Chapter 28 Red Hair
Red Hair
Lydia Brown
The table on the porch is set with blue pottery and gingham napkins. When we see Kate and her dog come down the path, Gus pours coffee and I bring out a platter of pancakes. Crispy bacon, a bowl of berries, and a pitcher of maple syrup are already on the table. Oma’s cuckoo clock strikes eight.
“Morning, Gus. Morning, Lydia,” she calls out. “You warned me that I would be awed with the view, but I wasn’t prepared,” is how she starts. “I’ve been up since sunrise watching the awakening. Every minute it changes. It’s hard to look away.”
“I agree. When we found this place, I promised myself not to take for granted living on the edge of the world, and every day I’m still enchanted.”
The languid white cat watches Kate’s dog approach. They touch noses. Gus says, “Her name is Uncle. She likes your dog.”
Kate steps on the porch. “We blur the gender lines without guilt, don’t we? I’m guessing your name Gus wasn’t your birth name.”
Still holding the coffeepot, my niece wrinkles her nose. “Augustina. Who names a girl Augustina? It’s a death sentence is what it is.”
Kate says, “I like Gus. It suits you,” and wins a friend for life.
I pull out the chair with the best view for our guest and sit beside her. “Did you sleep well?”
“Like a rock. It was only the glittering stars out the window that kept me awake. I’ve lived beneath the tree canopy for years, so seeing the open night sky is a gift.” She shakes out her napkin. “This looks wonderful.”
“I want to fortify you for our first day of work. It will be spent organizing and walking through the process. If you’d like, before we head to the office, I can give you a ten-cent tour of the cottage.”
“I’d like that. What did it look like when you bought it?”
“Rough. Neglected. Unloved. It had been abandoned for decades except for the occasional drifter or teenagers looking for shelter. They left trash and graffiti, but the ghostly sounds likely chased them away. The stories of our wood have become legendary.”
“Like what?”
“You sure you want to know?” I tease.
“You said they weren’t true.”
“They’re not, but they’re clever. My favorite is the one about a witch’s coven that lived underground. And then there’s a widow woman who roams these hills looking for her dead husband’s head. So far, I’ve found nothing to support these tales.”
“Do you know who lived here before you?” Kate pours syrup on pancakes drenched in butter and takes her first delicious bite.
“The Johnsons we were told, but that’s one of the most common names in the area.
They lived here sixty years ago then were gone.
The realtor thought they may have died from the Spanish flu of 1918, an epidemic that killed fifty million people.
It wiped out whole communities up here. My daddy’s people in the east were killed by the sickness. He was the only survivor.”
I pour cream in my coffee and add blueberries to my pancakes.
“We inherited his family’s library. Some of the classics are here and in your guesthouse.
Daddy’s children are all bibliophiles who love to read.
Every night of my childhood we read stories aloud to each other.
Every weekend, neighbors could come and sit in the yard and listen to classics like The Velveteen Rabbit by Margery Williams or Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea by Jules Verne.
My family was a literate lot. It’s no wonder that Gus’s mother Lucy wanted to be a writer when she was a girl.
I believe she still has a bestseller in that excellent head of hers. ”
Gus says, “I forgot about that.”
Kate says, “Does she live close by?”
“They live on the other side of Burnsville. We came within ten minutes of their home yesterday. Gus is spending the summer with me as a junior intern.”
She grins at the honorary title.
“It sounds like a wonderful childhood. You were lucky, Lydia.”
We fall quiet and eat till the platters are empty. This isn’t the time to tell my dark truth about how a lucky life can be cut short and taint what comes after.
Gus clears the table while Kate gets the tour of the great room with its line of windows and waxed pine floors scattered with loomed rugs.
Above the mantel on the stone fireplace is a close-up of the exotic jack-in-the-pulpit, a bewitching beauty that is poisonous and perfect for a haunted wood.
Spider plants, a trio of jewel-tone African violets, and trailing philodendron line the baker’s rack.
The sofa and chairs are placed for easy conversation and reading and comfort.
Kate whispers. “Another perfect place.” She smiles at the needlepoint pillow, Too Much of a Good Thing Is Wonderful, then touches the cornflower blue shawl over the arm of the sofa, ready to ward off a chill. More pottery lines the mantel.
“There are two bedrooms. I’m on the left.” The morning light turns my robin’s-egg blue room into an impressionist painting. “We installed floor-to-ceiling corner windows to see the wood in two directions. Do you recognize the rocker?”
“There’s one in the guesthouse.”
“Yes. They’re made by local craftsmen at the Woody Chair Company. It’s said that President Kennedy had this rocker in the White House to help his back problem. They don’t use nails in construction. It’s exceptional Appalachian craftsmanship.”
“But this armoire isn’t local.” She runs her hand over its painted surface.
“No, it’s from the Black Forest in Germany, home of the Brothers Grimm and my ancestors on my mother’s side.
” I point to the creature on top. “That creature was made from three animals by my great-grandfather. As you can see, folklore and ghost stories run in my family, so we are at home in a place the locals still call haunted.” I grin.
Kate loves to touch things. She runs her fingers over the diamond patchwork quilt and the woven throw at the foot of my bed and skims the stack of books on my bedside table. She looks up. “I see what’s been missing from my cabin. I treated it as temporary, and it was.”
“It certainly holds none of your talents and promise.”
Kate bristles at the compliment. “Talents and promise? You confuse me with someone else. I’ve failed miserably.”
I ache for dear Kate, who is riddled with guilt about God knows what.
She stares out the window and bites her lower lip to hold back emotions.
This marvelous, educated, responsible woman is filled to the brim with self-doubt.
Who did this to her? Why did she allow it to happen?
But then I stop judging Kate because the same could be said about me.
I deflect. “Do you know the saying You can’t see the forest for the trees?”
She nods.
“I believe you’ve been on your path for important reasons but haven’t been granted clarity yet.
You’re too close to see the details, but the closing of the schoolhouse has freed you.
Your unexpected partnership with me is a gift to us both.
We are in the right place at the right time. Let’s be patient.”
We climb the stairs to the second-floor workshop and find Birdie’s treasures where we left them. We’ll start with the medieval chest because it’s more manageable than the mass of books. Kate removes the worn quilt and pulls the brass key from her pocket and unlocks it.
“Gus, photograph our process, please.” Kate and I put on white gloves, and she lifts the inlaid lid to reveal the manuscript and the smaller worn leather book and a worn pouch. We gently remove the items from the box.
Gus peers in the bottom. “What’s that?”
Hidden beneath the books is a painting on velum.
A drawing of stately figures in black robes surrounding a girl with red hair.
Using tweezers, I lift a corner to see if it’s stuck to the bottom by mildew or wood rot, but it comes up easily.
I place it on the examination table and we lean in; our three heads almost touch.
Kate shocks us when she says, “I’ve seen these people. The red-haired girl and the robed figures.”
“Where?”
“At Birdie’s funeral. They were in the distance, across the meadow.”
“You’d never seen them before?”
“No. I wasn’t even sure they were real. They looked ethereal and when the congregation lifted their heads after Eli prayed, they vanished. And now this.” She looks back at the figure in a drawing that may be centuries old. “It doesn’t make sense, does it? What could it mean?”
“That, my friend, is a delicious conundrum.” I suggest, “This drawing might have been done by a young artist. Maybe the girl with red hair. Maybe she’s related to the scribe or illustrator of the manuscript.” I grin. “So many marvelous loose ends fluttering in the wind to collect and tie together.”
“But how could these robed figures and the red-haired girl be at the funeral?” Kate shakes her head in disbelief, doubting what she saw.
I offer a possibility. “This was protected in Birdie’s trailer. Hidden under a simple quilt. She knew what and who they are, though they’re long gone. Now she wants us to know.”
Kate adds, “Are they nuns?”
“Nuns or witches,” I say. “In the Middle Ages, people who practiced medicinal and chemical arts—usually women—were first depicted dressed in white. But later they were associated with black magic. Nuns wore black and some were healers, and the lines between them blurred yet their purpose for good never changed. Only the public’s perception—one often influenced by male physicians.
Historians have always marginalized the work done by women healers.
They’ve simply been written out of history.
“And let’s consider the source of these treasures: a witch in Appalachia who understood nature’s gifts and recorded truth. From the little I know, it makes sense that she’s part of a powerful lineage that goes back deep in history. The contents of this chest are part of Birdie’s legacy.”
Gus bends closer to the drawing. “I think they’re leaving. Being cast out of their home. There are satchels and trunks.” She points to a box loaded on a cart. “Is that this box?”
“Could be.” We straighten up and step back.
Gus points to the pouch. “What’s that?”
I carefully unroll the fine leather and expose tools, likely the ones used to make the illuminated manuscript.
First are quills, but not from swan or goose feathers.
“These are magnificent crow feathers,” I explain.
“They’ve been slit and prepared to hold the ink.
But it is this”—I hold up medieval reading glasses framed in dried, cracked leather—“that dates the tools and works. This tool was invented in the thirteenth century and helped the scribes do detail work when their eyes got older and the light was dim. Before these were created, scribes used a large glass bowl filled with water and suspended it over the page. Candlelight lit the work, and the water enlarged the details being painted.”
“How do you know so much, Lydia?”
“Jack and I earned degrees in library science. He got a master’s. One small facet of that study was illuminated manuscripts, but I never expected to find one in Appalachia, and sadly, I don’t read Gaelic.”
“But you know someone?”
“A curator at the Rare Book School might be willing.”
“What do they do there?”
“Study the history of printing, for one thing. After the invention of Gutenberg’s printing press five hundred years ago, scholars had to decide common fonts and formats.
Had to declare a uniform alphabet. The school houses those trials and errors.
But nowhere in the modern world are bookmakers doing what Birdie has done. ”
Kate turns appreciative eyes to me. “This is extraordinary care being given to her work. It’s far beyond what Eli and I could have ever done.”
“It’s my pleasure.”
We carefully turn pages of detailed plants, herbs and flowers, but none of us are privy to the lessons in Gaelic. We close the book midway and save it for the expert.
In the small book we find beautiful penmanship but again, written in Gaelic. Dates appear to separate the entries, so we think it’s a journal—but written by whom and when? We have been intent for hours and our shoulders are tight and eyes blurry. Gus has taken pictures of each step.
“Coffee break?” I say, and we go downstairs into the warm energy of a bustling bookstore selling baked goods alongside mystery and travel and knowledge.
The three of us carry our mugs to the table beside the fireplace and are quietly sipping coffee when Kate confides, “I didn’t mention this at supper last night because I felt foolish… ”
“About what?” I ask.
“On yesterday’s drive from Baines Creek, I thought I saw Loretty.”
“Where?”
“In Micaville. We passed a girl walking beside the road holding an old woman’s hand. They each carried baskets. The girl even wore a cotton dress like Loretty’s.”
“Why didn’t you stop?” I ask.
“I was following you.”
“We would have come back for you.”
“But there’s nothing much to say. I saw them then they were gone. It was literally two seconds, and it didn’t make sense. The girl didn’t look frightened or in danger.”
“Are you going back to look?”
“I was hoping Eli would check it out. I tried calling him last night and again this morning, but I didn’t get an answer. I’m probably imagining this out of guilt.”
“Possibly, but maybe it’s a new piece of the puzzle. Call him from upstairs if you’d like, and keep calling till he answers.”
“Miz Kate,” Gus interrupts, looking shy. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“What can you tell me about Eddie Dillard?” She blushes and her freckles glow.
“He’s Loretty’s uncle, as you know. He’s smart and comes from a good family. It’s going to be a big transition for our students going to county in September. He could use a friend at Mountain Heritage.”
“Want me to help him get ready?”
“He’d like that, Gus. He’d like it very much.”
Professor Covey comes by our table, and I introduce Kate, then lower my voice. “When you have time, come upstairs and see what we have.”
He lowers his voice in playful conspiracy. “Do tell.”
“It’s a witch’s ancient legacy that spans the sea.”