“Grandkids? I’m envious. I’ve never fathered any children...that I know of,” Fergus added with a wink.
Skeeter cackled again, then lapsed into silence. The faded blue eyes appraised him.
Fergus waited patiently.
“I can tell you ain’t no pervert or murderer or rapist. Don’t ask me how, ‘cuz that ain’t nothin’ I can explain. So what are these questions?”
“I’ll be blunt. I’m lonely, Skeeter. I’m weary of being on the road, dodging gangs of thugs and killers who would slaughter me for my remaining Snickers bars. I want to belong to a community again, where I can contribute in a meaningful way. I’ve heard rumors of a group living happily and peacefully in this splendid place. I knew I had to try to find it. My esoteric skill set would be a boon to everyone, and my firearms prowess is second to none. Can we help each other?”
The faded blue eyes narrowed. “I have two questions for you. Where did you hear that rumor and why did you leave Florida? Careful, son. I’ll know if you’re lying.”
Suddenly the hillbilly dialect had vanished, along with the friendly tone. The shotgun pointed toward him again.
Fergus took a deep breath. He would have to lie, and he would need to block his scythen’s output while doing so. Skeeter must possess a smidgen of the telepathic ability if he were able to discern a stranger’s true nature in a two-minute conversation.
“The second question first. I left Florida because of a woman. She was in love with me, and though I harbored fond feelings for her, I’m not the kind of man who settles down with one female. It was in both our interests for me to leave.”
“Hmmm. What was her name?”
“Amelia,” he said promptly. At least his paramour’s name wasn’t a lie. That should help.
“Why come here?”
“Alligators. Mosquitoes. Humidity. Like the Snickers bar, I was past my expiration date in regard to Florida. I was ready for new scenery. On the road, I met a fellow who mentioned the existence of some good folks holed up near Pigeon Forge. I was immediately taken with the notion of log cabins, crackling fires, women in form-fitting gingham dresses serving me mugs of moonshine...”
That evoked a snorting chuckle. The shotgun muzzle lowered infinitesimally. Fergus knew at that moment that he and Skeeter were going to be friends.
“What was the man’s name?”
“The one on the road? His name was Tung. An Asian fellow. Decent chap, but nobody I could star alongside in a buddy film. Too straight-laced.”
A forward dip of the ball cap. More squinting of the faded blue eyes as they scrutinized him from the top of his spiky red hair to the soles of his dusty Doc Martins.
“I reckon I’ll take you there, but it ain’t up to me if’n you’ll be invited to stay.”
Interesting. The dialect was back. There was more to Skeeter than a balding old hillbilly in overalls.
“Understood. Much obliged, sir.”
“Mountain folk have particular ways of dealing with troublemakers. Ways that started long before Chicksy happened. You best mind yerself.”
It was Fergus’s turn to snort. Chicksy was easier to pronounce than Chicxulub. He would begin using it himself.
“Thanks for the warning. I promise to be the perfect gentleman. Lead on, dear fellow. By the way, where might I obtain a pair of those exquisite overalls? I’d be happy to trade more Snickers...”
***
An hour later, the old man informed him they were approaching Whitaker Holler. It was just up yander. Not yonder. And it wasn’t a valley, but a holler, the regional term for a low-lying area nestled between mountain ranges. Family clans claimed these individual hollers as their own, and had for generations. It was the Mountain People way. Fergus anticipated he would be able to add to his already impressive repertoire of local dialects and anthropological education.
Traveling around the world for millennia built up quite a collection.
“Gotta tie a blindfold on ya, son,” Skeeter said. “Don’t take it the wrong way. I got a good feeling about you, but I’ve been snookered once or twice. Folks these days can’t be too careful.”
“Perfectly understandable. It so happens I have a bandana suitable for the task.”
“Nope. This one’ll do.” Skeeter withdrew a dubious swatch of stained fabric from one of his many pockets.
“I’m not the first fellow to wear this, am I?”
Skeeter cackled but didn’t answer. He steered Fergus by the elbow as they hiked the sloping terrain. Fergus took the opportunity of being blind to send out his scythen — sensory deprivation intensified it.
Skeeter was an inadvertent sender as well as a receiver. As with all neophytes, his telepathic talent seemed nebulous and untrained. The benevolent, non-threatening output was still evident, which was a relief. The Whitaker clan may collectively decide to kill him, but Skeeter himself posed no danger.
At least not yet.
After thirty minutes of hiking, the old man said, “We’re here. You can take off the blindfold now.”
Fergus happily did so. The scene before him begged to be captured on film, or perhaps in a Thomas Kinkade painting. The silent gathering of Mountain People stood motionless and staring, all striking unintentional poses that hinted at captivating personal stories. Weathered shanties belched smoke from teetering chimneys; flames flickered within lanterns strung above crooked doorways. Galvanized washtubs stood sentinel beside improvised clotheslines, while women dipped arms elbow-deep in murky water as they squatted motionless, assessing the newcomer. Children in ragged clothing positioned themselves behind lean, grim-faced males interspersed with several equally grim-faced females.
Everyone who stood clutched firearms. Nobody spoke.
“Skeeter, this isn’t a welcoming committee, is it?” Fergus whispered.
“What’d you expect? A muffin basket?” Skeeter replied.
It would have been funny under different circumstances.
Skeeter raised one hand, a gesture that said: Everyone calm the hell down.
At least that’s what Fergus hoped it said.
