by Lindsey Duga
How could I have been so stupid? Izzie literally told me not to get too close. More than that, I barely knew him. Half a week. That was as long as I knew him.
But that wasn’t what my heart told me.
My heart told me that at one point, I’d known him better than I knew myself.
Except for that one small memory of hide-and-go seek, my mind came up blank.
It was unbelievably frustrating.
Gripping Gran’s steering wheel until my knuckles turned white, I pulled out onto the rural highway, turning right. I remembered passing the town’s sign on the way to Gran’s with Izzie. It was just a simple sign with the words Firefly Valley carved into the wood, the paint faded and peeling.
Braking slowly and turning off the highway, I guided Gran’s pickup down the gravel road into the town of Firefly Valley. Or maybe they called this the “downtown” area of the valley. Who knew? It barely qualified as an actual town anyway.
The old road was worn and lined with small houses-slash-shops. Many of them were extremely familiar. I stepped on the brake and came to a complete stop when I passed a light-yellow house with a sign on the front that said Mick’s Valley Eggs. The logo was carved into a wood sign similar to that of the town’s, and a low fence of chicken wire ran around the perimeter of the messy yard. Three chickens pecked their way around the house, strutting, then pausing, jerking their heads in staccato movements. Smiling, I continued down the road, going even slower than before, hoping another shop would jump out at me.
Sure enough, a light-green house with a white picket fence and a big ole porch with rocking chairs made me slow to a crawl. The sign on the fence read Farrafield Honey, and a memory came rushing back to me—Gran spreading a lump of honey on a steaming biscuit then serving it to me. Mom had been in the living room with Dad. They’d been arguing, yet again, about what to do about their destroyed home. Should they rebuild? Dad wanted to move. Mom had said it didn’t matter where they went.
“He would find her anyway, Jim.”
I came to a full stop, latching onto that memory and trying to pull more from it. But it was faint, buried under six years of me trying to repress the pain and confusion after the fire.
She must have been talking about the spirit. About the one coming after me from the fire, which had to be the same one she went out to sacrifice herself to, because I’d been safe ever since she left.
Swallowing, I eased off the gas and nudged the truck forward. She’d been protecting me, loving me, all along. I hated that I’d wasted so many years being angry and bitter.
Finally, I came to where the road ended in a cul-de-sac. There were about five other houses, one of which seemed pretty busy. And by busy, I mean more than one car parked in front—including Izzie’s CRV. I swerved the truck into a spot next to Izzie’s and climbed out, noting the sign that read Tillywater’s Café.
Like everything else in this tiny, one-street town, the house seemed to be half cottage, half something else. In this case, a restaurant-slash-coffee shop. I wondered if it was the only one within a twenty-minute drive. On the porch lounged two cats, bathing in the late evening sun. They barely opened their eyes as I mounted the creaky steps and grabbed the front door handle. With a little wave to the tabby whose tail swished by my feet, I stepped inside.
A bell jingled above me, and I closed the door behind me with a snap.
Tillywater’s Café had once been a large living room, with big bay windows on either end, where ivy hung down from the roof and the leaves lightly tapped the glass. It had shiny, dark wood floors and small tables and chairs with a loveseat and a chintz sofa in front of a coffee table. The space felt like an indie coffee shop where you’d see college kids with hipster glasses and tattoos typing on MacBooks and sipping over-priced coffee while working on their screenplay, novel, or simply a term paper that would one day change the world.
The irony was that this place was probably around long before that scene. Just a place for some neighbors to get together and sip iced tea.
Nestled in a corner with a card table sat Izzie, Gran, and three other sweet-looking older ladies each holding a hand of cards. Everyone looked up at the tinkle of the doorbell, and Gran’s smile stretched wide when she saw me. “Briony! Come over, meet the girls.”
Two of “the girls” I recognized almost immediately. There was Mrs. Farrafield, an African-American woman with gray braids and thick glasses, who happened to harvest the best honey in the Smokies. And the other I knew was the wife of Mr. McKlinnon, owner of Mick’s Valley Eggs. She was maybe a decade older than the rest—possibly early seventies—with pale, wrinkled skin, short white hair with streaks of gray and strong-looking, callused hands. The third woman wore a beautifully knitted shawl, had tan skin, gray hair, and dark eyes, and she didn’t ring any bells.
My gaze moved from each of their faces to Izzie, who gave me a look worth a dozen questions. I mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”
As soon as I got to the table, women I barely knew stood to hug me, all saying things like, “You got so big!” and “Look how pretty you are!” and “I can’t believe it’s been so long—how’s your daddy?”
I murmured pleasantries, saying “thank you” when required.
“Well, bless my stars and garters! Is that lil’ Briony Redwrell?”
Glancing toward the sound of my name, I saw the waitress—well, most likely the owner of Tillywater’s Café—walk around the corner of what was probably the kitchen.
She was a lady with big glasses and big hair, and the prettiest smile I’d ever seen.
The moment she reached the table, the woman gave me a hug, her cheek bumping into mine. “So good to see you, darlin’.”
I could only nod and smile—I hadn’t been expecting to see all these people who would remember me. Firefly Valley had been my home. I’d grown up with these women. Whether or not I remembered little more than their names, they certainly remembered me and cared about me.
It was both heartwarming and a little sad.
“Hey, Ms. Tilly, can I get some more tea?” Izzie asked, raising her empty mason jar with ice cubes in it and condensation dripping from the glass.
“Of course, honey. Anything you want. How about you, Briony? Sweet blackberry tea?” Ms. Tilly asked as she pulled out a chair from another table and wedged it on the other side of Gran.
“Yes, please. That sounds amazing.”
She booped my nose. “Coming right up, cutie pie.”
She bustled back into the kitchen, and I sank into the seat she had pulled out for me. Now that I was here, I wasn’t sure what I’d been thinking. I couldn’t just demand Gran leave her game because I’d found a letter that made me rethink my entire existence.
It would’ve been deeply rude, and we had our Tennessee hospitality to maintain.
So I sat back and waited. I had no idea how to play bridge, but that didn’t matter. Twenty minutes went by, and the women didn’t play a single hand. It was clear the card game was their excuse to sit around and gossip. Of course, with two new visitors, they were probably even more distracted.
“So what are you up to these days, Briony? Your friend Izzie was just telling us how much of an amazing swimmer you are,” Mrs. Farrafield asked as she patted me on the knee.
Mrs. McKlinnon nodded sagely. “Oh, she must get that from her momma.”
A hush fell over the little table, and I couldn’t help but glance at Gran. To her credit, Gran merely cleared her throat and said with a smile, “I’ve got to use the little girls’ room again. That tea runs right through me.”
I started to stand to help her with her crutches, but she swatted away my hands. “Just sit, Briony, I’m fine!”
I clenched my fists under the table as Gran hobbled toward the back hallway. Oh, I so desperately wanted to tell her everything—all that I knew and how I was working on getting Mom back. But I co
uldn’t tell her here.
“Darla!” the third woman hissed, setting down her hand of cards and glaring at Mrs. McKlinnon.
Mrs. McKlinnon knitted her brows in concern. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Briony dear. That was insensitive of me.”
I shook my head. “It’s okay. I mean, you don’t need to apologize. It’s kinda nice to know that we had things in common. I didn’t know Mom was a swimmer.”
“Oh, she was an everything!” Mrs. McKlinnon laughed. “Such spirit in that girl.”
I was acutely aware of the fact that she said was.
“And such an imagination, too,” Mrs. Farrafield mumbled into her tea.
“What do you mean?” I asked, leaning into the table, squeezing its edge tight.
Mrs. Farrafield blinked, her brown eyes slightly magnified by her large glasses. “Nothing, dear.”
“Mrs. Farrafield, please tell me.” My voice was strong yet gentle. Coaxing.
The two other women shot glances toward the bathroom, while Mrs. Farrafield pursed her lips. Izzie had frozen while sucking up the last bit of her blackberry tea, her straw in her mouth.
“Well, your mother… Let’s just say she put more stock into local legends than most folks do around here. And I think Willa believes, too. On some level, at least. S’all just old folklore, though.”
“What’s all folklore?” I pressed. I’d never considered that the rest of this valley could know about the nature spirits and the ethereal plane. Figuring out more about the valley’s history had never even crossed my mind—especially not when I’d been getting all my spiritual information directly from its most credible source: a spirit.
Mrs. Farrafield straightened, obviously feeding off all the attention I was giving her. “It’s just something my momma told me and her momma told her. Nothing to worry about, hon.”
“It’s an old local legend about how a god lives in this valley.”
I turned to look at the third woman with the tan skin and beautiful shawl. My pulse stuttered. “A god?”
“What’s the legend, Mrs. Jackson?” Izzie asked, shooting her gaze to me then back to Mrs. Jackson.
“Oh yes, a god. Old settlers in the Appalachians told stories about a god that roamed the forests. Every hundred years, the god would come down from these mountains and mark a woman and steal her away to make her his bride.”
Clunk.
We all sprang up from the table as Izzie knocked over her glass. Luckily, it was mostly ice, so tea didn’t spill everywhere, but it got some of the cards wet and we had to hurriedly pick up the ice cubes before they all melted.
Around the same time, Ms. Tilly returned with my blackberry iced tea and got us a damp towel to mop up any sticky tea residue while Izzie apologized profusely. The older ladies waved her clumsiness away with a laugh, but their words and chuckles were muffled while my brain raced through the possibilities.
A god came down from the mountains to mark a woman and steal her away to make her his bride.
That had to be the mysterious “he” Mom had been referring to this entire time. But who was he? Not just another spirit, but a god? Well, that could be just part of the local legend. It could simply mean another spirit, or…could it be the guardian of the fire gate? But that would’ve been inconsistent with the behavior of the other two guardians. They didn’t seem to care much about humans. They only wanted to protect their gates.
So what spirit was it?
Of course, I knew who Izzie thought it was.
Mr. Cheekbones.
The idea of it was so ridiculous, it bordered on amusing. Alder didn’t want to make me his bride. We were childhood friends.
Okay, so we almost kissed earlier today. That wasn’t the best timing. Even so, I was one hundred percent confident that he had no intention of “stealing me away,” and I based this off our first meeting, how he’d been desperate to get me away from this valley, not keep me here with him.
How he asked me all the time if I was okay.
The tenderness in how he held me…
I dropped my head into my hands. Stop thinking about him!
“Briony? Sweetie, did you hear me?”
I looked up to find Gran balancing on her crutches, a concerned look on her face. “Don’t tell me you’re feeling bad again?”
“No—no, I’m fine, Gran. I promise.”
“Well, regardless, we should be getting home for dinner. It’s late, ladies,” Gran said, addressing her Bridge Club members.
“Well, I swan! It’s nearly dark!” Mrs. McKlinnon said, standing from the table and beginning to pack up her cards.
“Y’all leaving?” Ms. Tilly called from the hallway. “Let me get you a to-go cup for that tea, Briony.”
“Thanks, Ms. Tilly.”
The women shuffled about, distributing hugs and cheek kisses. Izzie and I accepted them graciously. There was something about a grandma telling you how pretty you were that made you feel all warm and fuzzy.
“Now, we’ll see you both for the Firefly Festival, won’t we?” Mrs. McKlinnon asked excitedly.
“Firefly Festival?” Izzie and I asked in unison.
Mrs. Farrafield gasped. “Willa! You didn’t tell these girls about the festival? Why, it’s only our little valley’s claim to fame. Best kept secret in the Smokies, we say.”
“I didn’t think they’d be here that long,” Willa said, giving me a side-eye that I rightfully ignored.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Oh you know, typical festival fun. Live band, funnel cakes, festival games, dancing, plus crafters from all over the Smokies come to peddle their wares. I’ll have a booth, of course, selling my honey and preserves. And Darla’s husband, Mick, will be selling his blue-ribbon eggs.”
“That sounds amazing!” Izzie said, her eyes lighting up. She loved events like that.
“Oh, it is. You two will have to come,” Mrs. McKlinnon said, patting Izzie’s shoulder. “Invite your friends! Or boyfriends,” she said, winking.
As we emerged out onto the porch with the rest of the ladies, a pickup truck pulled up in front of the café, and a large, burly mountain man—beard, plaid shirt, and all—stepped out of the truck and tipped an imaginary hat. “Evenin’ ladies.”
The Bridge Club all said their hellos to the mountain man, but I’d stopped listening. I was too busy staring at the bed of his truck. It was full of chopped wood and spare branches, which would have been normal if not for the pearly white mana wrapping around them like a second layer of bark.
I’d never seen anything like it before. The physical world wasn’t exactly teeming with mana, at least not that I’d seen. But that was surely what it was—what else could it be? Only I, the girl who could see nature spirits, was staring at the truck bed like a weirdo.
“Ms. Tilly!” he called, “should these go around back?”
Ms. Tilly, who had been trying to hand me a to-go cup while I’d been occupied with the mana-covered wood, waved back. “Oh, hey there, Jasper! Yep, feel free to unload right around on the edge of the meadow. That’s where everyone’s been putting ’em.”
“You got it!” he called back, then hopped back into his truck and pulled it around the cottage.
“What’s that wood for?” I asked loudly, unable to stop myself from interrupting the other conversations around me.
“That’s for the festival bonfire,” Mrs. Jackson explained. “Everyone brings wood from all over the Smokies. Sometimes it’s just a branch, or as you can see, sometimes they bring whole truckloads of spare wood. It’s a tradition we started. Makes us feel connected, even though we might live far apart. We all love these mountains.”
Although the bonfire part of it made me shiver with anxiety, I couldn’t deny that it was a nice sentiment.
But, more importantly, what was the mana on that wood? Would Alder know? I’d h
ave to ask him later.
“So when is the festival?” Izzie asked.
“Just two days from now,” Mrs. Farrafield answered. “This weekend. In fact, setup is supposed to be happening all tomorrow.”
Two days from now. The summer solstice. The same day I was supposed to bring my mom back from the spirit world.
…
I drove Gran home, and Izzie followed us in her CRV. I was trying to find a delicate way to bring up the letter when she asked, “How was your date?”
My heart jumped so big I nearly crashed the truck. “What?”
Gran narrowed her eyes at me. “Izzie said you went back to Knoxville for a date today.”
That little sneak.
Swallowing, I kept my eyes trained on the road ahead, which was already pretty dark from the sun dipping well below the Blue Ridges.
“Um, it was good.”
“Do you like him?”
That was a loaded question. “I don’t know yet.”
My lips tingled with the blatant lie. Even I couldn’t deny that I liked him now.
Crap. Crap. Crap.
“Hmm, well. Sometimes that takes time. And sometimes you just know.”
I groaned internally. How could I possibly have admitted that to myself? How could I already “just know”? It had never happened to me before.
“Your mother just knew.”
My hands clenched involuntarily around the steering wheel. For so long, I’d avoided knowledge like this. I’d had no desire to learn about the woman who abandoned us.
How wrong I’d been.
“Really?” I asked, trying to keep my voice level.
“Oh, yes. She’d just started college in Maryville. Still lived at home to save money, and she met your father at a coffee shop. He’d just moved to the area to start his first job at an engineering firm. She came home from the coffee shop that day and said, ‘Momma, I found the man I’m going to marry.’” Gran chuckled, shaking her head. “When your momma put her mind to something, she just did it.”
My eyes burned, and the road became blurry. She had put her mind to saving me.