Blood of the Earth (10 page)

*   *   *

Rick and Paka and the thing called Pea were parked next to the truck when I came out of the library, sitting as if enjoying the warm weather; I walked over to their car, leaned in the window, and told them not to come back to the house, that I once again had three men in the deer stand that overlooked my property. A single visit I could explain away. Two would create too many questions.

Rick’s response was, “It’s empty at night?” I nodded once, my hair loose now, and swinging. “Good thing. I hear we’re going to have some localized straight-line winds and downbursts tonight. I hear they can do some awful damage.” Beside him in the car, Paka laughed. The sound was nowhere near humorous. Or human.

I had a feeling that there was a lot more going on than the PsyLED cop and his cat-woman had told me. And that feeling suggested that I was going to get stuck in the middle of it before all was said and done. It was a mite curious that I didn’t care. “Did you get the insurance handled and the repair people lined up?” I asked.

“The insurance adjuster will be there this afternoon. The Rankins will start today, and will be back at dawn to finish,” Rick said. “The receptionist said she knew you rose early, so I didn’t argue.” I dipped my head in a small nod and Rick went on. “What did you learn?”

I told him, as succinctly as possible, but leaving out my sister Mud, what I had learned. Then, figuring we were done, I got in the cab, shut the door, and drove off in John’s—no, not John’s,
my
—truck.

*   *   *

I was home early enough to harvest some root herbs, which was hard work, requiring using a very sharp shovel, a gardening fork, a sturdy spade, and a pair of thick leather gloves to
protect my hands, while keeping a shotgun close and the .32 in my overalls’ bib. I thought about my day as I worked up a sweat. I needed my bare feet in the soil and the dirt in my hands and up under my nails. The feel of the soil leached the tension and worry out of me and left me feeling more peaceful, the way it always did. Before I turned to more difficult projects, I pruned back some overgrown plants and placed bricks over some rosemary limbs to root them for selling.

On the back porch, I washed and laid out the first of the burdock root, calamus, ginseng, goldenseal, yellow dock, soapwort, and snakeroot to dry, then spent the warm heart of the day working in the garden with the tiller. The engine was loud, but I had my awareness of the land to tell me if anyone was heading this way, but no one did, not even my watchers. And just like I needed to have my hands in the soil, the soil needed my attention, turned under with natural supplements. Twice a year I turned over the garden dirt, this time in the half an acre where the spring and early summer plants were dying, adding compost from the fifty-gallon drum on the south side of the house, readying the ground for winter, mulching deep, trying to make up for the time spent away from the plants. It was grueling work, but the ground liked the feel of the tiller in it, churning and aerating and adding new nutrients. It was like exercise and a good meal for the garden. Had my land been a house cat, it would have been purring by the time I finished.

The three men in the tree stand watched, but didn’t come close.

The insurance lady came by and stayed for half an hour, taking pictures of the vandalism, as she called it. She assured me that the insurance would cover the damage, but got kinda pruney around the mouth when she did. I got kinda pruney when I heard the deductible.

The Rankin truck must have passed her on the road down, because the dust was still settling when it pulled in. Thad Rankin of Rankin Replacements and Repairs showed up himself to inspect the damage and give me an estimate. We had done business together ever since John and I married, and he had a set of windows in the back of his truck when he parked. I counted and the number matched the ones that needed
replacement. Rick could follow orders. That was a good trait in a man. I met Mr. Thad at the front door, noting that he had another man with him, toting a ladder and other equipment. “Hear you had some problems yesterday, Miz Ingram,” he said by way of greeting, his eyes on my jaw and eye, with their blossoming bruises.

“Bunch a hooligans out hunting,” I said. “I reckon they thought my house was edible.”

“Them hunting hooligans manage to sock you too?” he asked gently.

I touched my jaw and sighed. “Actually, in a way, yes. But forewarned is forearmed. I have a gun, and next time it won’t be so easy for the vandals.”

Mr. Thad chuckled, though it sounded mostly polite, not like real amusement. Over Thad’s shoulder the young man with him lifted a hand, nodded, and headed to the back of the house with the batch of equipment, the ladder over one shoulder. Thad’s son, Thaddeus Jr., who went by the name
Deus
, had grown a foot since I’d last seen him. He was the fifth generation to be working for the family business, which had been started back after the Civil War, by a family of freed slaves. The young man looked to be about eighteen, and was fit and trim in his company T-shirt and jeans, his dark skin shining in the sun.

“That cult you got away from,” Mr. Thad said, jerking my attention back to him. “Was it involved in this ‘hunting vandalism’?”

I glared at Mr. Thad and he backed away fast, down the top two steps, lifting his hands as if holding off an attack. “I didn’t mean no nosiness or disrespect, ma’am. But people talk.” When I didn’t say anything, he went on. “We pray for the women and children at your cult all the time.”

“Not my cult. Not now. Not ever,” I said stiffly.

“I understand that, Miz Ingram. But if you ever need help or a new place to worship, you are welcome to come to church with us at First Tabernacle A.M.E. Zion. We accept everybody, whites and blacks, brown-skinned and Asian folk, men and women, worshiping together under one roof, like the good Lord intended. We even got a sign language speaker to interpret the sermon and prayers and such for the deaf.”

I relaxed my shoulders and shook my head at Thad, not in negation, but in embarrassment. “Sorry,” I whispered. “It’s been a tough couple of days.”

“I understand. I’ll get your house secure for the night and put in the windows. We’ll come back tomorrow to redo the siding over the old logs, and check again to make sure you got no rot or termites. I’ll send a crew to patch the wallboard and paint inside, someone you can trust to let in your house. And you remember: You need help, you call on me. I’ll come. The men from my church, we’ll come. We’ll help you fight the evil of that place and them people. You understand? We’ll come.”

I blinked back hot tears and didn’t remind him that I had no phone and couldn’t call for help. I said, “Thank you, Mr. Thad. I’ll remember. And my name is Nell. You understand?”

“I do, Sister Nell. I surely do.”

*   *   *

The Rankins were parked in the drive for an hour and twenty minutes, and during that time, Brother Thad and his son changed out four windows and marked several dozen shot holes in the siding outside and in the wallboard inside, coming and going like family, while bread dough finished rising and I put four loaves in to bake, picked vegetables, and thawed meat for the evening meal. It was unexpected to discover that the Rankins thought of me as a sister, an equal in their church, and not chattel. The entire idea of church had left a bad taste in my mouth for years, but . . . maybe that was just the one church, the God’s Cloud of Glory Church, or a few churches, not all churches. I had to wonder.

I accepted a tract from Brother Thad before they left, and told him I would consider attending a service at his church.
A
service. One. I made sure he understood that part. And he left beaming and satisfied, telling me he’d wait until he heard from the insurance company to send me a bill for the deductible.

I didn’t really know what to make of people like Mr. Thaddeus Rankin. Good people, but foreign to my upbringing and life experience so far.

*   *   *

No one bothered me that night, but I woke with a perplexing sensation at about two a.m on Wednesday, a feeling that ants
were crawling all over me—biting, itchy, feathery, and burning. I sat up in my small bed in the dark, disturbing the cats. More than one nonhuman, and one human, had crossed into the woods on the Vaughn farm property. Their life signatures were incomprehensible, remarkable enough that I couldn’t separate them into individual markers, but I knew in my blood that they were no threat to me, feeling playful rather than malicious. I felt them tramp along the property line to the deer stand, and later felt it as the stand’s supports were ripped from the trees and it started to fall. I felt it in my bones when the biggest part of it hit the ground about twenty feet from where it had started, as if the air had swept up underneath and tossed it. Heard it in the nerves of my hands when the nonhumans shouted with victory.

It wasn’t Paka. I’d have recognized her.

Nonhumans. On my land or near enough. Strangers.

In the ground beneath my home, I felt something stirring, something new and angry. I raced to the front windows, listening, waiting. But the flash of rage died away, gone so totally that I had to wonder if I had imagined or misinterpreted it.

In the distance, on the Vaughn farm, I felt the uninvited visitors withdraw. Relief shushed through me like water through a pipe, but it didn’t last long, and worry flushed right back. I spent the rest of the night on the sofa, where I could see anyone coming down the drive, protecting my home from any direction. I slept uneasily, with John’s old Colt .45 six-shooter and the Winchester .30-30 on the rug at my feet. Neither had the spread pattern of the double-barreled shotgun, but without being able to stabilize it against a flagpole or a handy wall, the shotgun was mostly a threat without teeth. Useless. I needed something that was point-and-shoot and wouldn’t dislocate my shoulder. I needed a new gun.

*   *   *

The land quivered when humans walked onto my land just before dawn. They entered along the northwest side of the property, from the Stubbins farm. The churchmen had never come that way before, the land being steep and requiring a demanding climb, but perhaps Jackson Jr.’s anger was changing things. Or perhaps the group he’d found to help were the
Stubbins’ kin. I had figured it would take time, maybe even weeks, to organize the menfolk. I’d been wrong.

I sat up, feet on the floor, and rubbed my tired eyes, concentrating. Fear spiked through me. They had sent eight men. I felt their combined life force flowing through the woods, along the ground, and up through the foundation of the house, into my bare feet, and some of the life force carried a faint taint of wrongness, similar to what I had sensed from Jackie. They carried weapons, and though I couldn’t tell what kind, I knew that with eight participants, they didn’t intend to use distance weapons. They intended this to be up close and personal.

I’d thought I had longer. I was a fool.

The battle I had been expecting and fearing for years—the battle to take me back to the church for punishment and rehabilitation, churchman style, or burn me at the stake—was heading my way. I’d choose my own way of dying if I had to go today.

The intruders had to come through the woods, however, and there was no path, just ridges and small creeks and rock outcroppings and trees big as redwoods. They’d be working by dead reckoning, in the dark of predawn, giving me time to get prepared. The trees were so tall on the steep hill that the leafy canopies cut the line of sight to nothing. I wished again I could do magic like a witch in one of the silly movies I watched, making roots rise up and trap them, thorns rise up and form an impenetrable wall. I remembered Pea and the earth that had stopped her in her tracks. In some form of trepidation, I reached out to the woods and thought,
Stop them.
Thinking that maybe the roots and the soil would indeed reach up and trap their feet as they had trapped Pea. But nothing happened.

So . . . I was gonna have to deal with this. With the men.

Real life was always a lot more bloody and had a lot fewer happy endings than movies.

Working in the dark, I double-checked the loads in all the weapons and laid out ammunition at each window. I washed up with the last of the night’s warm water, bathing the sleepless exhaustion from my eyes, before slathering on my homemade emollient cream. A cold wind was blowing, tossing multicolored leaves, and even stripping green leaves from their stems, flinging them through the air, so I braided my hair back out of
the way, dressed in long-john underwear, layered on T-shirts, overalls, and work boots. For an extra bit of safety, I strapped John’s old hunting knife around my waist while extra rounds went into my pockets—preparations that settled me. I was gonna die. But I’d take a few of them with me. I took a moment to wonder what life would be like if I were able to pick up a phone and call the police for help. But the woods made that impossible. Cell signals just didn’t reach in here. Even satellite signals were iffy once one entered the edge of the property.

Soulwood ate the energy.

Though my heart was stuffed up high in my throat and my guts did little pirouettes, I ate leftovers from the fridge and stoked the stove before putting the drip percolator on the hottest section of the stovetop for coffee, making a full pot in case I got to be hospitable instead of a good shot. Or in case someone made it inside and I needed an unexpected weapon. Scalding coffee was a good one.

I shooed the cats out of the house. It was safer outside this morning than inside, despite the owls and coyotes and foxes that thought house cats were tasty. And the churchmen would likely kill the cats like they’d killed the dogs.

My heart rose up in my throat at the thought of the dogs, and I suddenly could feel the cold, hair-covered flesh of their ankles as I dragged them across the lawn to bury them. Tears threatened and I blinked, closing my lids over hot, painful eyes. I would not mourn. Not now. Grief was paralyzing. Grief slowed reflexes. Grief was an emotion I didn’t have time for.

I sat on the back porch with John’s hunting rifle, the sun rising at my back on the front of the house, the screening hiding me in shadows, and I felt one of the churchmen trip and fall, barking his arm on the root he landed on. His skin ripped and his blood dropped, two tiny splatters. But it was enough. His life was mine the moment I needed it. Another tripped and bit his tongue when he landed, jaw-first, in the loam. He spit bloody spittle. Two were mine now. Six to go.