The Pickle Queen: A Crossroads Café Novella

  From the back seat, Wren said, “The grace of God’s beauty will always find a way through the hardest surface. This valley shimmers with the hope of forgiveness.”

  Jay

  Which way do you turn when you’re already in too deep?

  “A MACBRIDE.”

  I hadn’t expected that worshipful reaction the moment two Little Finnians laid eyes on Gabs. Honestly, I thought the whole MacBride connection up here was just a routine dose of the mountain nostalgia—the “hoodoo” that’s a mix of half-forgotten history, tall tales, and the glorification of some mythical time when Scots-Irish settlers and Cherokees lived in some fantasy land alongside good-hearted moonshiners, buxom pioneer women who birthed babies while grinding the corn crop with their knitting needles, and so forth. All standing proudly against redcoats, Yankees, city slickers, revenuers and now, mining companies.

  My cell phone vibrated. I pulled it from my jacket as I drove.

  You were right about her. She’s the spy.

  I drove slower, sorting my options. E.W. had his informant here. I had mine. Did that make us even? I hoped so. I could take E.W. this time. Even with his crazy daughter Denoto on his side as his spy. How she could hate the man and still spy for him to win his approval was beyond me, but she did. I could only guess she knew her bi-polar illness would forever create a problem with her challenging E.W. for Dustin. All she could do was play both sides. Be a place Dustin could run to and also be someone E.W. might let back into his life if Dustin chose him. Denoto was walking a very fine line. And I had to hope she could hold it together long enough to do what I counted on her to do—report my every move to E.W. so he’d be comfortable enough to gloat. When E.W. gloated, he didn’t remember to watch his words. I could get him on record. If everything went right in the Little Finn.

  If.

  The road down into the valley went through fifteen slow miles of forest, creeks, overhanging vines and glimpses of small pastures and fields. By the time I reached the valley floor, I felt a little lost, a little found. The Little Finn River was small by Mississippi and Nile standards, shallow in most places, but it curled through the valley’s long, oval bowl like a white-capped artery pumping life into a hidden heart. Thousands of years of human history had been nurtured by it. We drove across it on a long stone bridge with steel columns in case the river turned ugly in a flood.

  “I’ve read about the distillery,” Gabs said. “This bridge can hold a tractor-trailer full of liquor.”

  “It’s grown a lot under Will’s management. He’s shipping a thousand bottles of whiskey a month. Winning awards. I give him credit.”

  From the back seat, Wren said, “It is the very best corn whiskey in the entire South.”

  Spock the kudamundi made a chittery noise, as if agreeing.

  “Stop,” Gabs said. “I need to get my bearings. For some reason, it’s really important to me to know exactly where I am. What does that road sign mean?”

  The effect had hit her, too.

  I braked the truck beside a tall rock pillar with a Celtic infinity symbol carved in the top stone. A shadowy lane curled out of the hills to our left, merging, disappearing like a deflated vein, into our modern gravel road. “This is where the old Ballybeg Road begins,” I said. “That stone monument marked the entrance to the valley. According to the old records there was a house right here and, by the nineteen twenties, a little gas station with glass-topped pumps and a garage. You can’t see it in the dark, but about a hundred feet in that direction”—I pointed toward a jumble of naked vines and brush beneath huge hickory trees—“there’s a chimney and foundation.”

  When I glanced back she was staring at me like a prosecutor trying to decipher the defendant’s tactics. “That rutted trail was once a road?”

  “Hmmm. A good one. It used to connect the Asheville Trace to the town here. Came through the gap at Crossroads Cove, which is east of here in the Ten Sisters. These mountains are the Eerie Gals. To the west are the Derry Fogs.” I’m not known for being Mr. Tour Guide, but since I had her attention and she wasn’t sniping at me for once, I tried. “Their names are Anglo corruptions of the Irish words for two mountain ranges in Donegal.”

  Beneath a solar-powered lamp next to the moss-flecked pillar, a wooden sign pointed us forward.

  The Gallagher Center

  Ballybeg

  Little Finn Distillery

  The Memory Oak Cemetery

  In the back seat, Wren leaned forward. “Can you hear the Christmas drums?”

  We lowered our windows. A few snowflakes wafted into the truck along with the distant rhythm of a drum circle. African djembes, bongos, congos, tambourines, Australian didgeridoos, shakers, frog croakers and, giving a holiday ambience to it all, the loud jingle of sleigh bells. All unified in a communal beat that was hypnotic, soothing, and ancient. The percussive vibration drops a magnet inside your body and pulls you like a puppet.

  “I like it,” Gabs said. “It’s tribal. I think I hear an Irish bodhran in the mix.”

  I looked at her. “Your dad played one.”

  After a quiet second she said with soft surprise, “You remember that?”

  I nodded. Yes, I remembered. I remembered every detail of my brief, happy time with the MacBride family. Suddenly, the rumble of a different rhythm came toward us.

  Out of the darkness roared a dozen motorcycles, their headlights trained on us like spotlights. A half-dozen horse brigade followed closely, along with a galloping pack of dogs—big and medium, mutts and breeds. Some ferocious but most just curious. Not so much a deadly hunting party as a lick-your-face cotillion. As for the humans, their fashion du jour had a Mongolian Hell’s Angel vibe: thick gray ponchos made at the valley’s looms; fleece-lined coats from the five hundred sheep owned by Anna Shepherd, the valley’s maternal spirit and my secret weapon; heavy wool scarfs and fat knitted caps with fleece rims, woolen boot toppers. Also a lot of long hair, piercings and tattoos. True, there were a few ordinary tractor caps and hiking outfits, a few short-hairs with no barbells through their eyebrows, some older teens and a couple of gray hairs. There was a civilized mix of men and women, plus an earthy rainbow of skin colors.

  Gabs broke the startled silence. “Are we in an episode of Game of Thrones? That can’t be Will Bonavendier riding out of the pack.”

  Unfortunately, it was. A six-foot-five hulk rode toward us. His face was no longer prime lady-bait for Esquire, Sports Illustrated and Rolling Stone covers. A deep scar staggered down one side, nearly pulling at the corner of his right eye. Black beard stubble covered his jaw. Three feet of long, shaggy, black hair tangled around the fleece collar of a buffalo-hide cape. His horse was a mix of some ordinary breed and a Clydesdale; a tall, muscled, chestnut stomper with hooves as wide as salad plates.

  “What are those bags hanging around his neck? Deodorizers?”

  “Hoodoo amulets. He believes in the Wakefield curse. He’s got Wakefield blood on his great-grandfather Julian’s side. You know many people believe a curse was put on my family by an ancestor of yours, right? Sally Nettie? She came from this valley. There was a Cherokee village here, before the Trail of Tears. Do me a favor. Stay here while I greet the warlord and barter for our welcome.”

  “No.”

  “Please.”

  We traded a tense look, but the “Please,” worked.

  “Maybe.”

  A bike roared up beside us, and its shaggy-haired rider peered through the back window of the truck. Wren opened the door. They traded whispers.

  “I must go,” she told us. “I am needed.” She climbed on behind the driver with her medical bag in her arms and Spock hooking his long tail around her neck. Off they went.

  I opened my door.

  “Be careful,” Gabs said.

  My God, I’d waited years to hear her say something
, anything, that admitted even polite concern for me. I looked over my shoulder at her. “Thank you.”

  She faced forward, her mouth tight.

  I rolled my shoulders as I walked through the lightly falling snow. Will’s grandmother had been my great aunt Amanda Wakefield, sister to the much hated Augustus and Benjamin. However, Will’s Wakefield resemblance ended at being tall, stubborn and athletic, especially since he’d added forty pounds of bodybuilding muscle to his frame. He was far too heavy to play tight end now, but if his leg hadn’t been ruined four years ago, in the Cessna crash that killed his father and put the scar on his face, he’d make a terrifying guard.

  Will swung down from his charger. Muddy western boots moved apart almost the moment he hit the ground. His legs braced, his dark, pissed-off stare livid, he bore down on me. “Y’all call off that sheriff, now,” he ordered. I’d seen international super models melt at the sound of his Cajun drawl, but that charm was long gone. “Timor Vance, he spotted him on the ridge road. Shot out his tires.”

  “The sheriff’s E.W.’s hatchet man, not mine. You’re the one hiding underage kids.”

  “I say we’re just hostin’ family. My baby cousins come to see their kin.”

  “Those are my cousins. Only yours by a very distant connection. And what the hell is wrong with you, letting Vance run around with a gun shooting at the county sheriff?”

  When Will ground his teeth and didn’t answer immediately, I understood he hadn’t deliberately let Vance do anything. Vance was an army veteran. Two tours of Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Serious PTSD. He was out of control. “This is why you need my help around here, Cousin,” I said. Lay it on thick. E.W.’s spy is watching. “Because you can’t protect your people, your land, your mining rights, or anything else without me.”

  He came at me with a speed most men with two good legs couldn’t muster. It wasn’t the first time we’d traded words for fists. I hit him so hard I felt a bone snap in my knuckles. Though I’d stayed in good shape since college ball, I never doubted that Will could kill me with his bare hands. In earlier disagreements, he’d rearranged my face. My reaction surprised me. I rarely got mad, I just got even. But Gabs was with me now.

  I was protecting my woman. Or showing off.

  He went down on his knees in the snowy mud. Blood poured from his nose. His posse gaped at the sight.

  When several men rushed toward me, he flung up a hand, and they halted. He got to his feet, swaying a little as he scrubbed blood onto the back of his hand. Every giant, whey-proteined muscle in his body tensed. He was about to charge at me.

  Gabs stepped between us, her hair clip flying off, her red mane poofing around her shoulders and down the back of her deceptively civilized gray coat. Snow and mud splattered her dark slacks and city shoes. Six feet of big-hearted womanhood faced Will.

  In her fist she clenched the open jar of pepper. “I was a fan of yours in your Patriot and LSU Tiger years. But make one move and you’ll wish you could claw your eyes out of your skull. I’ll season you with more cayenne than a pot of five-alarm chili.”

  Will stared at her in dawning wonder, his fists unfurled by his sides. Her red hair continued to expand in the damp air. Snowflakes settled on it and nearly sizzled. In the stunned silence, someone said, “A MacBride.”

  The name echoed through the rest. MacBride. MacBride. MacBride. At any moment I expected everyone to kneel. My god, what had I started?

  “What do you owe him?” Will asked her, nodding curtly to me.

  She tossed her hair. “Nothing.”

  “How did he get you to come here?”

  “He asked me.”

  “How does he control you?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  “Since we were kids.”

  “What are you willing to do for him?”

  “Keep him from being killed.”

  “Do you trust him?”

  Silence. Then, “That requires a much longer answer.”

  He weighed all of the above while I stepped in front of Gabs and said, “There’s one other thing you need to know, Will. She deserves to be trusted by you and everyone else here. She’s the real deal. An honorable person. Oh, and one other thing: I’m not your enemy. But if anyone hurts her, I will become your worst nightmare.”

  A cold gleam entered Will’s eyes. “She’s a MacBride. That’s enough for me.” To the others he ordered, “Y’all show ’em to Anna’s house. She’ll want to meet one of Caillin’s people.”

  A MacBride had returned to the Little Finn Valley. Such trust. Such faith. And after what I’d seen of the beauty of the Little Finn on the way in, I suddenly understood why their MacBrides must have been such fierce protectors of this place, and that maybe those stories about the moonshine wars were true.

  Gabby

  Armed and ready to season . . .

  LED BY TWO women on rumbling motorcycles, we followed the darkness of the old valley road. I put the cayenne away and ignored Jay’s amused glances.

  We turned off that relatively cosmopolitan path to cross the river at another aged stone pillar. Jay could barely grip the steering wheel with his damaged hand, but he smiled the whole way. He’s gotten his wish. We were certainly “in.” He flashed his MacBride ticket at them, and all was forgotten, if not forgiven.

  At the back edge of broad pastures that spread into winter fields stood a large stone house capped with steep eaves and surrounded by enormous oaks. Not modern in design, it looked like some country manor from the hinterlands of Ireland—except for the solar panels on the roof, the rainwater collection barrels at every downspout, the tall wind turbines turning lazily in the snowy air, and the huge greenhouse a short walk away.

  Campfires dotted the yard. Small tents, some not more than lean-tos, rimmed the fires. The men and women, young and old, lounged on fat rugs and sleeping bags in the light snow. They were a mix, from a woman in blond dreadlocks to brown-skinned and ethnic. Behind them were trucks and campers, at least a dozen of them, and the scent of pine logs and meat stews sifted through the opening at the top of my window. Dogs barked. Children in heavy coats and thick caps, laughing and playing, ran alongside us. I waved. They waved back.

  The MacBride, I heard them shout, some with accents.

  “Peruvian,” Jay said, slowing the truck to a crawl. “Most of them are in hiding from Immigration. They have cabins up in the ridges, but tonight they’ve come down here to get a look at you once the cell phones started the grapevine. The prodigal MacBride.”

  “Why are there Peruvian families hiding in this valley?”

  “They came to the States on work visas. They’re sheep herders. Some of the best in the world. The big sheep ranches sponsor them—mostly out west. But the working conditions can be brutal, and if they complain, they risk being deported. They run away. They come here for help.”

  “Why here?”

  “Word got out. There’s a well-established Peruvian village up on Wolfe Ridge, on Eerie Gal.” He pointed toward the dark heights. “Will helps them with their legal status. Sponsors them.”

  We followed a Peruvian up a lighted stone pathway lined with the empty bramble of winter rose bushes. The darkness of the mountains and forest rose around us; the low chuckle of the Little Finn River rode the snowy breeze from beyond the brown winter pastures. Large, bare oak limbs made a bower. Ahead was the stately two-story stone house with thick gray shutters on every window and a simple cedar Christmas wreath on its broad front door. Silver stone glimmered in the landscape lights. A pair of tall gas lamps flickered by the steps to the stone-floored veranda. An old-world place, a kind of small fortress.

  This home site, isolated by the river, seemed to exist separate from all other small worlds the valley encompassed. A dozen dogs darted past our official escort
and disappeared around a side path to the low whistle of someone opening a kitchen door. A large modern barn filled the apron of a hill nearby. I glimpsed sheep inside, fat and warm in the soft light channeled by solar panels there, as well. Also a couple of camels.

  “What, nothing more exotic than that?” I said. “No dragons?”

  I stubbed a toe on a stone beside the path. When I looked down I halted. Spreading out across the lawn on both sides of the path were flat square markers half-hidden by snow. Dozens of them, too many to count quickly. The landscape lights angled across their deeply carved inscriptions. Maira Celine Gallagher, age 92, Died April, 1930. Race O’Donnell Flynn MacBride, age 7, died April, 1930. I left the walkway and studied them.

  “What cemetery is this?”

  Jay scooped a handful of snow off a stone, then cupped the snow to his swelling knuckles. “Not a cemetery. A memorial. Caillin MacBride put the stones in place when she came back in the nineteen forties.” He scowled. “If you believe Caillin’s journal, this is where the entire Tearmann community was murdered in a federal moonshine raid that turned into a massacre. Happened when she was a girl. She was the last of the MacBrides.” He paused. “Until now, apparently.”

  “And who is the Anna-who-will-want-to-see-me?”

  We stopped. The white slush melted and dripped from his hand. Snowflakes softened his black brows and hair. “Anna Shepherd. Her family, in Ireland, took Caillin in as a child. Anna was born and raised thinking of Caillin as her older sister. Anna’s the only living person who knew Caillin. I suspect her main purpose will be to tell why you should hate Wakefields. And that the massacre was the fault of the Wakefields. You should hate us—me, for better reasons than that.”

  I sucked in cold, snow-tempered air. “I’ve never hated you.”

  He leaned toward me, sliding his injured hand up my arm, a hot touch even through my coat. I didn’t, wouldn’t, back away. “Gabs,” he said hoarsely.