Long Black Curl

by Alex Bledsoe

  When he sat up, a large black bear watched him from less than five feet away.

  Neither he nor the bear moved.

  “Shouldn’t you be hibernating?” he croaked at last.

  The bear made a noise between a snuffle and a grunt.

  Then Jeff noticed the change. All around him grew weeds, bushes, and vines. Grass sprouted in the cracks between the rocks. He looked up, and saw blue sky tinged with purple dusk along one edge. The air he pulled into his battered lungs no longer had the chill bite of winter.

  “Oh, fuck,” he said as he realized what had happened. Bo-Kate didn’t just push him off the cliff—she pushed him into slow time. Faery time. The exile from which he might emerge, but there was no telling where, or when.

  He got to his feet. The bear backed up and growled. He looked it right in the eye and said loudly, “Shoo!” The bear turned and waddled away downslope.

  His heavy winter coat was now too warm for the humid air. He took it off and tied the sleeves around his waist. He looked back up at the sky, which was already fading to night. Still, there was enough glow for him to determine which direction was west, and therefore he knew he should travel east—toward the night, the darkness and the uncertainty ahead, as well as toward Needsville.

  But with each slip over treacherous rocks, each unseen tree limb that slapped his face, each mosquito that buzzed in his ear, he grew angrier and angrier: at himself, certainly, but also at Bo-Kate, for not being what he’d needed her to be. Next time—and there would be a next time—he would not hesitate.

  * * *

  It was an hour later before he realized what he’d thought was the oncoming night was actually the dawn. So he’d been traveling the wrong way.

  He sat down with a heavy sigh of annoyance and defeat. Okay, he thought, I’ve been fucked with yet again. Now what?

  The forest looked the same in every direction. He could turn around and head toward the sunrise, but there was no guarantee that was right, either. Without some guide, some indication of the right direction, he simply couldn’t know what he was supposed to do. Was this really how people felt when caught in fae time?

  Then he heard a voice.

  At first he wondered if it might be another trick, a siren call to keep him wandering. But what choice did he have? He got wearily to his feet, listened hard, then walked toward the sound.

  As he got closer and it grew plainer, there was no doubt it came from a real person. The only surprise was, he realized the voice was a child’s.

  A child calmly singing meant a family nearby, and that meant relief, if not truly rescue. He had no idea where, or when, he was. It could be ten minutes or ten years later, and the world that waited for him outside these woods might be so different, he couldn’t conceive of it.

  He crept forward until the shape of a big house loomed up through the trees. There was something familiar about it, but then again, all the old houses in Cloud County resembled each other. His own family dwelling looked a lot like this before it fell to pieces.

  He reached the edge of the yard and stayed out of sight. There was indeed a little girl, no more than five or six, singing as she ran around in circles. She wore a faded little dress and no shoes, and a small puppy played at her heels. She sang:

  There was a man lived in the moon,

  Lived in the moon, lived in the moon,

  There was a man lived in the moon,

  And his name was Aiken Drum.

  Jeff stepped out into the yard. “Hi,” he said, trying to sound as friendly as he could. “Could you tell me where I am? I’m kinda lost.” He gave her the smile that usually made musicians fall all over themselves to sign on the dotted line.

  The girl stopped singing and stared up at him.

  Jeff’s whole sense of the world collapsed.

  The little girl was—without a doubt, without even the possibility of a doubt—Bo-Kate Wisby.

  32

  Until the little sparks appeared around the edges of his vision, Jeff didn’t even realize he’d forgotten to breathe.

  The girl’s eyes were unmistakable. The little chin had the first hints of the strong, powerful jawline she would possess as an adult. The lips, though tiny, held the promise of the ones he would one day know so well. And the curly hair, held back by a handful of tiny ribbons, would one day entangle his fingers.

  They looked at each other for a long moment. The only noise was the high-pitched barking of the tiny dog.

  At last the little girl said, “Are you a fwend of my daddy?”

  “I know him,” Jeff managed to croak out.

  “He’s not here. He went to help someone round up some pigs that got out. In fact, ain’t nobody here but me.”

  “Where’s your brothers?”

  “Snad’s out chasing girls, Canton’s out chasing Snad.”

  Jeff forced himself to sound casual as he asked, “What’s your name?”

  “Beauregard Katherine, but everyone calls me Bo-Kate. What’s yours?”

  “Jeff.”

  “This is Stinkerbelle,” she said with a nod at the puppy.

  Jeff knelt and patted the dog, who puppy-nipped at his fingers. He looked around at the house, which was almost exactly the way he remembered it. Even the old outhouse was still there.

  “You can wait if you want,” the girl said. “Do you want to sing with me?”

  Jeff nodded. What the hell else was he going to do?

  He sat on the grass as she resumed running around, and joined her as she started the song over.

  There was a man lived in the moon,

  Lived in the moon, lived in the moon

  There was a man lived in the moon,

  And his name was Aiken Drum.

  And he played upon a ladle,

  A ladle, a ladle

  And he played upon a ladle,

  And his name was Aiken Drum.

  His brain danced, too, but far more frantically than the little girl before him, the girl he now knew was Bo-Kate Wisby. He had gone back in time. Back in fucking time, to the era of his own childhood. Somewhere nearby, at this very moment, he also existed as a totally separate, unaware entity.

  Time was essentially linear, and the Tufa could dance in and out of it as they liked, but going back—returning to events already passed, already experienced—was reserved for only the purest of the purebloods. Certainly not someone like him. But if anyone, anything could manage it, it was whatever drove the night winds, whatever directed the Tufa’s destiny, whatever had picked him up as he fell and deposited him here.

  For a reason.

  And then he knew.

  And his hat was made of good cream cheese,

  Of good cream cheese, of good cream cheese,

  And his hat was made of good cream cheese,

  And his name was Aiken Drum.

  He looked around. A long, sharp scythe stood against the outhouse wall between a post-hole digger and a shovel. The flat of the blade was rusty, but its edge gleamed in the sunlight. Jeff got to his feet and walked over to it.

  And his coat was made of good roast beef,

  Of good roast beef, of good roast beef,

  And his coat was made of good roast beef,

  And his name was Aiken Drum.

  This was it. He was here to stop Bo-Kate before she did any of the horrible things she’d done, and was planning to do. Penny Hadlow would not be scarred. Adele Anker and her family would not be burned to death. Jesse Spicer’s brains would not decorate the floor of the girl’s dressing room. Rockhouse Hicks and Marshall Goins would still be alive.

  All if Jeff could find it in himself to kill a child.

  He picked up the scythe, disturbing a pair of yellow jackets that had begun a nest on the underside of the outhouse eave. The distinctive smell, particularly ripe in the heat, made him try to mouth-breathe. A black racer snake skittered along the edge of the building and shot through the grass into the safety of the nearest patch of weeds.

  This blade wou
ld do the job, all right; that little head would separate from the diminutive neck with one good, strong swing. He’d used one of these countless times in his youth, and the muscle memory was still there. He turned back to the girl.

  And his britches were made of haggis bags,

  Of haggis bags, of haggis bags,

  And his britches were of haggis bags,

  And his name was—

  She stopped dancing when he took the first step toward her with the scythe.

  The dog yapped twice, then turned and ran off toward the shelter of the back porch.

  Jeff stopped in front of the girl. She stared up at him, her face blank. With her chin raised that way, her neck was a perfect target. One quick blow, and a whole universe of death and violence would never exist.

  This was what he was here for.

  He drew back, turning at the hip. The weight of the scythe swung easily.

  And then he froze.

  One long black curl came loose from a clip and fell into the little girl’s face.

  He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t blink. The long black curl mesmerized him, as it always had. As, he realized, it always would.

  Her lower lip trembled a little. “Mister?” she said in the tiniest voice imaginable.

  He tossed the scythe aside and fled back into the woods.

  * * *

  Jeff ran as hard as he could, his eyes blinded with tears, his chest thundering with emotions he couldn’t contain or even identify. He slammed into trees and felt branches slash along his arms and legs. He kept going until, exhausted, he could go no farther and fell to the ground. He sobbed harder than he’d ever done in his life.

  A female voice said, “What happened?”

  He jumped, turned, and looked around. The first thing he noticed was that there was once again snow on the ground. Then he saw Mandalay Harris leaning against a tree, her hands stuffed in her pockets.

  He sniffed and wiped his nose. “I c-couldn’t do it.”

  She cocked her head slightly. “Do what?”

  “What you sent me to do!”

  “I didn’t send you anywhere. The night winds did it, and they’ve stopped talking to me.”

  “Then how did you know I’d be here?”

  “I didn’t. I just went for a walk.”

  Jeff sighed. “They sent me to Bo-Kate when she was a little girl. They wanted me to kill her.”

  “And you didn’t?”

  “I couldn’t. I couldn’t.”

  Mandalay nodded, then looked off into the distance. “She’ll never be that vulnerable again.”

  “I don’t c-care. I couldn’t.”

  “You’ve killed people before.”

  “Not little children.”

  “You mean not looking at them.”

  Jeff felt the words like a scythe to his own neck. She meant Adele Anker and her family, one of whom, little Boone, was no older than the child Bo-Kate. He’d killed them in the metaphorical heat of his passion for her, and in the literal heat of a fire he set, but not, as Mandalay said, looking at them. “You’re right,” he choked out.

  Mandalay’s voice grew hard. “I know.”

  He sobbed some more. The memory of that curl falling into her little face sent another shock of anguish through him.

  “You’ve doomed your people, Jefferson,” Mandalay said. There was no anger, no rage, just sadness. “You had the chance to do something no different than what you’ve done before, and you couldn’t do it. I can’t defeat her. I may have the wisdom of centuries, but I have the courage of a twelve-year-old. You were our last hope.”

  “Just shoot her in the head!” Jeff roared. “Surely someone would do that for you.”

  Mandalay smiled sadly. “It’s not that easy. People have to want me to lead them, or I’m a tyrant like Rockhouse. Just killing a rival wouldn’t do that.” She smiled, and it was the saddest thing Jeff had ever seen. “Good-bye, Jefferson. Keep going like you’re going, and you’ll find your way back.”

  “Are you banishing me again?”

  “What’s the point? The night winds gave you the chance. You didn’t take it. On February 3, it all ends. That’s it.”

  “What happens on February 3?”

  “It’s the night of the full moon. Everything changes. Bo-Kate wins.”

  “So you’re giving up?”

  33

  After he calmed down, he put on his coat again and did exactly as Mandalay said. He continued walking through the woods, stumbled around a little, then emerged once again directly behind the Wisby house. Only he knew he was back in his own time.

  Of course I’m right back here, he thought with grim humor. It wasn’t really a surprise—the night wind was known for its perverse sense of humor—but he hadn’t expected it, after what had happened here just minutes—or was it years?—before. He sorted through memories of the geography, to plot the quickest way back to the Pair-A-Dice, where he could retrieve his rental car and get the hell out of town.

  Before he could, though, the back door opened and one of the biggest men Jeff had ever seen emerged. He was so large, in fact, that Jeff wondered if he’d actually tripped into some parallel universe where he would be considered a midget. But no, the door and windows were the normal height; this was just a huge guy.

  He walked along the path to the outhouse in his shirtsleeves, hands in his pockets. He had a pronounced limp, and Jeff heard a faint metallic squeak with every step. When he passed through the glow of the moon, Jeff saw his face and almost gasped aloud. He’d known it, of course, but the reality had a weight he didn’t expect.

  It was Byron Harley, the Hillbilly Hercules, who had died sixty years before. This was no ghost or apparition; this was flesh-and-blood reality. He’d certainly heard enough of the man’s music, and recalled all the pictures Bo-Kate pasted to her walls. All the connections clicked: the date of the concert synching with the date of the legendary plane crash, and now Byron Harley mere feet away, after Bo-Kate had resurrected him … but for what?

  Byron went into the outhouse and shut the door. Jeff made a sudden decision and crept up behind it. He heard Byron settle down on the seat.

  “There’s a scattergun aimed at your back, son,” Jeff said quietly, with as much drawling menace as he could muster. “It’ll go right through this wood and give you a 12-gauge enema. You just sit there and answer my questions, and you may get out of this alive.”

  Harley did not respond.

  “I’m gonna tell you something, and then I’m gonna go away. I expect you to acknowledge it. Are you listening?” He leaned close to a gap in the planks. “Do not help Bo-Kate Wisby take over the Tufa. You understand? Do not.”

  “Why not?” Harley growled, and the intensity in the voice made Jeff jump.

  “Because it’s not right. The Tufa—”

  “You Tufa stole my whole fucking life. My wife and little girl are dead. My grandbabies are dead. You want to shoot me in the back while I’m on the crapper, you go right ahead. That’s how Tufa courage works, ain’t it?”

  Jeff had never heard such venomous hatred. This man wouldn’t be dissuaded unless he was killed, and if Jeff really had a shotgun, he might’ve used it. But he didn’t, so he said, “All right. But come the night of February third, you better be watching over your shoulder.”

  “Yeah? Or what?”

  But Jeff had already crept away into the woods, toward Donal Road, where he hoped he could hitch a ride back to the Pair-A-Dice and pick up his car.

  * * *

  When he went back into the house, Byron stomped up the stairs and banged on Bo-Kate’s door so hard, the wood cracked. When she opened it, he said, “Somebody knows all about the little cotillion you got planned.” Then he told her about the incident outside.

  Bo-Kate grinned. “That’s called free publicity, Byron. If they’re that worried, then they’ll definitely show up to see what happens.”

  “If they don’t stop us first.”

  “Byron, they can’
t stop us. The guy could’ve blown your head off, but he didn’t. He was too afraid of me. So just go back to your room and relax.”

  “I’m tired of my goddamn room.”

  “Just a little bit more, I promise you.” She leaned up and kissed him on the cheek, then whispered, “I’ll come visit you as soon as I can.”

  She saw the anger leave his face, replaced by something equally violent, but quite different. “I’ll be waiting,” he said.

  * * *

  Bo-Kate looked at Nigel on the bed, propped up on his elbows. “What was that about?” he asked.

  “Byron just had a case of the jitters,” she said. “He’ll feel better when he beats up someone else.”

  “That’s a comforting thought.”

  She shrugged. Nigel was attentive and considerate in bed, and she supposed at some level she loved him for it. But Byron took her, using his weight and strength to pound into her so hard, she worried he might crush her in his fury. And at the same time, she enjoyed the feminine submission he demanded from her by his treatment. Most men, Nigel included, were content to follow her lead and subsume their own desires to hers. But not Byron.

  She slipped back under the sheets and turned off the bedside lamp. “Now, where were we?”

  “You were, I believe, on your back. I was—”

  “I remember exactly where you were,” she said as she assumed her previous position and pushed his head down her body.

  * * *

  Mandalay lay in bed wide awake. Illumination from the security light by the road reflected off the snow onto her ceiling, through which the shadows of bare tree branches waved in the night wind.

  She had two pressing problems: whatever Bo-Kate had planned, and whatever was going on between her and Luke Somerville. The first was clearly the most important: the entire future of the Tufa rested on it. But it was the second felt so urgent that she wanted to scream.

  She couldn’t be in love, not really. She was a child, and one advantage of holding so much inside her head was that it gave her a perspective far beyond childhood; hell, far beyond the span of a regular human life. With a little effort, she could see the patterns of history stretching out behind the events of the day, and could make a far better guess about what the future held than the average person. But the turmoil in her heart over Luke shorted out all that insight and left her as adrift as any other twelve-year-old girl nursing her first serious crush.