Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

They fell into step behind her and walked down a short trail through thick trees. Each kept a hand lightly on the back of the woman in front of her, and the line moved slowly so Bronwyn could keep up. The sound of cicadas, wind, and the occasional owl filled the night, rendering it anything but silent.

Each time the owl hooted, Bronwyn shuddered. The owl was a bad omen, and its presence reminded her of the danger circling her family.

They emerged into a small clearing bathed in moonlight. At the center, a table-sized rock protruded from the ground. On one side an image had been chiseled deep enough that innumerable mountain winters had not worn it away. It was a crude line drawing of a human figure with large wings; lines indicated long hair, and the form had the unmistakable curves of a female. Its style was similar to the ancient images found in caves throughout Europe. The wings resembled those of a dragonfly.

The ten-year-old, Mandalay Harris, knelt and kissed the carving. One by one the others followed. Because of her leg, Bronwyn waited to go last.

When this ritual was done, Mandalay climbed onto the rock, sat cross-legged, and said, “Welcome back, Bronwyn. I saw you at your parade; you looked pretty in your uniform.”

Bronwyn tried not to laugh. Despite her heritage and responsibility, Mandalay was still a little girl at heart. “Thanks,” she said. “Glad to be shed of it and back in civilian clothes, though.”

Mandalay nodded, then said firmly, “I guess there ain’t no point in dancing around things. How’s your mama?”

“Nothing so far. Daddy’s got wards up, and we’re all watching out. She ain’t letting it slow her down.”

“All you can do,” she said sadly. “But what about the rest of us? We’re here because Chloe Hyatt may be about to die. None of us want that, and the signs aren’t certain, of course. But we’d be foolish not to be prepared.”

A heavy woman with streaks of gray in her hair stepped forward. “I dreamed I lost one of my bottom teeth. Reckon that means someone in my family younger than me will die. Your mama fits that, Brownyn. I’m real sorry.”

“That mantel clock Chloe gave me when I got married started working again,” another woman said. “It ain’t kept time in three years.”

“And don’t forget the sin eater,” someone else said. “Chloe herself saw him. He don’t come around unless he thinks there might be something left out for him.”

Peggy Goins added, “I’d say we’ve gotten all the warning we’re going to get.”

“That means it could happen any day,” one of the others said.

“Hey, this is my mom we’re talking about,” Bronwyn said. “I’m all for reading sign and all, but we have to be able to do something here. I mean, for how many generations have we been here? How many times have we watched someone die and done nothing but sing about it?”

“That’s what we do, ” Mandalay said patiently. “It’s what we are. The night wind blew us here, and keeps us here at her pleasure. We all know that. But no one lives forever.”

“And,” said a tall woman in her thirties, “none of us would want to.”

Bronwyn turned to her, intending to refute her comment, but when she saw the distant, sad look in her eyes, she bit back the words. Delilah had spent longer than any of them alone, after her true love had died on their wedding day. She knew the weight of time more than any of them.

“Yeah, well,” Bronwyn said at last, “I’m not ready to sing my mom’s dirge just yet. And neither are Aiden or Kell. So you’ll excuse me if I keep trying to find the song that will change things.”

“It doesn’t exist,” Mandalay said patiently. “You’re not the first to think it does. But all we can do, all we’ve ever done, is sing the songs we were given.”

“You mean it doesn’t exist yet, ” Bronwyn insisted. “A line came to me the other day. Maybe more will come. It could be a new song for her.”

“That’s a dream, Bronwyn. A beautiful one, one we’ve all had, but no more than a wisp of a thing. And you have a greater concern. You have to accept what the night wind has willed to you, and you must learn your mother’s song.”

“I will. But we don’t know for certain we’re reading the signs right, do we? I mean, the clock thing could mean you’re going to die, Sandy, not my mama. Maybe it’s all a coincidence.”

“I’ve read plenty of signs, especially death signs,” Peggy said sadly. “It ain’t a coincidence.”

Mandalay put her hand over her own heart. “And you must agree, you must swear, to pass the song on to your daughter.”

It took a few seconds for the words to register. Bronwyn almost blurted out, “But I don’t have a daughter,” and then realized exactly what she was being asked to agree to. They wanted her solemn word that she would find a consort among the Tufa men, many of whom were already related to her. They wanted her promise to breed a daughter.

“Fuck that,” she said. Her voice trembled not from fear, but from outrage. “I’m not swearing to that. ”

Mandalay climbed off the rock, walked over, and looked up at her. The girl’s serious face, bathed in cold moonlight, gave Bronwyn the willies, and when she spoke, her voice bore no hint of childishness. “Bronwyn, listen to me. I know all the stories of you, how you hate to be told what to do, how to behave, who to be with. The Bronwynator was a legend here long before the rest of the world heard about you. But this is probably the most important thing anyone’s ever asked of you. We, your sisters and mothers and daughters, all need you to promise this. We need the certainty that the song will be saved. You won’t face this alone, you know, and it’s not like we’re choosing a mate for you.”

“What do you know about mates, you still play with Barbie dolls,” Bronwyn snapped. She looked at the others. “This is exactly the kind of crap that made me want to leave in the first place. Just because we’re ancient doesn’t mean we can’t make new ways. Are we mud-stuck like the Christians or the Jews? Do we have to take our instructions from a book written for a culture that died two thousand years ago? Or do we write our own songs?”

None of the others responded. The shadows over their eyes made their impressions hard to judge. Even Bliss seemed implacable.

“Fine,” Bronwyn said with a scowl. “Fuck y’all, anyway.”

“Bronwyn,” someone scolded.

She ignored it. “I’ll learn the damn song because I said I would, and because I love my mama. But I’m not promising to add my daughter to this silly-ass girls’ club. You can’t just put me in a field and send a prize bull around to see if I’m in season.”

Mandalay continued to gaze up at her. “Then there’s nothing more to say.”

“No,” Bronwyn agreed, although the child’s eminently reasonable tone made her even angrier.

Mandalay turned to the others. “Thank you all for coming, and for being true to our songs. And I include you in that, Bronwyn.”

Bronwyn said nothing. She turned and began climbing the trail back toward the cars. The others passed her in silence, not out of disdain but simply because idle conversation seemed inappropriate. Only Bliss remained with her, and by the time they reached the vehicles, hers was the only one left.

When they reached the Hyatt residence, Bliss asked, “Are you all right?” It was the first time either had spoken for the entire ride.

“Yeah,” Bronwyn said. “I’m just tired. And my leg hurts.”

Bliss stopped the truck at the gate and looked up the hill. The house was completely dark except for the porch light, left on for Brownyn. “Want me to drive you to the front door?”