What Befalls the Children
Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Chronicles
By Nicki Huntsman Smith
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2020 by Nicki Huntsman Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Terms and Conditions
The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Credits
Credit to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for the poem “A Shadow”.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following:
Lori, my editor, proofreader, and grammar consultant extraordinaire. Her contributions elevated this book to a level I wouldn’t have achieved otherwise. She is not allowed to die before me.
My beta readers, Al and Lisa, who provided advice, suggestions, and top-notch cheerleading.
Lastly and most importantly, my husband Ray, whose encouragement and support makes my books possible. I owe him everything.
Contents
Chapter 1
Fergus
Chapter 2 -- Ray
Chapter 3 -- Willadean
Chapter 4 — Fergus
Chapter 5 — Ray
Chapter 6 — Willadean
Chapter 7 — Fergus
Chapter 8 — Ray
Chapter 9 — Willadean
Chapter 10 — Fergus
Chapter 11 — Ray
Chapter 12 — Willadean
Chapter 13 — Harlan
Chapter 14 — Fergus
Chapter 15 — Ray
Chapter 16 — Willadean
Chapter 17 — Harlan
Chapter 18 — Ray
Chapter 19 — Fergus
Chapter 20 — Ray
Chapter 21 — Fergus
Chapter 22 — Willadean
Chapter 23 — Fergus
Chapter 24 — Willadean
Chapter 25 — Fergus
Epilogue
Those Who Come the Last
Chapter 1
Fergus
“Are you interested in the Snickers bar or not? I don’t have all day, sir.”
The old coot stood twenty yards away wielding an antediluvian shotgun, but Fergus knew he had nothing to fear for two reasons.
First, this was Appalachia. Over the last few days, Fergus had been ambling through a picturesque valley nestled within the magnificent Smoky Mountains near the eastern border of Tennessee. Contrary to the pervasive misconception, folks in Appalachia didn’t smoke corncob pipes on rickety porches waiting to shoot uninvited guests. They were friendly, unless you stole their hog or impregnated their daughters without first scribbling your X on a marriage certificate.
Second, his scythen told him the man didn’t possess an ounce of hostility at the moment. Maybe that was because of Fergus’s red hair.
In the mid-18th century, a prodigious wave of Scots-Irish immigrated to the area. DNA tests on the rural population there would likely show a disproportionately high percentage of Gaelic ancestry. The old coot could be his distant cousin. Considering Fergus’s true age, the connection would be tenuous, but still, the Scots-Irish took their familial blood ties seriously. Maybe on some enigmatic psychic level, the man recognized kinfolk.
“I reckon I’m interested. What do you want for it?” He whipped off a stained Titans ball cap, revealing a few dozen tenacious silver hairs. A threadbare shirt sleeve mopped the sweating, freckled skin between the hairs.
“Only conversation. And perhaps some information, if you’re so inclined.”
“You talk fancy. Whereabouts you from, mister?”
“Originally from Ireland, but that was a long time ago. Most recently I hailed from Jupiter, Florida. It’s a delightful burg on the Atlantic coast, where the native women are even more titillating than the turquoise waters and golden beaches. Ever heard of it?” The Ireland statement was necessarily vague. Fergus hadn’t visited the Mother Country in several hundred years.
“Nope. Purdy, is it?”
“It is indeed.”
“Ain’t never seen the ocean ‘cept in books. Ain’t never traveled beyond this here holler.”
It was a test. Fergus knew it instantly. His response would determine whether he would earn accurate answers to his questions and, more importantly, whether he would be welcomed into the very clan he had come to study. They were nearby. He could sense them.
“That’s understandable. Why travel beyond the perimeters of heaven?” He donned his most charming grin as he gestured to the surrounding mountains. The gently sloping peaks hinted at autumnal splendor yet to come.
The old coot cackled, sputtered, hawked up a loogy, spat it on the ground, and then cackled some more.
“You got that right. Where ya heading, mister? What’s your name?”
“Fergus. No need for last names under these end-of-the-world circumstances, yes?”
“As long as there ain’t two Ferguses ‘round here, we’ll be fine. My name’s Euel Whitaker, but folks just call me Skeeter. What information do you want? Do I get the candy before or after I answer your questions?”
“Now, of course. It’s well past the expiration date, but what isn’t these days?” He extended the chocolate bar to the old man, who lowered his shotgun and walked toward him.
“That wouldn’t bother me none, but it ain’t for me. It’s for my grandkids.” Skeeter swiped the candy with deft fingers, then squirreled it away in a voluminous pocket within faded, patched overalls.
In the clothing department, Skeeter lived up to societal notions of hillbilly couture. But as a pocket man himself, Fergus saw the practical appeal of all those sartorial hidey-holes. He wondered where he could find a pair.
“Grandkids? I’m envious. I’ve never fathered any children...that I know of,” Fergus added with a wink.
Skeeter cackled again, then lapsed into silence. The faded blue eyes appraised him.
Fergus waited patiently.
“I can tell you ain’t no pervert or murderer or rapist. Don’t ask me how, ‘cuz that ain’t nothin’ I can explain. So what are these questions?”
“I’ll be blunt. I’m lonely, Skeeter. I’m weary of being on the road, dodging gangs of thugs and killers who would slaughter me for my remaining Snickers bars. I want to belong to a community again, where I can contribute in a meaningful way. I’ve heard rumors of a group living happily and peacefully in this splendid place. I knew I had to try to find it. My esoteric skill set would be a boon to everyone, and my firearms prowess is second to none. Can we help each other?”
The faded blue eyes narrowed. “I have two questions for you. Where did you hear that rumor and why did you leave Florida? Careful, son. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Suddenly the hillbilly dialect had vanished, along with the friendly tone. The shotgun pointed toward him again.
Fergus took a deep breath. He would have to lie, and he would need to block his scythen’s output while doing so. Skeeter must
possess a smidgen of the telepathic ability if he were able to discern a stranger’s true nature in a two-minute conversation.
“The second question first. I left Florida because of a woman. She was in love with me, and though I harbored fond feelings for her, I’m not the kind of man who settles down with one female. It was in both our interests for me to leave.”
“Hmmm. What was her name?”
“Amelia,” he said promptly. At least his paramour’s name wasn’t a lie. That should help.
“Why come here?”
“Alligators. Mosquitoes. Humidity. Like the Snickers bar, I was past my expiration date in regard to Florida. I was ready for new scenery. On the road, I met a fellow who mentioned the existence of some good folks holed up near Pigeon Forge. I was immediately taken with the notion of log cabins, crackling fires, women in form-fitting gingham dresses serving me mugs of moonshine...”
That evoked a snorting chuckle. The shotgun muzzle lowered infinitesimally. Fergus knew at that moment that he and Skeeter were going to be friends.
“What was the man’s name?”
“The one on the road? His name was Tung. An Asian fellow. Decent chap, but nobody I could star alongside in a buddy film. Too straight-laced.”
A forward dip of the ball cap. More squinting of the faded blue eyes as they scrutinized him from the top of his spiky red hair to the soles of his dusty Doc Martins.
“I reckon I’ll take you there, but it ain’t up to me if’n you’ll be invited to stay.”
Interesting. The dialect was back. There was more to Skeeter than a balding old hillbilly in overalls.
“Understood. Much obliged, sir.”
“Mountain folk have particular ways of dealing with troublemakers. Ways that started long before Chicksy happened. You best mind yerself.”
It was Fergus’s turn to snort. Chicksy was easier to pronounce than Chicxulub. He would begin using it himself.
“Thanks for the warning. I promise to be the perfect gentleman. Lead on, dear fellow. By the way, where might I obtain a pair of those exquisite overalls? I’d be happy to trade more Snickers...”
***
An hour later, the old man informed him they were approaching Whitaker Holler. It was just up yander. Not yonder. And it wasn’t a valley, but a holler, the regional term for a low-lying area nestled between mountain ranges. Family clans claimed these individual hollers as their own, and had for generations. It was the Mountain People way. Fergus anticipated he would be able to add to his already impressive repertoire of local dialects and anthropological education.
Traveling around the world for millennia built up quite a collection.
“Gotta tie a blindfold on ya, son,” Skeeter said. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I got a good feeling about you, but I’ve been snookered once or twice. Folks these days can’t be too careful.”
“Perfectly understandable. It so happens I have a bandana suitable for the task.”
“Nope. This one’ll do.” Skeeter withdrew a dubious swatch of stained fabric from one of his many pockets.
“I’m not the first fellow to wear this, am I?”
Skeeter cackled but didn’t answer. He steered Fergus by the elbow as they hiked the sloping terrain. Fergus took the opportunity of being blind to send out his scythen — sensory deprivation intensified it.
Skeeter was an inadvertent sender as well as a receiver. As with all neophytes, his telepathic talent seemed nebulous and untrained. The benevolent, non-threatening output was still evident, which was a relief. The Whitaker clan may collectively decide to kill him, but Skeeter himself posed no danger.
At least not yet.
After thirty minutes of hiking, the old man said, “We’re here. You can take off the blindfold now.”
Fergus happily did so. The scene before him begged to be captured on film, or perhaps in a Thomas Kinkade painting. The silent gathering of Mountain People stood motionless and staring, all striking unintentional poses that hinted at captivating personal stories. Weathered shanties belched smoke from teetering chimneys; flames flickered within lanterns strung above crooked doorways. Galvanized washtubs stood sentinel beside improvised clotheslines, while women dipped arms elbow-deep in murky water as they squatted motionless, assessing the newcomer. Children in ragged clothing positioned themselves behind lean, grim-faced males interspersed with several equally grim-faced females.
Everyone who stood clutched firearms. Nobody spoke.
“Skeeter, this isn’t a welcoming committee, is it?” Fergus whispered.
“What’d you expect? A muffin basket?” Skeeter replied.
It would have been funny under different circumstances.
Skeeter raised one hand, a gesture that said: Everyone calm the hell down.
At least that’s what Fergus hoped it said.
“Folks, this here feller wants to join up. I can tell he don’t pose no threat, and he says he can help us.”
A full minute of silence passed. Fergus was getting nervous, but Skeeter didn’t appear to be bothered by the chilly reception.
Finally, a tall, slender woman detached herself from the backwoods tableau and glided toward them. Long, flaxen braids framed a smudged face, then meandered down to a madras plaid-covered bosom; Fergus didn’t allow his gaze to linger on the bosom. Sneakers that needed to be replaced long ago silently covered the distance between them. She moved like a lioness. When she stood two feet away, he saw that her luminous eyes would have matched that of any feline predator in Africa.
“I’m Serena Jo,” the magnificent creature said in a low-pitched, honey-butter voice. “Who are you and why are you here?”
No bumpkin dialect from this one.
“I’m Fergus. I’d like to join your group.” He didn’t bother with a charming smile, opting instead for an undeniably sincere tone. He knew those intelligent golden eyes would notice anything phony.
“Why would we allow that?”
“Because I possess skills that would benefit everyone. I can knock a bobcat off a tree branch from fifty paces with a rock. I bake the fluffiest biscuits this side of heaven. I can juggle fiery torches and small children simultaneously, without harming the torches.”
He was relieved to see one side of the lovely mouth twitch. Was she amused? He couldn’t tell. She was a complete blank to his scythen.
Serena Jo was no inadvertent sender.
“We don’t need rock-throwers, bakers, nor jugglers. You’ll have to do better.”
Fergus thought furiously for several moments. What could he offer these people that they didn’t already have? Nobody was rotund, but neither did they appear to be starving. Folks who had lived primitively before the end of the world would fare well afterward. They had surely been growing much of their own food and hunting game long before Chixculub. They had no problem living without electricity, and their medical needs would be addressed homeopathically, as they had been for generations.
What could he give people who didn’t need his help to survive?
“I was a professor at Dartmouth before Chicksy,” he lied smoothly. “I can teach the children and anyone else interested in rounding out their education.”
A sudden increase in the golden eyes’ luminosity revealed interest. He had selected the perfect morsel with which to seduce the beautiful gatekeeper.
“What subject?”
“Subjects. Philosophy, History, English, and Music Theory.”
“I’ve never heard of a professor qualified to teach in so many areas. What instruments do you play?”
Fergus smiled inwardly. Even though the invention of the fiddle postdated his youth, he had learned how to play on one of his many visits there over the years. Fiddle-playing was practically demanded of anyone with Irish blood running through his veins.
“I play the violin like an angel.”
“Prove it.” The woman gestured toward a child frozen in a nearby doorway. The child disappeared, then returned with a weathered instrument and a bow with
strings of unknown origin. What would these people use to replace them? Sheep intestines were preferred in the Old Country. Did the Mountain People have a hidden flock somewhere? He hadn’t heard any bleating.
The child handed over both with adorable gravity. The golden eyes staring at him now were as luminous as those of Serena Jo. This little girl must be her daughter.
“I’m a bit rusty,” he said, closing his eyes and traveling to the musical compartment of his memory palace.
The instrument felt fine in his hands. He hadn’t played a note since long before the pandemic, but it didn’t matter. Muscle memory and an ingrained love of music would suffice.
After a shaky start, he found the correct movements for Mendelssohn’s Concerto in E Minor. From that, he transitioned seamlessly to the Swallowtail Jig, a favorite of his people. As he played, he opened his eyes to see an assortment of boots, sneakers, and bare feet tapping to the lively rhythm.
He smiled. Of course these folks would love a jig. Their ancestors were Gaelic.
“Very good,” Serena Jo said when he finished. “But that only shows you can play. Most of us can do that. Music in the holler is how we entertain ourselves. What is music theory and how would you teach it?”
“Music theory examines key signatures, pitches, intervals, scale, chords, and other fundamentals. It also provides insight into the basic building blocks that form harmony, melody, and rhythm. I’ll make it fun, too. I’m quite entertaining, even when I don’t try to be.”
“Who is your favorite philosopher and why?”
Fergus responded promptly. “Epicurus. He understood the profound benefits of simple pleasure and friendship.”
“What year was Julius Caesar born?”
“Approximately 100 BCE.”
Her eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he realized who she was. Skeeter’s eyes were blue, so Serena Jo’s mother must have been responsible for the unusual golden color. “What is an ambigram?”
What Befalls the Children: Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Series Page 1