The Fairies of Sadieville

by Alex Bledsoe

  “So it’s not true?” Veronica pressed gently.

  Azure’s eyes narrowed, and the amusement left her voice. “Is that why you’re really here? To find out the truth about the Tufa? Is the whole thing about your thesis and Sadieville a smoke screen?”

  “No,” Justin said seriously. “Not at all.”

  “Because that’s happened before. Back in the early two thousands, before they devolved to aliens and Bigfoot hunters, one of those cable history channels came here and made a documentary about us. They told us it was just about how handmade musical instruments were created, but when it aired, it was all about the ‘mysterious’ Tufa, and where they might have come from.”

  “I never heard of that,” Justin said.

  “That’s because it aired once, and disappeared into their vaults after no one watched it. A lot like the way this movie disappeared.”

  “I swear, I truly want to find whatever remains of Sadieville.”

  Azure looked at him for a long moment, then said, “In that case, I hope you find it.”

  Justin picked up his phone and turned it off. “Thank you, Professor Kirby. We appreciate your time, and your honesty.”

  Azure stood, as did Justin and Veronica. “Oh, it was my pleasure,” she said, back to her pleasant self. “I actually miss talking to students when I’m away from them. I appreciate you two trekking all the way out here.”

  “And thank you for the refreshments,” Veronica said.

  “Glad you enjoyed them. And I promise, no curse was involved.” They all laughed at that.

  Veronica nudged Justin. “Ask her about the dinosaur.”

  “I beg your pardon?” Azure said.

  Justin glared sideways at Veronica, then said, “I saw something odd on the way here. Out just off the highway. I thought…”

  “He thought it was a dinosaur,” Veronica said.

  Azure’s eyebrows went up. “Really?”

  “Show her the picture.”

  Exasperated, Justin took out his phone and pulled up the photo of the track. When she saw it, Azure smiled.

  “That’s not a dinosaur. It’s an emu.”

  “The bird?” Justin said. “The one from Australia?”

  “Yep. A few years ago, a fella tried to raise a flock of them for their meat, but somehow or other a bunch got loose, and now they’re breeding. Damnedest thing. The males get cross in the spring when it’s mating time, but otherwise they pretty much run away whenever they come across a person.”

  “There, you see?” Veronica said. “Perfectly reasonable explanation.”

  “Sorry to disappoint you,” Azure said. “A dinosaur would’ve been a lot more interesting.”

  They shouldered their packs, made their good-byes, and departed. When they’d hiked out of sight of the house on the way back to their car, Veronica said, “So what did you think?”

  “That was fascinating,” Justin said, with real enthusiasm. “I can’t wait to transcribe what she said.”

  “So you believed her?”

  “You didn’t?”

  “I think there was enough truth in what she said that the lies blended right in. And when you listen to that recording, I bet you’ll find she didn’t actually tell you as much as you think.”

  “That’s cynical.”

  “She didn’t really answer the elephant-in-the-room question: how could all those people die with no mention of it surviving?”

  “Yes, she did.”

  “She told us stories. Even she wasn’t sure.”

  “That’s not dishonest.”

  “Whatever, Justin. It’s your damn thesis, not mine.” Annoyed, she strode rapidly down the hill toward the car. Justin sighed in exasperation and rushed to catch up.

  * * *

  Azure watched the young couple until they disappeared down the trail. She was not the least bit surprised that, as soon as they were out of sight, Tucker Carding walked out of the woods on the opposite side of the cottage.

  “How bad is it?” he asked without preliminaries.

  “They know about Sadieville. They have a copy of that movie, The Fairies of Sadieville. I saw it.”

  For a moment his expression was one of almost infinite sadness and loss. “You saw Sophronie?”

  “I did. It’s on the Internet, if you want to see it.”

  He shook his head.

  She paused, then asked, “Do you think it might be time?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard anything from … her.”

  “The night winds have blown some strange things of late,” Azure pointed out.

  “Yeah.” He looked down thoughtfully, and chewed his lower lip, until at last he decided. “I don’t know if it’s time time, but I do think it’s time to let the rest of the Tufa know.”

  Azure nodded. “Then I’ll contact the First Daughters.”

  “And I’ll keep an eye on our friends,” he said, and turned to go.

  She put a hand on his arm. “Wait, Tucker. I know that you know where it is, and that it’s near Sadieville. You’re going to make sure they find it, aren’t you? And then see if the passage is open to them. Am I right?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted. “They did sort of drop in our laps, almost like they were deliberately sent to us.”

  “But we don’t know that.”

  “Are you not willing to sacrifice a couple of strangers for a chance to…?” He trailed off, leaving unsaid what they both knew.

  “I don’t know that I am,” Azure said. “And deep down, I don’t know that you are, either.”

  “Well, we’ll cross that when we come to it,” he said.

  They made complex hand gestures of respect to each other, and then Tucker went back into the woods. As soon as he was out of sight, Azure picked up her cell phone.

  “Bliss,” she said when the other end answered. “We have a situation. I need to meet with the First Daughters.”

  She listened for a moment, then said, “Yes, it’s the full moon. I don’t know if it’s a coincidence; you know who to ask about that.” Another pause, then, “Good. I’ll see you there.”

  She hung up, picked up her cat and buried her face in the soft fur. She sang softly, with great feeling:

  Never go back, don’t have the will

  Can never go back to my Sadieville …

  8

  As they settled in for the night at the Catamount Corner Motel, the only place to stay within at least an hour’s drive, Veronica said, “I’m sorry for getting so snippy out there.”

  “No worries,” Justin said. “It was all pretty weird.”

  “No, seriously,” she said. She slid between him and the bed where he was unpacking, and put her arms around his neck. “I’m sorry. I know how important this is to you, and how little it has to do with me. I shouldn’t get so emotionally involved.”

  He put his hands on her hips. “I actually kind of like that about you. The way you take what I do so seriously.”

  They kissed, and she teased, “So show me your thesis statement, big boy.”

  He put his arms around her. “I do feel like I should be working. Transcribing what Professor Kirby said. Figuring out where we’re going to start looking for Sadieville tomorrow.”

  She put his hand on her breast. “What do you feel like now?”

  He looked down at his hand, then up at her, and with satisfaction she saw the shift in his gaze. “I don’t have to do my homework right now, I guess.”

  “Mm, good guess.”

  He began to move his hand. “I think I have a take-home quiz I might work on. For extra credit.”

  “Just remember, the teacher doesn’t grade on a curve.”

  “It’s pass or fail?”

  “The practicum sure is,” she said, turned him and pushed him down on the bed.

  Later, as she lay awake while Justin snored lightly beside her, something occurred to her. She had seen the play Chapel of Ease, and yet somehow forgot all about it. She loved that show, loved the music an
d the story and the sheer intensity of it, and it had entirely slipped her mind, in the same way the Sadieville disaster had slipped out of history.

  And both involved the mysterious Tufa people.

  She turned and looked at Justin’s sleeping face. He looked impossibly young all of a sudden, like an innocent boy. She felt a surge of affection for him, and a desire to protect him that almost brought tears to her eyes.

  She draped his arm over her and spooned backward into his embrace.

  * * *

  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 that might allow them to be followed and observed. There were those Tufa who resented the power of the First Daughters, especially among their opposite number in the Tufa clans led by Junior Damo.

  The night was cool and damp. Fireflies drifted up into the higher tree branches, and patches of foxfire glowed from fallen trunks and limbs. Most Tufa gatherings, even the serious ones, were filled with music, but this one was silent and somber.

  Around the circle, women who looked enough alike to be sisters, or mothers and daughters, waited expectantly. The First Daughters were exactly what the name implied: the firstborn female children of each generation who still maintained true Tufa bloodlines. These women had a special awareness of their new world, and they were respected because of it. They were the first to forge a relationship with the night winds, those spirits, or deities, or whatever they were, that guided the Tufa destiny here. They were the first to learn how music, in this world, could alter events and even the fabric of this reality, in a way totally different from their place of origin. Some of the women were part of lineages that went all the way back to those times. And some of them—because time doesn’t work the same for every Tufa—remembered those times firsthand.

  Many Tufa women were infuriated that a mere accident of birth kept them from being part of the group, but those in it knew that it was no simple honor. It carried a weight of responsibility none of them would wish on anyone else.

  When they were all assembled, young Mandalay Harris said, “Thank you all for coming on such short notice. Azure has some important information she needs to share.”

  Azure stepped into the center of the circle, slowly turned and made hand signs of appropriate respect to those watching. As a sometimes professional storyteller as well as a part-time professor, she was usually at ease as the center of attention, but not here, and not now.

  “Today, a couple of young people came to visit me,” she said, her voice trembling. “They’re college students from the other end of the state, and one of them is doing his master’s thesis on…” She paused. “Sadieville.”

  The women looked blank.

  “Where is that?” one asked.

  “Sadieville was a coal town over near Black Creek,” Azure said.

  “What, here? In Cloud County?” said another incredulous voice.

  “Yes.”

  “When was this?”

  “At the beginning of the twentieth century. In 1915, the cavern beneath Sadieville collapsed, and the whole town—buildings, machinery, people—vanished overnight.”

  She saw the confused faces around her in the moonlight. No one could recall anything about this.

  “There’s a reason you’ve never heard of it,” she said. “The Tufa leaders at the time decided that to keep more coal people from sniffing around here, they should sing the memory of the town and its people out of the world. That included our memories as well. Over time almost all trace of it has been lost.”

  “Then how did your visitors find out about it?” Bronwyn Chess asked.

  “Luck and serendipity,” Azure said. “They found an old silent movie that was filmed in Sadieville just before the disaster, one that I thought was surely lost by now, too. Somehow a late colleague of mine had a copy, and now it’s been uploaded to YouTube. It shows a pureblood Tufa, Sophronie Conlin, letting her glamour down.”

  “Who is Sophronie Conlin?” Carnelia Rector said.

  “You don’t remember Sophronie because her memory was sung out with the town’s. The only reason I do is because Viney Conlin, her mother, was my great-grandmother, and she and the rest of the Conlin family were…” She searched for the right word. “Exempt. We were the keepers of this secret.”

  The group fell silent as they absorbed this information. It was one thing to sing up magic that helped keep them safe, or that brought good things to those who needed it. But something on this scale could’ve only been done by most of the Tufa singing together … which meant they’d agreed to sing it out of their own memories.

  Finally Azure said, “I think the easiest thing to do would be to sing you the song we used to hide the memory. It should let it all come back to you.”

  Azure cleared her throat, then sang in a high, clear voice:

  As a girl I walked your hollers,

  Down by the shallow, springtime creek,

  But now where I walk, a shadow follows,

  And I pray the Lord my soul will keep

  Lost my baby, lost my son,

  Lost my only, my only one,

  Can’t go back, don’t have the will,

  Can never go back to my Sadieville …

  The lightning bugs left lazy trails of light through the air, and the moon shone down like a spotlight. At first, there was no change. But one woman gasped, and then they all reacted as something inside their minds opened up, releasing memories and knowledge that had always been there but hidden behind a song spell of irresistible power. The story spilled forth, images and emotions that overpowered in their chaotic rush. Several broke out in sobs, some clung to friends or sisters, and the rest just stared into the darkness as the blinders fell away.

  Azure continued to sing:

  In Sadieville, there’s haunts in the trees

  And theirs are the sighs moving the leaves

  And the cold air that seeps

  Through the cracks in the floor

  Can never go back oh no, not anymore

  Never go back, don’t have the will

  Can never go back to my Sadieville …

  And in all their minds, they saw a train arrive in a grimy little town, unknowingly bringing those who would precipitate the death and horror to follow.

  II

  SADIEVILLE

  9

  “‘The country around Sadieville has a sort of half-civilized aspect,’” Ben Hubbard read from the newspaper, having to shout over the noise of the slowing train. “‘Yet it is beautiful nevertheless, the work of nature in her happiest mood.’” He closed the paper and looked out the train window as the scenery changed from heavy forest to areas cleared for the town.

  “And this,” Ben added, “must be Sadieville.” The screech of locomotive brakes cut through the air. Ben Hubbard was twenty-one, with unruly hair and a thick mustache waxed up at the tips. He was the epitome of a young man of his times, having seen in the new century as a child and now fully intending to enjoy it.

  His boss, motion picture director Sean Lee, leaned over to share the view. Sean was twenty-nine, with receding hair and a dimpled chin. He had grown up hearing stories of the Civil War and the greatness of Abraham Lincoln, and of how his family’s shame at their tenuous connection to the Confederate general prompted his male ancestors to heroic acts on behalf of the Union. Sean, though, had no such drive; he only sought out false conflict, safely brought to life by actors under his guidance. “Wow,” he said.

  “How do you mean that?” Ben asked. “It looks like just another dirty little coal town to me.”

  “I wasn’t looking at the town,” Sean replied. “I was looking at the mountains.”

  Ben turned to the man beside him. He wore a full suit despite the summer heat, and at the moment was asleep with his hat down over his face. “Richard,” Ben said, and shook him lightly. “We’re here.”

&
nbsp; Richard Arliss sat up slowly and yawned. He was ridiculously handsome, with a square jaw and a pencil-thin mustache so neat it almost looked drawn. His hair was parted along a razor-straight line, and slicked down to a lacquered shine. He was always referred to as “Mr. Arliss,” or “Richard”; never, ever “Dick.” He was twenty-six, and knew he was the best-looking man in the room. Any room.

  “Ah, that explains the smell,” Richard said, wrinkling his nose. “Not even the East River during the summer smells quite so rank. What causes it?”

  “You get used to it,” Ben said. “By tonight, you won’t even notice it.”

  “And how,” Richard said with his precise diction, “do you know that?”

  “I grew up near a coal town,” Ben said. “Went with my dad to deliver dry goods to the company store. Almost made me puke going in, but by the time we left, I wasn’t even aware of it anymore.”

  “Mm,” Richard said. He stood to his full five-foot-six height as the train slowed. Outside the windows, the platform and station building momentarily blocked the view.

  “Grab the gear,” Sean said. “Don’t let it out of your sight.” Ben nodded and left the car, jumping onto the platform before it came to a final stop and waiting as the porters unloaded the luggage.

  “If young master Benjamin is gathering your toys,” Richard asked, “who will carry my bags?”

  “You will,” Sean said.

  “What sort of uncivilized wilderness is this?”

  “It’ll help your performance to do a little manual labor,” Sean said with a grin.

  “My performance needs no ‘help,’” Richard said. “I’m a professional.”

  “So you keep saying.”

  Aside from the three movie people, the only other passengers were a young clerk who resisted conversation, and an overweight geologist who wouldn’t shut up. Everyone in the car now knew he’d been brought in by the Prudence Coal and Coke Company, who’d opened the Great Sadie mine, to determine if this unexpected vein of coal eventually connected to the Cumberland Gap coal field to the west. If it did, then a lot of lawyers would get very rich sorting out the mineral rights. He scooted to the window beside his seat on the far side of the car and looked out.