A full minute of silence passed. Fergus was getting nervous, but Skeeter didn’t appear to be bothered by the chilly reception.
Finally, a tall, slender woman detached herself from the backwoods tableau and glided toward them. Long, flaxen braids framed a smudged face, then meandered down to a madras plaid-covered bosom; Fergus didn’t allow his gaze to linger on the bosom. Sneakers that needed to be replaced long ago silently covered the distance between them. She moved like a lioness. When she stood two feet away, he saw that her luminous eyes would have matched that of any feline predator in Africa.
“I’m Serena Jo,” the magnificent creature said in a low-pitched, honey-butter voice. “Who are you and why are you here?”
No bumpkin dialect from this one.
“I’m Fergus. I’d like to join your group.” He didn’t bother with a charming smile, opting instead for an undeniably sincere tone. He knew those intelligent golden eyes would notice anything phony.
“Why would we allow that?”
“Because I possess skills that would benefit everyone. I can knock a bobcat off a tree branch from fifty paces with a rock. I bake the fluffiest biscuits this side of heaven. I can juggle fiery torches and small children simultaneously, without harming the torches.”
He was relieved to see one side of the lovely mouth twitch. Was she amused? He couldn’t tell. She was a complete blank to his scythen.
Serena Jo was no inadvertent sender.
“We don’t need rock-throwers, bakers, nor jugglers. You’ll have to do better.”
Fergus thought furiously for several moments. What could he offer these people that they didn’t already have? Nobody was rotund, but neither did they appear to be starving. Folks who had lived primitively before the end of the world would fare well afterward. They had surely been growing much of their own food and hunting game long before Chixculub. They had no problem living without electricity, and their medical needs would be addressed homeopathically, as they had been for generations.
What could he give people who didn’t need his help to survive?
“I was a professor at Dartmouth before Chicksy,” he lied smoothly. “I can teach the children and anyone else interested in rounding out their education.”
A sudden increase in the golden eyes’ luminosity revealed interest. He had selected the perfect morsel with which to seduce the beautiful gatekeeper.
“What subject?”
“Subjects. Philosophy, History, English, and Music Theory.”
“I’ve never heard of a professor qualified to teach in so many areas. What instruments do you play?”
Fergus smiled inwardly. Even though the invention of the fiddle postdated his youth, he had learned how to play on one of his many visits there over the years. Fiddle-playing was practically demanded of anyone with Irish blood running through his veins.
“I play the violin like an angel.”
“Prove it.” The woman gestured toward a child frozen in a nearby doorway. The child disappeared, then returned with a weathered instrument and a bow with strings of unknown origin. What would these people use to replace them? Sheep intestines were preferred in the Old Country. Did the Mountain People have a hidden flock somewhere? He hadn’t heard any bleating.
The child handed over both with adorable gravity. The golden eyes staring at him now were as luminous as those of Serena Jo. This little girl must be her daughter.
“I’m a bit rusty,” he said, closing his eyes and traveling to the musical compartment of his memory palace.
The instrument felt fine in his hands. He hadn’t played a note since long before the pandemic, but it didn’t matter. Muscle memory and an ingrained love of music would suffice.
After a shaky start, he found the correct movements for Mendelssohn’s Concerto in E Minor. From that, he transitioned seamlessly to the Swallowtail Jig, a favorite of his people. As he played, he opened his eyes to see an assortment of boots, sneakers, and bare feet tapping to the lively rhythm.
He smiled. Of course these folks would love a jig. Their ancestors were Gaelic.
“Very good,” Serena Jo said when he finished. “But that only shows you can play. Most of us can do that. Music in the holler is how we entertain ourselves. What is music theory and how would you teach it?”
“Music theory examines key signatures, pitches, intervals, scale, chords, and other fundamentals. It also provides insight into the basic building blocks that form harmony, melody, and rhythm. I’ll make it fun, too. I’m quite entertaining, even when I don’t try to be.”
“Who is your favorite philosopher and why?”
Fergus responded promptly. “Epicurus. He understood the profound benefits of simple pleasure and friendship.”
“What year was Julius Caesar born?”
“Approximately 100 BCE.”
Her eyes narrowed. Suddenly, he realized who she was. Skeeter’s eyes were blue, so Serena Jo’s mother must have been responsible for the unusual golden color. “What is an ambigram?”
Fergus knew he was acing this impromptu test, but the last question was especially easy. “It’s a word that is the same upside down. Like swims. Did I pass?”
“Not yet. How do you get your hair to do that?”
A man standing barely five-feet tall tended to be overlooked. Choices were limited if the objective was to be noticed. One could wear high-heeled shoes or opt to make a statement with clothes or coiffure. He had chosen the latter. The notoriously spiked red hair had become his calling card. People didn’t soon forget a man with hair like his.
“My hair and its mysteries are a story to be revealed over a campfire while roasting marshmallows and telling ghost stories.”
Serena Jo smiled. He was in.
“Fine. You’re on probation. You’ll conduct classes for the children for two hours every morning. You’ll be under constant surveillance until such time as I’ve deemed you harmless. Agreed?”
“Agreed.”
“Pops, he can
