The Hum and the Shiver (25 page)

“It’s not a matter of learning,” Bliss said. “It’s all about the song in your blood. And threats just belittle us both.”

Carolanne made another sign. “My song is as good as any of yours. And I know all your signs, see?”

“The song has to be as old as your blood, Carolanne. If it’s not, you’re not a First Daughter.” Then she made a slow, careful final sign with her right hand.

Carolanne said nothing, and the darkness hid her expression. But her voice gave everything away. “What the hell is that? You just made that up right now, didn’t you?”

“No,” Bliss said with firm gentleness. “We’re just doing what’s always been done. This is not a sorority, Carolanne, we don’t pick or exclude members. You either are one, or you’re not. You can’t
become
one. And as for telling Rockhouse’s people—”

“Why not?” Bronwyn blurted. Even she was surprised by her words. Everyone turned to look at her.

Surprise far outweighed anger in Bliss’s voice. “What?”

The words tumbled out. “Look, we all have this First Daughter pure-blood
thing
that none of us asked for, and that for the most part causes us nothing but aggravation. Carolanne here clearly wants to be part of this bad enough to figure out where and when we meet, and to learn almost all of our signs. The fact that she
hasn’t
given them away says something about her, doesn’t it? Maybe…”

She stopped, suddenly aware of the scrutiny. “Nothing,” she finished abruptly, and turned away. For a long moment only the crickets and tree frogs were heard.

Finally Bliss said, “I’m sorry, Carolanne. But you really need to go. It isn’t safe to be alone in these woods tonight.”

“Is that a threat?” Carolanne snapped.

“Only as much as yours,” Bliss replied evenly.

Carolanne started to reply, then turned on her heel and stomped petulantly into the night.

Now Bliss directed her attention at Bronwyn. With no malice, only puzzlement, she asked, “What was
that
all about?”

Bronwyn shook her head. “Hell if I know. It just popped out.”

“Is that how you really feel?”

“I think so,” she said. “I hadn’t really thought about it before now. But … yeah, it is.”

Bliss turned to another member of the circle. “Mandalay? Any thoughts?”

A small figure in a simple dress stepped forward. When the moonlight struck her serene face, it showed a child only ten years old. Yet she spoke with the calm authority of one who knew her power. “Some, but there’s more important things to deal with right now. Y’all follow me?”

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.

23

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?”

Bronwyn laughed. “Good Lord, no. Dwayne already tore up the yard when I sent him packing; Daddy would have a fit if somebody else drove all over it.”

“Well … I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”

Bronwyn did not look back. “Sure. Thanks for the ride, Bliss.”

As Bliss drove away, Bronwyn opened the gate enough to squeak through and slowly climbed the hill. By the time she reached the porch steps, she had to sit down and catch her breath. For a moment she watched things only a Tufa could see in the night, and smiled as they recognized her as well.

Why did she
care
about the First Daughters, anyway? She understood their purpose, but didn’t share their belief in its importance. So what if the “true Tufa way” died out? The Tufa themselves would remain, maybe diluted into the general population but still there, ready to awaken when the music was right and the night wind called them to ride.

She slid the dress up her thigh and ran her hand along her injured leg, feeling the little bumps of scars. They would fade with time, but she didn’t really mind them. She knew that if she wanted a man to find her attractive, he would.

She slowly opened the screen door, pausing just before it squeaked. She’d learned that trick as a preteen, and it had served her well all through high school. The inner door opened without a sound. She stood in the darkened living room and was about to move forward when something made her freeze.

She turned toward movement in the shadows off to her right. Something was on the couch, moving slowly, the fabric creaking as it did. Bronwyn stared, trying to resolve it into a shape she could recognize.

Then a head popped up, tossing black hair back from a face shiny with sweat and effort. A face she recognized as
her own.

The face turned to her. It wasn’t her, of course; it was her mother, naked and astride her father. They moved together as silently as they could, since Aiden and Kell were asleep in the house. Apparently her father had not heard Bronwyn enter, because he continued to nuzzle Chloe’s breasts as his hands roamed over her skin.

Chloe’s eyelids fluttered, and she gasped. Bronwyn wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She watched her mother have an orgasm, silent except for a sharp exhalation, and then curl around Deacon like she was molding her limbs to him. She looked again at Bronwyn, and their eyes locked for a moment.
I am alive,
her mother’s defiant gaze seemed to say.
See? I’m not dead by a damn sight yet.

Bronwyn ran into her room, the first time in months she’d moved that quickly. She fell halfway onto the bed and began sobbing, clenching her teeth against the sound. She didn’t want to wake either of her brothers, and she sure didn’t want her father to know she’d seen anything. My God, what were they
thinking,
carrying on like teenagers? They were both in their
forties.

She crawled onto the bed and curled up clutching her Dollywood souvenir pillow. Everything she’d counted on was changing into something else. The First Daughters, until now mainly a ceremonial thing that meant nothing, actually expected something from her. Her parents, those solid, reliable figures she’d always counted on even as a wild-child teenager, were humping in the front room. Even Aiden was on the verge of turning from a boy into a young man, and Kell would soon have to decide if his song led him away from Cloud County or back to it. And then there was Craig the minister, and Terry-Joe, and Dwayne. There was nothing left to hold on to, she thought grimly, except this stupid pillow with Dolly Parton’s face embroidered on it.