By the time Craig came down the hill to his car, it was full daylight, although the morning mist still covered the land. He was exhausted, and wanted nothing more than a shower and some sleep, in that order. Then he remembered Bronwyn’s offer of breakfast, and smiled at the thought of seeing her.
But there was Mandalay, still seated on the fence, holding but not playing her tiple. In the haze she looked entirely human, entirely a child. Not even her eyes gave away anything otherworldly. But after last night, they didn’t have to.
“Morning,” Craig said. “You been here all night?”
“I have.”
“Your parents must be worried.”
“They know where I am.” She paused. “Did you ask?”
“I did.”
She yawned, then climbed down and walked across the road to stand before him. The morning birds twittered in the trees, and cows hidden by the fog lowed their contentment. She looked up at him and said with what had to be forced casualness, “Well, what did he tell you?”
Craig swallowed for a moment. “He said … ‘It’s just like Bob Marley said.’”
At first Mandalay did not react. Then she nodded, turned, and walked away.
When Foyt had spoken, Craig had been almost totally certain he’d heard wrong. After all, how would this old white man, who’d spent his whole life in Appalachia amongst the whitest music around, know anything other than the name of Bob Marley, let alone a quote? He’d faded after that, unable to answer any of Craig’s follow-up questions about precisely what Bob Marley had said, and about what.
As the paramedics removed the body and the family prepared for visitation, Craig had surreptitiously looked for albums, CDs, or even eight tracks that might explain the statement. But there hadn’t been a single hint of music that wasn’t American country or white gospel.
The only obvious explanation was, of course, that Foyt had relayed the actual words of God. And that, like the idea that the Tufa were fairies, was bigger than Craig could accept all at once.
“Wait,” Craig called after the girl. “I mean … does that make sense to you?”
She stopped and turned. For an instant, he thought he saw the shape of delicate, beautifully sheer wings in the hazy air.
“It does,” she said. “Do you know Bob Marley?”
“So he meant something like, ‘No woman no cry’? ‘Let’s get together and feel all right’?” He chuckled, from weariness and puzzlement. “‘I shot the sheriff’?”
“No, not his music. Something he said once. He said, ‘I don’t stand for the black man’s side, I don’t stand for the white man’s side, I stand for God’s side.’” Then she resumed walking off into the morning, the tiple over her shoulder. Before she’d gone five steps, she vanished.
Copyright (C) 2013 by Alex Bledsoe
Art copyright (C) 2013 by Jonathan Bartlett
Shall We Gather: A Tor.Com Original Page 2