Revelator: A Novel

by Daryl Gregory

The frame houses were all alike but for their paint, long and narrow with peaked-roof porches. The house she was looking for was easy to spot, however, because the bushes out front were near-exploding with pink and white flowers. Mrs. Bowlin liked her camellias. What she didn’t like was Stella.

  Stella parked the car on the street. She waved at the Black man sitting on the porch across the street—one of Alfonse’s uncles—and he returned the wave. He worked for the company, too, as did every Bowlin she’d met. Alfonse’s grandfather had joined up thirty years ago, after Alcoa sent recruiters across the South to round up Blacks and Mexicans to do the dirtiest, hottest jobs in the company, whether digging bauxite ore in their mine in Arkansas or working here at the reduction plant, turning that ore into alumina powder and then aluminum. The pot rooms where they poured the molten aluminum were the hottest work areas in the plant, and splashes of metal could kill a man or, almost worse for his family, wound him so grievously the company would fire him. The Mexicans were all but gone completely by the time the plant unionized, just over ten years ago. Now the Black members had a better choice of jobs, and better pay, though still not equal to a white man’s. It was still America.

  No wonder that Alfonse, about ten days after he met Stella, quit his job at the mine and became a full-time moonshiner. That made Stella either popular or unpopular with each family member, depending on their attitude toward alcohol.

  Stella walked past the camellias and knocked at the door. Mrs. Bowlin answered, already scowling. “What are you doing here, Stella Wallace?” She glanced pointedly at the bag in Stella’s hand. “I won’t have you bringing liquor around my house.” She was a small, thin-boned woman, but heels and an expensive updo made her taller than Stella. She was a teacher at Charles M. Hall School and wore A-line dresses so starched they could have been fabricated in the Alcoa plate room.

  “Is Alfonse home?” Stella asked.

  “I told you I didn’t want you around here. You’re a bad influence.”

  “I wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t an emergency. This is the last time you’ll see me.”

  “Last time?”

  “I promise,” Stella said. “And I’m not carrying whiskey.”

  Mrs. Bowlin looked her up and down. Nothing she saw impressed her. Finally she said, “He’s out back.”

  * * *

  —

  the one-car garage was set thirty feet from the house. The door was up, and Alfonse was bent over the engine of his Chevy. He’d always been a meticulous mechanic, making sure his trip car was ready to burn rubber and break policemen’s hearts.

  “Your mother just tore into me,” Stella said.

  He chuckled. “Bless her heart.” Set his wrench on a cloth draping the fender and straightened. He was wearing an old tan Alcoa workshirt. His father’s name, antoine, was stitched over the pocket.

  “I haven’t got much time,” Stella said. “I’ve gotten myself into some trouble.”

  Alfonse raised an eyebrow. “Moonshine trouble?”

  “Not as such,” Stella said. “You remember the girl?”

  “The one who opens coffins.”

  “I changed my mind about letting her go to Georgia. I’ve got her over at the farm, but I can’t stay there forever. I’m going to have to go on the road with Sunny, find a place to stay.”

  “On the road? Why? Because you’re taking custody?”

  “That’s what I’d call it. Sheriff Whaley might call it kidnapping. You know him and my uncle is pals.”

  “So you’re going to Myrtle Beach.”

  It was their private slang for laying low. Every time an unfriendly cop seemed to be hanging around one of their favorite spots, or a customer got caught with a few gallons of their hooch, one of them would say, I was thinking of going to Myrtle Beach, and then they’d shut down the farm and stay out of sight for a few days.

  “Maybe you should go too,” Stella said. “Just for a while.” She handed him the carpetbag. “This is the working cash. I took out some, but the rest is yours. When you feel like it’s all right, I’d like you to start up the farm, and keep it running, as you see fit.”

  “Stella, no.” He tried to give back the bag and she raised her hands.

  “Hump will be able to run the batch, if you can find him. He bailed out on me again. I thought he’d have gone out to the farm this morning, to run a new the batch, but no. I’m sorry to put you in this spot. But you know the routine—you can run the still.”

  “Not like you. Come on, let me help you out. You don’t have to run.”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor. Though I’ve never understood what that means.”

  “It means fuck those crackers. If they bother you, you know I’ve got your back. Last time I didn’t even get to whip my pistol out.”

  “I already may have taken a shot at them.”

  Alfonse was amazed and happy. “You kill that one boy? The one that looks like a chalk drawing of a chalk drawing?”

  “Brother Paul. He’s alive, but angry.”

  “Let’s go talk it over with him.”

  “I have to do this on my own,” Stella said. “But there is something you can do for me.”

  “That TNT.”

  She was relieved. Alfonse had always been the easiest person to talk to.

  She said, “Soon as you can get it. Please.”

  “I reckon this car could make it to Chattanooga pretty quick.”

  “Oh God. Thank you. I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t need it.”

  “Just don’t tell my mother about it,” Alfonse said. “She’ll kill both of us.”

  * * *

  —

  she was two minutes from the farm when she saw the radio car. The sheriff’s vehicle sat at the fork in the road, lights off, facing her.

  Stella slowed her car, trying not to panic. If the car was here, the police knew where the farm was—or at least knew it was somewhere close to here. Stella could drive past the cop to the left, and that would take her to the back way to the farm, to try to grab Sunny. But that would tell them exactly where the farm was, and she couldn’t picture getting away.

  Or, go right. That road led to the farm’s front door, where Sunny was hopefully watching the window. The girl could hide, and Stella could keep driving, maybe lose them in the back roads, and circle back for her.

  Or she could slam on the brakes, wheel about, and run, back to the city.

  None of those were good choices. She rolled to a stop, a hundred feet from the squad car. Kept her foot on the clutch. Waited.

  “Come on,” she said quietly. “Make your move.”

  The sheriff car’s headlights flicked on, filled her windshield. Stella gripped the gearshift in one hand, the wheel in the other.

  The car eased toward her. She thought, If he fires, I can duck. Go right.

  A few yards from her front bumper, the police car turned, came up on her driver’s side.

  Bobby Reed, Sheriff Whaley’s deputy, sat behind the wheel. He glanced at her, then drove on.

  She watched his taillights in her rearview mirror.

  “Shit.” Stella punched the accelerator. “Shit shit shit.”

  * * *

  —

  the lights were on, the big room silent. No cops, not yet.

  “Sunny!” Stella shouted. “We’ve got to leave! Now!”

  Was she hiding under the floor? Stella ran to the desk, then saw her on the other end of the room, by the supplies—she’d been partially hidden by the stacks of sugar. The girl’s back was to her.

  “Sunny! Hey. We got to go.”

  She didn’t turn around. Her arms were stretched in front of her. Stella walked quickly toward her, then froze.

  A mass of glossy threads blossomed from each of the girl’s palms. The tendrils, a yard long, caught the l
ight like spun glass, weaving and unweaving about each other. Impaled on the frayed end of one mass was a small animal—a field mouse. The creature thrashed silently.

  “Sunny. Sunny, look at me.”

  The girl glanced over her shoulder. Her expression was unreadable.

  “Put it out of its misery,” Stella said. “Please.”

  The girl sighed. A twitch of the threads and the animal went still, its tiny legs splayed in the air. Another twitch and the body slipped free and dropped onto the floor. It didn’t move.

  Stella stared at the mouse. Remembered the doe, its black eye gazing back at her.

  The girl turned. The gleaming filaments danced in the air. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

  “Put them away. Can you put them away?”

  “What’s the matter, Stella Wallace? They bother you?”

  “Please.”

  She lifted her right hand, and the gossamer vanished—pulled back inside her. Her face was sad. “Motty was scared of them, too.” The girl stepped toward her. The tendrils from her left hand drifted ahead of her like seaweed in a current.

  “Sunny, listen to me. Those come from the Ghostdaddy, but they ain’t you, you understand? Just because they’re in you don’t mean—”

  “Shush. Of course they’re me. As much as my arm. Motty told me this big story—you were my mama, and a boy named Lincoln Rayburn was my daddy, la-di-da. But I always knew that wasn’t true. I always knew I was the God’s daughter.” Her mouth worked, then she shook her head. “The first day I met it, I knew.”

  Stella took a step back. “You’ve gone into the cave?” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Didn’t have to. It came to see me. Couldn’t wait.”

  “But did you—did it touch you? On your hands.”

  The filaments danced over Sunny’s hand. “I know what communion is, Stella Wallace. It ain’t happened yet, but I’m ready. I knew as soon these came out of me.”

  “That’s not possible,” Stella said. “Your palms. I touched them.”

  “Aw, that’s nothing.” Sunny held up her right hand. The skin there looked smooth as glass. “I can do things none of y’uns could do. That’s why I’m the one who’s going to save the God.”

  The strands drifted close to Stella’s face.

  Stella flinched, but held herself from moving back again. “Could you put those away?”

  “I read the books, and I know it needs me—right now. Ain’t no time to wait for no age of accountability. Nobody’s going to stop me. Motty couldn’t.”

  Stella saw it all in a flash. Motty threatening the girl. Sunny screaming back at her. Motty commanding Abby to cover the hole. The next fight.

  Motty could be violent when pushed. And Stella knew now that Sunny could, too. It ran in the family like their painted skin.

  “You killed her,” Stella said.

  Sunny threw out her hands. The filaments whipped the air. “I didn’t know she’d go all crazy!” Tears filled the girl’s eyes. “She was stopping me from doing my duty!”

  All this time, Stella thought the God had done it. Told herself it couldn’t be Sunny; those unmarked palms were proof.

  “You need to listen to me,” Stella said. She hated the shakiness in her voice, but there was nothing she could do for it. “You need to put those away, and we have to go.”

  Behind Sunny, the window lit up with flashing lights. Multiple squad cars.

  The girl turned her hand and the threads vanished into her skin. “Uncle Hendrick’s come to take me home.”

  17

  1938

  The mountain was frantic with new growth. The suddenly warm days made every bush and tree light up with green. Wildflowers punched out of the earth.

  The nights were still cold, but that didn’t stop Stella and Lunk. In the two months since her fourteenth birthday, Stella had snuck out to meet him once a week, sometimes twice, and hike a ways up the mountain. It was a relief to get away from Motty, and get away from herself. Lunk had other things on his mind.

  One night at the end of May, she told him she wanted to go way up, halfway to the bald, an hour’s walk. At a certain clearing they laid out an old Rayburn family wool blanket, then pulled it up to wrap around their shoulders. Stella was staring through a break in the trees at a gauzy, cloud-draped moon. Lunk was looking at her. His arm lay across her back, under her coat, and his fingers grazed the side of her breast, though she could barely feel them through her shirt and bra. His other hand was on her bare knee. She could feel that, all right. Every few minutes his hand crept a little higher.

  “Why’d we come all the way up here?” he asked.

  “No reason,” Stella lied. Then: “You know, my mama was named after the moon.”

  “Her middle name?”

  “No, Lena. Selene. She was the goddess who drove her chariot across the night sky.”

  “Huh.” He didn’t know where to go with that. “It’s awful secluded.”

  “I didn’t think you’d mind the walk.”

  “I’ll go anywhere with you, Stella.”

  “You’re sweet.” She thought about stepping to the edge of the rock, just to get a closer look at that moon.

  “You okay?” he asked. “You seem all…”

  “I’m all right.” She didn’t want to be sad in front of him. She hadn’t told him what she’d learned about Lena’s death. Hadn’t told him how she couldn’t shake the picture of her mother lying there, wasting away, for day after day…No. Lunk had nothing to do with any other part of her life, and she liked it that way. Her next communion was coming soon, and she planned to make big changes. Uncle Hendrick and the elders wouldn’t be happy with her. But she had to do that on her own, and Lunk couldn’t help even if he wanted to.

  “Here,” she said. “I brought something to keep us warm.”

  The jar was in her pocket. She fished it out, unscrewed it. Took a sip. Let out a long “Ah…” like Abby did.

  Lunk was about to lose his mind. He stammered for a few seconds and Stella said, “You’re an older man, you never took a sip of moonshine?”

  “Never.”

  “Then you’re long overdue.” She took his hand off her knee and put the jar in it. “Go easy.”

  He took a pull, then immediately coughed and spat. “Good lord!”

  “That’s Barbwire Honey. It’ll put hair on your chest.”

  She cajoled him into another sip. He held it down this time. “Sure does burn.”

  “Told you it would warm you up.”

  They sat for a while, passing the jar. There was an image in her mind, vivid as these trees, the moon. Lena, dressed like a pretend Indian girl, standing on that cliff.

  Lunk was oblivious to ghosts. Soon enough his hand was back on her knee.

  “You think you’ll ever leave the cove?” he asked her.

  No, she thought. Never. The God lived here. Why would she leave? She wouldn’t fail, like Lena. She knew this in her bones.

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “We’ll have to. They’re kicking everybody out.” She couldn’t argue with that. Only a couple of folks had a life lease like Motty. He said, “My daddy’s family has land in Townsend. Not as big as what he has here, but enough. He’s going to build a house there, and one for me, and one for my sister.”

  “Rayburn Estates.”

  Lunk laughed. “I suppose so. I’d have room for a family.”

  “Would you now?”

  “I’ll become an elder and start preaching, and you—”

  “You’re so determined to be a preacher. I don’t get it.”

  “It’s a calling. When God knocks on the door, you gotta answer.”

  “What if it’s the devil?”

  “I’d know if it was the devil.”

  “So y
ou’ve got a peephole. Smart move.”

  “You shouldn’t joke about Satan,” he said. He believed in Lucifer as firmly as he believed in God.

  “I just hope you can tell the difference,” Stella said. “Both are supernatural fellas looking to own your soul. You might get confused.”

  “Goodness gracious, Stella.” He decided to laugh. “You’re definitely called to be a theologian.”

  Lunk loved to talk and talk. And she was grateful for the distraction.

  He shook his head, took another sip. “You’re the smartest girl I ever met. God gave you those smarts and it would be a sin to waste ’em. He wants you to go to Maryville College and become—”

  “Maryville, not University of Tennessee?”

  “Definitely Maryville, He’s very clear on this.” Lunk was getting downright hilarious. “Then you marry me and become a preacher’s wife.”

  “Hold up. God gave me these smarts, but He still doesn’t want me to speak in church?”

  “We’d work it out.”

  “Tell you what, I’ll let you come to my church, and you can sit there quiet.”

  “You going to start your own church?”

  “Why not? It don’t look that hard.”

  “If I had my own church I’d let you talk.”

  “Ha.”

  “I would! Can I tell you something? I never told this to anybody.”

  “All right.”

  “Sometimes when I’m sitting in church, I look out across all the rows of people and I think…” He slowly shook his head. “I think, I’m just going to stand up and run over the top of the pews.”

  Stella laughed and lost her balance, pulling the blanket off him. The jar bounced away.

  “Come on now, it’s cold!” He helped her up.

  “I’d like to see you do that,” she said.

  “I can picture it, so clear. I’m sitting there, listening to Daddy, and I can see myself atop those pews and I start to think, Oh no, it’s going to happen. Sometimes my legs start to tremble because they’re getting ready to jump up. It’s like I can’t stop myself.”