Old Wounds

by Vicki Lane

  The net was long gone but the composite surface had, astonishingly, held firm against nature’s rampant incursion. A mat of fall leaves covered the faded green surface and Elizabeth was surprised to see what looked like—no, what were—the fat tracks of an ATV, an all-terrain vehicle. Hunters, probably, fooling around. The fence must be down somewhere, or they’ve cut it to get in. I’m obviously not the only one curious about Mullmore.

  A loud crack, like a gunshot, made her gasp and look wildly around. As she peered up into the woods, the dull glint of metal caught her eye—the copper roof of the gazebo—Our landscape architect said we had to have a folly to anchor the central axis of the garden, the Bitch had prattled to a seemingly entranced Sam. Almost instantly, there was a second sharp report—a black walnut dropping from a tree onto the metal roof, with explosive results.

  Elizabeth picked her way through more brambles toward the octagonal structure, remembering that it enclosed a spring and hoping that she could get a drink of water. She noticed that there seemed to be something of a trail through the thorny shoots—Probably animals using the spring, she reassured herself, as she stepped into the cool interior of the Mullmore folly.

  No, not animals, not wild animals, anyway. The sordid little heap of Vienna sausage cans, the empty plastic bottles, cigarette butts, and snack-food wrappers told another story. Hunters again. Why are some people so trashy?

  In the distance she heard the throaty growl of a vehicle. Suddenly she was extremely aware of three things: she was trespassing; she was alone; and she hadn’t brought Sam’s gun. He had always insisted that she carry it when she went hiking. You might meet a skunk ape or a booger man, he had teased her. Or if you fell and broke your leg, at least you could make a racket so I could find you.

  She was out of the folly and jogging, as quickly as the brambles and saplings permitted, toward the cover of the wooded slope. Behind her, the vehicle’s roar seemed louder. This is probably foolish, she told herself as she tore free of yet another thorny multiflora rose. It’s just hunters…maybe even someone I know. But she didn’t slow, though her sides were aching and her breath was coming fast. The vehicle was on the other side of the deserted house, hidden from her view, but approaching steadily.

  At last she reached the shelter of the woods. Ducking quickly behind the trunk of a giant tulip poplar, she sagged against its comforting mass, closed her eyes, and tried to catch her breath. The motor below roared and then fell silent. She listened hard, but there was no further sound of the intruder. The other intruder, Elizabeth. Peeking around the tree trunk, she studied the scene below, but nothing moved and there was no further sound of human activity.

  She waited, listening intently. When five minutes passed with no renewed sounds, Elizabeth reluctantly abandoned her hiding place and began the climb back to the ridge and the scuttle hole. She went slowly and quietly, slanting up through the trees in search of the path that she had followed before. At last she came to the trail, climbing with confidence now, eager to be out of this haunted realm.

  Too many memories. It was a mistake to come over here.

  The scuttle hole lay just above her and she moved gratefully into its crooked opening then stopped, frozen in place by a single high thin cry. A cry like that of a terrified child, it was a sound that reverberated in her memory. She stood there, not breathing, braced to hear it again, to be certain that she’d heard rather than imagined that mournful wail.

  Nothing. No sound but the low murmur of the wind in the pines. Elizabeth looked up through the dancing green boughs to the sky over Mullmore…listening…listening. As she stared into the blue depths, a sudden shadow fell across her, and with a plaintive cry the raptor caught the current to ride the wind over the breadth of Full Circle Farm and down into the cove to the north.

  A hawk, you idiot. It was a hawk you heard. Still, she lingered to be sure. There were no more cries and so she set off, back down the trail to the welcome familiarity of her own home. Just a hawk, she reassured herself, trying unsuccessfully to ignore the voice that whispered, What if…what if…what if it was Maythorn?…or another lonely child? What if you’re supposed to do something? Something that’s been left undone?

  The doubts were still with Elizabeth as she finished the wreaths that afternoon; the doubts rode on her shoulder as she climbed up the hill to her house; they continued their nagging refrain as she ate her supper. She willed them to silence and called Laurel to leave a message about coming to dinner on Friday. Then she stretched out on the sofa, a mug of tea in one hand and her phone in the other.

  She and Phillip had talked the night before and he had been firm in his insistence on giving her time and space to deal with Rosemary’s problem. “Which doesn’t mean I won’t be staying in touch,” he had said. “It’s just that after all the drama you just went through with Ben and now Rosemary…well, what I have in mind…”

  He hadn’t quite articulated what he had in mind. And I’m not sure what I have in mind either. I just know that I like being with him, that he makes me smile…that I miss him when I don’t see him for a while…and that a few days ago I was ready to go to bed with him.

  She keyed in the familiar number and was rewarded by the sound of Phillip’s voice. “I just got done with my night class and was getting ready to call you. Are you okay?” His tone was soft, concerned. “What about Ben? He seemed pretty low when I was out there Saturday.”

  She told him about Ben’s decision to go to Florida for some time off, adding that she and Julio and Homero were up to taking care of the farm. “Remember, for several years I did it all by myself. We’ll be fine, really.”

  “Yeah, but if I remember right, you said your business has more than doubled since then.”

  “Trust me, Phillip. We’ll manage. What I called about…”

  He turned down her invitation to family dinner that weekend, holding to his decision not to complicate her dealings with her daughters and her nephew. “But after that first dinner…I’d really like to meet your Rosemary. Sam always said that she took after you and Laurel took after him.”

  Elizabeth considered. “Well…I guess that’s mostly true…especially in personality. But really, each of them is very much her own person. Rosemary does have dark hair like mine. Or like mine was, anyway.” The ever-increasing number of white hairs that silvered her long braid was always something of a surprise on the rare occasions she glimpsed herself in a well-lit mirror. The ancient, streaked mirror above the bathroom sink where she brushed her teeth was dim—and kind, like candlelight. “But she has Sam’s brown eyes.”

  “Yeah, and Laurel has Sam’s red hair and your blue eyes. Man, genetics is a real crapshoot, isn’t it?”

  They talked on, the pleasant, inconsequential chat of good friends reluctant to end their conversation. Phillip told her about his night class and some of the unlikely characters who were seeking a career in law enforcement. Elizabeth asked about his daughter, Janie, provoking a spate of fatherly complaint. “Well, I wasn’t going to mention this, but she’s up to her old tricks. Here she is, a senior, almost a senior, anyway—hell, she’s changed majors so many times, I can’t keep track—and now she’s taking classes at night to become a massage therapist. What is it about Asheville? Every other young person you meet wants to be a massage therapist. And none of them wants to leave the area. Like something I read the other day said, you can’t swing a cat in Asheville without hitting a massage therapist—”

  “Phillip,” Elizabeth interrupted, compelled by some lingering doubt. “This afternoon I went to Mullmore.”

  THE SISTERS

  June 1984

  I CAN’T GO too far off. I promised Mum I’d stay close enough to hear the big bell if she rang it.

  Rosemary struggled after the brown, bramble-scratched legs of her best friend, moving swiftly up the old logging road. The long-abandoned trace was little more than a footpath now, switching back and forth through the woods above the Goodweathers’ unfinished house. Maythorn
’s thin brown legs kept going, up and down, up and down, and her glossy black braids bounced against her shoulders with every step.

  It’s not much farther. And it’s my most secret hiding place. No one in the whole world knows about it but me. At last she paused to allow Rosemary to catch up. I think Indians used to stay there, Maythorn confided, lowering her voice and looking around as if fearful of being overheard. There’s some kind of writing on the rock. I’ll show you. C’mon.

  As she trudged up the slope after her friend, Rosemary glanced back down the hill. The bright metal roof that Pa and Uncle Wade had put on the new house was still visible through the trees. It wasn’t so very far; she would surely be able to hear if Mum rang the bell. But now Maythorn was disappearing behind some clumps of bushes. Just beyond the tangle of green were two huge rocks that leaned together like friends whispering secrets. Rosemary stared up at the towering giants, amazed to find such a magical place within eyesight and earshot of her own home.

  Come on! Maythorn urged. We have to get down and crawl here. Behind the bushes, a ledge of rock stuck out at the base of the two massive boulders. Maythorn had already dropped to her hands and knees. We crawl under here for just a little bit and then there’s a cave big enough to stand up in.

  Rosemary hesitated. A cave? Is it dark? We don’t have flashlights. She had been reading Tom Sawyer and now that she was actually faced with it, the idea of going into a cave was not appealing. Maythorn, we might get lost!

  Oh, Rosie! Maythorn twisted to look back at her. It’s not a real cave—it’s just a little room under these big rocks. It’s partly open at the top and there’s plenty of light. Come on! Follow me! And with a sudden slithering movement, she was gone. Only her hiking boots were visible for an instant before they, too, disappeared under the big shelving rock. Scrabbling sounds could be heard and then Maythorn’s voice, nearby, but oddly muffled, called out, Come on! If you come right now, I’ll show you the Looker Stone.

  With one last desperate look at the friendly twinkle of the sun through the trees, Rosemary dropped to her knees and followed.

  It was a short dusty crawl through powdery dirt and old leaves, but though the light was dim, Rosemary had no trouble seeing the sunlight on the white sand that lay a few yards beyond. With one last frantic push, her head was out from under the rock ledge. She quickly pulled the rest of her body free and scrambled to her feet.

  It was a little room, just like Maythorn had said. Big enough for three or four people to stand in and open to the sky in the middle, but at the sides where the big rocks were leaning, there would be some shelter from rain or snow.

  Under there’s where the Indians slept, I reckon. And the writing’s back there too. Maythorn motioned with her head and the two of them crept closer to the wall of rock.

  It’s like in Tom Sawyer! Rosemary crouched down to examine the markings more closely. I’ll bet someone made those marks with smoke from a candle, just like in Tom’s cave.

  Maythorn crowded close, her fingers sketching the outlines of the dark shapes just visible on the smooth gray rock. That’s a snake there, she said, indicating a curving shape. And I bet that’s an arrowhead next to it.

  Rosemary peered. I think it looks like an S. And a crooked L. See, that curvy thing across the top—that could be the top

  piece of a heart…like a valentine heart.

  That’s dumb, Maythorn scoffed. Indians don’t draw valentines. That top thing is a bird flying. I say it’s a hunting picture—probably what the Indian who drew that shot for supper.

  Okay, said Rosie, moving back into the sunlit center of the little hidden room. I guess you’re right. She tilted her head back to admire the two boulders looming above her till their utmost peaks delicately kissed. Do these rocks have a name? Like Froghead has a name?

  Maythorn scooted away from the wall and sat cross-legged in the center of the room. They’re the Two Sisters. They were twins and they lived together all their lives and when they got old they prayed to the Great Spirit not to let one die and leave the other one all alone. And the Great Spirit heard their prayer and turned them into stone so they’d be like this for always and always.

  Rosemary stared openmouthed at her friend and then up at the great rocks. They’re cool, she said softly. I always wished I had a twin. Laurel’s such a baby.

  Maythorn fixed her with a considering look. At last she said, Well, our birthdays are the same. That makes us kind of twins.

  Yeah, but I wish we were real twins. I wish I was Cherokee like you.

  Maythorn smiled and reached for her knapsack. We can be blood twins, if you aren’t chicken. Then you’ll have Cherokee blood in you.

  There was a pocketknife beneath the sandwiches in the knapsack and after a tiny hesitation, Rosemary agreed to the ceremony. The knife was so sharp that she hardly felt the tiny cut on the tip of her little finger. Then Maythorn nicked her own finger and they pressed the open wounds together.

  Are there words we should say? Rosie gazed into Maythorn’s dark eyes. Indian words?

  I know what we can do, Maythorn said. We’ll use the Looker Stone.

  They unhooked their fingers from each other. Rosemary pushed hers against the rough cloth of her jeans to make it stop bleeding but Maythorn ignored the spot of blood on her own finger and rooted in her knapsack again. At last she pulled out a flat, roundish something in a soft leather pouch.

  This is the Looker Stone, she announced, taking from the pouch a dark flat rock, only a little larger than her hand. Roughly and irregularly circular, it had a dime-sized hole in its very center.

  Granny Thorn gave it to me. It was hers when she was little but she says it doesn’t work for grown-ups. She told me the Little People made it. And if I look through it at someone, I’ll see them without the mask they wear and know what they really are. Granny Thorn says most everybody wears a mask—

  No, not a real mask. Maythorn made an impatient gesture as Rosemary started to speak. A mask like when you feel sad but you don’t let it show or you smile when you really want to hit someone—that kind of mask.

  Maythorn raised the Looker Stone to her eye and turned to face Rosemary. Now that we’re blood twins, we don’t have to wear that kind of mask around each other. But we’ll do this like a reminder—a very solemn ritual.

  Standing straight and still, Maythorn gazed at Rosemary through the hole in the dark stone. Slowly she brought up her free hand and stretched it toward her friend, palm to the earth. Adopting the solemn tones of a shaman, she intoned the words: Rosemary Goodweather, I see you.

  4.

  WATCHDOGS

  Wednesday, October 5 and Thursday, October 6

  Phillip frowned and leaned back on his sofa. Elizabeth’s words had been urgent, even ominous, but they were immediately followed by a rich chuckle. “Good grief, I sound like the second Mrs. DeWinter: ‘Last night I dreamed I went to Manderly,’ or however it went.” He could imagine her tanned face crinkling into a grin, her eyes sparkling. “But it was like a dream—”

  “Elizabeth, hold on a minute. You lost me there. The second Mrs. who? And where’s Manderly?”

  He had finally grown accustomed to her way of speaking, the obscure quotes and allusions that seemed to bubble up sudden and unbidden from some inexhaustible spring. Her sources were many and eclectic—from Gilbert and Sullivan to Bob Dylan, Monty Python to Jane Austen, Shakespeare or the Bible to the Firesign Theatre and beyond. Phillip smiled to himself and waited.

  “No, not Mrs. Who. That’s A Wrinkle in Time; I’m thinking about Rebecca. I sounded like a character in Rebecca just now…a book by Daphne du Maurier.” The throaty chuckle filled his ear again. “I’m sorry, Phillip. I can’t help it, the old English major thing, I mean. No, I was just trying to tell you that I hiked over the south ridge to Mullmore—the place in the next hollow where the little girl who disappeared used to live.”

  Her voice grew serious as she described her exploration of the abandoned estate. It was obvious that
the sight of the empty house and overgrown garden had affected her deeply. And there was an edge to her voice that hinted at things not said. “It was so unreal…so…suspended in time…at least till I found all the trash someone had left in the gazebo…and till I heard a four-wheeler coming.”

  She tried to make a joke of her hasty retreat back to the ridge but he could sense an undercurrent of real terror “…I kept going like the booger man was after me. I don’t know why I was so spooked—it was probably only some hunters, trespassing just like I was. But I was freaked to the point that when I heard a sound like a cry, I immediately thought it might be Maythorn. Even when I saw the hawk, I kept thinking…”

  Her voice wobbled unsteadily again, and he was reminded of a child recounting a bad dream, unable to shake the spell of the nightmare. He broke in. “Tell me something, Elizabeth. You said they never found any trace of that little girl?”

  “No, none. At first they kept thinking that she’d run away, that she’d turn up. She had some family over in Cherokee, a grandmother and some aunts and uncles. But they didn’t know anything about it.”

  “Cherokee? You mean the Indian reservation? But I thought…”

  “Maythorn wasn’t Moon’s child. She was the result of a brief affair Patricia had before she married Moon. She married him not knowing—at least she said she didn’t know—she was already pregnant by someone else. The little girl was always called Maythorn Mullins. But she told us that her real last name was Blackfox or something like that. Her father was a Cherokee and extremely proud of it too. He was a physician and I think he became something of an activist in Native American causes…at least that’s the impression Patricia gave me, the one and only time she mentioned him. Evidently Blackfox, if that’s the name, insisted that Maythorn spend time with him and his mother over in Cherokee so that Maythorn would be aware of her heritage. But—”