The Hum and the Shiver

8

“Bronwyn,” her visitor said. The figure stood in the bedroom door, backlit by the hall light.

Bronwyn blinked, looked at the window, and saw it was now dark. The clock on the bedside table read 1:45 A.M. “The hell?” she said sleepily, dragging her leg up the bed until she could rest against the headboard. She’d been asleep over twelve hours.

“Bronwyn,” the voice said again.

I can’t deal with the haint yet, Bronwyn thought fearfully. She felt her immobility more than ever, and winced with each crushing heartbeat; for an instant she thought she might really be having a coronary, her body too weak to survive this level of terror.

Then the voice registered. “Bliss?”

“You knew I’d be coming,” Bliss Overbay said. “I’m going to turn on the light now.”

Bronwyn scrunched her eyes shut, but still saw the sudden illumination through her lids. She blinked into it and waited for her vision to adjust.

“You look awful,” Bliss said with a smile.

“You look exactly the same as you did when I left,” Bronwyn replied. And it was true: Bliss was still slender, broad shouldered, and straight backed. She wore her long jet-black hair in a single braid that fell down her back almost to her waist. Her dark face had deep smile lines bracketing her wide mouth, which made guessing her age difficult for outsiders; she could’ve been anywhere between twenty and fifty. Her eyes seemed light blue or green, and often actually twinkled like they were illuminated from within. She wore faded blue jeans and a sleeveless jersey that displayed the snake tattoo around her upper arm. There was something disconcerting about the inkwork; it was the only thing in her appearance that hinted that she might be more than just another backwoods girl.

Bliss closed the door, knelt beside the bed, and examined Bronwyn’s broken leg. As an emergency medical technician, she knew how to interpret the damage. “Wow. Broke the femur in three places?”

“Four. The last one was a hairline crack that didn’t show up on the X-rays until they’d already put this thing on. And my fibula was practically pulverized.”

“That is one messed-up leg,” Bliss agreed. “How’s your arm?”

“This?” She pushed up her T-shirt sleeve. The puckered hole on either side of her biceps was scabbed and red, but no longer required a bandage. “It’s nothing. The bullet went right through. Except for being sore, it’s good as new.”

Bliss tenderly brushed a strand of hair from the younger woman’s face. “And your head?”

“I get headaches sometimes. And the crack is still sore if I touch it, so I try not to touch it.”

“I meant the inside of it.”

Bronwyn paused, then shrugged. “I’ve been better.”

Bliss nodded. Then she smiled and said, “We’ll have these pins out of your leg in a week, you know.”

“The doctors said six.”

“And if they were looking after you, it might be six. But you’re home now.”

“I don’t feel like it,” Bronwyn said, and gazed out the window. Nothing moved in the night. Had the haint already come, been unable to rouse her, and departed? Chloe would be livid.

Bliss folded her arms on the edge of the bed and rested her chin on them. “So you’re having some problems. Other than all the extra holes.”

Bronwyn couldn’t look at her. “Yeah. Two big ones. One is a haint that Mom says wants to talk to me. If she came tonight, she didn’t knock loud enough. And the other…” Now those tears threatened again. “Bliss,” she said very quietly, “I can’t play.”

“Because your arm’s hurt?”

“No, because I can’t remember how.” And then the tears really did come, weeks of them silently bursting free and running down her cheeks. She felt her face contort with the sobs aching to follow, but she held them at bay. “It’s like someone deleted the file from my brain.”

Bliss leaned over and hugged her. “That’s awful,” she agreed. “But not permanent.”

“What if it is?” Bronwyn whimpered into Bliss’s hair. “What if I never remember?”

“Then you’ll learn it all over again.”

Bronwyn pulled away and wiped furiously at the tears. “I’m a little old to be starting over.”

“What choice do you really have? You have to play. You have to learn the song when your mother passes it to you. You only have brothers, there’s no other option.”

Something in her tone got through to Bronwyn. That sense of danger returned, stronger and more tangible. She remembered the bird pecking at the window. “Wait a minute, is that why you’re here?”

“I’m here representing the other First Daughters. Something’s come up that affects you, and us, and we need you with us.”

The rhythmic pain in her chest returned. “What?” Bronwyn asked slowly.

Bliss paused before speaking, allowing her words to accumulate the weight they would need. “Peggy Goins saw one of the chairs on her motel porch rocking with no wind. Mandalay Harris had a picture of her mom with Chloe that fell off the mantel. I dreamed of muddy water. And your mama saw the sin eater come out of the woods and stop at your door before moving on.”

Bronwyn knew all these things were traditional omens of death, just like the bird she saw. But the sin eater changed everything. Suddenly she knew why her father had fashioned the strange feathered chime clapper, a time-honored way to ward off or delay malefactions. “It’s not me,” she whispered. “My mom’s gonna die.”

“Don’t know for certain. But someone’s marked for it, and the picture falling pretty much says it’ll be in this house.”

Bronwyn knew Mandalay’s mother was already dead, having expired from the complications of giving birth to her. So she read the signs the same way Bliss did. “Well… we have to stop it, then.”

“There’s no stopping it, you know that. You’re either marked or you’re not. You weren’t. That’s why you didn’t die in Iraq. Chloe might be.” Now Bliss spoke with the quiet authority of a Tufa leader. “And maybe that’s why you were spared. You have to learn her song. Now.”

“But I can’t,” she said simply. “I can’t play. When I pick up Magda, there’s nothing.”

Bliss walked to the window and looked out into the blackness. “You have to learn to play so you can learn the song. There’s no way around that. A First Daughter who loses her mother’s song diminishes all of us. We’re diminished enough already.” She faced Bronwyn with all her Tufa authority. “If we don’t know the melodies hummed in the night wind, then all that’s left is the shiver of the grave.”

“But how will I learn? Will you come and give me lessons?”

Bliss shook her head. “Not me. I play guitar, anyway. But someone will turn up.”

Bronwyn nodded. The conversation had left her more numb than usual. “Okay, I’ll give it a shot. But can I ask you something?”

“Chloe knows,” Bliss said, anticipating the question.

Bronwyn nodded. It explained her mother’s outburst that morning, at least.

Bliss looked out the window again and said, “And I’ll take you into Knoxville next weekend to get those pins out. I can use the county ambulance. It’s good PR for when we have to apply for funding next year.”

“Thanks.”

Bliss kissed Bronwyn on the top of her head, then saw the figure Ed had given her. She picked it up and looked it over, paying special attention to the delicate wings. “Pretty good resemblance,” she observed.

“Maybe two years ago,” Bronwyn said.

“You’ve been through a lot. But you’re home, and we care for our own.” She put down the carving and made a slow, elaborate hand gesture. “You know that.”

Bronwyn responded with another similar gesture, but it was weak and weary, as she now was. “I know. But they tried that with Humpty Dumpty, too. Didn’t work out.”

Bliss smiled. The authority of a leader was replaced with a sisterly affection. “They just didn’t know the right song.”