Poisoned Soil: A Supernatural Thriller Read online

  “Great question,” Nick began. “These hams didn’t come from Spain. They came from Spanish-breed pigs that were acorn-fed and cured right here in the Appalachian Mountains!”

  Nick took in the wide eyes of his audience and continued.

  “There’s a little island off the coast of Savannah called Ossabaw Island. A few centuries ago, my people, the Spaniards, decided to do a little exploring and came over this way,” Nick said smiling. “They brought pigs with them, the descendants of today’s true Iberian pigs, and left them on the island for the next wave of Spaniards to hunt and eat. At some point we stopped coming, and the pigs learned to thrive on the island on their own. The locals call those pigs Ozzies, short for Ossabaw.”

  Nick stood in the center of the room with cameras both focused on him and on the faces of his guests. It was exactly where he liked to be, the center of attention, the focal point of culinary delights and connecting people to what he called real food. Not the tasteless garbage that he looked down on in America as people slurped and shoved paper bagfuls of trash into their mouths while driving, thinking they were eating.

  “A farmer raised and cured these in the southern Appalachian Mountains,” Nick added, “just like my father did in Spain, and his father before him.” A producer for The Food Channel stood in the back of the room and signaled Nick, indicating they should sit. “Now please, let’s take our seats and enjoy a marvelous dinner.” Nick concluded. “We can talk more during dinner.”

  As the members moved to one of the two very long rectangular tables on each side of the house, Rose walked to the centerpiece with John and several others who wanted a final glimpse of the star attraction. Rose zeroed her eyes on the head of the pig, taking in its expression and trying to decide if it had been happy or sad when it lived. She was far from a vegan, but she knew that P.E.T.A. stood for People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals. Certainly any vegan would have sprinted far away from the centerpiece by now, she thought, as she eyed the lonely gentleman who had questioned Nick on the treatment of animals. As she thought of her conversation the day before with Angelica about factory farming, she leaned closer to examine the pig’s head with John and others watching. A cameraman followed her right index finger as it touched right between the pig’s eyes.

  “What is this?” Rose asked herself and those around her. They all looked closely at the shape of the letter X that intersected right between the pig’s eyes.

  “I dunno,” John said. “Maybe it split there during roasting or something.” He had long been a vegetarian for health rather than for animal cruelty reasons, but John couldn’t hide his grimace at the gruesome incision.

  “Looks like someone marked it with a knife,” another man said as he hoisted a glass of champagne to his lips.

  “Well,” John said, “I wouldn’t want that job! Marking a pig while he was still alive. I mean, look at the tusks coming out of that thing’s mouth. That thing could kill a man, easy.”

  John took Rose by the hand and led her toward one of the tables where the wine flowed freely and the servers stood ready to plate the first course. Naturally, much of the table’s conversation touched on sales and marketing throughout the dinner, but John skillfully brought the discussion to family and personal issues as often as he could. Rose was grateful to John for yet another loving act that so many husbands wouldn’t think to do or be able to do. Underneath the table she took his right hand with her left as she gushed about her girls to a new mother seated across from her.

  Talking about the girls made her realize how much she cherished them and her life with them and John. She was eager to leave on vacation the next morning because the sooner she left, the sooner she would return to that life. It was that thought, and not the taste of the food, that put the Mona Lisa smile on her face as she deeply inhaled the moldy aroma and savored another slice of ham.

  Chapter 22

  Blake held Angelica’s hand and walked across the blacktop parking lot of the Sandy Creek Baptist Church for the first time in a very long time. Since before the miscarriage, he concluded, as he tried to recall his last visit to church that wasn’t on Easter or Christmas. It was a typical small country church, but plenty big enough for the Warwoman community. A white clapboard house of worship with a steeple reaching for the heavens from above the front entrance. Five, wide steps led up to the church entrance for those who could walk. For those who couldn’t, a new wheelchair ramp sloped from the right side to the landing platform at the top of the stairs.

  Two men of Native American descent stood at the base of the ramp and talked with an elderly woman who resembled Barbara Bush. One of the men dropped his head as Angelica cast a gaze upon him in passing. Charles Weaver, the eldest man, held Angelica’s stare and nodded imperceptibly.

  The elderly woman, Sylvia Jackson, spoke up. “Why the hush?”

  Tom, a pudgy man with stringy gray hair and inflated cheeks, turned to Sylvia. “She’s a witch,” he whispered.

  “Why, that’s nonsense,” Sylvia said looking as if she was in shock. “Well, that girl has been going to this church right on her whole life. She’s an absolute angel, she is.”

  Tom kicked some gravel around and grunted. “Hmm. A witch I’m telling you,” he repeated. “I could tell you some stories about her.” Charles stared down at him.

  “Why on God’s green earth would you say that?” Sylvia pressed. Tom leaned over the railing to see if Angelica was within earshot. She and Blake had already walked toward the front.

  “First off, her grandmother was a witch too!” Tom said.

  “Hmm,” Charles grunted as he cast an incredulous gaze at Tom.

  Sylvia rolled her eyes and asked, “Oh, so now everyone’s a witch?”

  Tom raised a finger and pointed it directly at Sylvia. “Well answer me this. What kind of woman buries her granddaughter ALIVE?” Sylvia’s mouth hung open as Tom continued. “Yep. Stuck her in a hole and covered her with dirt, gave her only a hollow cane to breath through. When she was only six or seven years old!”

  Charles stared down at Tom and snorted with disapproval, “Hmm.”

  “Then,” Tom continued, “old granny puts leaves on top of where she buried her own granddaughter, alive mind you, and sets the leaves afire. After the fire dies off, she yanks her granddaughter out of the ground and says now she’s a Cherokee priest with supernatural ability!”

  “That’s—that can’t be true,” Sylvia said.

  The elder man, tall and very weathered, spoke up. “That part is true,” Charles said. “That girl is my great niece. The grandmother Tom speaks of was my sister. But the girl is no witch.”

  “Is too,” Tom said. “I seen her one time use her magic to save a boy from drowning, right here on Warwoman Creek.” Tom pointed up the road toward a widening in the creek.

  “That doesn’t make her a witch,” Charles said, folding his arms across his chest.

  “Does so,” Tom continued. “We’s having a potluck dinner up the road. We’d had a ton of rain and this boy slipped off the bank. Them rapids took him under and swept him clean over them boulders. Everyone was in a panic but I watched that witch. She walked right over to the edge of the river and stared straight at that boy. She took her fingers and started twirling some magic beads on her neck and kept on chanting a spell.”

  Sylvia was now trying her best to record every word in her memory so she could command attention at the following week’s gossip circle. Tom continued the story. “I watched her and that girl didn’t blink once. Nary a time. And you know what happened? Just then a tree leaned over and hung some branches right down in front of that boy so he could grab a hold of!”

  Sylvia’s mouth fell open again.

  “Well,” Sylvia said. “My word. I guess that could be just a coincidence that you’re misreading. That don’t rightly make her no witch. Sounds more like an angel to me if she saved that boy.”

  “She was casting a spell, I tell ya. She’s a witch,” Tom said.

  “S
he isn’t a witch,” Charles repeated and grimaced at how loud his voice had become. He stared at Tom in a manner that suggested it would be wise to no longer suggest otherwise. “Witches do evil,” Charles continued. “What you’re describing is conjuring spells that the Cherokee people used for good, not evil. They used lots of verbal formulas, or chants as you say, even some to conjure up weather. And they used herbs for medicine. Witches used herbs for poison, and evil witches like the Raven Mocker took lives instead of saving them.”

  Sylvia very nearly fainted.

  “My sister was only doing what was done to her as a child,” Charles said. “She wanted to help Angelica become a Cherokee priest. To do that, she had to bury her first so she could say her old self was dead and buried. After the leaves were burned she rose as a priest. That’s the way it’s always been done.”

  “Why—why on earth would your sister want to do that to a child?” Sylvia asked.

  Charles dropped his voice. “Because that girl, Angelica, is an identical twin, and the Cherokees believed twins had supernatural powers. They often became priests, especially the younger twin, which Angelica was.”

  “Is she a witch...I mean, a priest?” Sylvia asked.

  “Hmm,” Charles snorted. “That’s old superstition. The kind of thinking my sister held with. Not me, which is why I don’t see my great niece often. She doesn’t approve of my lack of faith.”

  “What about them beads she carries?” Tom asked.

  Charles had grown tired of the conversation. He exhaled and looked down at Tom.

  “Beads and crystals were used for divination,” Charles said. “A priest would hold a black bead in the left hand to signify death or disaster and a white bead in the right hand to signify health and happiness. The beads were moved slowly between the tips of the index fingers and thumbs. The strength of the motion told the priest if the outcome in question would be favorable or unfavorable.”

  The church bell rang and visibly jolted Sylvia. “Well, my word! That story and them church bells plum near stopped my heart!” She said. “We best get inside.” Sylvia and the men walked in.

  Inside, eight rows of simple wooden benches divided the aisle that led the eyes to the pastor’s pulpit. Between the front pew and the pastor on the right side of the church were three more benches, each turned perpendicular to the nave of the congregation’s benches. These were for the small choir, comprised of enthusiastic, if not harmonious, mountain voices, young and old. A door on the far end behind the benches led to a small room where Angelica had dropped the girls off for Sunday School an hour before.

  On the left side of the church, just below the pastor’s chancel, was a beautiful piano, a gift from the estate of the recently deceased Gladys Wilcox, who had been a member of the church for all of her ninety-four years. In that time she had reared three children, spoiled nine grandchildren, traveled once out of Rabun County and saved enough money in her snuff jars to buy the piano for the church as stipulated in her will.

  Blake remembered thinking years before of how he would have made the church bigger, more fancy, if he had been consulted on the design. Even then he wasn’t really religious. He never really “got it” and felt that people went to church because they were supposed to. Because they lived in a small community and, if they didn’t, others would look down on them. So they went for the ham and egg suppers, for the potluck dinners, tried to stay awake for the sermons and wasted a good day each week, Blake thought. Some had even more time to waste as they went both Sunday morning and evening, and then again Wednesday night!

  But they had something that money couldn’t buy, Blake had begun to realize. They had each other and were there to comfort one another in times of need. Blake knew that this was his time of need. He also knew he had no right to ask for help, for forgiveness. He had given nothing to the community. Had shunned it, in fact, as he pursued his own dreams selfishly. He was always too busy, he had told Angelica with a straight face, because it was largely true. But the larger truth was that he wanted nothing to do with this or any church. Sitting there made him feel uncomfortable. Angelica led him to the second row on the right side and saved a spot for the girls for when they were dismissed. Blake sat next to the aisle.

  He turned to his right and looked behind, recognizing most of the faces he had grown up among. Faces both familiar and strange to him at the same time. They nodded at him in a welcoming manner, inviting him to stay and visit often with their peaceful smiles. Blake returned the nods, returned the smiles as he took in the faces, in search of comfort and reassurance. Making eye contact with friendly faces allowed Blake to feel more at ease. He stood a little taller and turned left to look for faces on the other side. Memories flooded back to him from faces that had known him all along. Faces that he had abandoned, had forgotten. A calm swept over him as he welcomed them all, feeling like a security blanket that comforted him. His eyes finished their sweep when they met the preacher, seated with his Bible in his lap with an empty chair on one side of him and the pulpit on the other.

  The music began playing asking for all to rise and sing to begin the worship. Blake stood and took Angelica’s hand. As he did, the door opened from the Sunday School. The children walked out and found their parents or guardians. Walking behind the children, dressed in his clean and pressed sheriff’s uniform, was Lonnie Jacobs. Blake inhaled and held his breath as his body tensed. Shit! he said silently, his mind forgetting where his vulgar mouth was.

  The sheriff walked to the front and took the empty chair next to the pastor.

  What in God’s name is he doing here? Blake thought to himself, realizing the irony of his question given the setting. And then Blake remembered. Sheriff Lonnie Jacobs was also Pastor Lonnie Jacobs of the Bull Creek Baptist Church. Blake had completely forgotten, only vaguely recalling the fact that Lonnie had become a pastor before being elected sheriff.

  Lonnie had made the highly publicized decision to run for sheriff when Blake was in junior high, saying that ministers were in the world to make a positive difference, and what better way than to use his understanding of God’s word to take on societal problems and enforce the law. “The Lord has me here in this moment and this is how he wants to use me,” Lonnie had said in his campaign interview for the Clayton Tribune. The Atlanta Journal Constitution also covered those words and the campaign, much to the amusement of the educated masses to the south. The message would have fallen on deaf ears in most parts of the country, and certainly in Atlanta for that matter. But in the rural belly of the Bible Belt the chords of Lonnie’s calling rang true. He was elected by forty-seven votes, a landslide.

  Lonnie’s eyes surveyed the room with both compassion and righteousness. His eyes met Blake’s, held them for a moment, and continued around the room. The pastor invited the congregation to be seated and began by saying what the others had already known. That they were honored to have a guest pastor that day from the other side of Rainey Mountain, who was here to spread the word of God and to deliver a special sermon. Lonnie thanked the pastor and stood before the pulpit. Blake didn’t take his eyes off him, outwardly appearing to be supremely interested in what he was saying. Inside Blake’s mind was another story as his worst fears zoomed and crashed into one another, occasionally interrupted by a poignant word or phrase from the sheriff.

  Looming tall from the pulpit, Lonnie overlooked the congregation as he opened his Bible. “Can there be anything worse than isolation?” Lonnie asked the congregation as he began his sermon. “The feeling of helplessness, of being alone when confronted with crisis. With tragedy. No one that knows how you feel, if you’re sick, if you’ve lost a close friend.” He surveyed the room and parked his eyes on Blake before continuing. “No one you can confess to. Can tell the truth about what you’ve done.”

  Shit! A lump formed in Blake’s throat, he was sure it was a massive, visible lump that parched his throat and suffocated his breath. Thoughts raced through Blake’s mind of isolation, the feeling of loneliness he had.
It was as if the sheriff...the pastor was speaking directly to him, about him. How could he know anything about what I’ve done? What I’m feeling?

  “For each of you,” Lonnie continued, “for all of us, we are not alone. We have the Lord to hear us.” The men of the congregation spoke up. “Amen brother. Amen.”

  “We have each other to comfort us, to be there and share in the times of despair, whether they be of a singular and personal nature, as in the case of a grave illness.” Lonnie’s eyes fell to the loving family of an ailing elderly man seated on the front row, clearly attending one of his last sermons.

  “Or in the case of a natural calamity that unites us in despair, such as Hurricane Katrina, or the horrible tornadoes that tore through the South in recent years, killing so many innocent children of God.”

  Angelica squeezed Blake’s hand in a reassuring way.

  “Imagine how much worse those times could be. Would be, if you had to endure them alone.” Lonnie said. Heads nodded throughout the congregation. Blake’s head dropped, his eyes falling from Lonnie. He realized this and popped his head back up, fighting against the burdensome weight he felt levied on his mind and his shoulders.

  “Today, we live in a world of greed,” Lonnie said. As he began the main thesis of his sermon, Blake felt connected via a tunnel directly to Lonnie, the people on each side fading as the message was channeled through a conduit directly from God through the pastor to Blake. Or is the message from the sheriff himself, Blake thought?

  “Sometimes the greed is far away. On places like Wall Street, where unscrupulous souls worship and pursue material wealth at any and all costs.” All heads nodded knowingly to a chorus of “amens.”

  “But the temptation isn’t always far away. It’s sometimes among us, my friends, luring us away from the Lord, away from Jesus,” Lonnie said looking at Blake. “Away from the law.”