The Folklorist: Chapter Seven, The Historic Society
Episode Eight
Jory Carter had gone missing. Every year brought the disappearance of a hiker or camper from outside the county. or the occasional drowning of a careless kayaker. The villagers of Wickeford Mills would shake their heads in exasperated sympathy. A certain percentage of such incidents was to be expected. Try as they might to keep a watchful eye on these adventurers, the Johns Woods presented a vast and labyrinthian shadow realm riddled with dangers. It was impossible to guard against all of them. It was a rare thing, though, for a local born and bred to vanish as Jory had. It hadn’t happened in a dog’s age.
“He went out a-fishin’ on Saturday afternoon. When he wasn’t home by suppertime, his dad went looking. Stayed out well into the dark hours, making his wife half crazy for fear she’d lost them both. Yesterday, Poke Ridenour got a group of men together and took his hounds out. They found Jory’s rod and gear hung up in a snag, miles from where he was supposed to be fishing, but not a scrap nor hair of Jory.”
Enid Berrybright twisted her hands together in her lap, hands bereft of their usual calm knitting, their quick dexterity fallen into confusion. A murmur passed among the members of the Historic Society. The disappearance of Enid’s great-grandson had called them together weeks before their usual mid-September reconvening in the cozy basement of the little Wickeford Mills library.
Henry Finchwhistle put his big, gnarled hand on Enid’s shoulder and squeezed. “Jory’s a smart boy and a strong swimmer. He knows the Wicke up and down, bank to bank. He wouldn’t have drowned,” he said.
Henry, who had answered to the affectionate sobriquet “Doc” for so many decades he near forgot his rightful name, had delivered the boy. Jory had been the last baby Doc had caught before turning his clinic over to his own grandson and namesake, a young physician who was just plain Hank to his patients and family alike. It was almost inconceivable to Doc that young Jory, quick and lively in the water as a rainbow trout in springtime, would have drowned.
But he couldn’t be certain, no sir. Because down to the post office a few days ago, he’d run into Poke and heard all about how the big man had driven Bertie Johns out to Azimuth House to wish Anna Dark good journey. He’d heard how the two old women had been cooped up together for hours jawing away about who knew what.
Damned late when I got Miss Bertie home, drunk as a wheelbarrow if you ask me, but holdin’ her liquor like a champ. Never give a hint what her and Miss Anna had been chewing over, Poke had told him. Doc, who had been out to Bertie’s shack not an hour before to give her the cursory looking over which was all she’d allow by way of an annual checkup, thought he might have an idea what some of the conversation between the two ladies had encompassed. He was just about to say so when he heard a familiar clatter of hooves and the tinkling of tiny bells.
The sound drew Moira McCreary from her rocker near the cold woodstove where she had been brooding in gloomy silence. Her good eye brightened with sudden animation, and she hobbled to the rear door to peer out the window, her cane thumping across the colorful rug Enid had braided more than a decade before.
“Bertie’s here,” she called back to them. “She’s got that bird with her, what’s-she-call-it … Fergus. There’ll be news.”
Berthe sat for a moment in the pony cart watching Pearl swish her creamy tail. Reluctance rose within her with the black disregard of flood water, sweeping away everything but her desire for the solitude and peace of her little shack. She thought of her hens, their soft clucks and trills as they foraged. She thought of her hives at the end of the garden and the drowsy purr of the bees in the blossoms. They weren’t the fey bees of Azimuth House, just ordinary striped toilers. The honey was sweet all the same, tasting of Dame’s rocket and wild bergamot, rose and foxglove. There were grapes to press and vegetables to harvest. There was bread to bake, savory with cheese and herbs. There were even folks who came wanting simple spells and workings, always good for cash or barter.
Berthe sighed. She was old, older by a decade or more than most of the ancients gathered in the library. It was a hard thing to be rousted from her haven in such times, harder than it had ever been in her youth. She had avoided it as long as she dared, and now one of their own had lost a child. It was time to act. She stroked the rough silk feathers of the raven perched beside her, mulling over what it had shown her in the past few days. There were dark things afoot. Some she understood as square within her bailiwick, though the understanding was repellant. Others, things that had to do with the folks at Azimuth House, were murkier and extended outside her authority. But the two paths crossed, didn’t they? And where they crossed, Berthe would have to follow in some fashion. Fergus rubbed his heavy beak against her fingers and fluffed his neck ruff.
“You coming in or are you gonna sit out there dreaming all morning?” Moira had stuck her head out into the muggy heat to squawk at her.
Berthe climbed down from the cart and paused to let Fergus hop onto her shoulder. He was a damn big bird, she mused, but not too heavy for an old woman. She made her way to the door and pulled it from Moira’s hand as her cousin turned back toward their meeting room with a grimace.
“Don’t bring that old crow in here, Bertie. He’ll shit on the rug.”
“He’s a raven, Moira, and he’s got a gentleman’s manners.” Berthe stopped Moira before they reached the archway and dropped her voice to a whisper. “How’s Enid?”
Moira shook her head, her lips pursed and her milky eye squinted almost shut.
Fergus strutted up and down the old oak library table, pausing to gaze into the eyes of each of the Historic Society members. Doc fished in his breast pocket for the little cellophane envelope of boiled peanuts he’d picked up at the bar of the Lakeview Inn and offered one to the raven. Fergus took it with gentle dignity and moved on, his claws ticking against the wood.
Berthe waved a hand at the bird. “He’s been out twice, having a look about for me. The second time, he brought me news of a nasty thing, a killing maybe. It’s not always easy to decipher what he’s seen, but he don’t bring back news with no meaning. That came from across the river, and I hope it won’t come back to roost in the Mills, but I ain’t confident.”
“There’s always something evil going on in the Big Town, cousin. It’s none of our affair. We’ve got a heap more worry right here.”
Berthe leaned forward. “You’ve said a mouthful there, Moira. That’s our order of business right now. We’ve got a willow walkin’.”
Gasps of indrawn breath and a low wail from Enid met her announcement. Doc crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Bertie. I can’t accept that.” He snorted. “Fairy stories! Trees don’t just get up and wander the countryside.” He glanced at the others but found only stony belief in their expressions. “I’m a man of science. Have any of you ever seen such a preposterous thing? I didn’t think so.”
“Our Jory …” Enid pressed her hands over her face. “Tell me your bird knows where he is, Bertie.”
“Enid, I’m going to excuse you from this task. You have enough to do just being with your family right now. Will you go upstairs and ask Franny to come down? She’ll let you watch the desk for a bit.”
Enid blanched, but a hectic red spot glowed on each cheek. “Franny’s not old enough to be a Society member.”
“She’s all right. She’s helped us before. Now go on. And Enid? I’m just as sorry as I can be.”
The librarian joined them as they sat in the grip of Berthe’s news. Frances Phoenix wasn’t even out of her sixties, but she had an uncanny knack for research. Maybe more than that, Moira thought, but only Bertie would know. Bertie knew too much by far in Moira’s opinion. And sat on more of it than was prudent. With only six years between them and the same blood running in their veins, Moira felt the prickle of envy so familiar to her when it came to the Society’s hierarchy. It goosed her into snapping, making her sound like bitch, but she couldn’t help herself.
“How long have you known about this, Bertie? Maybe if you’d got yourself to meetings this summer and shared like you should have, Jory wouldn’t be missing now.”
“Moira!” Doc, who had stood to pull out a chair for Frances, barked. “This isn’t Bertie’s fault.”
Berthe flapped a hand at them. “It ain’t my fault that old sorrow is walkin’. Not sure where to lay the blame for that. But I’ll take my share for not wanting to pick up the gauntlet.” She bent her gaze on Moira. “You know Jory ain’t missing, cousin. She got him, that old water witch. Enid knows, too, but I’d rather not say it out plain in front of her. I took the proof Fergus brought me to Annie Dark, but there ain’t much she can do. She’s got her own troubles, dyin’ be the least of them.”
“Why’d you go to Ms. Dark, Bertie?” Doc had resumed his seat and folded his hands before him.
Moira found she was not yet in control of her tongue. “It was on account of that flibbertigibbet Rose, wasn’t it? I told you all she’d bring trouble on us, scratching things up and fixing to show them to the world. You went to Anna about it.”
“I did. And found only more trouble brewing for my efforts. Let’s set ourselves to the problem at hand.” She turned to Doc. “There’s more than one way for that creature to walk among us. What magic it has, I couldn’t say. But we need to figure it out right quick.”
“I’ll start searching through the old histories in the vault,” Frances said. “I seem to recall something there that might be of use. Bertie, I think you should talk with Rose Dark. She’ll be in today to look at the histories herself. She’s a nice young woman. I’m sure I could set up a meeting between the two of you.”
Berthe stood and bent an arm for Fergus to perch on. “Send her out to Half Mile, Franny. Soonest begun, soonest done.”
Wandering willows: creepy. Another fine episode. Liz. I love Berthe. She's got it together.
So good Liz. You can't possibly make this story too long. It's very simple to me, you keep writing and I'll keep reading. Oh, and I have a new favorite line..."Drunk as a wheelbarrow" made me chuckle out loud when I read it and then again just now as I typed it.