A log cracked on the fire, sending a cyclone of sparks heavenward. Deirdre flinched at the sound and drew her cloak tight around her shoulders. “Who was she? No one ever says her name.”
Ingrid shrugged. “I reckon no one will speak her name aloud, for fear they might call her spirit up, though Morfaralways said she was Owen Sutter’s youngest daughter. People only sought her out for blood magic. Wicked things. The sacrifice of innocents. It all came back on her, I’d imagine.”
Innocents. Babies, likely. A sudden disturbing vision of a mewling, red-faced infant held down on a stone altar intruded upon Deirdre’s thoughts, unbidden. Her secret visions had become more frequent of late. More troubling and filled with ominous portents. She discreetly pulled out the flask beneath her skirts and took a swig of whiskey to chase the chill from her bones.Witchwas a troublesome word. People sometimes cast their aspersions about Deirdre’s mama, and the wordhad been whispered more than once in her presence, even though no one feared God as much as Finola Werner. Mama was a midwife, who brought life into the world with her hands, not death and curses.
“Do you really believe in witches, Ing? Pacts with the devil and such?”
Ingrid nodded slowly. “There are those who turn down a dark path. For their own gain.”
“But if folks were asking her to work those sorts of spells, don’t that mean they were just as bad as she was?”
A pair of hands clapped onto Deirdre’s shoulders, sending her heart thudding into her throat. “Would you stop sneaking up on me, Robbie Cash?” she said, turning. “You make me jump clean out of my skin every time.”
Robbie smoothed her hair away from her ear, his breath hot and heady with liquor. “Preacher man’s gone. I reckon your mama wants you home soon.” There was a wolfish gleam in Robbie’s eyes as he pulled her to her feet. “I’ll walk you up the mountain.”
“Walk, he says.” Ing sniffed contemptuously, her mouth pulled tight. “Stay close to the road. No wandering deep into the woods, Robbie, lest the witch take your pretty virgin for her midnight feast.”
“Ain’t no such thing as witches, Ing.” Robbie’s voice hardened. His grasp tightened around Deirdre’s waist. “Those old stories change all the time, depending on who’s telling them. Come on, Deirdre. Let’s go.”
As Robbie led her from the warmth of the bonfire and into the inky-blue night, Deirdre sent a knowing smile over her shoulder. Ing lifted her chin, her eyes haughty, and spat an arc of tobacco at the ground.
THREE
GRACELYNN
1931
I lift my hem above the brambles and follow Granny through the pines, my head on a swivel. Even though it ain’t rained for three days, with any luck, more mushrooms will have sprouted. Every pound of spongy, dead-ugly morels I gather fetches as much money at market as a slab of red meat. Money that’ll get me that much closer to San Francisco and a better life.
Granny suddenly stops, her hair a silver torch in the early-morning murk. “Gracie, come here, child. I want to show you something.”
I amble over. “What is it?”
“Just look.” She points at the ground and shakes her finger. A wide slab of slate, broad as a tabletop stretches over the forest floor. Moss crawls over the smooth surface in the shape of a man’s hand, greenfingers gripping the edges. The woods seem to go still around us; even the bright chirruping of the robins falls to a whisper.
I fight the chill crawling over my shoulders, and edge closer, squinting my eyes. “What’s it mean?”
“It’s a weather sign.” Granny clucks her tongue. “Summer’s likely to be hard this year and yield poorly at the harvest.”
“But it’s just now May.”
“Sure it is. Walpurgis. Witch’s night.” A faraway look flits over her face. “We’ll need to prepare. Build up the root cellar. Ration our wares. I ain’t seen this kind of portent for many a year.”
I shift my satchel onto my skinny shoulder. “Didn’t hard times and a string of bad weather come through this time of year when you were a girl? I remember you sayin’ something about that once. A flood?”
Granny presses her lips together. “That was different. We’re just in for a lean spell, honey, that’s all. Don’t you worry.” She plants her gnarled walking stick in the ground and turns toward home. “We’ve gathered enough greens for the week. Let’s head on back and see to our work.”
The sun crests the hill, lifting the dew from the grass and turning it into patchy fog draped like a threadbare quilt over the ground. Out over the tops of the trees, the lighthouse beam sweeps in an arc, burning a path through the morning dim. Our cabin emerges from the humid mist, squatted low on the hillside, its porch bedecked with bundles of herbs and wildflowers hung out to dry. A thin spiral of smoke curls from the stone chimney. Morris is up, then.
“Start the coffee, Gracelynn!” Granny calls from behind me. “I got another one of my goddamn headaches comin’ on.”
“Yes’m!” I go through the side garden, sending chickens scattering, and push through the door into the gray darkness of our lean-to kitchen.
Morris, my oldest cousin, is kneeling on the floor in front of the stove, feeding wood into its pot belly. “Any luck?” He wipes his handson his trousers and stands. He’s so tall his head nearly touches the smoke-stained ceiling.
“Nope. Not a single mushroom this morning. Got plenty of young poke and nettles, though.” I hang my yarb bag on the peg by the door and sit to take off my muddy boots, stacking them next to the other three pairs on the rag rug by the door. “Start the coffee. Granny’s got a headache, and you know how that is.”
He laughs, running a hand through his lop of wavy hair. “Yep. I sure do.” He fills the tin kettle with water and sets it on the stove with a wet sizzle, while I measure the meager grounds into our coffee jug.
