The Hum and the Shiver

by Alex Bledsoe

  The road dead-ended at their driveway, and the gate was open. He parked along the fence; after all, he hadn’t been invited. Then he took a deep breath, checked his hair in the sun visor mirror, and got out.

  As he climbed the hill toward the house, he saw a woman working in the flower bed off to one side. She hummed to herself, and had her back to him. He stopped a respectful distance away and said, “Excuse me?”

  She turned, shielded her eyes with one gloved hand, and said, “Can I help you?”

  He recognized her from his research, and his mouth was suddenly dry. His whole career might ride on what he said next. “Ma’am, my name is Don Swayback and I’m with The Weekly Horn newspaper over in Unicorn. I’m guessing you’re Mrs. Hyatt?”

  She stood, removed her gloves, and walked to him. She wore cutoff shorts and a sleeveless top. Her skin was tanned dark brown, and her jet-black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. “I’m Chloe Hyatt,” she agreed. “Swayback … I knew an Oswald who married a Swayback fellow.”

  “Bengenaria? Everyone called her Benji?”

  “That’s her.”

  “That’s my great-grandmother.” He frowned, taking in Chloe’s comparative youth. Despite having three children, the woman looked younger than he did. “You knew her?”

  “Knew of her.”

  “That’s not what you said.”

  She smiled. It was beautiful, dazzling even, and Don suddenly felt decidedly uncomfortable. “Mr. Swayback, are you calling me a liar?”

  He smiled as well. “No, ma’am, I’m sorry it came out like that. I’m here because I’d like to make arrangements to sit down with your daughter and do an interview with her. I know she’s been badgered by the press, and I can appreciate that she still needs to recover from things. But I think the local readers have been ill-served by the national media, and I’d like to speak with your daughter about things other than the war or politics.”

  Chloe smiled faintly. “‘Ill-served’?”

  Don laughed. “Well, you know.…”

  Movement caught his eye. A tall young man with hair to his shoulders emerged from the house and leaned on the porch rail as he watched them. Don tried not to let it rattle him.

  Chloe made a strange motion with her left hand, almost like she was trying to speak in sign language. He might not have noticed, except at that exact instant he felt a sharp pain above his left eye that made him wince. It faded immediately.

  “So what would you want to talk to my girl about, if it’s not the war or politics?” she asked.

  “What it’s like to be home, what she missed, what she didn’t miss, and what she plans for the future. Her favorite memories of Cloud County that helped her get through her troubles, that sort of thing. We’re not trying to beat the news channels at their own game. People read our paper for football scores and coupons.”

  “Howdy,” a male voice called behind Don. He turned and saw an older man, dressed for farming, stride across the lawn. The young man now watched from inside the screen door. “Don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure,” the newcomer said neutrally.

  “This is Don Swayback,” Chloe said. “He’s a reporter. But Benji Oswald was his great-grandmother, so he’s one of us as well.” She said that with a wink, although Don noticed the man looked a bit puzzled. “Mr. Swayback, this is my husband, Deacon.”

  “Well, pleasure to meet you, then,” Deacon said as they shook hands. “But our newsworthy family member is dead to the world right now, I’m afraid. She was up early, and after lunch she went out like a light. Just like she used to do when she was a baby.”

  Don felt a sudden, embarrassing rush of relief. No interview today, and it wasn’t his fault. “If you’d do me the honor of passing on my comments, I’d be really grateful. You can reach me here.” He handed Chloe his card.

  “You a musician, Mr. Swayback?” Deacon said.

  Don blinked. “Er … funny you should ask, sir. I just dug my guitar out of the closet after about six years.”

  “There’s a regular ongoing shindig some of us have every night around here. It’s a private thing, so we don’t advertise it or nothing, but I think you might enjoy it. Starts around sundown, goes until our fingers fall off. Bring your guitar and come sit in.” With a chuckle he added, “Nobody there expects anybody to be too good, and you might run into my daughter there.”

  “I might do that,” Don said. “Where is it?”

  “Just follow Spruce Line Road. You’ll know the turnoff.”

  The pain above his eye momentarily returned. He would know the turnoff, just as he would’ve if he’d gone through with his plans last night instead of spending the evening with Susie. The emotional certainty overrode any intellectual skepticism. “Thanks for the invite.”

  “We look out for our own,” Chloe said enigmatically.

  * * *

  As they watched the reporter drive away, Chloe undid her ponytail and shook her hair loose. “What’d you invite him to the barn dance for?” she asked.

  Deacon shrugged. “Had a feeling about him. You spotted it, too. He’s got some of us in him, and it’s more’n just skin deep.”

  “If it’s from Benji Oswald, though, he’s more Rockhouse’s people than one of ours.”

  “Benji left. She knew what her blood was. I’d say that leaves him free to choose.” Suddenly he stepped forward and yelled, “Get outta here!”

  He kicked at the plants. A brown and yellow snake turned and moved off across the yard toward the weeds at the tree line.

  “That could’ve been close,” Deacon said.

  Chloe chuckled. “That little bitty thing?”

  “It was a copperhead.”

  “And if it bit me, I’d have a sore for a while. There’s a patch of snakemaster growing right down the hill, it’d clear it right up.”

  “Maybe,” Deacon said, continuing to watch the snake until it vanished. “You remember when we first saw Brownyn in the hospital down in Virginia? We knew she’d be okay, so even though it was hurtful to see, we didn’t get that ache that you get when you worry someone might die.”

  Chloe said nothing, but put her hand on his back.

  He continued to gaze after the snake. “I told her that if something happened to you, it was because the night wind called you and I was okay with that. But that was a lie, plain and simple.”

  “I know,” she said.

  He turned to face her. “You look so healthy, Chloe. So alive. If I start dwelling on what you might look like in a coffin—”

  “Don’t,” she said. “Seriously. I worry about you, too, trying to keep it together without me. But it’s all signs so far, and we may be reading them wrong. Even if we’re not, I’m not going to stop living before I have to, you know?”

  Before he could reply, Kell came down the hill saying, “Who was that?”

  “Local newspaper guy,” Deacon said. “Wanted to talk to your sister.

  “What’d you tell him?”

  “That she was asleep.” He spit casually to one side, then added, “Say, why don’t you take your sister to the barn dance tonight?”

  Kell blinked. “Because I’m tired? I’m running on four hours’ sleep, you know.”

  Deacon waved his hand dismissively. “Ah, you can sleep when the night wind blows you away. It’ll do her good. And you’re the only one who could get her to do it without a fight.”

  “All right,” he said wearily, and headed back toward the house. Deacon winked at Chloe; she shook her head and pinched his behind through his overalls.

  * * *

  When Kell went back inside, he found Aiden still watching TV, switching through channels with methodical boredom. “Man, there’s nothing on during the day. I might as well have gone to school.”

  Kell sat down beside him. “What are you going to do when school lets out next week?”

  “Die of fucking boredom,” Aiden said, then caught himself. “I mean…”

  Kell laughed. “I know the word. Just make sure y
ou don’t say it around Mom.”

  Suddenly their sister’s picture appeared, and Aiden stopped switching. Beneath the photo of Bronwyn in uniform were the words, HERO NO MORE?

  The news channel announcer said, “It’s been a week since Private Bronwyn Hyatt returned to her tiny hometown in Tennessee following her spectacular rescue. In that time, more sources have confirmed that her rescue was little more than a staged publicity event, even as the military continues to defend its actions.”

  The image switched to a man identified as MAJOR DANIEL MAITLAND, U.S. ARMY. “Private Hyatt was severely injured in combat, was taken to an enemy hospital, and kept under armed guard. U.S. Marines risked their lives to bring her out of that situation. I’m sorry that some people feel the need to insert politics into this, but those facts are indisputable.”

  The next talking head was Cole Kincaid, Democratic representative from Tennessee. “It appears that this young woman was in the process of being turned over to the Red Cross for transport back to the U.S. Command when the marines attacked. The doctor making the arrangements was killed, some say execution-style, by American troops. I’m determined to get to the bottom of this, no matter how high it goes.”

  “Wow,” Aiden said. “Sounds like they don’t believe she’s a hero.”

  “To them she’s not a real person,” Kell said. “She’s just a face they can exploit.”

  “What does ‘exploit’ mean? Is it like ‘explode’?”

  Kell smiled. “No, it means they’ll use her to make themselves look better.”

  The newscaster returned. “There has been no public statement from Private Hyatt since she returned home a week ago to great fanfare.” Footage of the parade appeared. “The army has said she will be honorably discharged, and wishes to return to private life. But the question remains: Was this young woman a hero, a victim, or simply in the right place at the wrong time?”

  Kell took the remote from Aiden and turned off the TV. “That’s enough of that.”

  Aiden rolled his eyes and sighed. “Now what do we do, then? If I tell Mom I’m bored, she’ll just give me chores.”

  “Can’t have that,” Kell agreed. He pretended to think hard. “Let’s get our squirrel guns and go pop some beer cans.”

  “Cool!” Aiden cried, and jumped to his feet. As he rummaged through his closet, Kell opened Bronwyn’s door and peeked inside. His sister was asleep on her back, one strand of black hair curling along her cheek. He heard her soft snoring. He made a hand gesture that urged her to continue to rest as long as possible, then quietly closed the door.

  19

  Don Swayback was alone in the Weekly Horn office. Before he left for the day, Sam had congratulated him on speaking with the Hyatts, then reminded him that it wasn’t the same as doing the interview, which he still expected this week. Then he told Don to finish up the obituaries before heading out. That wasn’t hard, just tedious, and the sepulchral tones of the area’s undertakers always got on his nerves. When would these ghouls get e-mail?

  He was about to dial the next one on his list when the front door opened, sending a shaft of hot afternoon sun into the room. A figure stood silhouetted in it, and Don said, “Come on in, you’re letting out what little air-conditioning we’ve got.”

  The figure stepped forward and the door closed behind him. He was a heavyset young man with unruly blond hair and a prominent fat roll under his chin. He wore baggy shorts and a T-shirt that showed Uncle Sam urinating, Calvin-like, on the United Nations symbol. He clutched a thin MacBook Air to his chest.

  When his eyes finally adjusted and he saw Don, he said, “Hi. Are you the editor?”

  “No,” Don said as he stood. “I’m the staff. The editor’s gone for the day. Can I help you?”

  The man looked behind him out the door as if he thought he might be followed. Then he scurried over to Don’s desk and sat in the chair opposite it. He looked Don over with uncomfortable scrutiny, paying special attention to his black hair. “Are you,” he asked finally, “one of them?”

  Don said nothing for a moment. “Define ‘them,’ and maybe I can tell you.”

  “The Tufa People.”

  “Oh. Yeah, I’ve got a little in me. But everyone around here does, pretty much. Why?”

  The young man extended his right hand. “I’m Fred Blasco, the blogger. Fred, White, and Blue, you know? Twenty thousand unique hits a day? Linked to Drudge at least once a week? Anyway, I’m here because I wanted to corroborate some of my online findings by doing some fieldwork. I drove all the way from Atlanta to see Needsville, the home of the Tufa People.”

  Don looked around for any reason to avoid this conversation. The empty office gave him nothing. “This is Unicorn, not Needsville. If you need directions, I’ll be happy to—”

  “No, I got those from Yahoo,” Blasco said. “What I want to know is if you, the local media, know who’s living in your own backyard. Or should I say, what is living there.”

  Blasco’s excitement had made him sweat, and the odor began to permeate the space. Don grew nervous. “Look, I don’t know what you mean, and I’m really kind of—”

  “Okay, look, just give me a minute to catch you up. I’ve been following the Bronwyn Hyatt story ever since her rescue. The bluebellies—liberals, Democrats, blue states, get it?—are out there jumping through hoops to make her look like less than a hero. And as far as I can tell, she hasn’t said word one in her own defense. I wanted to know more about her, so I found out she was one of these Tufa People, and I started looking into that. Do you know about them?”

  “Just what everyone around here knows.”

  “Do you know they were already here when the first white people arrived in this area?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know that there are reliable accounts of some of them living two and three hundred years?”

  Don blinked. “I never heard that, and I’ve lived here all my life. And, since I also do the obituaries, I can assure you plenty of the Tufa die much younger than that. I think someone might be yanking your chain. Where did you get your information?”

  “Never mind. And here’s more for you. Did you know that some people say they can fly?”

  Don laughed before he knew he’d done it. “Fly?”

  “Mock if you want, but I’ve talked to a lot of people over the Internet. They say that when the Tufa People meet for their secret ceremonies, they grow wings and can fly. They say it happens because the Tufa People are actually the remnants of the Tuatha, the original fairy folk who left England and Ireland centuries before any settlers came to the New World.”

  Don just stared. “I just want to be sure I’m following this, Fred. You say the Tufa … the people living over in Needsville, Tennessee, as we speak … are actually a lost tribe of Irish fairies?”

  “I know how it sounds, believe me. That’s why I had to come up here and see for myself. But look, let me show you something.”

  He opened the laptop on the edge of Don’s desk and spent a moment typing. “My mom got me this Air for my birthday, it’s so cool,” he murmured, as if Don were his best friend.

  “We don’t have wireless,” Don pointed out.

  “That’s okay, this is a file. Now look.” He turned the laptop so Don could see the screen.

  It displayed a satellite shot of rural countryside. The trees were clear, and at one edge a paved road cut across the corner. But along the far left side were two white silhouettes. Don had to admit they did look like the traditional image of fairies: humanoid forms with large butterfly-like wings, apparently moving fast enough to cause a blur.

  “See?” Blasco said excitedly. “This is a Google image filtered through enhancement freeware. Those are fairies, man. In flight over Cloud County, Tennessee. For real.”

  Don looked at the nondescript countryside. “That could be anywhere.”

  “I trust my source.”

  “And those could be just a couple of bugs close to the lens.”

 
Blasco looked at him. “Of a satellite?”

  Don’s wariness now mixed with amusement. Whatever the origins of the Tufa might be, he was certain they were flesh-and-blood people. “Fred, look. I’m serious here. I have lived in this area all my life, and this is the first I’ve ever heard of this. My own great-grandmother was a full-blooded Tufa, and she never sprouted wings and fluttered off. Wherever you’re getting this, my advice would be to check your sources a little more closely before you make yourself look foolish.”

  Blasco’s expression tightened. “So you’re one of them.”

  “Because I don’t agree with you, I’m part of the conspiracy?”

  His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I never said there was a conspiracy.”

  “No, I guess you didn’t.” He stood, hoping the blogger would take the hint. “I don’t think I can be any more help to you, Fred. Sorry. Best of luck with your story.”

  Blasco closed the laptop and stood. His face was splotchy with emotion, and a fresh sweat ring circled his collar. “This is the biggest story in the world, friend. And I gave you a chance to be part of it. When it breaks, you remember that.”

  Don stared after Blasco for several moments after the door shut behind him. It was the silliest thing he’d ever heard in his life, the kind of thing only someone who stayed at home all day blogging could take seriously. And yet …

  He sat back down, opened a search engine, and typed in the word fairy.

  * * *

  Blasco drove his rental car out of Unicorn and headed toward Cloud County, guided by Yahoo Maps printouts. He drove for four hours without finding any of the turns or roads that led into Needsville, and finally ran out of gas within sight of the interstate. The road he was on, though, went under the highway without any ramps. So, already exhausted from the heat, he started walking across a small field and into a stand of trees, toward the towering sign that indicated a gas station at the next exit ramp.

  20