“Those are my granddaughter Betsy’s things. She’ll be around,” Wilma told them. “Have a seat.”
Wilma returned with a tray, including a small teapot of cider and three cups on matching saucers. She poured them each a glass.
Mack took a sip. The cider was hot and spicy and warmed him instantly. He leaned back in the chair, at ease in the old woman’s home. She reminded him of his own grandmother on his mother’s side. Gran Mags, they called her, though her name was Magnolia.
“Such a pity to hear about George’s passing,” Wilma started. “You’re the young man who found him?” She regarded Mack with sharp blue eyes.
He nodded.
“A little over a week ago. He was buried in the woods in the Stoneroot Forest.”
“Sheriff Long’s rather tight-lipped about the whole ordeal. I wonder if you might tell me, young man. Did George die a natural death?”
Mack glanced at Diane, startled.
“Um… no. No, I don’t think so. The sheriff hasn’t told the community it was a murder?”
Wilma lifted an eyebrow and took a sip of her cider.
“An old woman’s questions are a bother to a man like that. But soon as I heard George had passed, I suspected malice was behind it.”
“Why is that?” Diane asked. “Did George have enemies?”
Wilma regarded her.
“Everyone has enemies, my dear, whether or not we know it.”
Diane frowned, but didn’t push.
“Was George a good man, Mrs. Burns? In reputation?” Mack asked.
Wilma nodded.
“Yes, a good man, but not a man to trifle with. George was part of the Corey Clan, a bloodline you’d find in history if you were interested in Scandinavia.”
“Known in history for what?” Diane asked.
Wilma flipped her hand back and forth.
“This and that. But if I had to give them a name, I’d call them healers. The more ignorant of our kind might have called them witches.”
“Witches?” Mack asked, too quickly to suppress his distrust in the word.
“And that right there.” She pointed at his face. “Is why I prefer the term healers.”
“Was he a medicine man, then?” Diane asked.
“You could call him that,” Wilma agreed. “He treated my ills more times than I can count. People visited him for all manner of ailments. Broken leg - see George; broken heart - see George. Course, he wasn’t an easy man to see, living in the Stoneroot Forest, but George knew when you were looking for him.”
“Where did he live?” Mack asked, confused. “I’ve been roaming that forest since I could walk. I’ve never heard of him.”
“You’re a hunter, young man. An outsider who visits the forest to pluck its bounty and take it home. George worked with the local folk, with his people.”
“But where was his cabin?”
Wilma shrugged.
“I don’t know.”
“Who does?” Diane asked.
“He had a daughter,” Wilma murmured, wistfully. “I remember seeing her a handful of times. She was a wild thing with wavy blonde hair that never got combed and dirty, bare feet. She and George would walk into town sometimes, both holding their walking sticks, grinning like they knew the secrets of the world.” Wilma chuckled.
“Where is she now?” Mack asked.
“She came around less as she grew. Young women do that, you know? Even when you have a daddy like George, you drift away.”
“Did she leave, or did something happen to her?” Mack asked, trying to reconcile his ghost with the man Wilma described.
Wilma shook her head.
“I asked George about it, and he said ‘she moved on.’ I never saw her again.”
Mack jumped at the shrill ring of a telephone from the other room.
“Excuse me.” Wilma stood and shuffled to the kitchen.
Mack looked at Diane, who stared back at him with an equal expression of puzzlement.
She started to open her mouth, but a little girl skipped into the room.
She stopped, looked back and forth between them, and then plopped on the floor, picking up one of her dolls. She had auburn hair that fell in curls over the collar of her pale blue sweater.
“You’re here about Uncle George?” she asked, not looking at either of them.
Diane glanced at Mack, and then scooted off the chair to sit next to the girl.
“She’s beautiful. What’s her name?” Diane asked, patting the hair of the doll in Betsy’s hand.
“This is Wilma. I named her after my grandma.” Betsy picked up a tiny ribbon and tied it in the doll’s hair.
“Wilma is a lovely name,” Diane told her. “Was George really your uncle?”
Betsy giggled and shook her head, curls bobbing.
“All the kids called him Uncle George. He gave us honey from his bees.”
“He kept bees?” Mack asked.
“Oh sure, bees and spiders and birds. He had all sort of creatures.”
“Have you been to his cabin?” Diane asked, making eye contact with Mack, who glanced toward the kitchen where he could still hear Wilma on the phone.
“Yes, but don’t tell Grandma.” Betsy lowered her voice. “Only the kids could go.”
Diane frowned.
“Why?”
Mack had an uneasy feeling.
“Because we’re pure of heart,” she said, as if the answer were obvious.
“What kinds of things did you do at George’s cabin?” Diane asked.
Betsy shrugged, set the doll in the bassinet, and pulled a small, silk-lined blanket up to her chin.
“Listened to stories, ate honey, picked flowers. Sometimes Uncle George showed us the bones hanging in his shed. He put on the skin of animals who’d given themselves to him and spoke in their language.”
“He never hurt the kids, did he?” Mack asked, feeling duty-bound to put the question forth.
“Oh, no,” Betsey shook her head. “Uncle George did not believe in hurting others.”
“But you said he wore animal skins and had bones? He hunted, then?” Diane asked.
Betsey looked at her as if she’d asked a fool’s question.
“The animals came to him. They chose him to end their lives.”
Mack looked at the kitchen. He no longer heard Wilma talking. Their time with the girl would soon be up.
“Betsy, how can we find George’s cabin?” he asked.
“With the hag stones, silly. There’s no other way.”
“The what?” Diane asked, but Wilma cleared her voice from the doorway.
“What are you going on about, child?” Wilma asked, resting a hand on her hip and planting a stern eye on her granddaughter.
Betsy smiled.
“The hag stones, Grandma Wilma. I was just telling these people, it’s the only way to find Uncle George’s cabin.”
Wilma did not relax into her seat, but sat perched on the edge. Her face looked drawn, as if she’d received bad news during her telephone call.
“I’m sorry to run you out after you’ve driven all this way, but my sister’s had a fall, and it’s best if Betsy and I go around to help her.”
“We understand,” Diane said politely, as Mack helped her into her coat.
“Mrs. Burns?” Mack asked from the doorway. “Do you know what Betsy means by hag stones?”
Wilma knotted her hands together, her thoughts clearly elsewhere.
She gestured at her neck.
“George carried a bag of stones around his neck. He called them hag stones. He showed them to me once. Each had a little hole right in the center. The kids said if you held the stone up to your eye, you could see his cabin. If you took it away, it disappeared. I once asked George what the stones were for, and he rattled on for a half-hour about their abilities. He claimed they offered protection, could heal or cast curses. Perhaps the most interesting of all, he said you could gaze through the hole in the stones and see the dead.”