Miracle from the Mountain

By Mary Katherine Arensberg

As legends go, it was one of the best, a Pawqua medicine woman, a sacred black panther and an orphaned girl all meet one fatefull night deep in the hollows of the Ozark Mountains. Myths, magic, life, death, love and loss intertwine. Was Hazel a witch or a miracle worker?

Miracle from the Mountain is a love stroy of a different kind. Hazel is a kind, loving character, but with a strong mind and body. The author has a talent for characterization. Even the secondary characters are well developed. The plot is facsinating. It captured my attention from the first page and held it to the last. 4 out of 5 star rating
Readers Favorite Review 05/09/2010

I just loved this book! I have the other three books she wrote and I couldnt put this one down either! Juanita, Columbus, Ohio

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 4, 2008
• ISBN: 9781462826360

Mary Katherine Arensberg

Mary Katherine Arensberg is a multiple award winning author of Historical Fiction, also earning Five Star reviews. Her love of American History and the women who shaped our country sparked her ten book Women of Character Series. She has always been an observer of life.

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Copyright © 2008 by Mary Katherine Arensberg.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Last

To my big sister, Sharon Hrabe, who at sixteen was the owner of the Freedom Machine; a 1954 Chevy Custom painted Woodland Green and our means to explore the country roads around our home.

To Hazel Rice, my sister-in-law who used to tell ghost stories when we were kids that would scare the pants off of us. Lastly,

to my husband, George Arensberg who provided the

art work for the cover of this book; from his original painting

The Bright Path.

Prologue

Bad luck, death bells, witches and ghosts aligned in a symphony of discord that night. Some say stars tumbled from the heavens and storm clouds blacked out the moon; an omen of the evil to come for surely the specter of Death roamed the valley. As legends go, or at least the way the old timers tell it, the story of the black panther, Heighla, the old Pawqua woman, Bella and the birth of the girl child who came to be called Hazel is one of the best.

By all accounts and recollections it happened in the year of 1904, in late autumn when the withered brown leaves clung to stark brittle branches, desperate to withstand the howling wind and battering rain. The story, as it was told, took place in an arcane and gloomy hollow hung heavy with silvery mists and the hoary secrets of the first people; the Osage; buried by time in the bowels of the Ozark Mountains.

Calico Rock, the nearest settlement, was platted dead center in Northern Arkansas, thirty miles south of the Missouri border. The plain hill folks who dwelled in the crossroads hamlet were, like the legend, hardy and had weathered the years with little alteration. Generation after generation had orally passed on the local history, telling and retelling the events of that ill-fated night, but none could bring it to life as convincingly as Hassel Greb.

Hassel, now in his seventy-eighth year, had been born and reared in the modest village and knew that legend like the back of his arthritic and age spotted hand. He was the youngest son of the storekeeper, Harlan Greb and he had not only heard the story, he had been befriended by Hazel. And late each fall, when the winds moaned and the chimney smoke stuck fast to the stones, the town folk, young and old alike, sought him out. They waited in prickly silence as the pallid yarn spinner settled into his bent willow rocking chair, closed his eyes and trance-like began the tale. Eloquent and masterful and with great authority he revealed with chilling clarity and weighted detail the incredulous events of that long ago night. He would point towards the hillside east of town, to the tiny cemetery dotted with gravestones, and they shuddered before his words began and then he drew in his breath and commenced the telling of those hapless hours of darkness when Hazel was born. His voice crackled like dried leaves underfoot. They waited.

"The moonlight filtered through a veil of mist and fog that hung heavy and wet upon the hollow. Twisted shadows and rustling winds followed the Quapaw woman, Bella as she made her way through the high hill country of the Mountains. She was the last of her people; they, who had inhabited this region for centuries before the Spaniards or smelly, hairy Frenchmen had come to explore, and centuries before the English settlers came to set their mark of destruction on the landscape. They, who were pushed from their lands as the settlers poured in, the government stole their minerals and forests and by the 1840’s they had sold out and moved to Oklahoma, all but Bella. She had married a white man from Kentucky when she was barely twelve and remained behind. Time passed and the coming and going of nearly sixty seasons rested heavy on her heart as the year of 1904 waned into winter. Ancient and separate she often questioned her persistence with life. Her family had joined with the Great Spirit years before and her husband had been dead for over thirty years. She alone lingered; a dinosaur out of time, a relic that had lost its worth. One evening as she journeyed home from the secret glen where she gathered her healing plants, the crooked road seemed longer and the ugly tree roots reached up to snag her weary feet. She stumbled, catching herself against a scrawny pine that buckled under her weight and she tarried a moment to catch her breath. The shrouded hollow, her many years and weariness played tricks on her. Where am I? She whispered to the concealed night sky. All was silent and still and black as the grave.

Howl-ooow! What was it? She fixed keen ears towards the trees; probably an owl shrieking down on its prey. All was quiet again and she cautiously continued on. Again the scream, for she was certain it was a scream, pierced through the mists and darkness as a knife passes through a ripe pear. Her breath came fast and she clutched her chest in fear and then heaved her bulky body into a run; only to stop abruptly and edge close to the trunk of a hickory tree in fear. Suppose it was the old panther, Heighla? The black monster still hunted the hollows. Bella grew up hearing tales of the horribly mutilated carcasses her people had found tucked into the center of dead trees or hidden under the banks of the river. The whites called the animal Devil made flesh, come to prowl the hills in search of a soul to take back to perdition. No, she must not run for it would surely give the old huntress the sounds she needed to find her. She plastered back against the tree and sat as still as the grass that grew beneath it. The scream again! Never in all her years, had she heard such a sound. Was it the wail of a woman being torn apart; her very life fleeing her mortal body to vanish with her last breath into the starless night? Cold sweat ran down Bella’s back, the hairs stood up on her neck; Death had surely visited the hollow.

Bella sat motionless, rooted by fear until she heard the trembling cry of a human child! Heaving her unyielding body up, she hobbled towards it, lumbering over the loose rocks and exposed roots, her moccasined feet falling heavily on the dusty path. A clearing appeared before her and the light of the moon cut through the haze just enough to reveal a woman, lifeless and still like a paper cutout, flat against the earth. The baby, bloody and still attached by the umbilical cord to the mother grew weaker in the chill night air. She charged into the clearing, the danger of Heighla forgotten, squatted down and scooped the baby into her arms, snuggling it close against her bosom for warmth. She yanked out a strand of her long gray hair to tie off the birth cord and then from her pocket pulled the root-digging knife she used when cutting sassafras or ginseng, wiped it on her skirt and cut it. She stared at the tiny face fixed so intently on her own and a thrill shot through her, once separated from the mother’s body, the baby had miraculously become her own child. Bella smiled at the infant, so sweet, so perfect; surely she must be one of the white man’s Children of Heaven that her husband had spoken of. Cherubs he had called them and she shook her head, the whites had such a funny language; after all in all her years she had never had any experiences with Heaven.

Howl-ooow, loud and close! Frozen with fear she could scarcely raise her eyes but saw, edged against the clearing the old panther, one black paw resting possessively on the woman’s corpse. The cat curled back her lips and hissed, revealing long white fangs in the dim illumination of the moon. The baby whimpered and Bella found the courage to move; scooting backwards one agonizing inch at a time. The predator watched her, its enormous languorous yellow-green eyes glowing with the fire of evil. She moved quicker and though it still eyed her with a fixed gaze, the animal didn’t stir. Venturing a swift glance behind, Bella saw that only a few feet separated her from the road. The panther hadn’t moved. Slowly, stealthfully, she gained her feet and began walking backwards. Feeling the hard gravel of the road through her leather moccasins she turned and fled, but not before the crunch of bone reached her ears. An uncontrollable gasp escaped her lips and the panther rumbled a warning deep in its throat. Bella forced her burdensome old body into a run. She knew the blazing hazel eyes followed her every step as the cat contentedly devoured its kill.

So it was in the primordial hollows; one life was given to sustain another. Bella cradled the baby in her arms, and understood that this life would be the one to sustain hers. A faint growl reached her ears and she hurried towards her cabin.

Once inside her cabin, she examined, bathed and then wrapped the baby in soft cotton cloths. There were no apparent injuries but she was too weak to cry and Bella held her all through the night beseeching the Great Spirit to allow the baby to survive.

Bella awoke with the morning light and the soft mewling of the child, who tossed her tiny head from side to side and she realized she must find a way to feed her. She mixed a little cow’s milk and honey and sat it on the stove; while it heated she undid the wrappings on the child and replaced them with warm and dry ones. Using one of her leather gathering bags she poured the sweet mixture in and then pierced it with a needle. It was a crudely made wet nurse but the child latched onto it with gusto.

You must live, she cooed as she rocked the baby to sleep. Who are you, she wondered? What was your mother doing in that hollow all alone? She mused over the happenings of the night before but no answers came. The child stretched, bringing her attention back to the present. It makes no difference, little one, for you belong to me now. She said out loud. The baby turned towards her voice. What shall I call you? I must give you a fine name. One that people will remember and then the glowing eyes of the panther filled her memory. Her sun wrinkled face brightened at her daring to steal the baby right out from under its nose. She shivered, picturing the old huntress’s wicked teeth and never would she forget its burning eyes. The thought came into her head unbidden, eyes so bright, like living fire, or liquid amber, a ferrous color with the blending of dark and light, green, but no, more like the aged brandy her husband drank. The color could only be named hazel.

The ancient woman stroked the newness of the baby’s cheek and then placed a kiss as light as a sigh on her forehead. Hazel is a fine, strong name and I give to you my child.

The story ended as Hassel shuddered to silence and then lifting eyes that had traveled through long years he ended the legend. I first met Hazel when I was a mere tadpole of a boy, no more than four at the time. I was standing on the porch of my father’s store when she came into town. He leveraged his tired body from the chair, his listeners sighed their discontent. No, it’s not up to me to tell you more. I knew the legend; only Hazel can tell you of her life.

Chapter One

The town folk of Calico Rock know more about me than I do; well, at least they think they do. I’m Hazel, the girl who was rescued from the panther by the Pawqua Indian the night I was born. Most people thought I would lead an extraordinary life because of my unusual beginning; I don’t recall too much about that night, being a newborn and all; but I surely can remember the years after. Bella, my adoptive mother, doted on me and I adored her. We lived a charmed life in that secluded cabin that sat on the high bluff above the Buffalo River. My days were filled with grand adventures as I tagged along behind the old Indian woman in search of this plant or that root to add to her cache of medicinal powders and salves. Many were the days that I danced with butterflies, sang with the robins or played tag with the tree squirrels. I never owned a doll, instead rocking and mothering any wild orphaned creature I found for I knew the power of love because of Bella.

I was eager to learn the healing powers of plants and the spells that Bella used to make. Why even the earth of the dark forest floor could be used as a poultice. Curious as a cat, I caught on quickly and could identify many plants by sight when I was little more than eight years old. By the time I was twelve, I was helping with the grinding and mixing to produce the medicines that could heal or cure or in some cases even save the lives of the grateful town folks who braved the crossing of the White River and climbed the steep mountain ridges to reach our cabin.

She had a cure for any ailment the people had, and they came daily seeking her advice or assistance. Toothaches, joint pains, bee stings even love potions and charms to produce a child or the gritty green mixture that the women drank to loose a child, the old woman knew how to make them all; but while they gratefully took her wisdom, they shamelessly rejected her as nothing but a dirty old Indian. Their thoughts towards me were no more charitable for I was a white child turned into an Indian. Oh, the good Christian womenfolk felt sorry for me, but none of them would invite me into their homes; not that I really cared. I was happy and free in the woods, entertained by nature and loved by Bella. I think I took my freedom too much to heart and one day Bella decided that as a white child, I should be taught to read and write and cipher. And so thanks to the benevolent graces of Reverend Jacob Tills I learned. Old Bella admired my academic accomplishments to the day she died. The good reverend taught me to read from the Bible and on occasion he would drop by with an armload full of missionary pamphlets. He employed river stones for ciphering. One day he arrived with a piece of broken slate and a wondrously new stick of chalk. He apologized for the slate saying the new school marm had thought to throw it out but gave it to him when he told her about me and she added a small picture book as well. That was the extent of my formal education. It ended abruptly when I was fourteen, the reverend’s mule, spooked by the wail of a hank or the panther, one moonless night, pitched and bucked, unseating the old gentleman and throwing him down a rocky ravine to his death. Even before Reverend Tills died, the world outside our sheltered hollow was in turmoil, so much so that the news of it overflowed to our very doorstep, or more aptly the sky over overhead. It was the summer I turned twelve, 1916 I believe, that I saw my first areoplane, buzzing and sputtering like a fly and as flimsy as a mud dabber, skimming the top of the pines on the hill behind our cabin. One of Bella’s customers brought us a newspaper and I read the bold headline proclaiming that America had declared war on Germany. The whole area was shaken by the revelation. It didn’t bother me for my world consisted at that time, only as far as I could walk. Months later, maybe it was a year or more, the folks settled down for I heard the war was over.

I was left alone again and I liked it. I wasn’t really an outcast or misfit, more like a puzzle that no one cared enough about to put together. My parentage was a mystery, the woman’s remains were never found and no one had reported a loved one missing from the neighboring towns. What the woman was doing in that dark, haunted glade that night was a mystery but most folks didn’t care. You see, hill folks tend to be superstitious of unknown things and shy away from them; so I was left to the care of the Indian woman who found me. Whenever I asked her if she knew the answer, she would say that the woman was sent to the mountain by the Great Spirit to bring a child to her. The way she told the story always reminded me of the miracle I read about in the Bible when old Elizabeth wanted a baby so bad. I gather she must have been nearly as old as Bella