MOUNTAIN MAGIC with Ann Hite

MOUNTAIN MAGIC with Ann Hite

Those Healing Waters

One thing that is pretty much the same from one holler to the next in Appalachia is our belief in God. I’m not talking about religion and the judging of others hidden behind a human’s interpretation of some man-made rules. I’m referring to the belief that something much bigger is out there. When I was a child, church in Appalachia was much bigger than an hour in a hot, crowded sanctuary—funeral fans stirring muggy air—each Sunday morning. Church was community. It was knowing everything about our neighbors, the good, the bad, and the ugly. So, it was no wonder that church made an appearance in my work, both the pros and cons. Because quite honestly, my characters battled many of the issues I have wrestled with when it comes to religion.

This weekend I visited the abandoned church that made its debut in my first novel, “Ghost On Black Mountain,” and continued through the novels that came after. The place where I found the soul of my work. Walking the grounds, I realized how much of my granny’s raising me had flooded my fiction. That I had used real places to tell the intricate stories of complex characters of Black Mountain, and I still do. On this site, which dates back to 1835 as a church, many services and ice cream socials were held. Just across the street, many baptisms took place. Old black and white photos still exist of the congregation standing in and out of the water as the preacher does his praying and dunking.

Yet, there is something sad and haunting about an empty church. This one sits on land that now belongs to the Smokey Mountain National Park. Many interesting things happened to me when visiting the church on numerous occasions. Once I saw a shadow cross the path in front of me, coming from knee high grass that was not pushed down, so I knew that it wasn’t an animal. A pure mystery. I know the hairs on my arms stood up. A sure sign of a haint. On one trip, my husband was taking photos inside the church and heard his name called. I was in front looking at the spring water. He stuck his head out the door and asked me what I wanted. It took quite a bit to convince him I didn’t call his name out.

The story that stays with me and helped me to write the church into my novels happened one overcast day. I was alone and walking up the path that leads to the church when I saw a man filling jugs at the spring. This water is probably some of the purest water you will ever drink. It shoots from a moss-covered pipe that comes out of an embankment at the foot of the church’s path.

“I love this water.” The man said as I approached. “I come from two states over to get some at least twice a year. My granny lived around here and swore it had healing properties sent straight from God.”

“Does it help you?” I asked.

“I drink it with breakfast every morning while it lasts and look at me. I don’t look seventy-five. My wife swears it helps her joints. They give her fits these days.”

“I’m thinking about using this church in my novel. Maybe I’ll use the spring too.”

“Well let me tell you a story that you might want to use.” He told me about a man murdered in the doorway of the church vestibule on a cold February night by two men after his money. That story has not made it into my books yet, but I couldn’t help thinking about the shadow and my husband hearing his name called. That’s the stuff of haints.

The church ended up in my book, along with the spring that I gave healing power to. I won’t tell you what happens. You have to read the book. In my second novel, “The Storycatcher”, a bad preacher comes to the church. Again I battled over evil cloaked to look like good, taking advantage of trusting souls. A theme I have a habit of visiting every now and then.

But on a visit this past weekend, I stood still in front of the church. Sun sprinkled through the canopy of trees. A soft wind rustled the leaves and grass. I closed my eyes and somewhere I heard one of those old church hymns being sung without any instrument, just the pure voices of Appalachian folk singing their praises, “I’ll Fly Away.” A time so long ago. A gathering of plain folks, not perfect, only hardworking and believing.

And, my friends, if that ain’t mountain magic, I don’t believe such a thing exists.