Barrie stood with Eight, his hand wrapped around hers, his arm steady against her shoulder. The Beaufort gift was gone, and their half of the ulunsuti stone was lost somewhere beneath the waters of the Santisto where even Barrie couldn’t find it, but he still seemed to know that she didn’t need words, or sympathy. Just company.
The mourners stayed for a funeral lunch of buttermilk fried chicken and corn bread dressing, shipwreck casserole, and twice-baked beans. For dessert, there was hummingbird cake and banana pudding, and a whoopie pie cake that Pru had made to sweeten up Seven’s disposition. No one seemed in a hurry to leave. Maybe that was the point of a funeral, to spend time celebrating life. Then, finally, Mary’s Honda was the last car to disappear down the oak-lined lane, and the Spanish moss swaying in the trees above was hidden, briefly, in a veil of dust. There were no yunwi to see her off.
“You know what?” Pru said.
Barrie glanced at her sideways. “What?”
“We have nothing to do this evening. And nothing to do tomorrow until one o’clock, when Mary and Daphne come back over to do the final prep for the restaurant opening. You’ve talked to all the lottery winners for the weekend already, haven’t you?”
“Yes, and Eight and I explained about the charity, and us matching the funds. I made it clear that Daphne’s scholarship wasn’t coming out of their share of the money, because you and I would cover that, so that their money would go toward tutoring and funding scholarship recipients next semester who had nothing to do with us or the restaurant. Everyone was fine with that.”
“Good,” Pru said.
Seven headed back up the steps, holding his hand out to help Pru up. “When are you going to tell Mary and Daphne about the partnership? Do you need me to bring the paperwork in the morning?”
“Yes, let’s do that when they first get here tomorrow. Then hopefully they’ll enjoy the opening even more,” Pru said.
Eight’s face lit with a sudden grin. “So then we really have nothing planned for tonight?”
“It’s wonderful, isn’t it?” Pru said.
“In that case, I’m going to steal Barrie away.” Eight was already tugging Barrie toward the foyer. “Come on, Bear.”
“Care to tell me where we’re going?”
He pointed her toward the stairs to the second floor. “Just put your best shoes on.”
She dressed hurriedly, and he was in the sitting room when she came back downstairs. Instead of going in right away, she went to the kitchen to tell Pru good-bye. Pushing the door open, she found Pru standing at the back door looking out toward the river, with Seven’s arms wrapped around her from behind. They seemed . . . content. Peaceful. Which had never been a word Barrie associated with Seven Beaufort.
Barrie thought of how empty Watson’s Landing would feel when Pru moved to Beaufort Hall. That was going to have to happen in the future, Barrie was certain of it. Pru and Seven would work things out. But there would still be the restaurant four nights a week beneath the fairy lights in the Watson garden, and in the off-season, there would be big family dinners around the kitchen table. It wouldn’t matter which kitchen table. Without the Beaufort binding, they could make it work. Pru would make the kitchen at Beaufort equally welcoming.
That sense of home and welcome was one of the things Barrie loved most about Pru and Watson’s Landing. That was Pru’s gift, and Mark’d had it, too. Maybe anywhere that combined food, love, and conversation wove its own kind of kitchen magic.
Clearing her throat, Barrie pushed the door open the rest of the way and stood on the threshold. “Maybe you two should go out somewhere while Eight and I are gone. I didn’t see either of you eat a single thing all day. Not to mention that Pru and I talked about how long it had been since she’d been to Bobby Joe’s. You ought to go tonight.”
“Thanks for the thought, but I can manage to make my own dates,” Seven said, though he softened the words with a smile.
“In that case, carry on. Just don’t wait another twenty years.” Barrie kissed Pru’s cheek briefly before heading back out to where Eight was waiting. The sound of Pru and Seven laughing together softly followed her through the swinging door.
Eight had settled himself on the striped silk sofa and was reading something on his phone. He stood up and grinned as he took in her red Louboutin Jeffersons that looked like high-heeled boat shoes, only cuter. “Nice shoes. You going sailing?”
“I don’t know. Am I? I was hoping for more dancing, actually. Maybe somewhere in Columbia?”
“I think we can arrange that.” He kissed her and then pulled back. “You know, moments like this, I kind of miss having you call me ‘baseball guy.’ ”
“In that case, ask me nicely.”
He pulled her closer. “If we both promise not to be idiots in the future, would you call me ‘baseball guy’ again?”
“Kiss me nicely,” Barrie said.
“You’re awfully bossy.”
“And you, baseball guy, are still doing too much talking.”
Eight laughed, and then he bent and kissed her with the perfect amount of heat to leave her dizzy and breathless, making her lose herself again in a sense of having been found, of having been seen and heard and known. She pulled back, flushed and warm, not entirely certain whether the feeling was emotional or physical. Flexing her palm, she concentrated on the sensation of heat, of fire, and the small flames gathered beneath her skin and emerged to crackle along her palm.
“I’m not sure I’ll ever get used to that,” Eight said.
“Good, then I’ll always be able to remind you that there are still magical things in the world. Things bigger and more important than we are.”
“Kate is heartbroken at the idea of never seeing or hearing things the same way she did before she lost the binding.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I’m relieved that I don’t have to. Losing my connection to Watson’s Landing would have left me feeling very lonely.”
“You don’t ever have to feel alone. The world could disintegrate into a swirl of energy, and I’d still find you amid the chaos. I’m always going to find you.” Eight pushed her hair back and kissed the tip of her nose.
Barrie’s heart swelled until it squeezed her lungs. Since words were impossible, she slid her arms around Eight’s waist and tilted her face up to meet him as his mouth descended. He kissed her slowly, and then more feverishly, until she groaned with want and need and skin that was as alive as—more alive than—any magic had ever made her feel.
That was the thing about both people and magic, about love and family—they were all unpredictable and imperfect. They all kept secrets, and both anger and love were more about what you felt about yourself than about what you felt about anyone else. Barrie had healed so much since coming to Watson’s Landing, found so many things and lost so many, but as long as she knew who she was, she was never going to lose the way home to the people who loved her.
Eight kissed the skin between her neck and shoulder, tiny kisses like a necklace of promises. His hand knitted with hers, and he led her outside and down the steps to his car, pausing only to shoo the white peacock off the hood before he held the passenger door open so she could slip inside. She glanced back at the house as they drove down the oak-lined alley. The shadows were lengthening, but they were ordinary shadows, still and empty, and that was bittersweet. In Barrie’s hand, though, and in her heart, she still felt the quiet pulse of magic that was both a legacy and a promise for the future. Magic still ran through her blood, and magic was all around her.
Author’s Note
Perhaps no other part of the country has as much of a possibility to connect history, myth, magic, and real, current concerns as the beautiful Lowcountry near Charleston, South Carolina. That area and its past touches on so much of what makes this country great as well as what we, as a nation, have forgotten, willfully buried, or need to overcome. Its rich history and mix of cultures is a perfect opportunity to explore how stories, legends, historical
interpretations, and even historical records change and disappear over time while family, people, and basic human needs, fears, and failures remain the same.
That idea of finding connections forms the core of the Heirs of Watson Island series. I used the legacy and mystery of a fictionalized legend about the Fire Carrier and wove together several real stories about the Yûñwï Tsunsdi’, the Cherokee Little People, to create a framework for the conflict among three families who founded rice plantations and an enslaved family with both African and American Indian heritage with whom they have all lived side by side since 1692. All of that is meant to bring in some questions about the forgotten history and the misconceptions that I didn’t question nearly enough until I began this series.
In case you are interested in separating fact from fiction, here are a few historical notes, in order of appearance:
Forgotten History and the Fire Carrier
The story of the Fire Carrier is based on the Cherokee stories of the Atsil’-dihye’gï, a spirit or witch so dangerous that almost nothing is known about it. But the Fire Carrier is also an ancient term given to a priest who carried coals from the sacred fire in times of war. Exactly when that was is lost along with much of the context for understanding the great history of the Cherokee nation. Prior to the arrival of Europeans, the Cherokee were an agrarian society who lived in towns with streets and public areas. They had a vast trading network, studied and cultivated plants, had extensive medical knowledge, and developed a productive strain of corn similar to that grown today. But they were among the tribes encountered by Spanish captain Pedro de Salaza, who arrived in Beaufort, South Carolina, in 1514; by the French in 1562; and a short time later by Hernando de Soto as he came up from Florida looking for treasure and Native captives to enslave. Shortly thereafter, as with many Native American tribes, their population was decimated by disease, brutal treatment, and displacement from their ancestral homes and sacred places, which devastated their cultures, societies, and the continuity of their historical record.
The Loyal Jamaica, Privateering, and the Founding Fathers
The privateer vessel on which Thomas Watson, Robert Beaufort, and John Colesworth arrived in Charles Town (Charleston) in 1692, the Loyal Jamaica, was a real ship. Among the actual crew and passengers who were required to provide bail as a guarantee of good behavior on arriving in Charles Town were several men who went on to become prominent merchants and plantation owners in the area. These included Thomas Pinckney, whose son Charles Cotesworth Pinckney was a delegate to the Constitutional Convention and twice ran for president of the new United States. Records differ widely about the Loyal Jamaica, about what became of her, and whether the men aboard were privateers or pirates, but at the time, the line between those was very gray. In many ways, the history of the Loyal Jamaica is a perfect example of how records disappear, and a study in the possible reasons for the reinterpretation of historical facts.
Borrowing and Sharing among Belief Systems
The Lowcountry area has a unique nexus among European, American Indian, and African American history, belief systems, cultures, and magical systems. African slaves from the Congo and Angola were among the earliest to work the plantations of the Carolinas. Many of them were brought in from the West Indies, where they had already been forced to work for wealthy planters, who then expanded into the new colonies in America. But at the turn of the eighteenth century, 30 to 50 percent of the slaves in the Carolinas were American Indians, and most of those were women and children. Before 1720, more enslaved Native Americans were exported to the West Indies through ports including Boston, Salem, New Orleans, and Charles Town than enslaved Africans were brought into the new Colonies. American Indians built cities and served the households of the northern colonies, and helped scout, lay out, plant, and police the plantations of the South. The botanical and medicinal knowledge of both Native Americans and enslaved African Americans helped save colonists and enslaved populations alike from a variety of diseases.
The tradition of hoodoo long practiced in the Lowcountry is based on the concept of borrowing magic and medicine—whatever worked to save body, soul, and spirit—from among the different cultures that shared the area. That tradition, of course, is not unique to hoodoo. Cultures have borrowed from each other and evolved from each other for tens of thousands of years.
I’ve always been fascinated by commonalities in myths and folktales, and stories of Little People all around the world have been one of my most beloved obsessions because they are in so many ways the stories of displacement, the idea of one culture being driven underground by the arrival of another who doesn’t value or respect them.
There are stories of Little People in most American Indian traditions, not only among the Cherokee, and because this trilogy is essentially about finding similarities, finding family that is deeper than blood, and building bridges of understanding, I combined physical characteristics from different traditions to bring the yunwi to life.
The Yunwi, Uktena, and Ulunsuti Stones
The stories about the yunwi (technically Yûñwï Tsunsdi’), the Cherokee Little People, or in some cases tales of other Cherokee immortals, the Nûñnë’hï or “People Who Live Anywhere” that I wove together, along with the tales of the Uktena and the ulunsuti stones that my characters uncover in Illusion, including their associations with the sacred places on Pilot Knob in North Carolina or in Blood Mountain, Georgia, are easily found on the Internet and/or recorded in the early twentieth-century collections Myths of the Cherokee and Sacred Formulas of the Cherokee gathered by James Mooney. How true these versions are to the original stories or how they should be interpreted is known by only a learned few within the Cherokee community. For anyone interested in a great read and a better understanding of how deeply grounded the Cherokee culture is in story, I highly recommend Cherokee Stories of the Turtle Island Liars’ Club by Christopher B. Teuton. I am also indebted to and grateful for many conversations, dissertations, documents, and books from Cherokee traditional and academic sources.
Isogenic Lines and Wormholes
The isogenic lines mentioned in Illusion are also real. According to the historical magnetic declination viewer on the NOAA website, there was a line that ran roughly from Blood Mountain to the area around Charleston at the time of the French Charlesfort settlement on Paris Island near Beaufort in 1562 and the later Spanish Florida capital there at Santa Elena, which was established under Pedro Menéndez de Avilés in 1566 and abandoned in 1587. Presently, the line runs roughly from Watson Island to Pilot Mountain, North Carolina. There is said to be a large vortex of energy at Pilot Mountain, and another at Stone Mountain, Georgia. Whether magnetic declination or electromagnetic energy has anything to do with vortexes, ley lines, dragon lines, or spirit paths—and how much the reasons why the ancient monuments were built around the world had anything to do with electromagnetic energy at all—is left for readers, believers, skeptics, and scientists to discover and debate.
For the science behind wormholes and such things, Kip Thorne’s The Science of Interstellar provides a fascinating overview. He was kind enough to specifically recommend Chapters 14 and 15 for my readers who are interested in this, as well as the last chapter of his Black Holes and Time Warps: Einstein’s Outrageous Legacy. Also, he provided an interesting essay for Stephen and Lucy Hawking’s George and the Big Bang, which is very easy to understand and well worth reading. I deviated from the (albeit theoretical) physics to suit my story in many ways, but hopefully a few readers may discover that science is far more interesting and far-reaching than anything we can yet imagine.
Eliza Lucas Pinckney, Her Letterbook, and the Forgotten Stories of Women, American Indians, and African Americans
The idea that history is a living thing and a key to the future as well as to the past is the heart of this trilogy. I want readers to be able to see themselves within that history and feel empowered to believe that they are the ones who hold the key to unlock the future. To do that, I wanted
to shine more light on the people who are often left out of the historical record of the Lowcountry area, and of the United States in general—women, American Indians, and African Americans. In many ways women had more equal roles in American Indian and African cultures.
The role of women as healers, priests, herbalists, leaders, and innovators among these cultures in contrast with the erosion of women’s rights and the discounting of nonmale accomplishments in European cultures is a fascinating area for further study. The story of Eliza Lucas Pinckney, who at the age of seventeen ran three plantations for her father and founded the American indigo industry—one of the foundations of Colonial wealth—was one of the things that sparked my interest in writing this trilogy. I couldn’t help wondering why I had never heard of Eliza when her story was something that might have captured my interest in history class. As I began to delve deeper, I discovered that was only the tip of the iceberg in terms of what I had never heard or learned.
In addition to the legacy of indigo, which not only provided a new cash crop but also got many people out of the deadly rice fields that were rife with mosquitos carrying malaria and yellow fever, Eliza left behind a letterbook that painted one of the most important portraits of a woman in Colonial life. Her writing is a fascinating look at a deeply moral, kind, and thoughtful woman who nevertheless owned slaves. Indeed, her work with indigo, obviously, owed much to the knowledge, guidance, and hard work of the slaves who toiled on her father’s plantations. At the same time, for all her accomplishments, Eliza did not technically even own the clothes she wore.
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