A Night on Raven’s Bluff

It was high summer in Midgard County, West Virginia. Independence Day had come and gone, and people were settling into the “dog days”—that long stretch when humidity peaks, everything moves more slowly, and ice-cold lemonade replaces sweet tea as the drink of choice on front porch swings across the county.

Over in Coal Creek, at Jarl Family Auto Salvage, Junior Jarl’s big sister was visiting from Cincinnati with her two daughters, Livi and Lexi. A few days into their stay, the twins decided their Uncle Junior just had to take them camping so they could see the “blue fairies,” a local name for the native species of firefly.

At first, Junior wasn’t particularly keen on the idea. Like many of his dwarven kin, he wasn’t what you’d call outdoorsy. A day of fishing or hunting was fine, but once the sun went down, he preferred a bed to a sleeping bag. One look at those two hopeful faces, though, and there was no way he could say no.

Luckily, Junior had friends. The first was Misti-Fae Wagner, a tomboyish Valkyrie who absolutely was the wilderness type. She knew the perfect spot for firefly watching: a primitive campsite along Birch Creek, about two-thirds of the way up Raven’s Bluff. But to reach it, she said, they’d have to take Logger’s Crawl, a rugged overland jeep trail that wound its way up the mountain, and took its time doing it.

Junior hesitated to bring his nieces along on one of Misti-Fae’s wild off-road adventures, but she swore that it was perfectly safe, and that the girls would love it. He did insist, however, that Misti-Fae leave her jeep doors attached. She agreed… reluctantly.

Then there was Miss Dina McCaul, a witch of the old Appalachian kind folks called a granny. Though barely twenty, she had recently been elevated to matriarch of her clan after the untimely passing of her mamaw. With that came the burden of a title borne by the head of the McCaul family since time immemorial—Hope on the Mountain.

Dina had a certain way with kids—well, with folks in general, but kids especially—and Lexi and Livi adored her. Neither Junior nor Misti‑Fae would have ever considered even the possibility of leaving her behind. Never mind that Misti-Fae and Dina were a couple—unofficially, anyway. Ask Junior, and he’d say they were the most official unofficial couple in the whole damn county; the only people who didn’t seem to know they were a couple were them.

A few nights and a good 90-minute Jeep trek later, on a warm, languid evening with cicadas thrumming in the trees and the air thick with honeysuckle and woodsmoke, Junior and Misti-Fae sat by the campfire toasting marshmallows while Dina played a soft, haunting tune on her lap dulcimer.

Nearby, Bo and Luke, Misti-Fae’s Irish wolfhounds, snored contentedly beside the Jeep, while Lexi and Livi darted back and forth between the trees, squealing with delight as they tried to catch ghostly blue faerie lights in old mason jars pilfered from their pawpaw’s shed.

Far off in the distance, flashes of heat lightning warned of summer storms still days away, but nearer to camp a more immediate—and far older—danger was about to make itself known. A woman wearing a patched cloak of green homespun made her way slowly through the dark wood, limping from shadow to shadow with the help of a hardwood staff from which burst a fragrant array of pink and white blossoms—mountain laurel, also known as rosebay.

To be continued…