No matter what Jude says—no matter how he spins it—he has spent the past two weeks lying to me.
“It’s right up here.” I nod at a patch of churned-up earth where a rutted dirt track continues into the woods.
It’s too rough to drive on.
So Jude parks and we walk the rest of the way, following the narrow footpath that weaves between the dirt road and Talenwah Run. A hawk screeches overhead in the bright blue sky. The smell of woodsmoke hangs in the air. The creek gurgles over rocks as we push past briars and step over fallen logs.
At the end of the dirt track, a rusted truck sits beneath a pine tree strung with blue bottles. Beyond it, wooden stakes mark rows of a garden gone dormant. A quiet beehive box squats next to a woodpile stacked with military precision. And in front of a stump with a chopping ax sunk deep stands a fat black rooster I’ve named Zuul.
Jude eyes him warily.
The cabin has a chimney, and at the moment,it’s exhaling a plume of smoke. In all my visits, this is the first sign of life.
Other than Zuul, of course.
On the porch, a chair rocks eerily next to a wooden crate. A wind chime clacks in the cold and bundles of herbs dry under the eaves. A foraging basket sits next to the door, where an upside down horseshoe has been nailed.
Jude takes it all in as I lift my fist and knock.
According to my phone, it’s 12:05 on the dot. Even though she told us to come, I’m surprised when the latch lifts and the door opens.
Tall and broad-shouldered with hair as wild as ever, Mistress Bramble fills the doorway.
Several crows caw behind us.
She peers into the trees, counting them under her breath. When she hits seven, she clucks her tongue. “Ain’t good,” she mutters. Then her gaze drops to Jude’s chest, and without a word, she swings the door wide.
The cabin is warm. On one end, there’s a cast-iron stove, a rickety kitchen table, and a couple cabinets. On the other, a bed and a nightstand. A glowing fireplace separates the two, along with a sagging couch and a rough-hewn coffee table. The walls are by far the most interesting—a collage of reference guides and maps. I find myself searching them for the plant in my bedroom as MistressBramble drags a kitchen chair nearer to the couch, its legs scraping the floor.
She clomps to her nightstand to pick up a pipe and a tin of tobacco. Then she turns to us with a scowl. “Well are ya gonna stand there lookin’ like fence posts or stay awhile?”
The words whistle slightly as they slip through the gaps of her missing teeth.
She motions to the couch.
Jude and I sit.
“I can tell you have questions,” she says, lowering herself onto the chair. “Might as well start askin’ ’em.”
I glance at Jude. His jaw is tight, his posture vigilant.
“The other day at the cemetery,” I say to Mistress Bramble. “You asked Jude what has its claws in him.”
With a grunt, she lights her pipe and takes a puff.
“What did you mean?”
“Somethin’ has a hold of his soul.”
Beside me, Jude stiffens.
Her answer annoys him.
It scares me. “Do you know what that something is?”
She studies me through the smoke drifting from her pipe. “I reckon you already suspect.”
My stomach twists.
