Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) (24 page)

She very carefully unfolded it. “This poem is called ‘The Fate of the Tyrant Fae,’” Ms. Brewer said.

“Who’s Fay?” Rob asked.

“‘Fae’ is another term for fairy. Not in the Tinker Bell sense, but in the sense that the Fae were the original ancestors of the Celtic tribes. They occupied places like Ireland long before the Irish settled there.”

He fought to sound nonchalant. “Fairies, eh? No kidding.”

“Well, it’s folklore, of course, not anthropology. Although a lot of those New Agers claim that fairies are real, and that they can see them. I think they just spend too much time at their Renaissance Fairs and not enough time in the real world.” She tapped the poem with her cotton-gloved finger. “This is a verse epic about a man named Caisteal Guineach, who left Scotland to find the islands to the west, where people lived forever. There are many versions of this type of story in Gaelic literature.”

Rob recognized two of the middle stanzas as the epitaphs, and smiled when he realized he’d been right about their order. Then he read the whole poem.

A tyrant fae crossed the valley

His list of pains he could not tally

To his cause no one would rally

And so he left to lead no more.

His old and feeble feet did fail him

His eyes grew dim and ears betrayed him

The error of his ways assailed him

As he came to a stranger’s door.

With weakness spreading, he called aloud

“I have no place to spread my shroud

My folk are all beyond me now

May I stay with you until I die?”

The lord inside would not be fooled.

“You are that fae, once vain and cruel

There is no comfort here for you

Thoughts of rest you must deny.”

The night’s cold wind blew round him there

As truth and fortune both despaired

He went away with all his cares

To die beneath the moon’s cold breast.

He walked through hills, he walked through dells

To himself he told old tales

Until at last his body failed

And he found the spot to wait for Death.

He faded into darkness, sighing

Though he called, no one replying;

One last feeble effort trying,

Faint he sank no more to rise.

Through his wings the breeze sharp ringing,

Wild his dying dirge was singing,

While his soul to earth was springing,

Body lifeless for the flies.

With wings too weak for soul’s last flight

The dying tyrant perceived a sight

Death would take him not this night

Instead a wonder did appear.

But the final stanza was missing, carefully excised like a coupon clipped from the newspaper. “What happened here?” Rob asked.

“No one knows. According to notes left by the original librarian, it was like this when the library received it, back when the town was founded. Considering that he used to personally go collect late fees and overdue books from people’s houses, I’m inclined to believe him. If one of the locals had mutilated a book, he’d have skinned them.”

“Any idea
why
somebody would cut out the last verse?”

“Well, the academic gossip says this is one of those ancient symbolic books that held mysterious secrets coded into its passages. And whoever glued the poem in here originally might have thought the last verse contained some magical secret, or perhaps the code key to decipher everything else.” She rolled her eyes to show how little she thought of this concept. “By removing it, the meaning of the symbols can’t be decoded.”

“And you don’t think it’s anything like that?”

“
I
suspect someone wanted to include the final verse in a card to his lady love, and lacked the patience to simply copy it. Sort of like those people who tear whole pages out of phone books to get one number. But be that as it may, I
do
know that this poem’s complete text has never been found, because back in 1992, we had an intern who got a grant to try and find it.”

He stared at the space in the book. “Sorta leaves you hanging, doesn’t it? Don’t know what ‘wonder’ appeared to him.”

“You said you found two verses on tombstones?”

“Yeah, these two. Over in Needsville.”

The mention of Needsville made her look up at him. “Ah. I thought you had the Cloud County look to you.”

“It’s just a coincidence. My grandmother was from the Philippines.”

“Oh, I didn’t mean anything by it. A lot of people come through here tracing their families, especially since Needsville doesn’t have its own library. And, of course, all the town’s records prior to 1925 burned up in the famous courthouse fire. So unless they want to drive to Nashville and try searching the state archives, they usually come here.”

“Do you have a lot of Needsville material?”

“No, not really. We’re more of a museum than a real library. We have nothing from the last century.”

“So you wouldn’t have back copies of the local paper?”

“No, you’d have to go to their office for that. The
Weekly Horn
covers Needsville. They’re a small operation out of Unicorn, so you might want to call ahead and make sure someone’s there before you drive all that way.”

He took photos with his phone of the nearly complete poem—the library naturally did not have a copier—and made one last visit to the strange painting for a photo. There was no way, of course, that it could be Curnen, since the painting had been finished in 1864. Then again, Doyle swore that Curnen didn’t even exist, and the artist had painted this while insane; should Rob take that as a warning?

22

On his way to downtown Unicorn, Rob passed the Waffle House were he’d plotted with Doyle. He wished he had time to stop for lunch, but as it was, he’d just barely make his appointment. When he’d called from outside the library, the editor said he’d only be in the office until three.

The
Weekly Horn
was between a State Farm Insurance agency and an antique store. As soon as he entered, a man with a gray crew cut, clad in a button-down shirt that barely contained the bulky muscles of his shoulders and arms, stepped from an office to greet him. He spoke with the nasal accent of the Upper Midwest. “You must be Mr. Rob Quillen.”

“Yes, sir,” Rob said, and shook the man’s hand.

“I’ve seen you on TV. I’m very sorry for your recent loss.”

“Thank you. Are you Mr. Howell?”

“Call me Sam, please. Mr. Howell’s my dad. What happened to your eye?”

“Pulled out in front of a fist.”

“Well, I went ahead and found the articles you asked about when you called. It’s a shame when a young person takes their own life. So was the girl who died a friend of yours?”

“A friend of a friend,” Rob said evasively. He’d told Howell only that he was passing through the area and would like to see the news articles associated with Jillie Rae Keene’s death. “I just wanted to see what the official version of the story was, since we only heard the broad strokes.”

“Not much but broad strokes to it,” Howell said as he led him to the back. The place smelled of ink, sweat, and cigarettes. A stack of back-issue volumes bound in heavy faux-leather card stock rested on a table. “You know, we don’t get many celebrities through here. We’re pretty far from any beaten path.”

“What about Bronwyn Hyatt?”

“She had her fifteen minutes, true enough, but she went back up in the hills with her family and, as far as I know, hasn’t come out.”

“I can understand that. I’m ready for my fifteen minutes to be over, too.”

“That reminds me: Before you leave, would it be too much trouble if we took a picture together? Just for a ‘look who stopped by’ thing, I won’t mention why you’re here.”

“Promise to Photoshop out my shiner?”

“It’s a deal.”

Rob looked around. The newspaper’s equipment, except for the laptop computers, looked like it came from another era. “You run this place by yourself?”

“Mostly me. Got one full-time writer on staff, and some folks in the little towns around here who write up the high school sports and community news.” He patted the stack of bound volumes. “One of these days, I’ll get these all scanned and posted on the Internet, but until then, folks have to go through ’em by hand. And as you can tell from the dust, that doesn’t happen very often.”

“So where should I start?” Rob asked.

Yellow Post-it notes marked specific pages. As Howell opened the first book, he said, “I found the main ones for you. Here’s the original news story.”

Dated 2009, the indicated headline on the yellowed paper read,
NEEDSVILLE TEEN SUICIDE BLAMED ON ROMANCE.

The county sheriff reported that Jillian Rae Keene, 17, of Needsville, died Sunday from an overdose of prescription painkillers.

Keene, daughter of Lloyd and Francis Keene of Pine Road, was found by her mother. A note found at the scene indicated the girl was despondent over a failed romance.

Services will be held Wednesday at the First Methodist Church of Unicorn.

“That’s it?” Rob asked. “That doesn’t really tell me much.”

“That’s because there wasn’t much to tell. But your question kind of jogged my memory. Look at this one.”

He opened another book, to a page dated 2010. This headline read,
LARK VALLEY TEEN FOUND DEAD IN APPARENT SUICIDE
.

County Sheriff Clip Rooker reported that Leigh Anne George, 16, of Lark Valley, hanged herself Monday in the family garage.

George, daughter of Fred and Helen George of Lark Valley Community, was found by her father. A note found at the scene indicated the girl was despondent over a failed romance.

Services will be held Friday at the First Methodist Church of Unicorn.

“Other than going to the same church, what’s the connection?” Rob asked.

“They were both dating the same boy.”

“How do you know?”

“Because who’s dating who is all the women around here talk about, and I’ve got a wife. See this?” He held up an old photograph, covered with blue cropping lines indicating it had once run in the newspaper. A middle-aged couple, dressed for a funeral, descended the steps of a church. Next to them stood a tall, distinguished man in a white suit with a bolo tie. “That fancy fellow in the white suit is State Representative Sandy Stang, which is why this funeral was news. He was campaigning, and made sure we knew he’d be visiting the bereaved of his district so we could get a picture. But look in back of him.”

Behind the grieving parents stood Stoney Hicks, looking uncomfortable in a suit and tie. Next to him, as faintly amused as ever, was his uncle Rockhouse. Except that Rockhouse sported an enormous walrus mustache instead of a full beard, both looked exactly the same as they did now.

“There’s your Romeo,” Howell said.

Rob got a chill. “So both these girls dated Stoney Hicks?”

“Yep.”

“Was he ever implicated in their deaths?”

“Oh, hell no. They were suicides, no doubt. After the fourth or fifth one, though, people started to whisper.”

“
Five
different girls killed themselves over this guy?”

“Yep.”

“Did anybody ever date him and
live
?”

Sam chuckled. “That wouldn’t make the news.”

“People had to have noticed the pattern. Especially in a little town like Needsville.”

Howell looked him over as if just noticing him. “You do look like you’ve got some Tufa in you. That why you’re in the area? You got family there?”

“No Tufa in me at all, I promise you. I’m part Filipino, and the rest is all Kansas.”

He narrowed his eyes, as if he didn’t quite believe it, then shrugged it off. “Needsville’s a funny place. You notice there aren’t any churches there?”

“Yeah, actually, I did. Do you know why?”

“What I heard was … Ah, never mind. I was always told it’s best not to talk too much about the Tufa. They’ve got a way, especially the true bloods, of finding out if you’ve spoken out of turn. Then bad things can start to happen to you.”

“Like fairies?”

Howell’s frown deepened. “Why would you say that?”

“It’s what they say about fairies over in England. They call them ‘the Good People’ so they won’t get mad.”

“You sure know a lot. You positive you’re not part Tufa?”

“Swear on a Bible if you got one.”

He chewed his lip. “Son, let me speak to you like a father here. I’m an outsider, too, even though I’ve lived here over thirty years. I’ve seen a lot of weird things happen around Needsville. You take any one of ’em, there’s always a rational reason for it. Add them all up, though, and it makes a different picture.” Then he pointed to the newspaper. “And speaking of pictures, look here. Recognize the guy next to your young Bluebeard? That is the legendary Rockhouse Hicks.”

“‘Legendary’?”

“You bet. I’ve got all three of his albums. Actual vinyl albums. Far as I know, it’s the only way you can get ’em.”

Rob smiled skeptically. “I’m a musician, Mr. Howell, and I’ve done a ton of research on the music of this area. I never heard of him before I met him.”

“To be fair, he wasn’t ever really famous. But he
almost
was, and he probably should be.” He went to the shelf filled with the other bound volumes and pulled out another of the big books, much older than the rest. He opened it unerringly to the spot he wanted, as he’d no doubt done many times. “I wasn’t living here then, but the paper covered it.”

The headline proclaimed,
CLOUD COUNTY NATIVE’S STAR RISES, FALLS.

Though his family did not have a radio, young Rockhouse Hicks would go into Needsville on Saturday night and ask someone sitting in their car if they could turn on their radio so he could hear Bill Monroe and Roy Acuff on the Grand Ole Opry. At age 5, he made his first banjo out of a Christmas peppermint can, and dreamed that someday he would join these legends on the Opry stage. But thanks to a cruel twist of fate, it never happened, and he hasn’t released a recording in over twenty years.