PROLOGUE
1898
1898
The young fiddler slipped almost silently through the darkness, heart beating harder and faster than it ought.
Worth a fortune, they said. A fortune! Maybe it was. But not to him. Not in money.
Though it was far from the first time he'd lifted something not strictly belonging to himself, he'd never intended to take this. What rational excuse under heaven could he give for stealing a fiddle? Especially this fiddle.
He shivered in the chill April night.
Sure it was himself the folk called on when they needed a good tune. But he couldn't be playing this fiddle for their dance parties and pie suppers and barn raisings. There was no disguising its origin. He never could sell the thing, either. Not if he carried it to the ends of the earth. As an easy path to riches, it was altogether worthless to him.
Even knowing that, he had taken it.
Why had he, then? Was it the fiddle's grand sound that had bewitched him? Or was it the feeling of power and strength it had put on him as he played it?
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. In all truth, it was more likely fiddler than fiddle that was the great charm.
That fiddler. He shook his head. He'd been captivated by her music before he ever looked at her. There she'd been, watching him out of the corner of her eye the whole of the time she was playing. Sly, smug. Full of mischief. And beautiful, come to that. Much more beautiful than Seraphina.
Then she was turning to him, holding out the fiddle, enticing him. Even as that
happened, it had reminded him somehow of the few and reluctant hours he'd spent in church and the one story that had made an impression: the story of Eve and the forbidden fruit.
He'd always thought such a temptation would be irresistible. Indeed, he'd not resisted many temptations of any sort in his short lifetime and he didn't much try to resist this one, either. Why should he? It seemed harmless enough at the time.
At the time.
At the time he had given no thought to the fact that his hands reached for the fiddle entirely on their own when she invited him to play it. That hadn't crossed his mind until tonight.
Was it more a command from her than a temptation? Had the music mesmerized him until he had no choice in the matter at all?
In the darkness, he stumbled over a rock. The plague of all Ozarks farms, these rocks! Surely he'd moved tons of them from this very field. He'd moved them until his back was aflame and his hands bled, but at the end of the day, the fields looked no more empty of them than at the beginning. It was as if the earth were cursed by some perverse magic.
A slight tremor shook his icy fingers as he clutched the well-sealed case tighter. Magic. Maybe there was more to it than his attraction to the fiddler. Even without her presence, the fiddle was working on him like bad whiskey. Nagging at him, whispering to him. Tempting him almost beyond endurance. He wanted this minute to play it, to drown himself in the sound and feel of it until its music sang away the sharp, biting night and called up the reassuring warmth and light of the sun.
If only he could be sure that was all it would be calling up.
A sudden, intense chill rattled his jaw. The chill had nothing to do with the spring frost in the air.
There was magic and magic. What if the old woman had woven spells into the fiddle's making? Had she laid some strong protection on it to cause this great desire, to cause a thief to give himself away with the music? On a still, frosty night like this one, the sound would carry forever. She would be able to hear it, no doubting that. They said she knew the voice of each of her fiddles like a mother knows the individual voices of her children.
Fancies. Daft, impossible fancies! This was America and 1898, after all, not old Ireland on the first day of the world. They weren't plagued in this new land by the Fair Folk and their ilk.
Down in the hollow behind the barn, an owl hooted. To the Irishman with the stolen fiddle, it sounded like nothing so much as mocking laughter. He couldn't stop another convulsive shiver. America it was, right enough, but this place they called the Ozarks had raised the hair on his neck more than once. And there were tales about the old fiddle-maker. Indeed, tales strangely like those at home told of the Fair Folk. Why hadn't he remembered that before he'd first put his hands on the thing?
Watching the old woman, as he sometimes had occasion to do, it was no trouble to him to believe every unbelievable word of the stories he'd had. He'd felt her eyes on him, as well. Altogether different from the tantalizing eyes of her daughter, they were. The old one's eyes seemed to carve away even the smallest attempt at falsehood with the same delicate precision as her chisels when she carved away at the maple and the fancy, imported spruce destined to become Crionna violins.
What would she see next time those eyes fell on him? Ah, but she wouldn't be seeing him again before he went away, would she? Not if he could help it. Wasn't it every lad his age in the county enlisting now? Nothing suspicious there. It was the patriotic thing to do.
As if that would prevent her knowing.
He couldn't lose the fearsome conviction that she already knew. It had been too easy taking the fiddle, hadn't it? He'd thought so at the time, only then he'd put it down to uncommon good fortune. He'd not even had to search for it when he got into the house. It had been lying there on the table as if it were waiting for him. Too easy, entirely.
He caught his breath in a ragged gulp. What if she had intended his taking it? What if she had beguiled him with some wicked spell into helping her weave a dire plan of her own? If that was the way of it, where was he now?
"Steady on, man," he muttered to himself. "It's only the dark putting such nonsense into your head." Of course it was. The old woman was no more than a gifted crafter of fiddles. There was no power in her to control him, nor to make him reveal the hiding place he'd prepared while he was in the fever of planning the theft. He allowed himself a moment of pride. The idea had come to him out of nowhere, all in a rush. And it was the perfect place. No one but himself ever would know the fiddle was there. ...Unless it had been her idea all along.
He shoved that thought away. For good or ill, the fiddle was his now and, magic or no, he intended to keep it.
He would come back for it soon enough. For it and for Seraphina. They were saying the war in Cuba couldn't be lasting long at all. If he wasn't back before the new year, surely he would be before the new century. Even Farmer Licklider wouldn't be so uppity about his darlin' daughter if her man came back a hero.
He thrust cold fingers into his chest pocket and caressed the silver locket Seraphina had given him. His charm against evil, she'd said. With that on him, what could go wrong? Seraphina and the fiddle. As soon as the war was finished, he would have them both entirely to himself. Then the three of them would leave these haunted Ozark hills forever.
Worth a fortune, they said. A fortune! Maybe it was. But not to him. Not in money.
Though it was far from the first time he'd lifted something not strictly belonging to himself, he'd never intended to take this. What rational excuse under heaven could he give for stealing a fiddle? Especially this fiddle.
He shivered in the chill April night.
Sure it was himself the folk called on when they needed a good tune. But he couldn't be playing this fiddle for their dance parties and pie suppers and barn raisings. There was no disguising its origin. He never could sell the thing, either. Not if he carried it to the ends of the earth. As an easy path to riches, it was altogether worthless to him.
Even knowing that, he had taken it.
Why had he, then? Was it the fiddle's grand sound that had bewitched him? Or was it the feeling of power and strength it had put on him as he played it?
His mouth twisted into a wry smile. In all truth, it was more likely fiddler than fiddle that was the great charm.
That fiddler. He shook his head. He'd been captivated by her music before he ever looked at her. There she'd been, watching him out of the corner of her eye the whole of the time she was playing. Sly, smug. Full of mischief. And beautiful, come to that. Much more beautiful than Seraphina.
Then she was turning to him, holding out the fiddle, enticing him. Even as that
happened, it had reminded him somehow of the few and reluctant hours he'd spent in church and the one story that had made an impression: the story of Eve and the forbidden fruit.
He'd always thought such a temptation would be irresistible. Indeed, he'd not resisted many temptations of any sort in his short lifetime and he didn't much try to resist this one, either. Why should he? It seemed harmless enough at the time.
At the time.
At the time he had given no thought to the fact that his hands reached for the fiddle entirely on their own when she invited him to play it. That hadn't crossed his mind until tonight.
Was it more a command from her than a temptation? Had the music mesmerized him until he had no choice in the matter at all?
In the darkness, he stumbled over a rock. The plague of all Ozarks farms, these rocks! Surely he'd moved tons of them from this very field. He'd moved them until his back was aflame and his hands bled, but at the end of the day, the fields looked no more empty of them than at the beginning. It was as if the earth were cursed by some perverse magic.
A slight tremor shook his icy fingers as he clutched the well-sealed case tighter. Magic. Maybe there was more to it than his attraction to the fiddler. Even without her presence, the fiddle was working on him like bad whiskey. Nagging at him, whispering to him. Tempting him almost beyond endurance. He wanted this minute to play it, to drown himself in the sound and feel of it until its music sang away the sharp, biting night and called up the reassuring warmth and light of the sun.
If only he could be sure that was all it would be calling up.
A sudden, intense chill rattled his jaw. The chill had nothing to do with the spring frost in the air.
There was magic and magic. What if the old woman had woven spells into the fiddle's making? Had she laid some strong protection on it to cause this great desire, to cause a thief to give himself away with the music? On a still, frosty night like this one, the sound would carry forever. She would be able to hear it, no doubting that. They said she knew the voice of each of her fiddles like a mother knows the individual voices of her children.
Fancies. Daft, impossible fancies! This was America and 1898, after all, not old Ireland on the first day of the world. They weren't plagued in this new land by the Fair Folk and their ilk.
Down in the hollow behind the barn, an owl hooted. To the Irishman with the stolen fiddle, it sounded like nothing so much as mocking laughter. He couldn't stop another convulsive shiver. America it was, right enough, but this place they called the Ozarks had raised the hair on his neck more than once. And there were tales about the old fiddle-maker. Indeed, tales strangely like those at home told of the Fair Folk. Why hadn't he remembered that before he'd first put his hands on the thing?
Watching the old woman, as he sometimes had occasion to do, it was no trouble to him to believe every unbelievable word of the stories he'd had. He'd felt her eyes on him, as well. Altogether different from the tantalizing eyes of her daughter, they were. The old one's eyes seemed to carve away even the smallest attempt at falsehood with the same delicate precision as her chisels when she carved away at the maple and the fancy, imported spruce destined to become Crionna violins.
What would she see next time those eyes fell on him? Ah, but she wouldn't be seeing him again before he went away, would she? Not if he could help it. Wasn't it every lad his age in the county enlisting now? Nothing suspicious there. It was the patriotic thing to do.
As if that would prevent her knowing.
He couldn't lose the fearsome conviction that she already knew. It had been too easy taking the fiddle, hadn't it? He'd thought so at the time, only then he'd put it down to uncommon good fortune. He'd not even had to search for it when he got into the house. It had been lying there on the table as if it were waiting for him. Too easy, entirely.
He caught his breath in a ragged gulp. What if she had intended his taking it? What if she had beguiled him with some wicked spell into helping her weave a dire plan of her own? If that was the way of it, where was he now?
"Steady on, man," he muttered to himself. "It's only the dark putting such nonsense into your head." Of course it was. The old woman was no more than a gifted crafter of fiddles. There was no power in her to control him, nor to make him reveal the hiding place he'd prepared while he was in the fever of planning the theft. He allowed himself a moment of pride. The idea had come to him out of nowhere, all in a rush. And it was the perfect place. No one but himself ever would know the fiddle was there. ...Unless it had been her idea all along.
He shoved that thought away. For good or ill, the fiddle was his now and, magic or no, he intended to keep it.
He would come back for it soon enough. For it and for Seraphina. They were saying the war in Cuba couldn't be lasting long at all. If he wasn't back before the new year, surely he would be before the new century. Even Farmer Licklider wouldn't be so uppity about his darlin' daughter if her man came back a hero.
He thrust cold fingers into his chest pocket and caressed the silver locket Seraphina had given him. His charm against evil, she'd said. With that on him, what could go wrong? Seraphina and the fiddle. As soon as the war was finished, he would have them both entirely to himself. Then the three of them would leave these haunted Ozark hills forever.
ONE
These haunted Ozark hills! Spring's sweet, exuberant bloom. Summer's infinite shades of green. Autumn's brilliant, breath-snatching blaze. The hills in all seasons were a heart-wrenching joy, but they were most disturbingly lovely in winter.
If only Nick Hunter would shut up and let me absorb their beauty in peace. He was grumbling away under his breath as he turned his fancy car off the state highway onto a paved county road. He grumbled even louder two miles later when pavement abruptly gave way to gravel. I didn't care if the gravel made Nick mad. In fact, it suited me just fine. For one thing, the gravel meant I was that much closer to home. For another, it meant Nick wasn't going to be my problem much longer.
The road curved along the top of the ridge for awhile, exposing scenic vistas of our ancient, weathered hills, then dipped into a hollow, forded a narrow, sparkling creek by way of a low-water bridge, and climbed again. Almost there! No matter how many times I made this trip, I could never tire of it. Especially in winter.
In winter, chill winds blew away the used up, shriveled leaves of summer and revealed the graceful branches, the gnarled trunks, the quiet, solid bones of the trees. Winter dressed the hills in muted, delicate tints of burnt sienna, raw umber and Prussian blue, and in a sweet, solemn sadness. Only in winter could I see deep, deep into magical forests where intriguing, secret, rocky dens sheltered tiny refreshing springs or baby foxes. Or maybe the occasional straying elf. From any ridge top in winter, I felt as if I could almost see into eternity. If only--
"Why are you so ominously quiet, Alyssa?"
Nick's comment made me jump. Somewhere along the way, he had given up his muttering and stayed quiet long enough that I'd almost forgotten he was there, even if he was driving. Such was the magic of the hills. It was so easy to lose myself in them. If only people wouldn't keep calling me back. Especially people like Nick.
If only Nick Hunter would shut up and let me absorb their beauty in peace. He was grumbling away under his breath as he turned his fancy car off the state highway onto a paved county road. He grumbled even louder two miles later when pavement abruptly gave way to gravel. I didn't care if the gravel made Nick mad. In fact, it suited me just fine. For one thing, the gravel meant I was that much closer to home. For another, it meant Nick wasn't going to be my problem much longer.
The road curved along the top of the ridge for awhile, exposing scenic vistas of our ancient, weathered hills, then dipped into a hollow, forded a narrow, sparkling creek by way of a low-water bridge, and climbed again. Almost there! No matter how many times I made this trip, I could never tire of it. Especially in winter.
In winter, chill winds blew away the used up, shriveled leaves of summer and revealed the graceful branches, the gnarled trunks, the quiet, solid bones of the trees. Winter dressed the hills in muted, delicate tints of burnt sienna, raw umber and Prussian blue, and in a sweet, solemn sadness. Only in winter could I see deep, deep into magical forests where intriguing, secret, rocky dens sheltered tiny refreshing springs or baby foxes. Or maybe the occasional straying elf. From any ridge top in winter, I felt as if I could almost see into eternity. If only--
"Why are you so ominously quiet, Alyssa?"
Nick's comment made me jump. Somewhere along the way, he had given up his muttering and stayed quiet long enough that I'd almost forgotten he was there, even if he was driving. Such was the magic of the hills. It was so easy to lose myself in them. If only people wouldn't keep calling me back. Especially people like Nick.
DONOVAN'S DREAM
