Bridge to Cutter Gap / Silent Superstitions / The Angry Intruder (14 page)

Just then, the wind gave a sudden piercing howl, like a frightened animal. It was followed by a noise that sounded like rapid, muffled clapping.

The children fell silent. Christy gazed toward the ceiling. “Does anyone know where that sound is coming from?” she asked. Before anyone could respond, she had her answer. A sleek, black bird soared through the air above the children.

“A raven!” Mary cried. The big bird swooped in a large circle, as if he were surveying the room. Several of the students ducked. A few covered their heads.

“Just what we need,” Christy said as she sat down at her desk. “Another uninvited guest. How on earth did he get in here? And don't tell me Creed let him in through the trap door!”

“Through the steeple up top, I'll wager,” Creed said in a trembling voice. “It ain't all the way finished yet. I reckon that bird just sneaked his way on in.”

“Nasty birds, ravens is,” Ruby Mae said, eyeing the bird warily. “Like nothin' better than to pick out the eye of a lamb or a fawn.”

The awful image made Christy shiver. “You mean when they find a dead one?” she asked.

“Naw. It's the eyes of livin' animals they like.”

Christy watched the bird swoop and circle once again. It slowed as it neared her, then landed gracefully on her desk.

“Well,” she tried to joke, “it's always nice to have another student. Mr. Raven, have you met Mabel and George? Perhaps our new arrival would like to share what he wants to be when he grows up.”

A glance at the class told her they did not appreciate her joke. All eyes were locked on the shiny, strutting bird. Creed's hands were clenched in tight balls. Vella looked as if she were on the verge of tears. Ruby Mae was biting her lip nervously.

“Come on, now,” Christy chided. “It's just a raven.” The bird cocked his head to one side, gazing at her with an eye like a black bead. Christy eased her chair back a few inches. She loved birds, but something about this one made her uneasy. He was too sure of himself, swaggering across her desk as if he were on some special mission.

Still, Christy was a “city-gal.” It seemed odd that the raven was making these mountain children uncomfortable, too. After all, they'd grown up surrounded by wildlife. They certainly hadn't been afraid of the hogs.

“Creed,” Christy said, “open the door, would you? Maybe our uninvited guest will take the hint.”

Creed ran to open the door. A blast of cold air filled the room. “All right,” Christy said to the bird, “it's been nice visiting with you, but it's time to go.”

The raven did a little dance around her desk, pecking at the surface and bobbing its head. Suddenly he stopped cold.

Christy heard a gasp. Granny O'Teale stood in the doorway, a horrified expression on her face. The old woman pointed a trembling finger at the raven.

“Mountie, Mary, Thomas!” Granny cried. “Get out here, now! I want all the O'Teale children to come with me.”

The raven locked a glassy eye on Christy. It let out three cries—
CAW! CAW! CAW!
Then, with a flourish of its wings, it whipped past Granny and sped out the door.

“
Now,
I tell you!” Granny yelled, beckoning with her arm. One by one, the O'Teale children began heading toward the door.

Christy stared past Granny at the darkening sky and dancing pines. “Why don't we call off school early today?” she said to the class. “I don't want you to get caught in bad weather, and I know that some of you have a long walk ahead. Class is dismissed. I hope to see many of you at church here Sunday morning. Assuming, that is, that the weather doesn't cause us any trouble.”

She was surprised to see the relief in her students' eyes. Other days this week their departure had been filled with joyous laughter, dancing and running, and goodbye hugs. But today, the students filed past Christy in a quiet, anxious procession. A few gave halting goodbyes. Creed and his friend, Zacharias Holt, paused just long enough to examine the top of Christy's desk, then dashed off through the door at high speed.

“Mary, I ain't a-goin' to tell you again,” Granny cried, almost frantically.

“I'm comin', Granny,” Mary called. “I'm just gettin' Mountie's coat on for her.”

Christy watched as Mary and Mountie made their way through the maze of desks toward the door. As usual, Mountie's hair was snarled, her face smudged. She wore a dress two sizes too big for her, and over that, a ragged coat with patched elbows and no buttons. She walked past Christy without expression. Her eyes were flat and dull. In her first week of teaching, Christy had never once seen Mountie smile or laugh.

“Mountie,” Christy said gently.

The little girl paused. She did not turn.

“Mountie,” Christy said again, touching the little girl's shoulder, “I just wanted to tell you how very lucky I feel to have you in my classroom. I hope we can be friends. I'd really like that.”

Then Christy lifted her hand from Mountie's shoulder, and the girl moved on. Her face showed no sign she'd registered Christy's words. How could a little girl so young and innocent seem so dead inside?

“Take care of that arm, Mary,” Christy called as the two girls joined Granny.

Granny shook a finger at Christy. “Stay away from my girls, you hear? I'm a-warnin' you. I seen all I need to see. You're bad luck, you are.”

With that, Granny yanked the two girls away. Christy watched Mountie's small bare feet padding across the snow. Big, feathery flakes were starting to fall.

“What is that old woman so afraid of?” Christy whispered. “I just want to help.”

As if in answer, one of the hogs under the school let out a very uncivilized grunt.

“Another vote of support,” Christy said. She smiled, but as she watched Mountie clasp Mary's hand and slowly disappear into the dark woods, her smile vanished.

High up in a swaying pine, the shiny, black raven stared down at Christy with a haunting glare.

Three

A
nd that's the end of it,” Granny said firmly as she led Mary and Mountie into the O'Teales' tiny cabin.

The girls' mother, Swannie O'Teale, was poking at the fire. “End of what?” she asked. She held out her arms, and Mary and Mountie ran over to give her a hug.

Granny dropped into her rocker. The door swung open and Smith, Orter Ball, George, and Thomas dashed inside. Smith was carrying a snowball.

“Out with that,” Swannie O'Teale said wearily.

Six-year-old Thomas ran to Granny's side. “Did ya tell Ma?” he asked excitedly.

“Tell me what?” Mrs. O'Teale asked.

“About the raven,” Thomas said.

Smith tossed the snowball out the door. “Today a raven, big as you've ever seen, came a-flyin' straight into the school,” Smith said, his voice low and spooky.

“Big as an eagle, it was,” Orter Ball added.

George nodded. “Swooped around that room and went straight for that teacher like a huntin' dog sniffin' out a coon.”

Mrs. O'Teale pulled Mountie into her lap. “Ravens is evil birds. Where'd it come from, do you 'spect?”

“Came out of nowheres,” Smith said. He made a low moaning noise, like the wind outside. “Just like a witch-bird.”

“Stop it, Smith, you're a-scarin' me,” George whined.

“I 'spect it came in through the steeple up top,” Mary said. “The preacher ain't finished it all up yet. I'll bet there's holes up there. Raven probably came in to get warm.” She smiled at Granny. “Or like Teacher said, maybe he wanted some book learnin'.”

Granny shook a finger at her. “This ain't nothin' for you to go makin' light of, girl. A raven's a bad omen. Outside a house is bad enough, but inside, like this 'un . . .” She shook her head. The fire danced in her eyes. “This flatlander's bringin' a heap of badness with her, I'll wager.”

“Tell me the rest,” Mrs. O'Teale urged. “What happened to the raven?”

“He done flew straight to that teacher's desk like he knowed right where he was a-goin',” Smith said. “And then he locked a beady eye on her and let out three loud calls for all the world to hear.”

“
CAW! CAW! CAW!
” Orter Ball and George piped up.

“And then Creed Allen opened up the door, and that bird flew out like he'd done what he set out to do,” Smith finished.

A hush fell over the cabin. Outside, a branch cracked and tumbled, bouncing off the roof. The wind moaned and whistled. Mountie reached for Mary's hand and squeezed it.

“That mission school is the work of the devil!” Granny hissed. Her eyes were wide and filled with fear.

“Might be you're right, Granny,” Mrs. O'Teale said, nodding.

“I told you no good would come of sending the children to those people. They ain't like us. And now you have the proof of it, plain as day. Tell her about your arm, Mary.”

“Ain't nothin', Mama,” Mary said quickly, but it was too late. Her mother had already noticed the ugly mark.

“Mary! Did that teacher—”

“No, Mama, no! Lundy Taylor done tripped me, is all. I fell down the slidin' hill and hit a tree.”

“It's another sign,” Granny said, her voice quavering. “That, and the tree a-fallin' on Bob Allen, and probably this storm to boot.”

“Granny, it's January,” Mary argued. “We have storms like this all the—”

“Don't go sassin' me,” Granny said. “That raven went straight for that city-gal. And that's a sign she's cursed, sure as I'm a-sittin' here.”

“I say she's a witch,” Smith said.

“Smith don't like her cuz she told him not to talk out of turn,” Mary said. “Teacher's not really bad, Mama, I promise you. She's got this way of talkin', so pretty it well-nigh sounds like music. And a red sweater so soft you'd a-swear it were made of sunrise clouds. And her eyes! There be something magic about them—”

“Black magic,” Granny cried. “Already she's got you under her spell, girl.” Granny got up from her rocker and went to Swannie O'Teale's side. “You mustn't send these children back to that mission school,” Granny said. “No good will come of it. Wherever that teacher-gal goes, troubles will follow like the moon follows the sun. I'm a-warnin' you.”

“But we wanted the children to have some book learnin',” Mrs. O'Teale said slowly. “I was hopin' they could learn Latin, all proper-like . . .”

“Look what happened to Bob and to Mary,” Granny argued. “Could be worse, much worse, next time.”

“I s'pose yer right.”

“But Mama—” Mary cried. Her heart sank. She could already tell that her mother was going to give in to Granny's demand.

“No point argufyin' with Granny,” said Mrs. O'Teale. She hesitated. “Course, I would like to get to church on Sundays still. Do you think that would be safe, Granny? After all, she were at church last Sunday and nothin' bad happened.”

Granny stroked her chin. “Coulda been lucky that time. I'd advise against goin' back.”

“On the Lord's day,” Mrs. O'Teale said, “with the whole of the Cove there to ward off her curse? And no teachin' a-goin' on, just proper preachin'?”

“Well, I s'pose that might be safe,” Granny gave in reluctantly. “If'n I brew us up some powerful herbs to ward off that gal's curse, we might just could go. I'd have to think on it a spell. A little garlic, a pinch o' dill to ward off the evil. A clover leaf, if'n I can find some dried. . . . If I put together a proper recipe, I 'spect we could go to church.”

“Too bad for that,” muttered Smith.

“Mind you, now,” Granny warned, “you can't be a-lettin' her in on why you're wearin' my recipe. Gal with a curse on her that strong, she'll be able to work against all my medicine. So you'uns keep your mouth hushed when you're over to the church.”

“So we don't have to go to that mission school no more?” Smith asked.

“Looks like not,” said Mrs. O'Teale.

“Good thing,” Smith said. “She was way too bossy for a gal-woman, if'n you ask me.”

“Please, Mama—” Mary began.

“Hush now,” Granny interrupted. “I need to figure on what herbs and such will ward off a curse that strong.”

“Could you make it somethin' that don't smell too bad, Granny?” Orter Ball asked. “'Member that time we was afraid of catchin' sick and you done made us rub that lard mess on ourselves? Stank to high heaven, it did.”

“You stop your fussin' and be thankful you got a granny who knows such things,” Granny replied. She cast a warning look at Mary. “And not another word about that teacher-gal, you hear?”

Mary lay in her bed that night, listening to the wind howl and carry on. Creed Allen had been right when he'd told Teacher it was going to storm. Tree limbs heavy with snow cracked like lightning. The icy wind found every chance it could to sneak through holes and cracks.

Mary shivered beneath her thin blanket. Mountie lay beside her on a straw mattress on the floor. Three of their older brothers slept in the loft, a hole cut in the ceiling that led to a small space they reached by ladder. Their mama and papa slept in the far corner of the room. Thomas, the youngest, slept near them. The oldest brother, Wilmer, who had fits, slept in a sort of half-bed, half-pen, in the corner. Granny, on account of her age, had the only bed off the floor, and it was just a straw mattress on some crates to keep her away from the cold floor.

It was not much of a cabin, Mary knew. Most of her friends at school had nicer ones. Cleaner, anyway. Once, when she'd gone to the Spencers' cabin to play with Zady, she'd seen a bunch of flowers in a bowl, just sitting right there on the eating table for no reason except to look pretty. Miz Spencer was like that, always laughing and singing and picking flowers.

Mary's mother never sang. She had saggy shoulders, as if she were carrying some awful load of rocks she could never put down. Sometimes Mary wondered why that was. It could be that Wilmer, who'd been simpleminded ever since he was born, made their mother extra tired. He was a heap of trouble and pain, drooling and muttering and running away when no one was looking.