The Witch of Tin Mountain(4)

She climbs the ladder leaning up against the lantern housing. Watching her gets my head all woozy, even though I’ve seen her climb that rickety ladder dozens of times. “There you go, starin’ again,” she teases, throwing a smile over her shoulder. Her fingers dip into the slippery tallow, then stroke at the cotton, prepping the wick. “Bring me that jug of kerosene over by the catwalk. Reservoir’s dry.”

I walk carefully over the planks, trying not to look out the windows. I ain’t never told Abby I’m scared of heights. If I did, she might never invite me up here again. I’m pretty good at faking brave. When something or someone is important enough to me.

I heft the metal jug of kerosene, leaning back slightly to hug it to my belly as I waddle back to Abby. She leans down from her ladder and takes it. As she fills the reservoir, the sharp smell of kerosene stings my nose and sets my eyes a-watering.

A few seconds later, there’s the sharp pop and the wick ignites. Flames shoot high within the lantern and heat fills the glass-walled room. Abby sets the Fresnel lens and mirrors to turning, then climbs down from her perch. I shield my eyes from the brilliance of the reflected beam. It’s like being too close to the sun.

“Go on out, Gracie. I’ll be there in a minute.”

I open the glass door that leads to the lighthouse’s gallery and step out. The wind blows a gust up my dress. I hug the curved side of the tower, my heart beating fast as a bumblebee’s wing. Together, we move to the railing and look out over the landscape. It’s quiet up here. Pretty, too. The mountains ramble off in the distance like slow purple soldiers, the setting sun tinging their peaks with gold. But as much as this land is a part of me, I crave the sounds of an ocean I’ve never seen. A place where there’s work and plenty of rich people’s money to keep a hungry belly fed.

“Your top button’s come undone,” Abby says. I glance down, where the barest hint of my lace slip shows. My flesh pimples. To button it up, I’ll have to let go of the railing. Below me, the trees start spinning at the thought.

Abby gives me her crooked grin. “Here. I’ll get it.” She reaches over and slides the thin mother-of-pearl button back through its hole. Her fingers linger on the skin above my collar. A rush of blood heats my face. Our eyes meet for just a second, and I think about taking her hand and kissing the callouses on her palm. Then the moment’s gone and she’s digging in her pocket for a cigarette.

She lights one and sits, feet dangling off the edge of the balcony. I lower myself slowly and curl next to her, knees hugged to my chest. She passes the cigarette to me. I take a short drag and wince as the smoke burns through me. I pass the cigarette back to Abby. “I’d rather have the chocolate.”

Abby pulls a square of foil-wrapped chocolate from her bibs and hands it over. The sweetness explodes on my tongue, taking away the bitter taste of nicotine. I close my eyes and sigh with pleasure. This is the berries, being here with Abby, enjoying such luxuries. I could almost forget about all the thankless work waiting for me at home. Braver now, I unfold my legs and let my holey boots drape over the edge of the platform.

“You look like you’re far away from here, Gracie. Whatcha thinkin’ about?”

“Ah, nothing much.” I’ve never told Abby my dreams of leaving Tin Mountain. I’m too afraid she wouldn’t want to come with me, and I’m not ready to think of that. “There’s a preacher man comin’ to town. Some revivalist who claims he can put a healing on folks.”

“I saw that.” Abby purses her lips and blows a stream of blue-gray smoke away from me. “You gonna go see what it’s all about?”

“I reckon I better. Yarb doctors and hucksters are trouble. Me and Granny can’t afford to lose no business.”

Abby clucks her tongue. “Them healin’ men come and go, Gracie. They blow through with the summer. Your granny stays. Folks trust her. Just like they’ll trust you someday.”

Someday. Someday, like becoming the granny woman of Tin Mountain is some sort of prize. I imagine myself through the long, gray years, handing out cures and delivering babies. An ache of dread claws through me.

Abby stubs out the spent cigarette and leans forward, squinting. “There was a feller got lost the other night. Some banker from Rogers. He was out in the woods when his dog got spooked and run off. He got turned around in the holler and couldn’t find his way back to the trail. He finally saw the beacon and made it to the top of the hill. Claims he saw something in the woods. Tried to get him to talk about it, but he just sat at the table, drinking cup after cup of water and shaking. He was so worked up, the sheriff had to come get him.”

The unsteady quaver in Abby’s voice gets the hair to standing on my arms. The lighthouse beam whooshes overhead, sending a shaft of light dancing over the treetops. My eyes follow it, looking for any sign of movement. Everything is still in Sutter’s holler. Too still, as if something’s out there, crouched in the shadows.

“You put any stock in them old stories? About the Sutter haint and the witch curse?”

Abby lights another cigarette, and the sudden spark of flame makes me jump. “Maybe. Folks see things all the time in that holler. Pa says it’s been haunted from the way-back-when—the Indians even talk about it. They won’t go there to hunt or forage.”

I ain’t never paid much attention to the old folks and their claims that the land is marked by something foul that happened in Sutter’s holler long ago. But lately, I’ve been having strange dreams—visions. A burning comes with them. The same burning I felt just this afternoon, squaring off with Harlan—a pain like fire trapped under my skin, as real as a memory, but it doesn’t feel like mine.