The Storycatcher by Hite Ann

Author:Hite, Ann [Hite, Ann]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Publisher: Gallery Books
Published: 2013-09-10T00:00:00+00:00

Arleen Brown

MAMA’S WORDS WAS ALL OVER me when I closed the door to Faith’s room and pulled the desk chair in front of the window. This way I could keep a watch on Pastor, who was stretched out in the backyard, yelling at the sky every once in a while. The charm quilt was spread out on Faith’s bed, and the old sewing basket sat next to it. What that basket held was part of the magic: a thimble, a pair of shiny little scissors, and lots of thread, some homespun and so old it broke when I pulled too hard while stitching. The thread colors, pale red, gray-blue, yellowing white, and coppery brown, painted the feelings being sewn into the pattern. Mama said in the old days a quilt was much more than a blanket to throw on the bed in the winter. A person’s story was sewn right into the design. A wedding quilt most of the time was made from scraps of clothes that once belonged to the beloved couple. A baby quilt gave hope to the sweet parents bringing the child into the world. And a charm quilt could be a lot of things. This one was a death quilt and told the story of my death at the hands of all those who played a part. Death didn’t always come to a person in a straight line. Those involved sometimes didn’t even understand they had a place in the circumstances.

Mama was not part of my death quilt. I thought I’d get something of hers and add it, but after the visit I knew she believed me to be good. If she did one thing wrong, it sure wasn’t her fault. Every good Christian woman believed in her pastor. They was supposed to. Mama was no different. So she couldn’t be faulted. But I had me a real list of folks that had gone into this work. Faith left the finishing touches to me. One more thing had to go into the quilt—a soul. And that soul was wicked. A death quilt had a sleep charm woven into the materials. When placed on that soul, it gave sleepy calm. It was then and only then a girl could go after her revenge.

In a small cup was buttons Faith stole from the wash that hung on the lines out behind the main house. She snipped them off without anyone but me seeing her: a sunny yellow one from Mrs. Dobbins’s robe, three red triangle buttons stolen from a satin blouse hidden away in a cupboard in Amanda’s cabin—a blouse she had forgotten, wanted to put out of her mind—and last a bright blue button belonging to Miss Tuggle’s fancy dress along with some hair from her brush. Everybody that needed to be included in the making of the charm was right there.

The buttons made little clicking sounds in my hand. I would stitch each one on the quilt, a part of each person. I hummed one of them lullabies Mama sung to me as a little girl.

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