Manroot is the evocative and
stirring story of a lonely town in Missouri, and a young woman named Katherine
who discovers a mystical side to herself that she’d never known
existed. Anne Steinberg weaves together fantasy, romance, and a young
girl’s coming of age into a darkly magical story.
Synopsis:
In
the spring of 1939, Katherine Sheahan and her father, Jesse, are looking for
work in the isolated tourist town of Castlewood. Jesse gets a job as handyman
and Katherine as a maid at a small hotel. Jesse drinks and neglects his work
and eventually disappears, abandoning his daughter. Frieda Broom, the hotel
Manager, takes Katherine under her wing, and teaches her about ginseng, the
manroot, and other secrets of the foothills. Katherine discovers that she is a
natural healer and has the ability to communicate with spirits, a gift she
inherited from her Navajo Indian mother.
Among
the hotels regular clientele is Judge William Reardon. Escaping his sterile
marriage, he becomes captivated by Katherine. As the pair bond over
astrology and gardening, Katherine becomes convinced they belong together,
despite him being much older than her and married. As they begin to fall in
love, the violence of dark magic threatens to annihilate all Katherine knows
and holds dear. Can their love survive?
Manroot is a potent tale
of destiny, spiritualism and love, written in Anne Steinberg’s signature
compelling style. The kindle version was published March 2014 and is available
for sale on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Manroot-Anne-Steinberg-ebook/dp/B00J1BPZJA
Amazon
reviews:
“Manroot is an
undeniably good read; it’s well-written with a compelling plot and memorable
characters. Recommended to readers who enjoy contemporary fiction imbued with
fantasy, including Native American themes and the supernatural.”
“Words to describe this
book are: romantic, thrilling, memorable, spiritual, magical, and well written
in a breath taking way that will keep you enthralled well after it is over. I
wish it would have lasted longer and was saddened when it came to an end. 5
stars and cannot wait to see what Anne Steinberg comes up with next!”
Working
alone in the kitchen, Katherine scrubbed it clean. Looking up at the calendar,
she knew tomorrow was Friday. The Judge was one of the few people who stopped
here regularly, even now, in late autumn. Perhaps it was telling Sally that had
started it all, for now her thoughts of the Judge were like a fever that stayed
with her. Last Friday when she took him his bourbon and spring water, she
noticed it for the first time, the birthmark. It was on his right hand, so
clear and vivid that she had almost dropped the tray. He had smiled at her
nervousness, called her ‘my dear,’ and given her a silver dollar for a tip.
Katherine
slept restlessly; she dreamed of the Oh mu and heard its moan of agony echoing
in her sleep. She dreamed of Papa floating in the muddy river, caught and held
under by a treacherous branch, his eyes vacant pools staring upward through the
water. It was so real that in the morning when the siren from the firehouse
once again split the air, she rushed into the kitchen where Frieda was telling
Bruce, “You be careful…another one’s gone and gave herself to the river. It was
a suicide, a painted woman from the Eagle’s nest…” Frieda shivered as she told
the story the way that she had heard it from the postman. The woman in the
night had cut her wrists, but the dying was too slow, so she ran from the
clubhouse, perched only for a moment on the railing, then jumped headlong into
the cold water.
Katherine
moved slowly this morning. Frieda fussed at her, but knowing the girl had never
been lazy, she thought the drowning must have upset her or maybe she was coming
down with something.
The guests
were all gone. They only expected one tonight – Judge Reardon. They’d have time
to go into the woods today, hunting for herbs and the manroot. But Frieda went
alone as the girl looked a bit too peaked.
Alone,
Katherine cleaned the rooms again; it took no time, for they were already
clean. She lingered in Number 8, The Judge’s room.
She knew a
lot about him now, and she felt a very real presence that he left in the room.
She knew intimate things about him – like the size of his shirts, the smell of
his aftershave, which side of the bed he slept on, how he preferred his coffee,
the brand of cigarettes that he smoked…numerous details about him that she had
collected bit by bit, saving them in her mind and in her dreams, like pennies
to be spent at a later date.
He knew
nothing of her dusting his dresser, straightening the bed after he had risen.
He was not aware that while he was out, she pressed his shirts to her lips,
inhaling his aroma, and sat on the bed in the same crevices his body had made
over the years that he had slept here. Now she knew with the wisdom and
instinct of centuries, she knew that what would be, would be.
Last week
for the first time she had seen it, the birthmark, on his right hand. It was
paler than the surrounding skin, crescent-shaped like a slice of the moon, and
within its outline, unmistakable, a perfect five-pointed star. She knew its
shape by heart, as just above her right breast she had its identical replica.
The Navajo
blood flowed strongly in her veins, with all its beliefs in the signs, even
though her father had tried vainly to smother these strange alien traits. Since
her childhood she had believed that she could speak to animals, and she could
find herbs hiding under any rock and knew exactly what they would cure.
She stayed
dreaming in the Judge’s room until she heard Frieda calling her. The woman had
returned from the woods, carrying a full burlap sack.
“You should
have come today…I found it…the time is ripe, and you’re much quicker than I.
You would have climbed the higher spots where it grows.”
Placing the
sack on the table, she pulled out one root. “It’s perfect…it’s prime, probably
ten or fifteen years old.” She held the root up to the light. Its torso similar
but lighter in color than a carrot, with no hint of orange, just tannish-brown,
the root seemed to have two arms, two legs, and a fine network of tendrils. It
appeared to be a miniature figure of a headless man.
“What is
it?” Katherine questioned as she stared at the unusual root.
“It’s a
manroot!”
“The
manroot,” Katherine repeated, liking the sound of the word and feeling it
described the plant perfectly. “It seems as if it could contain magic?” she
said, as she gingerly touched it with a timid finger.
“Oh, they
say it does. It works wonders. The Orientals prize its properties – to them it
is also the love root. It does many things, cures most anything that ails you.
For me it lines my pockets – Bailey’s general store pays about four dollars a
pound.” Emptying the sack on the counter, Frieda explained, “You can’t let it
get damp – it ruins the root.” She began taking them out, examining and
inspecting and drying each root with a clean dish-towel.
“They’re
not all like this one, that’s special. Some don’t come with the likeness of
arms and legs, some just look like a pale carrot…but the old ones, the very
special ones do. Here, Katherine – take it, it’s yours.”
They sat at
the table and by habit Katherine helped her.
“If you
weren’t such a lazy girl, you could have come with me today. When these are
dry, I’m sure Bailey’s will be paying twenty dollars or so for the batch.”
“Twenty
dollars?”
“Yes,
ma’am!” She knew the girl wasn’t lazy; it was her way of trying to shake her
out of the listlessness. “Put on the kettle, Katherine. I’ll slip a little of
the root in it. That will perk you up.”
They drank
the tea, and Frieda continued drying the root. She did a rare thing: she hummed
as she dried the fine tendrils.
“It takes
time for the manroot to grow. You shouldn’t harvest a root less than seven
years old, and you must always plant the seed when you harvest – each red berry
has two seeds – not deep, just under the leaves. It’s a sin…to harvest and not
plant the seed,” she said solemnly.
Katherine
watched the clock. “I better put on my uniform. The Judge…”
“No need
to. When I was coming in, he was headed for the Eagle’s Nest. He told me he
wouldn’t be wanting any supper.”
Katherine’s
face fell with disappointment.
In previous
gossip from Frieda, Katherine had learned that the Judge lived twenty miles up
the road with a wife who was said to be fragile since the births of her two
stillborn sons. There was not much in these parts that the Judge did not own;
he was rich, well-liked, respected, and known to be a fair man. Remarkably
young to be a judge, no one faulted him for his tendencies to card-playing,
drinking whiskey, and relieving himself with the local women. A lesser man with
these leanings would be called no account, but he was, after all, the Judge,
and this title brought with it a tendency to look at vices as virtues.
It was just
another Friday. Destiny waited for her; she felt it close, closer than it had
ever been.
The hotel
was quiet. There were no guests and the only person staying was the Judge, who
would be out late.
Katherine
played the radio softly, dancing about the room, pretending she was at
Castlewood waltzing under the lanterns with him. She put the perfect manroot in
the Valentine box with her other things. After midnight when he rang, Katherine
shook the sleep from herself when she realized the bell from Room 8 was
ringing.
She owned
no robe, and the persistent ringing threatened to wake Mr. Taylor. She flew up
to the Judge’s room and knocked timidly, aware that her hair was down, and she
was in her nightgown. It was plain enough – white cotton, sturdy and sensible.
He opened
the door to her. He seemed surprised.
“I’m sorry,
sir, everyone is asleep,” she said, not really knowing how to apologize for her
attire.
He blinked
at her, his hair ruffled, his shirt-tail out; she had never seen him like this.
“You’re
new?”
“No, sir
I’m Katherine. It was late; I didn’t have time to put on the uniform.”
He nodded
and leaned forward studying her face. “Come in.” She did so, but left the door
open.
“Sit down,”
he said. She could tell he was very drunk. She sat timidly in the vanity chair.
He paced the floor unsteadily, running his fingers through his hair. “It’s my
head… I have a headache that won’t stop. I thought maybe you had something in
the kitchen.”
He kept
pacing. “I went out tonight, trying to forget. I’ve drunk a lot…it doesn’t
stop…my head hurts so.”
“Sir, I
could go look, or…” She wondered if she should chance it – maybe he would
laugh. “My grandmother had a remedy that always worked.”
He stopped
pacing. “Yes? What is it?”
“Well,” she
said, “if you rub your thumbs vigorously for a few minutes, it has something to
do with the blood flow…if that didn’t work, then a leaf of boiled cabbage on
the forehead never failed.”
He smiled
and stopped. “Well, try it.” He pulled up a chair in front of her and held out
his thumbs.
She
blushed. She hadn’t meant that she should rub his thumbs, but he was there
across from her, waiting.
She reached
forward, and with a firm grip clasped his thumbs and rubbed vigorously, while
he leaned back and shut his eyes. She alternated between each thumb. It seemed
natural to her to be touching him.
“Do you
know what it’s like to play God?” he asked abruptly.
Startled,
she didn’t know if he was really talking to her, but she replied, “No, sir, I
don’t.”
“Well, I
do, and it’s not pleasant, not pleasant at all… Today I’ve sent a man to the
gas chamber – well, not me personally, but the jury.”
“I’m sorry,
sir,” she said quietly.
“Stop
saying ‘sir’ – my name’s William. The Judge…sir…that’s somebody else. I don’t
feel like a judge right now. I never wanted to be a judge.” He opened his eyes
and she drew back.
“Do you
know what it feels like to judge other people?”
“No, si–”
She stopped herself. “No, I don’t.”
He looked
down at her hands. “Don’t stop. By god, I think it helps!” He closed his eyes
once more and held out his thumbs to her. The house was quiet. Somewhere a
nightbird called; the ticking of the clock in the hall kept time in its steady
rhythm, and Katherine felt the sound of their breathing in tune.
While living in England,
Anne Steinberg’s first novel, Manroot was published by
Headline Review in London. Manroot was heralded as an
important first novel in 1994 and included in the Headline Review’s prestigious
“Fiction without Frontiers,” a new wave of contemporary fiction that knows no
limits. Eight modern storytellers were featured: Anne Steinberg, Margaret
Atwood, Iain Banks, William Gibson, Peter Hoeg, Roddy Doyle, and E. Annie
Proulx. It was an auspicious beginning to a long and varied career for Anne
Steinberg, who went on to write several acclaimed novels, Every Town
Needs A Russian Tea Room, the story of a wealthy socialite who falls
in love with a penniless young Russian immigrant who is haunted by a bizarre
shameful secret, The Cuckoos Gift, First Hands, and An
Eye For An Ear. She is also coauthor of The Fence, written
with her grandson Nicholas Reuel Tolkien, the great grandson of J.R.R. Tolkien.
Nicholas is a filmmaker, director, and published poet. The Fence is
a chilling story of a magnificent Gothic fence forged by a despicable
blacksmith and infused with evil.
Anne was a partner in
the world famous vintage clothing store, Steinberg & Tolkien, on Kings Road
in Chelsea. After a successful run for over 20 years, the shop closed, and she
returned to the US. Approaching her eighty-second birthday, she now
writes, reads, and studies antiques, American Indian history, animal welfare,
mythology, and folklore legends.
Anne recently
re-released Manroot in kindle format.
It was published March 2014 and is available for sale on Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Manroot-Anne-Steinberg-ebook/dp/B00J1BPZJA
Connect with Anne on
Twitter: https://twitter.com/ANSteinberg
Previously published novels
include:
First Hands:
Every Town Needs a Russian Tea Room:
The Cuckoo’s Gift:
Elias’s Fence:
We loved reading this excerpt from Manroot! Thanks so much for posting it :)
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