The Witch of Tin Mountain(58)

GRACELYNN





1931




After Anneliese’s final journal entry, there’s an illustration of a crescent moon, and a single line of script before the grimoire falls away to the blank pages at the end. The words are rushed and nearly illegible, written in dingy, brown ink:

The curse can be broken only by the maiden, the mother, and the crone, who must speak Nathaniel’s true name thrice to cast him out.

His true name. As I’m pondering the words, a soft knock comes at the kitchen door. It’s mighty early for company. I climb down from the loft, tiptoeing past Caro. I open the door to find Calvina Watterson, Mr. Bledsoe’s maid, huddled against the porch post. She has dark purple circles underneath her eyes, and the rims around them are all red, like she’s been crying.

“I came about Mama,” she says, her voice choked by a sob. “I didn’t know who else to turn to.”

“Lands, Calvina. Come on in.”

“I ain’t got long to chat. Mr. Bledsoe’ll be expectin’ me soon.”

“Of course. Just sit for a spell and tell me what’s happened.”

Calvina bobs her head and steps over the threshold. I pour her a cup of chamomile and catmint tea. Her hands shake as she takes it from me. Her fingers brush mine, but her thoughts are so faint I can barely hear them. “You want cream?” I eye the empty spot next to the stove where the sugar dish used to sit. “We’re all out of sugar.”

“No, them’s precious things. I like it plain, anyways.” She takes a long sip and studies me over the rim. “It were all a show, that night when that preacher healed Mama, Miss Gracie. She felt real good for a few days, then took a hard turn—got down in her hip worse than I ever seen.”

Dammit. I knew Bellflower’s gifts were a sham. A demon’s parlor trick, just like his good looks. He’s toying with the townsfolk—using them. But to what end?

“I found her after I got home from Mr. Bledsoe’s last night. She’d been tryin’ to bring food in from the springhouse when her hip gave all the way out and she fell. She said she drug herself along the ground for a bit, then got tuckered out. She laid there all day, in that hot sun.” Calvina’s breath hitches. She takes a long swallow of tea before she speaks again. “She’s at Doc Gallagher’s place now. He said it’s a broken hip. They’re taking her to the big hospital today, soon as they can get an ambulance down from Springfield. It ain’t lookin’ good, though. How am I supposed to pay for a funeral? Mama deserves better than to be laid in some potter’s field.”

“Lord, Calvina, don’t think like that.” But I know she’s right. A broken hip at Elmira Watterson’s age is likely a death warrant.

“That preacher—he’s bad, Gracie. Real bad. He’s got the whole town in a thrall. They’re goin’ to that tent every night now, hoping for a blessing from the Lord, but there ain’t nothing but death in that man’s hands.”

“I know it.”

“Mama ain’t the only one to get a false healing. Nadine Clark’s baby boy died. He’d been sick with some sort of colic and that preacher laid hands on him. He seemed to get better, but two days later, his mama found him cold in his crib. And two more young ’uns he touched have the pellagra so bad Doc Gallagher don’t think they’ll make it to September.”

“Lands.”

“Now, I know your Granny has ways. Ways she don’t like to talk about. That’s the real reason I’m here. I wondered if she might do some work for Mama. For me.”

Calvina ain’t heard about Granny, then.

“She’s in a deep sleep. Not been well lately.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Should I come back tomorrow?”

“You could, but I don’t think she’ll be awake then, neither. Nothin’ like this has ever happened. Granny don’t get sick. You know that.” I bite my lip and look out the window. A hot, dry wind wafts through. “You believe in generational curses, Calvina?”

“Yes, ma’am, I sure do. The Bible talks about ’em plenty.”

“I think that preacher man means to do more than mislead people. I think whatever’s comin’ is worse than a few hot days in May or false healing services for show. Promise me, if folks start talking nonsense about me or Granny, you’ll tell me.”

“They’re already saying plenty.” Calvina pushes away from the table and gathers her thin cardigan tight around her bony frame. “But I’ll never hear a bad word against Miss Deirdre in my presence, and I won’t listen to no bad talk about you, neither. I promise you that.” She arches a brow. “My gran had powers, too. Visions. She saw an angel once. Came right in through the window to claim my uncle three days ’fore he died. He’d been in an accident and got the gangrene, real bad. When his body passed, my gran weren’t surprised, ’cause she’d already seen that angel take his spirit, while he yet breathed.”

I think of Granny in the other room, hovering between life and death. I hope no damned angel comes through our window. I ain’t ready to say goodbye.

“I better head to work. Them hospital bills won’t be cheap.” Calvina yawns. “If you find some way to help Mama, even if other folk cast aspersions, I’d remember the effort kindly.”