guardian. It's only until Mark turns eighteen in a few months' time. He said that all I have to do is check on them every now and then, and that he would do the same. He seemed so sincere and so worried about them that I couldn't very well refuse. How would it look if the minister's wife turned her back on two orphans?"
"You know best," said Nora Bonesteel in a tone that meant only that the discussion would end. She had finished her tea now and had taken out the workbasket of knitting that always sat by her chair. Her restless hands unraveled yarn as they talked.
"It's such a tragedy. They didn't talk about it, and of course I didn't ask them, but imagine! An insane older brother plotting to kill the family, and them escaping just because they had play practice at the high school. Living with him must have been a nightmare."
Nora shook her head. "Josh Underhill was a soft-spoken boy. Very earnest, though. I spoke with him up here a time or two. He liked to go out walking in the woods by himself. He wasn't
fierce or what you'd call crazy. Just the opposite, I think."
"You're lucky you weren't killed," said Laura with a shiver of dread. "What did you talk about?"
"Legends. He had never lived long in any one place before, and I got the feeling that he was trying to get to know the land. I told him some of the old Cherokee stories about the Bear child and the Medicine Lake, where wounded animals go to heal, and about the Nunnehi."
"What are Nunnehi?"
"My Scots kinfolk called them the seelie court. Maybe all the mountain folk in the world have tales about them. They're said to live under the streams and deep inside the mountains, invisible most of the time, but sometimes you can come upon them dancing in a forest clearing. Sometimes they'd help a lost Cherokee find his way back to the village, and Nunnehi warriors appeared a time or two to fight alongside the Cherokee when they were losing a battle. You've seen fairystones, haven't you?"
Laura smiled. "Sure. They sell them in gift shops on the parkway. A dark crystalline formation in the shape of a cross. They look as if someone carved them."
The old woman drew out a chain from the folds of her dress, and held it out for Laura to see. "I've had this one sixty years and more," she said. "The old woman who gave it to me said it was formed from the Nunnehis' tears. Some say they cried when Jesus was nailed to the cross, and some say it was in sorrow over
the Trail of Tears, when the Cherokee were force marched away to Oklahoma."
"Have you ever seen the Nunnehi?"
Nora shrugged. "It's not a Christian belief. It's just stories people tell to explain a thing they don't understand. Josh Underhill said he wished he could go off and find the Nunnehi dancing in a clearing and follow them home. No, you don't, I told him. They don't like people to know where they live. People who go there die soon after."
Laura gasped. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he didn't care." Nora stared for a moment at the tangle of crimson thread in her lap. "This was a good while back. I just thought it was the state of melancholy that teenage boys are so partial to. Sweetheart troubles, or grades and suchlike." Her eyes glittered in the lamplight. "I wasn't given to know."
"You know enough, Nora Bonesteel," said Laura. "Let's not talk about it anymore." With a complacent smile she placed her hand on the gentle rise of her belly. "I can't get over you knowing about the baby this early," she mused aloud. "I don't think I'm showing a bit. This skirt has an elastic waistband, but it still fits like it always did."
"You look all right," said Nora, looping the strands of wool over her knitting needle.
"I told Will when he called on Sunday evening. He's just over the moon about it. And worried about me, of course. I said I was fine."
"Did you tell him you'd been out gallivanting 78
on country roads late at night visiting crime scenes?" asked Nora.
Laura grinned. "He worries enough as it is.
"You know best," said Nora Bonesteel in a tone that meant only that the discussion would end. She had finished her tea now and had taken out the workbasket of knitting that always sat by her chair. Her restless hands unraveled yarn as they talked.
"It's such a tragedy. They didn't talk about it, and of course I didn't ask them, but imagine! An insane older brother plotting to kill the family, and them escaping just because they had play practice at the high school. Living with him must have been a nightmare."
Nora shook her head. "Josh Underhill was a soft-spoken boy. Very earnest, though. I spoke with him up here a time or two. He liked to go out walking in the woods by himself. He wasn't
fierce or what you'd call crazy. Just the opposite, I think."
"You're lucky you weren't killed," said Laura with a shiver of dread. "What did you talk about?"
"Legends. He had never lived long in any one place before, and I got the feeling that he was trying to get to know the land. I told him some of the old Cherokee stories about the Bear child and the Medicine Lake, where wounded animals go to heal, and about the Nunnehi."
"What are Nunnehi?"
"My Scots kinfolk called them the seelie court. Maybe all the mountain folk in the world have tales about them. They're said to live under the streams and deep inside the mountains, invisible most of the time, but sometimes you can come upon them dancing in a forest clearing. Sometimes they'd help a lost Cherokee find his way back to the village, and Nunnehi warriors appeared a time or two to fight alongside the Cherokee when they were losing a battle. You've seen fairystones, haven't you?"
Laura smiled. "Sure. They sell them in gift shops on the parkway. A dark crystalline formation in the shape of a cross. They look as if someone carved them."
The old woman drew out a chain from the folds of her dress, and held it out for Laura to see. "I've had this one sixty years and more," she said. "The old woman who gave it to me said it was formed from the Nunnehis' tears. Some say they cried when Jesus was nailed to the cross, and some say it was in sorrow over
the Trail of Tears, when the Cherokee were force marched away to Oklahoma."
"Have you ever seen the Nunnehi?"
Nora shrugged. "It's not a Christian belief. It's just stories people tell to explain a thing they don't understand. Josh Underhill said he wished he could go off and find the Nunnehi dancing in a clearing and follow them home. No, you don't, I told him. They don't like people to know where they live. People who go there die soon after."
Laura gasped. "What did he say to that?"
"He said he didn't care." Nora stared for a moment at the tangle of crimson thread in her lap. "This was a good while back. I just thought it was the state of melancholy that teenage boys are so partial to. Sweetheart troubles, or grades and suchlike." Her eyes glittered in the lamplight. "I wasn't given to know."
"You know enough, Nora Bonesteel," said Laura. "Let's not talk about it anymore." With a complacent smile she placed her hand on the gentle rise of her belly. "I can't get over you knowing about the baby this early," she mused aloud. "I don't think I'm showing a bit. This skirt has an elastic waistband, but it still fits like it always did."
"You look all right," said Nora, looping the strands of wool over her knitting needle.
"I told Will when he called on Sunday evening. He's just over the moon about it. And worried about me, of course. I said I was fine."
"Did you tell him you'd been out gallivanting 78
on country roads late at night visiting crime scenes?" asked Nora.
Laura grinned. "He worries enough as it is.
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