The Bird People | ONC2024

Chapter Seven | An Interchapter | 508 Words

'But the child's sob curses deeper in the silence, than the strong man in his wrath.'

Elizabeth Barret Browning

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-Superstitions-

The evening sun was disappearing behind the deep wooded forests of Pennybacker Settlement as Constance sat down in Granny Dyer's old rocker to rest before going inside to make bread.

Bread making was always reserved for the evening because it made the house so warm and sticky. The Virgina riversides were humid in the summer and today was no different. The Nottoway River Bottoms rarely had a breeze. Constance dabbed a wet handkerchief on her forehead.

She had worked hard for days to prepare her family's old cabin, making it suitable for the Reverend who would be moving in. It had sat empty for years now. No one in these parts would have dared try and live there, because the stains of the past were still alive and well in Pennybacker.

She'd heard all the stories. Had lived with them her entire life. To this very day, she was only spoken to if she first conversed, and that wasn't very often.

Oh, her family treated her with respect, that much was true but little to anything else. As if all the ills ever visited here in the humble settlement were somehow her fault.

She fanned herself as her thoughts turned inward and the darkness falling on the land also fell within her heart.

None of it was really her fault. Granny Dyer had assured her time and again but it was hard. The townspeople made it hard. They avoided her in every way possible.

Constance Mercy Pennybacker was not to be spoken of, much less with. It wasn't so much a rule, but more like an unspoken fear of attracting some kind of evil. The kind of evil people did not want to be visited by.

The words of her Grandmother came unbidden like an old friend to comfort her scalded feelings. 'Constance Mercy,' she would say, 'actions speak louder than words.'

And Constance had found those words to be true. With a sigh of resignation, she got up and went inside. That bread wouldn't bake itself and she wanted to have at least four loaves to give the new Minister, Reverend Dunleavy.

Inside, her Aunt Iris was already cutting the sourdough and Constance joined her at the large table. Iris wiped her hands on her apron and gave her niece a small smile.

"Were you planning to make round loaves, or the long?" She asked.

"I think the round ones. They seem to last longer."

Iris nodded thoughtfully. "I agree. Do you think Revered Dunleavy will like it here?"

Constance took a long deep breath. "I do hope so Aunt Iris. It has taken so long for us to procure someone," she said fixing her gaze on the floor.

Iris did not miss the gesture. "Constance, you can stop punishing yourself," she whispered heatedly digging her hands into the bread dough. "Now come. We have kneading to do if you want bread ready for his arrival."