Dark Corner

Chapter 2

The Gold Spoon

October 31, 1862,

Agatha Hollows’s cabin,

Black Mountain, North Carolina

“Take what you need, but leave me enough for the winter,” Agatha gasped out, her words cutting through her pain. Blood stained her sleeve. I huddled in the corner, waiting to pounce.

The Confederate lieutenant examined her wound, his hand lingering. She winced as he squeezed her arm. “It’s just a nick. I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing his hand away.

“We’ve come to commandeer supplies for the effort,” he said, opening a large grain sack, then walking cautiously toward Agatha. I feared it wasn’t food he sought. We heard a noise. The lieutenant turned to a young private, standing in the doorway.

The private spoke. “Sir, we have to leave her something.”

The lieutenant raised his whip, and the private cringed, lowering his eyes before leaving. From across the yard, I heard the heavy door of the storehouse opening.

The lieutenant sat down across from Agatha. She drew back from him, cringing. There was something about him, more than the deformity that he wore with pleasure. He seemed to enjoy the terror. He smiled. “Mrs. Hollows, ma’am, it’s not safe for you to be out here on your own.” His soft Southern drawl held a grit to it.

Agatha shifted in her rocking chair next to the blazing fire.

“I'm going to bring you back to Asheville.” The lieutenant bent down next to her chair. I could smell the foul stench of gangrene.

Agatha stirred the fire. “Can I get you some tea?” Not waiting for an answer, she poured cups of nettle tea. Then she reached in the dry sink, pulling out a small gold teaspoon given to her by a wealthy Ashevillian she had healed. The only item she had of value. With a slow hand, she placed the teacups on the table. “Sugar,” she asked. The lieutenant didn’t answer. She scooped sugar into his teacup, stirring it with the gold spoon.

He stared at Agatha as she stirred his teacup with the gold spoon. Then he pushed himself away from the table and stood. “We’ll be back,” he said, stepping toward the door.

As the door closed behind him, Agatha collapsed in her chair. I jumped onto her lap. “The spoon as I feared. Terra, he’s a hunter,” Agatha said. “Never let him know your true identity. It’s too late for me.”

“Agatha, what about the gold spoon? What are you talking about?” I asked.

I watched as Agatha gathered her remaining belongings. She ran to the herb shed carefully choosing what to bring with her. “What do you mean hunter? Where are you going?” I asked.

Not stopping to answer, Agatha collected several jars and ran into the cabin. I sat on the rocking chair by the fire and watched in silence. Agatha stopped for a moment and put her hands on her hips. She gazed around the tiny cabin. It had been her home since she had escaped from the Trail of Tears, the forced eviction of the Cherokee from their mountain to the west.

Over the years we had been together, she had become a mentor and a friend, as much of a friend as she would allow. She taught me with her actions more than her words. I watched carefully as she healed the mountain folk and spoke with the spirits in the woods. I had not asked her for her help in my turning back to my true form. There was only one witch who could change me back to a girl—no, a witch. Elizabeth, leader of my coven. It had been nearly two centuries since Elizabeth and my sisters met their fate. I felt in my blood that they did not die a true death. They drifted into the other realm. I glanced up to see Agatha staring at me.

“Elizabeth will find you, Terra. She’s searching for you. There’s a darkness, a shadow that hides you from her. Find her bloodline and you will find her.”

“Where will you go?”

Agatha ran into the bedroom. I watched as she removed the floorboard under the bed and retrieved an old parchment. She placed it on the table, grabbed the lantern, and held it close. On it was a drawing of a field of flowers and in the very distance a bridge. She sat down, examining the drawing, running her finger along it. Then she stood, holding her gnarled hands by the fire, still stained with her blood. The vessel that held her was old and withered, merely a façade to put the humans at ease. Humans rarely took notice of the elderly. “Across the border into South Carolina to Glassy Mountain. The Confederate deserters and northern sympathizers take refuge in the Dark Corner.” Agatha paused, smiled, and went to the door. She stopped and retrieved the gold spoon and then grabbed her sack and left the cabin. Her dogs waited on the porch. “Go, my children, keep your bloodline in these woods,” she said as she kissed each dog’s head. They sat still and watched us leave.