“That? That was barely a Scotch mist,” Evelyn chuckled. “Out here, you’ll know we’re fit for a drowning when even the midday sky darkens blacker than the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat.” She gave Abigail another of her dazzling smiles. "If you’d like, I'll have my husband see to your leak when he returns this afternoon.”
“If it’s not too much trouble, that would be much appreciated,” Abigail said as she finished the last of the apple. The breakfast should have been delightful but she didn’t have much of an appetite, not with the memory of the previous night still weighing on her.
“Very glad of it,” said Evelyn, rising to her feet. “Now if ye’ be ready, I’ll leave ye’ a few moments of privacy to dress for your tour.”
Abigail's gaze strayed to the bump of the woman's pregnant belly. "Oh no, I couldn't possibly trouble you to—”
"Tsk, ‘tis no trouble at all.” Evelyn waved off Abigail’s objection as she went to the door. “To be sure, there's no one else to do it. The men have all gone to work and the other women have chores enough to attend to.” She ran a caressing hand over her round belly. “But never ye’ worry, Ms. Jacobs. This little one's not due for another month and seems fit to sleep ‘till then. Hardly kicks at all. In the meantime, I've very little to keep myself occupied. It would be me pleasure to welcome our new schoolteacher to the village."
Abigail gave her a grateful smile as Evelyn exited and closed the front door. She suddenly wondered what the young woman might have thought had she noticed the rain-soaked cloak hanging from the peg on her way out.
A few moments later, Abigail emerged from the cabin into the crisp mountain air. The sky had cleared and was now a light cerulean unmarred by even a trace of cloud. The greenery sparkled and danced with the gleam of glistening dewdrops. A gossamer morning mist hung within the lush forest, biding its time before the sunlight chased it away.
“Now ye’ look like a proper woodswoman.” Evelyn grinned, admiring Abigail’s rugged, linsey-woolsey bib dress and her leather Wellington-style boots. She noted Abigail’s hesitation at her doorstep and added, “You’ll find we haven’t much use for locks around here. We’re the smallest of communities and thievery’s never a worry when no one has ‘aught to steal.”
Evelyn turned and led the way toward the village. The puddles from the previous night’s downpour had already soaked into the earth, leaving behind a black, boot-sucking sludge. It seemed to Abigail that the forest was exhaling a pleasant fragrance of oak moss and fir. Despite the sunlight streaming through the boughs, the fresh air was cool on her skin; a welcome change from the cramped stuffiness of her cabin. For the first time since her arrival, she noticed how majestic her surroundings were. All around her, the rocky peaks of the mountains rose to the sky like ancient sentinels guarding the threshold of heaven.
“That one’s the village namesake,” Evelyn said, pointing out a massive peak towering over them to the northeast. “As far as Mr. Emmons can tell from his surveys, ‘tis the highest mount of them all. Our Indian, Josiah, says Tahawus means Cloudsplitter in the native tongue.”
“It certainly is impressive,” Abigail said, admiring the bald summit that rose high above the limits of where even the most tenacious trees could grow.
“Aye, it is, isn’t it?” Evelyn’s green eyes twinkled as if she had raised the mountain from the earth herself.
“Have you been in America long?” Abigail inquired.
“Just a tad over a year now.”
“From what part of Scotland did you come?”
Something like a shadow seemed to flicker across Evelyn’s face but it passed so quickly Abigail paid it no attention. “Dornoch, in the Highlands,” Evelyn replied. “A two-day’s ride from Inverness.”
“I’m familiar with the area.”
“Do ye’ say so?” Evelyn cocked a surprised eye. “Relatives?”
Abigail shook her head. “Whiskey.”
Evelyn stopped in her tracks and stared at Abigail with a look of such astonishment that Abigail worried she might have offended her. Then Evelyn burst out laughing, her round belly shaking and her freckled cheeks flushing pink. “Oh, I believe I'm going to like ye’ Ms. Jacobs! And I thank ye’ for the laugh! The Lord knows there's been little cause for them these past few weeks.”
“You are alluding to the recent suicides?”
The mirth faded from Evelyn's voice. “Aye. But we don't speak of ‘em for fear of bad luck.”
A somber look had fallen over the young woman's face and Abigail sensed this would be all she would say on the matter.
Evelyn continued to point out various sites as they drew nearer to the town center. From what Abigail observed, the layout of the village resembled the veins of a maple leaf: a network of increasingly narrower paths forked-off from the wider stem of Main Street. Scattered across this area were the community’s storage sheds, family cabins, and communal “doghouses” where the unmarried lumberjacks slept.
“Is it customary for women and children to accompany their men to lumber camps?” Abigail inquired.
“Not at all. As far as I know, we’ve got claim to being the first of our kind in that regard. Most camps are small—about eight to ten men—and the shelters are temporary so as to be torn down and moved to new cutting lands. Tahawus was founded as just such a camp nearly six years ago. But this far into the mountains, the timber is so plentiful that Witherbee & Rand decided it was less expensive to establish a permanent village from which our men could work year-round, rather than transport them to and from the region every season.”
“How many loggers are at work here?”
“We’re down to fifty-one men now. All told, we’ve about seventy-five people living in Tahawus, if ye’ count the women and children.”
Once they reached the intersection at Main Street, Evelyn stopped and jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the company office on the corner. “Here’s where you’ll collect your pay.” She then pointed south down the street toward another squat building where a sign advertised Bingham’s General Store and Post Office. “And there’s where you’ll spend it. Bingham’s tea is atrocious but he keeps his coffee as fresh as he can. His deliveries aren’t what they used to be, what with the war and all.”
“Is the company not at all concerned about the possibility of an invasion?”
Evelyn chuckled. “Brit or Indian?”
“Both.
“All the way up here, there’s little chance of either. Truth be told, Ms. Jacobs, this war is the best thing that’s ever happened to Witherbee & Rand. With all the battleships being built, the demand for good timber has never been higher and the company doesn’t much care which side they sell to.”
Abigail nodded her understanding. Another of her lingering questions had just been answered: what had been Witherbee & Rand’s response to the recent suicides? With the profits from their logging operations making them rich, it was unlikely they had paid much attention to the unfortunate fates of a few lumberjacks.
“Over there is the mess hall,” Evelyn went on, indicating a long, flat building across the street. “We all have our tasks ‘round here. Some women clean, others take care of the cooking. Meals are served every day at six and six. For now, the mess hall is where you’ll be teaching the children. They’ll be meeting ye’ there at one this afternoon but after today you’re free to set the learning hours as ye’ see fit, so as long as the little ones are home for dinner.”
“I wouldn’t dream of keeping them any longer. How many children will be attending?”
“Eight, soon to be nine,” Evelyn smiled and patted her belly. “I must say, Ms. Jacobs, we’re all sure and mighty excited that you’re here. To think! A real and honest to goodness schoolteacher here in Tahawus!”
They continued on, strolling up Main Street toward where the chapel stood near the forest’s edge. Evelyn talked animatedly as they went, pointing out establishments like the blacksmith and the barbershop and sharing colorful anecdotes about life in a logging town
.
And then, very suddenly, she drew to a halt. The grin vanished from her lips.
In the distance—perhaps a quarter mile from the town limits—a coil of black smoke was rising above the treetops.
Abigail followed Evelyn’s gaze skyward. “What is it, Mrs. MacIntyre?”
“Mr. Prue,” Evelyn responded with a grim frown. “Father Carnes announced his decision after breakfast this morning. Prue’s remains were not to be laid to rest in consecrated ground, but they would at least be cremated to spare it from scavengers.” Evelyn bowed her head, closed her eyes, and mouthed a silent prayer. When she was finished, she crossed herself and turned to Abigail. “Ms. Jacobs, if ye’ don’t mind me asking... what brought ye’ all the way out here to this hard land?”
Abigail’s eyes lingered a moment longer on the oily column of smoke that was now marring the clear blue sky. “I can’t rightly say that I know. I suppose it was the mystery of the place.”
Chapter 11
“Are you trying to get yourself burned at the stake?” Duncan exclaimed. “Have you any idea what could have happened to you had you been caught in that shed?”
He stood with Abigail on the shore of a long lake nestled between two towering peaks. It was nearly midday and the forested shoulders of the mountains lay blanketed beneath a quilt of greens, yellows, and reds. The rocky pattern of the lake bottom was clearly visible beneath the glassy surface of the water, the slope of the land growing ever more steep until it eventually fell away into nothingness.
Abigail allowed a soft chuckle at Duncan’s fretfulness. “Duncan, in the history of the New World, there has not been a single instance of a person being burned alive for witchcraft. Hanging has been our traditional means of execution. Being from Salem, you of all people should know that.”
“I don’t find that amusing, Abigail. You know very well what I mean.”
“I do,” Abigail said coolly, irritated at Duncan’s tone. “And I am well aware of the danger I chanced with my actions last night. But as long as I am to be hindered in my investigation by this ruse of playing a schoolteacher, such risks may continue to be necessary. I need not remind you that this charade was your idea.”
Chastened, Duncan went quiet and looked away. Half a mile to their right, a long section of shoreline had been cleared of trees and brush. Here, hundreds of timber logs were stacked high at the water’s edge. A series of slanted braces and struts hewn from thick timber kept the enormous stockpiles from spilling into the lake. A gang of loggers was busy lashing and securing the stacks of timber with ropes. Further back, a steep hill rose like a fortress rampart above the worksite.
Abigail followed Duncan’s gaze and looked on as a massive log came rumbling down the incline. It collided with the uppermost logs of the nearest stack with a concussive impact that echoed clearly throughout the valley.
“That area’s called the stacking ramp,” Duncan explained. “It may be October, but we’re still early in the cutting season. The real work will get done this winter, when the sap hardens in the trees and makes them easier to chop. By then, this lake will be frozen over and all of those logs will be allowed to spill out onto the ice. In the spring, the flood of meltwater will carry them to the lumber mills downriver. As it is now, the water levels are too low and the logs would just get hung-up on the riverbanks.”
Abigail nodded and looked down to where a school of minnows was now swerving and dancing in the shallows past the reeds.
“Last night... what did you find?” Duncan inquired at last.
Abigail hesitated; this wasn’t going to be easy. “There was nothing paranatural about Chester Prue’s death. He chose a terrible fate, to be sure, but it was a simple case of suicide nonetheless.”
Duncan stared at her blankly. “Nothing more? That’s not possible. How can you be so certain?”
“What remained of his corpse displayed no blackening of the fingernails, no bruising of the flesh around the mouth, no—”
“Wait, slow down. What is this about his fingernails?”
“Have you ever seen the effects of lightning on the human body?”
“No, I can’t say that I have.”
“They can be quite illuminating, if you’ll pardon my pun. I’ve an acquaintance at Harvard, a doctor who specializes in the study of pathology—”
“A former client no doubt?”
Abigail cracked a smile. “Indeed. He was kind enough to admit me to a private review of the remains of a Cambridge man who had recently been killed by a lightning strike. The victim’s fingernails had been blackened by the passing of the bolt through his body. His tongue had been scorched as well. In many places, his veins had broken from the intensity of the electrical current and were plainly visible beneath his skin, appearing as what the doctor referred to as lightning flowers. The unfortunate man’s inner ears had also ruptured and his eyes were beset with sudden cataracts.”
Duncan peered at her. “What has this to do with Chester Prue?”
“When a spirit inhabits a human body, the resulting effects are often similar to those of a lightning strike. ‘Tis a natural consequence of our worldly flesh being incapable of hosting the spirit’s otherworldly energy.”
“And Prue’s body displayed none of these symptoms?”
Abigail shook her head.
“What about the bruising around the mouth that you mentioned?”
“Another consequence of the spirit occupying the body. Should it enter or exit through the mouth, the surrounding flesh is often damaged as if frostbitten.”
“This, too, was absent from Prue?”
“As far as I was able to discern, yes. Albeit, his flesh was already spoiled with decomposition.”
“So it’s possible that you missed something.”
Abigail hesitated, mindful of her own lingering doubts in the moments before she had been interrupted in the shed. “Is it possible? Yes, but not likely. Duncan, I’m afraid we must accept the fact that Chester Prue was not possessed at the time of his death, at least not by any entity that I have ever encountered.”
Duncan bit his lip and ran a hand through his shock of yellow hair. “Then what if it wasn’t possession? What if it was some other sort of spectral attack?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Augie McMullen swore that he saw Prue looking straight at him, as if pleading for help. Perhaps Prue wasn’t possessed but was instead being held in place against his will by some invisible force.”
Abigail thought it over. “I suppose it’s a possibility. Unfortunately, we now have no way of knowing.”
“How so?”
“When a man is touched by a spirit, a distinct impression is left on the flesh by the ghost’s freezing grip. This mark may fade to nothing over time, but it remains there nonetheless, like an invisible brand. With the right incantation, it can always be revealed.”
“And you know such an incantation?”
Abigail’s eyes gleamed as she tugged her sleeves up to her elbows and held her arms out. Dozens of mysterious scars crisscrossed the otherwise flawless white of her wrists and forearms. Closing her eyes, she began to murmur a sequence of strange words that seemed to be composed entirely of vowels and sibilants. To Duncan’s amazement, an array of skeletal handprints materialized on the surface of Abigail’s skin. They appeared as livid stains, the outlines of finger bones distinctly visible like macabre tattoos.
“Abigail!” Duncan exclaimed, alarmed.
Abigail opened her eyes and ceased her chant. The ghastly handprints vanished instantly.
Duncan glanced around, anxious to see if anyone had witnessed what had just happened. “You mustn’t do such things out in the open! As long as you’re here investigating these suicides, you must refrain from any such spells, from anything that may be used against you to prove you are a... a—”
“A witch?” A stinging retort sprang to Abigail’s tongue but she managed to bite it back as she pulled her sleeves down to her wrists. “At any rat
e, in the case of Chester Prue, such an incantation wouldn’t have been necessary; any phantom handprints would have been fresh and plainly visible. However, given the state in which I found Prue’s body, ‘tis possible that such marks could have been camouflaged by decay. Of course, now that his corpse has been cremated, we now have no way of knowing for certain.”
Duncan shook his head and pried a rock free from the soft ground with the toe of his boot. “There was nothing else of note?”
Abigail opened her mouth, ready to tell him about the mysterious man who had caught her and let her go. Instead, she shook her head and remained silent. She didn’t know why, but she suddenly thought it would be wiser if she kept the information to herself. Perhaps it was because she was growing weary of Duncan’s constant haranguing about the need to be cautious around the villagers. Or maybe—just maybe—she wasn’t certain who she could trust yet.
High overhead, a formation of geese passed across the clear blue sky, squawking loudly as they retreated to the warmer climates of the south.
“Why are you so convinced Chester Prue could not simply have committed suicide?” asked Abigail.
“It’s not just Prue,” Duncan replied. “It’s the other three men as well, the ones who killed themselves before Prue.”
“What can you tell me of them?”
Duncan sat on a large boulder by the water’s edge and looked out at the lake shimmering in the pale light of the October sun. “Jed Hawes was the first. He was a scout sent to explore the high interior of the northern range. When he went a week overdue, we knew something had gone wrong. Colvin and Josiah went looking for him. Two days later, they found Hawes dead on a sheer cliff overlooking a lake on the shoulder of the Cloudsplitter. He had shot himself in the belly with his own pistol.”
“Could he have gotten lost and given up hope for rescue?”
“Not Hawes. He was an old-timer, a former military scout with three decades of experience tracking in the harshest environments. And besides, if a man wants to end his life with a pistol, he shoots himself in the head, not the belly. A wound like that takes days to be fatal and every moment would be spent in unspeakable agony.”
The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2) Page 6