What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series

by Nicki Huntsman Smith

  Her grandfather’s familiar laughter sprang from somewhere in the distance. He was eavesdropping, as usual. He knew almost everything about almost everyone. She loved him with all her heart.

  “He said you were sharp as a tack.”

  “That’s no tall tale.”

  A rumble of laughter sprang from the small, barrel chest. The trickster gods from one of her Neil Gaiman books probably laughed like that. She liked it, but she resolved to keep an eye on this one. There was a lot this Mister Fergus was holding back.

  She could feel it.

  ***

  “School weren’t too boring this morning,” Cricket said later.

  They were on a treasure quest in the forest. Silent Harlan led the trio, as usual. As the best tracker of the group, he could always steer them through the security perimeter without getting caught. Willadean brought up the rear, positioning Cricket as their middle man. It wasn’t the correct term for someone who literally walked in the middle of three people on a treasure quest, but she thought it was funny to call him that. Cricket wasn’t dumb, but he wasn’t a genius. She liked him, though, mostly for his willingness to go along with any wild scheme she concocted. He had been her first friend after fleeing the horror of Knoxville.

  “Wasn’t boring. Geez, Cricket. How many times do I have to correct your crappy grammar?”

  “You don’t never need to correct it. I think I sound fine.”

  “Ever. You sound like a peckerwood. You know what that word means, at least.” A strange whirring sound caught her attention. “Wait up, Harlan.”

  She locked eyes with her brother who had also heard the sound. Harlan didn’t talk, but his hearing was second to none. After a full minute of straining his ears, he began signing to her. Not the usual signing he did with their mama, but the version they had created while still in diapers. Even Serena Jo didn’t understand much of what they said to each other when they used the twin talk. It was good to have a few secrets from her.

  “I agree. Sounds like buzzing bees. But it’s mechanical, not natural. That’s a manmade noise.” She might have said monster, so dramatic was Cricket’s reaction.

  “Holy moly, Willa. We gotta get. You know what we’re supposed to do if we ever hear people sounds.”

  “Hush,” she hissed. “Don’t be such a scaredy cat. We’re fine as long as we stay hidden.”

  She crouched low, gesturing for the boys to stay put, and then made her way to a clearing a dozen yards ahead. They had never ventured this far in the woods. She felt a little scared herself, but also excited.

  She hunkered behind a giant sugar maple at the edge of the glade, watching the blue patch of sky above it. The whirring sound became louder. Would a small airplane appear in that blue patch or perhaps a helicopter? She had to pee, but it must wait. Her focus stayed glued to the sky. She wedged a hand between her legs, holding it in for a few more minutes.

  The normal forest sounds continued as if nothing dangerous were imminent. She took comfort in that. If a fire-breathing dragon bore down on them, surely the wildlife would sense it. Finally, her patience and continence were rewarded.

  What looked like a pudgy, white X with little whirling blades positioned at each point whizzed above the far tree line. She knew exactly what it was; she had seen drones on TV before the end came. They were used for filming aerial scenes in movies, and also for police work to catch fleeing criminals.

  What streaked across that blue patch was nothing more than a glorified flying camera. She pulled her head back behind the sugar maple before it got any closer. The next moment, a noise from behind startled her for a half-second before she identified it. Stealth was not a talent Cricket could claim. He sounded like a crazed bear crashing through the woods. Before she could stop him, his foot caught on a fallen tree branch, and he took a header right into the glade. Grabbing him by a denim strap, she hauled him back.

  “What the hell, Cricket?” she snapped.

  “I was comin’ to save you, Willa. I thought you were about to get uh-ducted by aliens!”

  “That’s abducted, you idiot! I hope that drone didn’t see you.”

  “What’s a drone?”

  “It’s a flying camera. You know who pilots them?”

  Cricket scratched the top of his head. There were probably lice nestled among the dark, greasy locks. Just like stealth, Cricket wasn’t known for personal hygiene.

  “People?” he said. His cheeks reddened with embarrassment.

  Willa sighed. “It’s okay. I doubt it saw you.” She glanced at the flying X again. It hadn’t veered from its trajectory. The next moment it whizzed above the tree line to the right of the clearing, then disappeared. The whirring sound became fainter and fainter.

  Surely if that camera had spotted Cricket, it would have paused. Would have hovered and zoomed in for a closer look.

  “We gotta get home and tell your mama.”

  She felt a tap on her shoulder. When she turned, Harlan was signing emphatically.

  “I know, I know,” she said to her brother.

  She turned to the middle man. “Listen, Cricket, we have to swear a blood oath right now. We can’t tell anyone about this.” She reached for the Swiss Army knife always present in the front pocket of her threadbare jeans.

  “Why not? She said we had to tell if we ever heard people sounds or saw people. I don’t wanna get in trouble.”

  “And what do you think will happen if we tell?”

  Harlan took a position next to her. With crossed arms, they glared at the hapless Cricket. It was intended to be a show of solidarity and it almost always intimidated the other holler children into submission. The twins were an indomitable pair.

  Cricket thought for a moment before answering. “We won’t get to go on treasure hunts in the forest no more?”

  “Exactly.” She smiled, letting him off the hook.

  Harlan patted him on the shoulder.

  “We three hereby swear never to tell anyone about what we just saw. Not the adults. Not the other kids. Not Mama. Especially not Mama. Swear it now.”

  Three grubby palms extended toward each other. Willa didn’t cut deep with the blade. She didn’t have to. Only a drop or two was necessary to conduct a proper blood oath.

  “What we gonna do now, Willa?” Cricket asked when the job was done.

  “We’ll finish the hunt. We need to take home some truffles and mushrooms if we want to keep coming into the forest. That’s why Mama lets us come. She says the benefits outweigh the risks.”

  “I know what those words mean.”

  “Good. You’re learning, Cricket. Maybe someday you’ll be as smart as me.”

  Willa signed to her brother using their twin speak: When pigs fly out of my butt.

  Harlan snorted. Muted laughter was the only sound she ever heard from her brother.

  “When we find enough of ‘em, will there still be time for a story?”

  She grinned. “We’ll see.” The despised adult phrasing was nothing more than an evasive way for grownups to say no. When she said it, though, it conveyed a different subtext. If they gathered sufficient forest bounty to appease Serena Jo, and if there was still enough time for a quick yarn, she would spin one. And not just for Cricket’s entertainment. Every time she wrote a story in her mind and told it to an audience, she figured it made her a better writer.

  There was nothing Willadean wanted more in life than to be an author of books. It didn’t matter that she was not quite twelve-years-old, or that few people were left in the world to read them. It only mattered that she wrote them.

  Mama understood, even though Serena Jo didn’t herself have an interest in fiction. Her job was to keep everyone alive and with full bellies. Mama might act like she carried the weight of the world on her shoulders, but Willadean knew there was a tiny compartment hidden in her soul that loved every minute of it. Everyone put Mama on a pedestal, as well they should...nobody had ever run the holler so efficiently. But Willadean and Pops knew her
better than anyone. In secret, they complained about how tough she was, how inflexible she was and how callous she could be when it came time to put someone in the cemetery. They understood that she had to make difficult decisions.

  But they had wondered — in private, when not even Harlan was around — if Mama hadn’t occasionally put someone in the cemetery who didn’t truly deserve to be there.

  Willadean hoped Mister Fergus minded his Ps and Qs. She had ratcheted up her approval of him after the morning’s lessons. And she had also set her sights on discovering his secrets.

  ***

  “Only a half-bushel of mushrooms?” Mama said while they brushed their teeth in the kitchen. It was full dark now. Time for the holler to go to sleep. “And not one truffle?”

  Serena Jo’s face looked...ethereal...in the lantern’s glow. That was a good word. Her mama had the face of an angel, if not the resume.

  Willadean was glad Mama hadn’t said anything about their feeble harvest in front of the others. If she and Harlan needed a scolding, it usually took place just before bedtime. That way they could contemplate their misdeeds while they fell asleep and therefore incorporate the necessary lessons into their dreams. Mama put a lot of thought into the timing of everything she did.

  “Sorry. The pickings were slim, weren’t they Harlan?”

  Harlan signed his support.

  “How many of those hours in the woods were actually spent hunting for food and not for pixies?” Mama smiled. That was good. This wasn’t going to be a scolding.

  “Three,” Willa replied. It was true if you replaced the word pixies with pudgy X-shaped flying camera. Half-lies were always preferable to full lies. They carried a grain of truth and thus sounded more believable.

  “Then I suppose that’s okay. One of the reasons I let you two go into the forest is because you’re children, and children need to have adventures. As long as the...”

  “Benefits outweigh the risks,” Willadean finished.

  They both smiled.

  “So nothing risky happened today?” Mama was fishing now. She’d caught a whiff of something.

  Willadean planted an innocent expression on her face, then shook her head. She didn’t trust herself to speak. It might come out wrong. And besides, she answered most questions with a head nod or a head shake. A physical response was the correct move here.

  “Good. You remember our agreement?”

  “Yes, ma’am. If we see or hear people or see signs of people, we’re to run home immediately and tell you.”

  “Very good. All right, time for sleep, you two.”

  Mama ushered them into the bedroom. It was clean-sheets night, which Willadean always looked forward to. The line-dried linens smelled like trees and grass and wood smoke instead of Bounce dryer sheets, like back in Knoxville. She would enjoy a few moments of covert journaling before she blowing out the bedside candle. She would not mention anything about the drone.

  She couldn’t be sure that Mama never snuck a peek at the hidden diary.

  Chapter 4

  Fergus

  “Tell me about the cemetery,” Fergus said to Willadean after the morning’s lessons. She seemed to be intentionally lollygagging after class.

  He could mark ‘day three’ off his mental calendar. He usually avoided fidget monkeys, preferring to engage with mature minds and well-developed bodies. But to his surprise, he had discovered that teaching them was not only rewarding, it was fun. They were receptive. They didn’t measure or overanalyze their words before speaking. They still possessed a sense of wonder, unlike most adults. And there were a few shining stars in the bunch, despite the hillbilly veneers.

  The other children had scattered, including the boy twin. Fergus could not get a vibe from the silent one, but his internal radar blared whenever Willadean was nearby.

  “What’s to tell?” the golden-eyed cherub replied.

  She was a miniature doppelganger of the iron-fisted Serena Jo. Fergus sensed an astounding depth to the adolescent intellect. This little woodland fairy would need to be watched. Closely. He may have a Cthor-Vangt recruit on his hands.

  “I’m concerned about ending up there...permanently,” he said.

  “Play your cards right and you won’t.”

  They were sitting on a large flat rock on the outskirts of the village. The forest lay just a few yards behind them. The makeshift school house — formerly the squalid shanty of a now-diseased holler resident — was visible from their vantage, as were the comings and goings of the Mountain People. In anthropological terms, they were fascinating to watch; this pocket of humanity hadn’t missed a beat when a pandemic obliterated the modern world.

  “But what if I don’t understand the card game? I might inadvertently play the Ace of Spades when I should have gone with the Jack of Hearts.”

  Willadean snickered. It was a delightful sound, conveying genuine amusement alongside an unbridled sense of superiority. During her short life, the child had probably become used to being the smartest person in every room.

  “Best be careful when using the word spade,” she said.

  Fergus grinned. “Good one. You’re going to be a writer someday?”

  “Am a writer. I’m going to be a novelist someday.”

  “What will your books be about?”

  “Anything and everything.”

  “I see. Perhaps within these titillating tomes you could incorporate a diminutive yet handsome red-haired hero.”

  “Aren’t heroes supposed to be tall?”

  “Not always. Have you ever heard the expression dynamite comes in small packages?”

  “I have, and I never use it. Good writers don’t resort to clichés.”

  “But you said that thing about playing my cards right.”

  The blond eyebrows gathered together suddenly, then returned to their normal position. “True. I’ll strike it from my lexicon.”

  “Very well. So about the cemetery...”

  The eyes narrowed as they scrutinized him. It was during these moments that he clearly saw the familial tie between Skeeter, Serena Jo, and the little firecracker before him.

  He saw her gaze shift, surveying the village, then landing on Serena Jo’s back. The leader of Whitaker Holler was engaged in an intense conversation with one of the rifle-wielding men.

  There was a contingent of folks within the village whose primary job was to hunt wild game. The deer population exploded when all those weekend hunters had died off. Mountain Folk had been eating venison for hundreds of years, and they were practically tripping over deer now on every hunting expedition. Fergus was already growing a little weary of venison stew. Still, it was better than the processed or canned garbage he resorted to when traveling.

  “Come on. Quick. Before she turns around.”

  She sprinted into the woods. If he didn’t soon follow, he’d lose sight of the tattered jeans and ragged shirt in the sun-dappled forest. The vibrancy of the orange and red leaves deepened every day. Autumn in the mountains was lovely. It wasn’t turquoise water and amber-colored beaches lovely, but just as spectacular in its own way. Smoke from the perpetual water-boiling fires permeated the air, mingling with the natural fragrance of the forest. He breathed it in, glad that the privies lay downwind, then took off after the child.

  “Ssshhh,” she hissed moments later, gesturing for him to crouch down.

  He complied, waiting for further instruction while watching Willadean. She moved soundlessly through the brush, a wraith in threadbare denim and stained Keds.

  “I thought I heard something. Guess not,” she said a minute later, her voice returning to normal. “Come on. It’s this way.” Even when she wasn’t on high alert, her movements were fluid and noiseless. Willadean hadn’t been born in the holler, as revealed to him by Skeeter, but she had adjusted quickly to the primitive lifestyle and rural environment. She had taken to it natural-like.

  “What do you think the sound might have been?”

  She glanced back, g
iving him an appraising look. “Nothing.”

  “Really? It sounded like a motor to me.”

  That got a reaction. She twirled, covered the distance between them in two seconds, positioned herself inches from him, and then poked his chest with a forceful finger.

  “Do not say that. Not to anyone.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if Mama learns there might be other people out there, she won’t let us leave the village. We’ll be kept prisoner. No more exploring. No more treasure hunts. No more fun.”

  Fergus stifled a grin. What fate could be more horrible to a child?

  He made a twisting motion against his lips, the universal gesture for your secret is locked away in the vault. “Promise I won’t tell.”

  “That’s not good enough.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and withdrew a doll-sized knife. “You have to swear a blood oath. Hold out your hand, palm up.”

  He considered the directive, then extended his hand. She mirrored his gesture, revealing a small, pink scar on the meaty part of her palm.

  “Looks like this isn’t your first blood oath,” he said.

  “Never mind that.”

  She nicked him with the small blade, quick and shallow, then did the same next to her scar.

  “Shake, now. And swear while you’re doing it.”

  “I swear not to say anything about the motor sound I heard today.”

  The pigtailed head dipped once. “Come on.” She took off again.

  The childhood oath-swearing ritual was sacrosanct; that was evident. And even more interesting, he realized he would probably endure at least a half-hour of water-boarding before sharing the secret. Willadean had already proven to be worth the journey from Florida to Tennessee. And there were a few others in the holler whose mysteries he hoped to unravel. So far, he was enjoying himself immensely on this adventure. Experience had told him, however, not to become too comfortable.

  Shit has a way of hitting the fan when one least expects it.

  ***

  “This is it,” Willadean said after another twenty minutes.