Harlan’s blood-stained hands were preoccupied, so he chose this moment to vocalize for the first time. It wasn’t the cracking, rusty intonation of someone who never talked, but the perfectly normal voice of a boy who was anything but normal.
“It’s from my War Chest of Oddities, Mister Fergus,” he said. “It worked on a dog who’d been hit by a car back in Knoxville, and once on a baby squirrel that fell out of a tree.”
Fergus knew then that Harlan possessed enhanced langthal, the ability to heal other living creatures. This changed everything.
“I see. There’s a word for it, you know.”
“Yes, the Shift told me.”
“The Shift?”
“Yes,” he whispered. “That’s what I call the voice in my head that helps me work through things...decisions, stuff like that. She told me it was a type of langthal.”
“She?”
Harlan glanced meaningfully at his mother and sister. Serena Jo had released Willadean from the bear hug and was preparing to pounce on her son.
Fergus intercepted her. “Your son is fine. You can see that. But Cricket needs help. You will find medical supplies in Lizzy’s cabin. Bring them to me quickly.”
He watched the familiar stubborn expression blossom on Willadean’s tear-streaked face.
“Child, you can’t help. If you want to save your friend, go with your mother. Now.”
“Come, Willa. He’s right. This is our best hope of helping Cricket.”
Serena Jo ushered her daughter out of the shed.
Fergus turned his attention back to Harlan. “Do you feel heat in your hands?”
Harlan nodded. “Getting even hotter now.”
“You said the Shift was a she?”
“Yes. I think her name is...Amelia.”
Fergus couldn’t help himself. He laughed. “I should have known. Very well, connect with Amelia now. If there’s anyone who can help save your friend, it’s her.”
“You know her?”
“Oh yes. A very old friend. Focus now, son.”
***
“I don’t understand,” Willa said. “I saw blood. A lot of blood.”
The group stood outside the shed in the light that couldn’t decide whether to be cheerful or ominous. They must be positioned right on the ragged edges of the storm. Fergus could smell the rain in the air, but for now it was skirting them. He hoped it continued to do so. The notion of taking shelter inside Lizzy’s cabin was distasteful.
Cricket spoke then, sounding tired, but otherwise normal. “The bullet just nicked me, I guess. It stings a little, but I feel okay. My breathing is better too. Listen!” He took a deep breath in, then blew it out.
“Let me see your wound,” Willa demanded. “Please,” she added, more gently now, noting Cricket’s pallor.
Fergus used his stern voice. “Absolutely not. It’s cleaned and bandaged. I won’t have your grubby little fingers anywhere near that wound. It could get infected.”
Clearly Willadean was exhausted because she merely shrugged and yawned.
“Let’s go home,” Serena Jo said, stifling her own reflexive yawn. “You sure you can make it, Pops?”
“Yep. What should we do about Otis?” he said.
“We’ll let the tunnel air out before we go in after him. Then we’ll take him home and give him a hero’s burial. Same with Ray,” she added with a small catch in her voice.
Skeeter nodded, brushing at his watery blue eyes. Fergus intentionally looked away and down at Harlan. He gave the boy a conspiratorial wink. It wasn’t lost on Willa.
“You gonna start talking full-time now?”
Harlan shook his head, then signed. No. That was an exception. He grinned.
A whistled melody emanated from the outskirts of the woods.
Skeeter whistled a quick five-note response. “It figures the cavalry would arrive after the battle is over.”
Four men and two women emerged from the trees, hillbilly wraiths shrouded in faded denim and flannel. There was to be an escort back to the village, it seemed. Fergus hoped they would make the journey in silence.
He needed some time to gather his thoughts about what had just transpired and how much of it he would report to the Ancients at Cthor-Vangt.
***
Thirty-six hours later...
“This is the most delicious repast I’ve enjoyed since my arrival,” Fergus said. He dipped the fried cornbread torpedo into its accompanying blackberry chutney, then popped it into his mouth with a moan.
Blue eyes framed by wrinkles sparkled in the firelight. “Them fritters is just the appetizer,” Skeeter said. “Wait’ll we get to the main course.”
Whitaker Holler’s entire population attended the evening’s celebration. A colossal cooking fire crackled next to the kitchen house; its flames licked a hog the size of a Harley Davidson slowly rotating on a boy-powered rotisserie. The scintillating aroma of roasting pork wafted throughout the lamp-lit village. Discordant notes of fiddles being tuned floated from every direction. Children squealed and ran along the dirt-packed boulevards, playing hide-and-seek for a while, then organizing into teams for Red Rover. Willadean, Harlan, and Cricket were among them. Willadean orchestrated the activities like a pint-sized four-star general.
Fergus smiled.
Otis and Lizzy’s remains had been retrieved and buried earlier that morning. There had been some grumbling about giving a murdering psychopath a proper burial, but Serena Jo had insisted. When they had gone back for Ray’s body, all they’d found was blood and mountain lion tracks. According to Skeeter, the big cats had been making a comeback since the pandemic. Fergus tried not to think about the body being dragged up into a tree and slowly devoured. Did mountain lions even do that? Or was that just a leopard thing?
“Shame about your friend, Ray,” Skeeter said, interrupting his morbid thoughts.
“Yes,” Fergus sighed. “Still, it could have been a worse outcome.”
“Yep.” Skeeter’s gaze latched onto the twins as they dashed by, then the bald head dipped forward. Fergus’s scythen caught a whiff of prayer.
They sat in the old man’s handmade kitchen chairs, carried outside for the occasion like
