Chapter 1: Three Forks

1915

“Far be it from me to tell old man Henry where to settle,” Iva muttered to herself, shaking her head. She settled on a fallen tree and smoothed her skirt. Mud dotted the green and blue plaid and there was a distinct water line on the hem where she waded through the shallowest part of the river that morning. To her left, a circle of white mushrooms stood out amongst the carpet of brown leaves and the stray patch of emerald clover. She kicked one with her foot, crumbling the little sprout into ruin.

Nearby, her husband, Henry, tied string to trees to mark the territory he was interested in clearing. He had plans to lumber the land and set up camp for his three younger brothers and a crew coming from Kentucky.

For now, it was up to Henry, a group of reformed vagabonds to whom he’d promised steady pay, and Iva to clear enough space for a settlement. Of course, they’d also be tasked with clearing out other inhabitants. That meant Henry never left the tent without his revolver, and Iva without a sturdy knife.

Iva knew her part. Once the camp was established, she’d keep the men fed, their laundry clean, and a fire burning at all times. The fire was meant for cooking but was also useful for sending smoke signals should trouble arise while Henry and the men were out clearing land.

After all, the steep hills made it difficult to track down a scream in an emergency. The sound ricocheted, bouncing from one hill to the next until nothing but a whisper could be carried by the breeze.

“Are you okay over there, Iva dear?” Henry called, ax in hand and sweat glistening on his brow. It was late spring in West Virginia, and while the weather still had a chill in the mornings, by the afternoon it was positively balmy. It was the type of weather that had one shedding layers before lunch and piling them back on after dinner.

“Just fine,” said Iva with a wave. To herself, though, Iva noted the whistle of the woods behind her, the constant crunch of leaves, and the sense that someone watched her from the shadows. It wasn’t so much that she spotted signs of someone in the brush, but more so, something in her periphery, a tingle, perhaps. She wasn’t used to the wilderness, nor its sounds.

Before marrying Henry, she was a well-kept woman from a well-to-do family. They wanted her to wed a lawyer and stay in Louisville. But Iva didn’t share their affinity for the social scene or “standing,” as they would croon amongst themselves at brunch over tiny cakes and tea.

No, Iva was content to bask in the dappled sunlight and watch the babbling stream, as spring’s first minnows darted between rocks. The Williams River was low for that time of year, but locals assured her and Henry that after a decent stretch of rain, it would be deep enough to swim in and the quality of the trout would be unmatched.

The men roped off a whopping five acres that afternoon, despite losing two of the men Henry hired the week before. They didn’t leave a note, say goodbye, or offer a proper cursing for making them work in the blistering sun all afternoon. It was peculiar, even if Henry didn’t share Iva’s concerns.

“I have no idea or damns to give about where those lazy do-for-nothings went,” said Henry when they left. And so, they took down one tent and dispersed their hodgepodge belongings to the other men, who were happy to be handed a new skillet and a few fresh shirts.

  “Should you hire some more?” Iva asked after they disappeared. Henry simply shook his head and motioned to the other makeshift logging crew.

“Why should I when those three handle the work better than six men?” Then he addressed them through a mouthful of biscuit. “Are you men happy with your pay? Your meal?” He asked of them. All three burly men nodded and smiled at Iva, who was in the middle of field dressing and cooking a wild hare that happened upon the camp that morning.

She offered them a grin, but something about the missing men tugged at her, like a babe lightly pulling on her skirt. It was a faint, but incessant uneasiness she couldn’t entirely ignore, not when her days consisted of waiting for Henry to return to camp.

As the days went on, Iva grew more comfortable venturing away from the center of camp. She’d leave the imagined safety of the tents and fire pit to go foraging for berries, ramps, and papaw fruit, while Henry made impressive progress staking his claim for the logging company he intended to establish. They had the capital. They had the time. But it was still a massive undertaking. Many days, he didn’t return from the forest until well after dark, his clothes drenched in musky sweat and his hands cracked and calloused.

They were down to two men, having one vagabond leaving the day before. Again, there was no warning, no resignation, nothing. Iva assumed he grew tired of work, though the notion didn’t set right, not completely. He was a friendly man who always took the time to make conversation with Iva over dinner. The night before, he complained of stomach pain and a headache. She heard him exit the tent several times before morning, and when the sun finally breached the holler, he was gone.

It was strange. Yes. But Iva couldn’t dwell on that. She had mouths to feed, plans for a stew that night, and desperately wanted to find some ramps the locals had been gushing about at the market. When she asked about why they weren’t for sale among the other produce, they laughed and told her farmers didn’t have time to scour the woods for ramps.

They did, however, tell her to look for bright green leaves about a foot long, growing in patches on the forest floor, and to keep an eye out for a pungent, onion-like smell. Though the man at the market warned she’d probably missed the season, Iva was determined to add a bit of flavor to the stew before winter rolled in and fresh produce dwindled to nothing.

She was nearly a mile from camp when she stumbled upon a clearing. The grass was knee high and surrounded by brush so thick it could be mistaken for walls. In the center, there were five trees arranged in a tight circle. The gnarly branches bore white flowers and a tiny red fruit she’d never seen before. Iva inhaled deeply, taking in the light floral scent of the blooms. They were sweet and inviting, and she shouldn’t resist wading through the grass to collect some blooms.

A sudden gentle breeze blew through the clearing, making a shower of white petals that drifted to the earth like winter’s first dusting. Iva twirled amongst the flurries, letting her skirt balloon up and her sweaty legs feel the gust of air. She reveled in the bliss, the warm sun kissing her cheeks, and the sensation of walking on clouds.

But then her boot sloshed into an unexpected puddle. The sound halted her dance. It hadn’t rained for days, despite their faithful prayers for a shower to cool the valley and replenish the drying river. Iva’s gaze inched toward the ground as she prepared herself for what she might find.

She pulled her skirt away from her ankle and pointed her toe to better examine the sole of her boot. Beneath her, a sizeable puddle of blood mixed with the rich black soil of the forest. From it, a trail of the deep red liquid led to a pair of vibrant blooming trees in the center of the circle. Iva followed it, her steps slow and calculated until something stopped her in a snap, like a noose pulled tight around her neck. Between the trunks lay a severed human foot, its muscle and flesh shredded and drooping away from the bone.

The mauled appendage was still wearing a tattered leather work boot tied with a makeshift ribbon shoelace. She recognized it belonged to the most recently missing of Henry’s work crew.