MacFarlane's Ridge (4 page)

Troy Adams was enthusiastic about her findings. “I can’t believe you had one of Mollie Duncan’s journals in your display box and didn’t even know it! She’s your great-great-great-something aunt!” he exclaimed.

Cam blushed. “I didn’t realize she was an historical figure.”

Troy shook his head. “She wasn’t, that’s what makes her so fascinating. She was just an everyday woman trying to survive in the wilderness. You should talk to Wanda Mabry.”

The name didn’t mean anything to Cam. “Who is she?”

“She was one of my instructors out at Bedford Community a couple of years ago. She majored in Appalachian folklore, or something like that. Kind of a weird gal, but she knows all about the families that have been here for hundreds of years. I’ll swing by her place and see if she’s available. She would love to see Mollie’s journal,” he added.

“I could just call her,” offered Cam, but Troy shook his head.

“No phone. Would you believe she only just got electricity a few years ago? Wanda thinks the mountains need to be left alone, and the only reason she got power hooked up in the first place was to run her welder. I need to stop in and say hello anyway, so I’ll see if she’ll have time to meet you.”

The day sped by quickly, although the crowds today didn’t seem quite as willing to barter over prices as the weekenders had been. Cam couldn’t keep her mind off the journal, and intended to talk to Wanda Mabry as soon as possible.

Troy stopped in at lunchtime to bring her a tuna sandwich from Alice’s, and to let her know the people at Vital Records had been able to turn up nothing about a Sarah MacFarlane with a husband named either Angus, Ian or Hamish. “I’m not surprised, though,” he confessed. “I really don’t think we’ll find anything on her at all. Every once in a while someone will wander in out of the hollers, confused like that. Most of the time they go back again as suddenly as they came, and no one is the wiser. Oh, by the way, I ran out to Wanda’s this afternoon.”

“And?” Cam waited expectantly.

Troy grinned boyishly. “She says she’ll be thrilled to talk to you. And she wants you to bring Mollie’s journal.”

Cam was surprised when she saw Wanda Mabry’s house. She had expected a college instructor to live in a well-manicured, neat house. Neat was not a word anyone would use to describe Wanda Mabry’s cabin. It sat on the side of a hill, and appeared to have somehow been built into the mountainside. It was definitely lopsided. The roof was tarpaper, with pieces missing here and there. The front porch was cluttered with several large metal objects, all of which were rusty.

“What are those?” asked Cam as Troy pulled up the gravel driveway.

“Wanda’s sculptures,” he smiled. “On her way back from classes every day, she picks up scrap metal along the road. Then she brings it back here and welds it into yard art. That’s why she decided to get electricity, remember?”

Cam looked at the jumble doubtfully. “If you say so.”

Troy laughed. “Oh, ye of little faith. I bet you could take some of those back to your store and sell them by the end of the week. People are into that whole junk art thing.”

Wanda had appeared out on the porch, picking a path to the steps. Cam smiled. The woman looked like the stereotype of the 1960’s radical hippie girl, but couldn’t have been much older than Cam herself. She wore brown leather sandals, a long denim skirt, and a big multicolored sweater that Cam suspected she had made herself. A long purple crystal hung on a thong around her neck.

“Yoo hoo! Greetings,” she called, waving at them. As Cam got out of the car she was forced to avoid stepping on one of the many cats that suddenly surrounded her ankles, purring and rubbing against her legs.

Wanda pushed a handful of straight red hair out of her eyes. “Come on in.” They followed politely, and Cam could hear the strains of Fleetwood Mac playing softly from somewhere within the house. “Y’all want some mint tea? I grew the mint myself.”

Cam and Troy both declined. The house smelled faintly of patchouli, and there was a large wooden table in the kitchen, covered from end to end with potted plants, small glass jars, and a ceramic mortar and pestle.

“What’s all this stuff?” Cam asked.

Wanda grinned. “I’m sort of an herbalist. One of my hobbies. That’s comfrey, there, and figwort, and witch hazel bark.”

Cam was intrigued. “What do you do with it all?”

“Not a lot, yet,” Wanda admitted. “I’m studying the medicinal uses of plants. Did you know that you can make a nice relaxing tea with steeped mistletoe leaves, but if you eat them straight they can be fatal?”

“Er, no, I wasn’t aware of that,” said Cam faintly.

“Me either, until I did some reading. That would be an embarrassing mistake to make, wouldn’t it? I did my thesis a few years back on the use of folk magic and herbal healing in Appalachia, and that was when I really started to get into it. May I see Mollie’s journal?” Wanda asked, and Cam handed it over obediently. “Make yourself at home.”

Wanda leafed through the book carefully, sipping her tea. She sat cross-legged on the floor, and Cam watched her as she skimmed through the pages, occasionally stopping to scribble on a scrap of paper. She periodically made small satisfied noises, or would laugh softly, or hum along with the faint sounds of “Gold Dust Woman” from the other room. After what seemed like forever, she closed the diary and looked at Cam, blinking owlishly.

“Cameron,” she grinned. “Y’all should have brought me this years ago.”

“Okay,” Wanda Mabry began, in her best college-lecture voice, pushing her wire-rimmed glasses back up on her nose. “Let me start by saying this is definitely authentic. Not that I thought y’all would try to bullshit me or anything, but there
are
certain people in your business that would stoop to forgery. Not mentioning any names, of course.”

Cam grinned at her. Wayne Sinclair was undoubtedly the name Wanda wasn’t mentioning. “Good. So it really is Mollie Duncan’s journal.”

“Correct. Troy, honey, flip that light on for me. You gotta jiggle the switch. Okay, now we know from Mollie’s letters that are held at the county archives that she is, surprisingly, a very literate woman.”

“Wait, wait,” interrupted Cam. “Troy said something about those as well. What are the letters?”

Troy explained, “Mollie Duncan kept up a correspondence with her brother-in-law, Robert MacFarlane. He was a pirate or sailor or something, but then he settled down out on MacFarlane’s Ridge with his brother and the other families. The letters were in the possession of a granddaughter of Mollie’s long after her death.”

“He wasn’t a pirate, that’s a myth,” corrected Wanda. “Robert was a merchant sailor who became a farmer when the Revolutionary War began. Mollie’s letters to him occasionally make a reference to her journals, but this is the first one that’s actually been found,” added Wanda.

“How many are there?” asked Cam.

Wanda shrugged. “Nobody knows. They may not even exist anymore, which would be a crying shame.”

“And Angus?” Cam asked.

Wanda waved a hand. “Interesting man. Angus Duncan was a patriot, a delegate to the Continental Congress. Moved around quite a bit, apparently, because his name turns up here and there. He married at some point, and was the ancestor of Isaac Duncan, and your grandmother, Emily Duncan Clark.”

“Okay,” murmured Cam. “What about the Faeries’ Gate?”

Wanda’s eyes brightened. “Oh, now, that’s a legend that goes back a long time, but only the old-timers seem to have heard about it. I’ve been following that one for years. The Shawnee called it
ho’a tehewenna
. The door to the spirits. Y’all hang on, I’ll be right back!”

She disappeared through a beaded curtain. The sweet harmonies of Stevie Nicks and Lindsay Buckingham were replaced by the haunting guitar chords of Ry Cooder.

Troy nudged Cam. “See? I told you she would know!”

Wanda returned with a fat three-ring binder in her hands. She sat on the floor by the coffee table and spread the notebook open. It was full of newspaper clippings. “Okay, listen to this. October, 1995. College student Kelli Jeffers goes hiking for the weekend, never is seen again. Her car is found in the parking lot at Fairy Stone State Park. No signs of foul play, she’s just gone. September, 1992. Forty-two year old Linda Sloane, a mother of three from New Jersey, disappears as well. Her car is also found not far from Fairy Stone. Again, no signs of foul play.”

Cam looked at Troy, but he was staring at Wanda.

Wanda paused. “There’s more. In fall of 1996, a man wandered into the town of Stuart, Virginia. He was delusional, so the police took him in. He had no identification on him at all. He ranted and raved about Indians trying to scalp him, and raping his wife and burning his house. They were going to keep him in the drunk tank over night, and then send him off to a psych ward in the morning. During the night, the man hung himself with the rope he had been using to hold up his pants. Ready for the kicker?”

Cam nodded, wondering how this was relevant.

Wanda continued. “When the coroner did the autopsy, he found that the man’s clothing was over two hundred years old. Not only that, the deceased had scars on his back that were consistent with flogging.”

“Flogging!” exclaimed Troy. “You mean like with a whip?”

Wanda shook her head. “Actually, the coroner said it looked more like a cat-o-nine-tails. You know, like they used on ships back in the old days.”

“Two hundred year old pants?” murmured Cam. She thought about the girl she had found in her garage, who had called herself Sarah MacFarlane. Her clothes had been old-looking, to be sure, and she had worn moccasins on her feet.

Wanda went on. “There are no less than a dozen reported disappearances in this part of Virginia over the past few decades. There are also nearly as many cases throughout the years of people who have turned up out of the blue, ranting and raving, dressed in old clothes.”

“Well,” asked Troy, “what has happened to all of those people?”

The woman glanced at the notebook thoughtfully. “They have nearly all been institutionalized or committed suicide, all but one or two that I know of.”

The three of them stared at each other for a long while. Cam spoke first. “So, what exactly are you saying, Wanda?”

Wanda Mabry leaned back into the cushions, blinking her big cat eyes at him. “It’s just a theory that I’ve had for a while, you understand. What if the Faeries’ Gate is actually some sort of portal?”

Troy laughed, rolling his eyes. “You mean like on
Star Trek
? A warp in the space-time continuum?”

Wanda was serious. “I mean it. How else can you explain people turning up in two hundred year old clothing who don’t have a clue where they are?”

Cam shook her head. “That isn’t possible. I mean, how can it be? Time travel is just something from the movies.”

“But what if it isn’t? What if it’s a reality, and the Faeries’ Gate is really a door to another time?”

“No,” protested Cameron. “Someone would have found it by now.”

“Not necessarily,” replied Wanda. “The Faeries’ Gate is a local legend, and I doubt if anyone outside the state of Virginia has ever even heard of it. Not only that, I am willing to bet that no one else has been keeping track of these odd appearances and disappearances. I’m thinking that nobody has put two and two together yet. Besides, no one knows exactly where it’s located, just that it’s somewhere near Fairy Stone State Park.”

Troy smiled. “Can you imagine the fortune we could make if we found it? Just think! It would be like Colonial Williamsburg, only better, because people could actually go there, and come back, and…”

“No!” exclaimed Cam, a little more sharply than she had intended. “I mean, no. You couldn’t just market it like it was a theme park.”

“Thank you, Cam,” said Wanda softly. “You are exactly right. Consider the ramifications if someone like Wayne Sinclair were to learn about this. Which, by the way, could easily happen if he were to find out you have Mollie Duncan’s journal. How far into it have you read?”

Cam shrugged. “Just up to about a year after Sarah’s disappearance. Robert MacFarlane should be turning up again any time.” A thought struck her. “Assuming there’s something to this theory of yours – and I can’t believe I am even going to say this – if we know what happened to the people who came from then to now, what about people like Kelli Jeffers or the others who disappeared from now to then?”

Wanda frowned. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. I would think they would have been very frightened, just like your Sarah was, and probably would have died of exposure in the wilderness before anyone found them. Remember, this part of the country was still the frontier two hundred years ago.”

She glanced at the clock. “It’s getting late. Cameron, keep reading Mollie’s journal. Maybe at some point she will give details about exactly where the Faeries’ Gate is located. In the meantime, y’all guard that book carefully. Like I said, you don’t want that asshole Wayne Sinclair getting his grubby paws on it.”

Troy and Cam drove back to town in silence. It was the young deputy who spoke first.

“You don’t really believe all that stuff, do you?”

Cam stared out the window. “I can’t believe we even had that conversation. How long have you known Wanda?”

“Long enough to know she’s basically a sane person.”

Cam glared at him. “Then explain all that stuff in her notebook, Troy! She thinks people are traveling through time! I mean, she really believes it! Don’t you think that gives me just a small case of the heebie-jeebies?”

“Well, okay, sure. But maybe there really is something weird going on down at Fairy Stone.”

“No, no,” argued Cam vehemently. “Why would anyone even keep track of disappearances or appearances? It’s creepy!”

He pulled up in front of the house on Meador Street. “Wanda’s not nuts, and don’t you go crazy on me, Cam. Get some sleep. You have a few more days of Antique Week to go, and by the time that’s over with maybe you’ll be in a better frame of mind.” He smiled at her. “Go get some sleep.”

Cam had planned to stay up and read more of Mollie’s thick journal, but drifted off almost immediately. She dreamed that night of a dark-haired man, who smiled down at her from a tall-masted ship…

November 4, 1775 –

A most tragic event has taken place in Maine. A Captain Mowat of the Royal Navy has bombarded the town of Falmouth, which is now burnt to the ground. There were few casualties, but this episode shows us how little regard the Crown has for the lives and property of the people. I once suggested to Robert that perhaps he should take his ship and provide assistance to the Continental Navy, but he claims to have no tactical or military skills, and says he does well enough as a merchant captain.

November 7, 1775 –

Our Sarah may be alive! Robert has returned to us from the sea, and with his customary Tales of Great Adventure and Political Upset he also brings news of an old Shawnee he met in Richmond. Robert tells us that this old man was one of the Savages who stole my Beloved Sister, and that Sarah was last seen near a place called the Faeries’ Gate. I am quite fearful now, it sounds
a most horrible place, and yet I am most overjoy’d that Sarah may be returned to us!

When I was a girl, my father used to tell us stories at night before we went to sleep. When I think of Sarah being in a place called the Faerie’s Gate, it brings to mind a tale my Da told us about the King of Faeries and a Miller’s Wife.

The Faerie King was tall and handsome, and he liked to wander the countryside to see how the mortals lived. His favorite pastime was to go and sit by the mill and watch the giant wheel spinning in the water, and so he got to know the Miller, who of course could not see him because he was the King of the Faeries, and could not be seen by mortal eyes. The miller had a beautiful young wife, and she was always happy and laughing, and her laughter was like the sound of the water spilling from the wheel down into the stream. The Faerie King would hide in the bushes and watch the miller’s wife, and listen to her beautiful laugh. The more he watched her, the more the Faerie King fell in love.

One day, when the miller’s wife was out riding, the Faerie King made himself visible, and began to talk to her. She had never seen so handsome a man before, and was flattered that such a fine gentleman as this would take the time to speak to her. They met often, and soon the young woman was head-over-heels in love with her handsome man, but of course she did not know he was a Faerie. She started to behave quite badly to her husband, the poor miller, who had no idea why his wife was acting in such a manner. Then one day, his wife ran off and left him, and the miller was so consumed by his grief that he could not work, and so the farmers could not get their corn ground.

Finally, one of the farmers, vexed at not getting his corn ground up properly, took the miller to see a wise woman. The miller begged the old woman to help him get his pretty wife back, and she told him that first she must know who the young lady had gone off with. She cast a spell, and saw that the wife had been carried off by the Faerie King. She said that he must go back to the mill and return to work, and she would give him a spell to say as he ground the corn. If done correctly, his wife would drop to the ground by his feet.

Every day the Miller tried saying the spell as he ground the corn, but nothing happened. After many weeks of this, he managed to get the spell right, and sure enough, as the wise woman had said, his wife dropped out of the air and landed at his feet. He never asked her about her time with the Faerie King, and she never spoke of it, but the wife and the miller stayed together until they died, and they were happy for all their days.

I hope my dear Sarah is happy too.

Mollie stood outside the cabin, quivering with anger and fear. She had never in her life hated anyone as much as she hated her brother-in-law right now. She could hear him fighting with Rob inside. Keeping an eye on Hamish, who was trying very hard to walk on his chubby legs without assistance, she leaned closer to the clapboard wall so she could make out the exact words.

“We willna’ be going off again on a damned wild goose chase!” shouted Ian, slamming his fist onto the plank table.

His brother glowered at him. “Ian, bloody hell, she’s your wife, man! How can ye not go after her? She could be alive, for God’s sake!”

“Aye, she could, Robbie! And d’ye think it doesna’ break my heart every time I think of her being forced to give herself to some savage just to stay alive?” moaned Ian. “If she were to come back, I could not touch her… not without thinking of that.”