One evening, Silverling heard Horsenettle call her. "There ain't a lick of cornmeal," Horsenettle complained. She could have bought some at Dingman's General Store, but that would have meant releasing a quarter. Horsenettle was so stingy that she'd pinch a dollar until it squealed. "Go to Pardy's Mill, down by the Dark River. Old Pardy goes home before supper, so his mill's empty." Horsenettle handed Silverling a dipper-gourd. "Gather up what cornmeal's spilled, and bring it to me."

That made Silverling a might uneasy, 'cause it was both evening and late October. "Don't rootdevils run wild this time of year?" Silverling asked.

"It ain't night enough yet." Horsenettle pruned up her face until she looked as thorny as the weed she was named after. "You know rootdevils do their stealing in dark."

Silverling set out. But wild raspberries had overgrown the path, and travel was slow. She had just reached the mill when the whip-poor-wills' nightly sermon began.

Silverling opened the door a tad. Little bug-eyed, barky rootdevils filled the mill. They played leapfrog over the lantern gear and danced to the pit wheel's creak. Their night's plunder, from kerosene lanterns to mule tack, lay scattered about.

The rootdevils swarmed Silverling. She did her best to escape. But the hooting rootdevils dragged her before the biggest, brownest one of them. "What top-sider's come uninvited?" that big rootdevil, perched on a corn-filled firkin, demanded.

Silverling rose, determined not to let the rootdevils see fear. "My name's Silverling. What's yours?"

The big rootdevil shook its head, scratching his long briary nose. "I didn't get to be king by giving my name. Folks say that names are powerful, and maybe they're right. You can call me White Sanicle, though."

"That's just snakeroot," Silverling replied. "Something that poisons cows' milk."

White Sanicle winced, as though Silverling had guessed his name. That old rootdevil looked Silverling from the worn brogues on her feet to the wash-faded rag over her hair. "Maybe you ain't foolish after all. I reckon 'Silverling' ain't no more your name than 'White Sanicle' is mine," he said. "You know anything about cooking?"

Silverling couldn't tell if a yay or nay served better, so she stayed quiet.

"I been looking for a queen, to fry okra and bake biscuits while I do the kinging." White Sanicle gestured at the other rootdevils. "Ain't none of them fit, so I reckon you're elected."

"Me? Queen of the rootdevils?" Silverling wanted to run, but rootdevils blocked every path.

"You'll have to live down below." White Sanicle gestured toward a patch of bare ground beneath the millrace. "You'll get used to dark, though."

Silverling didn't want to go below. But saying so wouldn't have helped, so she just pointed to her battered brogues. "You expect me to do queening wearing these shoes?"

White Sanicle scratched his knotty head and barked an order. A brace of rootdevils slid through the window. Soon, they returned with dance shoes that fit Silverling as if made for her.

White Sanicle stood up back up. "Now you can be my queen."

Silverling stuck out her chin, all defiant. She pointed to her head rag. "You want a queen wearing this?"

White Sanicle barked an order. A brace of rootdevils ran off. After a while, they returned with the nicest ribbon-bowed cloche hat that Silverling had ever seen.

"Now you can be queen," White Sanicle said.

Silverling 'humph'ed and tapped her old apron. "You expect me to wear these tatters?"

So it went all night, with every stitch of clothing. White Sanicle jumped down from the firkin. "Now you ain't got no more reason to not be queen!"

Silverling crossed her arms. "Got me one."

"What's that?"

Silverling pointed to the morning-sunlit window. White Sanicle flung his arms like a preacher taking the spirit. He sank into the dirt. The rootdevils followed, taking most of their loot. One big-footed fellow tripped over a mule shoe, though. He fell, face down, into a sun patch. The rootdevil gave a screech-owl scream. His arms fell off, then his legs, and finally his head. Every piece became a fine big ginseng root.

Silverling studied her new clothes. Not knowing who they belonged to, she couldn't return them. She gathered up the ginseng. Dingman's Store would take ginseng in trade, and Horsenettle would turn purple mad if Silverling left valuables behind.

When Old Horsenettle saw the ginseng roots and Silverling’s new clothes, she forgot her aggravation over cornmeal. Silverling told her what had happened, and Horsenettle formed a plan. "That's a fool notion!" Silverling blurted. It was the boldest thing she had ever told her Ma, and her face burned after she said it.

"You'll do as I say!" Horsenettle snapped. Silverling hung her head and fell silent.

Come night, Silverling and Horsenettle waited outside Pardy's Mill. Soon, rootdevils started hooting from inside. "Wait until I call," Horsenettle ordered.

Silverling still thought her Ma's actions unwise, but she didn't speak.

Horsenettle burst in. She blocked the little bare patch of ground with her great big brogues, barring the rootdevils' escape. "Horsenettle has come to your dancing party!" she shouted. She tapped her patched dress. "And I need new clothes!"

White Sanicle rose and pointed a knobby finger. "You been fool enough to give your name!" He rubbed his woody hands. "You should have kept saying it was 'Silverling', like last night."

"I ain't Silverling!" Horsenettle sputtered. She gestured toward the door. "Silverling's out there."

"Top-siders all look alike, but you smell like the one what robbed me." White Sanicle snorted.

"Ain't no wonder," Horsenettle shouted. "I'm her Ma!"

White Sanicle rubbed his tuberous chin. "Lie all you want. Won't trick me again." Rootdevils mobbed Horsenettle. "And now," White Sanicle continued, "I got a queen to fry okra and bake biscuits." In a locusty swarm, the rootdevils dove beneath the millrace, carrying Horsenettle. Her cries became fainter and fainter.

Silverling waited a minute. Then a faint smile crossed her face. "Ma'll probably like living down below. The queen owns what the rootdevils steal."

So Silverling went back home. She lived off the ginseng until next crop-planting. Then she married a tobacco farmer, and passed the rest of her life in peace.

But, come late October, Silverling avoided the Dark River. She didn't want to run into rootdevils -- and especially not their old grasping queen.

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