"Where'd you catch that song, John?"
"Long ago, from old Uncle T. P. Hinnard. He allowed it was a good song against bad stuff."
Zeb crinkled his eyes. "Like enough it is, but it sort of chills the blood. You know one of a different kind?"
The owl quivered its voice outside as I touched the strings again.
"Tilda," said Zeb, a-brightening up. "You made that song about Tilda."
"It's older than Tilda's great-grandsire," I told him, "but it'll do for her. I saw how she and you lean to one another."
"If it wasn't for Craye Sawtelle" And he stopped.
"Tell me about her," I bade him, and he did.
She'd lived thereabouts before Zeb built his cabin. She followed witchcraft and didn't care a shuck who knew it. Some folks went to her for charms and helps, others were scared to say her name out loud. When Zeb began a-letting sick folks drink from the spring, she tried air way she knew to cut herself in. She'd tried to sweet-talk Zeb, even tried to move into his cabin with him. But by then he'd met Tilda Fleming and couldn't think of air girl but her.
"When she saw I wouldn't love her, she started in to make me fear her," he said. "She's done that thing, pretty much. You wonder yourself why I don't speak up to Tilda. I've got it in mind that if I did, Craye would do something awful to her. I don't know what it would be, likely I don't want to know."
I made the guitar string whisper to drown out the owl's voice. "What would she do with the spring if she had it?"
"Make folks pay for its water, I told you. Maybe turn its power round to do bad instead of good. I can't rightly say."
I leaned my guitar on the wall. "Maybe I'll just go out and walk round your place before the sun goes down."
"Be careful, John."
"Shoo," I said, "I'll do that. I may not be the smartest man in these mountains, but I'm sure enough the carefullest."
I went out at the door. The sun had dropped to a fold of the mountains. I walked back and looked at Zeb's rows of corn, his bean patch with pods a-coming on, the other beds of vegetables. Past his garden grew up trees, tall and close together, with shadowy dark amongst them.
"We meet again, John," said a voice I'd come to know.
"I reckoned we might, Miss Craye," I said, and out she came from betwixt two pines. She carried a stick of fresh wood, its bark peeled off.
"If I pointed this wand at you and said a spell," she said, "what would happen?"
"We'll never know without you try it."
She tossed her hair, black as a yard up a chimney on a dark night. Her teeth showed, bright and sharp. "That means you figure you've got help against spells," she said. "I'm not without help myself. I don't go air place without help."
"Then you must be hard pushed when it's not nigh."
I felt the presence of what she talked about. Back in the thicket, I knew, were gathered things. I couldn't see them, just felt them. A stir and a sigh back yonder.
"John," she said, "you could go farther and fare worse than by making a friend of me. You understand things these country hodges nair dreamt of. You've been up and down the world and grabbed onto truths here and there."
"I've done that thing," I agreed her, "and the poet wasn't right all the time when he said beauty was truth and truth was beauty. Truth can be right ugly now and then."
"Suppose Zeb Gossett was shown a quick way out of here," she said. "Suppose you and I got to be partners in the spring and other matters."
"What kind of partners?"
She winnowed close then. I made out she didn't have on air stitch under her silky dress. She was proudly made, and well she knew it. She stood so close she near about touched me.
"What kind of partners would you like us to be?" she whispered.
"Miss Craye," said I, "no, thank you. No partnerships in the spring or in you, either one."
If she'd had the power to kill me with a look, I'd have died then and there. For hell's worst fury is a woman scorned, says another poet.
"I don't know why I don't raise my voice and set my pack on you," she breathed out in my face, and drew off a step.
"Maybe I can make one of those educated guesses," I said. "Your pack might not be friendly to you, not when you've just failed at something."
"You're the failure!" she squeaked like a bat.
"A failure for you, like Zeb Gossett. Isn't the third time the charm? If it doesn't work the third time, where will the charm put you?"
"I gave you and Zeb Gossett till sundown tomorrow " she gritted out with her pointy teeth. "Just about twenty-four hours."
"We'll be here." I said.
She backed off amongst the trees. They tossed their branches, like as if in a high wind. I turned and went back to the cabin. As I helped Zeb do the dishes, I related him what had passed.
"You bluffed her out of something she might try on you," said Zeb.
"I wasn't a-bluffing. If she's got the power of evil, I've been up against that in my time, and folks will say evil nair truly won over me. I hope some power of good is in me."
"Sure it is," he said. "Look out yonder at that healing spring. But she says bad will fall on us by sundown tomorrow. How can we go all right against that?"
"I don't rightly know how to answer that," I made confession. "We'll play it by ear, same as I play this guitar." And I picked it up to change the subject.
Out yonder was a sound, like a whisper, but too soft and sneaky to be a real voice. And a shadow passed outside a window.
I stopped my picking. Zeb had taken a dark-covered book from the shelf and was opening it. "What's that?" I asked.
"The Bible." He flung the covers wide and stabbed down his finger. "I'm a-going to cast a sign for us."
I knew about that, open the Bible anywhere and put your finger on a text and look for guidance in it.
"Here, the last verse in thirteenth Mark." Zeb read it out: " 'And what I say unto you I say unto all. Watch.' "
"Watch," I repeated. "That's what we'll do tonight."
Shadows at the window again. Zeb looked in the Bible, but didn't read from it anymore. I picked my guitar, the tune of "Never Trust a Stranger." Outside rose a rush of wind, and when I looked out it was darkened. Night, and, from what I could judge, no moon. The owl hooted. On the hearth, the fire burnt blue. Zeb got up and lit a candle. Its flame fluttered like a yellow leaf.
Then a scratchy peck at the door. Zeb looked at me, his eyes as wide as sunflowers. I put down the guitar and went to the door.
It opened by hiking the latch on a string. I cracked it inward a tad and looked at what was out there. A dog? It was as big as a big one, black and bristly-haired. Its eyes shone, likewise its teeth. It looked to be a-getting up on its hind legs, and for a second I thought its front paws were hairy hands.
"Thanks," I said to it, "whatever you got to sell, we don't want any."
I closed the door and the latch fell into place. I heard that big body a-pressing against the wood. A whiney little sound, then the wind again. Zeb put more wood on the fire, though it wasn't cold. "What must we do?" he asked.
"Watch, the way the Bible told us," I replied him.
Things moved heavily all round the cabin. A scratch at a windowpane. Feet tippy-toed on the roof.
"I reckon it's up to you, John," said Zeb, his Bible back in his hand. "Up to you to see us through this night. You've got good in you to stand off the bad."