The Witch of Tin Mountain(12)

“Hello?” she called, and moved closer, as if pulled by an invisible thread.

The woods went quiet for a full breath. She listened for a return greeting, but none came.

She crossed the clearing, her curiosity quelling any fear. She gingerly stepped onto the sagging porch to peek through the door. A fire burned in the stone hearth, a pot hooked over the grate. In the corner, a low table was laden with tallow candles. An arbor of dried and braided grapevine arched over it, decorated with animal skulls, chicken bones, and feathers. A knife lay at the center of the table, its slender blade wickedly curved. Was a hunter living there? Fur trappers sometimes camped out in these parts.

“Hello?” When an answer still didn’t come, Deirdre lifted her skirts and crossed the threshold. Her pulse thrummed in her throat. She went to the table and picked up the knife, studying it. Such a finely made tool would be just the thing for skinning rabbits or dressing deer. She gently ran her fingers over the blade, testing its sharpness.

Footsteps sounded overhead, coming from the loft. Deirdre dropped the knife. It skittered across the dirt floor. She turned tail and ran, her heart pummeling. In her haste to get away, her skirts tangled around her ankles, sending her to the floor of the holler in a graceless tumble. She scrambled to her feet, sparing a glance over her shoulder. The silhouette of a man stood in the doorway, hands braced against the door frame, his countenance hidden in shadow, but for the glimmer of shine where his eyes might be. A crack of thunder rattled the air. Panic drove Deirdre’s feet. She ran the length of the holler and up the hillside as if the devil himself were after her, not stopping until she saw the yellow lights of home.



“Cream’ll curdle if you don’t keep churning,” Ingrid said, scowling at Deirdre. “What’s the matter with you today? You’re all quiet.”

Deirdre rubbed the cramp from her arm and lifted the dasher and brought it down again, trying to match Ingrid’s steady rhythm. “I ain’t feeling too good. Didn’t get much sleep last night.” She usually loved sitting on the Nilssons’ low-slung porch and gossiping with Ing while they churned butter, but today, her head ached with the worst headache she’d ever had, and Ing’s constant chatter vexed her.

“So, what was it like?” Ingrid asked stiffly. “With Robbie?”

Deirdre stilled her dasher once more to swipe the sweat from her brow with a rolled-up sleeve. “Fast.”

“The first time always is.” Ingrid chuckled. “They’re too excited to be good for much.”

“I reckon it’ll get better.” Deirdre blushed and ducked her head. “Say, did you know there’s somebody squattin’ in Pa’s old homeplace? I passed through Sutter’s holler last night, on the way home.”

“You went there alone?” Ingrid’s eyes grew big as wagon wheels. “Did you see the witch? They say she’s all wild-haired with eyes as black as pits and claws for fingernails.”

“I didn’t see anything like that. There was a man. He saw me, I think. I—”

Deirdre startled. She heard a sudden rustling from the mulberry bush near the porch, as if an animal were trapped in the underbrush. Two small white hands emerged through the leaves, a tracery of fine scratches across their backs. A strange child crawled out from the bush, her long white-blonde hair matted and littered with leaves. Her birdlike mouth was purple with berry juice. Placid green-blue eyes met Deirdre’s with curiosity.

“Ebba!” Ingrid shouted. “Rackarunge!”

“Who’s this one, Ing?”

Ingrid looked heavenward. “My little cousin. She’s an animal. A beast.” She tapped her temple with a thick finger. “Touched.”

The child growled and showed her teeth.

“My, you’re fearsome!” Deirdre said, laughing. “Come, Ebba. I have a sweet in my pocket.”

“She only understands svenska.”

“Tell her, then.”

Ingrid muttered a terse line of Swedish and the little girl came forward, wiping her berry-stained hands on her dress. Deirdre withdrew a disk of butterscotch from her pocket and held it out. Ebba snatched the candy and scurried around the side of the house, fast as a jackrabbit.

“She’s a bit wild, isn’t she?”

“She’s ever hiding and sneaking off. And she won’t talk. Her mor and far died of the bloody flux during their passage. Her brothers, too. All three.”

“Poor thing.”

Ingrid shrugged. “It’s the way of it, yes?”

A low rumble of thunder came in the distance. Dark-bellied clouds gathered on the horizon, their undersides laden with rain. A sharp, cold wind blew across the rows of freshly sprouted green corn. “There’s fixin’ to be another storm.”

“A bad one by the looks of it. You’d better get on home. My butter’s set. I’ll finish yours and bring it to you tomorrow.” Ingrid scooted Deirdre’s butter crock between her knees and frowned at her. “Remember to rinse with cider vinegar after you and Robbie do it. Won’t be no babies that way. He’s the sort who won’t marry you just because you have his child in your belly.”

“I remembered, Ing.” She’d gone out to the privy and done what needed to be done as soon as she’d got home. It had burned and stung like hellfire but had purged a small measure of her regret.