Sheriff Daniel Praeger summoned the enemy-tracking skills he'd learned in the War to approach the isolated mountain cabin. Its tobacco-brown planks and tin roof weeping with rust looked harmless enough--not that he believed in that witch talk down in Sneedville. He knocked on the door and waited.
The small porch was littered with flower pots of woven river cane and red clay, and bunches of dried herbs hung from open rafters over his head. Curiosity getting the better of him, he stooped over one pot covered in purple horn-shaped blossoms.
“That's comfrey,” a voice called out over his shoulder.
He whipped around to face a slender woman in her 20s, irritated at how she'd managed to sneak up on him without making a sound. A glimpse of her light olive skin, straight black hair and periwinkle-blue eyes were enough to mark her as one of them, the Melungeons. He'd lost count of the rumors about who the mysterious people were--descendants of natives, settlers, slaves.
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Cephea pointed to the plant he'd been studying. “That there's a magic plant. The leaves make a poultice for sprains and bruises. And the root's good for quinsy and whooping-cough.”
“It's also kinda pretty,” he said, then flushed red with embarrassment as her lovely eyes danced with laughter at his un-soldierly reply.
Cont. here:
http://thefringemagazine.blogspot.com/2011/01/fiction-melungeon-witch-by-bv-lawson.html
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