A Widow's Curse (22 page)

There may be a moment in everyone's life when the idea occurs to them that they come from a cursed family. Every family is cursed. I'd held that belief since I was seven, and thought about it often as an adult. But it was quite another venture to be confronted with clear evidence of the concept.

I should have stayed at Dan Battle's house longer than I did. I should have asked him the kinds of questions, the sort of dialogue I might have had with any true folk informant, but once he'd told me where the artifact was buried—and that it looked like a cross bound with cloth or vines—I couldn't get Crawdad to move fast enough.

My father had described, in the Talking Leaves language, where he'd buried the Cherokee artifact. I knew the exact spot. I saved any question of how he knew that language for another day.

I knew what I had to do.

Dan had really wanted me to stay, but I think I retreated into my mind a little, and I can't quite remember what he said at the end of our visit, what excuse I made to leave his house—or how I got into Crawdad's car.

“Well, that was weird,” Crawdad said after a moment of bumpy downhill jostling.

I had no idea how to respond.

“I have to get home,” I said after too long a pause.

“Right.”

Crawdad didn't speak for the rest of the way down the mountain.

By the time we'd rolled onto the blacktop and were headed back to my place, I thought I knew what to ask Crawdad.

“Did you ever have the feeling that there was a curse on your family?”

“Me?” He grinned instantly. “Naw. I guess you're talking about my uncle Harbey being kicked in the head when he was at that wedding party. He ain't been right since. But that's because he's stupid. Don't have a thing in this world to do with a curse.”

I let a pulse beat go by.

“How did your uncle get kicked in the head at a wedding party?”

“He was bothering the mule.”

Some things, I decided instantly, are best left alone.

“So you don't think your family has a curse?”

“Definitely not. Just the opposite way around, I reckon. I believe we've had a great share of blessings.” He inclined his head ever so slightly my way. “I can see how you'd think that, though, you know, about your own family.”

“Yes.”

“Is that inappropriate?” He winced. “Sorry. Sheriff is all the time telling me that my comments are what they call ‘inappropriate.'”

“Sadly,” I assured him, “your thoughts on the subject are not in the least—You really think your family is—”

“What did you want to leave so quick for?” He was doing his best to ease the conversation. “You all but run out of Mr. Battle's place.”

I swallowed.

“I want to go dig up the thing, the cross.”

He nodded. I don't think he realized that he stepped a little harder on the accelerator.

“You know where to take it.” His voice had gone quiet. “I mean, you know where that thing belongs.”

I did my best not to give an indication of anything, but that in itself was a giveaway.

Andrews was sitting on the front porch when Crawdad's car pulled up in my yard, and he got up and came into the yard before the engine was off.

“So?” He was tight-lipped.

“We found out where the thing is buried,” Crawdad gushed, “and
what
it is.” He lowered his voice. “And Dr. Devilin knows what to do with it, too, I believe.”

“You're not going to believe this.” I was headed for the garden shed in the back of my house. “Is Skidmore still here?”

“He went into town. Detective Huyne is still here, and there was something about the blood they found on your window from the lunatic with the cricket bat. Where are we going?”

“There.” I pointed to a moss-covered boulder between two ancient cedar trees in the backyard.

Crawdad nodded and I was off.

My yard slopes down behind the house and is eventually lost in tall pines, thick undergrowth, and steep angles. It's shady, and a little difficult to navigate when the incline gets too intense. There was a barbecue pit, a stone oven and chimney, about twenty feet from the back door. I have no idea who built it and I had never seen it used. Fire would probably never touch the stones again. Lucinda had planted some creeping ficus around it the summer I'd first come home, and it was climbing the rocks quite nicely.

The garden shed was a rustic affair, built by my father out of scavenged barn wood. It had a padlock on it, but I never clicked it shut. I went straight for the shovel; Crawdad and Andrews watched.

Andrews complained.

“What are we doing?”

“That's where the thing is buried,” Crawdad explained, hushed. “We're going to dig it up.”

“The Cherokee artifact is buried in your backyard?” Andrews was very amused. “Why?”

“Apparently, my mother was frightened by it,” I told him, striding toward the boulder. “She made my father bury it back here. She thought
that
would ward off the evil.”

“But Dan says it won't work,” Crawdad went on. “We've got to get it back to where it belongs.”

“And where is that?” Andrews caught up with me.

“He's not saying,” Crawdad allowed, “but he knows all right.”

“Exactly what is this thing?” Andrews tried to catch my eye.

“It's a water curse,” I said, not looking at him. “Can you believe that? It's a cross-shaped object that the Cherokee put near a stream to curse the water.”

“You're
kidding.
” Andrews stopped. “What does Dr. There Is No Pattern 'Cause It's All Random think of
that
?”

I turned to face him.

“Would you mind?”

He read my face.

“Fever? Are you all right?”

“Not remotely.” I hoisted the shovel.

Forty-five minutes and three sizable holes later, I had nothing to show for my efforts but the derision of Dr. Andrews and pain from my sciatic nerve.

Crawdad had gone reluctantly when a call over his police radio demanded his attention. He didn't say what it was about—or maybe he did and I just didn't pay attention. Either way, he'd made Andrews promise to call him the moment I found the cross.

Andrews had gone into the house for a Guinness—he'd brought a twelve-pack with him, apparently, and squirreled it in his room—and come back out, only to lean on the boulder and make pirate noises.

“The note from your father wasn't very specific, then.” He sipped.

“Well,” I answered, leaning on the shovel and breathing hard, “who knows what's happened to this piece of land in twenty years or more? Things grow; others shift. I'm in the right area.”

“Unless someone's already dug it up.”

“We'd see that.” I stared down at the ground. “We'd notice the disturbed earth.”

“Not if someone dug it up in the years you were going to university, or teaching there. A couple of seasons of growing and shifting can cover a lot of ‘disturbed earth.'”

I hadn't thought of that.

“What if it's not even here anymore?” My voice sounded shaky to me.

“That's what I'm saying.” He took another healthy sip. “Why don't you come on in and let's think about food. I'm hungry.”

“You go on in,” I told him, “I'm just going to try a bit longer.”

“God.” He finished his Guinness and headed for the house.

 

I have no idea how much longer I stayed in the backyard digging useless holes, losing hope that I would find the impossible object. Shadows were long, the sun was nearly down, and rain clouds threatened the horizon.

I leaned the shovel on the boulder, wiped my forehead with my sleeve, and started thinking about what would be good for dinner. I had some fresh trout in the refrigerator—just caught. My mind was occupied with lemons—trying to remember if I had any.

I barely heard the rush of running feet or the heavy breathing coming my way.

By the time I realized someone was there, he was on me, grunting and snarling, tackling me, knocking me back against the boulder.

With the breath knocked out of me, all I could do was drop lower when I saw the cricket bat headed toward my skull. The bat landed hard on the rock, and the impact must have stung his hands. I grabbed my shovel and poked it into his stomach as hard as I could, and he doubled over.

The shadows were too deep for me to see his face, but he was clearly the man who had broken into my house. And he was mad as a loon.

I scrambled away from the boulder, holding tightly to the shovel. When I got far enough away from him, I stood, planted my feet, and hefted the shovel to swing at him.

But he had recovered from the blow in the stomach and jumped back. He began swinging the bat in front of him like a scythe, back and forth, very quickly. He lumbered my way, head down, eyes up—a terrifying, mindless expression on his face. There was no reasoning human being in that body, only anger and the power of lunacy.

I cocked the shovel and let it swing, tip outward, with all my weight, knocking it against his bat. The impact stung us both. He howled; I hissed. But we both held on to our weapons.

If I could have gotten my breath, I would have hollered for Andrews, but I was afraid to use any effort that would distract me from defending myself.

The madman raised his bat over his head and shrieked, instantly running toward me, a Viking berserker.

I managed to get the shovel raised just high enough to bash the side of his head with the back of it on my upswing. It caught him under his jaw. It wasn't as hard as I'd wanted it to be, but it stopped his progress.

Hadn't Andrews heard his howling?

He stood a moment, dazed by the bash in his head. I used that pause to get a better grip on the shovel and plant my feet.

“The next one will take your head off,” I told him, trying to keep my voice low and threatening.

He squatted, started pounding his bat on the ground, apelike.

I relaxed—my mistake.

He leapt up suddenly, whirled the bat over his head, and sent it flying toward my face. I didn't have time to duck. If I hadn't turned away, the bat might have taken my eye out. As it was, it rocketed into my temple and I went down like a shot buffalo.

I fought to remain conscious, knowing the man would kill me if I passed out. I flailed the shovel blindly, hopelessly trying to fend him off. I could hear him moving around me, but I couldn't concentrate—moments or hours might have passed.

Without warning, the back door of my house slammed open and I heard Andrews on the steps.

“What the
hell
is going on out there?”

I scrambled up.

I could hear someone slithering toward me in the grass, but my vision was cloudy.

I held the shovel in front of me.

“I'm going to cut your head off with this shovel,” I growled.

It didn't remotely sound like my voice.

The movement stopped.

“Fever?” Andrews kept his distance.

I blinked several times. My vision cleared a little. There was only one figure.

“Andrews?”

“What are you doing?”

“Heads up,” I whispered, “there's someone else here. He just clubbed me. Look around.”

“What?” Andrews took a step in my direction.

“Look
around.
” I backed up to the rock, scanning the yard in the failing light.

“There's no one else here.” Andrews moved closer. “Put down the shovel.”

“Oh.” I dropped it. “Sorry.”

“Jesus, look at your head!” He came to me instantly. “What happened?”

“The man with the cricket bat was here again!” I searched the ground around us for the weapon. “He threw it at me. It should be right here.”

“There's nothing.” Andrews shook his head. “But you already have a nasty bump there.”

“It's affecting my eyesight.” I closed my eyes.

“Oh my God,” Andrews whispered.

My eyes snapped open.

“What is it?”

He pointed. I turned.

Just under the boulder, about where I'd leaned on it, I could barely make out the top of a burlap sack.

 

In my kitchen, under the bright light, the Cherokee cross was beautiful, not threatening at all. Two carved branches of a river birch had been fixed in a cross with what appeared to be braided reed green cloth, very sturdy. There were several feathers woven into the pattern, making a circle around the nexus of the sticks. I couldn't figure out how it had survived for so long intact.

There had been nothing else in the burlap bag—no note, no clue, no hint.

“Why was it buried out there, did you say?” Andrews couldn't take his eyes off the thing.

“My mother was reportedly frightened by it.” I sat back, vision still a little on the jagged side. “But they say anything shaped like a cross makes a vampire nervous.”