I go outside, into the night. The cabin feels too close. Too crowded. The air outside ain’t any cooler. It’s humid-hot and stifling. This heat is enough to drive a person crazy.
The last time the curse came through Tin Mountain, there was a flood. This time, if I had to wager, it’s looking to be a drought.
If what Ebba says is true, people are going to die. Lots of people.
Unless I can find a way to stop it.
But how? If Granny couldn’t, how do I stand a chance?
Ebba hadn’t offered anything real helpful—and some of the things she told me made no sense. I go past our sheltering wards and through the trees, along the foraging trail, with a mind to cross the creek and check for Morris up at his still. The moon hangs like a freshly sharpened scythe above my head, lending scant light to my steps.
Suddenly, alongside the spring’s warble, a low moan filters through the thicket. I stop short and listen. I hear heavy breathing, like the panting of some wild animal that’s been hurt. Up ahead, movement flashes through the cedar boughs.
I slowly creep forward, until what I’m seeing becomes horrifyingly clear.
There, on that same flat, mossy rock where Granny saw the portent of a hard summer to come, lies Val. She’s naked, her eyes closed, her hands knotted in her hair. A man kneels between her pale, splayed legs.
He’s . . . oh, God. They’re . . .
I step backward, bile rising in my throat. A twig snaps. The man raises his head. It’s Josiah Bellflower. His eyes are pitch black, with that eerie shine of silver at their center. As he locks eyes with me, a shard of pain drives itself deep through my forehead.
Suddenly, I’m seeing again.
Bellflower transforms. His sharp, jib-nosed looks fade and morph until a decrepit, aged creature hunkers over Val, with ancient sagging skin. He smiles, showing blackened teeth. He moves on top of Val. She wraps herself around him, her cries echoing as Bellflower begins to rut inside her. Shadows swirl around them both, hiding them from view.
I turn and run, until I’m back outside the cabin. I heave my guts into Granny’s peonies. My head hurts so bad I think it might explode. A trickle of blood runs from one of my nostrils, and I wipe it away with the back of my hand.
What the hell is he? I stopped believing in God and the devil a long time ago, but with the sick feeling in my gut right now, I’d reckon he’s something close to the latter. I now know with a certainty that Val ain’t coming home. Bad, bad, bad. All of this is bad. And I’m in the thick of it all, not knowing how to fix it.
And then I remember Granny’s book.
INTERLUDE
ANNELIESE’S GRIMOIRE
February 15, 1831
It has been a brutal season. Papa died in the earliest days of January, despite my best efforts to save him. A cut from his saw blade festered, and no amount of willow bark or whispered prayers quenched the fever that followed. I could not bring him back from the brink.
Jakob and I are alone now.
Papa provided well for us, but the meager savings he left behind will not last. Each day, I count the coins in his snuff box, and watch them dwindle. I feel guilty eating our porridge, preferring to ration the rest for Jakob, as his appetite is fickle. Instead, I subsist on dried berries, locust pods, and the wrinkled potatoes I manage to dig from the cold ground. I drink bitterbark tea instead of coffee or cider.
I need to find work.
I have been consulting my Oma’s Zauberbuch for recipes and charms that might fetch a price. It is so curious, this book. It ever shows me what I need and has done so since I was a girl. The book also warns me to be cautious, for it is a small leap from cunning woman to witch in the eyes of many.
Yet, with Papa gone, I must put aside my fears and set myself to the only work I know to do.
February 20, 1831
I have labored day and night, crafting my charms and cures. Yesterday morning, I packaged them neatly in bottles and burlap, loaded up our rickety wheelbarrow, and bade Jakob to mind the cabin.
Last night, when I trudged back to the hollow, weary and out of breath, my cures were all gone and the wheelbarrow full of food. It was a fruitful day. I will go to town twice more this winter. Jakob will soon be feasting on schnitzel and sweet pastries instead of bland gruel.
April 3, 1831
The women have started to come to our cabin.
They are secretive, covering their hair and faces with shawls and cloaks as they knock upon our door. News of my gifts has spread—that they stretch beyond the provenance of simple tinctures and remedies. The women make their petitions in low voices. Some wish to lure men to their beds. Some, to be rid of their unborn babes, saying they are bone tired, and their husbands will not leave them be. Some, their bodies marked with angry purple bruises, ask to be rid of their husbands entirely.
I listen to their woes and their desires, tell them to come back in a day or two, then watch them leave through the window. They spit at the ground over their shoulders when they depart, shamefaced and furtive.
Yet, the women are pleased by my work. They pay me well. My cheeks are full and round as apples again and my clothes are growing snug. When the last snow melts and the dogwoods bloom, I will buy fine fabric and soft leather at the mercantile, to sew new spring dresses for myself and lederhosen and moccasins for Jakob.
We are as rich as we could ever hope to be. We are happy.
April 30, 1831
This morning, in the wee hours, I was awoken by the sound of hail. It was as if a giant had dropped a pailful of stones on the roof, so sudden was the squall. The wind howled and shook the cabin, yet Jakob slept through the storm, peaceful as a lamb.
I wish I could say the same. It has not been a fortuitous beginning to Walpurgis.
As dawn grayed the sky, the storm ceased. I crept out of doors, my feet skidding on shimmering orbs of ice. A horrific sight awaited me. My new hen, a beautiful black speckled bird, lay on the ground. I rushed to her side, the other hens clucking as I knelt over her. She was dead cold. Stricken down by a hailstone.
I gently pressed my palm to her breast and felt the faintest stir of life. I closed my eyes, willing her to be healed. A moment later, she warmed, her heart beating strong and sure beneath my palm. She scrambled to her feet and rustled her wings, preening proudly as she tilted her head to look at me with gimlet eyes. I spread a handful of corn on the ground, and she fluttered over to peck at it, drawing the others to do the same. I smiled, pleased that my gift is of such a practical use.
After I had gathered a few eggs in my apron pocket for our breakfast, I felt a presence. I cannot say what it was, only that I had the uncanny notion that I was being watched through the dense thicket bordering our homestead, though nothing moved among the shadows.
May 2, 1831
All my hens are dead. Torn to little more than feathers. They were beyond my powers to restore. I suspect a fox.
May 3, 1831
I had a visitor today. A minister. He sat with me and read verses from his Bible. We talked for a good long while. He is from out east—Massachusetts or Maryland, although I cannot recollect which. He has promised to come again. Entertaining him demanded only a cup of tea and a listening ear, although I have little use for his teachings. He is called Nathaniel Walker.
May 7, 1831
Mr. Walker came again, as promised. This time, he brought sweets for Jakob and two red hens for me, as I had spoken to him of our unfortunate massacre. It was a disarming gift. He helped me build a sturdy slat rail fence around the henhouse—one high enough that a fox would have little chance of breaching it. After, we sat by the fire and talked long into the evening. He showed an interest in my work, asking me about the bundled herbs hanging from the rafters and their various uses.