The Witch's Grave by Phillip Depoy Read Free Book Online Page B

corner of his lips.
    â€œShe might hide out in a graveyard?” Andrews pulled a wad of paper towels from the wall, swiped at his spill. “I’ve got to know more about this girl.”
    â€œAndrews once confessed to me,” I told Skid, starting the espresso maker, “that his perfect mate would believe she was a vampire.”
    â€œMy Goth phase.” He shrugged. “It was short.”
    â€œTruvy’s always been a little off,” Skid sighed. “The whole family.”
    â€œBut the rumors didn’t really start about her until she got involved with Rud Pinhurst.”
    â€œI guess you’re right,” Skid considered.
    â€œDidn’t you say the mortician Pinhurst was her cousin?” Andrews’s eyes grew wider. “Does this mean she was involved with one of her relatives?”
    â€œThere’s lots of Pinhurst family around,” Skid said slowly, not looking back at Andrews.
    â€œHe might have been a third or fourth cousin, I suppose,” I allowed, “but that’s not the point.”

    â€œRud was no good.” Skid leaned on the kitchen counter, punctuating the finality of his statement.
    â€œTell,” Andrews insisted.
    â€œThe town decided about five years ago to set up a kind of living folk museum,” I began, “a tourist attraction, really.”
    Skid shook his head. “More like seven, wasn’t it?”
    â€œAnyway,” I went on, “part of it was a working smithy. Rud Pinhurst used some connection to one of the business sponsors to get the job. He’d done ironwork around town anyway: horses needed shoes, tourists wanted fireplace sets for their tract mansions in Marietta. The town set up a weekend business for fall and spring. Truevine fell in love with him then, and not much later they broke up. I got her story on tape shortly after that.”
    I told Andrews the story.
    Â 
    Rud Pinhurst courted Truevine in private. She was in love with him. His hammer was her church bell. He was her religion. On many afternoons they would take to the hills and meadows among the primroses and the sweet william. Rud swore to marry her if she’d lie down beside him.
    They made plans. She would learn his trade and help him at his work. They’d live in the shelter of a tree, sleep on a bed of meadow grass. She’d lie content in his arms through summer’s sun and winter’s chill.
    All that autumn every time some city visitor would say, “Who’s that fine boy?” she’d say, “That’s my blacksmith.” She was happy, thought she was wiser than any woman alive.
    When the year turned old, the cold wind blew all around; there was warmth by the fire at his bellows, warmer still by the hearth in her house when no one else was about.
    At Christmastime there was a dance everyone attended. It was the only time many people came into town for fun—not for business, not for need, only for want of company. Dancing close to someone was an added enticement, but Truevine had a better plan for that night. She was going to announce her devotion to Rud at that party.
It would be the night she’d show him off; the world would know he was hers.
    She arrived early, anxious to share the good tidings, but kept silent. Long hours passed; it was nearly midnight. Many had gone home by the time Rud finally came. He carried strange news. As boldly as he ever struck his anvil, he declared it for all to hear:
    â€œI can only stay a moment. I have a secret to tell.” It was clear he had been drinking. “I’ve come to say to you-all that I’m married.”
    Everyone thought it was odd that he should marry in secret; the room was hushed.
    â€œUncle Jackson arranged it; she’s Tessy Brannour, fine woman from Rabun County. Some of you know that big house of theirs on South Stonewall. Her daddy and Jackson arranged for me to work in an office, no more sparks and hammers for me.