“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, green fingers 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 hands on 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.
We’re the same age, but not for long, because I’ll be twenty soon. We favor each other, but my hair’s white as goose feathers and fine as corn silk. Morris’s is a warm, burnished gold. Still, our sameness shows in the high tilt of our cheekbones, our blue eyes and long legs, and the deep dimples in our chins. Hallmarks of the Doherty side. The drunken, good-for-nothing side, according to Aunt Val, who once thought well enough of a Doherty to marry one and have two young ’uns by him. My mama must have once thought the same, though my daddy was a far sight meaner than his little brother and worthless as tits on a boar hog.
Granny comes in, wiping her feet on the stoop. She squints in the gloom. “Morris Clyde, you sure are up early this morning. Hosea won’t be expecting you at the farm until seven.”
A furtive, shamefaced look passes over Morris’s face. “Figured I’d go up and check on the still first.”
Granny sighs and shakes her head. “I sure wish you’d close up that still and leave that hooch alone.”
He scoffs. “It makes the ends meet, don’t it?”
“It’s your drinking of it that worries me more, Morris Clyde, and don’t you dare take a tone with me,” Granny scolds, wagging a finger. “Remember who you’re talking to.”
“The best damn granny woman in Arkansas,” I say with a smirk.
“And the fiercest. Don’t you forget it. I need to go lay back down for a minute to try an’ get ahead of this megrim. Bring my cup, would you, Gracelynn?”
“Yes’m.”
Morris pulls on his boots and snugs his hat over his curls. “I’m headed out.”
“Don’t you want some breakfast before you go? I just need to fetch more water to make grits. Won’t take two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“Nah, I ain’t hungry. I’ll walk you to the spring, though.”
I grab the water bucket and go out barefoot, not bothering with my boots. We make our way down to the springhouse, my calloused feet sure on the rocky ground. Morris has gone all quiet, like he’s chewing on a thought. I know the real reason he’s heading out early, and it don’t have a thing to do with checking on his still. “Y’all need to be careful.”
He gives a sharp laugh. “I know, Gracie. Believe me, I do. Seth knows it, too.”
“If Harlan and his gang . . .”
“Don’t start in preaching. You let me worry about Harlan. Long as he gets his cut, he stays off my back. Seth’s, too.”
“Y’all need to mind yourselves. That’s all. Nobody’s ever found your daddy’s bones for a reason.”
Morris frowns. “I know, Gracie. I know.” Through the honeysuckle bushes on the other side of the spring, a flicker of white flashes against the green. “I’ll see you tonight, kid.” Morris lopes away and I watch him until he disappears into the undergrowth. I can’t help it that I worry. Harlan and his daddy are in thick with the Klan. They been trying to run Seth’s family out of Tin Mountain since before Seth was born and have made it their life’s work to cause trouble for anybody who don’t kowtow to them. And seeing as Al Northrup runs timber in Tin Mountain and keeps most of the families here fed, it don’t take no genius to figure out how he rose to the top like a turd in a privy.
But since Morris is my cousin—my best friend—I’ll keep his secrets, even though he’s cost me more than one sleepless night.