The Witch of Tin Mountain(23)

Deirdre shook her head. “No, not at all, though I can’t reckon why he lied about Mama going to the lighthouse for help.”

“His sort is full-up with lies.” Pa grimaced, the wrinkles on his face deeper than she’d ever seen them.

“None of this would have happened if you hadn’t run off, daughter.” Mama’s fitful eyes rested on the wall above Deirdre’s head, where the morning sun made a hot white circle on the wall. “She’s been rebellious while you’ve been away, Jakob. Disobedient.”

“Maybe that’s so, but you invited that man into our house, Finola.” Pa’s square jaw worked beneath the scruff of his ruddy beard. “I’ve told you about lettin’ men on the place when I’m gone.”

“He was polite. Kind. I only thought to be welcoming to a stranger, as the Bible bids us be. The only other man who’s been on the place is Mr. Cash, to help with the things I couldn’t manage on my own.” Mama turned away. A stab of guilt ran through Deirdre, knowing what she’d seen between Mama and Arthur Cash. But she’d keep that to herself, at least for now. There was no use in complicating things.

Pa had always been overprotective, but this seemed rash. Dangerous. Deirdre half rose from her chair. “Pa, what’s got you so riled? I didn’t care much for the man, but that can’t be reason enough to shoot him.”

“Like I said, you ain’t seen what I’ve seen.” Pa raised his head, rubbed the deep furrow between his brows. “Go on up to the loft and get yourself decent, Deirdre. It’s time we talked about the past—about what happened to your Oma.”





SEVEN

GRACELYNN





1931




Granny’s first shot glances off the sugar maple out by the fence, sending a spray of splinters through the air. The second lands at Bellflower’s feet, making him dance. He just laughs. She lowers the gun and racks the slide again. This time when she shoots, it knocks the hat clean off his head. A stray bit of bird shot nicks his neck, drawing a skinny line of blood.

Bellflower’s lucky Granny can’t shoot fish in a barrel, but she might aim true, yet.

Aunt Val screams. I hadn’t noticed her before, lurking in the shadows under the porch. “Mama, stop! You’ll kill him!”

“You don’t know who this sonofabitch is. I’m tryin’ to protect you.” I ain’t never heard Granny cuss like that. Not ever. “Gracelynn Anne, you get up on this porch. Now.”

“Yes’m.”

Bellflower watches me cross the yard, his eyes burning into my back.

“Ma’am,” he drawls, all slow and syrupy sweet. “I believe we’ve gotten off on the wrong foot. I mean no harm to you or your girls.”

“That’s what one of your kind told me fifty years ago. I’ve been on the wrong side of lyin’ preachers like you for a long time, Gentry.”

“I told you my name’s Josiah Bellflower.”

Granny harrumphs. “You’ve always favored a mouthful of name.”

He shrugs. “Can’t help what my folks chose to call me.”

“Is that so?” Granny jabs at him with the shotgun. “You’re just a simple country preacher with the word of God on his tongue and healing in his touch. Well. I know better. I’ve seen what you are. Who you are.”

“Mama, please,” Aunt Val wails. She’s crying, the kohl she uses to blacken her eyes dripping down her cheeks. I’m wondering how in the hell Carolyn June can sleep through all this racket.

Dawn blooms pink on the horizon. Out back, Granny’s little bantam rooster starts his crowing. Bellflower picks up his hat, shakes the bird shot out, and puts it back on. The air stinks of gunpowder. “Ma’am, I figure we can talk about all this some other time. So long as you promise to be civil when I come to call.” Bellflower tips his hat and turns on his heel. “It’s been a real pleasure.”

“Go on now,” Granny says. “Slither away on your belly. You come ’round here again, I won’t miss the next time, I can promise you that. You’ll never claim what’s mine, devil. Not while I’m alive.”

Bellflower stops and turns. His eyes have gone dark and glinting, just like they did at his healing service. A hot, dry wind blows across the yard and hits me full in the face.is His “We’ll see about that, won’t we, Deirdre?”



Something smells awful.

I wipe the sleep from my eyes and head into the kitchen. Green grapevine and holly branches tangle across the table, and Granny stands in front of the stove. Ebba, Granny’s oldest friend and Abby’s great-aunt, breaks stalks of asafetida in two and throws them into the stockpot while Granny stirs.

“What’re y’all doing?”

Ebba turns to smile at me, her long gray braid swaying at her skinny hips. “Come see, Gracie.”

She makes room for me at the stove, and I peer into the murky water, wrinkling my nose at the strong, garlicky scent. There’s more than asafetida in there. I can see a silver cross, a pair of tin spoons, and a shed ram’s horn from one of Ebba’s goats at the bottom of the pot.

“Please tell me this ain’t soup.”

“No. Not soup. We’re making f?rtrollningar. Charms,” Ebba says, giggling like a little girl.