Chapter One
The smell of a lie is a potent thing, burnt around the edges and foul all the way through. Sometimes it’s so strong I imagine it must singe the mouth of the teller like a hot coal. But not even that would stop them. Everybody lies, and that’s the honest truth.
Some are chronic liars, almost like they’ve developed a taste for it, and the stench lingers like smokers’ breath, a pungent reminder they’re not to be trusted. Others dabble in the practice, a few choice fibs they keep around, like bits of charred meat stuck between their teeth. And then there are the ones who lie like they’re doing you a favor. They fill the air with putrescence and expect you to be grateful for the experience. As if the truth could ever be more shameful than their falsehoods.
“I can’t believe I let myself get roped into this,” I mutter as Gran parks the old Bronco in front of Caball Hollow’s town hall, a squat brick box built in the 1980s generic corporate style of so many insurance agencies or orthodontic practices dotted throughout Appalachia.
“It’ll only be an hour,” Gran says. “Two tops. And you know good and well we woulda been here anyhow. At least this way we get paid for it. Now, quit your caterwauling and get a move on.”
“Caterwauling? That was barely whining,” I protest, but she isn’t wrong. The first public meeting of the town council following the sudden death of the mayor last month is likely not the best place for someone with my particular ability. And yet, there’s no way I’d miss it. When we got the call at the diner this morning asking us to cater, I’d agreed despite the late notice. If they’re going to lie about what happened, they can damn well do it to my face.
The first of the maples and poplars have already started to drop their leaves, and they crunch beneath my feet as I make my way to the tailgate, where I collect trays filled with lavender shortbread to ease conversation and squares of chess cake for softening hearts.
For as long as anyone can remember, we James women have been born with certain talents. Sorrel, my older sister, can charm bees to do her bidding, making honey with special properties that enhance any spell. Linden, younger than me by only eleven months, can taste the emotions of others. And my youngest sister, Juniper, sees beyond this world to the next. Yet, since our earliest ancestor, Caorunn James, first stepped out of the Forest and into Caball Hollow more than two hundred years ago, those gifts have meant we’ve been treated
with an air of suspicion, if not downright contempt, by our neighbors. Even when we use them for their benefit, like Gran’s healing tinctures. Or the baked goods Linden made for this very meeting. Which is more than I would have done after what this town put her through.
When I reach the wide, heavy door, I press my back against it while balancing the trays in my arms and nearly plow into council member Gayle Anne Gerlach. She casts me an annoyed glance, then puts a perfectly manicured hand on the shoulder of a tired-looking woman I’m pretty sure is the town clerk, leading her away to continue their conversation with a saccharine smile.
My eye catches on the black-and-white photograph of the original town hall, prominently displayed in the fluorescent-lit lobby. The ornate, neoclassical structure was struck by lightning and burned down decades ago, its image a sharp contrast to the yellowed walls and generic industrial carpet of the current building. The only room with any ounce of grandeur now is also the only one filmed by the local public access station—the city council meeting room, with its raised dais for the council members, dark wood-paneled walls, and the large gold medallion with the Caball Hollow town crest, front and center, behind the empty chair reserved for the mayor.
One of the staffers points me to a folding table at the back of the space, and by the time Gran and I have finished laying out the refreshments, the room is thick with too many bodies and too little circulation. The smell of strong coffee wafting from the carafe next to me isn’t enough to cover the stench in the air as the council members scramble to impress voters ahead of the election in a couple months. Even local politicians are prone to stretch the truth with empty promises.
Okey Spurgeon, president of the town council, ends a call on his cell phone and steps up to the seat on the dais behind his nameplate before attempting to quiet the crowd and call the meeting to order. Gran eyes me from the other side of the table when I drop down into one of the last remaining chairs. But she holds her tongue for once as I lean forward, propping my elbows against my knees to cover my nose without drawing attention. Not that it helps. I’ve always been able to sniff out a lie, even when I’d rather not. Beulah Fordham Hayes from the school board cuts me an irritated look anyway, her steely gaze matching the steel-gray hair that ripples in reproach as she turns away.
“All right, y’all, let’s get down to our first order of business,” Okey begins. His perpetually rosy cheeks are extra sanguine this evening. It’s standing room only now. Big entertainment for a small town. “And the reason I’m sure most of you are here. We’re only a couple weeks into ginseng season, and already we have some grave
concerns. Preliminary evidence shows the recent car accident near the National Forest that killed one young man may have been related to ginseng poaching.”
“Ginseng numbers are dropping every year, and the National Forests in North Carolina and Tennessee aren’t allowing any harvesting, which means the licensed dealers are paying more per pound than ever as they struggle to fill orders from their international buyers,” Gayle Anne Gerlach chimes in from his right. “It’s driving an unsavory crowd straight into Caball Hollow.”
“There ain’t much ginseng here no more, neither,” Hillard Been mutters in that old-man way that means the whole room hears it.
“It sure is getting smaller and harder to find,” someone on the other side of the room agrees. “Large root, old ’sang is a thing of the past.”
Okey looks annoyed as he brushes a hand over his receding hairline, but ignores the interruption. “As I was saying, in light of recent events, we’ve asked a representative from the Forest Service to come and address the issue of how we can work together to keep our community safe during ginseng season.”
He gestures for someone in the audience to come forward. A woman in a dark green Forest Service uniform stands and makes her way to the lectern stationed in front of the dais. Frances Vernon, known to all and sundry as Vernie, has been a fixture of the National Forest for as long as I’ve been alive and probably a lot longer.
“We have just the right elevation, rainfall, and mineral-rich soil to produce some of the best wild ginseng in the world,” she says, inciting murmurs of agreement. “But wild ginseng is threatened from centuries of overharvesting. Taking the root ends the plant’s ability to replace itself for new generations. That’s why it’s only legal to dig the roots from the end of summer to the first frost, September through November, and only those at least five years old and with seed-bearing, bright red berries. All diggers must have a current permit from the Forest Service to remove ginseng from the National Forest and are required, by law, to plant the seeds where they dug the root.”
“And what happens if someone violates those rules?” Gayle Anne demands, her arched eyebrows shooting up over her glasses. “Laws are only as good as their enforcement, and I believe in being tough on crime.” She nods decisively, like she’s making a campaign promise.
“We’ve certainly seen an increase in violations over the last decade or so,” Vernie admits. “Which is why we now have harsher penalties. A first violation may be a one-thousand-dollar fine, but subsequent
offenses can mean much higher fines and jail time. A man over in Mud River just pleaded guilty to five Lacey Act violations for illegally trafficking in ginseng. Each of those could mean up to a hundred-thousand-dollar fine and one year in prison.”
A rumble runs through the crowd as this statement sparks dozens of side conversations, and Vernie is forced to raise her hands for silence before she can continue. “We take this very seriously because ginseng is an important part of our culture and heritage, and illegal harvesting puts it at risk of disappearing. But the potential for a big payday means some are willing to take that risk.”
“Ranger Vernon, what can we all do to help keep poachers out of Caball Hollow?” Okey asks, gesturing toward the audience.
“If you see signs of possible illegal activity, like vehicles parked in remote areas for long periods of time; possession of sharpened sticks, trowels, or even hoes that have been altered to avoid damaging the skin of the root, which would drop its value; and disturbed soil where ginseng is known or likely to grow, please report it. We’ll also be increasing the number of patrols within the National Forest itself,” Vernie explains.
“Poachers better stay away from my spot, or the law will be the least of their worries,” someone to my left mutters.
“Please do not attempt to confront suspected poachers,” Vernie stresses, holding up her hands for emphasis. “There’s no need to put yourself in danger. Notify the Forest Service or local law enforcement, and we’ll handle it.”
“I’m sure we’ll all keep a lookout for anything suspicious,” Okey says. “Thank you, Vernie.” He gestures for the forest ranger to take her seat.
I roll my eyes. The National Forest is nearly a million acres, with the Appalachian mountain range running right through its center. It surrounds Caball Hollow like a massive jaw waiting to snap. With its rocky crevices, deep rivers, murky bogs, dense woods, and laurel hells so dense and twisted that if you wander in you’re liable to never make it out, the National Forest is made up of some of the most ecologically diverse land in the nation. The idea that Okey Spurgeon, sitting in a lawn chair inside his open garage with binoculars and a beer, might catch a poacher is so laughable, I have to bite my tongue.
“All right, y’all, let’s come to order.” Okey tries to get the meeting back on track. “We still have a lot to cover this evening, including the recent uptick in petty theft.”
“I’ll just say what we’re all thinking.” Gayle Anne Gerlach taps her ink pen against the notepad on the table in front of her. “I
don’t think the increase in crime and the increase in unfamiliar faces around town is a coincidence. And I’m not just talking about ginseng hunters coming in and causing problems. We’ve also got people like those internet folks. They may not be breaking the law, but they’ve been sticking their noses where they don’t belong, stirring up trouble that’s better left to lie.”
I scoff, earning myself another glare from Beulah Fordham Hayes. No, it’s not strangers we need to fear most—they’re the ones we keep at a distance. It’s the people you trust who are close enough to stab you in the back. Because everybody lies. And in knowing their lies, I become the keeper of their secrets.
Caball Hollow is a one-stoplight town stuck so far out in the middle of nowhere that rarely even does a strong cell signal find its way to us. For generations, our only claim to fame was the folklore of a monster that haunted our Forest. The legend of the Moth-Winged Man, a creature with the body of a man and the wings of a moth said to be a sure sign of impending misfortune, was a tale told by old men to prove their mettle or young mothers to keep their children from wandering too far. Completely fictional. Until it wasn’t.
When sightings of the Moth-Winged Man were reported just before Caball Hollow’s first official murder a few months ago, it made the news and drew all kinds of morbid curiosity seekers. Most of them gave up once the scandal died down, but the crew of so-called monster hunters with a YouTube channel that rolled into town last week doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave and is clearly ruffling a few feathers. I’m certainly no fan, but the idea that crime only happens in Caball Hollow because of outsiders isn’t just delusional, it’s downright dangerous. The empty chair on the dais is proof enough of that. After all, the murderer was born and bred right here.
“It’s true. Crime is becoming a real problem,” Beulah informs me. “Just the other day, Roy Bivens couldn’t find his keys, and when he went outside, his car was gone. Disappeared right out of his driveway.”
“It was in front of the Pub ’n’ Grub, where he left it the night before.” Hillard Been turns around in his chair. “Fool was probably still so pickled he didn’t recognize it. Whoever took his keys did the whole town a favor.”
Beulah huffs and picks an invisible piece of lint from her jacket, but Hillard isn’t done. “Course, on the other hand, he’s not the only one who’s lost something lately.” He lets the sentence hang, and there’s clearly some context I’m missing, but I don’t have to wait long for the answer to present itself.
“I already done told you once,” Buck Garland growls at Hillard Been from somewhere
behind me. He must have come in late, like the others standing in the back of the room. “I got no earthly idea what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got to have it, Buck,” Hillard argues, undeterred. “I gave it to you when I retired. It was a family heirloom, and you promised you’d take care of it.”
Buck shakes his head in frustration. “You must have me confused with someone else at the post office, old man.”
Hillard stares at him, bug-eyed and whompyjawed. “You fall on your head recently, son?”
“I take it y’all lost something?” I interrupt, partly because they’re getting louder and drawing attention, and partly just to needle them for my own amusement.
“We didn’t lose nothing,” Hillard insists. “This damn fool claims he never had my granddaddy’s pocket watch when the entire Caball Hollow postal service saw me give it to him.”
I remember the day he’s talking about. The two of them came into the Harvest Moon diner for lunch, like they always do, and Buck was showing the watch off to everybody who’d listen.
“And I told you, you’re confused,” Buck insists, then turns to me. I brace for the lie I know is coming. “It happens sometimes with the elderly,” he says in a voice Hillard is clearly meant to hear. “But I ain’t never had that dang watch.”
I know the words are false, but no stench accompanies them. He shows none of the outward signs of dishonesty I’ve learned to identify over the years. No shifts in the tone or volume of his voice, no fidgeting, no changes in the level of eye contact. And yet I know he’s lying, so how can that be?
“I had your name added to the engraving!” Hillard loudly objects.
The rest of the meeting hall goes silent, and those closest to us aren’t even trying to pretend they’re not watching. I inhale deeply through my nose, trying to catch the scent that should be so strong by now it’d make my eyes water.
“I don’t need this.” Buck pushes off the back wall. “Call me when you recover your senses,” he tells Hillard, pulling his hat down over his eyes as he stomps toward the exit.
Hillard slowly shakes his head. “My apologies, folks,” he tells the crowd. “He’s not been acting like hisself lately. Buck isn’t usually one for confrontation. Most days I’m not even sure he’s completely awake.”
Slowly, I get to my feet, following the path Buck took. When Gayle Anne Gerlach told the town council clerk that her expenses were work related, a puff of papery smoke wafted through the air. When Okey Spurgeon called his wife to tell her he had to work late tomorrow, a smell
like burnt meat slid across the room in a greasy swirl. Or even at home, when my sister Linden says she’s fine, despite being bad-mouthed, shunned, then nearly killed less than a month ago, her breath is scented with coal—and it makes me want to burn this whole town to the ground. But now, after Buck had so clearly lied and the air should be thick with the stink of it, there’s not so much as a hint of ash. Nothing.
And I have to admit that maybe the only thing worse than knowing every single lie is not knowing.
Chapter Two
Long after the town council meeting drew to a close, I lie in my bed, staring up at the tongue-and-groove ceiling, counting the whorls in each of the planks. My thoughts are too loud in the silence of the room, mine alone since Sorrel left for college last month, her mattress stripped bare and her favorite honeycomb quilt packed away.
The room seems darker somehow without its familiar pattern, a flower garden of cast-off cotton and a history written in thread. The embroidered remnant of a handkerchief that had once belonged to Gran’s younger sister, Zephyrine. Flannel from one of Great-Granny Sudie’s old nightgowns. A piece of lacework that once trimmed Gran’s wedding dress. Nothing ever wasted, the quilt was warmth created from an economy of repurposed fabrics, much like our home itself.
Nestled in a small valley between shouldering hills, Bittersweet Farm is a sprawling patchwork of flagstone, clapboard, and hand-hewn logs. It tells the tale of the women who have lived here for generations just as well as the words recorded in the James family books, of lean years and those high on the hog, of growth and heartache, of making do or doing without.
A noise downstairs, the muted shuffle of someone trying to be quiet, is all the invitation I need to get out of my own head. Pulling an old blue sweatshirt on over my pajamas, I make my way down the back stairs to the kitchen. Linden stands in the circle of moonlight cast through the small window above the sink, her long, dark hair draped over one shoulder while she fills the kettle. A jar of Gran’s sleep-easy tea is open next to a mug on the countertop by the stove.
“Can’t sleep?” I ask, and she jumps, splashing water onto the floor.
“You scared the livin’ daylights out of me,” she whispers fiercely, one hand clutching her chest.
“Bad dream?” I grab the towel from the oven door handle to wipe up the spill. She’s had nightmares before, but after she was nearly killed last month by the same person who murdered her friend, it’s like she’s afraid to even close her eyes.
Linden shakes her head, a low hum in the back of her throat. ...
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