Written in Stone (10 page)

Excusing herself, she turned away from Noah and closed the distance between herself
and The Boot Top’s two chefs. “Willis, you look incredible,” she said.

His cheeks pinked. “Thanks, Ms. Limoges. I didn’t want to cook in my costume, but
Mr. Wiseman really wanted me to. I just hope I don’t set it on fire.”

“You’ll be great,” she assured him. “And Michel? Are you . . . involved in this segment
too?”

“Today,
I’m
the sous-chef!” Michel smiled brightly at Willis. “Our kitchen is a team, after all.”

Olivia studied him. Michel was hardly a democratic head chef. He was more of a benevolent
dictator. And not always so benevolent at that. “How sweet of you,” she said, her
eyes betraying her disbelief.

“Willis? Could I borrow you for a few minutes after you’re done?” she asked. “There’s
a piece of pottery I’d like to show you.”

Willis was clearly confused by her request, but replied with a cheerful, “Sure thing,”
before heading over to Candice to be fitted for his mic.

Giving Michel a lingering look of warning, Olivia joined Rawlings and Haviland. She
took her phone from her bag and noticed that Millay had sent her a text message. Laurel
was at the Cedar Point campground conducting an interview and they’d meet Olivia and
Rawlings there at two.

Pleased to finally hear from her friends, she watched Willis build two fires close
to the audience section. He made a teepee out of wood and then set some dry grass
alight with a match. Only after both fires had been ignited did the cameras begin
to roll. Olivia assumed that Noah didn’t want the presence of the match to ruin the
sensation that Willis was cooking as his ancestors once had. And yet, as the good-looking
young man with the dark hair and elaborate costume set up a spit over the fire pit
to his left, Olivia had no trouble picturing him emerging from the dense forest, a
leather pouch filled with fresh game slung over his shoulder.

Over the next thirty minutes, she watched Willis prepare a summer squash soup and
a salad made of apples, nuts, and collard greens. The Lumbee sous-chef then fried
corn pone on a flat pan over the first fire while a rabbit stew loaded with beans
and carrots bubbled in a cast-iron pot hanging over the second fire. Willis explained
how to make each dish and described why each food item was significant to the Lumbee.
He was a humble and engaging performer and completely overshadowed Allen Murray and
all of the contestants of the previous show.

“I’m going to finish up by making some pumpkin seed candy for dessert,” he said, giving
the audience a winsome smile.

“They’re going to steal this kid and take him back to New York,” Olivia whispered
to Rawlings. “He’s a natural. I can easily picture him hosting a multicultural cooking
show.”

Olivia looked over Willis’s head to where Michel was squatting near the tent’s entrance,
well out of camera range. His mouth was pinched and his eyes were dark. Olivia recognized
the expression. Her head chef was consumed by envy. Again. “Michel is going to be
impossible to be around after this.”

But after Willis finished his demonstration to a round of hearty applause, Michel
jumped forward to help his underling collect his pots and utensils. Olivia, Rawlings,
and Haviland followed both chefs inside the tent.

“I am never cooking in this outfit again,” Willis said and dropped into a folding
chair. He unscrewed the cap from a bottle of water and drank it down in one go. When
he was done, he wiped his forehead with a dishtowel and sighed. “I was totally worried
that drops of sweat were going to fall into the stew pot.”

“You seemed perfectly comfortable working over an open fire wearing eight layers of
clothing,” Olivia told him.

Michel snorted and then pointed at the dolly, clearly hoping to shift the focus away
from Willis. “What’s that?”

Rawlings lifted the memory jug onto the table.

“I’m trying to find out something about the woman who made this,” Olivia said, her
eyes on Willis. “Have you ever heard the name Munin Cooper?”

Willis shook his head, his expression neutral. He reached for the jug with eager fingers
and then hesitated. “Can I touch it?”

“Of course.” Olivia watched him carefully as he examined the jug, but he didn’t seem
to connect with any of the objects on it. He was merely curious. She directed his
attention to the KKK medal. “This is what I wanted to talk to you about. The
Gazette
mentioned something about the Lumbee celebrating a victory over the Klan at the Battle
of Hayes Pond, right?”

Willis nodded, his eyes flashing briefly with pride.

Olivia pressed on. “Have there been any other incidents between your tribe and the
KKK? More recent ones, perhaps?”

Now a shadow crossed the young man’s features and his eyes flashed a darker shade
of brown, turning nearly black for a second before he shrugged his shoulders and fought
to appear impassive. “I guess, but nothing as big as Hayes Pond. I wasn’t even born
then, but I’ve heard that the Klan hated us even more after that night. They got their
asses handed to them and they never really got over it. Still harassed my people whatever
way they could, but it was all small stuff.”

“Like what?” Rawlings asked.

“Rocks through windows. Slashed tires. That kind of crap,” Willis said, shifting in
his seat. Olivia didn’t know if it was the heat or the subject of conversation that
was making him uncomfortable.

Rawlings subtly morphed into cop interview mode. He began by establishing a rapport
with Willis by telling him some boyhood memories of how the minorities in Oyster Bay
had been mistreated. He leaned close to Willis, lowering his voice as though he were
sharing a special secret. Then, ever so gently, he turned the focus back on Willis.
“Did anything like that ever happen to your family?”

Willis squirmed in his chair. He reached for the dishtowel again and hid his face
behind it. “Not really,” he said after dragging the cloth from his forehead to his
neck. The movement made it appear like he’d been trying to erase his own expression,
but fear lingered in his eyes like tiny white sparks glowing in the wood of a quenched
fire.

“Look, I gotta run. My sister’s waiting for me at the other campground.” He stood
and cast a brief, anxious glance at the memory jug. “I hope you’ll come watch some
of the dancing. And my sister’s a crazy good storyteller. She performs at two.”

“We’ll be there,” Olivia promised. It was obvious that Willis wasn’t going to open
up to them about whatever he was frightened of and she didn’t want to put pressure
on him in the middle of the festival. Resolving to speak to him again once he was
back at The Boot Top, Olivia waved good-bye.

Michel watched Willis leave and then shook his head. He’d begun to sulk. “I’m French.
My ancestors were cooking five-star meals before his even crawled out of the ocean.
We’re
the reason there are foodies in the first place. We
invented
gourmet. Even the word is French!”

“Willis hasn’t eclipsed you,” Olivia said. “And Shelley Giusti seems to like you just
the way you are. Though I’m sorry to see that she wears a wedding ring.”

“I haven’t asked her about that,” Michel said. “Maybe I’ll invite her to Indian Story
Time and she can tell me why her husband isn’t doing it for her.”

Olivia scowled. “I know you’re fond of crossing lines, Michel, but leave Willis alone.
He’s only being himself and poses no threat to you.”

“He’d better not.” Michel glared and stomped out of the tent.

Rawlings slid the memory jug back into the crate on the dolly. For a second, the little
gilt mirror caught a stray sunbeam and threw diamonds into the air. Rawlings put his
hand out as if to capture the splinters of light. “This is no good, Olivia,” he said.
“I’ve seen that look before—usually right before a man is about to do something he’ll
regret.”

*   *   *

The Cedar Point campground was an explosion of color. Lumbee Indians in ceremonial
dress moved about the clearing like a flock of exotic birds. Olivia suddenly realized
she had no way to communicate with all of them. She’d have to appeal to the chief
or find someone who could e-mail photos of the memory jug to the rest of the tribe.

Echoing Olivia’s thoughts, Rawlings said, “This is a tough place to talk to people.
We need to put this on display.”

“That’s exactly what we’ll do!” Olivia exclaimed. “I’ll rent a booth space and ask
festivalgoers to identify the mystery objects.”

Rawlings was skeptical. “Really? And will you offer a prize in exchange for information?”

“Maybe I will,” she snapped, annoyed that she hadn’t already come up with a plan to
approach the Lumbee.

Walking in stony silence, the couple followed a stream of people heading toward the
picnic area. Here, the aroma of cooking food was just as prevalent as it had been
at the other campground, but these scents were greasier, hinting of sausage and funnel
cake.

Olivia spotted Willis engaged in what appeared to be a serious conversation with a
man in his early fifties who was not, judging from his light skin and fair hair, a
Lumbee. The man nodded gravely and, after Willis had finished talking, spoke a few
words of his own and then put a reassuring hand on the sous-chef’s shoulder.

Looking relieved, Willis pulled a pack of cigarettes out of the pouch hanging from
his sash and lit up, earning him an admonishing finger wag from the older man. He
smoked for a while and they shared a few laughs until a drum began to beat. Abruptly,
both men turned their attention to the raised platform at the end of the picnic area.

A beautiful young woman stepped onto the stage. She had a river of jet-black hair
that shone with ribbons of blue in the fractured light. The hem of her daffodil yellow
dress, which was covered by a long white apron, whispered as she moved to the edge
of the platform. A multicolored medallion had been stitched on the front of the apron
and she wore a crownlike headdress. Barefoot, she walked in regal silence and then
stopped, gazing intently at the audience.

They instantly fell quiet.

She raised her hands in the air. Elegant and slender, her arms closed slightly, coaxing
her listeners to draw closer together and closer to her. In a strong, deep, singsong
voice, she began her tale. “Let me tell you how the snakes got their poison.”

And then she stared straight at Olivia.

Olivia thought her heart might stop. This girl, who had to be Willis’s sister, reminded
her of someone. Olivia was certain she recognized the angles and planes of her face,
the distinctive slope of her nose, and the proud tilt of her chin, but she wasn’t
sure which of her acquaintances the girl favored. And then, this beautiful, self-assured
young woman looked at Olivia. She regarded her as if she could see right to the bottom
of her soul. The wisdom of her gaze was unsettling. So was the fact that she was gazing
out through a pair of very familiar eyes.

Munin’s eyes.

Chapter 9

Time is the coin of your life. It is the only coin you have, and only you can determine
how it will be spent.

—C
ARL
S
ANDBURG

O
livia was rooted to the ground, hypnotized by the girl’s dark brown eyes and the lulling
cadence of her storyteller voice.

“‘If Man bothers me I will rattle my tail until he leaves me alone,’ said Diamond
Snake.” The girl began to shake a rain stick, creating a sound like a snake’s rattle.
“‘And if he doesn’t leave me alone, I will ssssstrike!’” She leapt forward in a low
crouch, thrusting the hand with the rain stick toward the audience. Several people
jumped back, startled, and then covered up their embarrassment with a chuckle. Haviland
issued a low growl, but Olivia stilled his disquiet by placing her palm on his head.

Next, the girl pulled a scarf from inside the sleeve of her dress. The thin strip
of material was made of red, black, and yellow stripes and looked like a coral snake.

“The Grand Council asked the third snake, ‘How will you let the People know you are
poisonous?’”

Raising the scarf above her head, she let it wriggle between her clenched fists. It
rippled and undulated like a real serpent. “‘If Man does not take my colors as a sign
of danger, then I will ssssstrike!’” She whipped the scarf toward the audience. A
little girl screamed and pressed her face against her mother’s belly.

Olivia suspected many of the Lumbee gathered around the stage had heard the tale before.
Yet they listened on tenterhooks, their gazes never leaving the face of the captivating
storyteller.

“The fourth snake lived by the shores of the water. When he opened his white mouth,
it was a sign to leave him alone.” From behind her back, the girl drew forth a gray
snake puppet with an oversized head. “‘If Man does not heed these signs, I will sssstrike!’”
She drew the puppet’s mouth open, revealing a set of deadly looking fangs.

The tips of the fangs had been covered with glitter glue, and when the girl pivoted
the mask so that the cottonmouth’s unhinged jaw caught the light, the upper fangs
appeared to be slick with venom.

Olivia saw the glistening fangs and shuddered. Without warning, she was once again
in Munin’s shack, studying the strange old woman over the rim of a chipped pottery
mug. That image quickly dissolved and was replaced by a picture of Munin’s bloated
body half submerged in the stream behind her house. In her mind’s eye, Olivia searched
the imaginary scene for the snake, but she refused to believe a reptile had killed
Munin. She thought it much more likely that someone had carried the snake’s poison
in a syringe, tiptoeing through the quiet forest with the stealth of a leopard.

An overpowering scent of cloves brought Olivia out of her reverie. She turned to find
Willis standing to her right.

“That’s Talley, my sister,” he whispered reverently. “She’s good, isn’t she?”

Olivia nodded. She wanted to ask Willis a dozen questions. Most importantly, she wanted
to know why Talley bore a resemblance to Munin—a woman he claimed not to know. But
the question could wait, for Olivia was unwilling to break his sister’s spell.

Onstage, Talley finished her story by showing how glad Vine was to have given her
poison away to the four snakes. “Now she could play with the People again!” Talley
began to dance about the stage, lifting a vine made of artificial plants and green
glitter into the air. She wrapped it around her body and waltzed in circles, her face
filled with joy.

“The People were not like the newcomers from across the Great Water!” she shouted
proudly. “The newcomers were mean to Vine and to the snakes. But the People were kind
and gentle. They respected the poison in these creatures and knew that if they listened
to the warnings, they would not get hurt.”

Tally placed the vine on the stage where she had already laid the symbols of the four
snakes. Carefully, she picked her way around them. She moved slowly, soundlessly,
until she came to stand in the center once again. She raised her hands to the sky,
thanked the Creator, and wished the crowd a day of peace and harmony.

After the applause died down and the crowd began to disperse, Olivia drew in a deep
breath of clove-scented air. “Is that you I’m smelling, Willis?”

He looked chagrined. “Yeah. I smoked a clove cigarette. Never had one before and I
wasn’t wild about it, but I left my Camel Lights in the truck, so I went ahead and
tried it.”

“I smoked like a fiend when I was your age, but I had to quit,” Rawlings said. “I
couldn’t be a cop if I didn’t pass the physical.”

Willis used his palm to wipe his forehead, which was glistening with perspiration.
“Did you go cold turkey?” His voice came out as a rasp and he seemed surprised by
the sound of it. Swallowing, he tried to speak again, but nothing came out.

“Willis?” Olivia put a hand under the young man’s elbow. Haviland began to whine.
He shifted anxiously, sniffed, and whined again. Something was wrong.

“Can’t . . . breathe . . .” Willis whispered hoarsely before teetering over.

Rawlings lurched forward to catch the sous-chef, but he was caught off balance by
the suddenness of the younger man’s fall. He slowed Willis’s descent, but ended up
on the ground too.

“Willis!” Olivia shouted, sinking to her knees and pushing the multihued turban off
his head. Willis’s black hair was slick with sweat, and when Olivia touched her fingers
to his cheek, she flinched. “He’s burning up,” she said to Rawlings, who had Willis’s
wrist in his hand and was checking his pulse. Haviland sniffed the air and whined
again.

Rawlings dropped his ear to Willis’s mouth. “He’s breathing. Fast and shallow.” And
then he had his cell phone out and was calling for help.

Olivia scanned their surroundings, hoping someone had noticed Willis fall and was
rushing off to find an EMT. With two significant events occurring in the forest, Olivia
expected a park ranger, physician, or paramedic to show up within seconds.

“Stay with us, Willis,” she pleaded softly. “Help is on the way.”

Moaning unintelligibly, Willis turned his head and vomited into the grass. Olivia
recoiled from the acidic odor, a knot of helplessness forming in her gut. While she
was averting her face, she saw Talley emerge from a small tent behind the stage. She
took one glance at the sight of her brother and sprinted to his side.

“What happened?” she cried, bending over him.

“He just collapsed,” Olivia said. “Does he have a medical condition?”

Talley shook her head. “No! Nothing! I have asthma, but Willis is healthy as a bear!
Did you call anyone?”

“EMTs are on the way,” Rawlings said.

“He’s so hot! What’s wrong with him?” Talley’s eyes filled with tears and she put
her lips against her brother’s forehead. “Willis! It’s me, Talley. Can you hear me?”

Willis curled the fingers of his right hand upward and Talley grabbed on to them.
“We’ve got to get him help!” she shouted, wiping the vomit from her brother’s chin
and neck with the red bandana she’d been using to hold back her hair. “Where’s the
freaking ambulance?”

“They’re coming. It won’t be long now,” Rawlings promised and Olivia was thankful
to have him there. He sounded so calm and reassuring while she sat uselessly by Willis’s
side, unable to utter a word of comfort.

Willis, who’d kept his eyes closed since he fell, now opened them and looked around.
The whites showed, reminding Olivia of the desperate gaze of a frightened and confused
animal. Garbled sounds came from his throat and Talley leaned closer to him, frantic
to understand.

“His arm feels weird,” she mumbled, touching the exposed flesh near his wrist.

Olivia mirrored Talley’s movement and was disturbed to find that the muscles in Willis’s
forearm were rigid, as if he were struggling to lift a heavy object. Hesitating, she
wrapped her palm over his bicep. It was also hard and taut.

“Rawlings,” she whispered. She’d never seen anything like this before and she was
frightened. Sensing her fear, Haviland nudged her with his head, whining so quietly
that he was barely heard.

The chief’s eyes flicked toward Talley before meeting Olivia’s, as if willing her
to stay composed for the girl’s sake. But Olivia had no bedside manner. She needed
to act, to do something to stop from feeling like the world was spinning too fast.

“We need to get him out of the sun,” she told Rawlings. To Talley, she said, “Let’s
carry him into the tent. Keep talking to him while we move him. Keep him in the here
and now.” When Talley responded with silence and a glassy look, Olivia gently squeezed
her shoulder. “Tell him a story. Anything. Just talk to him.”

Talley nodded, bent close to her brother’s ear, and began to speak. “In the beginning,
the Great Spirit gave the birds and the animals the knowledge and the power to talk
to men.”

Rawlings grabbed Willis’s shoulders and Olivia took hold of his feet. Together, they
managed to shuffle across the brittle grass and crisp pine needles toward the tent
Talley had used as a dressing room. They’d almost made it inside when Olivia’s foot
caught on a tree root and she stumbled.

Thrown off balance, Rawlings fought to hold on and Talley thrust her hands under her
brother’s waist, dislodging his sash and the buckskin pouch attached to it. She kicked
the bag aside and the three of them entered the cool tent, laying Willis on Talley’s
yellow dress. They’d barely eased him down when the sound of an approaching siren
filled the air. Haviland began to howl and turn in nervous half circles.

“Finally!” Talley sobbed.

“I’ll wave them over.” Rawlings darted out of the tent.

Olivia picked up Willis’s hand. His breath was coming faster now and his skin had
turned a frightening shade of dull gray. The tent was close with the scent of cloves
and dread.

She scuttled out of the way when a pair of paramedics entered, watching in silence
as they placed an oxygen mask over Willis’s mouth and nose, fit a blood pressure cuff
over his arm, and spoke to one another in hushed, rapid speech.

Amid a flurry of medical talk and deft movements, Willis was placed on a gurney and
loaded into the ambulance. A ring of spectators surrounded the vehicle and Olivia
was glad to see a few familiar faces among the crowd.

“Olivia?” Laurel called out, hugging a notebook to her chest. “Are you okay?”

Gesturing for Laurel, Millay, and Harris to come closer, Olivia drank in the sight
of Harris’s ginger-colored hair, Laurel’s wide, blue eyes, and Millay’s trademark
frown. Along with Rawlings, these were the people who kept her anchored to Oyster
Bay. The pull of childhood memories, which had called her back to the area several
years ago, were not as powerful as these bonds of friendship. The Bayside Book Writers
were always there when she needed them. They were here now. And she needed them.

“How do you know him?” Harris asked.

Olivia struggled to find her voice. “He’s a sous-chef at The Boot Top.”

Millay glanced at the ambulance in time to see the paramedics slam the rear doors
shut. “What happened to him?”

“I have no idea,” Olivia said. “One minute I was talking to him and he seemed perfectly
normal. And then, he couldn’t speak or breathe freely and he keeled over.”

“He looks so young!” Laurel exclaimed, her gaze following the emergency vehicle as
it eased forward.

“Only twenty-one,” Olivia said. “The girl who went with him is his sister. Rawlings
and I had just finished listening to her recite a Lumbee folktale when Willis collapsed.”
She ran a hand through her hair. Damp strands clung to her neck and forehead and her
throat was dry. “Do any of you have water?”

Laurel immediately produced a plastic bottle. “Take this. Drink it all. You look . . .”

“Like you’re in shock,” Millay finished and then jerked her thumb in the direction
the ambulance had gone. “Is it serious? Will he be all right?”

Olivia paused. Judging from the weakness of Willis’s breathing, his muscle rigidity,
and the color of his skin, he was gravely ill. She had no medical training, but Willis
seemed to have slipped away right before her eyes. And from beneath her hands. It
was as if she could feel parts of his body shutting down. He wasn’t dead. He wasn’t
even unconscious. But the Willis she recognized was gone and she didn’t think he was
coming back.

She hated to voice this thought.

“Olivia?” Laurel prompted.

Bending over to retrieve Willis’s leather pouch, Olivia rubbed her fingers over the
smooth buckskin. “It doesn’t look good.”

Silence descended on the group. They watched Rawlings as he spoke to a fresh-faced
park ranger and a bearded sheriff’s deputy.

“I think something fell out of that bag,” Harris said, reaching for a scrap of paper
near Haviland’s front paw. He examined the paper, his brows knitting together, and
then handed it to Olivia.

Four lines had been typed on a field of plain white:

The voice of that fitful song

Sings on, and is never still

A boy’s will is the wind’s will,

And the thoughts of youth are long, long thoughts.

“What is it?” Millay stood on her tiptoes, trying to catch a glimpse of the note’s
contents.

“A metaphor.” Olivia passed it on to Millay.

Laurel frowned. “Is your sous-chef a writer?”

“I don’t think so.” Olivia opened the bag and, pulling out the items one by one, dropped
them into Harris’s cupped hands. There was a cheap lighter, a cell phone, keys on
a dream catcher key chain, and twenty-six dollars in cash.

The friends stared at the contents for a long moment and Olivia sensed they were all
thinking the same thing. Could the objects people carried in a bag or a pocket define
a life? Family photos, keys to a car or a house, a good-luck charm, credit cards and
cash—could each of them be reduced to a handful of similar articles?