Willa translated.
Fergus nodded. “Exactly. Well done, Harlan.”
“You think I’m over-confident?” she asked, first glancing at Pops who wore a suspiciously neutral expression.
“Folks who are especially smart and self-assured need to be careful just like everyone else. There will always be someone who is smarter and faster and sneakier. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But...” she began.
“Time to head home, kids. Your mama will be looking for you.” Pops stood and stretched. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”
As much as she loved Friday evenings at Pops, she loved this part the best. With their grandfather sandwiched between them, she and Harlan meandered through the village toward home. It was Harlan’s turn to carry the oil lamp, which created a cheerful sphere of light to guide them. The chilly air coaxed goosebumps to blossom on her bare arms.
“Shoulda worn a jacket, Doodlebug,” Pops said, using an endearment he hadn’t spoken in months. Something about living in the holler seemed to inspire insect-themed nicknames.
“Yep. It’s getting cold. I’m not looking forward to winter. It’s damn boring when we’re holed up for weeks at a time.” Pops let her get away with an occasional cuss word.
Harlan nodded in agreement. She noticed he’d had the foresight to wear a jacket, which reminded her that apparently Fergus believed her brother to be wise for his age. She had to admit, the parable stung. Was she over-confident? Was she not also wise beyond her years? Or was there a difference between being wise and being smart?
“Maybe we can come up with some fun winter projects,” Pops was saying. “Let’s start working on it now so we have a plan come first snowfall. I could teach you how to make furniture.”
“Boring,” Willa said. “No offense, Pops. Instead of furniture, maybe you could teach us how you do that thing...” She knew she was venturing into a sensitive area. Her grandfather did not like to talk about his mysterious talent for knowing stuff.
He didn’t even bother responding. Subject closed.
“Fine. Well, at least keep your antenna up when you’re in the vicinity of a couple of twin brothers,” she whispered now. “You know who I mean.”
“Why?” Pops demanded. “You hear somethin’?”
She relayed the overheard conversation. Pops’ scruffy face showed dismay at the news.
“That’s exactly what I been worried about. Where were you when you heard this?” He had picked up on the part of the story that she had intentionally left out.
“Does it matter?”
“If I have to talk to your mama about it, she’ll want to know.”
“Ugh, Pops. Don’t go there. Please.”
“Gotta. Were you two past the perimeter?”
“I wish I hadn’t said anything,” she grumbled.
Pops was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Don’t tell your mama about this yet. Let me do some diggin’ first.”
“Are you afraid she’ll plant Everett in the cemetery?”
“We know how she is. Just keep mum for now. Got it?”
She and Harlan nodded. Mama’s lantern beckoned from the front porch just around the bend. Glimpses of it glowed between the other darkened cabins now. Willa plastered a disarming, innocent expression on her face just before they arrived.
Chapter 7
Fergus
“Those kids are quite special,” Fergus said when Skeeter returned.
Interacting with the twins had been entertaining as well as enlightening. Harlan was still a bit of a mystery, but he sensed an intellect there that may rival the sister’s. Willadean was a pint-sized genius, no doubt, but time would tell whether she qualified for a place in Cthor-Vangt. Fergus must first discover evidence of scythen — the ability to communicate telepathically. Then he would look for signs of langthal, the talent of rapid self-healing. If she proved to be a rare gem like Jessie from Arizona, who had saved his life with her healing touch, it would guarantee admission into Cthor-Vangt and all that place had to offer. Langthal, and enhanced langthal such as Jessie possessed, weren’t prerequisites for recruits, but they propelled a person to the top of the list.
“Yep. They surely are,” Skeeter replied, closing the cabin door behind him.
The two had settled into an easy friendship since Fergus started sleeping on the old man’s floor. Fergus sensed Skeeter enjoyed the company, and Fergus was thrilled by such clean, cozy accommodations from which to conduct his mission. The notion prompted another: he was overdue in sending an update not only to Cthor-Vangt, but also to his beloved Amelia. The thought of the mental tongue-lashing he would receive when he sent his scythen south to Florida made him smile.
“Somethin’ I want to talk to you about,” Skeeter continued.
Lamplight softened the wrinkled face into a slightly younger version. Skeeter had likely been a handsome fellow in his youth; his beauty queen offspring confirmed that assumption. Most folks who hadn’t succumbed to Chicxulub tended to be more physically attractive than the general population prior to the pandemic. Fergus had to admit, he didn’t hate that many of the remaining women were so beautiful.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?” he said, stripping down to his boxer briefs and a threadbare t-shirt. If he stayed until winter, he would need to see about wrangling a pair of long underwear.
“You get the feeling folks here are content?” Skeeter asked.
“You mean with your daughter as their de facto leader? I’m reading between the lines.”
“I’d say she’s more than just the de facto leader. Don’t act so surprised that I know that word. I’ve been learning lots from Willa these last few years. I don’t want to sound uppity, so I keep much of it to myself. But sometimes I need to use some of them fancy words and arrange ‘em just right to make my point. ‘Specially to outsiders who don’t talk like holler folks.”
Fergus smiled. That explained Skeeter’s sporadic forays into proper grammar. “Was there an actual election placing her officially in that role?”
Skeeter shrugged. “Sort of. After she handed out a bunch of the supplies she’d brought, people were so excited with the gifts that they took a vote then and there. She won by a landslide. Didn’t hurt that she’d passed out a few fifths of Wild Turkey before.”
Fergus chuckled. “Clever woman. That makes her official in my book. People are always going to grumble about authority figures. From what I can tell, your daughter is doing a fine job. I’ve seen much worse in my travels. People here should appreciate how lucky they are.”
“Maybe you could spread that around a bit more. For the most part, everyone here has lived in the holler all their lives. Just like me. There’s only a handful of folks who wandered in and were allowed to stay.”
“Wait a minute. You’re telling me that almost all of the hundred or so souls currently residing in Whitaker Holler are indigenous?”
Skeeter nodded. “Yes. And I know what that word means, too.”
“How many of the residents died from the plague?”
“Not many. Maybe a dozen or so.”
“That’s extraordinary! Do you know what the mortality rate of Chicxulub...Chicksy was?”
“The news fellers never said, but Serena Jo told us it was pretty bad out there.”
“It was over ninety-nine percent.”
“Not here, it weren’t.”
Fergus’s mind was spinning. He and others at Cthor-Vangt had suspected these mountain people were special, but they had no idea how special. The vastly superior survival rate Skeeter alluded to meant that a disproportionate percentage of the residents possessed the genetically-engineered DNA that had saved them.
And Fergus thought now he knew why.
“Lots of folks are related to each other here in the holler, aren’t they?” he asked.
“Oh, yes. Just about everyone is kinfolk here. We don’t marry our sisters or brothers like those rednecks in Arkansas, but we ain’t opposed to marrying our s
econd or third cousins. Don’t see nothin’ wrong with that.”
Of course.
“That...uh practice, shall we call it, is probably what saved you all. Your ancestors passed on the magic gene that kept you from succumbing to the plague. Did you know Chicksy was genetic in nature?”
Skeeter shook his head. “Nope. Serena Jo never mentioned that when she came home from Knoxville.” There was that faint tone of disapproval associated with Knoxville that Fergus had heard before.
“I don’t think it was common knowledge. You didn’t want her to go to Knoxville in the first place, did you? You said there was a reason folks didn’t leave the holler...” He trailed off, prompting Skeeter to elaborate.
But the old man didn’t take the bait. “I reckon it’s time for bed. I’ll see about getting you some warmer clothes in the morning. If I forget, just remind me. I been forgettin’ more and more things these days.” He blew out the lantern.
Fergus grinned in the dark. Skeeter possessed a healthy dose of scythen, no doubt. But he was too old and not terribly exceptional in other areas to be considered as a recruit for Cthor-Vangt. A few other holler residents, however, had potential. He was enjoying himself immensely on this mission, and the picturesque setting scored bonus points. The only thing he missed about Florida and Cthor-Vangt was Amelia.
He closed his eyes and sent his scythen south.
***
“Willadean, may I have a word with you?” Fergus said following a communal breakfast of grits and ham the next morning. He was relieved of schoolmaster duties for the next two days. The weekend, now a pointless temporal construct, would provide extra free time to work on both short-term and long-term goals. The latter: isolating and testing potential recruits. The former: discovering whether the children had heard or seen the drone again.
“Sure. What’s up?”
“First, what’s behind your back?”
“Nunya.”
Fergus chuckled. “That’s not a respectful response to an adult who is not only your teacher, but your Friday-evening raconteur.”
Sudden interest sparked in the golden eyes. Of course she took the bait. A born writer couldn’t resist learning a new word.
“What’s a...rackunTER? How’s it spelled?”
“Quid pro quo. Tell me what’s behind your back and I’ll give you the spelling and definition of that most excellent word, a word that any author worth her salt includes in her repertoire.”
“Fine. It’s a sheet of paper from a big drawing pad. We brought a bunch of art supplies with us. Kept Harlan and me distracted on the drive here. We were just little kids then, you know.”
He could imagine the harrowing drive from a populated city during the aftermath of the pandemic. Had Serena Jo the foresight to leave early, before the bloody, violent end? He resolved to discover the details later.
“What do you plan to draw with only one black magic marker? Are you into abstracts? You’ll need a red marker if you intend to sketch my portrait.”
Willadean gave him a friendly grin that quickly turned sly. “Our agreement was only about what was behind my back. It didn’t include what I’m going to do with it.”
“Sneaky cheeky monkey. Very well. I’ll give you raconteur as well as insouciance. It’s Frenchy, too. Do you know it?”
“No. And I like the sound of it. Agreed, but you’ll have to swear another blood oath.”
He sighed, then extended his hand, palm up as before. His previous blood-oath incision had just scabbed over. The child’s palm, now open next to his, exposed only a barely perceptible scar, not a recent wound.
It seemed the child possessed langthal. Fergus smiled.
“What are you grinning about?”
“Nunya,” he replied.
“Fine. Okay, here we go.” Instead of the doll-sized Swiss Army knife, a rather lethal looking blade flicked out of its black casing and made quick work of summoning blood for the oath. The blade was so sharp, Fergus didn’t feel a thing.
“Impressive, isn’t it?” she said, seeing his surprise. “Mama gave Harlan and me new knives last night. We were due. It’s a more dangerous world now, you know.”
Fergus nodded. A wave of sadness washed over him, but he quickly shoved it back into that compartment of his soul in which he stored inconvenient emotions.
She said, “Do you agree to keep secret what I’m about to tell you?”
“I do.”
“Mingle, mingle, mingle, and done.” She wiped her hand on the grass, then stood. “The person who flew the drone dropped off a load of food. And Pop-Tarts! Cricket is in hog heaven. Poor little bumpkin has never had them before.”
Fergus’s eyes flew wide. “Willadean, please tell me you didn’t eat any of it.”
“It’s fine. Cricket tested it first before we could stop him, so I let him be the guinea pig. We all survived.”
“Oh, dear. What does that have to do with the paper?”
“There was a note on the pallet. It said if we wanted more food, we should leave two big rocks in the clearing, which we did. But I figured next time, I’d leave a note next to the rocks, written in letters large enough for the drone operator to read.”
“This is incredibly dangerous, Willadean. You must know that.”
“I don’t see why.”
“What if the drone belongs to a psychopath who intends to eventually poison you once your guard is down?”
“Or maybe it belongs to a nice person who wants to help kids?”
“There are some awful people in the world, young lady.”
She shrugged. “Why go to all this trouble bringing us food if he just wants to kill us? That doesn’t make sense.”
Fergus pondered how to delicately phrase his next question, then decided to simply be blunt. “What if he’s a pedophile who is training you to return to the same isolated, dangerous section of the forest where your kinfolk never go? Do you know what a pedophile is?”
“Of course I know! Good grief, Mister Fergus. That is even more ridiculous than the poison scenario. Ever heard of Occam’s Razor?”
Fergus sighed. “Of course. The simplest explanation is usually the correct one.”
“Exactly. This guy...or maybe it’s a lady, but my gut says it’s a guy...is just trying to help some kids. He thinks we’re all alone in this big forest and probably starving to death. Maybe we’re doing him a favor by eating his food, so he feels like he’s helping.”
She made a valid point. “What do you intend to write on your note?”
Willadean grinned. “I’m going to ask for candy.”
“Very well. I can see there’s no stopping you, but at least let me go with you.”
“No can do. Mama won’t let you past the perimeter.”
“You’re not supposed to venture past, either.”
“Yeah, but, we’re small and fast and quiet.”
“I can be all those things too.”
There was that appraising look again. “You’re definitely small, I’ll say that for you. But what if you’re caught? I don’t want you to end up in the cemetery, Mister Fergus. I’ve taken a liking to you,” she added with an affectionate pat to his back.
“And I, you. That’s why I’m worried. Just get me past the perimeter, that’s all I ask. I’m going to find out who is flying that drone. I don’t care if it’s risky.” He had other reasons for wanting that information. He hadn’t been lying when he’d told Serena Jo that their small pocket of humanity was the future. These special Mountain People of Whitaker Holler must be allowed to survive and thrive, and he needed to make sure the drone pilot didn’t pose a threat to their tenuous existence. Equally important, he must keep potential Cthor-Vangt recruits safe. And the third reason was one he no longer bothered to deny to himself.
He had become addicted to the adrenaline rush presented by precarious situations. Even making love to beautiful women didn’t get his engine revving like prevailing against insurmountable odds or treacherous adversaries. These past
few years of adventuring topside, away from Cthor-Vangt, had been the most thrilling of his incredibly long life.
For the first time ever, he wondered if he could go back there.
***
“Shhh!” Willadean hissed to the unremarkable boy she had insisted they bring along.
So far, the only quality Cricket seemed to offer was that of unquestioning loyalty. Fergus knew the boy’s intellect and motor skills were barely average. Whatever sliver of creative genius or savant talent lurking beneath the grubby façade had yet to manifest. But the twins included him in all their adventures, and Willadean would brook no argument about that today.
Harlan led the group, and Fergus saw why. If the sister moved through the forest like a wood sprite, the brother navigated the dense timber, briar-infested undergrowth, and insidious poison ivy like dandelion fluff floating on the breeze. Fergus soon gave up trying to follow Harlan, and kept his eyes on Willadean instead. How Cricket managed to keep pace with the silent twin was a mystery. Perhaps there was a latent gift buried in there somewhere after all.
Willadean suddenly crouched low. Cricket had done the same a half-second earlier, seemingly acting on a directive from Harlan.
“This is the tricky part,” Willadean whispered, swiveling her head to the side and funneling the words behind her with a cupped hand. Fergus brought up the rear, the safest place for the person who would be shot on sight if discovered by Serena Jo’s perimeter guards. “Hope your knees are in good shape.”
For the next half-hour, they scrambled, crawled, snaked, and wriggled through a section of the forest few adults would have attempted. Exactly why the children had selected the area.
“Holy crap,” Fergus said when Willadean finally gave him the all-clear sign. “Was that quicksand?”
“Not quicksand, silly, but it is a bit swampy next to that stream we crossed.”
“Children, please promise me you’ll not attempt this passage during the rainy season or the spring thaw. I have a feeling that Quicksand Creek transforms into Raging River.”
What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series Page 7
