The Ghosts of Stony Clove by Eileen Charbonneau

Author:Eileen Charbonneau
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2019-04-17T16:00:00+00:00

Chapter Two

STONY CLOVE

“ Shh—stop that infernal chattering!”

“But it’s turned so cold, Asher.”

“Always cold coming through the c-clove.”

“There! Your teeth are clackin’ too!”

Asher Woods ground them together now, out of patience with my sass.

Stony Clove, after which our town is named, is notched through solid rock. The Dutch settlers who cleared and farmed this area more than one hundred years past claimed it was cut ages ago by the Devil in his fury, who fashioned it after his own cleft foot. But the schoolmaster declares that our rugged mountain. pass, with its ledges and great hanging boulders, is only a wonder of God’s creation. Years of flowing water and ice gouged their way through this forsaken corridor at the end of our valley. The air turns cold suddenly here because the sun’s rays never shine on the sheltered valley floor. I reminded myself of Mr. Steenwyck’s explanations as I was shivering between the rocky walls. But I could better picture old Beelzebub at the job of Stony Clove’s creation.

The overgrown road was almost a trail, twisting down among cliffs of bare rock. I couldn’t see how a wagon and team had ever been able to use it. The October moon was so full and bright we could see each other clear as day, but still we stumbled over the tree roots that snaked their way down from the ridge above.

“Maybe Sally Hamilton will bring the Devil himself to warm you good and proper,” Asher spat.

I turned away. He came closer.

“You’re crying! Damnation!”

“Am not!”

I ran ahead to prove I did not deserve Asher’s disgust. And to hide my tears. I’d never before passed the great oak that grows some little distance from the clove. The ear tree we called it because of the strange misshapen growth on its trunk. It got that way from listening to Sally Hamilton’s cries, Will Chase said, before offering me a half dime to venture on past it. I didn’t then, but flew by it now. Finally, a clearing. The moon cast the shadow of an iron rooster weathervane at my feet. Its crow was hoarse and rusted.

I raised my eyes to the first three-storied structure I’d ever seen. Two of the floors were in the steep curving roof, one below it. The house was built of stone, the same blue, rose, and purple stone that lines our creekbeds. The windows—so many windows, more than our church—were covered with heavy board shutters. Dying vines of thorny wild roses, ivy, and nightshade climbed about the walls of the house, almost hiding the year chiseled above the front door—1701. The wind blew from the northwest around the Sutherland place, circling me with the heady scent of decay.

Farmers know a fence should be horse high, bull proof, and pig tight. Well, it was clear from the wasted heaps of both stone and wood that no crop had been grown nor animal husbanded here in a long time. It had once been the center of our town’s life, but it was now an outpost, walled in on three sides by the steep heights of mountains.

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