EXCERPT
Once, a village lounged on the morning side of the Blue Ridge Mountains, tucked into a valley in the
lap of Bear Church Mountain. Then, panthers screamed from rocky outcroppings and wolves prowled. Now, the mountain shelters an ageless black bear, deer, foxes, and an ancient raven who knows more than he should.
Once, Native people stepped respectfully in soft moccasins, taking only what they needed from the mountain. Then other people sailed over the ocean and claimed ownership of the land. The first people were forced westward, leaving behind footprints of their stories.
Later, the raven brought news of hot fighting around the Blue Ridge. The Civil War stopped on the village’s doorstep. Terrified horses trampled through the woods as the Union and Confederate armies clashed. A wounded soldier died by the trickling spring; juneberries he’d picked along the road spilled from his pocket. Seven trees grew from those berries, and folks declared the fruits from those trees were the sweetest in the state.
Morning glory vines, blue as the Virginia sky in June, spread, and the village came to be called Morning Glory. Later, the village bloomed with houses, businesses, even a factory.
Yet the land clung to its memories. At night, some in their beds swore they heard the jingle of harnesses and pounding hoofbeats. Others glimpsed shifting figures in the woods—there one eyeblink, gone the next. By true dawn, birds began singing and trees kept their secrets.
Decades passed. Hard times hit. The factory closed and people moved away. Only eight residents remained, three of them children.
Now one of the children, an eleven-year-old girl, gazed at the rusted metal sign planted at the head of Main Street. The sign was shaped like a soft-drink bottle. Its painted letters had once spelled out Morning Glory — Happy Starts Here, but the paint had weathered and flaked, and now the sign read, M rni g G ory — H ppy tart ere.
It’s an incantation, the girl decided. Recite it three times and turn a lucky piece over in your pocket. It will bring happiness back here.
Not noticing the raven that cruised on thermal currents in the sky above her, she slid her hand into the pocket of her shorts. She didn’t have a lucky penny, only an old Juneberry Blue bottle cap. It would have to do. “Morning Glory. Happy starts here!” The words felt odd in her mouth, yet the jagged ridges of the bottle cap were reassuring.
She looked down the road. No sign of her father’s rig. No blast from his air horn saying he was back at last. Nothing had changed. With a sigh, she walked back home.
But she was wrong. Something had changed.
The raven circling overhead saw it first. His wide tail flared as he flew up Bear Church Mountain to report to the bear, the Master of the Mountain.
