Alex Bledsoe - The Hum and the Shiver

Mandalay looked down at the silver wakes caused by her dangling feet. “Is this one of those times when we should’ve been careful what we wished for?”

Bronwyn laughed. “Maybe so.”

Mandalay kicked at the water. “Then why are you here asking me? I’m just a kid. It sounds like you’ve made up your mind.”

“Yeah,” Bronwyn said sadly.

Mandalay shook her head in that smug way children have when they know something their parents don’t. The collective wisdom and history of the Tufa was bound in this little girl who could talk before she was a year old and pick out tunes on a piano by age two. She had the history, but not the experience; so often her pronouncements and warnings would come out in little-girl metaphors or childish descriptions. Now that she was older this happened less often, but the dichotomy was both disconcerting and sad. “That’s not right, you know. I’m not a kid.”

“I know you’re not, sweetie.”

Mandalay leaned down and let the current play over her fingers. “What was the desert like? I always wanted to see it.”

Bronwyn laughed. “You want to talk about it now?”

“Might not get another chance.”

Bronwyn caught the warning, but let it go. It didn’t matter anyway. “Well, it’s all space. There’s no trees, no mountains. It rattles you at first, makes you feel even more exposed than you do ordinarily.”

“Did you know the Tufa were called Yellowbacks for a long time because we never fought in any of the wars, even when we were drafted?”

“Yeah, I know.”

“But you fought.”

“Daddy thinks it’s because the war over there was easier to fight than the one here.”

“Was it?”

She shrugged. “It was different. It took a lot of nerve just to stand there, knowing a bullet or a bomb could come from anywhere. But you also didn’t know the people shooting at you or blowing you up. Here… well… they’re family.”

She laughed at her own joke, then looked up at the sky. The clouds were creeping in, and the wind tore at the trees higher on the slopes. With calm certainty she said, “I’m also going to marry that preacher, Mandalay. Not Terry-Joe Gitterman.”

“Because that’s what the Bronwynator wants?”

She shook her head. She felt serene, as if this were all reasoned out and decided even though it was literally coming to her as she spoke. “Nope. Because just when I thought I was all alone, he showed me I wasn’t. I had every intention of this being my last flight on the wind in this world.”

“You’d do that to your parents? Two of their children gone?”

“Hell, they ain’t sure I’m back yet anyway. But it’s beside the point. I’m gonna marry the preacher, but I’m still going to have Terry-Joe’s baby. Probably a girl. Next year, or the year after. Another First Daughter.”

“She won’t be a pureblood.”

“No. We have to get past that idea anyway. Her blood will be true, and that’s enough.”

“How will the preacher take that?”

“Between now and then, I’ll have to get both him and Terry-Joe ready to understand it.”

“If you survive the night.”

Bronwyn smiled wryly. “Mandalay, you’ve been watching too much TV. You sound like the bad guy in a spy movie.”

“I can’t see you in the morning, though. I can’t hear your song.”

Bronwyn was silent for a moment. At last she said quietly, “Maybe that’s because I’ll have a new one by then.” She stood, suddenly feeling stronger than ever before in her life. “Thanks, Mandalay. You take care.”

“You, too,” the girl said.

She watched as Bronwyn opened herself to her full Tufa nature, spread her wings, and once again caught the night wind.

Dwayne slammed face-first into a tree. He felt—and worse, heard —the bridge of his already-broken nose crack again from the impact. He staggered back, slammed into another tree, and fell awkwardly to the forest floor. His whole face was numb, and his skull rang.

He raised his hands to his face, convinced he would find his nose completely flattened. It was still in place, although when he touched it, the formerly strong upper line now felt mushy. He whimpered in anticipation of the pain.

He was totally lost. After the realization that he’d seriously injured Bronwyn penetrated his dope-fogged brain, he’d tried to return to his truck, but could not find his way. Then he remembered that he’d also knifed Bronwyn’s brother. The law would be after him now, to send him back to prison. He had to get out of Cloud County, out of Tennessee, maybe even out of the country somehow. But first he had to get out of these goddamned woods.

He tried to orient himself. It didn’t matter which way he went, he reasoned, as long as it was downhill. Just as he was about to start walking, a new sound reached him and stopped him dead. Somewhere nearby, someone was crying.

He followed the sound and emerged into a clearing where a lone figure lay curled up on the ground. As Dwayne approached, the man raised his head and stared up at him.

“Thank God,” Fred Blasco said. He crawled to him, holding his laptop computer to his chest, and clutched Dwayne’s legs with his free hand. “Oh, sweet Jesus, thank you. You’ve got to help me, I can’t find my way out of these woods, I’ve been wandering for days, I need help, I’m lost, I’m starving—”

Dwayne kicked the man away. “Get the fuck off me!”

“No, please, don’t leave me!” Blasco begged. “I can pay you, really, you can have my credit cards, anything you want.”

“Fuck you!” Dwayne said, and ran off into the night. Blasco began to cry again, a sound so forlorn, only the hardest, coldest of hearts could ignore it. Dwayne did.

He stumbled up a ridge and down into a gully. He tripped over a root, slid in the wet leaves, and rolled downhill until he slammed, again face-first, into a half-buried boulder. He turned slowly onto his back, groaning, wondering if his nose would ever look right again.

“That must’ve hurt,” a voice said from the dark.

He sat up and looked wildly around. The forest was so thick, there were only little shafts of moonlight visible, like blue gray splinters piercing the blackness. Nothing moved in them.

“Fuck!” Dwayne bellowed into the night. Could the cops have already found him? Or someone worse? “Who the fuck is out there?”

The voice began to laugh. A shape emerged from the darkness as if exuded from it. “You don’t know me, Dwayne Gitterman. But I know you.”

The gathering clouds parted enough to let one wide, clear beam of moonlight reveal a shambling figure with a long beard and baggy clothes. The sin eater, Dwayne thought in terror: the man who waits outside the homes of the recently dead. Those inside take a plate of food from the corpse’s chest and leave it at the back door; when the sin eater consumes the food, he also consumes the bad deeds of the deceased. No one knew his name, only that he did his job without complaint or fuss. And, of course, that it was a monumentally bad omen to meet him.

“What do you want?” Dwayne said, scooting back against a tree. “You following me?”

“I’m not looking for you, Dwayne. You crossed my path, remember?”

Blood ran both down his face and throat, coating his senses in its warm, salty taste. “Fuck you, then.”

The sin eater laughed again. “Your old standby, eh? Don’t you hear what’s on the wind tonight? Hear the song?”

“Shut the fuck up.”

The sin eater sang, his voice surprisingly clear and true: