d managed to make it over to a bowl of food left out for him, and I knew I’d most likely never see him again. I wondered if I’d ever see the Moon Man again. And I wasn’t quite sure which way I hoped it worked out. There had been too many unexpected feelings running through me that day, and I needed some time to process them all, to gauge what all I was feeling, even if I didn’t understand exactly why. I just knew that I’d spent a good part of this day in the company of a man who obviously meant a great deal to my grandmother. I wondered where my mother fit into this, and especially my grandfather. Why was his spirit haunting such a nice seeming man (if indeed he was), forcing Sam to go to extremes to ward off my grandfather’s unwanted, post-mortem presence?
Sam gave me a hug goodbye, and, as I was pulling away from him, he gently caught my chin between his right thumb and index finger and told me I had my grandmother’s eyes. “There’s a strong, good spirit behind ’em,” he said. “I reckon that you’ll be a force to be reckoned with.” He laughed. Whether it was his play on words that amused him, or whether it was imagining those who would be the unlucky recipients of my reckoning, I wasn’t sure. But being compared to my grandmother was enough.
I climbed up into the wagon while Grandma and Sam put the empty basket and crate in the back. They spoke quietly to each other, but I could hear them saying the typical end-of-a-visit kind of things, and a minute later Grandma was helped up onto the seat beside me.
“Don’t stay away so long, Willa. I do miss ya, ol’ gal.”
“I’ll come when I can, Sam. You take care of yourself, you hear? Use Parker Boone’s phone down at his store and call Taft’s Mercantile if you need me. They’ll get a message on over to me if’n it’s an emergency.”
“Don’t fret, Willa. I’m right as rain out here. Go on with ya now, before it gets any later.”
And with that, Grandma bid him good-bye, and I did as well. Then she slapped the reins against Natty’s back and we jerked forward to begin our long trek home. As we made our way down the path through the long zigzagging line of ancient trees, Grandma asked me what I thought of Sam.
“Who is he, Grandma? Who is he, really?” I searched her face for truths, for answers, and I had a feeling that some of them might make my insides tighten up.
“He’s the man who killed my husband, your grandfather, Rachel.”
I stared at her as she stared at the road. And yes, indeed, my insides tightened up, for I realized that what she was about to tell me might very well change the rest of my life.
PART 2
Willa
CHAPTER 16
Late September, 1881, Upper Bolsey River, NC
Willa ran past the barn and into the grove of walnut trees beyond. There were no stars out, she noted, which made it harder for her to see, but it also made it harder for Malcolm to see. She stumbled over a protruding tree root but immediately got up and pushed on. There wasn’t a moment to waste over worrying about her kneecap, which had taken the full impact from the fall. She’d have to forget that for now and just focus on getting into the deepest part of the woods beyond.
She could hear breaking twigs and the slashing of tree branches as Malcolm hurriedly plowed through them trying to get to her. There was no mistaking that it was him for he had been close on her heels when she’d first taken off. But due to the fierce love and protectiveness of her mutt Ba
iley, who had gone after Malcolm with as crazy a look in its eyes as Malcolm had in his, Willa was able to break away from her raging husband. He’d had a shovel in his hand, had threatened her with it, and as he swung the makeshift weapon at her head, Bailey had bounded out of the darkness with teeth bared and leaped at Malcolm’s arm. She’d taken that moment as her opportunity for flight, and not looking back for fear of losing one precious second, she’d screamed for Bailey to come, but was only answered with a heavy, dull sounding THUNK as Malcolm turned his rage on the dog. A pitiful yelp issued forth and then her dog was silent. Don’t think about it, now. It’ll only slow you down. He’s just stunned, that’s all, and is heading for his hiding spot beneath the porch. But she knew better. Her loyal companion would never have given up his fight for her life. On this black night, however, he’d given up his life for her fight.
Willa still heard Malcolm coming. She ran hard to keep ahead of him, but he was gaining ground. Suddenly, she heard a crash and the footfalls stopped for a moment; then he let out a string of filthy words. Willa knew he must have fallen and was thankful for the additional distance it put between them, but all too soon she heard the whipping and cracking of thin branches as he began the hunt again, and, judging by the sound of his faster than ever footfalls, he was doing so with an unearthly, wicked determination.
Willa came out on the far side of the woods and abruptly stopped on the crumbling lip of the high bank. It’s too dark to see the river, she thought, precariously leaning over the bank’s edge and focusing hard in a vain attempt at making out the rushing water below. The water didn’t scare her but the deadly boulders did. However, her violent husband scared her even more. I can swim but he can’t, she thought. So, figuring her odds were better with the boulders than with Malcolm, she jumped. The cold water hit her about as hard as Malcolm’s shovel had, and the wind was knocked out of her. With her heart beating so loudly from both fear and cold that she could barely hear the strong rapids ahead, Willa began swimming downstream. She was well aware the rapids were there, though, along with the bone-breaking boulders. And she knew they would likely kill her. But, as she watched Malcolm navigate the shoreline in an attempt to catch up with her, she knew the river would be a kinder death, for there would be no evil involved, no cruelty. It would simply be an outmatched meeting with Mother Nature’s power.
Willa stopped trying to swim and just let the strong current take her. She couldn’t get her breath back. The shock of the cold had forced it from her lungs, but it was her fear that kept it at bay. She was hyperventilating, which only caused her panic to increase, making it impossible to make it to the shore even though she desperately wanted to. She couldn’t see Malcolm anymore. He’s lost sight of me, and given up, she thought. How easy it would be for me to do the same. She was exhausted and weak. Her strength was gone. The only thing that remained was a hollowness that was black and cold and calling. And then the blackness swallowed her whole, as her head crashed against a rock that jutted up in the rapids.
CHAPTER 17
Beginnings
The movement around Willa startled her awake, which resulted in excruciating pain shooting through her head. Malcolm must have hit the left side of her head soundly with the shovel, she thought, clamping her teeth together in response to the pounding. She lay still, waiting for it to ease, and realized that she was cocooned in soft and comfortable warmth. She needed to open her eyes and figure out where she was, but she needed to do so carefully and slowly without letting anyone who might be there with her know that she was now awake. Thank you, blessed sweet Jesus, Willa thought, as she pulled in a deep breath. At least I can breathe again. Carefully she cracked open her right eye to assess her surroundings. And as she did the thought flashed through her mind that depending on where she was, she might be sorry she’d somehow managed to survive her midnight swim.
Through blurry sight, she saw a gigantic bear leering down at her. Survival instincts took over once more, and Willa jumped out of bed, frantically twisting around, looking for a way out. Quickly glancing at the bear again, she realized that there wasn’t a body attached to the mounted head, and her adrenaline rush began to dissipate, causing her shaking legs to fold beneath her. There was nothing to grab onto and Willa crumpled down into a heap on the oak floor.
* * *
“Good God, woman! Whatcha tryin’ to do? Finish yourself off?” A male’s voice came from above her. She looked up at him, but her concussion made it impossible to see him very clearly. Willa knew it wasn’t Malcolm, though. Her husband’s voice was gravelly and hard; like his heart, she thought. This stranger’s voice, though low in pitch, was gentler sounding, although at the moment it was urgently insisting that she return to bed and rest.
Two strong hands reached down and grasped Willa underneath her arms, then lifted her up from the floor and helped her back into bed. And she let him. He pulled the covers over her body, which was now clothed in a man’s nightshirt, she realized, and moved the lantern off the nightstand and away from her light-sensitive eyes. Here I am, she thought, in a strange man’s cabin—and bed!—at the mercy of his whims. I’m in the middle of . . . God only knows where... but she thanked her maker that she was wherever this warm, comfortable place might be. She’d rather take her chances with a stranger, in his cabin, than be back at her own home, surrounded by the familiar, including her abusive, battering husband. Both she and her unborn baby might actually have a chance for survival, she thought. However, once she—they, she had to think in those terms now—did return home, all bets were off. But we can’t go back. How do we go back when death may well greet us at the door? Or has death already stolen one of us? she wondered, for she hadn’t felt the baby move. Not since running away from Malcolm. How long ago was that? Willa, still exhausted, needed sleep now far more than answers, and drifted off into that peaceful place of nothingness.
She quietly awoke to sunlight pouring through the window. She saw the stranger through the open bedroom door, sitting at the kitchen table restringing a snowshoe, but he caught the movement as Willa swung her legs over the side of the bed and slowly began to try to sit up. Immediately, he jumped up and came to her.
“How ya feelin’, miss?” he inquired softly. Willa was alert enough now to see the concern in his intense brown eyes. Relieved that she was finally able to see him and everything else clearly again, she gave herself a moment to look closely at the man. His hair was a thick, wavy gold, and his smile was bright and genuine. Of medium height and build, he looked as though he was quick and agile, and his movements had confirmed that in the way he’d lightly and smoothly moved to her side to assist her.
“Let me try puttin’ my body fully upright,” she replied, “and I’ll let you know then.” With that, she carefully began the task of standing up, and, with the man’s hand under her arm for support, Willa drew herself up and stood there, albeit swaying, but she stood nonetheless. The man cautiously let go of her but stayed close in case her legs couldn’t hold her up.
“I need water and the outhouse,” she said, “and I’m not sure which one first. My mouth is as dry as cotton, but my bladder couldn’t hold a drop. Best show me to the outhouse first, I guess. Oh, um . . . would you have a coat I can throw over myself?” she self-consciously asked. Her legs were still too shaky to worry about getting back into her own clothes at the moment, but she couldn’t parade around in his nightshirt, injured or not. The man grabbed a black wool cape from the hall closet, wrapped her in it, then took Willa’s arm and guided her out the back door.
A worn path ran through the middle of the backyard and beyond to the outhouse, which was about a hundred yards from the house. As they made their way, Willa looked back at the log cabin she’d been sheltered in for . . . how long? The cabin was rather small and weathered brown. A large river-rock chimney shot upward from the middle of the house, which made her recall that one side of the fireplace faced the small living room, while the other side of it opened to the bedroom she’d been staying in
. Then Willa turned back around and took note of a garden that lay just ahead and to the right, with a few remaining vegetables in it that were more than ready to be harvested. To the left was a fenced-in chicken coop, with several hens and a rooster picking at potential edibles in the dirt. And just beyond the garden, Willa saw a dark gray, soot-streaked smokehouse. Finally, they came to a narrow footbridge that spanned a full, broad creek, and Willa could see the outhouse standing in a small clearing just beyond. In stark contrast to the weathered building was a bright smattering of black-eyed susans, mountain honeysuckle, and echinacea coloring the sun-washed ground.
“Where exactly are we?” she asked, while holding tightly to the railing as she crossed the bridge. “And how long have I been here?”
“You’ve been here for two days now,” the man replied, following closely behind her. “We’re at my place on Bolsey Creek, a branch of the bigger river of the same name.”
“I know the river well,” Willa replied. “I live on a northern branch of it. It’s just lovely here, though. Where I live is more rugged and . . . I don’t know . . . kind of stark-like.” She looked around, feeling an unaccustomed peacefulness in this simple, unassuming place.
“It’s home, miss, and has been since my grandpap first laid a claim here. He had a hundred and five acres to begin with, but sold most of it off over time. You might say he wasn’t a very good business man, and was an even worse farmer,” he laughed. “I’ve managed to hang on to the remaining twelve, though sometimes even that seems to be too much. My farmin’s about as good as his was.” He smiled.