Part 39 (2/2)
she said in a sugary-deep voice, ”this is the John we hear so much about. A fine-looking man, no doubt in the world about that. But that's a common name.”
”I always reckoned it's been borne by a many a good man,” I said. ”How come you to know me?”
”I heard you and Zeb Gossett a-talking. I can hear at a considerable distance.” Her wide, dark eyes crawled over me like spiders. ”My name's Craye Sawtelle, John. You and I might could be profitable acquaintances to each other.”
”I'm proud to be on good terms with most folks,” I said. ”You come to visit with Zeb, yonder?”
”Maybe, when that little snip trots her water bucket home.” Craye Sawtelle looked at Tilda a-filling the pail, and for a second those bright teeth showed. ”I have business to talk with Zeb. Maybe he'll find the wit to hark to it.”
Zeb walked Tilda to the trail. Craye Sawtelle had come into the yard with me, and when Tilda walked on and Zeb turned back, Craye said, ”Good day to you, Zeb Gossett,” and he jumped like as if he'd been stuck with a pin.
”What can I do for you, Miss Craye?” he said.
She ran her eyes over him, too. ”You know the answer to that. I'll make you a good offer for this house and this spring.”
He shook his head till his young beard flicked in the air. ”You know the place isn't for sale, and the spring water's free to all.”
”Only if they kneel and pray by it.” She smiled a chilly smile. ”I'm not a praying sort, Zeb.”
”n.o.body's heart to kneel before G.o.d,” said Zeb.
”I don't kneel to your G.o.d,” she said.
”What G.o.d do you kneel to?” I inquired her, and her black eyes blazed round to me.
”You make what educated folks call an educated guess,” she said to me. ”If you know so much, why should I answer you?”
She turned back to Zeb. ”What if I told you there's a question about your t.i.tle here, that I could gain possession?”
”I'd say, let's go to the court house and find out.”
”You're impossible,” she shrilled at him. ”But I'm reasonable. I'll give you time to think it over. Like sundown tomorrow.”
Then she went off away, the other direction from Tilda. In that tawny dress, air line of her swayed.
Just then, the sun looked murkier over us. Here and there amongst the trees, the leaves showed their pale undersides, like before a storm comes.
”Let's go in and have something to eat,” Zeb said to me.
It was a good deer-meat stew, with cornmeal dumplings. I had two helps. Zeb said he'd put in onions and garlic and thyme and bay leaf, with a dollop of wine from a bottle he kept for that. We finished up and drank black coffee. While we sipped, a sort of lonesome whinnying sound rose outside.
”That's an owl,” said Zeb. ”Bad luck this time of day.”
”I figured this was the sort of place where owls hoot in the daytime and they have possums for yard dogs.” I tried to crack the old joke, but Zeb didn't laugh.
”Let me say what's been here,” he said. ”The trouble's with that witch-girl, Craye Sawtelle. She makes profit by this and that-says strings of words supposed to make your crops grow, allows she can turn your cows or pigs sick unless you pay her. What she wants is this spring, this holy spring. Naturally, she figures it would make her rich.”
”And you won't give it over.”
”It's not mine to give, John. I reckon it saved my life-I'd have died without you knelt to scoop it clear for me. So I owe it to folks to let them cure themselves with it. Oh, Craye's tried everything. You've seen what sort she is. First off, she wanted us to be partners-in the spring and other things. That didn't work with me, and she got ugly. I'll banter you she's done things to the Flemings, like those sick chickens you heard tell of from Tilda. And she told me she'd put a curse on my corn patch. Things don't go right well there just now.”
I picked my guitar. ”Hark at this,” I said:
Three holy kings, four holy saints, At heaven's high gate that stand, Speak out to bid all evil wait And stir no foot or hand . . .
”Where'd you catch that song, John?”
”Long ago, from old Uncle T. P. Hinnard. He allowed it was a good song against bad stuff.”
Zeb crinkled his eyes. ”Like enough it is, but it sort of chills the blood. You know one of a different kind?”
The owl quivered its voice outside as I touched the strings again.
Her hair is of a brightsome color And her cheeks are rosy red, On her breast are two white lilies Where you long to lay your head.
”Tilda,” said Zeb, a-brightening up. ”You made that song about Tilda.”
”It's older than Tilda's great-grandsire,” I told him, ”but it'll do for her. I saw how she and you lean to one another.”
”If it wasn't for Craye Sawtelle-” And he stopped.
”Tell me about her,” I bade him, and he did.
She'd lived thereabouts before Zeb built his cabin. She followed witchcraft and didn't care a shuck who knew it. Some folks went to her for charms and helps, others were scared to say her name out loud.
When Zeb began a-letting sick folks drink from the spring, she tried air way she knew to cut herself in.
She'd tried to sweet-talk Zeb, even tried to move into his cabin with him. But by then he'd met Tilda Fleming and couldn't think of air girl but her.
”When she saw I wouldn't love her, she started in to make me fear her,” he said. ”She's done that thing, pretty much. You wonder yourself why I don't speak up to Tilda. I've got it in mind that if I did, Craye would do something awful to her. I don't know what it would be, likely I don't want to know.”
I made the guitar string whisper to drown out the owl's voice. ”What would she do with the spring if she had it?”
”Make folks pay for its water, I told you. Maybe turn its power round to do bad instead of good. I can't rightly say.”
I leaned my guitar on the wall. ”Maybe I'll just go out and walk round your place before the sun goes down.”
”Be careful, John.”
”Shoo,” I said, ”I'll do that. I may not be the smartest man in these mountains, but I'm sure enough the carefullest.”
<script>