Blood of the Earth (8 page)

Later, carrying my blanket, a book, and the list of questions that Rick had placed on the stack of books where he had left his cash earlier, I wandered to the back porch. It was a lot neater than when John was alive, piled as it had been with garden tools and buckets and boots and tillers and such. I never understood how a man could accumulate so much stuff. Now everything was neat, the tools hung on nails I had hammered in the back wall, John’s boots and hats and work gloves given away. The garden tools were now stored in the small enclosed space on the south side of the porch, one I’d had built with the insurance money from John’s death. The church didn’t believe in life insurance, but by the time Leah had died, John didn’t believe in the church and so had provided a small sum for me. The life insurance money was mostly gone now, except what I’d invested in a fund at the bank. The shed took part of the view, which I hated, but it also protected the back porch from the hottest summer sun, and the small window inside kept the shed warm in winter, from radiant heat alone. The dogs had slept in there
some nights, when they hadn’t wanted to come inside the house, kept warm by the last rays of the sun.

Now, the floor of the much smaller porch was taken up only with the washing machine (an old model that drained into the garden), one chair, a tray on legs for use as my table, and my hammock. I’d bought the hammock from my sister Priscilla, when she was pregnant with her first child, and paid too much for it, just for the chance to make sure she was okay. Not unexpectedly, she was happy, married to Caleb Campbell, who was ten years her senior and already had one wife when they wed, Priscilla’s best friend, Fredi. Priss didn’t want to escape, didn’t want another life. She was happy, living in a big house full of children and wives and a husband who loved them all. The very life I’d been raised to aspire to, and had run away from, was the one she wanted. Up to the moment some churchman tried to take her to the punishment house. I stayed on Soulwood for that day, to be a safe haven to run to. And I stayed because when I did leave, even just to market, I felt the land’s call like a dark wound in my chest.

Priss, like my mama and my baby sisters, loved God’s Cloud. They loved the life there, the people there. Mama had even forgiven Brother Ephraim for his sin against her. The churchwomen were blind to the wicked acts of the ones who did evil in the name of God. The call to forgive was a powerful weapon, used against them for too long.

I had a feeling Jackson Jr. wouldn’t be forgiving me. But with Brother Ephraim missing and Joshua scared, he wouldn’t make a fast decision about me this time, no matter how mad he was, not with a special agent involved, no matter how tangentially. He’d want to let time pass and things settle, and when he came again, he’d make sure he had more than three men. He’d want to come in fast, grab me, and haul me out, leaving no trace. Then he’d burn my house and garden to the ground. And he’d take me to the punishment house personally. Or at least that would be his plan, once he convinced enough of the men to help him kidnap me. And I figured he’d forget to mention to the men the presence of police or black leopards leaping from my rooftop to protect me, and maybe Joshua would hold his tongue too. So . . . I was safe for a little while. Long enough to try to derail
their plans. Long enough to figure out how to use the title of PsyLED consultant to my best advantage.

I let my thoughts wander for a bit at the memory of Jackie running through the woods, his speed not quite human, too fast, too surefooted. I wasn’t sure what it meant, but I knew it meant
something
, and not something good. I remembered the bitter smell of Ephraim’s blood and of Paka’s description of it as
wrong
. I remembered Pea offering me a drop of Ephraim’s blood and her incomprehensible chitter. I wished I knew what all that meant, but whatever it was, it too wasn’t good.

I wished I had a method of making the woods grow thorny vines among the trees along the borders of the property, like Sleeping Beauty’s forest. Protective, passive defense. But my power wasn’t magic. It didn’t work that way.

Except . . . the ground had risen up and grabbed Pea’s feet like a trap when I’d wanted her stopped. I didn’t know what that might mean either. Not yet.

Thoughts and plans and worries swirled around in my brain, rising and dying back like fire in a brazier, hot and uncertain and potentially destructive. And possibly useful.

I crawled into the hammock, turned on the small lamp, and opened Rick’s list of questions. There was a short paragraph at the top that read:

Human Speakers of Truth is an antiparanormal, anti–human rights, quasipolitical terrorist group with once-deep pockets and ties to energy. They own outright or through shell companies a small oil company in Texas; several small natural gas companies in Tennessee, North Carolina, and South Carolina; and several other less legitimate companies, possibly for money laundering. With the FBI and secret service involved, and financial assets frozen, they need a place to regroup. We know they came here, to Knoxville, Tennessee. We believe that they are still here, and we are searching for evidence to prove or disprove their location. For your contacts in the church:

1. Have there been any new men around?

2. Describe any changes in leadership and any power struggle.

3. New tensions?

4. New weapons?

5. Anything at all different?

To ask such questions of me, Rick LaFleur truly didn’t understand how people lived in the compound of God’s Cloud of Glory Church. The women would know nothing unless pillow talk had loosed the tongues of their men. The questions and the presence of PsyLED on an investigation told me that this was more than just an investigation into some homegrown terrorist group and church politics and finances. PsyLED was involved in the investigation because HST was a group that espoused killing all paranormal creatures. The FBI would have handled something strictly human, and the secret service would have handled any kind of financial wrongdoing. I folded the paper and tucked it into the bib of my clean overalls with the .32. I turned off the lamp. Rolled over and snuggled down in the hammock. The night was chilly and silent, even when the mouser cats unexpectedly leaped up onto the hammock and settled on me, purring. They had never done that. Never.

For a moment I missed my dogs so strong my chest ached. They had been John’s dogs, working dogs, and he’d found my love of them amusing. Even before he died, they had been too old to work, but they hadn’t been too old to love or to love back. But the cats never had. Until now. Until Paka tamed them for me with her magic.

The dogs had been all I’d had for years, all that loved me when I was lonely or empty or afraid. And they had stayed with me all these years, until the churchmen decided them being dead would make a good message to me. I hoped my message to Jackie was just as strong, not that he’d ever cry over Brother Ephraim’s disappearance. No. He’d be after me eventually. And this time, things would be different. Because I was different.

At the thought, my hands burned and itched, as if in memory of the wood’s power zapping Joshua. Or the memory of Ephraim’s life slipping through my fingers. I might not have defeated Jackie today, but I’d put a hurtin’ on him he would never forget.

I woke the moment the churchmen began their trek along the boundary of my property. The feel of their footsteps yanked me from a sound sleep, and I rolled from the hammock to the porch floor, dislodging the cats, who hissed and arched their backs in displeasure. Heart pounding, I pushed through the screened porch door and stepped onto the grass. There were three churchmen, treading steadily, carrying equipment that clanked, making the animals dart away or crouch and grow still, as was their nature.

But I’d been wrong. They weren’t on my property, they were a good fifty feet out, on the Peays’ farm, which adjoined my property to the northeast. And they were crossing over into the Vaughn farm. I realized that these weren’t men here to kill me. These were the watchers who spied on my property from the deer stand on the neighbor’s land, churchmen who had been there off and on for months. And I realized that I hadn’t seen them during the time when Jackie had attacked. He had sent them home, taken their place. That made sense. But, I had never before been able to feel the watchers that far out. This was new and unsettling, as if, with the gift of Brother’s Ephraim’s body and soul, my woods had grown, had spread their borders.

Overhead the leaves rustled uneasily.

I felt the men climb the wooden ladder nailed to an old bur oak, and settle on the deer stand that was built like a triangular treehouse, secured to the bur oak and two black walnut trees. One of them peed off the side of the deer stand. Stupid, that. Deer would avoid the place now. I didn’t feel worry or anger off the men. More that friendly, chatty emotion men exuded when they were with their friends and intending to be sociable for a few hours. I had never picked up so much from people on
my land. It was more than disconcerting. Surely this awareness would dissipate over time.

I went inside and, working without light, opened up the wood box’s dampers and added two split logs to the firebox, both summer woods—wood that burns cool. One was a hefty piece of poplar and a smaller, dryer piece of pine. They would make more ash than the harder, faster-burning wood, but they were fine for keeping a fire going all day. The small pine lit right up, and I closed the wood box door. With the hand pump I added more well water to the hot water heater. It was something I had to attend to carefully, because too little water in the tank could allow the seams to melt, and replacement was expensive. The pump to the hot water tank wasn’t automatic. The well and cistern were on high ground, so gravity kept the rest of the entire system filled, but I had to hand-fill the hot water tank.

It was still dark when I washed up and dressed in fresh clothes, browns and greens, muted shades. I gathered my keys, library books, some baskets, and my purse, and walked silently to my garden, missing the dogs in the dark of predawn, their noses damp and cool as they poked at me, sniffing, warm bodies pressed against me, tails slowly swinging. The grass was wet with dew that wicked up into my skirt hem. It was too dark to get a good look at the garden, but the ground beneath my shoes told me that a bean plant was broken and weeping from the shooting yesterday, but was still alive; I’d lost some late tomatoes, including a huge, dark brown purple I had been trying to save for seeds, but the garden wasn’t traumatized—it would live. I raided it for cucumbers, several brown tomatoes, black tomatoes, and a dozen small purple tomatoes to trade at the market, a colorful mixture of peppers, and a mess of beans that would have gone stringy soon. All the veggies went into the baskets I carried, while in the back of my mind I was thinking that the plants needed pruning and the entire garden needed mulching and nothing was getting done out here in the soil and no foodstuffs were getting put up for winter. My garden was suffering another day with lack of care, this time because of Rick and Paka.

I stowed the produce in the bed of the truck, along with a few treats for Kristy, one of the librarians who was also a gardener. We had become friends, and I didn’t have many, so
the few I had were special. Whenever I went to town, I always put a thing or two in the truck for her.

I started the old Chevy, which coughed when it turned over, but ran quiet, and backed quickly around, hoping to keep the backup lights from being seen by my watchers. Without headlights, I made my way along the crushed-rock drive and on down the mountain. I was able to feel my woods all the way, which was new and a little disquieting, but it let me know that the men hadn’t moved from the deer stand and probably hadn’t seen me leave. They would have no idea where I’d gone, and might not know what to do about my absence, without making the long walk back to the church compound to ask for instructions. Hopefully by the time orders were relayed—on foot, thanks to the lack of cell signals—I would be back home and the repair men would be here.

It was after sunrise when I pulled into a street parking spot for the second day of a weeklong farmers’ market. Normally, it ran only on Wednesdays, but the city fathers were trying new things to bring people and money into town, like an extended schedule for the farmers’ market for fall produce. I parked the truck in an inconspicuous spot and made my way through the park, feeling odd, but oddly right, to be wearing one of my new skirts, sturdy shoes instead of work boots, and a button-up blouse over a T-shirt. I’d chosen a dark green skirt and matching T, with a white overblouse, colors and shapes close to the garb worn by the churchwomen, though theirs were all hand-sewn, and I had purchased mine at a local clothing store.

Going to market was wise in ways other than just seeing my family. I traded even or received cash for my veggies and jams and preserves. I didn’t reckon I’d be getting a check from PsyLED right away. It might take weeks to be paid and enjoy the freedom of having money, a disposable income.

Fleetingly I wondered if freedom would make me dangerous, as the churchmen claimed freedom did to a woman. And then decided that if it did, I didn’t care.

Spreading a small blanket on the dew-wet grass, I tied my hair back with an elastic and sat, my small pocketbook in my lap, my back to a tree, my baskets close to my knees. I set a wide-brimmed hat on the blanket and slipped off my shoes, placing my feet in the grass and working my toes into the soil.
I leaned back against the tree bark. Contact with tree and earth shivered through me, sudden, shocking. I drew in a slow breath, feeling the power of my land even here, so far away from my woods. That had never happened before. Never had my woods found me when I was off-site. I breathed out, letting the electric tingle settle into me, into my bones and my viscera.

This was more. Too much more. Even in my resistant brain I knew my magic had changed. Grown.

Brother Ephraim’s blood and death had been far more powerful than I could have known. For the first time I felt a twinge of worry about his passing into the woods, his blood smelling so odd. Maybe he had been sick. He would have died in moments anyway, I knew that, but with him gone, at my hand, only minutes before nature would have taken him . . . was that really murder? Was the blade of the merciful still murder? The garrote of the priest to the one on the stake to burn? By today’s standards, yes. But it hadn’t always been so. And if it was now, should I care? Was my claim and Paka’s agreement about me having the right to rule on my land correct? Or had my deliberate actions changed the nature of Soulwood, and me as well, me reaping the death I had sown? I wasn’t sure about the questions, and I had no certain answers. I also had no guilt or shame in what I had done, and maybe that made me as evil as the churchmen, and as dangerous as they claimed free women were.

I closed my eyes, feeling the sun rise, lifting over the horizon, the first pale rays turning golden, warming the earth. I settled into a partial lotus position, hands on my knees. The churchmen, if they passed this way, would ignore me, thinking me a modern-day hippie. Others might think me a new-age sun worshiper, or a Jesus freak out to pray, or a Hindu, or a yoga practitioner. I was none of those, but if I ever prayed anymore, it was like this, my face to the sun, in contact with the woods and the ground.

Traffic was already busy this morning, the vibrations of passing vehicles subtle under my feet. A cop on foot patrol paused by me, and I smiled without opening my eyes. “It’s a beautiful morning, Officer.”

I felt him start, the emotion passing through the ground and into my body. “Ma’am,” he said as he moved away. I felt it the moment his attention went elsewhere.
Interesting
. I
wondered again if this awareness would fade as Ephraim’s energies were absorbed and commingled with the other man I’d fed to the forest. The sensation I was getting was . . . overly alert, agitated, hyper-reflexive. If I was presented with a child like this, by a concerned parent, I’d suggest he or she be given chamomile tea with lavender or lemon balm. For an adult, I’d suggest blending in valerian. But this was wasn’t a human, it was the woods themselves. I couldn’t see a way to feed my woods a soothing dose of herbs big enough to do it any good unless I bought out an herbal supply store and dropped the chamomile from an airplane. The image made me smile.

A voice said, “I almost didn’t recognize you.”

Rick.
So much for being hyperalert. I hadn’t known he was there. Was that because I had claimed Paka, and through her also placed a claim on Rick? That was a scary thought. I opened my eyes to find him standing on the sidewalk nearby, facing Paka, as if he was speaking to her and not me. I interlaced my fingers and stretched my arms up over my head, hiding my mouth from view as I said, “That was the idea, me in churchwoman attire, or close to it.” I leaned out, stretching to look at the booth. “They’re here, setting up. If I’m a clock, then the church booth is at two o’clock. The women are my sisters Priscilla and Esther, and the Cohen sisters.”

It was an odd grouping of churchwomen to say the least, as the Cohens had been taken from the punishment house during the law enforcement raid and into protective legal custody, last I’d heard. I was surprised to find them living back among the church folk, walking free, and out in public, unless the menfolk wanted the world to see them and assume that they were okay. Or maybe they were here so that Priscilla and Esther could watch and then tattle on them. Anything was possible in the twisted minds of the churchmen.

“Go away,” I said to Rick and Paka. I felt them drift to the far right, away from the churchwomen’s booth and into the market.

Hours had passed as I sat on the land. It was ten a.m. and most booth spaces were open, so I stood, put on my hat, took up my baskets and blanket, and walked across to the nearest booth. Like the others, it had a tentlike tarp overhead, a long table in front, and unopened boxes at the rear. The vendor sold
unusual varieties of seeds and late-planted beans that were still in the pods for canning or eating now. Since my garden had been shot up, I traded some of my winter squash—three heirloom varieties—for some purple-podded pole bean seeds, a packet of rare Kentucky Wonder bean seeds, as my own stash was smaller than I wanted, and a packet of rattlesnake beans for spring planting. One can never have too many beans. I canned and dried mine, and sold them fresh, in season, by the peck basket at another market on the roadside. While I dickered with the vendor, offering my veggies for their seeds, I also traded for three varieties of heirloom lettuce seeds and one variety of melon—Rocky Ford, which looked good on the package.

While I dawdled over the seeds, I managed to make eye contact with Priscilla from beneath my wide-brimmed hat. I shot a glance to the outdoor latrines, and held up a hand, flashing five fingers two times, suggesting a meet in ten minutes. I got a slight nod and a tense line of lips in return, and went on to the local pickle producer. She took my largest basket full of small, firm cukes and exchanged them for five small jars of her secret recipe of bread-and-butter pickles. There were enough cukes to can more than ten large jars, but I didn’t want to do the canning, so the trade was good enough for me. I didn’t eat much in the way of cukes and pickles, and the face creams I made only lasted for so long in the fridge.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched as Priscilla made an excuse and headed for the standing, portable toilet booths. Without picking up my speed, I made a line to intersect her, and caught up.

When we were out of sight of the sales booths, Priscilla rounded on me, her face pinched and drawn, made worse by the hair, bunned-up tight atop her head. “Are you trying to get me in trouble or did you’un just get stupid alla sudden?”

“Neither.”

“Then talk fast. People are mighty jumpy roun’ the church today.”

“Jumpy how? Who’s jumpy?” I pulled off my hat to see her better.

She looked back toward the booth, out of sight but not out of mind, and gripped her brown skirts in both fists. “Brother
Ephraim done went missing last night. There’s those that say
you’un
are behind it, what with your witchy ways.”

“I’m not a witch,” I said, the words by rote. The assertion was the truth and not words I used to say to make me feel better.

I wasn’t a witch. I was something else. Something worse.

“Are you in danger?” I asked her softly.

“Because a you? Prob’ly,” Priscilla grumbled, but her expression softened as she took in my bruised face. “What happened? You okay?”

“I’m good enough,” I said. “So Brother Ephraim’s missing? What are they saying?”

“Him and Jackie and Joshua Purdy went hunting over close to your place, and Brother Ephraim walked away and never came back. And Joshua’s saying as how you called up a demon to attack him.”

“Mmmm,” I said, trying to be encouraging, trying to decide if I should tell her more. I decided not. “That’s it?”

“That’s enough, ain’t it?”

“I heard . . . I heard there were some outsiders around. Any new people in the compound?” Priss looked confused, and I tried to find another way to ask this, knowing how my matchmaker sister would take it, my sister who thought every woman needed a man and a dozen children in order to be happy. But I couldn’t think of anything except to blurt out, “Any new
men
?”