by Alex Bledsoe
“That? It’s solid rock,” Bronwyn assured her.
“That’s not good, you know. Hearts melt; rocks shatter.”
21
Don parked at the end of the line of cars. His chest felt tight with excitement the way it had on his first date with Susie back in college. The barn ahead glowed from within, as if some wondrous miracle was occurring among the hay bales and tractors.
As he got his guitar from the trunk, he impulsively picked up a couple of rocks from the gravel road. He stuck them in his pocket without really knowing why.
He heard the trilling, winding melody of a reel from inside the building. Fiddles, acoustic guitars, harmonicas, and mandolin melded in the tune. He smiled and hummed along, knowing the song even though he didn’t consciously recognize it.
A bunch of kids sat around a campfire down the hill from the barn. A beautiful girl danced in low-slung jeans and a red bra as drummers provided a low, steady rhythm. One of the boys strummed a guitar and sang something Don recognized:
Don’t feed the bear unless you know
You’re faster than he is when it’s time to go.…
Don stopped in the middle of the road. How did he know this stuff? Ever since digging his guitar out of the closet, he’d been surrounded by music, all of it beautiful, all of it somehow known. He had no trouble picking up the melodies, and even lyrics he was certain he’d never heard before felt like old rhymes learned in childhood. His trade, his skill was with words, cold and analytical descriptions of events denuded of any excess passion or meaning; so where did this passion come from?
A sudden burst of doubt made him look back at his car, then at the barn. He recalled Fred the blogger’s insinuations about the Tufa, and his own Internet surfing for confirmation. He’d uncovered no link at all between the Tufa and fairies, which didn’t surprise him. Still, he had learned that the true fairy folk, the Tuatha De Danaan, were considered anything but Tinker Bell–ish sprites. They were dangerous, and humans encountered them at their peril. And there were two perpetually warring tribes, the Seelie and the Unseelie. Some people said the same about the Tufa.
He shook it off. He wasn’t here just to have fun, he reminded himself. He needed to find Bronwyn Hyatt and arrange an interview. He’d come this far; he might as well see it through.
An older man sat outside the side door, apparently collecting admission. He smiled as Don approached. “Howdy, neighbor. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”
“It is,” Don agreed.
The man held out a cigar box. “Pay the toll, then rock and roll.”
Don reached for his wallet, then happened to glance into the box. It contained no money, only stones of various sizes. Don put the rocks from his pocket in with them.
The man scrutinized him. “You’re kin to Bengenaria Oswald, ain’t you, son?”
Don blinked in surprise. “Yeah. She was my great-grandmother. She was from Needsville.”
“Fine woman,” he said sadly. “Sang like the wind. Shame she had to leave.”
Like Chloe Hyatt, the man didn’t look old enough to have known Great-grandma Benji. Don smiled nervously. “Never knew her myself. Nice to hear such good things.”
Suddenly a ragged voice cried, “Hey! Hey, you!”
Don turned. A figure lumbered out of the dark woods, across the open space around the barn. Don reflexively raised his guitar case as a shield. Then he recognized the man.
“Holy shit, am I glad to see you,” Fred Blasco gasped. He was covered in dirt and scratches, and his face gleamed with unaccustomed sweat. He still clutched the laptop to his chest, and used his free hand to lean on Don’s shoulder while he took big gulps of air. “You’re that guy from the newspaper office, aren’t you?”
“Yeah…,” Don said, and tried to move away. He knew with utter certainty that Blasco should not be here. But Blasco’s meaty hand tightened its grip.
“Look, I’ve been wandering in the woods since it got dark,” Blasco said. “I got lost trying to find that goddamned town, and then I ran out of gas. I tried to go cross-country to a gas station, but once I got into the woods, I got all turned around, and couldn’t get a signal on my cell.” He opened his phone and scowled. “Still nothing. Dammit!” Then he saw the man beside the door. “Hi. Is there a working phone or a wireless connection here?”
“This-here’s a barn,” the old man said. “We don’t let the cows have e-mail or long distance, as a rule.”
The door opened, and two big young men, both with black hair, emerged in a blast of fiddle music. The door closed, silence returned, and one of them said, “Having a problem, Uncle Node?” They regarded both Don and Blasco with suspicion.
“This fella seems lost,” the man called Uncle Node said with a nod at Blasco. “Can you help him find his way?”
“Wow, you’re all Tufa People, aren’t you?” Blasco said between wheezes. “Is this one of the places where you have your ceremonies? Any chance I could watch?”
“What’s he talking about?” one of the young men asked.
“I think he’s a little disoriented,” Uncle Node said.
“We’ll orient him right up, then,” the other young man said. “Come on, friend.”
The two of them guided Blasco down the gravel road into the night. Blasco protested, “Wait, fellas, really, I want to see what goes on.…” His voice quickly faded.
“Friend of yours?” Uncle Node asked Don.
Don shook his head. “He came by my office today. He’s one of those Internet bloggers. Had some weird ideas about where the Tufa come from. I told him to go home.”
“Good advice.”
Don’s eyes narrowed. “For me, too?”
Uncle Node laughed. “No, son, I’m sorry. We don’t get too many people just wandering up here. No, you’re Benji Oswald’s great-grandson, you’re family. Get on in there.”
Don took a breath, mentally crossed his fingers, and opened the door.
The stage immediately drew his eye. A banjo picker, two fiddlers, and a girl hunched over an electric piano played a rip-snorting version of “The Queen of Argyll.” The man singing was tall, thin, and dressed at least fifty years out of date. Along the wall lay a pile of instrument cases, some open and empty, others closed while their owners waited their turn. A girl in a cowboy hat and long denim skirt leaned against one of the old amplifier speakers and tuned her acoustic guitar, apparently oblivious of the music surging out around her.
He took in the rest of the room. The most striking thing about the crowd, he realized, was its amazing homogeneity: like him, everyone in sight had black hair and perfect white teeth. The room buzzed with energy, and with sudden urgency he wanted to be a part of it. He worked his way toward the stage.
A young man with a ponytail, his chin sporting a neat goatee, suddenly blocked his path. “Hey,” he said over the music. “Don’t believe we’ve met. Andy Silliphant.”
“Don Swayback,” he said as they shook hands. The music suddenly finished, and the two men awkwardly waited for the applause to end. When it did, Don added, “It’s my first time here.”
He expected some suspicion, maybe a question or two, but Andy merely grinned. “Well, then, let me show you around.” He tapped the guitar case. “You here to play, I take it?”
“Maybe.” He knew he should also ask about Bronwyn Hyatt, but at the moment it felt unbelievably rude. “I sure would like to try.”
Andy laughed. “You’ll be all right. Come on, let me introduce you to some folks.”
He met a dozen musicians of all ages, all with the same Tufa look, all apparently without any suspicion of this stranger. The last was a slender woman with long braids, one upper arm wrapped with a snake tattoo. “We’ve met before,” he said.
“We have?” Bliss Overbay said.
“You’re an EMT, aren’t you? Out of the Cloud County station?”
“Yes,” Bliss said.
“I covered that train wreck last year, where it hit that truck full of people. I saw you there.”
>
“Ah. Yes, that was a bad one.”
It had been. A freight train plowed into a pickup truck carrying a load of Needsville people to a family picnic. Five people died at the scene, two later at the hospital, and only a toddler escaped unharmed. It had been one of those scenes that kept Don awake for weeks afterwards.
“You didn’t want me to take your picture,” Don continued. “That’s why I remember you.”
She nodded. “And you didn’t. I remember you now. Thank you.”
“This is getting kind of grim,” Andy pointed out. “What’s say Don comes up and plays with us a bit?”
“Sure,” Bliss said. “Do you know ‘Shady Grove’?”
He nodded.
Andy tapped Don’s guitar case. “Then skin that song iron and let’s throw down.”
Bliss looked at him. “‘Skin that song iron’?”
Andy shrugged. “One day I’ll invent a catchphrase, you just wait and see.”
They went onstage as an elderly lady clutching an autoharp said into the center stage microphone, “That’s going to be it for me tonight, folks. I’ll be turning things over to ol’ Charlie Ray Bowles, and believe me, I wish I didn’t have to.” Good-natured laughter followed this teasing. “Here’s the man himself, and y’all drive safely going home.”
A squat little man in an enormous cowboy hat lumbered onstage and over to the microphone. “How’s the wind tonight, folks?” he said, and there was some applause and cheering. “I figure we’ve had enough time for even the ladies to make it back from the facilities, so let’s welcome Bliss Overbay, Andy Silliphant, and—” He looked at Don and frowned. “—and their special guest?…”
“Don Swayback,” Don said as he put his guitar strap over his head.
“Don Stayback,” Bowles said, then did an exaggerated double take. “Man, that’s a weird name. You ever get any dates growing up?” He got a few more laughs than groans, which encouraged him. “I’d rather be called ‘Don C’mon Over Here,’ or ‘Don Let’s Be Friends.’”
“It’s Swayback, not Stayback,” Andy corrected. “Clean your ears with something other than your car keys, why don’t you?”
“Oh, Swayback. That’s a lot better.” The look he gave the crowd conveyed the opposite opinion. “Well, let’s welcome Mr. Swayback and his friends to our stage, why don’t we?”
As the Tufas applauded, Bliss strapped on her guitar, Andy tucked his fiddle under his chin, and the three of them stepped up to the microphone. Bliss led them off and sang the first verse:
Shady Grove, my little love
Shady Grove, my darling …
Don had spent most of his musical life playing alone, in isolation, mastering chords he lacked the nerve to attempt before an audience. Yet suddenly here he was, strumming away on this obscure song he couldn’t even recall learning, although he definitely knew it. His fingers found the changes with ease.
His eye was drawn to a young woman who stood in one of the open side doors, dancing by herself in slow, swaying contrast to the elaborate contra dancing around her. She looked familiar somehow, as if he’d known her once, long ago in his youth. But that wasn’t possible, since she couldn’t have been more than fifteen or sixteen now.
Suddenly he got chills as Bliss sang:
Well, I went to see my Shady Grove
She was standing in the door,
Flowers and braids all in her hair
And little bare feet on the floor.…
The lyric described the girl in the doorway precisely. She caught his eye and winked before turning away and fading into the night outside.
Don continued to play, but he felt disconnected, as if he’d somehow stepped into some parallel universe where songs came to life. Andy nudged him with a foot and nodded that they should join Bliss at the microphone for the final chorus.
Don was no shakes as a singer, let alone a harmony vocalist, but he somehow stayed on key as they finished the song. The applause was genuine and enthusiastic, and as it reached its crescendo Andy leaned close and said, “I bet you’re related to Benji Oswald, aren’t you?”
Too surprised to speak, Don just nodded. Andy laughed. And the whole purpose of this evening, to find Bronwyn Hyatt, was completely forgotten.
* * *
He had no idea how long he played. It seemed like hours, yet when he finally looked at his watch again, it was only ten thirty. The crowd had thinned a little, and he felt an inner certainty that it was time to leave. He said good-bye to the other musicians and put his guitar back in its case.
“Good show,” Andy said as they shook hands. “Hope to see you back.”
“Hope to be back,” Don agreed.
“You know, you’ve got more Tufa in you than you think.”
“Really?”
“Yeah. Your great-grandmother was a First Daughter. That carries some weight.”
“In what way?”
Andy shrugged evasively. “We’ll talk more if you come back.”
“You said ‘if,’ not ‘when.’”
“That’s because it’s entirely your call, man. If you want to feel like you did onstage again, come on back next week. If it was too weird for you…” He trailed off with another shrug.
Bliss joined them. “What sort of nonsense is Andy telling you now?”
“He invited me back next week,” Don said.
“Well, shoot, that’s what I was about to do,” Bliss said. “You’ve got a nice sound.”
Don smiled. “Thanks.” He looked around at the departing crowd. “Listen I hate to ask this, but I don’t suppose either of you know Bronwyn Hyatt, do you?”
“Why?” Andy asked.
“To tell you the truth, she’s why I originally came here. Her father said I’d find her here, and I’m supposed to interview her for my newspaper if I want to keep my job. But…” He shrugged and smiled. “Guess I got carried away.”
“That’ll happen,” Andy said.
“I know Bronwyn,” Bliss said. “You just missed her tonight. She left about the same time you got here. I’ll mention you to her when I see her.”
“I appreciate that,” Don said. “But don’t put her on the spot or anything. She’s been through enough.”
Bliss cocked her head, as if this response pleasantly surprised her. “I’ll remember you said that.”
Still jovial, Don walked back to his car. He looked around for Shady Grove—no, he corrected himself, for the girl who’d reminded him of the song—but did not see her.
* * *
Don stopped his car at the end of the gravel road, looked both ways into the darkness, then pulled out onto the highway. The instant he did, bright headlights blinded him and a distinctive siren blared. He slammed on the brakes, stopped in the middle of the road, and held up his hand to block the light.
“You best put up both hands, boy,” a man’s voice said through a loudspeaker. Don recognized it, and did as instructed.
The headlights went out, and now he saw the flashing red and blue ones atop the state trooper car parked beside the intersection. Bob Pafford got out and switched on a flashlight, which he also shone right in Don’s face. He took his time approaching the car.
Don felt the kind of dread that comes only from anticipating not death, but pain. Pafford tapped the huge flashlight on the window. Don rolled it down.
“You’re parked in the middle of the road, boy,” Pafford said with belittling patience. “That’s a traffic hazard.”
Don said nothing.
“Where you coming from?”
“Visiting some friends, sir.” He hoped his tone was flat and noncommittal, but suspected that any answer would be the wrong one.
“You been drinking?”
The question took Don by surprise. Actually, he’d had nothing to drink, not even water, since he left home, and was suddenly aware of his own ravenous thirst. “No, sir,” he said.
Pafford leaned down and shone the flashlight in Don’s car. Then he blasted it into Don’s fa
ce, studying him for a long moment. Finally he stood with a sigh and said, “I ain’t getting paid to chat with you high-yellow Tufa bastards. Get on out of here, boy, before I decide you were resisting arrest.”
Don was speechless. He put his car in gear and drove carefully away, watching the rearview mirror for any sign of pursuit. The cherry-top lights blinked out just before he topped the first hill, and he didn’t feel truly safe until he was in his own driveway and five minutes had passed without Pafford roaring down the road toward him.
He sat alone in his living room, all the lights out, for a long time. Susie had pulled a double shift, so the house was empty. It seemed impossible, but had Pafford truly not recognized him? He clearly thought he was one of the local Tufas, not the reporter he’d chased away from the Hyatts; was he that stupid, or was something else at work? Fairies, he’d learned earlier that very day, could hide their true appearance behind something called glamour. And if he was a Tufa, and the Tufa were fairies …
“Oh, come on,” he said aloud. That was as crazy as believing the real Shady Grove stood in the barn door, like a shade summoned by a song.
No, not a shade. Around here, they called them haints.
22
The First Daughters of the Tufa met irregularly, but always on the full moon. There was no arcane significance to this, only the practical: they convened deep in the forest and wanted to avoid flashlights or anything else that might allow them to be followed. There were those who resented the power of the First Daughters, especially among their opposite number in the Tufa clans led by Rockhouse Hicks.
Bronwyn’s recovery would have astounded her grim army doctors. Less than a week after her surgery, she no longer needed the cast, and had replaced her crutches with a single walking stick loaned to her by Carvin’ Ed Shill. The handle was shaped like a rattlesnake’s head, complete with the little pits along its lips. The motif continued to the tip, which was a genuine rattle from a huge diamondback, shellacked and varnished to impenetrable hardness.
