“Lost her?”
“She left her human form.”
Abigail gave me a quizzical glance. Pixel jumped back onto the table, and Abigail stroked his back.
“Agatha was drawn to the Cherokee people. She was part of the woods. Cherokee believe that spirits live in the woods and can change forms. She changed her form to escape the soldiers.”
“Why?”
“They wanted to command her powers, and she couldn’t let that happen.”
Pixel spilled sugar on the table, giggled, and scooped it up with his paw. “Mmm, sweet,” Pixel said.
“Terra, I want to show you something.” Abigail hurried out of the cabin, Tracker on her heels, heading down into the valley. Pixel and I caught up to her. The valley was waking from its winter sleep, the trees starting to bud, the only thing in bloom the bright purple blue of the heather. “Tracker and I were walking this morning and found this. Isn’t it strange? Everything else is dormant.”
“I’ve never seen this on the mountain before. That’s a good sign. The Irish witches used heather to ward off evil,” I said.
Pixel jumped into the heather, rolling and tumbling. Tracker followed, emitting low growls. Abigail and I returned to the cabin. She lit a fire under the cauldron. She repeated the recipe that Mrs. Twiggs had been mixing. I sniffed. “Where did you find hogweed?”
“I found it next to the spell book under my bed under the floorboards.” Before I could stop her, Abigail scooped up a ladle and took a sip. Instantly her eyes rolled back in her head. She levitated off the floor. Her aura turned bright white so white I had to avert my eyes. The cabin shook, and then she fell to the ground. I raced to her side. “Abigail,” I shouted.
“Terra, what happened? I never felt anything like that before.” Abigail sat up, shaking out her arms.
“You’re not gifted with premonition. You shouldn’t drink that potion. Bottle it, and we’ll bring it to Mrs. Twiggs.”
Chapter 6
Mrs. Lund
Biltmore Estate
Reluctantly I allowed Mrs. Twiggs to put on my emotional support animal vest. Pixel liked his. He thought himself handsome and important. We needed them to join the ladies for tea at the Biltmore Estate. We sat in the meeting room at the Biltmore surrounded by the ladies who were on time for high tea and cakes. Mrs. Twiggs read the order of the ceremony, which dated back to Frederick Law Olmsted. “He brought his vision of the world to Asheville; the secret gardens hold the mysteries of the corners of the world. We celebrate and honor him today.” The ladies raised their teacups and nodded.
The meeting began. “Today’s agenda is the Civil War exhibit. I know many of you ladies have artifacts from family members who served on either side. The Biltmore would appreciate your loaning them for the exhibit.” She swallowed before continuing, “To help curate the exhibit is our special guest, Professor Lund from Richmond University. She’s an expert on North Carolina’s history during the Civil War.”
Seated next to Mrs. Twiggs was a woman of some age, her gray hair pulled back in a bun, her thick black glasses required after years of reading textbooks. She was dressed in a modest gray suit. She looked like a history professor should. She stood and greeted the ladies. “Thank you, all, for the warm welcome. I’m eager to hear more about each of your family histories especially yours, Mrs. Loblolly.” She smiled at Mrs. Loblolly, who nodded graciously. “I’ve read extensive reports on your four-times-removed grandfather, Colonel Odysseus Loblolly of the Seventh Carolina.”
Mrs. Loblolly raised her teacup. She was very proud of her heritage. She motioned to the large bag on the floor next to her. “I’ve brought some swords, uniforms, and journals to share with you.”
As Professor Lund spoke, my eyes grew heavy. The warm tea and even hotter room made it difficult to stay awake. My ears perked up when I heard Professor Lund speak of the Asheville Trail. She continued, “Many Northern sympathizers and Confederate deserters crossed the border to South Carolina across the trail. Asheville was a transportation hub in the early 1860s for the war.”
My eyes drifted closed again. I dreamed. I could hear the wagon wheels churning up the red mud as they crossed the border. Its occupants ever on the lookout for the gray coats. Agatha greeted the travelers and chose to ride with them, hoping there was safety in numbers. I leaped into the back of the wagon by the children—five of early ages. Agatha sat on the driver’s bench with the man and woman. I smelled the herbs that Agatha had brought with her. It was a comforting smell, and then I smelled something else, alcohol. I rummaged through the sacks to find brass tubing and a mason jar. Agatha Hollows had a still of her own by the cabin for medicinal purposes, so I knew what this was. I heard the driver say they were headed to Packs Mountain. We stopped for the night and made camp. The travelers shared their beans and fatback with Agatha, who in turned shared with me. She sat next to the fire, poking it with a stick. The young girl rocking in her mother’s arms coughed repeatedly. Agatha stood up and went over to the girl. The mother gazed up protectively but then handed the child to Agatha, who sat back down by the fire cross-legged with the child on her lap. She listened to her chest. “This girl has consumption.” She reached into her pack and pulled out a jar with some herbs, crumbling them in her hands. Then she spit into the leaves and made a paste. She rubbed it on the child’s chest, whispered in her ear, and then the coughing stopped. Her mother rushed over, beaming. “She’s been coughing for almost a week.”
Agatha put the paste into a jar, handed it to the mother. “Put this on her every night. She’ll be fine in a few days.”
The children’s father watched, smoking a pipe from his seat across the other side of the fire. We drifted off in front of the fire, the long day’s travel exhausting us.
By next day’s end, we reached a ridge. “Packs Mountain Ridge,” I heard the man say.
We headed up. The evening air cooled the ground, sending up a mist. The path was a razorback of granite and red earth. No more than a couple hundred feet across, dropping off sharply on both sides. A very defendable fortress. As we climbed, I saw the far Appalachian Mountains of Tennessee to the south and Glassy Mountain to the north. We settled at the top. The man unloaded the still and began constructing his livelihood. The woman settled the children and started a fire. Agatha and I watched as she made supper. “Agatha, we should leave,” I said.
“Terra, they know not what they do,” she replied.
The woman saw Agatha rubbing her arthritic hands and brought her a jar of moonshine. Agatha smiled and then sniffed it. Then she poured it out on the ground. “You took this too early. The first five percent is poison. The next thirty percent you pull is the head, smells strong, burns your nose, but drinkable if needed. Wait for the heart, that’s the next thirty percent, that’ll smell sweet, brings you the best price.”
The man ran over and slapped Agatha hard across the face. She swayed back from the impact. “Old woman, that was good shine you spilled.” He then turned to his wife and with a closed fist punched her in the eye. She fell to her knees.
After the man left, Agatha placed a compress of herbs on the woman’s eye. She then handed her a small vial. “If it gets to be more than you can stand, put this in his drink.”
The woman looked back at the man, then smiled at Agatha and took the vial. When we woke, the man was gone. Agatha gathered her things. “Wait, where are you going? You can ride with us,” the mother said, balancing the sick girl on her hip.
Agatha shook her head, knowing better. We thanked her and left.
We made it deep into South Carolina when the gray coat hunters led by the man reached us. Thirty pieces of silver, I thought, the going price for betrayal.