The Seven Wonders of Sassafras Springs

by Betty G. Birney

  It was true, boys in Sassafras Springs had a custom of stealing an occasional egg, hiding it where their mothers wouldn’t find it, aging it in the straw until it was good and rotten—oh, say a couple of weeks in hot weather. The hotter the better. When it was ready, they’d pick a time to let loose with it, creating a stench so great it would scare the stripes off a skunk.

  “Everybody’s done that,” I told him.

  “I know, but nobody’s done it like me. Remember that rotten one I managed to shoot into the girls’ outhouse at school last year?”

  I could hardly forget that. It’s the only time I know of when a rotten egg was launched by a sling-shot. (Even Junior wasn’t brave enough to go into the girls’ outhouse.) The girls were shrieking and gagging at the smell, and Miss Collins let us off school early.

  “But a Wonder is something important, Junior.”

  He held up the innocent-looking egg, gazing at it like it was a work of art. “Been here since May. Two hot months. Feel it.”

  I took the egg in my hand. The more rotten an egg gets, the lighter it gets, until it doesn’t seem to weigh anything at all. I had to admit, this one was good and rotten.

  “I got three of them. The rottenest eggs in Sassafras Springs.” Junior sounded as if he’d just won the blue ribbon at the county fair.

  “They’re rotten, but they’re not Wonders,” I insisted. “Sorry, Junior. I’ve got to go.”

  “You’ll think they’re a Wonder when you smell them. And I’m not giving you any warning, either,” Junior called after me. He sounded pretty mad.

  Who’d have thought collecting a few Wonders would create such a big stink around Sassafras Springs?

  That evening Aunt Pretty had supper all laid out on the porch when I got home.

  “I can’t stand that hot kitchen one more minute.” She fanned herself with a dish towel. “We’re eating a cold supper outside.”

  “Like a pic-a-nic,” said Pa. He always added that extra “a” in picnic, and I liked the sound of it.

  Aunt Pretty’s cold supper was as tasty as most folks’ hot meals. Cold chicken, cold cornbread, sliced tomatoes with thin slivers of onion on top, and her sour pickles. A glass of milk, cooled in the spring-house, for washing it down. A dish of cooked peaches left over from her day of preserving to top it off.

  “What’s the tally so far, Pretty?” asked Pa as he served himself a generous helping.

  “Fifty-two jars,” she answered. “Twenty jars of sliced peaches for pie, twenty-two jars of preserves for biscuits. Ten jars of spiced peaches. I’ll do more tomorrow.”

  “It’s enough to make a man long for winter.” Pa turned to me. “What about you, son? Did you hit pay dirt?”

  “Not today,” I answered, realizing this was the first day I hadn’t come up with a Wonder. “Ended up wasting my time.”

  Then I remembered the day before, down at the general store. I’d promised Violet I’d come by and see her Wonder. I still didn’t believe she had one, but I had made a promise.

  “I’m supposed to go to the Rowans’, though.”

  Pa chuckled. “First place I’d go for a Wonder.”

  Aunt Pretty stood up, all business now. “Before you go, I’ll pack up some chicken and peaches to take along.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you have to. The Rowans are having hard times, and they could use some building up. Now, Eulie’s proud and she’ll want to give you something in return. Just take whatever she offers.”

  Deep down, I was glad that, unlike other folks in Sassafras Springs, Aunt Pretty didn’t mind her own business, at least when her neighbors had problems. Before long, I was lugging a basket of food across our field to the Rowans’ small spread, which backed onto ours.

  “Eben, you came!” Violet called out.

  Long shadows promised it would be dark before long, but Eulie and Violet were still working outside.

  “Howdy, Eben.” Eulie leaned back on the heels of the huge black shoes she always wore in the garden. They were the same work boots Violet wore to get to school in the snow last winter. Every time I saw them, I couldn’t help wondering if they were the ones that blew off Mr. Rowan’s feet when the lightning struck.

  “Aunt Pretty sent this,” I said, handing over the basket.

  “Goodness, she is a generous one,” said Eulie, peeking inside at all the goodies.

  Violet wasn’t interested in goodies. “Tell her, Eben. About the Wonders. Rae Ellen called them ‘Wonderfuls,’ but I knew you meant Wonders. Like the Great Pyramid and the Hanging Gardens.”

  I told you Violet was smart.

  I cleared my throat and faced

  Eulie. “Ma’am, I’m trying to find Seven Wonders here in Sassafras Springs. Like a pyramid. Or a giant lighthouse.”

  “Thank goodness there are no pyramids around here,” laughed Eulie. “Seems I heard about some kind of a curse on that one they found last year.”

  Violet jumped up. “You have something special, Ma! Show him.”

  Eulie looked doubtful. “It doesn’t resemble a pyramid in the least.”

  “Show him, Ma. He’ll like it. I’ll finish the weeding.” I haven’t seen Violet that excited since she won the spelling bee.

  “Well, all right! Come along.” Eulie started toward the door, beckoning for me to follow. Sal was content to stay outside with Violet.

  “Now don’t expect anything fancy,” Eulie warned me.

  Believe me, it was hard to imagine anything fancy in their shabby cottage.

  She led me to her small kitchen table, its edges worn smooth by generations of soap and water. It looked like any table in Sassafras Springs. That and two chairs were about all the decoration in the place. A blanket hung from the ceiling, and I could see the shadow of a bed behind it. In the middle of the table was a single oil lamp.

  “This is it,” said Eulie, stroking the wood like it was her favorite cat. “Not a Wonder, maybe, but special. Because this is the table that walked through a graveyard. Walked on its own, or so folks would tell you.”

  She had my attention then. “What’s that, ma’am?” I asked, fishing my pencil out of my pocket.

  “Sit yourself down and I’ll tell you,” said Eulie. “I’ll tell you the absolute truth.”

  Eulie Rowan’s Story

  The Four-Legged Haint

  Sassafras Springs used to be even quieter than it is now. When the moon was a sliver, it was dark as a pocket outside. Not many lights, not many people. It was a lonely place.

  Folks had more time to gossip, too. It didn’t take long for word to spread that there was a “haint” in the graveyard. A haint is what the old-timers called a ghost.

  This was no ordinary ghost. And there have been other ghosts in Sassafras Springs. Why, for years after old Mrs. Gardner died, she’d show up in church on Christmas Eve. No one would go near that pew. And there was the golden ghost of Liberty Woods. But that’s not the ghost I’m telling you about. This was a table folks saw—yes, a table walking through the tombstones, night after night, according to some. Not only did it give off a strange light, this table made an eerie wailing sound, like no human ever made. That’s what folks said, anyway.

  When word spread, nobody would go in the graveyard at night. Folks started locking their doors at night for the first time. Most people were superstitious around Sassafras Springs. Most still are. Maybe I’m one of them.

  There was one person around who wasn’t superstitious. However, she was plenty suspicious. She thought the idea of a table walking was plain silly. Even though a table does have legs.

  Her name was Rose-Ivy, and she was a flamehaired beauty who lived alone up on Osage Hill. Her mama and papa had died when she was eighteen, and she stayed on the farm, keeping a few animals, selling herbs like Violet and I do. Most folks thought she couldn’t make it on her own, that she should sell the place and go live with relatives. Most folks should mind their own business, Rose-Ivy thought. Besides, she didn’t give up easily.
Deep down she thought maybe that was why she’d survived the illness that took her parents.

  Since Rose-Ivy took everything she heard with a grain of salt, she didn’t think the story about the haint made sense. Why would a ghost look like a table? How could a table make a wailing noise?

  One night when there was a full moon to guide her, she took her lantern and set out for the graveyard. She didn’t have a gun or a knife, just her old pointer dog by her side. If there was a ghost—which she knew there wasn’t—a gun wouldn’t do much good. If there was a ghost—which common sense told her there wasn’t—a good pair of legs could probably outrun it.

  The first thing Rose-Ivy saw when she got there was a light moving between the markers. She and her dog stopped and watched. There she saw it, plain as day, a four-legged table walking along with the light, weaving in and out among the tombstones. It was quite a sight. Rose-Ivy stayed still and watched. Suddenly the light stopped. So did the table. Rose-Ivy’s dog whined and she shushed him. She blew out her lantern so the haint wouldn’t see her.

  She stood stock-still in the moonlight until she heard the yowling. The dog tried to run but Rose-Ivy held him back. The sound was truly like the howl of a ghost, the kind that gets inside you and it chills your bones. Rose-Ivy didn’t move a muscle or even a hair as she listened.

  Finally the wailing stopped and a human voice cried out, “Mary! Why did you leave me, Mary?”

  That set Rose-Ivy in motion. Instead of running away, she inched closer to the table. Her dog followed, tail between his legs. When she got closer she took a good look at the table sitting among the graves. A lantern on the table gave off enough light to see that it was set with a plate, and a knife and fork, and a basket of food. There was a chair next to the table. And someone was sitting on that chair. Someone too solid to be a ghost.

  It was a man, and he was sobbing his heart out, calling, “Mary, how could you leave me? Why didn’t you take me with you?” Rose-Ivy realized that the table was next to the tombstone of a young woman who had died three months before. That woman’s name was Mary.

  “Is that you, Tom?” Rose-Ivy asked the sobbing man. It was his turn to be startled. It was Thomas Fitzgerald, the husband of the woman who’d died.

  Rose-Ivy moved in closer. “What are you doing out here in the pitch-dark?”

  The man moaned. “Lord, I miss her so much. I can’t stand to eat alone in the house without my Mary. So I come out here every night to be with her,” Tom told her, the tears glistening on his cheeks.

  “Tom Fitzgerald, you’re going to get yourself shot, creeping around in graveyards at night. You’ve been scaring folks half to death! You come home now and eat supper with me. I don’t like to eat alone either,” said Rose-Ivy. “Come along right now.”

  She sounded determined, and Tom was so surprised that he actually said yes. He left his table and chair by Mary’s tombstone and went up Osage Hill with Rose-Ivy. They had a good supper and a good strong cup of coffee, and when the meal was over, Rose-Ivy told him to come back for dinner the next night too.

  The next day Tom took his table and chair back home. He went to Rose-Ivy’s house for dinner that night and the next night and the night after that. He talked about his dear Mary, and Rose-Ivy talked about her departed family, and sometimes Tom brought her some beans or corn from his garden or a bunch of wildflowers. And sometimes Rose-Ivy sent back some food for Tom’s lunch the next day. Folks talked for a while, until they found other things to gossip about. And they stopped locking their doors at night.

  At the end of a year Tom married Rose-Ivy, and they raised a family of their own. But every day, winter and summer for the rest of her life, Rose-Ivy visited Mary’s grave, planting flowers, tending to the weeds, and talking to her, so she knew she wasn’t forgotten.

  And that’s the true story of this very table, the table that walked in the graveyard.

  Eulie thumped the table loudly with both hands, which made me jump. When I recovered, I asked her, “Was that the graveyard at the Community Church?”

  “The same.”

  That gave me pause. I’d just been sitting there among the tombstones the day before.

  “How’d you end up with the table?”

  “Son, I’ve been sitting at this table since I was a baby. Don’t you know my parents’ names?” she asked.

  I shook my head. “No, ma’am.”

  “Thomas and Rose-Ivy Fitzgerald,” she stated proudly. “I still put flowers on Mary Fitzgerald’s grave to this day. And I expect Violet will do the same after I’m gone. Violet’s got her grandma’s fiery hair—and her fiery spirit too, I hope.”

  “Then it’s all true?”

  “True as anything I know. Will that help you, Eben?” asked Eulie.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I began to scribble on my pad. I kept writing, right out the door.

  “It was a Wonder, wasn’t it, Eben?” It was almost dark, but Violet was still kneeling alongside the peppers and lettuce. She looked different now. Even in her shapeless dress, even with dirty hands and feet, she looked positively rich as she handed me Aunt Pretty’s basket, which she’d filled with lettuce, onions, and cucumbers.

  “A positive Wonder,” I told her, and I meant it. But I’m telling you, I was grateful that I didn’t have to pass through the graveyard on the way home.

  Later that night I went to sleep just fine. Then I had this dream where I was walking in the graveyard alone, without even Sal by my side, and I saw a glowing thing passing between the tombstones. I could tell it was no table because it walked upright like a man.

  I called out, “Who is that?” and the shining thing swiveled around. It was a man in his long johns and he didn’t have a face.

  I sat up in bed, wide awake and shaking, and I had no interest in going back to sleep. I got up and leaned out the front window to fill my lungs with fresh, cool air. The sight of the moonlit barn, the shadowy oak, and the outline of Redhead Hill was a comfort. I noticed a light flickering below me. When I leaned farther out, I saw Aunt Pretty sitting on the front porch in her big white nightgown. I’d never seen my aunt so quiet, just sitting and staring out at the farm.

  Was she thinking about what happened to Holt Nickerson and why he never came back? Was she wondering if he was still out there, riding that horse in his long johns?

  I’ll never know, because that’s the kind of question a boy doesn’t ask his maiden aunt.

  Day Five Into the Woods

  Whatever happened the night before, Aunt Pretty was chipper the next morning as we made our way down to church. I half expected to see a faceless fellow wearing long johns or a table all laid out for dinner as we passed through the graveyard, but all I saw were butterflies flitting around the tombstones, especially the one with the purple and pink flowers all around it. I squinted my eyes, MARY HAYNES FITZGERALD, the marker read. I should have known it. Some of the flowers were violets.

  During the service, when Calvin played “Amazing Grace,” I could hear that cloud of bugs buzzing toward Sassafras Springs. In Sunday school I tried hard not to see Miss Zeldy in my mind. I decided to try picturing myself in Colorado, so when Mrs. Pritchard asked me how big a mustard seed was, she caught me off guard. “High as a mountain,” I answered. She was surprised, but she said that was the general idea—that it grew big because of faith.

  Later folks congregated outside to chat. Since they didn’t work in their fields and gardens on the Sabbath, our neighbors weren’t in a big hurry to go home. Neither was Aunt Pretty. I was itching to get our big Sunday dinner over with so I could round up a couple more Wonders. After all, there’d be no chores until evening. With a whole day before me, I might be able to finish my entire list.

  My aunt was too busy chitchatting with the other ladies to think about dinner. Pa was in the middle of a long conversation with Marvin Peevey, the mayor of Sassafras Springs. Suddenly Reverend Carson grabbed hold of me. (Folks liked to call him Parson Carson, but only behind his back.)

  “
What’s this I hear about you looking for Wonders?” he asked in his booming preacher’s voice.

  “It’s kind of a game,” I explained.

  “Stick to the Good Book, Eben. You’ll find all the signs and wonders you’ll ever need there.”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered. “That’s good advice.”

  I didn’t have the nerve to suggest he preach on the theme of “love thy neighbor,” but some members of his congregation, like Orville Payne, could stand to hear it.

  Somebody else grabbed Parson Carson’s attention, and I went looking for Jeb. I found him under the big maple tree, trying to keep his brothers and sisters from getting dirty. It was not an easy job.

  “I stopped by yesterday but nobody was home,” I told him.

  “Had to go see my cousins,” he said.

  “I figured.”

  “Got a plan for after Sunday dinner,” said Jeb. “We’ll go dig worms and sell them for bait on Monday so’s we can buy ourselves a root beer at the Rite-Time.”

  “I want root beer,” Flo whined.

  “Sounds tempting, but I’ve got something else to do,” I told him.

  “I know, the Wonders.” Jeb sounded disappointed. “Maybe we can find one down at the creek.”

  “Maybe,” I said, but I didn’t believe it. Still, looking for Wonders could be a little lonely, even with Sal along. “If we can ever get dinner over, I can look around some and still make it to the creek.”

  I glanced over at Aunt Pretty, but she showed no sign of moving on. I decided to see if I could hurry her up.

  She was talking to Lessie Mull when I approached.

  “I’ve got a hankering for your good fried chicken,” I told my aunt. Flattery never hurts with her, as long as it’s based on truth.

  Mrs. Mull poked her pointy face out from under the brim of her yellow sunbonnet. “Eben, I hear tell you’ve been paying visits around Sassafras Springs.”