by Alex Bledsoe
He’d broken the wax seal during his wild escape. He withdrew a small rectangle of paper, clearly the one excised from the book in the strange little library. The missing stanza read:
Around him stood the myriad fae
Whose love had grown to hate’s decay
They bound him to the spot he lay
“You can do no harm while you be here.”
He stared at these words, trying to make them coherent, but it didn’t help. What was so almighty special about this last verse? He looked up at Curnen. “Hon, maybe I’ve just been smacked around too much lately, but this doesn’t make any sense at all.”
She looked down in hard thought, then held out her left hand, fingers spread so that all six were obvious. She gestured with her right hand as if stroking a long beard.
He nodded. “Rockhouse.”
She stood and pretended to stomp things on the ground and silently laugh; then she looked up at the sky in mock terror, mimicking those being trampled.
“Rockhouse treats people like that,” he said, and she nodded.
Then she stood very straight, chin high and eyes almost closed. She made a tall motion above her head, as if she wore a crown.
“Because he’s a king?”
She nodded, then tapped her forehead.
“Because he’s a king … he thinks?”
She shook her head. She made a wide, expansive gesture, then tapped her forehead again.
“Because … everyone else thinks he’s a king? That’s why everyone’s scared of him?”
She nodded emphatically.
He looked at the verse again. You can do no harm while you be here. A light went on in his mind. “Wait … they took his crown away, didn’t they? When he couldn’t split that hickory nut. He’s not the fairy feller anymore.”
Curnen bounced up and down, nodding. She no longer looked mentally handicapped or physically distorted; she was an angry, melancholy girl glad to be shed of a terrible secret. She watched him closely.
He continued to think through the implications. “So Rockhouse still has influence because no one knows he lost his job as king. And if the last verse of this song gets out, they will. That’s why it was hidden.”
She wiggled her hand to say close enough and nodded.
“It doesn’t heal broken hearts, then, does it?”
She shook her head sadly.
He closed his eyes and waited until the disappointment passed. Then he got to his feet, his tennis shoes slipping on the rocks. He put the verse back in his pocket. “I’m going to try to help someone, a girl who’s been … bewitched, I guess, by Stoney Hicks. I may have to make this song public in order to do that.”
She nodded.
“Will you get in trouble?”
She shrugged, then nodded. Probably.
“Then why did you help me?”
She touched her own heart, then his, and again mimed breaking sticks. Then she pretended to take half of his broken stick, and half of her own. She put them together to make one whole. There was no guile or deceit in her eyes.
He let his hand brush her cheek. “Honey, I’m sorry, but I barely know you. Can you take me back to my car?”
She looked down, and nodded. Tears ran freely down her face; he could almost feel her heart breaking. How could she care so much about him when she hardly knew him? Could she really hear what was inside him, under the self-pity and sadness and rage? Not even Anna had been able to do that, and she knew him better than anyone.
Impulsively, he pulled her into a hug. He felt her small, hard body against his, and from deep inside him surged a wave of unexpected tenderness. “I can’t stay here with you, Curnen, I’m sorry,” he said, amazed at the lump choking his voice. “But before I leave, I’ll do my best to help you, too. Then…” He let his words trail off, because he realized that with Curnen, he didn’t have to say anything.
Above them, a crow flew over, and its cry sounded mocking to Rob’s ears.
28
Bliss awoke with a start. Dawn illuminated the room in shades of gray, not yet bright enough for colors.
She lay curled up on the couch in the living room, her father’s old fiddle on the floor beside her. The fire had died overnight, and her breath made little puffs as she yawned. She stretched, and the comforter slid to the floor. She’d slept in her shirt, underwear, and socks, and she felt goose bumps on her bare legs.
She looked down at the fiddle. She had no clear memory of removing it from the shelf after Mandalay left, but did recall scratching on it with her usual abysmal technique. Although she could make a guitar recite Shakespeare, she was almost completely inept at the fiddle. Her father, though, had been able to coax light and shadow from that same instrument.
She recalled drifting off with her hands touching the strings, imagining that through them she was able to connect somehow with the man who’d once played them with such finesse. Earlier she’d poured herself a big glass of Gwinn moonshine and tried strumming idly on her guitar, but it did nothing to soothe her pain. The alcohol, though, made her drowsy, and eventually she’d fallen asleep. All she recalled from her dreams was that same image of a deathly hand clawing out of the ground.
She went to the bathroom, then into the kitchen to start the coffee. She couldn’t take another day off, yet the thought of driving to work and then dealing with either the endless hours of waiting or another life-threatening accident filled her with weariness. Avoiding the decision, she went back into the bathroom, brushed her teeth, gargled, and went out to the back porch.
The sun had not yet topped the mountains, so the air was filled with murky illumination that hid the edges of almost everything. The wind was cold on her bare legs and quickly insinuated itself under her baggy shirt. A bird flew over the pond and snatched an insect from its surface. A dove called out from the forest.
Something in the corner of her eye caught her attention. She turned and looked past the side of the house toward the driveway and the road beyond. She stared for nearly five minutes before the incredibly obvious discrepancy penetrated her brain.
Rob’s car was still there.
* * *
Doyle awoke on the couch, swung his feet to the floor, and jumped when they touched something soft. Berklee lay curled up on the floor beside him, arms wrapped tight around herself against the night’s chill. She wore sweatpants, a T-shirt, and no socks.
He lifted her under her arms and guided her onto the couch. Then he tucked the blanket around her. As he started for the bathroom, she said woozily, “Doyle?”
He stopped. “Yeah.”
“Had a bad dream,” she murmured, like a sleepy child.
“What about?”
She frowned a little, trying to remember it. “Seems like…” Then her eyes snapped open wide and she sat up, almost screaming. Doyle rushed over and took her in his arms, feeling her whole body tremble. She stammered, “Something … coming out … reaching up—”
“Shh, it’s okay, I’m here,” he said, stroking her hair.
She felt like a frightened rabbit in his embrace. “Something was … a hand came out of a grave … reaching for me … trying to kill me.”
Doyle frowned. Had he dreamed the same thing? The image sure sounded familiar, but then it could’ve come from some horror movie he’d once seen. “Well, it was just a nightmare,” he said gently. “It’s daylight now, it can’t hurt you.”
“I’m scared, Doyle,” she said into his chest. “I don’t want to die. I feel dead already sometimes, but I don’t want to die for real.”
“You’re not going to die,” he said, and kissed the top of her head. She cried softly in his embrace.
* * *
Peggy Goins looked at her husband asleep beside her. He’d left the usual circle of saliva on his pillow, and now snored like a trolling motor at full throttle. His gray hair stuck out at odd angles from his square block of a head. She climbed out of bed, nudged her feet into her slippers, and pulled on her robe.
She started the coffee and went out back for her first cigarette. She saw no sign of Curnen around the Dumpster, which was usually a good omen. But something bothered her nonetheless. She’d had that same dream again, of the hand clawing out of a grave. This time it was crystal clear, almost a vision of a real occurrence, and if she’d believed the dead could truly walk again in this world, she’d be frightened.
More than the image itself bothered her, though. She knew that if the dream came to her so clearly, it must’ve at some level touched all the First Daughters, and maybe everyone with any Tufa blood at all. Most would write it off as a nightmare, something inspired by a scary late-late show or a bad plate of food. But ripples traveling that far always came from something that made a huge splash, and Peggy wished she knew the source so she could be ready for it.
* * *
Rob emerged from the forest into Bliss’s backyard. The sun peeked over the mountains just enough to flood the valley with light that twinkled off the dewy grass. His legs ached, his shoulders felt as if they’d been pulled off his body and then reattached, and he was both sweat-soaked and chilled. He kept checking his pocket to make sure the piece of paper hadn’t magically vanished, although the words were safe in his head.
He looked behind him. Curnen stood at the edge of the forest, half-hidden behind a tree. Her expression was unreadable. She watched him sadly, steam rising from her sweaty skin. Then she flitted away.
Rob collapsed into his car, wincing as he settled back into the driver’s seat. He started the engine and let it idle as he endured the sudden wave of exhaustion. He couldn’t wait for the Catamount Corner’s soft mattress and heavy blankets.
He glanced at the house. Bliss sat on the side steps, watching him. She wore a robe, sweatpants, and a white T-shirt, and her long hair hung loose around her shoulders.
“Hi,” she said. She didn’t smile or show any other emotion. “Wondered why your car was still here.”
He forced himself to his feet, but leaned on the door for support. He hoped it looked nonchalant. “I found it,” he said.
“Your car?”
“The last verse of ‘The Fate of the Tyrant Fae.’”
She didn’t visibly react.
“And I know why that asshole Hicks wanted to keep it quiet, too. So quiet, he buried it with Great Kate Gwinn.”
“Curnan showed you.” It was not a question.
“Yeah, well, I’ve got it now, and I’m about to go shove it down that old bastard’s throat. Then we’ll see if I don’t talk to Stella Kizer.”
“Wait!” she cried, and ran to the vehicle. She knelt by his door. “If I take you to where you can find your friend’s wife, will that be enough? Will you keep the song a secret until…” She trailed off. What was the right moment to destroy the Tufa?
“You know what it says, don’t you?”
“Not the words. But the purpose.”
“And what do you think about it?”
“I think that you need help. And not just to find that Kizer woman.”
“You want me to take down Rockhouse, then?”
“I think you’re being guided by the powers that guide us, and they want it. And I’m willing to help.”
He thought about it. “The Gwinns didn’t see me, but they saw Curnen. They may figure out what we took. I was going to wait until tonight, but now that I think about it, I should go see Rockhouse now. Make him tell me where to find Stella Kizer.”
“You’re exhausted, Rob. Look at you.”
“I’m fine. A cup of coffee and I’m good to go.”
“Then give me five minutes. You have your guitar, right?”
“Yeah. Why?” But she was already inside. He yawned and felt his TM joint pop. He’d kill for a nap right now. Still, if he had a real chance to find Stella Kizer, and to wipe that smug grin off Rockhouse’s face, he wasn’t going to miss it.
* * *
Bliss stripped as she ran through the house to her bedroom, where she threw on jeans, a flannel shirt, and her tennis shoes. Then she quickly called the station and told them she’d be out again today. Her boss started to berate her, but she used her voice and Tufa skills to mollify him. She would put in extra hours to make up the time, she assured him. After all, she’d hardly missed any time before this, and never at short notice, so he could afford to cut her some slack. He grudgingly agreed, and she put that worry aside.
That done, she grabbed her denim jacket and rushed back downstairs to rejoin Rob before he had time to really think about things.
* * *
“You sure this is the right way?” Rob demanded as, still following Bliss’s directions, they turned off the overgrown gravel road onto a path that would’ve bounced a tank driver out of his vehicle. Bliss had her hand braced against the roof so her head wouldn’t slam into it. He could imagine nothing other than a tractor ever using the two ruts down which they now proceeded, and any moment, he expected the sound of protesting metal as the car’s oil pan or tailpipe was ripped away.
“This is where to find Rockhouse’s people,” Bliss answered. “Remember how I told you they had their own place, just like we have the barn where you played? We’re going there.”
“Will they be there this early in the morning?”
“They’ll be there.”
The road dead-ended at what looked like a huge patch of briars and saplings. Rob stopped the car. Bliss said, “Just push through. It’s not as thick as it looks.”
“What’s on the other side?”
“Like I said, Rockhouse’s place.”
“Another barn?”
“Look, will you just drive? It’ll take me twice as long to describe it as it will for you to see it for yourself.”
Choking down the spike of anger, Rob muttered, “All right, whatever,” and pressed the gas pedal down slowly until the bumper parted the briars. He gritted his teeth against the sound of sharp thorns scraping against metal, and struggled to hold the steering wheel straight. She was right, though; the passage took maybe fifteen seconds, and they emerged into an open space that made him slam on his brakes despite their sluglike pace.
They looked out over a gently sloping mountainside, cleared of all but a few trees. An old mill, its big wheel immobile and partially buried in a dry creek bed, dominated the scene. The walls had been removed, so only the frame and semi-intact roof still stood, like the ruined gate in Rashomon. The mill mechanism inside had been taken apart, leaving only pieces too big to carry, including one of the grinding stones.
And behind this, black and dark in the morning sun, was the wide mouth of a cave.
It stretched thirty feet across the hillside, ten feet high at the center. It descended almost at once, but there was light visible far down and back. Music also drifted out, distorted by the stone walls so that it sounded harsh and arrhythmic, like the songs played by the Gwinns.
“They have their barn dance in a cave?” Rob said as he took out his guitar.
“It used to be a bootlegger’s hideout. They’d meet up here to play and run off some moonshine. For a long time, it was the biggest cash business in Cloud County. But then they made beer sales legal, and somebody opened a liquor store in Unicorn, so the demand dried up.”
Skeletons hung from the arched opening like ghastly, primitive wind chimes. Three were deer, one must have been a bear, but a third looked unmistakably human, even though it was missing its skull, hands, and feet.
Rob pointed at that skeleton with his guitar case. “Must be the last person who crashed this party. So we just walk in?”
“Y
ou do. Remember the scene when Rockhouse showed up at the barn? It’d be the same thing if they saw me here.”
“Rockhouse knows me.”
“Rockhouse is sitting on the front porch of the post office, trust me. I’ll keep him busy. Besides, you’re not looking for him, are you?”
“Stoney knows me, too.”
“Stoney saw you once, when he was drunk. He won’t remember you.”
“I have a black eye. That’s pretty obvious.”
“Only if you’re looking for it. Unless you mention it, no one in there will see it. They’ll just see a Tufa they don’t know coming to jam with them.”
“I’m not a Tufa.”
“Stop it, Rob. People who think they have Tufa blood in them are always coming to Cloud County, looking for their roots. Some stumble onto our barn dance, some find this cave. It’s not that unusual, and more than likely, they’ll just let you play and hope you go away soon.”
“More than likely,” he repeated doubtfully.
“You won’t get better odds.”
“How do I get past the guards?”
“There are no guards. They don’t need them. It’s like our dance—you can’t find it unless you’re meant to, or unless a real Tufa brings you. And I mean, look at it. Would you go in there if you didn’t have to?”
He looked at the cave, back at Bliss, then at the cave again. “It’s a little too Orpheus for me.”
“Yes, but she’s not Euridice,” Bliss said. “The best you can hope for is Persephone.”
“Yeah,” Rob said. Rationally, he knew he should walk away, that he was liable to learn that Deliverance was in fact a documentary if he entered the cave. But rationality had nothing to do with his presence here. “Are you taking my car back, then?”
“I don’t need a car,” she said. “Just be careful, don’t eat or drink anything, and get out as soon as she says she’s not leaving.”
“You’re so sure that’s what she’ll say.”
“As sure as I am of the sunrise. It’s not her fault; it’s just the way things work.”
“Even if I sing the song?”
“Won’t matter. Rockhouse isn’t here.”
He laughed coldly. “Right. Okay, then.”