The Witch of Tin Mountain(10)

“Granny!” I squeeze her shoulder. “Come on, now. That’s enough.”

After a breathless moment, she shakes her head as if to clear it, her eyes suddenly locking on mine. She wipes the blood trailing from her nose with the back of her hand. “You’re not to set one blessed foot in that revival tent tonight, Gracelynn. You hear me?”

“Why? What’s wrong? What did you see?”

Granny grasps my wrist, viselike. “Listen to me, girl. There’s a certain kind of evil in this world that seeks our kind. And I don’t mean to lose you to it.”



The revival tent sits in Hosea Ray’s alfalfa pasture, lit up yellow against the night. It floats in the darkness like something in a fever dream—out of place and unnatural. A crowd of folks huddle around the entrance, jawin’ and smoking. A cow lifts her head from her slumber beneath a sweetgum tree and moos at the intrusion.

She ain’t the only one who’s less than pleased by Bellflower’s arrival.

I’m defying Granny by being here. It don’t feel right, but my curiosity’s too strong to deny. I snuck out while she was napping, a sprig of rosemary tucked behind my ear and a handful of dried sage in my pocket. Simple wards, just in case she was right and there’s more to Bellflower’s tent revival than a few hymns and an altar call.

I push through the crowd and duck beneath the open oilcloth flap. The tent is packed with people. Their excited talk hums fierce as a nest of mad wasps. The heat from outdoors is only made worse by the kerosene lanterns set along the walls. Sweat rolls down my temple and drips onto my dress.

May came in hot as August this year, and she ain’t showing no signs of letting up.

Aunt Val’s in the front row, batting the sultry air with a paper fan, all eager to get her first glimpse of the famed Josiah Bellflower.

What the hell kind of name is Bellflower, anyway?

I slump next to Val, arrange my dress over my knobby knees, and pray she won’t rat me out to Granny.

Somehow, Val’s gotten herself all dolled up between leaving Hosea’s fields and now. Folks talk. They say Val don’t work at sharecropping as much as she works in his bed. I wouldn’t be surprised, knowing Val. She scowls at me, her lips rouged up like a floozy. “What are you doin’ here?”

I shrug. “I’m just as curious as you. Figured I’d come see the signs and wonders.”

“You know this is a religious service, Gracelynn.”

“Yes’m.” I smirk. “Maybe there’s hope for me yet.”

Just then, Calvina and her mama step into the tent. Ma Watterson is looking poorly. Her legs shake with every step, ankles swollen below her rolled stockings. She’s leaning heavy on Calvina’s arm. Her arthritis is the worst I’ve ever seen it.

I gesture for them to come sit by us, and Calvina waves me off. Ain’t nobody wants to sit in the front row of a camp meeting unless they’re crazy or stupid, what with folks flopping around like they do and getting slain in the Spirit. Good way to get a broken toe. Yet, here I am.

A swell of music comes from the back of the tent. It’s an accordion, grinding out a tune that sounds more sideshow rag than hymn. A man swaggers up the aisle, his collar-length hair a dark sandy blond, his nose as sharp as the blade on a combine. He’s tall and wiry, arms knotted with lean muscle beneath his rolled-up shirtsleeves. He’s dressed in fine town clothes that flatter his broad shoulders and narrow hips. Some of the women go all moony as he passes by.

Naturally, Aunt Val is one of them.

I cross my arms over my chest and lean back in the wooden chair. The chair squeaks in protest. He turns at the sound. Our eyes lock, and I swear his widen, just the slightest bit. He smiles, and the jagged scar beside his mouth raises one side of his lips higher than the other. Something akin to indigestion flutters in my belly.

People start to clap along as Bellflower works his squeeze-box with long fingers, expertly coaxing music from its bellows. I finally recognize the tune—“Trust and Obey”—only it’s sped way up. He comes to the end of the song and shrugs off the accordion. It wheezes out a long, sorrowful note as he places it on the straw-covered ground.

He makes a circle around the front of the tent, his dark, long-lashed eyes flirting with the crowd. Looking for the greenest rube for his tricks, no doubt. “Good people of Tin Mountain,” he begins, his drawl as deep and honey-rich as bourbon. He’s a Kaintuck, then, like my worthless daddy. “I have lately been to western Oklahoma, where the fields were withered to dust and the unfortunate folks there labored long in the day, to no avail. To those people, I brought a message of hope and prosperity. A message of redemption. Within weeks of my arrival, children with hollow bellies grew fat with plenty. Folks who had not walked a step for years ran. Barren fields grew fecund and thick with green corn.”

What the hell does fecund mean?

“I can promise the same to you, brothers and sisters.” The tent goes so quiet I can hear the rustle of hot wind blowing through the alfalfa outside. A smug smile plays over Bellflower’s lips. He’s got these people where he wants them. Already. His eyes fall on Aunt Val and narrow. He ceases his pacing and stops in front of her.

Val pokes at her hair, which she’s brushed into rippling waves, the ends touched with gold from the sun. The color is coming up high under her freckled tan. She looks as pretty as she can for a woman near fifty who’s had it hard in life.