The Fairies of Sadieville

by Alex Bledsoe

  “Well, hello, gorgeous,” she whispered.

  “Same to you, handsome,” Justin said as he dropped an armload of bound magazine volumes onto the table with a loud thud.

  “I might’ve found it,” she said, trying not to shout.

  “Found what?”

  “Sadieville!” She let out a little titter of glee.

  “Really?”

  “Yes!” She turned her laptop so he could see.

  He sat down beside her. “Honey, you know this is my project, not yours.”

  “I know, I know, but look.”

  He gazed at the screen. “What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?”

  “This, dummy!” she said, pointing. “It’s what’s left of the covered bridge from the first shot in the movie.”

  He tilted his head. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m pretty sure.”

  “You were pretty sure Jon Snow was really dead, too.”

  “Technically, I was right.”

  He looked more closely. “It could just be the foundation of an old house.”

  “It could be, but the GPS coordinates match the map.”

  “What map? And what GPS?”

  She told him about the geography department map, and how she’d located the same place on the satellite image.

  He looked at the screen for a long moment. “It does look like it could be part of a bridge,” he said at last.

  “It does,” she eagerly agreed.

  He looked at her. “And you really do think this would make a good master’s thesis?”

  “I do. It’s a cinch. Nobody’s done anything like it.”

  “Yeah. Well, I guess I better get a proposal together.”

  * * *

  Coffin sat back in his chair the way he’d done days earlier when he shattered Justin’s world. “Interesting,” he said in his flat way.

  Justin had shown him the film, the article that mentioned the Sadieville disaster, and a screen grab from the satellite map. He’d explained the difficulty they’d had in finding any details about the disaster, despite the apparent scale of it. He made the case as stringently as he could, pointing out the connections with the Tufa, and the utter lack of any other scholarship about it. Now he waited.

  “I thought,” Coffin said at last, “that you intended to specialize in folk music. This is a silent film.”

  “I hope to find some forgotten songs written about the disaster.”

  “Hm. Perhaps you will. Have you ever met a Tufa?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “I have. I knew one when I was in the service during the Vietnam War. He had the best singing voice I’ve ever heard.” He paused. “One night I was on guard duty. This wasn’t in Vietnam, mind you, it was in California. I heard something above me, and when I looked up, there he was, on the roof. The thing is, there was no way for him to get there, short of a very long ladder. Yet there he was. I yelled at him, and he ducked out of my sight. When I got a spotlight and shone it up there, he was gone. He never mentioned it, and since I had no proof, neither did I. But I’ve always remembered it.”

  Justin had no idea where this was going.

  “I remember thinking at the time,” Coffin continued, “that the only way he could’ve gotten up there, or down from there, was by flying. But that made no sense. Until right now.”

  Coffin leaned forward. “I’m going to be very curious to read what you uncover about this. I expect actual scholarship, though, not just rumors and stories, no matter how compelling or copiously footnoted. Any songs you find, you have to document. I don’t want any doubt that they’re genuine.” The implication that hung unspoken was, You better not just make one up.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember, too: the Tufa are real people. They’re not just characters in old stories or legends. If you speak to any of them, as I’m assuming you plan to, treat them with the same respect you’d want someone to show you.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When Justin got home, he told Veronica the good news. They had celebratory sex, and as they lay in bed afterward, she asked him, “So what’s next?”

  “I can go down on you.”

  She poked him. “No, not that! Although I’m not saying no. I mean for your thesis.”

  “Well … spring break is coming up. How do you feel about going to look for Sadieville?”

  “You mean go out in the woods?”

  “That seems to be where we’d find it.”

  “Sure. I haven’t been camping since high school.”

  “You like camping?”

  “You bet! You be Oscar Wilde, and I’ll be Bette Midler.”

  “I imagine there’s motels nearby that we can stay at,” he said, reaching for his phone.

  She slid her hand down his chest. “Ooh, you want to fuck me in a cheap motel.”

  “Or an expensive one. Or the bed department at Ikea.”

  “They caught Adrian and Lydia when they tried that.”

  “We’re slicker than they are. And it sounds like fun. The trip, I mean. And the other stuff, too, but I don’t think Dr. Coffin will give me credit for that.”

  “Probably not. My grading, however, is strictly pass/fail.”

  “Did I pass just now?”

  “You did. Twice, in fact.”

  He put his phone aside, maneuvered over her and began to kiss down her stomach. “So can I get extra credit?”

  “Ooh, you teacher’s pet, you.”

  Eventually Veronica fell asleep, but Justin stayed awake, staring up at the ceiling as the afternoon sun lengthened and distorted the shadows of tree branches. The noise of traffic, thumping bass, and students calling out to their friends could barely be heard over the box fan’s drone.

  Spring break lasted a week, so he’d have that long to gather most of the firsthand information he needed for his thesis. Then he’d have to come back, sort it, transcribe it, and figure out how to present it first to Dr. Coffin, and then to his committee.

  He’d have to focus, in a way he hadn’t done in a long time. He’d have to think of himself as the black kid with something to prove again, even though he was pretty sure his race had nothing to do with this. Then again, he could never be sure, and that was the fucking bastard of it.

  He glanced down at Veronica, her bare curves a delicious burnt umber in the reddish light of late afternoon. He knew he was lucky to have her, and that she would fuel his resolve as well. He didn’t want to disappoint Coffin, or the memory of Doc; but most importantly, he didn’t want to fail with Veronica watching.

  At last he got up, dressed, and quietly took his guitar outside. It was hot and muggy, but he didn’t want his playing to wake Veronica. He sat on the front steps of their building, watching the cars and students pass on nearby University Avenue. A few waved in his direction.

  In the fading light, he strummed aimlessly, going through snippets of a half-dozen songs, until he realized he was playing a melody that he didn’t quite recognize. Where had he heard this song before? Had he heard this song before?

  There were words, too, ones that fit the tune with the inevitability of the best lyrics. He sang:

  Can’t go back, don’t have the will

  Can never go back to my—”

  He stopped. The next word, the one that rhymed and fit so perfectly it had to be right, was: “Sadieville.”

  He sat, frozen in mid-strum, waiting to see if more of the song would come to him. But there was nothing, and even the fragment that he’d just sung faded rapidly. In moments, he couldn’t remember it at all. All he knew was that it was no song he’d ever heard before, and it sounded nothing like his own feeble attempts at songwriting.

  “What the fuck was that?” he whispered to himself.

  5

  Cloud County was the smallest county in Tennessee, so small it was occasionally left off maps entirely. That suited the residents of Needsville just fine.

  Needsville itself had a population of 357 in the l
ast census; roughly four hundred more lived scattered in the country around it, in isolated hillside dwellings or on farms tucked into small hollows. Virtually all had some measure of Tufa in their family, and most shared the common Tufa physical characteristics.

  The most famous Cloud County resident was probably Bronwyn Chess, née Hyatt, who joined the army during the Iraq War and came home a war hero. Yet after just a few years she, now the wife of a minister and mother of a small girl, was mostly forgotten by the outside world. Which, of course, suited her just fine as well.

  All the Tufa liked it that way. For many years they were on the wrong side of the South’s color line, and suffered for it. Their secretive ways and legendary musical aptitude spawned rumor and legend, which in turn prompted more and more withdrawal.

  But now the twenty-first century, with its pervasive interconnectedness, pushed against this isolation. More and more Tufa risked the consequences of leaving and sought their way in the world. They all knew they would someday have to come back, since all Tufa were inextricably tied to Needsville. But they also knew that the seclusion of the past was no longer practical. Like it or not, the world now knocked on their door.

  * * *

  At the Catamount Corner Motel and Cafe, Cyrus Crow—known as C.C. to his friends—unlocked the front door. He was a big man, six feet four inches tall and a trim two hundred pounds, and he moved with surprising grace for his size. He’d purchased the motel almost two years ago, and opened the cafe when he renovated. He had kitchen and wait staff, but no one else came in this early. It was still an hour before his sunrise regulars arrived, so he also turned on the porch light.

  “Dang!” the man who’d knocked said, holding up a hand to shield his eyes. “Trying to blind me, C.C.?”

  “Sorry, Terry-Joe.” He stepped back and let the other man enter.

  Terry-Joe Gitterman carried a mandolin case, which he carefully placed on one of the cafe tables. He was in his early twenties, slender and of average height. Because of their shared heritage, they looked like relatives, but in fact were only distantly connected.

  Terry-Joe asked quietly, “Anyone else here?”

  “You don’t have to whisper,” C.C. said.

  “This early, my voice ain’t all the way awake.” Terry-Joe took out his mandolin, fished a pick from his pocket, and looked up at the ceiling. “That where you hear them?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Any place you can open up the ceiling?”

  “The kitchen’s got drop panels.”

  “Take one of ’em out. You got a garbage can ready?”

  “About a third full of water, just like you said.”

  “Put it right under that hole.” Then he smacked his forehead. “Damn. Forgot my mouse oil.”

  “What’s ‘mouse oil’?”

  “Oh, you gotta have mouse oil.”

  “Why?”

  Terry-Joe grinned. “In case they squeak.”

  C.C. groaned, then went into the kitchen and set up the ceiling and garbage can as Terry-Joe had instructed.

  Terry-Joe took down one of the chairs propped upside down on a table and placed it on the floor. He sat down, feet spread, and began to play a quick, sprightly tune that had the sweet certainty of the best folk melodies. The heel of Terry-Joe’s tennis shoe tapped softly against the floor, keeping time.

  He sang, in a high clear voice:

  See that rat, walking by

  See that rat, walking by

  If I kiss that rat, I might die

  See that rat, walking by …

  C.C. held the swinging kitchen door open, switching his attention from the open ceiling panel to Terry-Joe.

  Terry-Joe continued:

  See that rat, dancing by

  See that rat, dancing by

  If I hug that rat, I might die

  See that rat, dancing by …

  The first little whiskered nose poked out of the darkness in the ceiling, followed by at least a dozen more. In moments mice clustered around all four sides of the opening, peering down into the water below.

  See that rat, running by

  See that rat, running by

  If I love that rat, I might die

  See that rat, running by …

  Now the little mice faces were on top of each other, as they rushed to get closer to the edge. C.C. was appalled: he had no idea there were so many of these vermin in his otherwise spotless kitchen. He’d left out traps and poison, but they hadn’t worked, which is why he eventually asked around for someone who could sing the rats away.

  “Get ready,” Terry-Joe called out as he played, then sang:

  See that rat, falling down

  See that rat, falling down

  If that rat hears me, it might drown

  See that rat, falling down!

  The mice began to leap from the hole and drop into the garbage can. The first few splashes quickly became a cacophony of frantic squeaks and desperate swimming, as the mice fought to get up the slick plastic sides of the can. A tesseract of gray bodies tumbled from the ceiling for a good two minutes, then finally dribbled to a stop. The last mouse managed to catch the edge with one tiny paw, dangling there for a long moment before he finally fell to join the others.

  Terry-Joe finished playing with a flourish, and C.C. clapped in approval.

  “Did it work?” Terry-Joe asked.

  “It did,” C.C. said.

  They peered into the can. Already many mice were dead, drowned by the frantic weight of the others.

  “That’s a bunch, all right,” Terry-Joe said. “You better look for how they’re getting in.”

  “No kidding. Tell me something, though.”

  “Sure.”

  “How did you find out you could do that?”

  They both laughed.

  C.C. took two twenties from his wallet. “This cover it?”

  “Oh, hell, C.C. Took me five minutes.”

  “And you saved me a couple of hundred for an exterminator, not to mention what the health inspector might make me do.”

  “All right, then.” Terry-Joe pocketed the money.

  C.C. let Terry-Joe out, locked the door behind him, and went to haul the garbage can out back. He’d let it sit for the rest of the day, to make sure all the mice were dead. Then he’d drain them and burn their little carcasses.

  Thirty minutes later, with the kitchen fired up and cook Diamond Ike Hubbard standing over the hash browns, C.C. turned the sign on the front door to OPEN and prepared to start his day.

  This was a Saturday, and it meant that in addition to his crew of regulars, he might snag some tourists. People you’d never expect were drawn to Cloud County and Needsville by a deep call that usually meant they had at least some Tufa blood in their family history.

  C.C. was mostly Tufa, and it showed. Before he bought the motel from Peggy Goins, he’d been a jack-of-all-trades, repairing machinery and doing other odd jobs around the county to get by. Then he’d met Broadway actor Matt Johannsen, and everything changed. He found the nerve to strike out on his own, and so far the motel and cafe had been successful. Of course, the biggest success was that he and Matt were engaged to be married, despite their long-distance relationship.

  He looked up as the bell over the door rang. A black-haired girl of about fifteen, with long gawky legs and the kind of eyes you couldn’t look into for long, came in and said, “Hey, C.C.”

  He made a complex hand gesture of respect and fealty. The Tufa community had its own internal structure, and those at the top were not always who you’d expect. “Good morning, Mandalay. Care for some breakfast?”

  “No, just stopping by. How’s Matt doing?”

  “Fine. Still playing to sold-out houses. He’s got two weeks off this summer, so he’ll be coming down then.”

  “Good. I can’t wait to see him again.”

  “Me, neither.”

  The bell over the door rang again, and an elderly couple came in. “Morning, C.C.,” they said, then pulled
up short when they saw Mandalay. They each made the same hand gesture C.C. had used earlier.

  “Mr. Moss, Mrs. Moss, good morning,” Mandalay said. “Don’t mind me, I’m just here to talk to C.C.”

  The couple nodded and sat at the table farthest from the door, and the girl. They kept a discreet eye on her as they looked over the weekend specials.

  “So you did need something?” C.C. asked Mandalay.

  “Sort of. I think you may have some out-of-town visitors today. If you do, try to help them out.”

  “Sure,” C.C. said. “What will they want?”

  She shrugged, the way only a teenage girl can. “You know as much as I do now.”

  The Tufa believed that in this world, their gods rode the night winds, and that on certain nights and at certain times, if you stilled your mind and listened intently, you might hear them whisper. But for Mandalay, those voices came through as clear as hers did to C.C. right now, and there were rumors that she’d even seen those deities with her human eyes.

  “Well,” C.C. said.

  “That’s all. See you later.” She turned and bounced out the door, momentarily no different than any other teen girl.

  “What did she want?” Mrs. Moss asked when she was sure Mandalay was gone.

  “Just to give me a tip about something,” C.C. said. “I’ll get your coffee out to you.”

  He went into the kitchen and took the carafe from the warmer. Diamond Ike asked, “What’d that Harris girl want?”

  “Said some strangers would be stopping by, and we should help them out.”

  “Help them out with what?”

  “You know as much as I do now.”

  Ike shivered. “That girl gives me the willies. I’d purely hate to be her.”

  “Why?”

  “I wouldn’t want everybody getting the willies every time they saw me.” He bent back over his stove and stirred the scrambled eggs with his spatula.

  As he took the coffee to the Mosses, the doorbell rang again and a woman of about thirty, with long wavy black hair, came in. “Hey, Bliss,” C.C. said.

  “Hey, C.C.,” Bliss Overbay said. “Hey, Mr. and Mrs. Moss. Have any of you seen Mandalay this morning?”

  “She was just here,” C.C. said.

  “Spreading more of her hush-hush,” Mrs. Moss said.