Mountain Magic

by David Drake

  "Sure enough," Nollie laughed her laugh, with hardness in it. "John's just a-playing hard to get."

  "He's hard to get, I agree you," said Evadare, "but he's not a-playing."

  "Getting right cloudy round here," Nollie said, a-looking over that smooth bare shoulder of hers.

  She spoke truth. The clumpy mist with its eye-greens was on the move again, like before. It hung close to the ground. I saw tree branches above it. The shapes in it were half-shapes. I saw one like what children make out of snow for a man, but this was dark, not snowy. It had head, shoulders, two shiny green eyes. Webbed next to it, a bunch of the things that minded you of dogs without being dogs. Green eyes too, and white flashes that looked like teeth.

  Those dog things had tongues too, out at us, like as if to lap at us. Evadare was a-praying under her breath, and Nollie laughed again.

  "If you fear sin," she mocked us, "you go afraid air minute of your life."

  That was the truth too, as I reckoned, so I said nothing. I looked on the half-made hike of the man shape. It molded itself while I looked. Up came two steamy rags like arms. I wondered myself if it had hands, if it could take hold; if it could grab Evadare, grab me.

  One arm-rag curled up high and whipped itself at us. It threw something—a whole mess of something. A little rain of twinkles round the root where Evadare had sat since first we built the fire.

  "Oh," she whispered, not loud enough for a cry.

  I ran to her, to see if she'd been hit and hurt. She looked down at the scatter of bright things round her. I knelt to snatch one up.

  By the firelight, I saw that it was a jewel. Red as blood, bright as fire. I'm no jeweler, but I've seen rubies in my time. This was a big one.

  Evadare bent with both hands out, to pick the things up. From the mist stole out soft noises, noises like laughter—not as loud as Nollie could laugh, but meaner, uglier.

  "Don't take those things," I said to Evadare. "Not from what wants to give them to you." I sent myself to throw that big ruby.

  "No," said Evadare, and got up, too. "I must do it. I'm the one who took the sins. I'm the one to say no to them."

  She made a flinging motion with her arm, underhand, the way girls are apt to throw. I saw those jewels wink in the firelight as they sailed through the air. Red for rubies, white for diamonds, other colors for other ones. They struck in among the misty shapes. I swear they plopped, like stones flung in greasy water.

  "Give me," she said, and took the big ruby from me. She flung it after the others. It made a singy sound in the air. Back from the cloudy mass beat a tired, hunting breath, like somebody pained and sorrowed.

  "All right," said Evadare, the strongest she'd spoken since first we'd made out camp. "I've given them back their pay, refused all of it."

  "Did you?" Nollie sort of whinnied.

  "You saw me give them back," Evadare said, "All of them."

  "No, not all of them, look at this."

  Nollie held out her open palm. There lay a ruby, big as a walnut, twice the size of the one I'd taken up.

  "How many thousands do you reckon that's worth?" Nollie jabbered at us, her teeth shining. "I got it when it fell, and I'm a-going to keep it."

  "Miss Nollie," I said, "you should ought to have seen enough here tonight to know you can't keep air such a thing."

  "Can't I?" she jeered me. "Just watch me, John, I'll take it to a big town and sell it. I'll be the richest somebody in all these parts."

  "Better give it to Evadare to throw back," I said.

  "Give it to little half-portion, milky-face Evadare? Not me."

  She poked the ruby down the front of her dress, deep down there.

  "It'll be safe where it's at," she snickered at us. "Unless you want to reach a hand down yonder for it, John."

  "Not me," I said. "I want no part of it, nor yet of where you put it."

  "John, said Evadare, "look at how the cloud bunches away."

  I looked; it drew back with all its shapes, like the ebb tide on the shore of the sea.

  "Sure enough," I said. "It's a-leaving out of here."

  "And so am I," spoke up Nollie. "I came here to talk sense to you, John. You ain't got the gift to know sense where you hear it. Come visit me when I get my money and put up my big house here."

  She swung, she switched away, a-moving three directions at once, the way some women think they look pretty when they do it. She laughed at us once, over her shoulder so bare. Evadare made a move, like as if to try to fetch her back, but I put my hand on Evadare's arm.

  "You've done more than your duty tonight," I said. "Let her go."

  So Evadare stood beside me while Nollie switch-tailed off amongst the trees. I reckoned the misty shapes thickened up at Nollie, but I couldn't be dead sure. What I did make out was, they didn't fence us in now. I saw clearness all the way round. The moon washed the earth with its light.

  Evadare sat down on the root again, dead tired. I built up the fire to comfort us. I struck a chord on the guitar to sing to her, I don't recollect what. It might could as well have been a lullaby. She sank down asleep as I sang. I put my soogin sack under her head for a pillow and spread a blanket on her.

  But I didn't sleep. I sat there, awaiting for whatever possibly happened, and nothing happened. Nothing at all, all night. The dawn grayed the sky and far off away I heard a rooster crow. I put the last of our coffee in the pot to brew for us, all we could count on for breakfast. While I watched by the fire, three men came toward us. Evadare rose up and yawned.

  "John," said Jake in his timid voice, "I bless the high heavens to see you and your lady all safe here. This here is Preacher Frank Ricks, and here's Squire Hamp Dolby, come along with me to make your acquaintance."

  Preacher Ricks I'd met before. We shook hands together. He was thin and old, but still a-riding here and there to do what good was in his power. Squire Dolby was a chunk of a man with white hair and black brows. "Proud to know you, John," he said to me.

  "I hurried in here just at sunrise," said Preacher Ricks. "I'd heard tell of poor Trill Coster's death, and I find she's already buried. And I heard tell, too, of the brave, kind thing your lady agreed to do to rest her soul."

  "I hoped it would be merciful," said Evadare.

  "How true you speak, ma'am," said Squire Dolby. "But the sins you said you'd take, they never came to you. They fastened somewhere else. Nollie Willoughby's gone out of her mind. Round her house it's all dark-shadowy, and she's in there, she laughs and cries at one and the same time. She hangs onto a little flint rock and says it's a ruby, richer than all dreams on this earth."

  "Isn't it a ruby?" I inquired him.

  "Why," he said, "the gravelly path to my house is strewed with rocks like that, fit for naught but just to be trod on."

  "I fetched these folks here on your account, John," said Jake. "You done told me you and Evadare hoped to be married."

  "And we can do that for you," allowed Preacher Ricks, with a smile to his old face. "Squire Dolby here has the legal authority to give you a license here and now."

  "It's sure enough my pleasure," said Squire Dolby.

  He had a pad of printed blanks. He put down Evadare's name and mine, and he and Jake signed for the witnesses.

  "Why not right now, under these trees and this sky?" said Preacher Ricks, and opened his book. "Stand together here, you two. John, take Evadare's right hand in your right hand. Say these words after me when I tell you."

  The Spring

  Manly Wade Wellman

  Time had passed, two years of it, when I got back to those mountains again and took a notion to visit the spring.

  When I was first there, there'd been just a muddy, weedy hole amongst rocks. A young fellow named Zeb Gossett lay there, a-burning with fever, a-trying to drink at it. I pulled him onto some ferns and put my blanket over him. Then I knelt down and dragged out the mud with my hands, picked weeds away and bailed with a canteen cup. Third time I emptied the hole to the bottom, water came clea
r and sweet. I let Zeb Gossett have some, and then I built us a fire and stirred up a hoecake. By the time it was brown on both sides, he was able to sit up and eat half of it.

  Again and again that night, I fetched him water, and it did him good. When I picked my silver-strung guitar, he even joined in to sing. Next day he allowed he was well, and said he'd stay right where such a good thing happened to him. I went on, for I had something else to do. But I left Zeb a little sack of meal and a chunk of bacon and some salt in a tin can. Now, returned amongst mountains named Hark and Wolter and Dogged, not far from Yandro, I went up the trail I recollected to see how the spring came on.

  The high slope caved in there, to make a hollow grown with walnut and pine and hickory, and the spring showed four feet across, with stones set in all the way round. Beside the shining water hung a gourd ladle. Across the trail was a cabin, and from the cabin door came Zeb Gossett. "John," he called my name, "how you come on?"

  We shook hands. He was fine-looking, young, about as tall as I am. His face was tanned and he'd grown a short brown beard. He wore jeans and a home-sewn blue shirt. "Who'd expect I'd find Zeb Gossett here?" I said.

  "I live here, John. Built that cabin myself, and I've got title to two acres of land. A corn patch, potatoes and cabbages and beans and tomatoes. It's home. When you knelt down to make that spring give the water that healed me, I knew this was where I'd live. But come on in. I see you still tote that guitar."

  His cabin was small but rightly made, of straight poles with neat-notched corner joints, whitewash on the clay chinking. There was glass in the windows to each side of the split-slab door. He led me into a square room with a stone fireplace and two chairs and a table. Three-four books on a shelf. The bed had a blazing-star quilt. Over the fire bubbled an iron pot with what smelled like stewing deer meat.

  "Yes, I live here, and the neighborhood folks make me welcome," he said when we sat down. "I knew that spring had holy power. I watch over it and let others heal their ills with it."

  "It was just a place I scooped out," I reminded him. "we had to have water for you, so I did it."

  "It's cured hundreds of sick folks," he said. "I carried some to the Fleming family when they had flu, then others heard tell of it and came here. They come all the time. I don't take pay. I tell them, 'Kneel down before you drink, the way John did while he was a-digging. And pray before you drink, and give thanks afterwards.'"

  "You shouldn't ought to give me such credit, Zeb."

  "John," he said, "that's healing water. It washes away air bad thing whatsoever. It helps mend up broken bones even. Why, I've known folks drink it and settle family quarrels and lawsuits. It's a miracle, and you did it."

  I wouldn't have that. I said, "Likely the power was in the water before you and I came here. I just cleaned the mud out."

  "I know better, and so do you," Zeb grinned at me.

  Outside, a sweet voice: "Hello, the house," it spoke. "Hello, Zeb, might could I take some water?"

  He jumped up and went out like as if he expected to see angels. I followed him out, and I reckon it was an angel he figured he saw.

  She was a slim girl, but not right small. In her straight blue dress and canvas shoes, with her yellow curls waterfalled down her back, she was pretty to see. In one hand she toted a two-gallon bucket. She smiled, and that smile made Zeb's knees buck.

  "Tilda"—he said her name like a song—"you don't have to ask for water, just dip it. Somebody in your family ailing?"

  "No, not exactly." Then her blue eyes saw me and she waited.

  "This is my friend John, Tilda," said Zeb. "He dug the spring. John, this is Tilda Fleming. Her folks neighbor with me just round the trail bend."

  "Proud to be known to you, ma'am," I made my manners, but she was a-looking at Zeb, half nervous, half happy.

  "Who's the water for, then?" he inquired her.

  "Why," she said, shy with every word, "that's why I wondered if you'd let me have it. You see, our chickens—" and she stopped again, like as if she felt shamed to tell it.

  "Ailing chickens should ought to have whatever will help them, Zeb." I put in a word.

  "That's a fact," said Zeb, "and a many a fresh egg your folks have given me, Tilda. So take water for them, please."

  She dropped down on her knees and bowed her head above the spring. She was a pretty sight, a-doing that. I could tell that Zeb thought so.

  But somebody else watched. I saw a stir beyond some laurel, and looked hard thataway.

  It was another girl, older than Tilda, taller. Her hair was blacker than storm, and her pointy-chinned, pale face was lovely. She looked at Tilda a-kneeling by the spring and she sneered, and it showed her teeth as bright as glass beads.

  Zeb didn't see her. He bent over Tilda where she knelt, was near about ready to kneel with her. I walked through the yard toward the laurel. That tall, black-haired girl moved into the open and waited for me.

  She wore a long dress of tawny, silky stuff, hardly what you'd look for in the mountains. It hung down to her feet, but it held to her figure, and the figure was fine. She looked at me, impudent-faced. "I declare," she said in a sugary-deep voice, "this is the John we hear so much about. A fine-looking man, no doubt in the world about that. But that's a common name."

  "I always reckoned it's been borne by a many a good man," I said. "How come you to know me?"

  "I heard you and Zeb Gossett a-talking. I can hear at a considerable distance." Her wide, dark eyes crawled over me like spiders. "My name's Craye Sawtelle, John. You and I might could be profitable acquaintances to each other."

  "I'm proud to be on good terms with most folks," I said. "You come to visit with Zeb, yonder?"

  "Maybe, when that little snip trots her water bucket home." Craye Sawtelle looked at Tilda a-filling the pail, and for a second those bright teeth showed. "I have business to talk with Zeb. Maybe he'll find the wit to hark to it."

  Zeb walked Tilda to the trail. Craye Sawtelle had come into the yard with me, and when Tilda walked on and Zeb turned back, Craye said, "Good day to you, Zeb Gossett," and he jumped like as if he'd been stuck with a pin.

  "What can I do for you, Miss Craye?" he said.

  She ran her eyes over him, too. "You know the answer to that. I'll make you a good offer for this house and this spring."

  He shook his head till his young beard flicked in the air. "You know the place isn't for sale, and the spring water's free to all."

  "Only if they kneel and pray by it." She smiled a chilly smile. "I'm not a praying sort, Zeb."

  "Nobody's heart to kneel before God," said Zeb.

  "I don't kneel to your God," she said.

  "What god do you kneel to?" I inquired her, and her black eyes blazed round to me.

  "You make what educated folks call an educated guess," she said to me. "If you know so much, why should I answer you?"

  She turned back to Zeb. "What if I told you there's a question about your title here, that I could gain possession?"

  "I'd say, let's go to the court house and find out."

  "You're impossible," she shrilled at him. "But I'm reasonable. I'll give you time to think it over. Like sundown tomorrow."

  Then she went off away, the other direction from Tilda. In that tawny dress, air line of her swayed.

  Just then, the sun looked murkier over us. Here and there amongst the trees, the leaves showed their pale undersides, like before a storm comes.

  "Let's go in and have something to eat," Zeb said to me.

  It was a good deer-meat stew, with cornmeal dumplings. I had two helps. Zeb said he'd put in onions and garlic and thyme and bay leaf, with a dollop of wine from a bottle he kept for that. We finished up and drank black coffee. While we sipped, a sort of lonesome whinnying sound rose outside.

  "That's an owl," said Zeb. "Bad luck this time of day."

  "I figured this was the sort of place where owls hoot in the daytime and they have possums for yard dogs." I tried to crack the old joke, but Zeb didn
't laugh.

  "Let me say what's been here," he said. "The trouble's with that witch-girl, Craye Sawtelle. She makes profit by this and that—says strings of words supposed to make your crops grow, allows she can turn your cows or pigs sick unless you pay her. What she wants is this spring, this holy spring. Naturally, she figures it would make her rich."

  "And you won't give it over."

  "It's not mine to give, John. I reckon it saved my life—I'd have died without you knelt to scoop it clear for me. So I owe it to folks to let them cure themselves with it. Oh, Craye's tried everything. You've seen what sort she is. First off, she wanted us to be partners—in the spring and other things. That didn't work with me, and she got ugly. I'll banter you she's done things to the Flemings, like those sick chickens you heard tell of from Tilda. And she told me she'd put a curse on my corn patch. Things don't go right well there just now."

  I picked my guitar. "Hark at this," I said:

  Three holy kings, four holy saints,

  At heaven's high gate that stand,

  Speak out to bid all evil wait

  And stir no foot or hand . . .

  "Where'd you catch that song, John?"

  "Long ago, from old Uncle T. P. Hinnard. He allowed it was a good song against bad stuff."

  Zeb crinkled his eyes. "Like enough it is, but it sort of chills the blood. You know one of a different kind?"

  The owl quivered its voice outside as I touched the strings again.

  Her hair is of a brightsome color

  And her cheeks are rosy red,

  On her breast are two white lilies

  Where you long to lay your head.

  "Tilda," said Zeb, a-brightening up. "You made that song about Tilda."

  "It's older than Tilda's great-grandsire," I told him, "but it'll do for her. I saw how she and you lean to one another."

  "If it wasn't for Craye Sawtelle—" And he stopped.

  "Tell me about her," I bade him, and he did.