"Ginger Rye" by Laura DeGrave

Ginger Rye

by Laura DeGrave

 

Macie held the flashlight underneath an old horse blanket. She began wailing like a ghost from the hereafter. 

 Tara latched onto my arm. 

 “Beware of Ginger Rye! She comes for you! Say goodbye!” 

 “Why be afraid of the person's sister?” I asked. 

 Tara shook and said, “She's a witch! Haven't you heard the stories?” 

 “What stories? Parson Rye don't have a witch sister.” 

 Macie huffed and shone the flashlight in my face. “Best mind your elders.”  I swatted at the flashlight, knocking it down upon the floor. The noise aroused Sister Prudence from her cot. We quickly returned to our beds. I could hear the creaking boards as she walked.  “Girls?” 

 I held my breath. 

 Sister Prudence's foot kissed metal. 

 A small gasp escaped Tara's pillow. 

 “Girls, how many times–” The grandfather clock downstairs rang up the stairwell, midnight. “Honestly! Shut your eyes. Adoption day, tomorrow.” Sister Prudence left the room with the flashlight in hand. Black curls twisted shadowy snakes in her wake. 

 I yanked the scratchy wool cover over my head and closed my eyes tight.  Morning came with Sister Prudence scalding our backsides into the glow of innocence. Then she raked out more knots from our scalps than a fisherman's net. We were left to dress ourselves in donated finery. 

 Sister Prudence said, “We must look our best!” 

 The frocks gave an illusion of well-mannered children. Parson Rye appeared to be fooled by them. He paced in front of us. 

 “Good, very good.” The parson said and nodded in approval. 

 Sister Prudence deflated her lungs, pleased. 

 Clock chimes signalled the midday hour across the room. An unexpected knocking followed.  “Whom could that be at such an early hour?” Parson Rye wondered aloud.  Sister Prudence shuffled toward the door. 

 Macie elbowed Tara's ribcage and whispered, “Witch.” 

 Tara's eyes grew wide. 

 “Shhh!” I warned them. 

 Parson Rye raised an eyebrow our way. 

 Ginger Rye took extended strides, crossing the room. “Brother, dear,” greeted Ginger. “I pray there is a child for me.” 

 “Naturally, Sister, I save the best for you.” Parson Rye swept his arm in an arc over us.  Her yellowed teeth glistened through parted lips. “My, my, my! They are grand!” Ginger's pale eyes roamed above our heads. 

 Macie pinched Tara's arm, making her scream at the old lady's face. 

 Sister Prudence snatched Tara by the ear and led her away.

 “My apologies, sister. Always one rotten fruit in the barrel,” said Parson Rye.  “Possibly more.” Ginger sniffed. 

 Macie coughed, feigning illness. 

 “I will take the comely one.” 

 She pointed her rheumy knuckles at me. 

 “Calamity is a fine example of our patronage in the Lord's work. You will be pleased.” Parson Rye patted my shoulder. 

 Upstairs, Sister Prudence yanked the frilly pinafore off me. “No sense in wasting clothes on the chosen,” she grunted. “Now, get your given dress on.” She collected the pretty clothes from Macie and Tara, as well. It was like she was afraid we would destroy them. And thus, no one could ever be adopted. Sister Prudence rushed out to care for the clothes. 

 “What will you do?” Tara cried. 

 “You need to run,” blurted Macie. 

 “How come?” I asked. 

 “How come? How come Ginger Rye keeps coming back for more children?” Macie planted her fists on her hips. “How come we ain't seen none of ‘em with her?” 

 “Schoolhouse, I reckon.” 

 Macie turned her back on me. 

 Sister Prudence returned and escorted me down to the awaiting buckboard. Parson Rye helped me onto the bench seat next to his sister. 

 Ginger Rye snapped the reins. A bluish-white nag bolted us forward at the speed of wind. The journey felt long with the setting sun. A two-story, slap board house stood in view.  “Whoah!” The old lady pulled the reins. She hopped off and motioned to me to do the same.  My feet landed in a fine powder, causing a dust ring to fly around my ankles.  Ginger slapped the nag's rump. “Home, Astrid!” 

 Astrid trotted straight into a matching barn. 

 Ginger's icy eyes zeroed on my face. “Home, Calamity!” 

 I quickstepped through the front door and spun around to find the old lady waving her arms at odd angles. 

 She stopped. “I have only one rule. Don't go in the attic. Break it, you will be fodder for the Devil.” 

 I gulped. 

 “Choose any room you fancy, upstairs. I'm too old to climb them. Sleep tight.”  Those faded eyes of hers haunted me while I mounted each step. Each room I passed was empty. All the beds were made. 

 Where are the other children? 

 Scuffling feet rubbed the planks overhead. Low voices muffled by distance marked their existence. I stopped at the bottom of the attic's stairwell. The house went dark. The sun had set.

 A copper glow penetrated the encompassing slots of the attic door. My heart churned butter, thumping along the forbidden path. A loud moan halted my senses. The door floated open. Chalky shoeprints trailed inside. 

 A single lit candle anchored the attic's core. The sparse room held hundreds of ladies made from various craftsmanship dangling on bits of twine. 

 “Hello?” I crept further in and peered into the dark corners. Scampering feet ran behind me with a giggle. I whirled toward the noise, witnessing the ladles swaying above the candle. My arm hairs felt like dormant centipedes caught fire.  

 “You can come out. I promise not to tell.” My toes wiggled, desiring an exit. Instead, I found myself under the swaying ladles. An irresistible itch strung my fingers skyward. The tips touched scalding metal. Saltwater spewed over my tongue in torrents. Freezing limbs cemented any call for movement. The candle diminished. 

 Parson Rye's face filled my eyes. He hovered above with a cavernous grin, revealing the hairs on his tongue. “This Calamity chowder is delectable,” he said. 

 Orange struck the corner of my eye–a carrot! 

 Ginger Rye clucked her tongue. “I prefer the Queenie cake.” 

 The parson scooped up another ladleful. “You were always one for sweets.”