What Befalls the Children
Book 4 in the Troop of Shadows Chronicles
By Nicki Huntsman Smith
Copyright Notice
Copyright © 2020 by Nicki Huntsman Smith
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Terms and Conditions
The purchaser of this book is subject to the condition that he/she shall in no way resell it, nor any part of it, nor make copies of it to distribute freely.
All Persons Fictitious Disclaimer
This book is a work of fiction. Any similarity between the characters and situations within its pages and places or persons, living or dead, is unintentional and co-incidental.
Credits
Credit to Henry Wadsworth Longfellow for the poem “A Shadow”.
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following:
Lori, my editor, proofreader, and grammar consultant extraordinaire. Thankfully, comma placement doesn’t vex her as profoundly as it does me.
My test readers, Lisa and Al, who provided advice, suggestions, and top-notch cheerleading.
My British friend, Tony, who made sure Dr. Harold Clarke sounded like the real deal.
My mom, whose belief that I hung the moon is so unwavering, I sometimes believe it too.
My friends and family, who have always accepted my eccentric interests and overt nerdiness with minimal eye-rolling...as far as I know.
Lastly and most importantly, my husband Ray, without whose constant encouragement, gentle nudging, infinite patience, and support on a million different levels, this book would never have been written. I owe him everything.
Contents
Chapter 1
Fergus
Chapter 2 -- Ray
Chapter 3 -- Willadean
Chapter 4 — Fergus
Chapter 5 — Ray
Chapter 6 — Willadean
Chapter 7 — Fergus
Chapter 8 — Ray
Chapter 9 — Willadean
Chapter 10 — Fergus
Chapter 11 — Ray
Chapter 12 — Willadean
Chapter 13 — Harlan
Chapter 14 — Fergus
Chapter 15 — Ray
Chapter 16 — Willadean
Chapter 17 — Harlan
Chapter 18 — Ray
Chapter 19 — Fergus
Chapter 20 — Ray
Chapter 21 — Fergus
Chapter 22 — Willadean
Chapter 23 — Fergus
Chapter 24 — Willadean
Chapter 25 — Fergus
Epilogue
Those Who Come the Last
Chapter 1
Fergus
“Are you interested in the Snickers bar or not? I don’t have all day, sir.”
The old coot stood twenty yards away wielding an antediluvian shotgun, but Fergus knew he had nothing to fear for two reasons.
First, this was Appalachia. Over the last few days, Fergus had been ambling through a picturesque valley nestled within the magnificent Smoky Mountains near the eastern border of Tennessee. Contrary to the pervasive misconception, folks in Appalachia didn’t smoke corncob pipes on rickety porches waiting to shoot uninvited guests. They were friendly, unless you stole their hog or impregnated their daughters without first scribbling your X on a marriage certificate.
Second, his scythen told him the man didn’t possess an ounce of hostility at the moment. Maybe that was because of Fergus’s red hair.
In the mid-18th century, a prodigious wave of Scots-Irish immigrated to the area. DNA tests on the rural population there would likely show a disproportionately high percentage of Gaelic ancestry. The old coot could be his distant cousin. Considering Fergus’s true age, the connection would be tenuous, but still, the Scots-Irish took their familial blood ties seriously. Maybe on some enigmatic psychic level, the man recognized kinfolk.
“I reckon I’m interested. What do you want for it?” He whipped off a stained Titans ball cap, revealing a few dozen tenacious silver hairs. A threadbare shirt sleeve mopped the sweating, freckled skin between the hairs.
“Only conversation. And perhaps some information, if you’re so inclined.”
“You talk fancy. Whereabouts you from, mister?”
“Originally from Ireland, but that was a long time ago. Most recently I hailed from Jupiter, Florida. It’s a delightful burg on the Atlantic coast, where the native women are even more titillating than the turquoise waters and golden beaches. Ever heard of it?” The Ireland statement was necessarily vague. Fergus hadn’t visited the Mother Country in several hundred years.
“Nope. Purdy, is it?”
“It is indeed.”
“Ain’t never seen the ocean ‘cept in books. Ain’t never traveled beyond this here holler.”
It was a test. Fergus knew it instantly. His response would determine whether he would earn accurate answers to his questions and, more importantly, whether he would be welcomed into the very clan he had come to study. They were nearby. He could sense them.
“That’s understandable. Why travel beyond the perimeters of heaven?” He donned his most charming grin as he gestured to the surrounding mountains. The gently sloping peaks hinted at autumnal splendor yet to come.
The old coot cackled, sputtered, hawked up a loogy, spat it on the ground, and then cackled some more.
“You got that right. Where ya heading, mister? What’s your name?”
“Fergus. No need for last names under these end-of-the-world circumstances, yes?”
“As long as there ain’t two Ferguses ‘round here, we’ll be fine. My name’s Euel Whitaker, but folks just call me Skeeter. What information do you want? Do I get the candy before or after I answer your questions?”
“Now, of course. It’s well past the expiration date, but what isn’t these days?” He extended the chocolate bar to the old man, who lowered his shotgun and walked toward him.
“That wouldn’t bother me none, but it ain’t for me. It’s for my grandkids.” Skeeter swiped the candy with deft fingers, then squirreled it away in a voluminous pocket within faded, patched overalls.
In the clothing department, Skeeter lived up to societal notions of hillbilly couture. But as a pocket man himself, Fergus saw the practical appeal of all those sartorial hidey-holes. He wondered where
