'Unrequited love or requited love. Why else would you want to kill somebody? And, according to gossip and even a few parapsychology articles, Korban's spirit wanders the land, trying to find a way back into the manor in which he invested so much of his time, money, and energy.'
'You don't believe it?'
The horses heard a call from the barn and took off at a gallop. 'I wish I were that free,' she said. 'Maybe I'll get to be a horse in the next life.'
'The downside is, you'd have to die first. Like Ephram Korban.'
'Well, he has a grave site up over that ridge, but a grave's nothing but a hole in the ground. I haven't seen his ghost.'
'You really think ghosts are here?'
'I know they're here. When your life burns up, you leave a little smoke behind. And don't ask me to prove it, or you'll remind me of someone I've spent the past year forgetting.'
'I'll take your word for it. Maybe I'll ask Ransom to let me borrow one of his charm bags. Says they keep restless spirits away.'
'Can't hurt,' Anna said. 'I'm going down to the barn. Care to join me?'
'I'm heading there anyway. Miss Mamie has all but demanded that Ransom help me find a whopping big log to turn into a life-sized statue.'
'Ah, you poor suffering artists. Always having to please the critics.'
'You poor critics, always having to fake that world-class cynicism.'
By the time they reached the barn, Ransom had led the horses under an open shed built onto one wing of the barn. He hooked the cinch under the belly of the big roan, whose ears twitched as if this were a familiar game. Two lanterns blazed inside the barn, dangling from the dusty rafters. Leather straps and gleaming bits of metal hung along one wall, and four saddles were lined on a bench beneath the pieces of harness.
'Well, hello there, young 'uns,' Ransom called in greeting. He looked a bit longer at Anna and glanced at the sky with a frown.
'Need any help?' Anna asked.
'Don't need none, but I sure do like company. You know your way around a horse?'
'One end eats and the other doesn't,' Mason said.
'And one end might kick you in the crotch, if you send off vibes of stupidity.' Anna rubbed the nose of the chestnut, and in seconds it was nuzzling her neck, blowing softly through its nostrils. If only she were that good with men. Back when she cared about such things, anyway. Or ghosts. It would be a welcome change for them to rush out of the land of the dead with open arms and a smile.
She snapped the reins on the bridle and fed the leather through the steel rings. 'These guys are great,' she said to Ransom.
'They sure took a shine to you.'
'I was raised around horses once.'
'Once?' Mason asked.
'A long story, one of many,' she said.
'Watch out, Mason,' Ransom said. 'A woman with secrets is generally bad news. Will you folks give me a hand hauling out the wagon?'
They headed for the interior of the barn, Ransom pausing to push the sliding wooden doors farther apart. He was about to step inside when he looked above the barn door and grabbed the rag-ball charm from around his neck. He waved it and closed his eyes, whispering something rhythmical that Anna couldn't hear.
'Danged if they ain't changed it again,' Ransom said. He rolled a wooden barrel to the door, climbed on it with trembling legs, then stood and turned the horseshoe that was nailed above the door. He hung it so that the prongs pointed up, toward the sky.
'Does the luck not work the other way?' Anna asked.
'That charm is a heck of a lot older than what you might reckon. It's come to mean 'luck' to most people, but signs get watered down and weakened 'cause people forget the truth of them. Same as a four-leaf clover.'
'Sure, they're magically delicious, like the cereal.'
'Used to be, it gave the person carrying it the power to see ghosts and witches. Back when people believed.'
Anna caught Mason's look. 'So points-down on the horseshoe is bad, right?'
'It's practically throwing open the door to every kind of dead thing you care to imagine. I like for the dead to stay dead.' He again gave Anna that sad, distant look. 'Too bad not everybody around these parts feels the same way.'
Mason helped Ransom down from the barrel. Anna tethered the horses to a locust post and followed the men inside the bam. Horse-drawn vehicles were lined against a side wall. The hay wagon stood nearest the door. Beside it were two sleighs, a surrey with its top folded down, and a fancy carriage with a lantern at each corner. All of the vehicles were restored and maintained in the kind of condition that would send antique dealers scrambling for their checkbooks. The aroma of cottonseed oil and leather fought with the hay dust for dominance of the barn's air.
A large metal hay rake sat in the far corner, slightly red from rust. There was a single seat for the operator, and a coupling in the front to yoke the draft animals. The large steel tines of the rake curled in the air like a claw.
'That's a wicked-looking machine,' Mason said.
'Yep,' Ransom said, unblocking the wheels of the wagon. 'That's the windrower, that sharp part that looks like an overgrown pitchfork. And you can see the hay-cutter arm. Works by the turn of the wheels. We still do hay the hard way around here.'
'I'll bet the horses love it,' Anna said.
'Yeah, and they's smart enough to know they get to eat the hay, come winter.'
'You going to cut any while we're here?' she asked, thinking how much fun it would be to help. Hard physical labor did wonders for the depressed and self-pitying mind. 'Some of those meadows around here are getting pretty high.'
'We had to hold off for a while because the signs were in the heart.'
'The heart?'
'Ain't a good time for cutting oats or wheat or any reaping crop. It's a time fit only for the harvest of dead things.'
Mason cleared his throat and spat loudly. 'Ugh. Hay dust choking me.' He looked at Anna and said, 'Sorry for being crude. That's the way we do it in Sawyer Creek.'
'In case you ain't noticed, this ain't Sawyer Creek,' Ransom said. He motioned them to go to the rear of the wagon and he picked up the tongue. 'Throw your shoulders in, now.'
They maneuvered the wagon out the door and under the shed. As Anna and Ransom hitched the team, Mason explored the barn. A few minutes later, he poked his head outside. 'Hey, what's under the trapdoor?'
Ransom stroked the mane on the chestnut mare. 'Taters, sweet taters, cabbage, apples, turnips. Root cellar for stuff that don't need to be kept so cold.'
'Can I look?'
Ransom went to the bench and tugged on a pair of rough leather gloves. 'Help yourself.'
Anna followed Mason to the corner of the barn, where the trapdoor was set in the floor between two stacks of hay bales.
'Got doors on the bottom floor, where the barn's set against the hillside,' Ransom said. 'We can haul from the orchards and gardens straight up to here, save a lot of handling. Then there's a tunnel goes back to the Big House. Ephram Korban had it dug in case a blizzard struck or something. He was always going on about 'tunnels of the soul,' for some reason. I expect he was about half crazy, if some of them legends are true.'
'Or maybe all the legends are true and he was all the way crazy,' Anna said.
Mason knelt and lifted the heavy wooden door. The cellar smelled of sweet must and earth, with a faint scent of rotted fruit. The darkness beneath had a weight, like black oil. A makeshift ladder led down into the seemingly bottomless depths.
'Ain't much of interest down there,' Ransom said. 'Unless you like to sit and talk to the rats.'
'Rats?' Mason let the door fall with a slam, knocking dust loose from the rafters. Anna fought a sneeze.
