Long Black Curl (18 page)

“Right, I reckon.”

He doffed his top hat to Marshall and Deacon, then turned toward the woods. He shuffled through the snow, humming to himself, and disappeared among the trees.

“By the way,” Bliss said to the two men, “I need someone to take care of that.” She pointed to a bucket beside the door.

“What is it?” Deacon asked guardedly.

“Rockhouse's blood. I drained it out of him.”

Marshall and Deacon exchanged a look. Somehow, the death of Rockhouse had all felt rather abstract until now, as if its reality were a distant thing that didn't really affect them. But there was no distance, physical or metaphorical, from that bucket of blood.

Deacon said, “What do you want done with it?”

“Find somewhere to pour it out. Just make sure you do it downhill from Emania Knob. Wouldn't want him able to draw it back, would we?”

“You really think he could do that?” Marshall asked.

“I think anything he's able to do shouldn't surprise us. Including coming back from the dead. That's why I want to make it as hard as possible for him.”

Marshall looked at the thick crimson liquid in the bucket. “Who would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him?” he muttered, and picked it up by the handle. “I'll take care of it. I'll walk it down the hill and pour it somewhere safe.”

“Sing over it, too,” Bliss added. “Sing ‘Edward, Edward.'”

That song, Marshall knew, was about a man who murders his own younger brother and has to leave his family, including his children. “This ain't exactly a tragedy.”

“It is to Rockhouse. And the more we ease his passage, the safer we'll all be.”

Marshall couldn't argue with that. He set out down the road, avoiding the slick spots of ice.

Deacon said, “What can I do?”

“Go over to Emania Knob and light a fire to melt the ground enough to dig the grave,” Bliss said. “Then come back so we can load up the body.”

“Will do.” He got back in the truck and drove off, leaving Bliss with only the tolling bell for company.

*   *   *

Shortly after the bell stopped ringing, the Gwinns arrived.

Holbert Gwinn, tall and skinny, with skin the consistency of old leather, wore a button-down shirt and dress khakis cinched at his waist. His wife Murlo, 250 pounds and almost as wide as she was tall, wore her only dress, which was old and permanently stained. The half-dozen children that piled out of the old truck's bed, including the adults like Tiffany and Mercantile, were dressed in what passed for their best clothes. They were mirror images of their parents, the girls large and round and the boys thin as pipe cleaners. Pieces of black cloth covered both side-view mirrors and the rearview mirror in the cab, mountain tradition that usually didn't involve vehicles. But since they were here to visit Rockhouse, it was best to take no chances.

Holbert made a gesture of respect, and Bliss reciprocated. Tiffany glowered at her, hateful because of their shared history of conflict, but Murlo smacked the girl on the back of the head.

Holbert held up an envelope with a black border. It was the funeral announcement that he, and many others, had found slipped under their door this morning as a reinforcement of the ringing bell. That way, no one could claim they didn't know about it. “What time's the old man going into the ground?”

“This afternoon at three. Up on Emania Knob.”

“Should we go there now, then?”

“Might be best. Marshall Goins is up there lighting a fire to melt the ground.”

“I reckon I can take some wood for that, then.”

“Much appreciated.”

“Oh, come on,” one of the skinny sons, Phelan, said. “We got to stay in these monkey suits all day?”

Hobart snapped around. “You do if you want to see the sunrise tomorrow, you disrespectful little shit.”

“For Rockhouse? He was a son of a bitch!”

Tiffany slapped the boy so hard, he spun around and fell to the ground.

“Ow!”
Phelan cried in pain and anger. “God
damn it,
Tiffany!”

“You watch your mouth,” she said as she stood over him. “Uncle Rockhouse was our leader, and we'll show him respect.”

“Tiffany,” Bliss said quietly. It wasn't the first time she'd had to calm the big woman, although it might be the first time Bliss had ever seen her in a dress. “Phelan can feel however he wants.”

“Yeah, well, he best keep his feelings to himself,” Tiffany said, then folded her arms across her chest.

“That ol' Rockhouse was the only man I ever saw who could strut sitting down,” Hobart said. “We'll be going. Back in the truck, y'all.”

Bliss watched them pile into their vehicle and only then realized the bell had stopped tolling.

*   *   *

The little room with the bell rope was basically a closet. The rope went up through a hole in the ceiling, and there wasn't even a light switch, so to see what you were doing, you had to leave the door open. Mandalay was about to leave when a sudden gust of wind slammed the door in her face. She felt the room fill around her with the presence of something she couldn't put into words, but most definitely recognized. It wasn't the ghosts of her own past, or the haints of others. Rather it was something expansive, and terrifying, and greater than even her simple feelings could encompass. She held her breath and fought not to turn, not to see what was behind and around her, because she doubted her consciousness could contain it.

These were the ones who made the songs. These were the ones who made the night winds blow. If they had a name, only they knew it.

Because of who she was, she could hear them speak clearly where most caught only vague whispers. But she had never seen them. No one had. Or if they had, they never lived to tell about it. But now they were there, with her, hovering near the body of the old man whose hubris caused the Tufa to be sent away.

Music hovered with them, a conglomeration of tune and melody like something Ligeti might have infused into the universe if he were a god.

Mandalay forced herself to breathe. She had often idly wondered why the night winds continued to be so interested in a small band of outcasts thousands of miles from their ancestral home. Surely the Queen and her court, back beneath the island's green earth, gave them plenty to worry about. But they'd always been there for the Tufa, guiding and hinting and occasionally taking direct action.

But never had they been there like this. Never had their direct action involved their actual
presence.

Mandalay,
something said in her mind, in a voice different from her own inner one.
There cannot be a caesura.

Her voice trembled like a child's frightened by a storm. “Wh-what do you mean by that?”

You have until the full moon to find your opposite number … or take the crown yourself.

“Crown? What crown?”

If you do not do one of these things, then we will leave you. And your people. Forever.

“Wait…” She wanted to look around so desperately, to see the faces of her deities, but she continued to fix her gaze on the blank surface of the door before her. “I'm just a kid, I can't—”

The last light of the full moon.

“Oh, come on,” she said impatiently. The full moon, she knew, was coming up on the night of February 3, mere days away.

Things must go forward. Songs cannot be sung in reverse.

“Now, that's just—”

But she knew they were gone before she finished the sentence.

“—plumb crazy.”

She warily opened the door. What had visited her had departed. But its words vibrated in her head like the reverberations from a massive subwoofer connected to God's own surround sound.

*   *   *

When Bliss went back inside, Mandalay stood beside Rockhouse's body. There was something different about her, a break in her normal enigmatic certainty. “You okay?”

“A little overwhelmed,” Mandalay said. “While I was ringing the bell, something … really hit me. He's gone. The one who brought us here, who
kept
us here, is gone.”

Bliss put a hand on the girl's shoulder. “And you're not.”

“No, I'm here all alone now. Who am I without him, Bliss? I mean, for … for
forever,
I've used him as a reverse barometer. If it sounded like something Rockhouse would do, I knew I shouldn't. If he thought it was a good idea, I knew it wasn't. Now…” She sighed, sounding old and tired and defeated.

“You're not alone, you know.”

“Yes, I am. That's part of the job description. I know you mean well, but … from now on, I
am
alone.”

Bliss said nothing. The ancient ache in Mandalay's voice, coming as it did from a twelve-year-old girl, reinforced the truth in the words.

Mandalay managed a smile. “Don't worry, though. Now … someone needs to go up the mountain and get Rockhouse's favorite banjo. And the axe. They need to be with him, wherever he is.”

“Who do you trust?”

“You or Bronwyn, but I need you here and she's way too pregnant for the hike.”

“Don't let her hear you say that.”

Mandalay smiled again. “And the rest of the First Daughters will be getting their families ready. So who do you think?”

“One of the Silent Sons, then?”

“Yeah,” Mandalay agreed. “Send Snowy Rainfield.”

“Snowy? Why him?”

“I don't know,” she said honestly. “He just popped into my head.”

“Okay,” Bliss said, took out her cell phone, and scrolled through her contacts.

*   *   *

When Snowy reached the top of the mountain and saw Rockhouse's door, he sat down on a fallen tree and waited to catch his breath. He was in pretty good shape, but the climb was deliberately rigorous. Even with Rockhouse dead, the spells and secret powers that protected the place remained in force. He looked around at the trees, but only a pair of big crows sat in the bare branches. They watched him implacably, and their caws had the ring of malicious laughter. He got a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.

As he sat there, another man came up the trail, leaning heavily on a walking stick as he, too, fought to catch his breath. He didn't notice Snowy at first, and when he did, he let out a yelp of surprise.

“Snowy Rainfield, what are you doing up here?” Junior Damo asked.

Snowy stood up. “Running an errand for a friend. What about you?”

“I was just … uhm … h-hiking, you know.”

Snowy stood up. He was taller than Junior, younger, and more powerfully built. Driving a truck had done nothing for Junior's muscles. “Junior, you're the worst liar I know. Tell me why you're up here, or I'll beat it out of you. And you know I can.”

Junior wanted to appear tough, but it wasn't his best skill, especially without a crowd watching. “Hell, Snowy, I just wanted to see what was left up in Rockhouse's home.”

“Why?”

“Maybe I want a souvenir.”

“Yeah, or maybe you're thinking about moving in when nobody's watching.”

“And what about you?” Junior said with false bravado. “What are
you
doing here?”

“I'm here on official funeral business. You can come in and look around with me if you want, but don't touch anything, and don't try to sneak anything out.”

“Well, goddamn, Snowy, ain't you a peach. Why you being so nice to me?”

“It's easier to keep an eye on you when you're underfoot.”

Junior gestured for Snowy to precede him to the door. Snowy did, but said over his shoulder, “Try to hit me with that hikin' stick and I'm liable to shove it somewhere you won't like and turn you into a popsicle.”

“Yeah, you've made your point, you know,” Junior muttered.

Snowy pushed open the door and stepped aside to let the light shine in. The bloodstains on the floor were still shiny, and dust hung in the air from the earlier disturbance. Junior said, “Looks about like I expected.”

“You ever been up here before?”

“No,” Junior said. He waited to see if Snowy would acknowledge the lie, but either he didn't catch it, or he didn't think it worth mentioning.

“Well, I need Rockhouse's favorite banjo, and the Fairy Feller's axe.”

“Reckon that's his favorite. That Fender Rustler there.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, he had six fingers on each hand, and that's a six-stringer.”

Snowy looked at the other banjos, all of which were five-string. “Good point. Hadn't thought of that.” He picked up the banjo, half-expecting some kind of electric shock from touching the old man's stuff. “Do you see the axe anywhere?”

“Naw. Where you figure he'd keep it?”

“If I knew that, it'd be the first place I'd look.”

There wasn't much to search. The furniture was very basic, and the little chest of drawers that held his threadbare clothes was the only thing that took any time to inspect. As they went through his pants pockets, Snowy said, “Junior, I'd be lying if I said I didn't know that you wanted to take over for Rockhouse. You're practically wearing a sign around your neck. If you were trying to keep it secret, you did a really bad job.”

“I wasn't trying to keep it secret,” Junior said, and again Snowy either didn't notice or didn't care about the lie. “Why should I? Somebody's got to take over, right?”

“There's a fair number of us who think we should all be under Mandalay now.”

Junior laughed, then choked it off when Snowy glared at him. “Snowy, that ain't never gonna happen.”

“Why do you say that?”

“What united us all under Rockhouse?”

“We weren't all under Rockhouse. Some of us—”