Dead Willow (6 page)

When the dirt reached just above her elbows, and she began to pull clumps of muddy soil from the bottom of the hole, she stopped.

Annabel crawled over to the headstone on her ragged hands and scraped knees and retrieved the cherry box from its perch. Carrying it painfully to the edge of the hole, she opened the lid and gazed at its contents.

The scrap of willow branch that had glowed so fiercely in Eunice’s office, now seemed dark and inert.

The box trembled in her hands as the pain and exhaustion washed over her. What had she done? Had the midnight deadline been a literal
dead
line? Why wouldn’t they tell her that? She would’ve gotten here on time if she had known that!

She gripped the box like grim death as the deepening cold started to settle in. The bitter wind stung her watering eyes and she squeezed them tightly shut as they threatened to spill over. A tear escaped and dropped down into the cherry box, wetting the tiny branch like heavenly rain.

It was only one drop, but it would do.

As the scrap of tree started to shimmer in the black soil, Annabel felt the warmth returning to the cherry box. When she saw the glow emanating from the miracle in her hands, she felt the urge, just for a moment, to take hold of it and let it work its magic on her broken hands.

Then, she remembered Juni.

Gripping the box firmly, she tipped its contents, twig and soil, into the open hole. Tossing the box aside, she worked feverishly to scoop the dry soil back in, tamping it down, until she had concealed every trace of her intrusion.

She stood and stared down at the modest grave she had made with her own hands, which now didn’t feel quite so damaged. She stumbled back into something on the ground behind her, then reached down and picked up the empty cherry box. It felt … insignificant.

Tucking the box under her arms, she turned and headed for the entrance where the car would be waiting.

Something was going to sprout in this place, and she didn’t want to be here when it did.

He said it was a
No-Tell
Motel. Annabel didn’t know what that meant, but she loved the way he said it. She loved the way he said everything.

It was 1:30 in the morning and she had just met Gus Evans. Gus was the night manager at the
Starlight Motor Inn
, and Annabel thought he was far too gorgeous to hide behind a desk at a fleabag. If he had been with her in Willow Tree, she would have marched him up and down Main Street on her arm at the height of the festival, while all the other women fanned themselves and swooned.

At least, that’s how her fantasies always ended, with her in the spotlight of the festival, a handsome white man on her arm. There were those who would call that an unhealthy obsession. Most obsessions usually were.

Annabel couldn’t say why her fantasies tended toward the interracial. She liked to think she was above the need to taste the forbidden fruit, especially since she had tasted it on more than a few occasions. Maybe you always wanted what you couldn’t have, even after you’d had it.

Trickles of blood and muddy water circled lazily around the bathroom drain beneath Annabel’s hands. All of the soap and scrubbing in the world couldn’t seem to get it all out. Ragged scraps from her cracked nails poked through the torn cuticles. They would have to be nibbled away, as she had neglected to bring scissors or clippers in her bag.

The face in the mirror wanted to know why she wasn’t already asleep in that fluffy queen bed over there. Her parts farther south wanted to know why she wasn’t in that fluffy queen bed with
Mr. Starlight Motor Inn
. She didn’t have a ready answer for either of them.

The hands in the sink were screaming to know why
they
had to dig the hole in the cemetery. The only answer she could give them was - it was part of the memories, and you didn’t argue with the memories.

Perhaps a sacrifice was needed, and seeing as she didn’t have a chicken or a goat, she was it. Or, perhaps she had reverted to some kind of animalistic behavior and buried the twig like a dog with a bone. The memories were never about the reasons; they were only about the actions.

There was a thread of memory of Annabel showing her ruined hands to a room full of spectators. Maybe that was it. Maybe her hands were the evidence that the deed had been done. Maybe her hands would grant her access back into Willow Tree. Maybe, she needed to stop washing away the evidence.

Annabel turned off the water and brought her wet hands to her face. The droplets helped sooth the nerves that were still running hot. She grabbed a cheap cotton towel from the bar next to her and swaddled her raw hands tenderly in it, giving her reflection a once over.

The night was winding down, and the face in the mirror was starting to wake up. A warm shower would feel good. Somebody’s warm hands on her would feel better.

Looks like
Mr. Motor Inn
was getting a visitor tonight.

Dr. Paula Crispin polished her wire-rimmed spectacles with the hem of her long skirt and kept an eye out for her new protégé.

Lifting her hem, she was showing a bit of ankle and she didn’t care. The men could gawk and the women shake their heads. She hated these costumes! She didn’t care how many generations this frock had been in her “family”; it was still a costume to her and always would be.

Judging by the glares of disapproval, Paula wasn’t wearing enough petticoats to satisfy the other ladies of the council. Strange. She had never heard a complaint from the male members. If any of the offended parties wished to share their opinions, she would be happy to tell them to kiss her frilly ass!

Of course, they would never resort to such crude verbiage when a disapproving glare was guaranteed to frost a windowpane. The gentility of this place was sometimes more than she could bear. If any member of this body ever said what they really felt, the council would probably implode.

She would pay to see that show.

Backs straightened in their comfy seats as the chamber doors creaked open. Only one person ever entered by the door at the front of the council hall.

Eunice Louise Pembry.

The door opened as if by magic and out she came, gliding as if on a cushion of air. She was effervescent in a blue dress with deep blue lace up the front and a white lace collar and cuffs. Her golden blond hair was pulled back severely into a bun, capped by a white knit hair net.

It was an unwritten rule that every woman on the council wear a bonnet, except for Eunice. Paula had no doubt that Eunice wore the requisite number of petticoats under her frock. Eunice, after all, was the rule by which all others were measured, even if she did say so herself.

The magic behind the door-opening scurried into the chamber right behind - Colonel William Morgan Davis. He hurried passed Eunice and pulled out her giant leather chair. If it had been a pillow, he would have fluffed it.

Eunice took her seat, taking time to arrange the fullness of her dress. When every inch of fabric was in place, Colonel Davis eased her chair forward until she was firmly planted. Then, he scampered to his seat at the end of the council table, where he sat like an obedient pup. It was a tedious display, but the meeting wouldn’t start without it.

Paula glanced at the clock on the back wall of the chamber. It was just now 7:00 in the morning and another festival day was about to start. Where was that girl? Paula craned her neck around, scanning the faces in the assembly. This girl was going to be late for her own funeral if she didn’t hurry up, because Paula would see to it.

She was weary of dealing with these neophytes. Where was it written that it fell to her to educate the newborns? She was the town doctor! She had more important matters to deal with! None came to mind at the moment, but she would think of something.

“Doctor Crispin?” came the tiny voice from beside her. Paula’s head jerked around to see a young wisp of a girl in a pale blue dress, with a frilly bonnet that didn’t match. Costume, no doubt. The real thing was getting harder to come by. Paula pulled her down into the seat next to her.

“Miss Cole, I presume,” said Paula impatiently.

“Lacey, please,” said the girl demurely. She smiled for effect. Paula was in no mood.

“You do realize we were to meet in my office an hour ago?” she whispered accusingly. “If I have to teach punctuality as well, we will be here all day.”

“Sorry,” Lacey muttered softly, fingering the ends of her bonnet strings. “My dress was not ready. The seamstress said another was wearing it. She gave me this.”

The girl’s embarrassment hung on her face like a shroud. Paula took pity on her, and her pity didn’t come cheap. The meeting had already started, and Paula shoved a pad of paper and a pencil into her hands.

“You’ll want to write down what I say,” Paula instructed her, “the first time that I say it.”

The girl fumbled the paper and pencil in her lap like she had never seen them before. ‘God save me from infants and fools,’ thought Paula.

The meeting was already progressing, and Paula struggled to catch up. Luckily, she had been able to seat them in the back where they could observe without being observed.

A scratchy voice boomed from the front row. “Am I to understand, Madame, that the Hatchet are expected to guttle every scrap tossed from the Colonel’s table?”

As he said the words, the tall, bearded man rose slowly from his seat. When he had reached his full height, it was as if a steel beam had been driven into the ground and his spine attached to it.

“Who is that?” gasped Lacey, and then covered her mouth. She leaned into Paula and whispered, “He stands so … stately.”

“He is Fenton Baybridge, and he is the leader of the Hatchet. The stiffness comes with the clan.” Paula glanced at a few men standing up against the walls, and frowned. “Some more than others.”

Lacey scribbled furiously in her notepad as the debate flared to life. Fenton Baybridge was making his case for the entire assembly to hear, but Paula’s eyes were on Eunice, as the cobra readied to strike.

Already looking older, Eunice pressed a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose and let out a sigh which could be heard across the auditorium.

“What you are to understand, Colonel Baybridge, is that any scraps tossed your way are coming from
my
table.”

“Who is that woman?” asked Lacey, her eyes landing on Eunice as well.

“That is Eunice Louise Pembry,” replied Paula, with a tone of reverence despite herself, “and that is a name you would do well to remember.”

Lacey’s eyes went wide with awe. “Is she our leader?”

“She is the leader of the Bellwether.”

Lacey dropped her pencil as a gasp of astonishment escaped her rounded lips.

“But … I am Bellwether, too!” Her hands went to her breast. “Does that mean …”

“That means you watch your ass!” Paula cautioned, her eyes darting around to make certain they were not heard.

The girl blushed at the expletive, but Paula felt no compulsion to apologize. Welcome to the 21st Century, she thought.

“Do not expect Madame Pembry to cuddle you into her loving bosom,” warned Paula, lowering her voice to less than a whisper. “Some mothers have been known to eat their young.”

Lacey’s wide eyes seemed on the verge of tears. Better she grow up now than later, or not at all. Paula decided that it was enough said, and time to move on.

“You see the man at the end of the council table?” she inquired, as Lacey came up with her pencil. She followed Paula’s finger and then nodded. “That is Colonel William Morgan Davis, and he is the leader of the Paladin.”

“Paladin, Hatchet,” murmured Lacey, obviously trying to take it all in. “They told me that I was Bellwether, but they did not tell me what that means.”

Paula knew that Lacey wanted answers to all her questions, but she didn’t think there were enough days on the calendar. Still, she had to give the girl something.

“There are three clans, the foundation of our community. They are separate and unique, each with infinite variation.”

She laid a hand on Lacey’s, who looked up from her notepad.

“You must observe the lines between, and never cross them. If you do, you will find yourself in front of this council.”

Lacey cast her eyes around the auditorium warily. Paula could see that she was starting to get to her. Good. She hadn’t lost her touch.

“What happens if one is brought before the council?” asked Lacey timidly.

Paula gave her the look that sealed the deal. “No one has ever been brought before the council a second time.”

Lacey folded her arms snugly around herself and digested that bit of information. She seemed to have something on her mind.

“What is it, child?” Paula prompted, determined not to take all day with this newcomer.

Lacey twisted the corners of her mouth as she formed her question. After all the effort, what she came up with was, “Why? Why am I Bellwether? Who made me such?”

“I did.”

Lacey sat back, her mouth a wide-open circle. She was jolted by the swift honesty. “But we have only just met. You know nothing about me.”

“The blood does not lie,” said Paula, her eyes on the proceedings.

“What do you mean?” Lacey’s eyes pleaded like a lost lamb.

Paula rolled hers. “Good God, child, wake up! If you are to be Bellwether, you must observe, you must
see
the connections. Your blood is Bellwether. I am the town physician. I know these things. Now, stop questioning what I tell you!”

“Apologies, Doctor,” she said, casting her gaze to the floor.

Paula sighed. “Do not look down, child … look up! Look around. What do you see?”

Lacey perused the assembly of men and women in familiar attire. Paula waited for the unfamiliar to dawn in her expression. She did not have to wait long.

“The women in the green frocks, there are many of them, they wear their bonnets very snugly, almost obscuring their faces. They all wear sleeves down to their fingers and white gloves as well. Their men all wear hats and sport full beards, and … they all wear green as if it were a uniform. They seem … uncomfortable.”

Paula nodded. “They are Hatchet, and you will always see them looking thus. What else do you see?”

Lacey scanned the group with a keener eye this time, and the patterns were now emerging.

“There are only blue, green and brown colors in existence. Those in the brown do wear long sleeves, but not all are in gloves. The women’s bonnets are pulled back so that the face can be seen, and the faces are pale. The men wear beards, but some wear hats while others do not.”

“And they are …?” Paula questioned her pupil.

Lacey puzzled on this for only a moment, then she looked down at her own attire.

“I am Bellwether, and if the Bellwether are blue, then those in brown must be the Paladin.”

The last syllable stuck in her throat a
bit as Lacey’s eye caught the Doctor’s frilly tan blouse and dark brown skirt.

“Yes, I am Paladin,” affirmed Paula.

She could sense that the dynamic of their relationship had just shifted. It nearly always did. Clan loyalty and an almost jingoistic distrust of other clans was not something to be taught. A newborn took to it like eating or crapping. The look that Lacey was now giving her said, ‘I am Bellwether and you are not’. It was a look she had experienced many times before.

The Bellwether men had not been gawking with lust, nor the women shaking their heads disapprovingly over her alluring ankle poking out from under the hem of her skirt. Theirs was disgust at the sight of the thick, bluish-green veins which coiled around her delicate ankles, and disappeared up into the trunks of her calves.

It was the same reaction she often got from her Bellwether patients, who might catch her with her sleeves rolled up while she doled out some salve or ointment at the infirmary.

The Paladin did not reveal their nature anymore than did the Hatchet, and Paula knew this. But, just sometimes, she couldn’t resist the temptation to give the Bellwether a little taste of
There but for the grace of God go I
.

It didn’t make the council hold her in the highest esteem, but she would get over it. Occasionally, poking the bear was the only thing that made life worth living. Paula draped a leg over her knee and tugged up her skirt to reveal a bit of veined ankle, then dropped it back when she saw something akin to revulsion ripple across Lacey’s face.

“Relax child,” she told her smiling. “You’ll seldom have to witness anything so horrific. We all wear our make-up, and cover ourselves out of respect for our community.” Then she added in a lowered voice, “But, if you think that was bad, you should see a Hatchet.”

Lacey sat back, her eyes glazing, her hands laying lifeless in her lap. Paula was afraid she might have broken the girl. It was easy to do with a newborn. Maybe the leg-shot had been a bit much.

Doctor Paula could never resist a silver lining. She leaned in with a twinkle in her eye, and remarked, “I imagine you are glad that I made you a Bellwether now.”

The girl sat back in her chair and looked out over the crowd with new eyes. Her world had been twisted into a pretzel on her second day, and if the memories were to be believed, she had many, many more days to come.