Revelator: A Novel

by Daryl Gregory

—

  alfonse drove them northwest until the sun was blasting the dirty windshield and the lines of the highway started to blur and jump.

  “Go to sleep,” Alfonse said. “I’ll get you home.”

  But she couldn’t rest. Not yet. The green suitcase lay on the floorboards.

  “Could you pull over?” she said.

  “There should be a gas station in a half hour,” he said. “Least, one you can use.”

  “It ain’t that. Up there’s good.” She pointed toward an empty field in a long, bare stretch of road.

  Her arm ached. She’d smoked the last of her Lucky Strikes two hours ago. And she was bone tired. If she’d been driving alone she would have run off the road by now. And if Alfonse had been driving alone, he’d have been pulled over by now. Georgia cops were worse than the ones in Tennessee.

  The car rolled to a stop. Stella opened the glove box and retrieved Alfonse’s jar of moonshine. Took a long pull, grateful for that hint of sweetness, right before the long sawtooth burn.

  She stepped out of the car, then reached back to pull the suitcase onto the seat. Opened it. On top of the pile was one of the newest notebooks, bound in bright leather. It had her name on it.

  “Fuck me.”

  “You all right?” Alfonse asked.

  “My cousin, fucking with me.” Veronica had placed this book there, deliberately, Stella was sure of it. She opened it to the first page.

  The Book of Stella

  Being the Fifth Volume of a New Revelation

  From the God in the Mountain to Stella Wallace,

  Recorded by Hendrick Birch, her Great Uncle

  with Commentary and Clarifications by Hendrick Birch

  She turned the page—and jerked her hand away. This was poison. She didn’t need those thoughts in her head.

  She carried the suitcase out to the field. Unscrewed the lid of the Mason jar and poured it over the pages, dousing them.

  Fuck you, Hendrick Birch. And fuck you, too, Ghostdaddy.

  She reached for her matches.

  * * *

  —

  she opened her eyes as the headlights hit the Welcome to Switchcreek sign.

  “Nearly there,” Alfonse said.

  She pulled herself upright. She’d slept most of the way since burning the manuscripts. Alfonse cut the headlights, coasted into Merle’s driveway, and stopped.

  Stella said, “After this, I think you better head to Myrtle Beach for a while.”

  “Might be a good idea. When we get back we can figure out how to build a new still.”

  “I’m out of the moonshine business. But you have my blessing to keep going. You’ve got the recipe.”

  “That’s crazy! I’m not going on without you. We make a good team, Stella. And we make damn good hooch. We’ll just lay low for a while.”

  “Myrtle Beach won’t be far enough for me—I’m headed out to sea. I don’t know when I’ll be back. Maybe never. I’ve got to take care of the girl.”

  He sat with that for a long moment, staring out the windshield.

  “Well, shit,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “It was a damn good marriage.”

  “The best.”

  She leaned over to him. Kissed his cheek. “My Hooch Husband.”

  “My Whiskey Wife.”

  * * *

  —

  the house was dark. She went in quiet, without knocking, so as not to wake anybody, and stepped carefully. She’d spent many nights walking these rooms in the thin hours and knew that blundering into a stack of books could trigger an avalanche.

  From the living room came a wall-rattling snore. Abby. The doors to Merle’s bedroom and Pee Wee’s bedroom were closed, but the one to Stella’s old room was ajar.

  Sunny lay in the bed under thick blankets, her long hair covering her face. Peaceful. Safe, for this moment at least. Stella had spent hours of the drive wondering how to protect her. They’d have to live somewhere as isolated as the cove had been. But nothing with caves—she wanted sunlight for the girl, sunlight and books and room to walk—yet so far away that she’d never run into a stranger. Wilderness like that was hard to come by. They might have to go west. Fuck, they might have to go to Alaska.

  Stella eased onto the bed. She wanted to touch the girl but was afraid to wake her. Sunny had to think it was Stella who killed her god, and Stella didn’t have the strength this minute to fight with her or try to explain. Stella didn’t have any answers.

  Something lay on the pillow next to her. It was a cross made of twigs and bound with yarn. No, not a cross. A stick figure.

  Someone touched her shoulder. Merle. “That’s one of her babies,” she whispered. “She was making them all day.”

  They stepped into the hall. “She’s been okay?” Stella asked. “She’s not…hurt anyone?”

  “Oh, Stella. No. No. She’s fine. Quiet, but fine. How are you doing?”

  “I’m fine, just tired. Is Abby…?”

  “My brother’s come through worse. Pee Wee took him to the doctor this afternoon, they set his arm in a cast, wrapped his ribs. He passed out on the couch after supper.”

  “Okay, good. I…” She didn’t know what to say next.

  “Sweetie. Sweetie.” Her tone was pitying. “Go in there and lie down next to Sunny. It’s okay, she’s been sleeping like a log.”

  Merle found her a nightgown. Stella moved the stick figure from the pillow and slipped into the bed. Sunny didn’t stir. She breathed easily, her body throwing off warmth. A little girl in a big bed. Her sister.

  * * *

  —

  someone was humming.

  Stella opened her eyes, winced. The room was bright with sunlight. She didn’t know how long she’d slept, but it was not enough. Her body felt like it had been pummeled.

  Sunny was sitting up next to her on the bed. She’d surrounded herself with a dozen of her little stick figures. She gazed at the one in her hand as if it were about to speak. Her humming was tuneless but happy, unmistakably happy.

  She’s beautiful, Stella thought. That skin, like ruby glass. Surely they could find a place for her.

  Stella touched the girl’s arm. “Hey.”

  The girl looked at her with those dark eyes. She put down her stick figure and gently touched Stella’s cheek. Stella could feel the bump on the girl’s palm, like a walnut under her skin.

  “We forgive you,” Sunny said. The words came out slow, as if she were translating from some more complex language. Her thumb caressed Stella’s cheek. “We’re here now. All the way here.”

  “Sunny?”

  “Yes,” she said. “And no.” She leaned close to Stella’s ear and whispered, “Can we tell you a secret?”

  Acknowledgments

  Both sides of my family came out of Cades Cove, Tennessee, and my ancestors were among those bought out when they created the national park. My father, Darrell Gregory, was a direct descendant of Russell Gregory, who was murdered by North Carolina Rebels at the tail end of the Civil War. My dad loved the history of Cades Cove, and loved hiking the trails of the park. He died during the writing of this book, and I’m sad I didn’t write faster so he could see it done.

  My mother, Thelma Gregory, put many good books in my hand that led to this strange one. Especially useful were two books by A. Randolph Shields, The Cades Cove Story and The Descendants of Robert and Margaret Emmert Shields of Cades Cove, Tennessee, as well as Born in a Split-Level House: Bert Garner and the Squirrels and Other Stories and Essays by Leslie G. Walker. Mom and Dad brought me to the cove early and often, and it’s why I love the place.

  My uncle, Clinton Barbara, is a skilled taxidermist whose house is a wonder, crowded with the results of his craft. When I was ten, he gave me a stuffed raccoon head that hangs ov
er my mantel today. My uncle is skilled in another craft that is central to this book. One afternoon in 2019, we sat down to sample his wares, and he shared an important recipe, revealed a few secrets of the trade, and told some stories about his brushes with the law.

  Speaking of sampling wares, Jack Skillingstead and I spent many evenings at West Seattle’s Whisky West and even more afternoons at Uptown Espresso (“Home of the Velvet Foam”), complaining about how very difficult it was to be a writer. I couldn’t have written this book without him.

  Liza Trombi had to put up with a lot from me during the writing of this book. She read many drafts, and early in the process she bought me the book Cades Cove: The Life and Death of a Southern Appalachian Community 1818–1937 by Durwood Dunn, which was hugely valuable. Other folks read various drafts and offered their help when I needed it. My thanks to Nancy Kress, Chris Farnsworth, Stephanie Feldman, Dave Justus, Emma Gregory, Ian Gregory, and Ysabeau Wilce, as well as my Bay Area writers’ group: Lisa Goldstein, Derrend Brown, Eliot Fintushel, Susan Lee, Lori White, Gary Shockley, and David Cleary.

  A team of publishing professionals put the finishing touches on this book. Many of them are unknown to me, but I’d like to thank the copyediting and proofreading team of Lisa Silverman, Annette Szlachta-McGinn, and Jane Elias, who saved me from many mistakes, and the fine artist Dan Hillier, who created the artwork for the hardcover while listening to an audio version of the book. Dan, your work is beautiful.

  Finally, many thanks to my literary agent, Seth Fishman, and my media agent, Flora Hackett, for their early enthusiasm for this book when I was still lost in the woods, and to Tim O’Connell, Anna Kaufman, and Robert Shapiro at Knopf, who pointed the way to daylight.

  a note about the author

  DARYL GREGORY is the author of Spoonbenders, Afterparty, The Devil’s Alphabet, and other novels. His novella We Are All Completely Fine won the World Fantasy Award and the Shirley Jackson Award.

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