It was two days after the new moon, and a crescent hung in the air. A slight wind from the north brought a welcome current of cooler, drier air, which is very welcome in the foothills of Appalachia in July.
Ashera smiled, wishing she could claim credit for it, "but," she thought with a wry smile, "it was always hard to tell." She was indulging in a rare and dangerous luxury, a private outdoor ritual. The Old Law said that New Moon rituals were supposed to take place on moon dark, but Ashera was never one to follow the rules. She loved the crescent, and always waited until the moon had begun showing its face again.
One of the goats in the small field next to her snuffled in the darkness and one of the horses in the barn whinnied. Ashera surveyed the darkness carefully, hoping that there were no teenagers bent on vandalism or nosey neighbors walking their fence lines lurking in the darkness. She had come here with a few close friends to retire, but since they were all able to find jobs in the area they had started the farm over 15 years earlier than they had anticipated. The four of them were delighted to find this run down old farm at a wonderful price. Unfortunately, the real estate agent forgot to tell them that some of the most conservative churches in the state are located in the county. They had all dashed back into the broom closet as soon as possible.
The others were all away, visiting family and friends. Ashera, considerably the youngest of the four of them and the furthest from retirement, had stayed behind because of work and to feed the horses and goats and to look after the vegetable and herb gardens. She wished the three of them were home with her. Ashera was sure that between the four of them they could settle the uneasiness she was feeling.
There had been a series of strange deaths that left her uncomfortable. She would have liked to know more about the circumstances of these deaths, but since she was a newcomer to these parts getting information out of the good ole boy network was nearly impossible.
Ashera did the only thing she could do. She called on her Goddesses and Gods to help. Now all she could do was remain quiet and keep her eyes and ears open. Sometimes the Gods answered requests in the strangest and least expected of ways. She would have to be watchful to see how this help might.
Dean and Sam were at loose ends outside Chattanooga, Tennessee. They were still recovering in a cheap motel after tangling with an Uktena spirit in an area ranging from a park on the Tennessee River to a local college campus in downtown Chattanooga.
"Fucking idiots," Dean grumbled with irritation.
"Oh, come on, not everyone sees a bunch of people die from heart attacks and thinks, 'ok, there's an ancient Native American monster frightening people to death,'" Sam snarled back. Even though he had willingly joined his brother in hunting again after his girlfriend's death, he resented Dean's assumptions that average people believed the creatures they hunted exist. Normal people did not know about half the things they hunted. Sam wished he was one of those people.
"Sam, they should have known, especially the anthropology and history departments at that school. One of those old buzzards specialized in local history and another actually dug up those bones. Then they built the school band's marching field right over some kind of concentration camp where they rounded up Indians to get them together for the Trail of Tears! Even your 'normal' people should have known there would be some kind of problem!"
"By the way, the term is 'Native American', not Indian, and someone at the college did help us destroy the Uktena." Sam gritted his teeth and tried to sound reasonable. He was beginning to hate looking at shabby curtains while sitting in dark rooms. At least the air conditioning was working, even though the place stank of stale cigarette smoke.
Dean rolled his eyes. "Ok, mister touchy-feely-politically-correct-college-guy, 'Native American'. This wasn't a happy ending. That Jay kid was expelled and sent back to West Bum Fuck, and those idiots don't realize how many people he saved. Why don't you go back and try to explain this to your 'normal' people and see what they say." Dean's voice was rising.
Sam mentally winced. It sounded as if he was winding up for a good fight. Dean was no longer slumped on the bed but trying to sit up and face him. Sam knew he would have a hard time trying to hit him; cracked ribs would do that to a guy.
Sam sighed. "Christ! His name is Jay, not Jason. You are so concerned about him and you can't remember his name? He didn't go in blind and he knew what could happen if he got caught stealing those bones and carved shells for us. Besides, he is appealing his expulsion. That Light Feather guy we gave the stuff to for a proper reburial is helping out with that," Sam shuddered a bit at the memory. "I'm glad he is helping Jay, but damn, that man gave me the creeps."
"What's the matter little bro, spidey senses tingling?" Dean was a little jealous of Sam's unexpected psychic ability. He shouldn't tease him about it. As usual, Sam wasn't grateful for what he had, and with this he was trying to deny his ability rather than use it. They said that psychic ability ran in families. He wondered if he got it from Mom, because Dad sure as hell didn't have it. He guessed Sam could be jealous of him because he actually had memories of Mom. If that were the case, he guessed they were even. Maybe when he wasn't so sensitive about it he'd let Sam know he thought he had a little something extra of Mom. He hoped that would get him over this denial shit and get him to actually try to use it.
Trying not to wince in pain, Dean lay back. "Hey, just find a phone book and order us some pizza. I'm hungry."
Something in Sam snapped. "I'm fucking tired of eating pizza and crappy fast food! It's disgusting and I feel like I'm turning into a giant grease slick."
Dean's half-closed eyes snapped open to stare at his brother.
"I'm taking the car, going to a damned Wal-mart and buying a cooler. Then I'm getting some decent food to put in it!" he yelled.
Dean stared at him for a moment. "Here," he growled, throwing the car keys at Sam's head. "Just don't expect me to eat any God-damned rabbit food, Mr. College Guy. Remember the room key, 'cause if you forget I'm not letting you back in," he snarled. "While you're at it, get a fucking tent and some sleeping bags so we can play boy scouts."
Sam unexpectedly smiled, "Good idea."
Nora Bonesteel sat in her rocker on her front porch. She was nigh on ninety these days, and it was getting hard for her to do her knitting by the electric lamp at night. It was not a problem in the bright July sunlight. She had made a pitcher of lavender lemonade. Nora was expecting a visitor, someone she had not seen in a while.
Sure enough, about a half hour later a rough figure walked quietly out of the woods; not up the one road up to Ashe Mountain.
"Good afternoon, Rattler. Care for a glass of lemonade?"
Rattler smiled, "That sound good, Nora." Her hospitality was always good. Maybe she would offer him some supper as well.
Nora rose with a grace and strength that belied her years. Her hair was gilded with silver in a few places, but she looked nowhere near her eighty plus years.
"Come and sit a spell," Nora offered as Rattler drew closer. "You wouldn't have come all the way up here unless you wanted to talk."
Rattler only nodded and took a seat on the porch as Nora entered her home, carefully stepping over a line of salt spilled out in front of her door. Rattler frowned. She had been a feelin' it too.
A few moments later, they were sitting together on the porch, sipping their drinks. After about five minutes, Rattler asked, "Had any visitors?"
Nora rocked for a few moments, not taking her eyes off her knitting. "Jane Arrowood came by to ask me to donate something for the church sale next week." She raised her knitting to show a delicate shawl.
Rattler nodded after appearing to admire the shawl for a moment.
"Nothing or nobody else?" Rattler's tanned and wrinkled face and deep brown eyes had an unusual look of stress in them.
"No," Nora said. "That is a puzzle to me."
"A puzzle to me, too, Nora. I don't hold with talkin' to dead folks, but you speak with 'em sometimes. Seems mighty strange nobody has been up here a'talkin' to you."
Nora nodded.
"You feelin' something?" Rattler asked.
"Yes, some of the others with even a touch of the Sight are as well." Nora paused for a few moments. "You had any visitors?"
Rattler blew out air. "Ravenmocker."
Nora stopped knitting for a moment, a frown on her face. "You don't hold with talking to dead people, but you'll talk to Ravenmocker." She shook her head and continued her knitting.
"Nora, Ravenmocker a' come to the house. You know that kind never do. He said that some of those crazy New Age folks conjured up something by mistake."
"The deaths?" Nora asked.
Rattler nodded. "Jane Arrowood talk to you about it? Her son being sheriff and all."
"No," Nora said. "Jane is mighty worried. Spencer seems shook up and wouldn't tell her anything and he's been sheriff of Wake County for nigh on 15 years now. He's been thinking about calling in the Tennessee Bureau of Investigations. LeDonne thought that some of those young folks had something to do with it, but I set Jane right on that. They are different, but not bad. One of those girls' family is from up this way, afore all they moved to Knoxville. Spencer tries to pretend the Sight doesn't exist, but if Jane has been up here and she tells him something, he listens. He trusts LeDonne, but Spencer thinks I'm right about this."
Rattler nodded in agreement. "I hope he comes to see me soon. He listened to me when he was a child."
"We can just wait and pray for the Lord's help," the calmness in her voice did not soothe Rattler one bit. "Want a bite of supper before you leave?"
"Gatlinburg! Sam, this place is a tourist trap, not a nature retreat," Dean was exasperated. "We're in a traffic jam in the middle of Hillbillyville!"
"Well, the map says that this is close to a national park. How could I have known that Dolly Parton turned it into Disneyland?"
"That laptop you carry around?"
Sam gritted his teeth again. Dean was even more irritable than usual. He wished he would take some of the damned painkillers the emergency room doctor prescribed for his broken ribs. Still, after the Wendigo, it proved that they needed camping gear for some of their jobs. It was not as if the tent and sleeping bags would go to waste.
Out of exasperation at the bumper to bumper traffic and exhaust fumes, he pulled off into a water park parking lot and found a Tennessee state map in the glove box. "Look," he said after a few seconds. "There's a campground up in Wake County. It's just off the Appalachian Trail and it is close to a town called Hamelin. Sounds good. Peace and quiet, a bed for you and electricity for the phones and laptop. A town for shopping and restaurants and a place for you to heal up."
"Whatever," Dean replied, his head back and his eyes closed. "You're driving."
Sam did not mention how his eyes automatically snapped to that tiny mountain town. He would not admit, even to himself, that he felt a kind of nudge in that direction.