The Folklorist: Chapter Thirteen, The War Room
Episode Fourteen
Doc Finchwhistle arrived first. The morning was getting on and, despite the grave weight of the little clay bead clutched in his hand, he mused over the possibility of brunch being served. He stood at the foot of the steps to Berthe’s porch and gazed down at the bauble. No bigger than a cherry and glazed a skybright blue, it was carved all over with minute sigils that formed a pretty pattern. It would be a lovely thing hung on a chain, lying against a woman’s pale throat, but its purpose was ominous. It was a call to battle; one he’d heeded twice before in his long life and had hoped he was done with. With a sigh, he climbed the steps and dropped the bead into the chipped teacup atop the milk can by the door.
The door swung open and the smell of biscuits and sausage gravy drew him over the threshold. The kitchen table wore an extra leaf at its midsection. Six chairs sat expectant around it. Doc felt a pang as he contemplated the chair at the head of the table. Silas Bookhammer would not be joining them this time, and Doc wondered if old Si wasn’t the luckier of them.
“Glad you came early, Henry.” Berthe appeared from her bedroom behind the chimney.
Doc crossed the room and swept her hand to his lips. “Well met, Bertie. Something sure smells tasty.”
Berthe patted his cheek and waved him away. “You can take the motor buggy, if you would, and bring Moira across. Enid, too, if she feels able to come.”
“Motor buggy?”
Berthe snorted and marched past him to the door. “Come on, I’ll show you. Grab that quilt off the porch swing.”
Doc followed Bertie out and around the cabin to the lean-to where the old woman kept her firewood. There, beside the neat ranks, sat a beefy, battered ATV with a broad utility rack. Doc whistled.
“Bertie, where the hell did you get that?”
“From that Arthur Ridenour, who takes such an interest in my aging bones. First, he thought it would replace sweet Pearl and my cart. An old lady like you shouldn’t be messing around with ponies and harnesses, he says. Beggin’ your pardon, he says. And when I tell him I don’t want the smelly thing, he says I’d better have it than not, in case of emergency. Said he got himself a newer one. Now he doesn’t do so much hunting, he don’t need this one. Used to sling deer carcasses across that luggage rack, I guess. Now, can you just see me racketing around on that thing?” Bertie shook her head, her face curdled in sour exasperation. “He’s an ass, but I suppose he means well. If you can drive that beast, we’ll put the quilt over the rack and Moira can hang on best she can. She sure can’t walk all the way back here.”
Doc hid a grin, coughing into his hand to disguise his chuckle. “Poke’s got a strong community spirit. Yes, I can drive it. Do you want me to go out now and wait for the ladies?”
Berthe nodded. She tilted her head as though listening, then fixed Doc with a steely eye. “They’ll be along shortly. Enid’s coming, poor soul. Don’t go ripping along that trail like a fool. Franny’s walking back now.”
As it always did, Berthe’s strange knowing sobered Doc like a dash of cold water. He was a man of science, as he liked to remind his fellow Historic Society members, but it was a fact he’d seen a great deal that he couldn’t explain and had to simply accept. Struck silent, he bobbed his head, arranged the quilt for his passengers, and fired up the ATV. As he rolled slowly around the cabin to the garden path, Frances Phoenix emerged from the woods accompanied by a sleek, grey cat.
Tock, tock. Two more blue beads jostled their neighbors in the teacup. Moira and Enid shuffled into the kitchen, and each took Bertie’s hands with a curtsy and a murmured ‘Well met’.
“My knee’s too stiff to make a pretty bend,” Moira rasped. “But I’m happy to see you, cousin. I appreciate the concierge service.” She inclined her head toward Doc. Her good eye, gimlet sharp, swept the room and fixed on Franny seated by the hearth, a large tote at her feet. Moira’s lips pinched in disapproval. “Frances.”
Franny nodded with a pleasant smile. “Well met, Moira.”
Before the awkward silence could spin very long, Enid clapped her hands with a girlish little cry. “Oh, my lemon bundt! Doc, it’s still in its carrier on Bertie’s buggy.”
As Doc nipped out for the cake, Berthe waved the women toward the table. “Take your seats and let’s break bread. We’ve got a peck of work to do before evening, and we’ll need some help. Franny’s brought something of mine from the collection in the vault.”
The meal finished and the cake plates and coffee cups cleared away, the special meeting of the Historic Society was brought to order by the tinkle of Moira’s silver bell.
“Well, let’s wade right in,” said Berthe. “I did as Franny suggested at our last meet and had Rose Dark out here for a talk. That girl is just about bursting with her family’s touch and won’t admit it. She’s angry and confused and just as stubborn as Annie was when we were young.” Berthe sighed and drummed her fingers on the table. “I don’t want any of us getting caught up in Dark family business. There’s no harm in the child. If her doings with that book of hers stirred that willow, they aren’t what woke it—even if her coming here just when she did was unfortunate timing.”
Moira snorted. “How do you know she ain’t no harm? I don’t mean she’s doing it on purpose, but the milk’s clabbered in the cow since she came to town.”
“I know because I looked, cousin. I looked long and hard, and I saw something I’m sorry to have to tell you all. The Peach family’s got sorrowful news coming.”
The declaration fell into their midst like a stone into a quiet pool. Everyone talked at once. Enid, a beloved busybody and attuned to grief after her recent loss, gasped. “Is it about Evie? She hasn’t been around to the bakery in a couple of days her Gram told me. I mean, she does go off on her own sometimes. It always worries Connie.”
Berthe rapped for quiet. “You’ve landed on the bitter truth, Enid.”
Another stir of horror and incredulity swept the Society members. This time, Berthe rang the silver bell for order. “That’s two the willow’s taken, and if I know anything about it, there’ll be more. But there’s a shadow beyond that nest of woe, stretching out like a cold, dead hand. That I can’t see, but I feel it. It’s not of the Johns Woods. It’s something from outside. I need special eyes to see it. That’s why Franny’s here.” Berthe turned her gaze toward the librarian. “Show them what you brought, Fran.”
Frances lifted the tote to the table. The Wickeford Mills Public Library barn owl logo was emblazoned on it. Deep and sturdy, it was meant to carry books. Franny reached into it with both hands and lifted out a fired-clay mannikin about two feet tall and dressed in brown flannel and leather. The thing wore an expression on its crude face that was something between indifference and mischief, and Doc’s first thought upon seeing it was that there was something cruel there, too. Enid looked on it with bewildered distaste, but it was Moira who leaned forward with a cackle to pinch its cheek.
“Bartholomew Bloodroot,” she cried. “I haven’t thought about him in decades. He used to sit on your bed, cousin. As a girl, I was so jealous. I always wanted one of my own.”
Berthe’s lips twitched upward. “You have to make such as Bartholomew. Gotta dig and wedge the clay, gotta sculpt the thing … but you have to invite the right spirit first.”
Doc tore his gaze from the relic and looked at Berthe. He’d known her all his life, a knowing easy and light. It was so easy to forget she was eldest in more ways than a few years could reckon. He had seen this thing before in the library vault, glanced at it without interest. It had seemed dull and dusty, a toy discarded long ago. Sitting on the table in their midst, it now seemed the furthest thing from a toy he could imagine. He cleared his throat.
“What do you mean by ‘invite a spirit’, Bertie?”
Berthe reached out and pulled Bartholomew to her. She gazed into his black eyes. “I think you get my meaning, Henry. It’s not important now. What is important is that he, the being I call Bartholomew, is still here.” She tapped the mannikin’s chest where its heart might be. “Sleeping. Only a day or two to him, all these years. We’re going to wake him and send him out to scout for us. He’s … handier than Fergus.”
"The milk's clabbered in the cow since she came to town." LOL. I love that saying. Ad Bartholomew Bloodroot. Excellent name. He must be a rotten individual. I liked the names and I enjoyed this one. It's got a very homey feel but with darker things brewing beneath. Great stuff, Liz.
Whether it be horrific events or village conversations, you put the reader there with your marvelous writing, Liz. It was a joy to read this chapter. Berthe is in charge. How do you come up with these weird artifacts?