Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (11 page)

“Sure. I think about it every day.” David said it lightly, but Christy thought she heard uncertainty there, too. “Sometimes I wonder if I can ever really be a part of this place, the way Miss Alice is. The way Doctor MacNeill is.”

“He told me you were still learning,” Christy said.

David rolled his eyes. “I suppose he's right,” he said. “Although I might point out that the Doc's more than a little set in his ways.” He shrugged. “Anyway. Take your time, Christy Huddleston. It will get easier.”

He stood and touched her lightly on the shoulder. She was grateful for the warm smile that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. “Oh, by the way. I heard about the incident with Vella.”

“I'd planned to talk to Lundy about it—”

“I see you've quickly figured out where the trouble's likely to start. I tried talking to Lundy and Smith myself this afternoon. Couldn't get anything out of them, so I guess we'll just have to keep an eye on things.” His face went grave. “I don't want to worry you, especially when you're feeling nervous enough, but Lundy and his friends are bad news. This won't be the only time you'll have to confront them, and next time, it may be worse. If that happens, I want you to come to me, understand?”

Christy nodded. But as she watched David trudge back up the hill, she remembered some advice Miss Alice had given her about taking charge of the classroom. Christy knew she couldn't run to David every time there was trouble.

She gathered up her diary and started to leave. But after a few steps, she turned around. Slowly, methodically, she began to search the bank of the creek, hoping she might find the locket her father had given her.

She knew it was crazy. The necklace must have caught on something during her fall, or broken when she was underwater. It was probably miles down the stream by now, lost forever. Lost forever like her old life. And in its place was the new life she had chosen, a hard, demanding, terrifying, complicated, lonely life in Cutter Gap.

It's an adventure,
she told herself. This was what she'd wanted, what she'd dreamed of. She was doing God's work.

But what if I can't do it well enough?
a doubting part of her heart asked.

She gazed up at the bridge. She remembered wondering if Bob Allen's accident and her fall off the bridge had been signals that coming here was a mistake. It would be nice to have a sign that she was on the right track, but so far, God had not delivered one.

Christy trudged back and forth along the creek's bank until the sun began to melt behind the farthest blue-black ridge. In her heart, she'd known all along that the locket was lost. So why was it she couldn't seem to stop crying?

Twelve

Y
ou're not eating a thing,” Miss Ida scolded the next morning.

“I'm sorry,” Christy apologized, staring at her eggs unhappily. “I haven't got much of an appetite this morning.”

“Had plenty of one every other morning,” Miss Ida grumbled, pulling Christy's plate away.

Christy got up from the table. “I thought I'd go over to the school a bit early this morning, to get things ready.”
Like myself
, she added silently.

“May I have a word with you, Christy?” Miss Alice asked.

“Of course. If it's about my lesson plans, I know they still need some work—”

“No, no,” Miss Alice said, laughing. She gestured to the porch. They put on their wraps and headed outside. Their breath hung in the air. The sun was just rising, casting a pink glow over the school.

“Have you ever watched a baby learning to walk, Christy?” Miss Alice asked. “He totters, arms stretched out to balance himself. He wobbles, and falls, perhaps bumps his nose. Then he puts the palms of his little hands flat on the floor, hikes his rear end up, looks around to see if anybody is watching him. If nobody is, usually he doesn't bother to cry, just balances himself—and tries again.”

“I don't understand—”

“That baby can teach us. You can't expect immediate perfection in your schoolroom. It's a
walk
, and a walk isn't static but ever-changing. We Quakers say that all discouragement is from an evil source and can only end in more evil. Feeling sorry for yourself is worse than falling on your face in the first place.”

Christy felt unexpected tears sting her eyes. “I came here to do God's work,” she whispered. “But what if I can't? What if I'm no good at it?”

Miss Alice draped an arm around her shoulders. “So you fall, like that baby. Maybe you even bump your nose. So you're human. Thank God for your humanness!”

Christy took a deep, steadying breath. “I'll try, Miss Alice,” she said.

“That's all you can do, child. ‘Give, and it shall be given unto you,'” Miss Alice said softly. “You'll see.”

Christy squeezed Miss Alice's hand. As she headed off across the boardwalk toward school, she could feel the woman's gaze upon her, warmer than the dawn sunlight peeking over the mountains.

The schoolroom was cold, even though David had already started a roaring fire in the potbellied stove. Christy walked back and forth across the empty room, straightening desks, cleaning off the blackboard, fussing and fidgeting. Her heart hammered in her chest. Her hands were shaking like leaves in a breeze.

“Give, and it shall be given unto you
,
”
Miss Alice had said. But what if she didn't have enough to give?

She heard the thump of little steps and turned to see Little Burl in the doorway. He was wearing a coat two sizes too big for him. One elbow had been patched a dozen times, it seemed. The sleeves were rolled up, yet still his little hands were hidden. His feet, again, were bare. His nose was running.

“Teacher,” he said, “I came early.”

“You certainly did,” Christy said, trying to force lightness into her voice.

“I was a-thinkin' all last night.”

Christy sat down in her chair and motioned for Little Burl to join her. He climbed up in her lap. “What were you thinking about, Little Burl?”

“About what you said. About the birds and all.”

“The birds?” Christy flashed through yesterday's lessons. Had she mentioned birds? No. Raccoons, yes, but no birds. Well, there you had it. She really
wasn't
reaching these kids.

“I don't remember about the birds,” Christy said gently. “We talked about Creed's raccoon, I remember that—”

“The birds, outside,” Little Burl insisted loudly. “The chickadees!”

“Oh, you mean at lunch! The birds you fed. Of course.”

Little Burl's funny little face held a look of intense concentration. “Teacher, you said that God loves everybody, right?”

“That's right,” Christy said.

“Well, then, ain't it true that if God loves everybody, then we'uns got to love everybody, too?”

Christy looked at the little boy in astonishment. “Yes, Little Burl,” she encouraged, “it
is
true.” Forever and forever and forever, she added silently.

He broke into a smile, relieved. “Thought so.”

Christy watched as he scampered back out the door. One comment, an offhand remark during noon recess, had set this little boy to thinking.

Something she'd said
had
mattered. Something she'd said had made a difference.

Perhaps God's work started in small ways.

She'd wanted a sign. Maybe this, after all, was the one she'd been waiting for.

Christy went to the door. The children began to appear as the day broke. In twos, in clumps, dancing, skipping, running, their faces filled with hope and joy. And sometimes, yes, filled with darker things—loneliness, hunger, fear, even anger.

She was surprised when she saw Fairlight Spencer walking toward the school, her children by her side. She was carrying a little leather pouch in one hand. The other held the toddler named Little Guy.

“Fairlight!” Christy exclaimed. Strangely, when Fairlight returned her smile, Christy felt like she was seeing an old, very dear friend.

“I tell you, these children hardly slept a wink last night, they were so excited about school,” Fairlight said. She handed the leather pouch to Christy with a shy smile. “John found this a couple days back, over yonder by the bank of the creek.”

Christy opened the pouch and reached inside. At the bottom, she felt the cool smoothness of metal.

“My locket?” she whispered.

Slowly she removed the necklace. The chain was gone. In its place was a thin braid of the softest yarns, in blues and greens and blacks and violets.

“I spun and dyed the yarn myself. I know it ain't the same. I sent John and Clara back to look for the chain, but it must have fallen in the creek when you fell in.”

Christy grinned. “You heard about that?”

“Word travels fast around these here parts.”

“So I hear.”

Fairlight peered at Christy, her face lined with worry. “The braidin' is all wrong, I know—”

“It's beautiful,” Christy insisted. “More beautiful than before. All the colors of the mountains.” Her eyes overflowed with tears. “Thank you, Fairlight. It means more to me than you can know.”

Gently Christy opened the locket. The pictures were damp, but unharmed. Her loving family gazed back at her. Christy closed the cover and slipped the braid over her head. She felt the silver heart, close to her own heart again. It was part of her old life, and now, with Fairlight's gift, part of her new one as well.

“Let's start those reading lessons soon, all right?” Christy said.

“I can't hardly wait,” Fairlight said eagerly.

Christy nodded. “Neither can I,” she said with sudden feeling.

She took a deep breath. The morning sun was full now, a glorious red-gold, filtering down through these mountains that were her home. She felt a tiny, cold hand take hold of hers.

“Ready?” Little Burl asked.

Christy smiled down at the little boy. “Did you ever see a baby learn to walk, Little Burl?” she asked, and then, at last, she knew the adventure she had longed for was about to begin.

Silent
Superstitions

Contents

The Characters

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

The Characters

CHRISTY RUDD HUDDLESTON
, a nineteen-
year-old girl.

CHRISTY'S STUDENTS
:

         ROB ALLEN, age fourteen.

         CREED ALLEN, age nine.

         BESSIE COBURN, age twelve.

         WRAIGHT HOLT, age seventeen.

         ZACHARIAS HOLT, age nine.

         BECKY HOLT, age seven.

         VELLA HOLT, age five.

         ISAAK MCHONE, age twelve.

         SMITH O'TEALE, age fifteen.

         ORTER BALL O'TEALE, age eleven.

         MOUNTIE O'TEALE, age ten.

         GEORGE O'TEALE, age nine.

         MARY O'TEALE, age eight.

         THOMAS O'TEALE, age six.

         RUBY MAE MORRISON, age thirteen.

         JOHN SPENCER, age fifteen.

         CLARA SPENCER, age twelve.

         ZADY SPENCER, age ten.

         LUNDY TAYLOR, age seventeen.

ALICE HENDERSON
, a Quaker mission worker from Ardmore, Pennsylvania.

GRANNY O'TEALE
, great-grandmother of the O'Teale children.

SWANNIE O'TEALE
, a mountain woman.

NATHAN O'TEALE
, her husband.
(Parents of Christy's students Smith, Orter Ball, Mountie, George, Mary, and Thomas.)

WILMER O'TEALE
, the retarded, epileptic O'Teale son.

DAVID GRANTLAND
, the young minister.

IDA GRANTLAND
, David's sister.

DR. NEIL MACNEILL
, the physician of the Cove.

JEB SPENCER
, a mountain man.

FAIRLIGHT SPENCER
, his wife.
(Parents of Christy's students John, Clara, and Zady.)

One

S
he's a witch, I tell you! Ugly as a coot, with hardly no hair. She's got monstrous red eyes and fingernails like the claws of a hawk!”

Mary O'Teale paused to warm her hands by the pot-bellied stove in the one-room schoolhouse. Her listeners crowded closer. “Old Marthy's her name,” she continued, lowering her voice to a whisper. “Late at night when the moon's as full as a pumpkin, she comes 'round, makin' mischief. If she takes a dislikin' to you, she'll sneak inside while you're a-dreamin' and put a curse on you.”

As she listened from her desk, Christy Huddleston couldn't help smiling. Eight-year-old Mary definitely had a vivid imagination. Christy knew her students loved to tell each other “haunt tales.” But she worried about the younger children. They were easily frightened, and she didn't want the stories getting out of hand.

“You're just talkin' to hear yerself talk, Mary,” said Ruby Mae Morrison, a thirteen-year-old with vibrant red hair and a personality to match. “Ain't nobody ever seen Old Marthy.”

Mary jutted her chin. “My great-granny has,” she replied. She inched her right foot closer to the old stove. Like most of the children at the mission school, she did not own a pair of shoes. Even now, in January, Mary and her friends walked to school barefoot.

Ruby Mae twisted a strand of hair around her index finger. “You're sayin' Granny's seen a witch, up-close like?”

Mary nodded. “Granny saw Old Marthy make someone eat a witch ball.”