Menace at Mammoth Cave. Mary Casanova
awful good with that fiddle. Just like Dorothy Ann with the wheel. She spins fleece into the loveliest yarn you ever did see.”
Dorothy Ann’s fair cheeks reddened. “I’m still learning,” she admitted. She lifted the cup of tea to her grandmother’s dry lips. “Here, Gran-mammy. Try a little? You need to get your strength back.”
But Gran-mammy snorted and shooed the cup away. She pushed back white strands of hair on her nearly bald head. “Just leave it. Now you girls skedaddle. I’m fine.”
Dorothy Ann set the cup down on the side table. “All right. Dinner?”
“No, thanks,” Gran-mammy said. “Maybe later.” Her thin eyelids closed.
Kit followed Dorothy Ann across the foyer and toward the lively music in the living room. Just before entering, Dorothy Ann leaned into Kit. “Leaving here is hardest on Gran-mammy,” she whispered. “She took to bed the day the letter arrived. She’s been getting weaker ever since. Breaks my heart.”
Kit whispered back, “I’m so sorry.” It was all she could think to say.
In the living room, Dorothy Ann sat at her spinning wheel and pumped the treadle until it began to spin. Kit perched on a footstool and watched as Dorothy Ann took a fluff of wool from a basket and stretched and twisted it into a strand of yarn on the wheel. Kit had never thought before about where yarn came from. Wool from sheep turned into yarn…yarn knitted into sweaters, hats, gloves, mittens, and scarves. Kit tried to picture Gran-mammy as a young girl spinning yarn. Now her granddaughter carried on her tradition.
Kit glanced at Charlie and shared a smile. Sitting on the sofa, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clearly enjoying JJ’s music.
Commanding everyone’s attention, JJ stood fiddling beside the stone hearth, tapping out a beat with the toe of his boot. His sour mood seemed gone. With his instrument tucked under his chin, he moved his left hand up and down the frets as his right hand held the bow, flying over the strings. He played song after song, the music growing louder and faster until, with a flourish of his bow, he stopped.
Mr. Henry started clapping and everyone joined in. JJ bowed to his audience, his bow and fiddle extending like wings behind him.
After a moment, Charlie stood. “I guess I’d better be going so I return Joe’s truck on time.” He thanked the Thatchers for their hospitality and headed for the front door.
“Will I see you soon?” Kit asked.
“You can count on it,” Charlie assured her.
When bedtime came, Kit was grateful to put on her familiar nightgown. She was more tired than she realized. What a long day it had been! She settled her head on the pillow beside Aunt Millie, who dropped quickly into sleep.
Kit lay awake, eyes open. A crescent moon rose and sent pale light into the bedroom. Kit suddenly missed Mother and Dad; her best friend, Ruthie; and her sweet dog, Grace, who often slept at the foot of Kit’s bed. When Grace pressed her warm body against Kit’s feet, sleep always came easily.
Time suddenly stretched like the long, endless steel rails she and Aunt Millie had traveled. Nine more days until they headed home? She swallowed hard, determined not to cry.
Her feelings didn’t make any sense. She’d been so excited about this trip, about seeing Charlie, and the possibility of visiting a real cave. She loved spending time with Aunt Millie, and it had all sounded like such an adventure. But now Kit felt as if she didn’t belong. She felt caught between two worlds: the one her brother was here to help build and the one—full of family farms like the Thatchers’—that was destined to be torn down.
She wished there was some way the Thatchers could stay on their farm.
Kit drew a deep, long breath. Then, like a quickly deflating balloon, she exhaled a sigh of worry. Things felt complicated—and yet they were simple: Families were being forced to make way for a national park. People were deeply upset. And Charlie was in danger, because whoever put a snake in his trunk and started a fire was still out there, ready to strike again.
chapter 4
Ghostly Warnings
THE NEXT MORNING, wanting to be helpful, Kit brought a plate of scrambled eggs and buttered biscuits to Gran-mammy. After her first bite of biscuit, however, Gran-mammy’s hand went to her throat and she coughed and coughed. Kit raced back to the kitchen and returned with a glass of water. Gran-mammy took a sip and swallowed. “Much better. Thank you, sweetie.”
After breakfast dishes, Kit helped Dorothy Ann feed chickens and collect eggs from the nesting boxes, something she knew all about from tending her small flock at home.
As Kit helped hang a basket of laundry to dry, Miss Pearl gave her a smile over the clothesline. “Thanks, Kit. You’re a great help. But you’re on vacation,” she added, fastening coveralls to the line with wooden clips. “You should have a little fun while you’re here, too.”
“I am having fun,” Kit said, forcing a smile. She wanted it to be true. But between worrying about Charlie and doing chores in the sweltering heat, she wasn’t so sure.
The sun climbed high over the farm, and by midafternoon it turned everything steamy, including Kit. She sat on the porch, shucking corn in the shade next to Aunt Millie, who was slicing cucumbers for pickles. Droplets of sweat tickled Kit’s back and clung to her cotton blouse. She’d give anything to jump into cool water. Even the sheep’s water trough looked inviting—almost.
Mr. Henry sat in a rocker at the far end of the porch, weaving a basket from long strips of white oak that were soaking in a pail of water. His rocker creaked between pauses as he talked. “Before the national park stepped in, I lived with my brother and his family. Never had a wife or kids of my own, so taking a room with them suited me just fine—until he was forced off his land. He and his family headed west to start over. Not me. I wanted to stay.”
“And so you did,” Aunt Millie said, her knife flashing as disks of cucumber dropped into the bowl on her lap.
“Basketmaking is what I know,” Mr. Henry said. “It’s been passed down from my pappy’s side of the family for generations. And now the CCC’s wiping all that away, as if we never existed. God will surely punish the wicked. As in the Old Testament, He will bring down fire and brimstone, plagues, and any manner of serpents.”
Fire? Serpents? To Kit, the words stung, as if Mr. Henry meant them to be hurtful.
“Mr. Henry, my brother works for the CCC,” she said. “He isn’t wicked. Are you saying that God will punish him for the work he’s doing for the park and the CCC?”
Mr. Henry snorted in reply, as if the answer were obvious.
Kit turned toward Aunt Millie for support. “Charlie’s doing as he’s asked to do. He works hard. They plant trees and build trails. He makes a dollar a day and sends twenty-five dollars home every month to help our family. That can’t be wicked, can it?”
“Of course not,” Aunt Millie assured her. “But Mr. Henry was born and raised around here, and he has a right to his feelings.”
With a cough and a loud clearing of his throat, Mr. Henry drew a strip of white oak from the bucket beside him and began adding another round to his basket.
“What kind of basket are you making now?” Aunt Millie asked warmly, as if smoothing out a wrinkled dress with an iron.
“A rucksack,” Mr. Henry replied, “like this one here.” He motioned to the tall, tightly woven tote beside his rocker. The hinged lid was flipped open over wide leather straps. A small brass key dangled from an unfastened lock at the front.
“What will it be used for?” Kit asked, admiring it.
“Well, whatever its owner wishes. Works for carrying all manner of things. Kindling, tools, small game.”
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