Alex Bledsoe - Wisp of a Thing

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.

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.

A quick look at the parking lot told her Rob had not returned to the Catamount Corner. She sighed; he must be with Bliss. The girl, bless her, was out of her depth with real leadership decisions. Still, as with all the true Tufa, Peggy understood that Bliss’s status could be neither revoked nor questioned. Mandalay led them and Bliss was her regent, just as Rockhouse led his people, and that was that. As the wind blows, so the trees bend.

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.