Finally, Margaret Culpeper began to speak, quietly and very slowly, almost in a sing-song. Her eyes were turned toward the ceiling as if she saw someone or something there.
“I got four sons. All near by. Micah’s over in the big house, as ye seen. His wife Lee Ellen’s there too, though she’s away now, helpin’ a sister who’s doin’ poorly. Since Micah ’n’ Lee Ellen’s chillern is growed long ago ’n’ all live away, they tuk in Zeph when his wife Mary left him.
“Then they’s the twins, Habbakuk ’n’ Nahum. Both lives nearby, Nahum in a house jes over the hill, ’n’ Hab ’n’ his fam’ly not a mile distant t’ other way.”
Margaret paused and as Carrie watched, something sad and secret flowed over the old woman. It deepened the creases around her eyes and softened the look of her entire body. Even more quietly than before, she went on.
“I once had a daughter, name of Elizabeth. She come when I were over forty, not a good time fer me to be havin’ a baby. She struggled to live fer a long piece, then she were sometimes sickly, growin’ up. I tuk good care of her, even if Robert E. ’n’ the boys did think she were a bother. Oh, they niver said hit, but, y’see, all Culpepers mus’ work. Culpepers don’t approve of folks thet need to be cared fer—not even thur own kin.
“Elizabeth weren’t ’special purty ’n’ niver had purties to fix up in, but she done good at school. She were good at poetry ’n’ thinkin’ up music. Oh, my, she loved music—she had the purty things in her head. She made music all the time.”
Margaret looked at Henry. “I’ll play her last tune fer ye now. Bring me thet dulcimer and the pick too, young man—hit’s the little bitty triangle piece on the table.”
Henry jumped, and Carrie knew why. Margaret’s hypnotic voice had been weaving a spell, and the sudden break sliced into that spell, scattering the magic. After a minute he got up and, without saying anything, put the dulcimer in Margaret’s hands before easing back into his chair.
She shut her eyes, strummed across the strings, and tightened two of them, picking softly while turning the screws. Then, after another silence, she began to play.
It was as if the melody were being called from a dream by someone awakened after a long sleep. It hesitated, then swelled quietly, gently, filling all the air and space in the room, filling Carrie’s heart, and it was the music that Carrie had expected. It was Chase and Tracy’s theme song, “Lying to Strangers.”
Henry, however, wasn’t prepared. She heard the not-quite soundless hiss of his breath as he recognized the tune.
After a bit, Margaret began to speak, her words keeping time to the music:
“In woodland flower, in bird and tree, there’s love and beauty all kin see. But in her heart a love is hid that she kin see—and only she.
“Fer love come a stranger, ’n’ she loved a stranger...”
Margaret stopped. Her eyes were closed, but tears seeped under the lids, draining down her cheeks, dripping into darker dots on her dark dress.
Carrie whispered, “Beautiful,” but the word caught in her throat and she wasn’t sure Margaret had heard.
Now the dulcimer lay silent in Margaret’s lap as she continued with her story.
“Elizabeth niver had many friends. She daren’t to bring young-uns home, see, ’n’ town folks didn’t want a Culpeper playin’ with thur chillern. She weren’t asked to parties nur other affairs the young folks had. So she found her friends in the woods. I seen deer walk right up to her, rabbits sit on her lap. She got to spendin’ all her time in the woods after school, ’n’ when she were growed ’n’ had nowheres to go, she had her music and her times in the woods.”
Margaret raised her arm and waved it in a wide, circular sweep. “It were out there she met the stranger.”
Then she opened her eyes, still full of tears, and looked, first at Carrie, then Henry, as if she were pleading with them to understand something.
“I didn’t ken fer a long time, but then she come to me to say she were goin’ to have the stranger’s chile. I couldn’t think whut to do...it were a turrible time. Ye see, Robert E. had strong notions ’bout that sort o’ thing. We all did.
“Elizabeth ’n’ I kep’ the secret as long as we could, but come time we couldn’t hide whut happened anymore—the chile inside her were growin’ too big. Fer once I defied Robert E., stood my ground ’n’ wouldn’t put her out as he said should be done. So, Robert E., he went to stay with Micah, his wife Lee Ellen, ’n’ the boys in the big house. Elizabeth and I stayed here. None of ’em had anythin’ to do with us, nary Robert E. nur the boys. Thet’s why Elizabeth ’n’ I were alone here when her time come. T’were hard, hard...”
Margaret was staring into the air, into a past she alone could see, and her face showed the grief she found there.
“A time before I’d learned the father. He were yearnin’ t’ see Elizabeth, ’n’ he come to us in the woods one day. But, though he said he loved her, he weren’t inclined toward marriage. Might o’ even had a wife somewheres, I don’t know. Elizabeth thought if I tol’ the men to make him wed her, they jes might rather kill him, ’n’ she coulda bin right ’bout thet.”
Margaret paused, still staring into space, ignoring the tears flowing down the creases in her cheeks.
“My Elizabeth died a few days after her baby come... a girl... born right there.” She pointed toward the curtained bed.
“A week after Elizabeth passed, the baby’s daddy claimed his chile ’n’ tuk her away—though I’d-a kep her.
“The baby goin’ wuz fine with Robert E. and my boys. They didn’t want no extra girl chile, though,” she repeated softly, “I’d-a kep her. The men, they niver asked whut had happened to the baby, nur who had her, ’n’ they didn’t know I’d seen the daddy.
“The daddy’s sister ’n’ her man raised Elizabeth’s chile as thur own ’n’ the daddy disappeared, who knows where. Hit were said he went to Californee, meanin’ ta get a job ’n’ send fur his chile. I niver heer’d of him agin—then ’til now. So, my Elizabeth’s baby were raised by her daddy’s kin ’n’ grew up as theirs. I’m most certain she don’t know her real mama, nur thet she’s a Culpeper—then ’til now.”
Carrie, sure of the answer before she asked the question, said, “Who is Elizabeth’s child? Who adopted her?”
“Teals. My granddaughter is called Tracy Teal. But her real mama, Elizabeth Margaret Culpeper, is buried on the hillside, yonder.”
For a few moments the silence in the room seemed to be crying in Carrie’s ears. She didn’t dare look at Henry. He must be thinking of his own daughter, Susan, whose beginning had not been so very different from Tracy’s. But Susan’s daddy had returned. Henry had come back to his child.
Now Carrie realized she was crying and dug in her pocket for a tissue.
When she was able to speak, she asked, “Who knows this?”
“Wal, some few. I don’t think no one tol’ Tracy, nur would I want ’em to. We ain’t... well, she’s a fine, famous lady now... I heerd her sing once on my radio... a voice like Elizabeth’s. No, they’s too much time ’n’ life ’tween us now.”
Carrie leaned forward. “But who else may know? It could be important, Margaret.”
“My own boys ’n’ Micah’s Lee Ellen knows ’bout Elizabeth’s baby bein’ born o’ course, but they’s all close-mouthed. Need to be, ye see. My Elizabeth, she niver wed, so I reckon they niver tole no one ’bout any baby. Not them. Their pa said Elizabeth’s death were a jedgement on her.
“I niver said nothin’ ’bout where the baby went to any of ’em, ’n’ Robert E., he died a short space after. Micah ’n’ Hab’s wed, as I said, but I doubt anyone but Lee Ellen knows the story, ’n’ most Teals has died or moved away from here now.”
Margaret shut her eyes once more, and, once more, tears crept from under the parchment lids. “Elizabeth’s name’s not bin mentioned in this fam’ly fer many-a-year, ‘cept she’s nigh me...” She put her hand over her heart. “She’s allus nigh me here.
”
Margaret opened her eyes to look at the ceiling again, but Carrie could tell her thoughts were back in the present when she said, “If ye hafta know more, they’s a boy Tracy growed up with, name o’ Farel Teal. Purhaps he kin tell ye more. He’s still ’round here, I know ’cuz my boys does business with him. Maybe he...but why’s hit matter now? What matters is Tracy’s chile. We must git her back with her momma, ’n’”—she sat up and turned toward Carrie—“we gotta think o’ how to do hit a’fore Hab comes back.”
Now, why did Hab matter...?
Then, all at once, Carrie thought she understood. Dulcey Mason had been taken from Farel by a Culpeper, and Margaret knew all about it. The only thing she hadn’t known was the identity of the child.
But she must have known about the kidnapping all along. Had she condoned it, or even taken part? Was she only concerned now because she had learned who the child was?
Maybe, just maybe, if she’d had so little power to help her own daughter, she also had no power now to help her great granddaughter.
So, it didn’t really matter what Margaret Culpeper herself thought of the kidnapping. It was obvious the men in this family called the tunes.
Still, there was the gowerow story. Why had she told it? And...who killed Farel? Margaret didn’t seem to know about his death, and she certainly couldn’t have heard news about it on her radio.
Swallowing her own anguish, as well as sorrow for the pain they were awakening in this woman, Carrie said, “Farel Teal cannot help us now. He’s dead. He was murdered last night. Farel had kidnapped Tracy’s little girl, then we think she was taken by the person who killed him.”
She was watching Margaret closely, and what passed over her face this time wasn’t sorrow. It was fear.
“No! They couldn’a kilt Farel, no, no, they couldn’a. Oh, no, oh, no....”
For a moment, no one said anything. Then Margaret turned toward Henry. “Who aire ye? Not a Culpeper. Lawman? How do ye fit in here?”
“No,” said Henry, “I’m not a Culpeper, nor law, and”—he glanced at Carrie—“we’re sorry for the lie. My real name is Henry King, and I’m a good friend, though not a brother, of this lady. Our main concern all along has been for the child. The gowerow story brought us here. We had to find out...”
“Ahhh,” Margaret said. “Didn’t ken ’zactly why I
spoke like thet to...”—she waved a hand—“...to Carrie
here. Now mebbe I do ken, jes mebbe I do.”
Once more the room filled with silence.
Carrie’s thoughts were wandering, detached—as if they could take in no more worry or fear. Instead of thinking about Dulcey Mason, she was thinking about Margaret’s manner of speech, realizing that some of it seemed to be based on medieval English. She knew many hill settlers had come to the United States from the British Isles and, partly because of isolation, there were still pockets of the old language patterns in both the Appalachians and the Ozarks, though they were fast fading. Margaret’s conversation was a mixture of old English and modern hill speech.
Suddenly, in the silence, Carrie heard a creak behind the door in the room’s back wall.
Margaret Culpeper held up a warning hand.
No, there sure wasn’t anything wrong with her hearing.
“Wal, then,” said Margaret, “seems as if’n yer grandpa ’n’ Robert E.’s pa wuz cuzins. Now, thet’s sumpin’ I’m mighty glad to know. Robert E. allus did hanker after findin’ whut happened to thet part o’ the fam’ly. Too bad he ain’t here to meet ye. Now, I recall...”
The door in the back wall opened, and Micah Culpeper, without any gun visible this time, stepped into the room.
Carrie wondered how much he had overheard and was sure his mother wondered too. She seemed relaxed, however, as she greeted her eldest son, who must be, Carrie decided, at least seventy-five years old.
“Howdy, Micah,” Margaret said. “Turns out these folks is long-lost cuzins o’ Robert E. We’re havin’ a fine time tryin’ to match up old family stories.”
Carrie was deciding no Culpeper male ever smiled. Micah’s eyes were as icy as they had been when Carrie and Henry first arrived in the clearing. She hoped it wasn’t because he’d heard any of the conversation about his sister Elizabeth or the kidnapped child.
“Yer pa woulda bin glad to learn whut happened with the Culpepers who went over to Oklahoma...”
Margaret paused, studying her son.
“Did ye need somethin’, ’er aire ye come to sit and chat with us a spell?”
“Ma, I think it’s time I escorted these... cousins... to the path. I wouldn’t want them to lose their way. It’s getting late, and I’ll need your help over at the house before long.”
“My gracious, how time does go on! Well, thankee fer the courtesy, son, but no need to bother. I’ll guide Carrie ’n’ Herman to the path as soon as we finish our chat. I ain’t gone out yet t’day, ’n’ I’d like the air. Ye kin go on back to yer house, son. I’ll take care of ever’thin’ here.”
Chapter XVI
Micah turned to leave, and Margaret went back to her monologue about long-dead relatives. As soon as the door had shut behind her eldest son, she stood and walked to the window overlooking the clearing, but her voice kept rolling on.
As far as Carrie was concerned, the woman might as well have been speaking Greek. The heavy dialect was becoming increasingly difficult to follow, and, since Carrie knew nothing of the people or events Margaret was talking about, there were no familiar islands to help make sense out of the sea of words.
It was hard for Carrie to quell the impatience that was fizzing inside her. For garden seed, why didn’t the woman just shut up and get on with telling them what all this was leading to?
Finally the drone of voice sounds stopped.
“Micah’s gone in his house,” Margaret said, turning to face them. “We’re safe to talk.”
Still, she remained standing by the window, glancing out every few moments as she began speaking again. This time Carrie, now ashamed of her impatience, understood each word perfectly. In fact, the first four words Margaret spoke made Carrie want to leap out of her chair with a whoop of joy and rush to hug her, then Henry. But instead she sat, quiet as a statue. She was afraid to move—to do anything at all—that might stop this new flow of words.
“The chile is here,” is what Margaret said.
Their quest had succeeded!
“She’s over in the big house. I don’t fer certain know how Zeph got her, but he tol me he see’d her asleep all by herself in a car at the worker’s parking lot. It’s hard to think she’d be left alone like thet, but he said she truly were. Zeph said he kenned right off she belonged to some famous music stars, though he niver tol’ thur name to me. He reckoned she were worth money, big money, so he tuk her. Hit were easy as slippin’ in a fresh cow pie, he said. No one were watchin’ over her, no one in the lot anywheres. He picked her up sleepin’ ’n’ brought her to Micah’s house—jes like thet.”
Margaret paused, reflecting. “He’d a knowed Farel’s car, if’n thet’s where she were. But he said nuthin, nuthin, ’bout Farel Teal, nur ever meetin’ him last night. He tol’ me he found a chile’s paint set with paper ’n’ color-brush things thur with her. She’d been playin’ with hit, waitin’ by herself a’fore she fell asleep, I su’pose. Anyways, Zeph made a ransom note outa thet paint set ’n’ left hit in the car.
“I didn’t hear ’bout the chile bein’ here ’til this mornin’. When Zeph come to tell me whut he’d done, he asked me t’ help care fer her til the ransom were paid, so I went over with a doll Elizabeth had when she were little ’n’ a toy bear she’d made fer her baby a’fore it come. I’d kep ol’ teddy bear, ’cuz it were meant fer Elizabeth’s chile ’n’ were all I had o’ hers. But, I thought mebbe this chile...she had to be wantin’ her mama, so I tuk her the doll ’n’ ol’ bear.
“When I got there she were frozen quiet; looked at me with them big, dark eyes. I sa
t near, gave her the doll ’n’ bear. She hugged ol’ bear ’n’ by and by leaned agin’ me. I asked her name. She said somethin’ too soft to hear ’n’ put a thumb in her mouth. I niver thought o’ Tracy. Why should I?”
Now Margaret lifted her chin and spoke defiantly. “I know my boys wouldn’a hurt her, jes usin’ her to get money.
“See, Robert E. before ’n’ the boys now—all ‘cept Nahum, o’course—likes money, ’n’ the boys’ wives sure does too. Hits like a sickness inside ’em, and hit shames me. All they see in this chile is money. But they wouldn’a hurt her!”
Margaret paused for a minute before she continued. “I bin thinkin’ ’bout gettin’ her back t’ her mama. The boys’ll be powerful mad, but cain’t he’p it. If they find out hit’s me tuk her, they’d hardly mess with me anyways, ’n’ I think I kin fix it so they don’t ken. Now, here’s whut we mus’ do.
“Micah ’n’ Hab’s set fer a Little Rock run tonight, ’n’ Zeph’ll be over at the Folk Center, drivin’ the bus ’til late. Hit’s good thur women aire gone, as I’m to stay with the chile while all the men’s away.
“Should be clear here by ’bout nine, ever’ one gone. Thet’s when I kin bring the chile down to you at Nahum’s house. He’s differnt. He ain’t in on the others’ do’ins. Dulcey’ll be safe at Nahum’s fer a short piece, ’n’ you kin meet me thur to pick her up.
“Now then, I’ll go git my shawl ’n’ walkin’ stick. We’d best leave a’fore Micah gets itchy ’n’ comes back over here to see whut’s keepin’ us.”
In bonnet and shawl, Margaret led the way across the clearing. It was easy to see why the intruding briars and weedy undergrowth didn’t bother her. She had halted a moment on the porch steps to twist the fabric of her long skirt in a rope-like coil, and now she held it above her knees with her left hand. The prickly brush along the path didn’t seem to catch on her tightly woven cotton stockings, and she swept heavier branches out of her way with her walking stick as Carrie had done coming up.
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