The May Queen Murders

by Sarah Jude

  Dark was coming.

  Already the torches were lit when we left the clinic at dusk. I held Wednesday close to me and glanced westward to the sunset. The last vestiges of violet dissolved in the sky.

  We stayed in the middle of the road, avoiding the ruts from wagon wheels. My hair fell over my face, the only sounds the swish-swish of my skirt and muffled steps of Papa’s boots.

  “You asked why I drank Mamie’s tea,” he said. “I lost someone.”

  I hesitated. The risk was worth knowing.

  “Terra?”

  Papa’s mouth flexed.

  “I heard you and Mama,” I said.

  He stopped along the fence. Nothing around us except dried fields and the bowing heads of scarecrows. His fingers traced the aged wood, tapping it. “Terra and I grew up together. Her family, the MacAvoys, grew pumpkins. Scores of ’em, like you had a pocketful of orange marbles that you decided to toss in the field one day. Terra was gonna become a vet. My God, she loved animals. Cats, dogs, birds, every critter came to her. Jay’s daddy, Jackdaw, was sheriff and got after her for keepin’ so many animals.”

  The smile on Papa’s face—the same look he gave to Mama—was one of tenderness and thought. Then his smile faded. Sorrow recognized itself, I believed, and my sorrow saw itself in my father. I joined him by the fence, enveloped by the torches’ glow.

  “You loved her,” I declared.

  My father lowered his head and walked on. I joined him, waiting for him to admit what he’d hidden my entire life. He murmured with grief so thick I could wring it from the air. “On May Day twenty-five years ago, Terra was May Queen. After her crownin’, we were gonna meet in our secret place to figure out how to tell Pastor she was pregnant and ask him to marry us. Instead, Marsh and Jay, we were all messin’ ’round, and I passed out drunk. Terra waited for me. Nobody heard her scream after Birch Markle got outta his family’s cellar. She wasn’t found until a few days later, when Jay was tending some horses. He heard some cackling by Promise Bridge and found Birch poking a stick at what he’d done.”

  The May Queen.

  Why Papa hated May Day so very much.

  “The county police investigated,” Papa went on. “They didn’t believe that Birch killed her, said I’d done it, that I didn’t want the baby. The thing was, I couldn’t remember what had happened that night, and the police took me to their station in town and questioned me for two days. We didn’t know any lawyers, and Mamie and my daddy didn’t have the money to hire one. Jackdaw brought Jay and Marsh, handed the police eyewitnesses, but they said my friends were coverin’ for me.”

  “Is that why Sheriff hasn’t brought in the county police?” I asked.

  “Can’t trust ’em.” Papa rubbed his forehead. “It wasn’t until Birch’s sister told the police she knew her brother did it . . . He’d killed some animals before . . .”

  I held Wednesday tight under my arm. Suddenly, it seemed too easy for her to escape. To meet some horrible end. I caught up to Papa. He put his arm around me and kissed my forehead. If this awful history had never been, I wouldn’t exist. I swallowed the sickness of that thought and said, “You left the Glen.”

  “I never intended to return, but guilt brought me back. I couldn’t leave Mamie and Rue. Maybe I thought I could stop Birch from killin’ animals if I took care of them. The Glen, for good and bad, is home.”

  Papa paused near the gate of our home’s fence. His eyes were heartbroken. Telling me about his past had restored his grief. “It was easier to let myself think Birch was dead, but I knew better. I saw him once in the field, when you were a baby. He was covered in rotting skins and watching the house. I ran for my rifle, but he was gone. He’s been in the woods since. Folks said he began screaming after I first left. He ain’t stopped.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  No one seen Birch much, but no one wants to. The screams are bad enough. Those who’ve caught sight of him know him by the smell. You don’t forget the death stench. Makes your blood run right cold, it does.

  “You gotta warm up, Ivy. You’re too cold.” Violet spread out the blanket in the field for a late picnic. “Your fingernails’ll turn blue.”

  I drew Mamie’s blanket around my shoulders. Beads of condensation rolled down the glass of sweet tea resting on a crate she had overturned for a table. She slathered bread with strawberry marmalade made from last year’s crop and nudged it toward me.

  “You won’t eat?” August asked from his perch on another crate. “Ants’ll get it.”

  Beneath my blanket, I crushed the folded drawing of the map within my palm. I’d slept with it tucked under my pillow the night before.

  “Have it.” I offered the bread to August, content to pet Wednesday, who was nipping my fingers.

  He swiped the slice of bread. “I ain’t one to turn down food.”

  I smiled. Being among friends felt good, not hiding away inside my room with its shadows and cobwebs. They came over after school, time I once spent with Heather. Time I now didn’t know what to do with myself.

  Violet tipped back her head and twirled under the sun’s marigold rays. Her hair floated around her, some braids held with beads. She was barefoot and oblivious to the dirt covering her toes, happy under the sun’s spires. This was day’s sharpest light, when it became piercing and fought the encroaching dusk.

  “I gotta run,” August said. “I’ve gotta get home.”

  “Why don’t you patrol with Rook?” I asked. It was a blunt question, rude maybe. He was Rook’s best friend. If Rook wasn’t with Heather and me, he was with August. That boy should’ve gone out with him.

  August lowered his head. “Don’t think I ain’t out there by choice. My old man has a bad ticker. Even foxglove won’t help, according to Granny Connelly. I gotta be here for my mama. You understand, right?”

  I bristled and looked away. Understanding was one thing. Liking it was another.

  “You comin’?” he asked Violet.

  Violet shook her head. “I want to stay with Ivy.”

  “Well, make sure you leave before sunset. Sheriff might drag you to the station for not obeying his law.” August rolled his eyes.

  “Sheriff’s an idiot. That wine he took from my daddy wasn’t even tainted. He came to our house with his hat in his hands, trying to apologize, but Daddy ain’t having it. Says he hopes Birch Markle causes Sheriff so much grief he’ll be run right outta the Glen.”

  I cringed. Anger was an easy emotion, forgiveness much harder, and I had to suppose that in her upset, Violet didn’t realize she was talking about Rook’s father and wishing him gone.

  She flopped down beside me and put her arm around my shoulder. “We won’t talk anymore of Birch Markle. Talking about him makes him come after you.”

  August waved goodbye and jogged off, all lumbering limbs and flopping hair. He had a knife in a sheath on his hip. Even Violet set her rifle against the fence while we picnicked. Everyone armed themselves against the madman from the woods.

  I was next.

  Violet blushed. She sat on the edge of the picnic blanket. I knew that grin, the way her fingers fumbled in her lap as she racked her mind for words.

  “Can I talk to you about somethin’?” she wondered. She scooted close to me and tucked her knees against her chest. “I gotta tell you. I want you to be happy for me.”

  The cherry-pink in her cheeks bloomed brighter. The air around her lightened.

  “You seein’ someone?” I asked.

  “August. I was supposed to meet him last night. I know it ain’t safe to go off, but . . . you know what it’s like when he looks at you. When he touches you. All you can think of is bein’ alone with him again.”

  I did know.

  “I didn’t mean for it to happen,” Violet went on, still smiling. “With everyone so scared, folks dyin’ and the dogs, but being with August feels so good. I wasn’t sure when to tell you ’bout it.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “You’
ve had such a curse on you.”

  “You didn’t want it to spread.”

  She reached forward to pat my leg. “I’d never think being your friend would hurt me, but you’re a bit of a black cat. I also knew I’d get in trouble if we were caught sneaking ’round.”

  “It ain’t worth it,” I blurted out. “Stay safe, Violet. You and August gotta find a way to be together that doesn’t get you roamin’ at night.”

  She gave an understanding nod. Maybe Violet would listen, not give in to recklessness.

  “You’re shivering,” she remarked.

  “Birch is gonna kill me,” I said.

  “He won’t.” She pushed my hair behind my ear. “Rook’s hunting him.”

  Rook was a terrible hunter.

  The span of woods seemed endless, and the hillmen tried to cover as much of the Glen as possible. Rook could wind up patrolling alone. He could be pulled into the river or bloodied in a field. His bones could be stripped, his skin worn as leather. I shut my eyes, but the half dream punched through with a sun-bleached spine and glasses with cracked lenses.

  My eyelids were heavy as bags of grain. Wednesday curled up near my feet.

  “How do you think it happens?” I wondered.

  Violet’s forehead crinkled. “How what happens?”

  “Birch Markle would’ve been about our age the first time he killed. I don’t get how someone can cut open a dog and play with what’s inside. How does that idea get in someone’s head?”

  “His mind wasn’t like anybody else’s, and I guess nobody ’round here knew what to do with a mind like that.” Violet stretched her legs and stroked my cheek. “You need more sun, get some color.”

  “I’m not worried about my damn color.” The tremble began in my lower lip and squiggled down my chin. I had to take my time, or I’d trip all over my words. “Birch Markle took away Heather. We were havin’ the worst fight of our lives, and I never got to say I was sorry. I never got to forgive her. I never got forgiven. I don’t know how to live with that.”

  Violet angled her head, her voice soft. “You’re doing it right now.” She pulled a few pieces of my hair loose and twisted them around in knots. “I know I ain’t the same, but we’ve always been friends.”

  We had. The only thing stopping us from being closer had been Heather.

  “I feel like what happened to Heather’s my fault,” she said. “You were with me when . . . Maybe it’s like people say. She should’ve been more careful.”

  Down the road, a girl walked toward us. The wind blew her light hair and ruffled the scarf around her neck. Unlike many hillfolk, Dahlia didn’t arm herself against a sudden attack.

  “Time for you to come home, Vi,” she said upon reaching the field.

  Violet brushed off her skirt and packed the crates and picnic basket. Dahlia’s arms were folded across her chest, and her expression was stern, though it was impossible to tell what shape her mouth made. Her scars were savage things. Only at rare times did she venture from the Crenshaw grape fields. There were stories she went with the granny-women when there were farming accidents, that she tended wounds with herbs and tonics. These were the women on the Glen’s fringe. They dabbled in plants, poisons, and prayers, and welcomed Dahlia in their shroud.

  Violet finished returning the crates to my yard. She and Dahlia met each other, face-to-face, similar in their sisterhood but for the twisting roots scarring the older girl’s neck and cheek, and then they walked away, taking identical steps, hair blowing out in moon-white tangles.

  I missed having someone walk beside me.

  I missed my Heather.

  My parents split a bottle of peach wine after dinner. Papa read aloud to us from a book he’d found at a thrift store. Mama curled in close to him, her head on his shoulder. I noticed his hand moving up her back before unpinning her hair to loose the dark waves. I was glad to see my parents at peace again, but I couldn’t concentrate on the story; I kept thinking of Rook out there, patrolling in the dark.

  Wednesday tiptoed along the mopboards and leaped onto the mantel, green eyes catching the oil lamps’ light. Most cats we’d kept stayed outside, but Wednesday had reason to come indoors. She’d already brought Mama a dead mouse, which Papa reminded her meant the kitten liked her. But now she stared at the window, back arched and tail straight.

  I interrupted my father’s reading and pointed to the kitten. “Papa?”

  He followed the cat’s gaze and shut the book. The warning bells outside chimed. My parents and I held still. The bells on our back door jingled.

  Papa stood. Wednesday paced along the door and hissed. I peered through the filmy curtain over the window. All seemed asleep in Rowan’s Glen. The floor creaked. The cat clawed at the door. The bells swinging and ringing against so much quiet inched trepidation up my spine. Papa removed his rifle from a closet, felt around the shelf, and pulled down a pair of bullets, which he sank into the rifle’s chamber. Suddenly, a blast of gunfire resounded across the Glen. We waited with breath held.

  BANG!

  A second shot echoed in the night. Papa’s finger eased back the curtain. He opened the door, motioning for Mama and me to stay back.

  A rumble caught my ear. It started muffled, rhythmic, but it was a sound I recognized.

  Hoofbeats.

  Louder and louder, faster and faster, a horse sped at full gallop. I angled closer to the door to peer past my father. The torches’ light revealed a charcoal-maned white stallion jumping fences, reins loose. Riderless.

  I shoved Papa aside and bolted down the steps.

  “Ivy, no!” he shouted.

  “That’s Veil!” I yelled. Where was Rook?

  I tracked back from where Veil fled, where the shots came from, and my stomach pushed past my heart and lodged in my throat. My legs couldn’t carry me fast enough, but I forged ahead with my feet stomping the hard earth. He had to be close. He had to be alive. He had to—

  Rook was sprawled on the ground. I ran to him and slid aside his rifle. The gun’s barrel was warm and wispy with smoke.

  “Rook!” I shouted. “W-wake up!”

  His eyes remained closed, blood seeping from a gash in his forehead.

  I placed my hands on his shoulders and shook him. “Wake up! C’mon, you gotta get up!”

  No matter how I yelled for him to open his eyes, he wouldn’t.

  Water splashed, then the tart odor of apple cider vinegar and witch hazel skimmed my nose. Amber glass bottles set upon the counter clinked together as Mama reached for one to pull a cork. More trickling liquid. More splashing. A rag soaked in a bowl of the healing solution.

  Then Mama poured steaming water from a kettle into three mugs. The perfume of the tea, of comfort and old stories, chased away worry and fear. I stirred honey in my cup, the chime of the spoon hitting the side too loud in the wordless kitchen.

  Mama prepared a fourth cup and squeezed Briar Meriweather’s shoulder, Briar’s hand reaching up to cover my mother’s. After, she carried the tea and healing cloth down the hall to Rook’s room.

  “Did he say what happened?” I asked.

  “Birch Markle,” Briar replied. She cupped her mug for warmth or comfort, maybe both. “I begged Jay not to send him out.”

  The anger as she spoke was tempered by fear, by relief her boy had made it home. “I sent Raven to my sister’s house when Jay said Rook was hurt, should think about pickin’ her up soon.”

  The door down the hall clicked. Papa and Sheriff entered the kitchen. Sheriff rubbed his face, drawing his expression haggard.

  “He could’ve been hurt worse,” Papa said. “The horse bucked him after he got off a couple of shots.”

  “But he’s okay?” I asked anxiously.

  Sheriff nodded. “Luckily. He’s restin’ now, said he might’ve hit Markle with a bullet, that he went running off holding his arm. Timothy, I need you to help me round up some men for a search.”

  Papa and Sheriff headed outside. Briar stood and drew a shawl ar
ound her shoulders, picking up a rifle from beside the kitchen door. “Luz, come along while I pick up Raven? I don’t wanna go alone.”

  Mama nodded, and she and Briar walked out the door, the lock loud behind them. I sat alone in the kitchen with my tea. In its surface, my eyes disappeared in the tannin-dark color and left my mirror image skeletal.

  Go see that boy, lay your hands on him. Get the fret outta your head. Fret only gets you dead.

  The chair scraped against the floor. My fingers reached out to touch the cool walls of the hallway, and I walked deeper into the shadows. I wasn’t afraid in darkness, not here. Not when a shaft of a cinnamon-colored light leached out through the cracked door of Rook’s room. I nudged the door open enough to step inside, shut it behind me, lock clicking.

  Rook lay on his bed, shirtless, with his eyes closed and only a pair of drawers to cover the middle of him. The rag of vinegar and witch hazel covered a comfrey poultice on the left side of his forehead. A red tendril from the gash poked out from the edge. His glasses rested on his nightstand at a precarious angle, and my steps were muted as I crossed the floor to fix his glasses so he wouldn’t knock them off by accident. As I folded the frames, I watched his chest rise and fall. His breath. His life.

  He could’ve died.

  One wrong move, and Birch could have slit him from ear to ear.

  One more burial in the Glen’s cemetery. How would anyone tell Raven what had happened to the older brother who adored her so? How old would she be before she forgot the sound of his voice? When Gramps died, I was older than she was now. I couldn’t remember how he sounded.

  Not enough memories, too much death.

  Too damn much death in our land by the woods.

  A sob struggled up my throat, and I clamped down best I could, didn’t want to disturb Rook, but a murmur sneaked out. I pressed my fingers to my mouth to stop the next one, except I hiccupped, and then my eyes went wet and my knees jellied. My skirt puddled around me as I dropped by his bedside and bit the heel of my palm to silence myself.

  “Are you cryin’?”