The Folklorist: Chapter Nine, Coming Apart
Episode Ten
Things were coming apart. The thought wound its way through Rose’s mind, a flexing, thorn-studded vine of panic. She had staked everything on the success of her book, on her study of the extraordinary culture hidden among the isolated hollows and ridges of Blackfern County. The weird mythos of the Johns Woods, and her family’s connection to it, had seemed like a gift when securing her research grant. St. John’s Port University had welcomed her as a visiting scholar and opened its libraries and resources to her. If she were being honest, she had viewed every open door as just payment for old wrongs never healed. She had taken for granted the support—even the enthusiasm—of the community here. She had been mistaken; a fact now being made clear to her by the oldest resident of Wickeford Mills.
“It’s time to stop your nonsense, Rose Dark.” Berthe spoke with absolute authority, and Rose did not miss the omission of Mallory from her name. The old woman who from a distance had seemed frail and timid now crackled with an uncanny power. “You came home with something mighty close to greed in your heart, and maybe with a good pinch of contempt, too. Like an outsider, you came looking for ways this place could serve you, digging around in things you don’t understand. You weren’t taught right, but I’m going to give you a lesson now.”
Rose reached for the blazing indignation such words, from any other, would have kindled and found only frightened shame in its place. Her hard shell of pride and anger had cracked since she’d returned. Azimuth House, forbidden by her parents during her childhood, had been her first visit, and though she had left it in a fit of pique, the damage had been done. Her bones had recognized home and ached to return, to fit the place made for them. Her time in the library vault and Franny’s gentle admonition had scraped away yet another layer of the world outside Blackfern County.
“I never meant—”
Berthe held up a hand. “Time’s past for ‘never meant to’. Right now, you’ll listen. Do you know of the founding of Wickeford Mills?”
“Abram Johns founded the village in 1728.”
“He did. But that was the second founding. Old Abram built the village on the ashes of the first, burned decades before. There were three families founded that first village. One was the Johnses. They’d lived in these hills for a heap of time, and back then they was near feral, living cheek by jowl with the spirits of the place.
“Another family was the Darks, come here with their own strange ways, looking for a thin spot. You understand me? The Johns Woods is riddled with them places like a cheese with holes, so they found one and they built Azimuth House.
“The Loves followed them. They was nothing but thieves and false-faces, and the Johns folk could see it. But the Loves was hangers-on of the Darks, like a kind of parasite. Don’t know what spell they cast—it’s said they was fair of form and speech—I guess they must have been.” Berthe’s eyes narrowed when Rose started as though pricked with a pin, and the old woman nodded. “You know the name. Same as that professor man of yours. Can’t say if he’s any kin to that old family; weren’t many of ‘em left after the fire and I don’t guess he’s from around here anyways, so it would be a mighty coincidence. Still, he’s here, ain’t he? Cozied up to a Dark like a tick on a hound. And things is getting bad in the Mills, like a perfect storm will kick up a tornado.”
Rose felt the tilting whirl of a history she’d thought she’d known being reshaped; expanded into the darkness from which it had emerged, faces wild and haunted illuminated as though by lightning. Three families, one named Love. Her mind conjured Tommy, handsome and easy.
For months now, he had been the only soul supportive of her work, always urging her on. Yet lately, she had sensed a hollowness in his interest. It had become noticeable after her failure to secure him an invitation to visit Azimuth House. She had taken his curiosity about her family’s inn for granted, just another sign of his attentiveness. Rose had accepted his ardor without question, had leaned on it in her bitter loneliness. His sudden coolness had been peculiar, even hurtful.
She shook her head. Tommy had his own project to absorb him. He’d only been awaiting the delivery of a research specimen. His preoccupation was natural. As for his name, it was common enough. It was, as Berthe had admitted, a coincidence. Nowhere in her research had Rose come across anything like the history of which Berthe spoke. Perhaps the stories were less history and more legend.
Berthe’s sharp eyes read the thought in Rose’s changing expression. “You won’t have found any of this in the library vault. The old, old histories are at Azimuth House. Your great-gran would be pleased to show them to you. But you must throw over the idea of any book.”
“I can’t just give it up.” Rose shook her curls. “This book is my purpose. My key to success in my field. I’ve accepted grant money …”
“Girl, your purpose was born with you; another thing you’d learn if you went home to Azimuth House and your family. Purpose beyond anything the outside world can offer you.”
Rose’s pained expression became stony. “My brother was born with me. My family kicked him out, just like Mama said they would.”
“That’s a tale for another day. I’ve said my piece. Now, there’s a good chicken stew in the pot and fresh-baked bread. Put that cat down and come inside. I can hear your stomach growling.”
The night came down like a drifting feather, soft and plush. Bats flickered over the darkening and were absorbed into it. Rose, tasked with setting out the butter and utensils on the small round table, paused in the act to watch from the window as the day winked out. The view of the twilit garden vanished to be replaced by her own pale reflection in the black panes. The grey cat twined about her ankles before retiring to a braided mat beside the empty brick mouth of the fireplace.
“Fall’s comin’. Tomorrow we’ll bid September good morning.”
Berthe, at the broad cookstove, ladled up two deep bowls of stew and set to slicing an enormous round loaf into thick wedges that she piled in a waiting basket.
“Here, take these to the table. I got to get a kettle of water going for tea.”
Rose did as she was asked and sat in one of the age-blackened Windsor chairs to taste her stew. She was ravenous and the stew was thick and savory. She watched as Berthe set the enormous kettle on the hot stove plate and bustled about pinching herbs from her windowsill pots. These went into a fat-bellied teapot adorned with a dizzying motif of birds and blackberries that seemed to shift and rustle in the muzzy light cast by the oil lamps. The night pressed against the cabin like a vast black cat. Rose thought she could almost hear it purr; its contentment flowed around and through her as she reached for bread and butter. Berthe joined her at the table.
“You’re hungry.”
Rose blushed and set down her spoon. “I haven’t eaten since my morning bagel and coffee.”
“That ain’t my meaning, though it’s a fine thing to see a good appetite at supper.” Berthe tore a bite of bread from one of the hunks in the basket and dropped it into her bowl to grow soft. “You’re hungry for things lost when you left the county. Hungry for meaning you were denied. You don’t even know how to feed yourself, child. You been pecking and nipping at things that only make you sick. How long is it you been gone?”
Once again, Rose reached for anger that had evaporated. A lassitude swept over her, equal parts weariness and an unaccountable sense of having sailed from storm to safe harbor.
“Almost seventeen years. I left when I was sixteen. When they sent Dash away. My parents were dead by then or it would never have happened. I went to my father’s family, my grandparents, in Boston.”
“You know why your brother was sent away?”
Rose shrugged. “Mama said they would if they could. She said they always send the boys away, but she prevented it. Until the accident. Then there was no one to stop them.”
“You seen him since?”
“No. He would never allow me to visit him.” A tear trembled on Rose’s lashes but did not fall. “We talk on the phone, send letters. I see him in my dreams.”
Berthe ate a thoughtful spoonful of her stew. “Tell me about this Dr. Love you been swooning over.”
The abrupt change of topic and the old woman’s fastidious scowl surprised Rose into laughter.
“I wouldn’t say I’ve been swooning. Tommy’s thoughtful. Good-looking. He’s built a wonderful career for himself. I like spending time with him.”
“Says what you like to hear, does he? Smooths the rest away in bed.” Berthe gave her own bark of laughter at Rose’s astonished expression. “I wasn’t born old. Seen my share of slippery charmers. You’d be surprised.” Her grin faded and she leaned forward. “You be careful with that one. He’s hungry, too, and charm don’t hide it. Leave him be, like you would any poisonous thing.”
Spoons scraped bowls. Hands patted full bellies. Berthe stood and began clearing the supper things, stacking them in the deep soapstone sink and drawing up water with the hand pump. Rose looked around in bleary bemusement. It seemed they’d been talking for hours, but the big iron kettle on the cookstove was just building up to whistle as Berthe lifted it and poured the boiling water over the herbs in the teapot. A bright, sweet fragrance filled the kitchen, and something earthier beneath it.
“Let me help with the dishes,” Rose said, preparing to rise from her comfortable chair.
Berthe flapped a hand at her. “Supper needs time to settle. These dishes will get done in a tick.” She turned from the scarred oak counter with a tea tray in her hands laden with the steaming pot, a pair of thick mugs, deep reddish honey in a glass jar, and a dish of blueberry scones. She carried it to the table as if it weighed nothing and waved a hand over it. “Scones is from Ma’s, honey’s from Azimuth House. You ever tasted it?” When Rose shook her head, Berthe’s lips twitched in an enigmatic smile. “High time you did, then.”
Rose accepted an aromatic mug of tea. “And you grew the herbs. I smell lemon balm and peppermint. Ginger? What else?”
“Just a lick of magic.” Berthe sat and watched Rose add honey to her cup and sip. “You drink that all down now. It’s good for what ails you.”
A history lesson and warning for Rose, from the book of Berthe, followed by a dinner that also made my stomach growl. Terrific writing and an unveiling of sorts with Mr. Love perhaps. Great story Liz, can't wait for chapter 10. - Jim
Did Berthe just put a spell on Rose with that tea? I guess I'll find out. You put a spell on me with your excellent writing and storytelling, Liz.