Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Kell started to say something, then stopped. He nodded. “I reckon you’re right. Everyone’s their own. Sorry about that.”

Bronwyn turned at the touch of a feminine hand on her arm. Bliss Overbay stood beside her. Her black hair hung in two braids beside her face and her tank top displayed the snake tattoo on her arm and shoulder. “Quite a dance,” she said.

Bronwyn nodded at Terry-Joe. “Thank him; he held me up.”

Bliss nodded approvingly. “He’s true, all right.” Then she turned to both men. “I need some private girl-talk with Bronwyn. If you’ll excuse us?”

Both Terry-Joe and Kell made the hand gesture that signified respect for a First Daughter. Bronwyn took her crutches from Kell and hobbled after Bliss, past the hay-bale bleachers and out a side door into the night.

They moved away from the barn into the darkness at the edge of the forest. The teenagers’ bonfire, where they pounded drums and danced around the flames, provided enough light for them to see each other. Bliss turned to her and said, “Was it a good idea leaving those two alone? I could smell the testosterone burning.”

“They’ll work things out,” Bronwyn said. “Kell doesn’t hate Terry-Joe, just Dwayne.”

“That’s not an exclusive club.”

“No, not even among the Hyatts.”

Bliss looked at her closely. “Are you sure you’re over him? He had a mighty tight grip on you once.”

As she said the word, she realized its truth: “Absolutely.”

Bliss didn’t seem convinced. “Have you seen him since you got back?”

“He came by the house last night after everyone left. He was drunk, probably stoned, and just wanted to fuck. I didn’t even let him in. He’s the past I’m not real proud of.”

Bliss cocked one eyebrow. “Don’t tell me the Bronwynator is ashamed ?”

She was in no mood for teasing. “Did you bring me out here to lecture me on boys? When’s the last time you had a date, huh?”

“Ouch,” Bliss said.

Bronwyn sighed. A girl at the bonfire took off her T-shirt and began dancing in her bra. That kind of freedom seemed a million miles away. “I’m sorry, Bliss. I’m just tired of everyone knowing what’s going on in my life. Being the center of the whole world’s attention will do that to you.”

Bliss continued to look at her with the penetrating, steady gaze. “Are you done?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Because you know things are happening. How goes the music?”

“It’s there, finally. Terry-Joe gave me a lesson Sunday morning, and then when Kell came home, everything kind of broke loose. I’m still rusty, but I’m not helpless.”

“Also good.” She stepped closer and spoke more softly. “The First Daughters are meeting at the next full moon, this Thursday. You have been specifically invited, to talk about the future.”

Bronwyn nodded; this wasn’t unexpected, but it was part of the whole reality of her mother’s impending death that she didn’t want to acknowledge. “I’ll be there.”

Bliss smiled. “And for your information, I had a date with a session guitarist two weeks ago, just before you got home.”

“Really? Will there be a second date?”

“Maybe. I think I intrigue him, but he doesn’t understand me. Kind of like you and that Reverend Chess, I imagine.”

Bronwyn was glad the firelight hid her blush. “Him? He just keeps showing up. I don’t encourage him.”

“I think you should be careful.”

She laughed. “Bliss, I can barely walk, I don’t think I’m up to anything more strenuous.”

“I’m not worried about what’s between your legs, Bronwyn. I’m worried about what’s in here.” She tapped Bronwyn’s chest over her heart.

“That? It’s solid rock,” Bronwyn assured her.

“That’s not good, you know. Hearts melt; rocks shatter.”

Don parked at the end of the line of cars. His chest felt tight with excitement the way it had on his first date with Susie back in college. The barn ahead glowed from within, as if some wondrous miracle was occurring among the hay bales and tractors.

As he got his guitar from the trunk, he impulsively picked up a couple of rocks from the gravel road. He stuck them in his pocket without really knowing why.

He heard the trilling, winding melody of a reel from inside the building. Fiddles, acoustic guitars, harmonicas, and mandolin melded in the tune. He smiled and hummed along, knowing the song even though he didn’t consciously recognize it.

A bunch of kids sat around a campfire down the hill from the barn. A beautiful girl danced in low-slung jeans and a red bra as drummers provided a low, steady rhythm. One of the boys strummed a guitar and sang something Don recognized:

Don stopped in the middle of the road. How did he know this stuff? Ever since digging his guitar out of the closet, he’d been surrounded by music, all of it beautiful, all of it somehow known. He had no trouble picking up the melodies, and even lyrics he was certain he’d never heard before felt like old rhymes learned in childhood. His trade, his skill was with words, cold and analytical descriptions of events denuded of any excess passion or meaning; so where did this passion come from?

A sudden burst of doubt made him look back at his car, then at the barn. He recalled Fred the blogger’s insinuations about the Tufa, and his own Internet surfing for confirmation. He’d uncovered no link at all between the Tufa and fairies, which didn’t surprise him. Still, he had learned that the true fairy folk, the Tuatha De Danaan, were considered anything but Tinker Bell–ish sprites. They were dangerous, and humans encountered them at their peril. And there were two perpetually warring tribes, the Seelie and the Unseelie. Some people said the same about the Tufa.

He shook it off. He wasn’t here just to have fun, he reminded himself. He needed to find Bronwyn Hyatt and arrange an interview. He’d come this far; he might as well see it through.

An older man sat outside the side door, apparently collecting admission. He smiled as Don approached. “Howdy, neighbor. Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

“It is,” Don agreed.

The man held out a cigar box. “Pay the toll, then rock and roll.”

Don reached for his wallet, then happened to glance into the box. It contained no money, only stones of various sizes. Don put the rocks from his pocket in with them.

The man scrutinized him. “You’re kin to Bengenaria Oswald, ain’t you, son?”

Don blinked in surprise. “Yeah. She was my great-grandmother. She was from Needsville.”

“Fine woman,” he said sadly. “Sang like the wind. Shame she had to leave.”

Like Chloe Hyatt, the man didn’t look old enough to have known Great-grandma Benji. Don smiled nervously. “Never knew her myself. Nice to hear such good things.”

Suddenly a ragged voice cried, “Hey! Hey, you !”

Don turned. A figure lumbered out of the dark woods, across the open space around the barn. Don reflexively raised his guitar case as a shield. Then he recognized the man.

“Holy shit, am I glad to see you,” Fred Blasco gasped. He was covered in dirt and scratches, and his face gleamed with unaccustomed sweat. He still clutched the laptop to his chest, and used his free hand to lean on Don’s shoulder while he took big gulps of air. “You’re that guy from the newspaper office, aren’t you?”

“Yeah…,” Don said, and tried to move away. He knew with utter certainty that Blasco should not be here. But Blasco’s meaty hand tightened its grip.