Seven Sisters’ first few years together were a time of slaphappy simplicity. Within Horseshoe’s protective womb, there were birthday celebrations, tea parties, and endless games. As individual parts of a whole, we took equal portions of everything life offered—handmade toys, books, even chicken pox.

Shielded by ghostly shadows, childhood confidences were entrusted that are still guarded today. Orally shared stories, both real and imagined, cemented our commonality. Egypt was fond of small trickster fables, especially those involving a larger person or animal being outwitted. The Uncle Remus Tales ranked among her favorites.

Fawn often spoke of Cherokee nature spirits; when called upon, she assured, they could bestow the believer with uncommon strength. At those times, it was possible to outrun deer, win a barehanded fight with a wildcat, or survive falls from great heights.

As for the rest of us, our own Bibles described the defeat of giants, and even the vanquishing of the devil by God’s faithful. If you had “right” on your side, all things were possible. The unique blend of stories filled our youthful hearts with the self-righteous conceit of ingenuous dunderheads. The thought- provoking yarns combined with our innate, fiery personalities to create an unstable mixture, a catalyst for activism. This set the stage for my later deed, the one that ultimately led to the death of an enemy.

The first time I took the law into my own hands, however, I’d barely turned thirteen. Seven Sisters formed a self-styled vigilante group after Fanny heard a rumor that the Connolly family had a blind son with mental problems. “They say he’s called Moody,” Fanny somberly explained as we sat around our fire one memorable, frigid evening. “His folks have locked the poor thing in a room under their house. They keep him down there like a dog.”

Following Fanny’s cue, I said, “He’s probably never known what warm sunlight feels like. I say we rescue him!”

So, one moonless November night, Seven Sisters dressed in dark colors, and smudged our faces with black flag bark. Like outlaws on a mission to pull a jailbreak, we set out to free Moody. We weren’t certain he really existed, but we saw ourselves as heroines for justice, his liberators from inhumane treatment. At the same time, the freakish idea of Moody scared us, heightening the adventure.

We arrived at the Connolly place in the dead of night. Right away, we found a boarded up space that might’ve served as a window in warmer months. Employing the wide-tip screwdriver that Fanny was clever enough to bring, we tore away the thick plywood. A small opening was revealed, about the size of a washboard. I lit a tiny candle and held it aloft in an attempt to peer inside, but the meager light did little to illuminate the darkened recesses of the makeshift chamber. “Is anybody down there?” My voice was hushed but friendly. “We’re here to save you,” I continued, feeling brave and important. “Answer me, if you’re there. Before somebody hears us!”

A screech, rivaling that of a banshee, loudly erupted. We’d managed to terrify the poor soul locked inside the basement prison. I snuffed the candle as all seven of us ran to the shelter of nearby shrubs. Staying out of sight, we watched as Tom Connolly stepped onto his porch, intently looking and listening for signs of mischief. He walked to the side window, carefully examining the torn plywood and one lone screwdriver. Tom called out, his voice more sad than angry, “Whoever did this, come forward. Let me see your face.”

The others stayed behind while Fanny and I held hands, and walked toward our accuser. Tom Connolly was about forty years of age, though he looked much older as he stood before us in his long johns. He sighed deeply, then wearily said, “Come on inside. I’ll show you what you came to see. You should’ve just knocked on the front door. Would’ve saved a lot of upset.” Fanny and I obediently followed Mr. Connolly into his house; neither of us remembered meeting Tom before, but he knew our names.

The Connolly home was small, plainly decorated with homemade furniture. A hole had been knocked in the back wall; a short stairway led under the house. The door to the makeshift, underground niche was open, and a dim light shone from below. Fanny and I were still holding hands as we made our way down the stairs behind Tom.

The glow from a single oil lamp illuminated the pitiful scene. A grown man, dressed in faded dungarees, whimpered like a baby as he buried his head in his mother’s lap. “I heard the thunder, Mama. Can you smell the smoke?” Moody’s repeated words were occasionally punctuated with a bloodcurdling shriek. Jan Connolly reassured her son with soft, motherly caresses.

In unison, Fanny and I blurted out, “We’re sorry.”

“We didn’t mean to scare him,” I added, embarrassed.

Then came Fanny’s blunt question, “Why do y’all have him caged up, anyway? What’s he done to deserve it?”

A pain-filled glance passed between Tom and his wife. “Moody gets real mad sometimes. Unlike most folks, he doesn’t need a reason.” Tom’s voice was low and resigned. “When our son goes out of control, he breaks things, includin’ my nose. Jan’s nursed so many black eyes, we’ve lost count.” Tom sunk down, onto the stairs, and put his head in his hands. “One Easter, a few years back, Moody lost his temper like never before. He killed his little sister, Janie, with a blow to her windpipe. We couldn’t stop him; he’s too fast and strong when he’s like that.” It was a shock to see a grown man sob.

After a long silence, Mrs. Connolly said, “Most of the time, he’s like you see him now. A frightened child that needs his mama. We can keep Moody here, or send him to a crazy hospital, where nobody would love him the way we do. Since Janie died, Moody doesn’t want to come up from the basement. This is his world now. He’s happy here. Except, when it’s stormin’. He gets real upset, then. We don’t know why. When you tore away the wood, and he heard your strange voices, he thought it was thunder. Moody can’t help the way he is.”

I didn’t know what to say in response to their misery. Lacking words, I reached into my pocket and pulled out a handful of candy. “Please give this to Moody when he calms down,” I said. “Tell him it came from the thunder.”

Eight months after our encounter with the Connollys, there came a rumbling, late summer storm. Moody’s house was struck by lightning, then burned to the ground. The troubled family moved to Texas, forced by fate to live with relatives. Seven Sisters avoided the Connolly place after that. The entire incident became another secret we kept to ourselves.

* * *

One damp and chilly night when I was fourteen, I lay in bed, rankled by the sound coming from the next room. It was Azberry, humming in his sleep. Every time he got his breath, he’d make a little droning noise. I listened to that purring, human motor every night, hoping he would grow out of such an annoying habit. With such a racket distracting me, I wondered if I’d ever get to sleep. Soon, there came a sound I didn’t recognize. I felt a sinking feeling when I realized the scratching noise was coming from my window.

It was overcast and pitch-black outside. I peeked around my canopy, but couldn’t see what sort of night crawler had come calling. I lit the candle on my nightstand, and cautiously crossed the room. At the window, the flame illuminated the elfish face of my friend Newt. She motioned for me to come outside.

I pulled a sweater over my nightgown, and put some boots on. Once on the damp ground, I measured my way by the light of Newt’s small carbide lamp. We walked away from the house, far enough that our voices couldn’t be heard.

Newt plopped on a log, and I sat beside her. She was near the same age as me, but much smaller in size. In the murky darkness, she looked like a pixie, one of Azberry’s flower fairies on a midnight frolic, itching to tell me her news. “I done it!” Newt was breathless with excitement.

“Done what?”

“You know, you’ve got to guess!”

“Dogged if I do!” Sometimes Newt could be aggravating. It was the dead of night. I was tired. I was cold.

“Emmer Faulk and me, we run off and got hitched today!” The words blurted from her mouth.

Now, I was also speechless.

Newt was a “briar patch” child, born out of wedlock. Her mother had deserted her when she was three; her father was the local miller. From the time I could walk, I accompanied my family whenever they made their regular visits to Clifford Yetter’s Millworks. As the grinding, rotating millstones pulverized our grain, Newt and I would happily chase each other around the nearby pond; it was a high-energy exuberance that left us both used up, ready for naps.

Early on, Newt best expressed herself by staying in motion; she was slow-witted and hard-headed, a challenge to raise. To his credit, Clifford Yetter had taken in his abandoned child. But, even though he provided adequate food, shelter, and clothing, he remained emotionally detached from his offspring.

I knew about Newt’s infatuation with Emmer Faulk. I didn’t think it unusual, considering her melodramatic nature. She had known multiple crushes through the years, was forever madly in love with somebody. Most of us ignored her crazy talk, accepting it as part of her humor. Now, at thirteen, Newt had gone and married the dirt-poor, thirty-one-year-old widower and father of five.

“Daddy will want to kill Emmer when he finds out. You’ve got to help us, Pug!”

“Me? What can I do?” My words sounded numb. Subsequent thoughts ran along a very different line. You empty-headed fool! You’re ruining your life, shackled and chained. I should drag your silly self into the house, and let T.H. take you home, while there’s still hope of an annulment. What can a man possibly give you, under the covers or otherwise, that makes you act like such a moron? My internal rampage was interrupted by the memory of a promise, the Seven Sisters’ oath.

“We’re hidin’ out on Nine Mile Creek behind Crooked Shoals, Grandpa’s old place. Emmer’s there now. Bring us some food tomorrow, if you can get it without nobody noticin’. We need somebody to check on Emmer’s youngun’s, too. Things should quiet down in a couple of days, then he can take me home. He’s gonna lift me over the threshold, like a grown-up bride!” Newt didn’t seem to notice the cold. After I climbed back into my room, I shivered enough for both of us.

* * *

The next morning, I woke up late, an unusual occurrence. The blood on my sheets made it official; I’d entered womanhood, or it had entered me, I’m not sure which. Mama helped me with my personal hygiene, and tidied the bed. To settle my aching belly, Mamau Maude brought me some tea made from mountain mint plant. A soft wind kissed my face as I sat on our porch, sipping the warm liquid.

The breeze was suddenly cut short. I looked up to see Newt’s daddy, approaching our house on foot. His burly frame came storming through our yard. I knew, as sure as a dog will bark at the moon, the man had murder in his heart. “Did you know that girl of mine has gone and jumped the broom with clabber-toothed Emmer Faulk?” Clifford growled at me.

I stared down into my mug; it seemed like a mighty good time to learn to read tea leaves.

“Is she here?” he thundered.

I shook my head, no, which was the truth. Thankfully, Clifford didn’t ask me if I knew where Newt was. I was feeling green around the gills, unsure about how well I’d carry off a lie.

Dumbstruck, I watched while Newt’s daddy ranted like a rabid mule; I remained mesmerized by the slobber that trickled down his chin as he yowled. “Emmer Faulk is a no good, low life, son of a bitch! He’ll always be suckin’ a hind teat. In fact, he’s as useless as teats on a bull! In two shakes of a sheep’s tail, I’ll heist his carcass up so high, he’ll catch a glimpse of Heaven before he falls back to the depths of Hell!”

I wasn’t sure how long T.H. had been standing behind me, but was grateful to hear his voice. “Now Clifford, there’s no need to go off half-cocked. Come on in. We’ll throw back some bellywash, and think this thing through.” Daddy’s tone was soft and soothing, like he was talking to an agitated animal on the verge of attack. Clifford followed him into the house; his respect for my daddy had a calming effect. They sat in our living room, talking while T.H. poured Jim Beam bourbon into crystal glasses. Those two were “saucered and blowed” by the time I gathered my burlap sack filled with contraband, climbed on Blue’s back, and headed for Nine Mile Creek.

As I rode, I peeled the stem off some sugarcane and made myself a homemade sucker, enjoying the earthy sweetness while considering the two suckers awaiting my arrival. I was seriously depressed. And angry. Furious with Newt for becoming a self-made slave, mad at Emmer Faulk for needing one.

Some things can’t be fixed. For the first time I understood the saying, “Live and learn, or die and forget it all.”

A beautiful waterfall graced my destination, spilling over wide, sandstone ledges. The water fell into a circular pool, with a tall bank to the west that was a profusion of pale pink mountain laurel. It was here I found the honeymooners. I delivered the nuptial supplies without saying much. They weren’t interested in having company, and I wasn’t interested in being any.

My next stop was Emmer’s cabin, about two miles away. It was an untidy, four-room house, with trash scattered about the yard. The steps leading up to the porch were broken. The walls were made of unsealed planks; there were also cracks in the floor. I could see chickens walking under the house, along with some pigs and an old hound dog. I saw no window panes, just shutters. There were flies everywhere.

Inside, Emmer’s five kids were huddled around the fireplace. The oldest child, an eight-year-old girl, was stirring something in the wrought iron Dutch oven that hung over the tiny flame. The younger ones were eating out of a bucket lid, slurping mush that resembled the sludge Uncle Finas had used to slop the hogs that morning.

The two-year-old tottled over to a corner, and sat down to suck on the dry leg bone of a chicken. The little tike had the squirts, and as she walked, soft globs of excrement plopped onto the floor.

The two youngest children were naked as jaybirds, the others wore rags. Each pair of britches was ripped; every foot was bare. Ulcerated sores infected various parts of reed-thin arms and legs.

An uneasy feeling burrowed down and settled in the pit of my stomach. My entire body was a bundle of nerves, drawn up tight. A biting, autumn wind passed through the patchwork mess of a cabin, creating a bone chilling draft. I quickly realized that I was looking at a family dying on the vine—Newt’s family.

Five pairs of wide eyes ogled me as I talked up a blue streak, thinking aloud. “Emmer Faulk, the next time I see your worthless self, I’m gonna clean your plow! You’re a sorry, good for nothin’, top water minnow! You were born tired and raised lazy! You don’t deserve to have our little Newt. You don’t deserve anything!” Screeching like a bobcat, I’d flown completely off the handle.

The pitiful wailing of young voices, responding to my outburst, brought me to my senses. It hadn’t been the best way to introduce myself to that pathetic group of suffering waifs. I soothed their crying as best I could, but all five remained skittish and easily frightened.

“What’s your name?” I asked the eldest.

“Darlene,” she coughed.

I touched Darlene’s forehead; her skin felt like a hot poker. I examined the other children, and discovered they also had high fevers. While leaning over to smell the gruel bubbling in the pot, I grimaced, then groaned with disgust. It was rancid.

“Darlene?” The sour taste of bile rested on my tongue.

“Yes,” came the soft reply.

“Don’t eat any more of this. It’s gone blinky.”

“Yes, Ma’am, Miss Sheridan.” Darlene made a determined effort to smile. It broke my heart.

Those children were really sick. I had to do something. Fast. I ran outside and jumped on Blue.

“Please don’t go!” Darlene called from the porch.

“Don’t leave us, Miss Pug!” All of the tiny curtain climbers were begging me to stay.

“I’m runnin’ for help. Then I’ll ride right back.”

“You promise? Cross your heart?”

“Yep. I’ll be here before you can say, abracadabra!” I assured while patting the tops of moppet heads, gathered all around the pony. Finally, I signaled for Blue to move on, letting him know we needed to hightail it. “Ride like the wind, Ole Blue,” I cried. “We’ve got a bona fide crisis on our hands!” My little horse galloped as fast as he could to Fawn’s place, two miles due north.

Nobody seemed to be home when we arrived in Spunky Hollow. I cupped my hands together and “blew a fist,” the Seven Sisters’ emergency signal. A minute passed, then Fawn was there; Badgerwoman appeared a few moments later.

“We were in the garden. What’s the matter? You look upset!” Fawn was out of breath. She’d raced from the other side of the vegetable patch in a full-out run.

I described where I’d been, and what I’d just seen. Then, I began to cry, another rare occurrence for me, but I’d felt out of sorts all day.

Badgerwoman began giving orders like a Confederate general. “I go back with Pug. Fawn, ride to Maude. Tell her about sick babies. Bring soap, food, blankets.”

Fawn left, and Badgerwoman hurriedly threw needed items into a flour sack. She moved with lightning speed, an amazing sight to one that considered her the resident aging sage. She grabbed her mysterious medicine bundle, then signaled that she was ready.

Fawn had taken their only horse, a Tennessee Walker. (The mare was a gift from T.H., his thank-you gesture for saving my life.) I helped Badgerwoman onto Blue, then led the way to the Faulk place. When we arrived, Badgerwoman wasted no time; I watched her bowed-back form carefully inspect one child, and the next, down the line. “These children starve, much work to do here. Pug, draw a bucket of water.”

With her first command issued, Badgerwoman nonchalantly walked to one of the chickens pecking in the yard. She held its neck in her hand, then swung the bird’s body around in a cranking motion, until the head separated from the rest of it. Wrung its neck faster than I could blink.

Sometime later, Mama and Mamau Maude arrived. Their first reaction to the disaster known as the Faulk place came as a joint exclamation. “Lord have mercy on our souls!” Then, there were three determined women giving orders, quicker than Fawn and I could fetch and tote.

Badgerwoman and Mamau Maude soaked and scrubbed the puny children. “Why, you’re just knee-high to a duck,” my grandmother would say as she lifted each filthy cherub into the washtub filled with warm water.

There were lice in the young ones’ hair, so Badgerwoman made a potion from a plant called Devil’s Shoestring. The noxious mixture killed those crabby creepers deader than a doornail.

Mama, Fawn, and I boiled clothes and linens in a large cast iron kettle, outside, over an open fire. I could hear soft curses, spoken under Mama’s breath, as she added lye to the steaming cauldron. “You’re the one I’d like to boil, Emmer Faulk—alive and screamin’—you horse’s behind.” The continuous wave of murmurs coming from my mother was accentuated with thick, throaty noises. Her anger was downright frightening; Fawn and I were determined not to cross her.

With each batch of laundry, my mother made certain that the bug-killing lye was strong enough; she had her own, unique method for measuring the potency. After dipping the headless chicken’s wing feathers into the acrid liquid, she checked to see if the feathers parted from the stem; if they did, it was ready. We scrubbed the clothes on a corrugated washboard, wrung everything by hand, then hung them on a clothes line until they were dry, stiff enough to stand by themselves.

After chicken soup was spoon-fed into every young, eager mouth, Badgerwoman made blackberry tea to treat the diarrhea. She gave each child one tablespoon of the cooled liquid with each attack. The old Indian also burned dried, white sage inside their rooms. “Sacred leaves burn away foul smellin’ evil spirits,” she insisted.

At the same time, Mamau Maude bound sliced onions to the bottoms of tiny feet. The layered, pungent pulp absorbed the heat as she lovingly sponged the children’s fevered bodies, letting the soothing water cascade down their backs.

Later, while I nursed the blisters that’d erupted on my hands, I noticed my grandmother and her Cherokee friend huddled together, conspiring in a nearby corner. Badgerwoman whispered something funny, and Mamau Maude giggled. “That’ll set him straight,” I heard my grandmother say.

What are they up to? I wondered.

After breakfast the next day, Daddy came with supplies, and some of The Hill’s hired hands, to repair cracks in the walls and floors; this helped the heat from the fireplace warm the air and kill the dampness.

Clifford Yetter also came ’round, looking for his daughter. He was no different than anybody else; the sight of the ailing children tugged at his heartstrings. He worked as hard as the next person to set things right.

At dusk, Emmer and Newt Faulk came riding into the yard, doubled-up and barebacked on his dilapidated, chestnut-colored horse. Fawn leaned my way and whispered, “Chickens always come home to roost.”

Emmer remained atop his horse as he stared at the small army of people standing on his porch, and in his newly cleaned yard. I watched Newt’s father repeatedly clench his fist, his face beet-red. Unruffled, T.H. walked over and stood next to his angry friend, ready for action.

What happened next became a permanent part of local history . . . Mamau Maude cleared her throat, a subtle call for silence. My grandmother issued her declaration with an expression of disgust: “Emmer Faulk, hear me and hear me well! If I ever find your home, or your children, in such disgrace again, I will personally hold your scrawny little neck, so that my friend can slice off a good-sized chunk of your flea-bitten scalp.”

With a twinkle in her eyes, Badgerwoman lifted a grubbing knife from the holder that hung on her waist sash. The same kind woodworkers use, the draw knife had two handles, one at each end, set perpendicular to a sharp blade. She tautly pulled the rawhide strap that hung on the porch rail, and began to sharpen the malevolently gleaming scalpel. “Cream always rises to the top,” Badgerwoman hissed between clenched teeth.

Newt sat wide-eyed and mute while Emmer Faulk blanched the color of death. He groaned—curious, non-human sounds—as he fainted and slid off his horse.