Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) (30 page)

Another hand burrowed out beside the first, only this hand clutched a letter-sized envelope. Then the two hands spread the ground between them, widening it into a opening big enough for a dark-haired head to emerge.

Curnen peeked out, only her eyes above ground level.

Rob sagged against the tombstone, shaking as the adrenaline burned itself out. “God
dammit,
Curnen,” he breathed.

She saw Rob and waved the envelope at him. He grabbed it, and she ducked back down the hole.

He turned the envelope over in his trembling fingers. It was age-tarnished and sealed with wax. He felt a single small piece of thick paper inside. He folded the envelope and stuffed it into his pants pocket, figuring this wasn’t the best place to examine it. It was almost full daylight now.

Ten yards down the slope, almost to the forest, Curnen emerged from a hole hidden behind a clump of weeds. He wondered if she had burrows in graveyards all over the area. Before he could dwell on that creepy thought, she waved for him to follow as she dashed down the slope into the trees.

He needed no extra encouragement. He ran as hard as he could down the hill. Just as he reached the tree line and safety, a voice behind him yelled
“Hey!”
followed by a dog’s furious barking.

“Wait for me!” he cried to Curnen, barely able to see her ahead of him. She flitted gracefully through underbrush that threatened to snag and trip him. Within moments, she was gone, and he could only continue straight down the hill away from the Gwinns, hoping he’d catch up with her somewhere ahead.

He just barely cleared a log directly in his path. When he landed on the other side, the wet leaves slid out from under his feet and he tumbled out of control. He grabbed at every tree and branch he rolled past, until suddenly the ground was gone and he fell through the air.

Something slapped at his palm and he clutched it with both hands. It was a thick, old grapevine and it held his weight, but now he dangled off the edge of a gully, twenty feet above the creek they’d earlier crossed.

He shifted his grip and wrapped one leg around the vine as well. He was five feet below the edge, which curved out over the creek. He’d be seen if he pulled himself back up, and the drop would land him painfully atop a jumble of smooth, slick river stones.

Dogs barked in the woods above, and men shouted instructions and curses. The overhang hid him from view, and the vine seemed solidly anchored to a tree above him.

He stayed as still as he could and listened. The dogs were much closer, and now he could make out words.

“… some gubment sum’bitch…”

“… cut his balls off and feed ’em to him…”

“… let the dogs rip him up…”

Rob spotted several thick, knobby tree roots protruding from the bank. He could use them to descend, but not with his pursuers nearby. Now the dogs were so close, he heard their paws crunch on the leaves overhead, along with the much heavier steps of their masters. They barked right above him, but could not see him beneath the overhang.

“God-dang it,” someone said, “he must’ve jumped down there and run off.”

“Ain’t nobody going to make that jump, ya dumb-ass,” another voice responded. “These stupid dogs lost him.” One of the dogs yelped as it received a solid smack of disapproval. “He must be hid up around here somewhere, maybe up in a tree or something.”

Rob’s shoulder muscles seemed about to rip loose from the bones, and the bruise across his back felt like a hot metal strip against his skin. He gritted his teeth so hard, he could barely breathe.

“Hey!” the first voice said. “Look!”

“Aw,
shit.
”

Rob carefully turned his head. Curnen crouched on the other side of the creek, drinking water from her cupped hands. She ignored both Rob and the men above him.

“God-dang it, it’s that wisp of a thing again,” one of the men said. The braggadocio left his voice. “Poppa Rockhouse said we shouldn’t have no truck with her.”

“Gimme that rifle.”

Curnen stood and raised her arms over her head, her palms upward. Her face was pink in the dawn. She kept her eyes on the Gwinns, opened her mouth, and emitted a soft throaty
hiss
that grew louder until it was almost a roar. As she did, a breeze rustled the trees above her.

“Put that gun down, she’s going to call up a storm on us.”

She whistled sharply three times, and the wind grew stronger. One of the dogs resumed barking. Rob heard another smack, and the dog yelped and softly whimpered.

“
Stop
that, man!” one of the Gwinns said, his voice trembling.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re shivering like a dog shitting peach pits.”

“I’m still thinking about the way that one howled this morning. And now we run up on this bitch, it’s just too much.”

“Hey!” a new voice called from farther away. Rob again recognized Tiffany Gwinn. “Momma says for y’all to quit fooling around and get your asses back home.
Now!
”

The wind continued to rise, and now the tops of the trees creaked and groaned under it. Some squealed as they rubbed together. Brown and red leaves ripped free of their branches.

“Some gubment man was poking around the house,” one of the men responded. “We chased him down here.”

“Momma don’t care! She says if she has to get off the porch, she’s going to tan all of your hides, she don’t care how old you are!”

“Hell, come on,” the first man said, resigned. “We ain’t going to find him with that girl running around. It must’ve been her, anyway.”

Their voices faded as they tramped back up the hill. The wind died down as well. Curnen motioned that it was all clear.

Rob awkwardly climbed down the tree roots until he reached the ground. He fell against the muddy rise, gasping, his arms burning. Curnen splashed across the stream and knelt beside him.

He could not remember ever being in so much physical pain. His back and shoulders hurt so much, it brought tears to his eyes. She stroked his hand, making little sympathetic whimpers. It was so touching, it made him smile, and gradually the pain faded.

“That was … fun,” he gasped.

She smiled, then impulsively kissed him. He didn’t resist. Then she helped him sit up, and he pulled the envelope from his pocket.

He’d broken the wax seal during his wild escape. He withdrew a small rectangle of paper, clearly the one excised from the book in the strange little library. The missing stanza read:

Around him stood the myriad fae

Whose love had grown to hate’s decay

They bound him to the spot he lay

“You can do no harm while you be here.”

He stared at these words, trying to make them coherent, but it didn’t help. What was so almighty special about this last verse? He looked up at Curnen. “Hon, maybe I’ve just been smacked around too much lately, but this doesn’t make any sense at all.”

She looked down in hard thought, then held out her left hand, fingers spread so that all six were obvious. She gestured with her right hand as if stroking a long beard.

He nodded. “Rockhouse.”

She stood and pretended to stomp things on the ground and silently laugh; then she looked up at the sky in mock terror, mimicking those being trampled.

“Rockhouse treats people like that,” he said, and she nodded.

Then she stood very straight, chin high and eyes almost closed. She made a tall motion above her head, as if she wore a crown.

“Because he’s a king?”

She nodded, then tapped her forehead.

“Because he’s a king … he thinks?”

She shook her head. She made a wide, expansive gesture, then tapped her forehead again.

“Because …
everyone else
thinks he’s a king? That’s why everyone’s scared of him?”

She nodded emphatically.

He looked at the verse again.
You can do no harm while you be here.
A light went on in his mind. “Wait … they took his crown away, didn’t they? When he couldn’t split that hickory nut. He’s not the fairy feller anymore.”

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.

28

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.