Excerpts from The Legends of Nevermore County by Adelle Bradford An anthology of fantasy short stories published January 2006 (ISBN 1-4241-0370-3)
A mysterious bog that eventually spits things out, killer bees and the women who tend them, a little boy chasing 'fiery flies' and 'foxes on fire' in the woods one dusky evening …what do all of these have in common? You will meet them all in this book.
Down in the Southwest corner of Nevermore County is a mountain the early European settlers called Mist Tree Mountain because of the huge mist-shrouded tree that grew at the very top. In time, it became known to their descendants as 'Mystery Mountain', and it is in the small backwoods towns and villages around the mountain that these stories take place.
Fairly isolated, nestled in the foothills on the mountain side of the NoName River with only two narrow country bridges connecting them to the rest of the County, these small places sometimes developed odd customs and behaviors over the years. While outsiders from the everyday world might find them exceedingly strange, they were, in some way or another, accepted by the people living there…even when the outcome was fatal.
See what the people in these stories had to say about the stories in this book in the "Nevermore County Gazette" by clicking the Gazette button. They were not too happy!
The Bog
Suckunder Bog came into being quite unnoticed by any sentient creature. Although it can be argued that the various organisms living in the one inch wide, four inch long strip of earth in the center of Clayton Swing's back cow pasture might have noticed when they were ingested by the thick, brownish-black ooze, it is fairly safe to say that no one really noticed. During its early years, Clayton, himself, and three of his mild-tempered Guernsey milk cows actually had personal contact with the then unnamed Suckunder Bog. At that time, all four of them dismissed the encounter, attributing it to an unusually adhesive cow-pat and an inedible something that smelled bad, respectively. While Clayton did spend a moment or two, as he scraped his heavy work boot on a nearby clump of grass, wondering what one of his prized and pampered cows had eaten in order to produce such an odd end-product - his actual thoughts weren't quite so politely phrased - it really wasn't something that left a lasting impression on anything except the sole of his left boot. The cows simply avoided the area from then on, passing on the warning about the existence of Suckunder Bog to other cows by means of head-shaking, eye-rolling, and sometimes emphatic mucous-laden snorts. Over a period of time, this transmission of cow wisdom from generation to generation resulted in a luxuriant growth of grass extending for a distance of three feet or so around the perimeter of the bog, that distance being cow-determined as the prudent approach limit for grazing while avoiding any accidental contact. As the years went by, the rectangular border of grass moved slowly outward as its inner borders were ingested, and it was this tall green border of untouched grass that finally drew the attention of Clayton Swing's grandson, Emory. A full twenty years had passed since Clayton stepped in what he thought was an odd cow-pat. It now involved a roughly rectangular area measuring some four by twelve feet. A long list of living creatures - all kinds of insects, worms, snakes, a few frogs afflicted with wanderlust, and more than a few birds attracted by the struggling smorgasbord of insects - had slowly slipped under the greasy-looking surface. . . . . more on Google Books.
Trees
Klee stood with her arms extended as far as she could reach around the trunk of the silvery-white birch tree. It was the biggest, and stood in the middle of five smaller trees; they formed a rough circle around it at the edge of a small clearing on the lower slopes of Mystery Mountain. Small frown lines etched her forehead as she stretched her arms and wiggled her fingers, straining to bring their tips together. Then she relaxed and sighed as she pressed her cheek into the smooth, cool area of bark that seemed specially created for that purpose. Her thoughts drifted as though blown by the gentle puffs of breeze that stirred the leaves above her head; they made small rustling sounds as they moved in a gentle dance and her thoughts, too, seemed to move with them. Her hands made gentle stroking motions, sliding lovingly across smooth and rough areas of bark before they became still, lying relaxed and open with palms flat against the trunk. Her name was actually Kelly, but her babyish attempts to say it had resulted in "Klee", and "Klee" had become her name, her identity on all but a few official records and documents. Visiting the tree had been a part of her life for almost as long as she could clearly remember. It started when Grandma Peachy brought her here shortly after her mother died, holding her hand and walking slowly to accommodate Klee's sometimes laborious short-legged efforts to keep up. At the time and for several years afterward, she found nothing strange about it. Only later, when she discovered that Grandma Peachy had, one at a time, taken both her older brother and sister on the same trek to the birch tree circle, did she begin to wonder. Their stories were similar to hers . . . but not the same after a certain point. . . . . more on Google Books.
Believing is Seeing
Selina pushed out her lower lip and blew a puff of air upward past her nose. The damp hair on her forehead remained stubbornly in place, hanging just low enough over her eyebrows to cause an annoying tickle every time she blinked. With an irritated sigh, she took one hand from the lump of dough she was patting out on the big floured board and brushed the offending hair to one side, leaving a smear of flour on her nose as she did so. Not for the first time she thought about how easily she had fallen into this routine. What had started out as a simple Saturday treat for her family and whatever neighborhood children happened to be around, had, almost overnight, turned into a ritual that required a double batch of raised doughnuts and several Saturday morning hours to complete. It wasn't so much that she minded the work involved, it was the fact that she was expected to do it whether she felt like it or not. That expectation turned a spontaneous labor of love into a chore that she almost resented… almost, but not quite. She liked to cook and her doughnuts did get a lot of lip-smacking praise. In spite of herself, a grin curled the corners of her mouth. Cooking is like being pregnant, she decided, giving the now neatly circular round of dough an affectionate pat. You put all the necessary ingredients together, hopefully in the right proportions, mix them, and let them cook the required length of time. Of course, and her grin broadened, it also helped if you offered up a few little prayers to the kitchen gods. She thought about her children. For some reason, during both of her pregnancies her little kitchen prayers had been accompanied by more than their share of burnt offerings. We're all doughnuts, just different recipes. Rebecca was so much like her it was scary sometimes, and Donald was a five-year old miniature of James. She chuckled out loud at the mental picture of herself and Rebecca, big and round and full of yeasty bubbles, almost floating as they were held firmly to the ground by James and Donald, two seriously solid, smaller, more compact cake doughnuts. Of course, the little Donald doughnut was covered with brightly-colored candy sprinkles. . . . . more on Google Books.
Crab Apple Jelly and Chokecherry Jam
"Here it is, Clarissa. This ought to give you some relief from those hot flashes. Just put a few drops in your tea every morning for a while. Two or three drops ought to do it." Mother Goody handed a small, brown, cork-stoppered bottle to the woman perched nervously on the cane-bottom chair by the big, round oak table. Mother Goody wasn't her real name; her baptized name was Francine Harding. Mother Goody was the name the residents of Peaceful gave their herbal healers, a tradition whose origins were lost somewhere in the European Dark Ages. "Mind you, now, this isn't the fountain of youth for middle-aged women. Blue Cohash has natural estrogen in it all right, but it's one thing to ease hot flashes and quite another to try to hang on to your youth, so don't overdo it, hear?" She smiled, eyes twinkling behind the square lenses of her old-fashioned glasses. "It's been my experience that the happiest people I know don't worry about their age, they just enjoy whatever age they happen to be at the time. Just like there are things reserved for the young, there are special things that belong to us older people, doors that only open with the years." She chuckled and added, "Sorry to lecture, Clarissa. These days, it seems like too much pressure is being put on women to look young forever with no thought about the wrinkled, saggy old mind inside that young-looking body." As she finished, she thought wryly, there, I've delivered homey advice sermonette number fifty-three for this month. With a quiet "Thank you, Mother Goody," Clarissa put the bottle in her purse and started to leave. She stood for a moment with her hand on the doorknob, then turned back. Her hands twitched together, fighting a silent duel as she spoke. "Mother Goody, I don't suppose you have anything that could make someone be less angry and upset all the time? A tranquilizer, maybe?" She noticed what her hands were doing and dropped them to her sides. Mother Goody's twinkling eyes suddenly sharpened and became penetrating as she really looked at Clarissa Baines. Too thin, she thought. Nervous. Something odd in the way she moves and holds her body. She's in physical pain. . . . . more on Google Books.
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