Chapter 22 Medieval
Medieval
Lydia Brown
I could kiss Gus for hearing bees buzz. It means I am not the only one plugged into this dead witch’s world. Birdie read my thoughts and Gus delivered a dream message, so something is coming together. Here, surrounded by Birdie’s words, my path to the other side seems possible.
“What does it hold?” I ask.
“Something unbelievable,” Kate says, and she smiles for the first time and pulls an ornate brass key from her pocket. “Want to do the honors?”
The key has heft, and the shank and bow are a Celtic design.
Even the barrel sports fine etchings. The key matches the box in its quality—but the quality does not match Birdie Rocas.
I slip it in the lock and turn, and when I lift the lid, the buzzing stops.
Gus hears the change, too. And what’s inside is mind-boggling.
The object shimmers with gold and silver and spectacular semiprecious stones.
“What is it?” Gus whispers, and Eddie leans closer and whistles.
“An illuminated manuscript,” I whisper. “And a smaller book. They were made long ago.”
“Ever seen anything like it?” Kate speaks reverently.
“In Appalachia? No. But medieval manuscripts, yes. In London, behind a protective wall of glass. At J. P. Morgan’s library, in New York, there are over eleven hundred manuscripts spanning ten centuries.
And at the Rare Book School in Charlottesville.
It makes sense for illuminated manuscripts to reside in these places, where they can be properly appreciated and cared for.
A witch’s trailer in the middle of the forest is not one of those places.
And from what I know, the content is usually religious.
Based on the cover, this one is an apothecary book. ”
“How old do you guess?” Kate asks.
“Hundreds of years. Maybe four hundred or five hundred. We’ll know more after they’ve been examined.”
Kate says, “That’s twice as old as the United States. There were barely white settlers here when this was written—assuming it was written here.” She adds, “Eli and I didn’t touch anything when we looked inside and saw it held precious things. We didn’t want to risk doing damage.”
“A wise move. The smaller book could be a journal.”
“But why would Birdie have these things?” Kate wants to know.
I grin. “That’s the million-dollar question, isn’t it?”
Still wearing gloves, I reach inside to lift the ornate cover of the larger book, which is roughly sixteen by twenty inches, and six inches thick.
I lift the cover and reveal a marvelous first page.
The colors are brilliant on the drop cap and intricate border.
Lapis lazuli for the light blues and indigo for the dark.
Red lead for orange and lead tin for yellow.
Artists who knew how to unlock nature’s colors that could last for centuries.
I gently close the book cover and the chest. It doesn’t hum.
“This part of history isn’t my specialty in Special Collections, but I know where to find someone who can help.
Do you agree that the first order of business is to secure these treasures?
We need to move all of this”—my eyes scan the room—“to a place that is safe and better protected against the elements and the curious. Your lock isn’t enough. ”
“Where would that be?”
With that question, I’m encouraged Kate will support my proposal. “I’d like to take them to my workroom in Little Switzerland. It’s where I review collections being donated to Ramsey Library in Asheville. It’s only an hour from here. It’s a private and secure space.”
Kate is tied to deep emotions, and I’m the interloper, the thief wanting to steal away these riches in broad daylight.
I go on. “You’ve done a wonderful job with Birdie’s endeavors, moving her books and protecting the chest—but this is a big job.
Too big to stay here in a public place.” Then I remind her, “You reached out to me for help, and that’s what I suggest.”
Kate nods but won’t meet my eyes. She runs her fingers over the nearest book.
“It’s all happening so fast, isn’t it? It’s only been a few weeks since Birdie died and we dismantled her world and the rest burned to ashes.
I can’t guard them around the clock, I know that, but when they leave the mountain there will be nothing tangible left of Birdie except her grave. ”
I soften the blow and say, “I could use your help, Kate.”
“Doing what?”
“Being my research assistant—if you have time.”
She pauses, so I sweeten the pot. “There’s a guesthouse beside my cottage where you could stay. We’d only be a few miles from Birdie’s things.”
Then I deliver the hardest part. “But I’d like to start today. Take everything in my car and yours. If you come with me, you could oversee the transition.”
“But we need to find Loretty. I can’t walk away. Wouldn’t that be heartless?”
I say tenderly, “What can you do about the missing child that isn’t being done?”
“I’d be turning my back on this place,” Kate says and looks to Eddie for a response but he shrugs.
“No, you’d be caring for Birdie’s legacy, which means a lot to this community. Left here, this is all at risk.”
“She’s right, Miz Kate,” Eddie says.
The teacher confesses. “I haven’t slept well a single night since they’ve been here, but if I’m going with you, I need some things from my cabin.”
“May I come with you? I’d like to see what’s left of Birdie’s trailer and where she was buried.”
My niece quickly says, “I’ll stay with Eddie. We can watch over the books while y’all are gone.”
Kate explains, “Eddie is uncle to the missing girl. I think they’ll be fine here, and Eddie will like the company. He’ll listen for the phone if there’s news. When we get back, I’ll wait for Eli to tell him this decision. I don’t want him to find the books and me gone.”
“You’ll be freeing him so he can focus on the girl,” I add as encouragement.
“Everybody will be helping except me.”
“You can come back often to give Eli a report on what we discover and see what’s happening here. It’s only an hour away. And there’s the telephone.”
Kate closes the flimsy door with the books and treasure inside and two children as protectors. As before, we follow the creek up into the hills while a bird follows overhead.
“Is that a crow with white feathers?” I say.
She glances up. “That’s Samuel. He was Birdie’s crow for over twenty years. His feathers have been turning white.”
“Birdie had her own crow?”
“She writes about him in her books. He used to ride on top of her head. It was strange to see at first, but then I got used to them being together. Without her he’s lost. Spends his days on a branch outside the schoolhouse or up at her grave site.”
Our walk turns quiet and the acrid smell of ashes grows stronger, a reminder that as long as Birdie’s books are on the mountain, they’re in danger.
The sooty remains of her trailer come into view, and we pause beside the shell, which is pitiful and small.
It doesn’t hint at the powerful soul who lived here.
“Tell me again when this happened?”
“Eli found her dead on Saturday the week after the big news about school closing and you came. She was buried Sunday and we put her books in the school closet that day. Then her place caught fire after her burying day. It’s been a rough two weeks.”
“You said they didn’t look hard for the culprit, but do you have a guess?”
Kate starts walking again, and I keep up this time.
“No. How this place felt about Birdie Rocas was complicated. She was a necessary, indispensable character. Wise, impatient, judgmental. Strict yet generous. Over and over her witchy ways mystified me. You’ll learn more when you read her books.
It’s a half mile more to my place. When we come back, I’ll show you her grave. ”
Birdie’s crow stays at the ruins. Corvids inhabit my haunted wood, and I know they are smart and faithful and even vindictive, but nowhere have I read of such a love bond with a human. It speaks to the transcendental qualities of the crone and the crow.
We reach Kate’s clearing, and a mongrel dog steps from the shadows wagging his tail.
She says, “His name is Rachel. He needs to come with me. He’s no good on his own,” and she goes inside and leaves the door open.
Wind chimes jingle without a breeze. I enter the single room with a sleeping loft while Kate stuffs shirts, trousers, shoe polish, and toiletries in a canvas backpack.
She adds books, tucks the half bag of dog food under her arm, and leaves the scrap of bread on the counter. “—For the mice,” she says.
“What happened?” I point to a dead bonsai tree.
“It was old, a gift from a student in a former life. I was careless and the killing snow got it.”
A card is tacked to the front of a pie safe: EXPECT A MIRACLE. I point and ask, “Did it work?”
“It did.” She puts the card in her pocket. “Again, it was in the killing snow. I’ll tell you on the walk back.” She eases me out the door, and her dog leads the way to the burned trailer and an overgrown footpath draped with kudzu.
“This vine came from Japan.” Kate uses her walking stick to lift the climber so we can stoop under. “Came to America a hundred years back. Thought it would solve erosion problems. You familiar with it?”
“Yes, I live in the south.”
“It has some merits. Birdie wove baskets, cooked the young leaves, and made medicine.”
“I didn’t know that.”
We pass an abandoned cabin being consumed by the woods, then round the final bend in the trail, and I am stopped cold: Birdie’s graveyard looks like my graveyard. Three ancient headstones in a row inside a stone wall.
Kate sees my shocked expression, and when I explain, she says, “It must be a coincidence.”
“I don’t think so.” I point to the fresh grave. “And Birdie’s buried outside the wall.”
“It’s what she wanted.”
“And you didn’t think that was strange?”
Kate repeats, “It’s what Birdie wanted.”
I stare in the distance southeast, across a meadow, into thick trees, toward Little Switzerland. “You know, as the crow flies, only a dozen miles separate my graveyard from here.”
“And that makes you think what? That this graveyard is somehow connected to yours? But why? What would they have in common besides three old headstones?”
“I don’t know yet,” I answer honestly. And truthfully maybe I’m overthinking and overreaching because I grieve for what I lost by a hair’s breadth: the chance to know Birdie.
I clear my throat and rush to know more before Kate wants to leave. “Do you know anything about this meadow?”
“I told you,” Kate’s voice is tight. “I only saw it the day Birdie was buried. I’d never been here before and I haven’t been back since.”
“It’s shaped like a bowl.”
“So?”
“I wonder if it played a part in Birdie’s life. Maybe in ceremonies or rituals. If you squint your eyes you can see magic forming. See women swirling around a bonfire while the tall stones watch.” I blink twice and the scene fades.
Kate shakes her head in disbelief. She’s unhappy with me.
She repeats, “Like I said, I never saw this place till Birdie was buried. Never heard of anybody coming here either. To my way of thinking, the overgrown trail from Birdie’s place was a warning to keep out.
This is a forgotten place, Lydia. It’s not special at all. ”
Kate walks away and I hurry to keep up, but I’ll watch for mention of the meadow in Birdie’s books. I’ll find out who comes to this hidden place. I’ll unearth the old customs that mattered to Birdie.
My trigon pulses.