True Places(87)

A small shed with a moon carved in the door was half-hidden in a cluster of red cedars to the right of the cabin. The outhouse, Suzanne surmised. She reached the porch and watched for movement behind the small windows on either side of the door, but was fairly certain no one was there. Her chest constricted and her palms became sweaty. She had been able to quell her panic until now, but her control was slipping. Maybe inside the cabin she would feel less exposed, less alone. She fumbled with the hip belt of her pack, unclasped it, and shed the pack. She went to the door and knocked. The sound rang through the clearing. She waited a moment and knocked again, louder, and, when no one came, lifted the latch and stepped inside.

“Hello?”

The dust disturbed by the swinging door clouded the air before settling again. Suzanne slowly swung the door open wide and advanced to the middle of the room. Centered on the wall to her right was a fireplace made of stone. A few pots and a skillet stood on the hearth, and an iron arm with a hook at the end hovered over dusty, charred logs. A long table with benches occupied one side of the fireplace, and a tall chest, a set of shelves, and a stack of plastic storage containers filled the remaining space. The chest was fashioned of wood like that of Ash’s marker. On the opposite side of the room, two rocking chairs and a table holding a kerosene lamp were arranged by the window. A set of bunk beds occupied the rest of the wall. Suzanne crossed to the back of the room and lifted aside a curtain covering the doorway of another room, just large enough to contain a full-size bed covered with a faded quilt. A porthole offered a peek at the back of the house.

Suzanne returned to the main room. The scene out the front door was peaceful: a gently sloping field, dotted with yarrow, buttercup, daisies, and a blue flower she couldn’t identity from this distance, giving way to a row of upright tree trunks surrounded by blossoming berry bushes. Birds called in the distance. The air was windless and as warm as a spring day should be. Suzanne stood at the threshold, knowing she could walk into the clearing and not succumb to a panic attack. Here, where the cabin belonged to the land and where the people who had lived there belonged as well, inside was much the same as outside, and being alone was as natural and right as breathing, as flowing water, as sunlight. She would not hide from herself while alone in a gentle wilderness.

She brought her pack inside, carried it to the table. The rose-patterned tablecloth was stained and sprinkled with mouse droppings. She folded it back to expose the bare wood and unpacked her lunch. The sight of food reminded her of how hungry she was. She checked her phone. Two fourteen and no service.

As she ate, she kept an eye on the doorway, hopeful of seeing Iris, and examined the cabin again. Even as she picked out more detail—a basket of knitting tucked under a chair, a fiddle leaning against the wall, heavy coats hanging behind the front door—she was struck by how little the family of three, or four, had owned. Undoubtedly there was storage under the beds and perhaps outside, but she guessed their possessions could nevertheless fit inside the Navigator. And it had been enough.

Suzanne finished the packet of trail mix, rose from the bench, and went to the shelves beside the tall chest. She scanned the spines of the twenty or so books—all practical volumes of one sort or another. If the children had had storybooks, they were elsewhere. Suzanne doubted it, though, as Iris didn’t seem to have had any contact with worlds of myth or magic. Above the books were jars and containers of assorted sizes. Most were labeled: Adam’s flannel, burdock, blue cohosh, echinacea, stitchwort, sumac. A mortar and pestle and a small set of scales rested on one shelf, and another mortar and pestle, the size of a soup tureen, sat on the floor. Iris’s mother had been an herbalist and this was her apothecary. Suzanne lifted a few of the jars, inspecting the contents. Under a large, empty container, she discovered a stack of three notebooks, black hardcover and simply bound. Suzanne carried them to the table and opened the topmost, labeled A TO H.

There was no inscription inside the cover. The entries began with the first pair of pages. ADDER’S MOUTH was written in capitals across the top of the left-hand page. The handwriting was small, neat, and upright. Under the plant name was a brief description (an orchid with a single glossy leaf and numerous small green flowers on a single stalk) and its habitat (open upland woods), along with a simple line drawing executed by a confident hand. The rest of the page listed various preparations and uses. Suzanne flipped through several pages. Each plant had been granted at least one page; some, such as agrimony and arnica, had several. Suzanne noticed annotations in a different, more fluid hand, but not Iris’s, and guessed the writing belonged to Iris’s mother, while the original entries were likely the work of someone older, perhaps Iris’s grandmother. Suzanne turned page after page, fascinated by the wealth of information. Although Appalachian herbalism was not her specialty, she was surprised by how many of the plants she was unfamiliar with. Even the uses of those she knew were broader than she’d realized. The entries were observations, not established fact, but as she read she tempered her natural skepticism with an open mind. Plants were more complex than most people would credit, except those who revered and depended on them.

Something skittered across the roof, startling her. She went to the door, pointlessly searching the clearing for Iris. The shadows were lengthening. Only the tops of the trees now caught the sun. Suzanne was more concerned about Iris’s state of mind than about her safety, but could do nothing other than wait for her. It was the logical place to meet, and Suzanne had no doubt that Iris knew precisely where the cabin lay.