“But what if I don’t understand the card game? I might inadvertently play the Ace of Spades when I should have gone with the Jack of Hearts.”
Willadean snickered. It was a delightful sound, conveying genuine amusement alongside an unbridled sense of superiority. During her short life, the child had probably become used to being the smartest person in every room.
“Best be careful when using the word spade,” she said.
Fergus grinned. “Good one. You’re going to be a writer someday?”
“Am a writer. I’m going to be a novelist someday.”
“What will your books be about?”
“Anything and everything.”
“I see. Perhaps within these titillating tomes you could incorporate a diminutive yet handsome red-haired hero.”
“Aren’t heroes supposed to be tall?”
“Not always. Have you ever heard the expression dynamite comes in small packages?”
“I have, and I never use it. Good writers don’t resort to clichés.”
“But you said that thing about playing my cards right.”
The blond eyebrows gathered together suddenly, then returned to their normal position. “True. I’ll strike it from my lexicon.”
“Very well. So about the cemetery...”
The eyes narrowed as they scrutinized him. It was during these moments that he clearly saw the familial tie between Skeeter, Serena Jo, and the little firecracker before him.
He saw her gaze shift, surveying the village, then landing on Serena Jo’s back. The leader of Whitaker Holler was engaged in an intense conversation with one of the rifle-wielding men.
There was a contingent of folks within the village whose primary job was to hunt wild game. The deer population exploded when all those weekend hunters had died off. Mountain Folk had been eating venison for hundreds of years, and they were practically tripping over deer now on every hunting expedition. Fergus was already growing a little weary of venison stew. Still, it was better than the processed or canned garbage he resorted to when traveling.
“Come on. Quick. Before she turns around.”
She sprinted into the woods. If he didn’t soon follow, he’d lose sight of the tattered jeans and ragged shirt in the sun-dappled forest. The vibrancy of the orange and red leaves deepened every day. Autumn in the mountains was lovely. It wasn’t turquoise water and amber-colored beaches lovely, but just as spectacular in its own way. Smoke from the perpetual water-boiling fires permeated the air, mingling with the natural fragrance of the forest. He breathed it in, glad that the privies lay downwind, then took off after the child.
“Ssshhh,” she hissed moments later, gesturing for him to crouch down.
He complied, waiting for further instruction while watching Willadean. She moved soundlessly through the brush, a wraith in threadbare denim and stained Keds.
“I thought I heard something. Guess not,” she said a minute later, her voice returning to normal. “Come on. It’s this way.” Even when she wasn’t on high alert, her movements were fluid and noiseless. Willadean hadn’t been born in the holler, as revealed to him by Skeeter, but she had adjusted quickly to the primitive lifestyle and rural environment. She had taken to it natural-like.
“What do you think the sound might have been?”
She glanced back, giving him an appraising look. “Nothing.”
“Really? It sounded like a motor to me.”
That got a reaction. She twirled, covered the distance between them in two seconds, positioned herself inches from him, and then poked his chest with a forceful finger.
“Do not say that. Not to anyone.”
“Why?”
“Because if Mama learns there might be other people out there, she won’t let us leave the village. We’ll be kept prisoner. No more exploring. No more treasure hunts. No more fun.”
Fergus stifled a grin. What fate could be more horrible to a child?
He made a twisting motion against his lips, the universal gesture for your secret is locked away in the vault. “Promise I won’t tell.”
“That’s not good enough.” She reached into the pocket of her jeans and withdrew a doll-sized knife. “You have to swear a blood oath. Hold out your hand, palm up.”
He considered the directive, then extended his hand. She mirrored his gesture, revealing a small, pink scar on the meaty part of her palm.
“Looks like this isn’t your first blood oath,” he said.
“Never mind that.”
She nicked him with the small blade, quick and shallow, then did the same next to her scar.
“Shake, now. And swear while you’re doing it.”
“I swear not to say anything about the motor sound I heard today.”
The pigtailed head dipped once. “Come on.” She took off again.
The childhood oath-swearing ritual was sacrosanct; that was evident. And even more interesting, he realized he would probably endure at least a half-hour of water-boarding before sharing the secret. Willadean had already proven to be worth the journey from Florida to Tennessee. And there were a few others in the holler whose mysteries he hoped to unravel. So far, he was enjoying himself immensely on this adventure. Experience had told him, however, not to become too comfortable.
Shit has a way of hitting the fan when one least expects it.
***
“This is it,” Willadean said after another twenty minutes.
They stood in a glade encircled by birch trees. The whimsical paper-like trunks and shimmering copper leaves seemed at odds with the somber place. No fence designated the funerary grounds, but none was needed. Wooden crosses in various weathered states dotted the sloping hillside — more than a hundred old ones and a couple dozen not-so-old ones. Mounds of fresh soil extended from the base of several plots toward the far
