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Authors: Phillip Depoy

BOOK: The Witch's Grave
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“It was not a thing of this earth,” he whispered, his eyes shifting between me and his wife. “That's what I think.”
“Hek,” I coaxed. “You don't really believe that.”
“I won't say who or what it was, then.” He sniffed. “But it looked like June.”
That was an attitude I'd recorded time and again, especially where paranormal events were concerned: skepticism, reluctance to appear foolish, and acknowledgment of the phenomenon—in one sentence. Strange voices from the grave were eerie but perfectly acceptable effects of night wind, a wandering stranger. Or they could just as well be evidence of unearthly revenants. Not saying everything he was thinking kept Hek in command of the situation.
Not saying
was, in fact, an art form in my hometown.
“You think you saw June up there?”
He shoveled steaming field peas into his mouth. The scrape of the fork on the porcelain plate was the only sound in the kitchen. June and I sat waiting for him to finish.
“Okay, boy.” He sat back, strength returning to his voice. “Great many years I been hearing things from that old graveyard, and I ain't the only one. Mostly amongst the Newcomb graves up there.”
The sound of his voice curled back over the name of Newcomb. Our town was called Newcomb Junction until 1925, when Jeribald “Tubby” Newcomb married his half sister and all the resulting progeny bore serious birth defects or an unusual dwarfism. Town meeting in October of that year unanimously agreed to change the name the town, call it after the mountain we loved instead of the family we reviled. Jeribald moved the entire brood to Chattanooga.
His oldest boy, Tristan, was the smallest person ever born in Appalachia. When Jeribald died, Tristan took his inheritance, separated from the family, moved back to Blue Mountain, and embraced his mountain heritage. He billed himself as “The Newcomb Dwarf” and began the fabled
Ten Show,
a traveling entertainment comprised of ten strange acts, which had employed my parents. He died in 1968 and was buried in the graveyard of which Hek was apparently frightened.
“People say the fuss up there is Newcombs restless in the cemetery.” He shoved his plate away from him and let out a breath.
Hek was one of the people who said it; I'd heard as much from him on a dozen occasions. Citizens of Blue Mountain were slow to forgive, slower to forget. Traces of the Newcomb name were rare, old records put away in damp basements, older memories, tombstones covered with blackberry brambles. Their mansion sat in disrepair on the other side of the mountain; no one ever went near. People said crickets wouldn't chirp within a hundred feet of the place.
I was one of the people who said that. As boys, Skid and I had taken a dare to camp out in the house. We lived to tell the tale—the ruin of days gone by, our midnight adventures.
“If I turn on the tape player, would you talk about this?” I knew what he'd say. “For the research?”
“Rather not.” He had stopped shivering and the food had contented his face.
“Fever's worried about Able Carter,” June told her husband. “Thought he could trick me into talking about it with his machine.”
“He ought to know better.” He rumbled a laugh. “I'm the only man can trick you.” A sideways glance.
“Hezekiah.” She blushed again.
That rose in her cheeks was a window on their marriage. I was aware of their secret, the true reason for June's schoolgirl flush—and for bounteous crops on their land. They were a traditional couple in many respects; one of those traditions was the uncharacteristically pagan practice of having sex in their fields on every solstice. Four times a year these churchgoing grandparents would wait until midnight and sneak out to the acreage behind their house. They'd spread a quilt and lie together in as passionate an embrace as weather and advancing age would allow. I knew this because their amorous noises had been so ferocious one night I'd heard them halfway up the mountain. I'd been walking late in the summertime, years ago; drawn by the sounds I had made my discovery. I'd never told them, they'd have been mortified, but I'd always admired the concept.
The practice was a well-documented folk custom traced to pre-Christian farming. The more fertile and enthusiastic a husbandman's behavior with his wife, the better the crop yield: sympathetic magic. Giant ears of Cotage Silver Queen corn were the envy of the county, considered proof of the theory.
There was nothing in the academic literature, however, to suggest the vigor, the sheer volume, of Hek and June's magic. The corn spoke for itself, but the true value of the practice was, it had always seemed to me, more domestic than agricultural.
“These noises you heard last night in the graveyard,” I began, jotting down a few notes in the spiral pad, “are the continuation of a phenomenon that goes back years, you're saying.”
“After a while,” he answered, “rumor becomes fact; gossip takes on the shine of history. I know that. I'm ashamed to admit it I've done my share of telling stories. Makes it harder for you to believe me now.” His right shoulder twitched again, a memory shiver.
He was right: I'd heard stories about that graveyard my whole life. Every town has its haunted places; I think there must be something in the human spirit that needs darkness, a tangible place for fear's repose. Nightmares have a boundary then, a definition, and are easier to bear. But there was more to Hek's chill.
Time to ask the real question.
“Why rekindle those stories now, Hek? What's got you so scared?”
He sucked in an echoing breath, let it out like a death rattle. “Okay, then.” He leaned forward on his elbows, reached into the breast pocket of his coat, and laid a torn bit of peach-colored cloth on the table in front of us. Tiny roses dotted the fabric in a strange pattern; I'd never seen anything quite like it.
June gasped, covered her mouth with both hands, froze, eyes wide.
“Woman in the graveyard held her hand out toward me,” Hek rasped, “something in it.” He turned to his wife. “I can't find my glasses; you're right. Honestly couldn't make out who or what it was.” Back to me, voice hushed. “I headed her way; she ran. This was on the marker when I got there.”
The torn swatch lay curled on the tabletop, a petal. They glared at it, June had stopped breathing.
“There's something about this material?” I asked her.
One curt nod, she took her hands away from her bloodless face.
“I've never seen any other like it,” she whispered. “Looks to be from the dress I was wearing when Hek and me was wed. It's long since gone to dust.”
June was upset enough to excuse herself from the table; Hek made apologies. Within five minutes I was back in my truck, headed for home. It wasn't at all unusual that a sensible couple like the Cotages could find themselves worried about visitors from beyond the grave. Their daily lives were filled with religion; a spirit that might find mansions in the sky could just as easily be lost on earth. In truth I scarcely knew a soul in the mountains who didn't have a strong spiritual appreciation of the occasional event beyond the natural. June and Hek had more proof than most. I didn't believe that he was lying or even exaggerating when he told us about the woman he'd seen. I had my own opinions, of course, but I was as stubborn an adherent to the art of
not saying
as anyone in my town.
The day was growing darker again; steel clouds locked out the sun. Thunder rumbled from the other side of the mountain, and a rush of rain swept across the fields. Roads were suddenly slick black rivers. I was glad traffic was sparse.
If the weather had been nicer, I might have resolved to drive past the cemetery right then, have a look at the stones, scour for patches of cloth in the brambles. I thought I might find answers to one of our mysteries immediately. As it was, a cup of espresso, an early fire, and waking up Andrews held infinitely more appeal.
I turned off the road onto my property and saw the squad car.
Skid was sitting on the porch, still in his slicker, rocking, cup of
coffee in hand. Andrews was standing at the rail, blankly gazing at the sheets of rain hung like curtains against the sky.
“Afternoon!” I called, climbing out of the truck and dashing for the relative comfort of the porch.
Andrews rallied.
“Thanks for letting me sleep.” He rubbed his eyes. “I guess I needed it. Skidmore woke me up about a half an hour ago. How's June?”
“Fine.” I watched Skid chew the inside of his cheek. “I thought you were conducting a murder investigation.”
“That's why I'm here.” He set his mug aside. “Harding was killed early Thursday night, broke neck and blunt trauma to the head. Plus we got the fiber study back from Atlanta. They found little bits of fiber belonged to Able, matched it with DNA from a shirt in Able's closet.”
“That was quick,” I said, impressed with his work.
“I don't mind you still looking for Truvy,” Skid said firmly, standing, “but I got to ask you to leave off anything concerns Able, and you bring me what you find right quick.”
“I understand. How's Linda taking this?”
“We don't talk about it.” Skid's face was lined, eyes rimmed red, clothes rumpled. His hands moved too quickly; his voice was hollow.
“Must be rough looking for your wife's brother,” Andrews realized, “on a murder charge.”
Skid scratched his nose with one upward movement. “I'm serious about this, Dev.”
“I know you are.” I laid my hand on his shoulder.
“Is that it for our case, then?” Andrews didn't bother to hide his disappointment.
“In fact,” I answered, heading into the kitchen for espresso, “I may have some good news about that.”
They exchanged glances and followed me in. As had happened often since I'd moved back to the mountains, my house filled me with contentment as I stepped over the threshold. Solid oak beams framed the large room downstairs, galley kitchen to the right as you
came in the front door. My parents had set a cast-iron stove into the stone hearth to the left by a large picture window. Gray air was changed to green out that window by the surrounding pine and cedar trees. Behind them hung a more distant Monet of autumn. Quilts on the wall, like church windows, did their best to brighten the room. The staircase in the far corner led up to three bedrooms.
“You found something?” Andrews said, interrupting my domestic reverie. He was pouring himself coffee from the larger coffeemaker.
The house was chilled and dreary; gray light dabbed the corners; the ceilings were musty. I wanted to start that fire, but I knew Skidmore couldn't wait.
“Truevine may be hiding out in the city cemetery,” I said over the grinding coffee beans.
“Christ.” Andrews turned, sloshing coffee onto the counter. “What makes you think that?”
“Hek saw her, I think,” I answered.
“Well, that would be Truvy,” Skid admitted, a faint crease at the corner of his lips.
“She might hide out in a graveyard?” Andrews pulled a wad of paper towels from the wall, swiped at his spill. “I've got to know more about this girl.”
“Andrews once confessed to me,” I told Skid, starting the espresso maker, “that his perfect mate would believe she was a vampire.”
“My Goth phase.” He shrugged. “It was short.”
“Truvy's always been a little off,” Skid sighed. “The whole family.”
“But the rumors didn't really start about her until she got involved with Rud Pinhurst.”
“I guess you're right,” Skid considered.
“Didn't you say the mortician Pinhurst was her cousin?” Andrews's eyes grew wider. “Does this mean she was involved with one of her relatives?”
“There's lots of Pinhurst family around,” Skid said slowly, not looking back at Andrews.
“He might have been a third or fourth cousin, I suppose,” I allowed, “but that's not the point.”
“Rud was no good.” Skid leaned on the kitchen counter, punctuating the finality of his statement.
“Tell,” Andrews insisted.
“The town decided about five years ago to set up a kind of living folk museum,” I began, “a tourist attraction, really.”
Skid shook his head. “More like seven, wasn't it?”
“Anyway,” I went on, “part of it was a working smithy. Rud Pinhurst used some connection to one of the business sponsors to get the job. He'd done ironwork around town anyway: horses needed shoes, tourists wanted fireplace sets for their tract mansions in Marietta. The town set up a weekend business for fall and spring. Truevine fell in love with him then, and not much later they broke up. I got her story on tape shortly after that.”
I told Andrews the story.
 
Rud Pinhurst courted Truevine in private. She was in love with him. His hammer was her church bell. He was her religion. On many afternoons they would take to the hills and meadows among the primroses and the sweet william. Rud swore to marry her if she'd lie down beside him.
They made plans. She would learn his trade and help him at his work. They'd live in the shelter of a tree, sleep on a bed of meadow grass. She'd lie content in his arms through summer's sun and winter's chill.
All that autumn every time some city visitor would say, “Who's that fine boy?” she'd say, “That's my blacksmith.” She was happy, thought she was wiser than any woman alive.
When the year turned old, the cold wind blew all around; there was warmth by the fire at his bellows, warmer still by the hearth in her house when no one else was about.
At Christmastime there was a dance everyone attended. It was the only time many people came into town for fun—not for business, not for need, only for want of company. Dancing close to someone was an added enticement, but Truevine had a better plan for that night. She was going to announce her devotion to Rud at that party.
It would be the night she'd show him off; the world would know he was hers.
She arrived early, anxious to share the good tidings, but kept silent. Long hours passed; it was nearly midnight. Many had gone home by the time Rud finally came. He carried strange news. As boldly as he ever struck his anvil, he declared it for all to hear:
“I can only stay a moment. I have a secret to tell.” It was clear he had been drinking. “I've come to say to you-all that I'm married.”
Everyone thought it was odd that he should marry in secret; the room was hushed.
“Uncle Jackson arranged it; she's Tessy Brannour, fine woman from Rabun County. Some of you know that big house of theirs on South Stonewall. Her daddy and Jackson arranged for me to work in an office, no more sparks and hammers for me. We're married these past two months.” He staggered. “Had to wait till she was asleep, slip out of the house.” He gave out with a laugh.
The crowd gave quiet congratulations.
All save Truevine.
They were heard to argue moments later
“What's become of the promise you made me when I lay beside you?” she demanded.
His eyes shone from drink. “Promise?”
“You promised you'd marry
me
. We'd live in the fields; I'd work in your smithy.”
“Don't be silly, girl. How'd we live in a field? Nobody could.”
“I could.” She barely spoke up. “With you I could.”
“Sh, now.” He turned to walk away.
“You promised.”
“Who knows that?
“I do.” She followed after him.
He looked down at her. “And who'd believe you?”
“God knows the truth,” she said to him.
“I'm married, Truevine.”
“Then you listen to me.” Her words were calm. “I give you the curse of Truvy Deveroe for a wedding present.”
Only one or two standing close heard her say it.
Rud laughed, but there was something different in his eyes from that moment on, in his step. She planted a seed of fear in his breast.
Rud went home without another word, home to his rich wife and his big house. There's a strange end to the story. Rud grew more and more bent low as the weeks went by, walking lame and slow through the streets of Blue Mountain. Rumors spread about Truevine's curse, and that began her reputation as a witch.
It seemed more likely to me that bitter remorse, a knowledge of his own hard heart, had made Rud limp, but perhaps mine is too Freudian an explanation.
Not long after, a tourist happened to see Rud hobbling in the street and asked Truevine, of all people, “Who is that poor thing?”
For all to hear she said, “I do not know that man.”
 
“It's been a good while since anyone's seen Rud anywhere,” I concluded. “The supposition is that he's left the state for good.”
My kitchen was quiet. The house contemplated my telling of Truevine's story. The rain was letting up, only a drizzle from the eaves; the house did its best to resist gloom as it had for a hundred and fifty years.
“I know you tell me these folktales so I can understand what's going on up here,” Andrews said softly, “but there are some things about your town I hope I never understand.”
“Amen to that,” Skid agreed. “This is why I say Rud Pinhurst was no good.”
“Let me get this right.” Andrews rubbed his eyes, pushing off the kitchen counter and heading for the parlor area. “This poor girl has now lost her parents, survived a horrible love affair, and taken care of three feral brothers.” He took the overstuffed chair that faced the window. “Her reward is to be called a witch. In the twenty-first century.”
“It's not all bad.” I finished my espresso and joined him in the parlor.
“Nobody bothers her much,” Skid agreed, teasing Andrews, “when she's in town.”
“I mean,” I told Andrews, staring out the window with him, “those ideas help her through some tough times. Doesn't matter that it's nonsense; what matters is that she gets relief. She misses her parents, her mother in particular: she's told me on several occasions that she can summon her mother any time she cares to. Fingernail clippings were saved from the old funeral parlor when the body was cleaned up.”
“Fingernail clippings.” He wouldn't look at me.
“Or hair from a brush works equally well.” I sat on the sofa. “Any part of the person you hope to affect with your spell, you have to take something, a part of the sympathetic magic. Truevine burns spices, mostly sage, breathes in the smoke, drawing the dead fingernails, tied in one of her mother's old handkerchiefs, toward her face. She won't tell me the spell, but she says it brings her mother near. They talk. When all the smoke is gone, so is the spirit.”
“She's never done this for you.” Andrews shifted to face me.
“No, of course not, and it doesn't matter what the truth is; she finds comfort in talking to her mother, real or imagined. That's the power of magic.”
“So if she's angry with someone,” Andrews grumbled, “she can stick pins in a doll and the victim gets a headache; she feels triumph. Passive aggression, I call it. How long were she and Rud together?”

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