Willa said, “Wait, what? That’s not how the story ends.”
“That’s how my story ends because it’s a parable. Can you identify the lesson?”
Harlan tapped her arm and signed: They got eaten by the witch because the sister was over-confident.
Willa translated.
Fergus nodded. “Exactly. Well done, Harlan.”
“You think I’m over-confident?” she asked, first glancing at Pops who wore a suspiciously neutral expression.
“Folks who are especially smart and self-assured need to be careful just like everyone else. There will always be someone who is smarter and faster and sneakier. That’s all I’m saying.”
“But...” she began.
“Time to head home, kids. Your mama will be looking for you.” Pops stood and stretched. “Come on. I’ll walk with you.”
As much as she loved Friday evenings at Pops, she loved this part the best. With their grandfather sandwiched between them, she and Harlan meandered through the village toward home. It was Harlan’s turn to carry the oil lamp, which created a cheerful sphere of light to guide them. The chilly air coaxed goosebumps to blossom on her bare arms.
“Shoulda worn a jacket, Doodlebug,” Pops said, using an endearment he hadn’t spoken in months. Something about living in the holler seemed to inspire insect-themed nicknames.
“Yep. It’s getting cold. I’m not looking forward to winter. It’s damn boring when we’re holed up for weeks at a time.” Pops let her get away with an occasional cuss word.
Harlan nodded in agreement. She noticed he’d had the foresight to wear a jacket, which reminded her that apparently Fergus believed her brother to be wise for his age. She had to admit, the parable stung. Was she over-confident? Was she not also wise beyond her years? Or was there a difference between being wise and being smart?
“Maybe we can come up with some fun winter projects,” Pops was saying. “Let’s start working on it now so we have a plan come first snowfall. I could teach you how to make furniture.”
“Boring,” Willa said. “No offense, Pops. Instead of furniture, maybe you could teach us how you do that thing...” She knew she was venturing into a sensitive area. Her grandfather did not like to talk about his mysterious talent for knowing stuff.
He didn’t even bother responding. Subject closed.
“Fine. Well, at least keep your antenna up when you’re in the vicinity of a couple of twin brothers,” she whispered now. “You know who I mean.”
“Why?” Pops demanded. “You hear somethin’?”
She relayed the overheard conversation. Pops’ scruffy face showed dismay at the news.
“That’s exactly what I been worried about. Where were you when you heard this?” He had picked up on the part of the story that she had intentionally left out.
“Does it matter?”
“If I have to talk to your mama about it, she’ll want to know.”
“Ugh, Pops. Don’t go there. Please.”
“Gotta. Were you two past the perimeter?”
“I wish I hadn’t said anything,” she grumbled.
Pops was silent for a few seconds, then said, “Don’t tell your mama about this yet. Let me do some diggin’ first.”
“Are you afraid she’ll plant Everett in the cemetery?”
“We know how she is. Just keep mum for now. Got it?”
She and Harlan nodded. Mama’s lantern beckoned from the front porch just around the bend. Glimpses of it glowed between the other darkened cabins now. Willa plastered a disarming, innocent expression on her face just before they arrived.
Chapter 7
Fergus
“Those kids are quite special,” Fergus said when Skeeter returned.
Interacting with the twins had been entertaining as well as enlightening. Harlan was still a bit of a mystery, but he sensed an intellect there that may rival the sister’s. Willadean was a pint-sized genius, no doubt, but time would tell whether she qualified for a place in Cthor-Vangt. Fergus must first discover evidence of scythen — the ability to communicate telepathically. Then he would look for signs of langthal, the talent of rapid self-healing. If she proved to be a rare gem like Jessie from Arizona, who had saved his life with her healing touch, it would guarantee admission into Cthor-Vangt and all that place had to offer. Langthal, and enhanced langthal such as Jessie possessed, weren’t prerequisites for recruits, but they propelled a person to the top of the list.
“Yep. They surely are,” Skeeter replied, closing the cabin door behind him.
The two had settled into an easy friendship since Fergus started sleeping on the old man’s floor. Fergus sensed Skeeter enjoyed the company, and Fergus was thrilled by such clean, cozy accommodations from which to conduct his mission. The notion prompted another: he was overdue in sending an update not only to Cthor-Vangt, but also to his beloved Amelia. The thought of the mental tongue-lashing he would receive when he sent his scythen south to Florida made him smile.
“Somethin’ I want to talk to you about,” Skeeter continued.
Lamplight softened the wrinkled face into a slightly younger version. Skeeter had likely been a handsome fellow in his youth; his beauty queen offspring confirmed that assumption. Most folks who hadn’t succumbed to Chicxulub tended to be more physically attractive than the general population prior to the pandemic. Fergus had to admit, he didn’t hate that many of the remaining women were so beautiful.
“Of course. What’s on your mind?” he said, stripping down to his boxer briefs and a threadbare t-shirt. If he stayed until winter, he would need to see about wrangling a pair of long underwear.
“You get the feeling folks here are content?” Skeeter asked.
“You mean with your daughter as their de facto leader? I’m reading between the lines.”
“I’d say she’s more than just
