by Alex Bledsoe
Nigel joined Canton in the darkness. Whatever the “show” was, it made Canton entirely forget any doubts about Nigel.
The illuminated, and apparently curtainless, window allowed them to see into a bedroom. There was a big mirror on the opposite wall, and a moving shadow on the ceiling told them someone was there. Then Tain Wisby appeared and raised the window all the way up despite the winter cold.
And she was naked.
“Now, that,” Canton said, “is a sight that don’t never get old.”
Nigel agreed with the sentiment. Tain unclothed was as spectacular as he’d imagined she would be, every part in perfect proportion and firm with youthfulness, strength, and beauty. She let the cold air blow over her and showed not the slightest bit of discomfort.
She sang in a voice like Norah Jones crossed with Lauren Bacall’s growl:
The winter it is past, and the summer’s come at last.
The small birds are singing in the trees
Their little hearts are glad oh but mine is very sad,
For my true love is far away from me.
Nigel felt fresh goose bumps that had nothing to do with the temperature ripple along his skin. He glanced at Canton, whose face was as rapt as a devout Catholic’s at Easter Mass. And honestly, that didn’t seem unrealistic. Tain was so beautiful, so unencumbered by societal shame or self-consciousness, that in many ways it was like seeing a goddess. He remembered in primary school they’d covered the story of the goddess Artemis and Actaeon, the unfortunate hunter who’d accidentally glimpsed her naked while she was bathing. She was so angry, she turned him into a stag, and his own hunting dogs killed him. Nigel wondered if he risked a similar fate.
“That’ll bring back the spring,” Canton murmured. “Sure enough it will.”
Then Tain put one bare foot on the sill and pulled herself up to stand.
“What is she doing?” Nigel asked.
Before Canton could answer, Tain crouched slightly, then jumped.
Nigel started to rush forward and cry out a warning, but before he could do either, Tain shot upward, into the night sky.
Nigel stared up at the stars, mouth agape. He blinked several times and shook his head. He looked at the snowy ground beneath the window, where Tain must have landed. But there was no sign of her.
“Great gosh a’mighty,” Canton said in wonder but not surprise. He took off the ski mask and revealed a broad, soft face with big eyes and a tangled mass of black hair. It was curly, like Bo-Kate’s, but cut shorter. “That girl’s so hot, if they ever sent her to the North Pole, Santa would end up living on a raft.”
Nigel said nothing.
Canton clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, if my sister’s in there, I reckon I better get in there, too. Memaw’s probably having a cow.”
Nigel just nodded and looked back up at the stars.
“You seem like a decent boy,” Canton continued, tightening his grip slightly. “I reckon you won’t be telling people you saw me out here starin’ at her titties, will you?”
Nigel forced his attention back to the moment. “You keep my secret, my friend, I’ll keep yours.”
“That’s the right answer,” Canton said. He shook Nigel once, demonstrating an immense physical strength, then released him and strode whistling toward the house.
Nigel continued to stare up at the sky. He thought he glimpsed a shadow, visible only where it blocked out the stars, of something that resembled a woman with enormous butterfly wings. But it was too fast for him to get a good look. Then, faintly, he heard the distant, plaintive fiddle.
He thought again about what Bo-Kate had told him of the Tufa. Suddenly it all registered anew with fresh seriousness, and more than a little fright.
What in the world—or in the Other World—had he gotten into?
10
1958 … ish
Byron Harley listened intently as the old man John played yet another sad, mournful tune on his fiddle. There was something familiar about the man, yet Byron couldn’t place it. He wasn’t someone he knew, nor was he another musician he’d played with on one of his many barnstorming package tours. In fact, he wasn’t really a very good musician at all. So how in the hell could Byron know him?
He shifted his bad leg and winced as the bent brace pinched him again. The pain momentarily cleared the haze from his mind, and he remembered anew what had happened to him that night. His urgency returned: he had to get to a phone, call the police, and most important, call Donna to let her, and sweet little Harmony, know he was all right. He didn’t want them to hear about the crash on the news or, worse, when reporters started flocking to his house.
John saw Byron’s grimace, paused in the middle of “Brandi Jones,” and said, “Something wrong with your leg, son?”
“Yeah, got an iron on it,” Byron said. He raised his foot to display the metal piece that went under his instep and took most of his weight when he walked. “Messed it up in a motorcycle accident a few years ago. Doctors wanted to cut it off, but I wouldn’t let ’em.”
“That’s doctors for you,” John said. “Sure enough, if they can’t get your money by making it well, they’ll try to get it by cutting it off.”
Byron chuckled in assent. Without any conscious realization, the haze enveloped him again, pushing all urgency aside. Sure, he needed to get moving eventually, but for right now, there was nothing wrong with hanging out with these gentlemen, sipping rockgut and listening to good music. Now he only thought about how much he instinctively distrusted doctors, and between the VA physicians and the ones he’d been able to afford since becoming a star, that distrust had grown exponentially. “Reckon the plane crash bent the frame on the iron, and it’s pinching me something fierce if I move wrong.”
John slapped his own leg. “When I was a young man, I was messing around and shot myself in the right foot.”
“What were you aimin’ at?” Eli asked.
“My left foot,” John said with a guffaw. “Anyway, it sure laid me up for quite a while, I tell you what. Still twinges when the weather’s about to change. And you know something else? I work with a one-legged guitar player. He’s got a wooden leg, so you can’t really tell unless he tries to move fast, but he ain’t got but one real one, I swear.”
Byron bent down and opened his own guitar case. “Well, maybe there’s something ’bout musicians that makes our legs act up. Sure explains Elvis, don’t it?”
John looked blank at the name. “Who?”
“Elvis Presley. From Memphis. ‘Hound Dog,’ ‘Heartbreak Hotel.’ You know … Elvis.”
John shook his head. “’Fraid not.”
This made Byron pause, and the fog again withdrew. How could anyone, no matter how isolated, not know about Elvis Presley?
He glanced at the other man, who idly scratched his dog’s head. What was up with that guy, anyway? Why was he dressed like a beggar from one of those movies about Scrooge and Christmas? Why was he out in the woods on a cold winter’s night? Why did he seem completely unsurprised by the plane crash, or Byron’s appearance?
“What’s going on up here?” a new voice said. “Eli, you getting people drunk on that paint thinner again?”
Another man strode into the clearing and sat down beside Eli, shaking his hand like an old friend. He was about fifty, with black gray-streaked hair and a big, white-toothed grin. He wore a thick coat made out of some plastic material Byron didn’t recognize; THE NORTH FACE was sewn over his heart. “Hey, y’all. I’m Marshall.”
“Byron,” he said, and offered his hand. “This here is John.”
“Always glad to meet a friend of Eli’s,” John said, and they also shook hands.
Marshall sat near the fire and unzipped his coat. “Sure glad to see that fire. My toes are turning into ice cubes. Reckon that jug could pass around my way?”
John handed it to Eli, and he passed it to Marshall. Byron couldn’t place what it was, but something seemed off about the newcomer, some detail that didn’t m
atch up. Marshall wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “So, how’s everybody doing?”
“Can’t complain,” Eli said. “If I did, nobody’d listen.”
“Beats working in a coal mine,” John said.
Marshall turned to Byron and asked, “And what brings you up on the mountain in the middle of the night?”
“My plane crashed,” Byron said, the words sounding strange in his ears. “Hit the mountain up thataway. Three people are dead.”
Marshall let out a long, low whistle. “That a fact. Reckon you’ll need the police, then.”
“Yeah,” Byron agreed.
“I done told him we’ll take him down in the morning,” Eli said. Byron thought he saw a look pass between him and Marshall.
“Well, that’s a good idea,” Marshall said. “I mean, they’re dead, right? Hurrying won’t help ’em, and if you fell down a gully, wouldn’t do you no good, either, would it?”
Byron nodded, because it did make sense. But Marshall’s very presence still seemed off somehow. What was it?
John scratched on his fiddle, idle notes that sailed through the cold night. “Anybody but me feelin’ squirrelly havin’ to sit still?”
Byron positioned his guitar across his lap. “Well, that corn liquor’s sure got me loosened up. What should we play?”
“You know ‘Old Dan Tucker’?” John asked.
“I reckon,” Byron said. His own Southern accent was growing more pronounced; the years of living in the Midwest, then traveling in both the army and for his career, had almost driven it out, but the moonshine and the company were bringing it back.
John scratched out the tune, and Byron joined in. After a few bars, the older man cleared his throat and sang:
Old Daniel Tucker was a mighty man,
He washed his face in a frying pan;
Combed his head with a wagon wheel
And he died with a toothache in his heel.…
The two of them joined in the chorus.
So, get out of the way, old Dan Tucker,
You’re too late to get your supper.
Supper’s over and breakfast cooking,
Old Dan Tucker standing looking.
John nodded at him. “You pick ’er up now, son.”
“All right,” Byron said. “Here’s how I learned from my granddaddy.
Old Dan Tucker was a fine old soul,
Buckskin belly and a rubber asshole,
Swallowed a barrel of cider down
And then he shit all over town.
By the time he’d reached the end of the second line, Byron realized who the old man was, but the profane lyrics had them all laughing so hard, they could barely play. When they finished the song, Byron said in a mix of awe and surprise, “John, are you by any chance Fiddlin’ John Carson?”
“I reckon I am,” John said with a grin.
“Well, goddamn,” Byron said. “I grew up listening to you. My daddy had a big ol’ stack of your records he brought up from Georgia when he moved to Minnesota. If us kids touched ’em without asking, he’d make us go cut a switch and then tan our hides good.” He extended his right hand. “It’s a real pleasure to meet you, sir.”
“Thank you, son,” John said as he returned the shake. “Pleasure to be met.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m on the Kerosene Circuit: whorehouses, moonshiners’ stills, and roadhouses. Played at a place called the Pair-A-Dice just down the road. Now, I have to ask you, what are you doing here? You’re not a half-bad picker yourself.”
“I get by,” Byron said. He felt shy, something he hadn’t experienced since he turned professional. But he could only imagine how excited his old man would be to hear that he’d met Fiddlin’ John Carson.
“You sure do make that violin sing, sir,” Marshall said.
“Violin?” John said in mock offense. “Son, I play the fiddle. See right here?” He turned it over and displayed the back of the instrument’s neck, which was painted bright red. “That’s how you know it’s a fiddle: Just like me, it’s got a red neck on it.” He held his straight face for a moment, then busted out laughing. The others did as well.
Marshall said, “Well, I got to be going. Peggy’ll kill me if I’m out too late. I’ll give the police a call when I get down, all right?”
“Can I come with you?” Byron said.
“Best if you just wait here, especially with that bum leg of yours.” He pulled on his coat. “Somebody’ll be here around daylight, I imagine.”
“Reckon so,” Eli agreed. Again there was a look between the two that Byron couldn’t interpret. He stared as the man waved and strode off into the night.
Byron turned to John, who positioned his fiddle under his chin. As he began to play, something nagged at the back of Byron’s mind. He couldn’t quite tease it forward, so he tried to ignore it. But it stayed there, mosquito-like, at the edge of his consciousness.
They played two more songs, old folk tunes that they both knew, and passed the jug again. As he handed it back to Eli, Byron remembered what had struck him as odd.
It was 1958. Fiddlin’ John Carson had died ten years earlier. He remembered his father telling him. So who was this man here, clearly nowhere near that old, who nonetheless sounded exactly like the voice and fiddle from those scratchy old records, and in fact claimed to be him?
John caught Byron staring at him. “What, son? You look like you done seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have,” Byron whispered.
11
2015
Bo-Kate opened her eyes. Something had startled her awake. She faced the wall and lay still, getting her bearings. She wasn’t in her Nashville mansion, she was …
Home.
She rolled over. The room was dark and heavy with cold air. “Nigel?” she said sleepily. “What are you—?”
“Ain’t your nigger,” a voice said.
She sat up straight then, jolted fully awake. Rockhouse Hicks stood in the room.
She barely made out his shape in the darkness, and she couldn’t see his face. But there was no mistaking the silhouette, the atmosphere of dread he always brought with him, or that voice. She grabbed a pillow to cover her nudity. She thought of the gun and knife in her purse. They were across the room, though, and he was between her and them.
Rockhouse said, “I want to show you something.”
He’s speaking, she realized. How can he do that? She tried to keep her own voice steady as she demanded, “What are you doing here? How’d you get in here?”
He laughed. “Ain’t no place can keep me out, Bo-Kate.”
“But you … I mean, you’re.…”
She still couldn’t see his face, but she felt his cruel smile in his words. “Yeah, I am. Thanks to you.”
Then she sorted it out. He wasn’t real. He was dead, and this was a haint.
She scooted back against the headboard and gathered the sheets around her. She was more scared than she’d ever been in her life, but she wasn’t about to show it. “What do you want?”
“To help you get what you want.”
“And why would you want that?”
He stepped closer. “You reckon because you came after me like you did, I want to get back at you, don’t you?”
She nodded.
“Well, I would. Except there’s others I want to get back at worse. And one of ’em is that little snot-bitch Mandalay.”
“I got no quarrel with her.”
“Well, you should. You want to take over my half of it, but why not take over it all?”
Bo-Kate said nothing. Could he read her mind now?
“Ah, I see you’re thinking about it. Well, let me tell you, it ain’t just about getting rid of Mandalay. If that’s all it was, I’d’a done that. You got to also make everybody else see that you’re stronger than her.” He chuckled. “Not just meaner.”
“And how do I do that?”
“You need a secret weapon. Now, get your pant
s on and I’ll show you where it is.”
“Turn around first,” she said.
He folded his arms. “Hell no. I intend to see this. You got nothing to be scared of anyway, my pecker ain’t no more real than the rest of me.”
She didn’t move for a long moment, then crawled out of bed and gathered her discarded clothes. She watched his face, hidden in shadow, as she dressed. “Get an eyeful?” she said as she finished buttoning her blouse.
“You’re a pretty girl, Bo-Kate. Always have been. Too bad you got sung out before we could get to know each other.”
“I knew all about you that I wanted to.”
“Now, don’t be mean. I’m here to help you, remember?”
“Where is Nigel, anyway? What did you do to him?”
“He’s out back with your brother and cousin.”
“No way.”
The haint shrugged. “Believe what you want. He ain’t my problem. Now, come on.” Even though she was looking right at him, she couldn’t spot the point when he dissolved into the darkness around him.
Without his presence, she immediately wondered if she’d hallucinated him. But no, she was wide awake, and while she might have imagined or dreamed his ghost, she’d never have invented his offer.
He could be luring her to her death, she knew. But she couldn’t pass up this chance. Even if she tried, nothing could stop him returning to her over and over. The only thing that dispelled a haint was letting it, or helping it, accomplish its purpose.
She opened the door and stepped into the hallway, and saw his barely visible form waiting at the head of the stairs.
She did not see Tain, sweaty and windblown, peek out from her darkened room, noting her cousin’s departure.
* * *
When Nigel got back to the room, Bo-Kate was gone. He undressed and waited in bed, but she never returned. Someone moved around in a distant part of the house, making the ancient wood squeak, but he heard no voices.
He turned on the bedside lamp and looked up at the canopy. Now he could make out the scene: fauns and sprites dancing to a little fairy band playing lutes, flutes, and bodhrans. At any other time it would’ve been annoyingly twee, but after what he’d just seen, he kept going back to Bo-Kate’s insistence that her family, that all the Tufa, were descended from fairies and could, if the parameters were right, assume their fairy forms, wings and all. Just as Tain had done.
