The Witch of Tin Mountain(26)

Deirdre carefully turned the pages of the grimoire, her fingers trembling. Some of the writing was in German, some in English. There were recipes for herbal cures and poultices, as well as illustrations of animals and the human form. Deirdre’s breath caught in her throat when she turned to a page with a drawing of a locust tree, its branches in flame. She traced it with her fingertip. A strange warmth seemed to radiate from the paper. “It’s that tree by your old home place. The one they burned her on.”

Pa’s jaw clenched. “You saw something down in the holler, didn’t you, Deirdre?”

Deirdre nodded. “Yes. I’ve been having visions for a long time, Pa. But this one was different. There was a woman. They burned her, just like the stories people talk about. Did that really happen? Back then?”

“It did. That woman you saw—Anneliese—she was my mother. Your Oma.”

Deirdre shuddered. Pa had never told her how his mother had died. He’d barely even spoken of her. Deirdre had only ever known Oma Elizabeth, who had raised Pa.

“Why did they kill her?”

Pa scrubbed his hand over his face. “I was only five years old. I remember only a little. The nightmares, mostly. Oma Elizabeth told me more, over the years, once I got to an age where I could understand it. A preacher came to town from out east. He took a shine to Mama and started calling on her. She was taken with his ways. At first. And then he changed. Grew mean.”

He rose and went to stand in front of the open window. The breeze flicked at the curtains and brought the murky scent of wet earth. “That preacher—Nathaniel Walker—saw the way Mama charmed people and wanted what she had. He wanted her land, wanted her healing gifts for his ministry. Wanted her for his wife. When she spurned him, he grew angry. Turned the townsfolk against her. Claimed she was a witch—the devil’s own mistress. He came up the mountain that spring with his mob. She hid me away, in that trunk you’re sittin’ on, and made me promise to give you her book, when the time came, because she knew he would come back for you, too. The spirit that’s inside him . . . has long stalked our kin.”

“You’re saying Gentry’s the same man? How can that be, Pa?” With Gentry’s youthful looks, he couldn’t be older than Pa. It was impossible.

“Maybe he is, and maybe he’s not. There are strange things in this world. I can’t seek to explain them all. All I know is, I’ve been dreaming of Mama lately. Felt a strong pull home. I’ve always had a knowing—the smallest measure of her gifts, but you have the wealth of them, Deirdre. The gifts in our family are passed from grandmother to granddaughter. With those gifts comes danger. I’ve known you’ve had the healing touch since you were a girl. Do you remember Millie?”

Deirdre nodded. Millie had been their redtick coonhound, her constant companion when she was a girl. “Yes, I remember her.”

“She was in labor with her first litter of pups and having a hard time of it. Nearly died. You laid down next to her, put your little hands on her belly, whispered in her ear, and eased her way. She brought four puppies, all of them hale and hearty.”

“I don’t remember that at all, Pa.”

“All the same, it happened. Surely, you’ve noticed the way people look at you, poppet? It’s more than your beauty. It’s what you are. Who you are. Your gifts make folks covetous—some will pay you for what they want, and pay you well, but there are some who would seek to steal from you instead.”

Mama’s step sounded from below. Pa took the book from Deirdre and hid it beneath the quilt. Deirdre crawled to the edge of the loft. “What is it, Mama?”

“I’ve a bath ready for you, child. Come clean up and get into some proper clothes before supper.”

After Mama swept back down the hall and into the kitchen, Pa unlatched the trunk at the foot of Deirdre’s bed, placing the book inside. “You can look at that Zauberbuch anytime you want, daughter. It’s yours now. But I don’t want your mama or anyone else reading a word of it. What’s written here is only for your eyes.”

“I understand, Pa. I do.” Mama didn’t have much use for magic and superstitions. Deirdre had learned to hide her gifts well—her seeing, her healing whispers—though they aided Mama in her work more than she knew.

She swallowed the lump in her throat and went down. Mama had the copper tub filled with steaming water in front of the hearth. Deirdre shrugged off her wrapper and her dirty, stained shift.

“What’s that, on your back? Turn around.” Mama reached out to trace a fingertip over Deirdre’s spine. She flinched. It burned hot and fierce as a wasp sting where Mama touched her. “You’ve got a mark. A rash.”

Deirdre craned her neck and tried to look. Red welts fanned up her shoulder, like the branches of a tree. “I can’t reckon where it came from. It stings somethin’ fierce.”

“I’ll put some lanolin ointment on it after your bath,” Mama said.

Deirdre climbed into the tub, the warm water unknotting her sore muscles and soothing her rash as she sank down to her chin. Mama filled the porcelain ewer with water and tilted Deirdre’s head back to wet her hair. “You didn’t say a word to Pa about Mr. Cash, I hope.”

Deirdre sighed. “I ain’t said a thing, Mama. And I won’t.”

Mama took up a cake of lye soap and began scrubbing Deirdre’s scalp with her fingernails. She was always too rough. “What did the two of you talk about?”