"Reading Long Black Curl makes me so happy that there are authors writing real North American-based mythic fiction: stories that incorporate the Americas where many of us live, infusing them with their own folklore and mythology-one that sits so well it feels like it's always been a part of us." Charles de Lint
In all the time the Tufa have existed, only two have ever been exiled: Bo-Kate Wisby and her lover, Jefferson Powell. They were cast out, stripped of their ability to make music, and cursed to never be able to find their way back to Needsville. Their crime? A love that crossed the boundary of the two Tufa tribes, resulting in the death of several people.
Somehow, Bo-Kate has found her way back, and fueled by vengeful plans to change the town forever. The only one who can stop Bo-Kate is Jefferson, but even he isn't sure what will happen when they finally meet. Will he fall in love with her again? Will he join her in her quest to reign over the Tufa? Or will he have to sacrifice himself to save the people who once banished him?
Enter the captivating world of the fae in Alex Bledsoe's Tufa novels
The Hum and the Shiver
Wisp of a Thing
Long Black Curl
Chapel of Ease
Gather Her Round
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
Long Black Curl
By Alex Bledsoe
Tom Doherty AssociatesCopyright © 2015 Alex Bledsoe
All rights reserved.
February 3, 1958
The small airplane, a Piper Comanche, soared above the Cumberland Plateau and approached the Appalachian Mountains. The moon was full and cast its glow on the clouds and snowy landscape below, but the three passengers did not notice. They were cold and cramped in the small passenger cabin but elated from adrenaline and anticipation.
The youngest of them was Guy Berry, in one of the two bucket seats. He was only seventeen, a lanky, bespectacled kid from Texas, so he was totally unused to this sort of weather. He drew his knees up to his chin and wrapped his coat around them.
The oldest was P. J. "Large Sarge" Sargent. In his forties, he was one of those irrepressible types who smiled no matter what. He looked on the other two as little brothers, offering advice and surreptitious sips from his flask when no one else was looking. They in turn adored him like a favorite uncle.
The biggest by far was Byron Harley. Billed as the "Hillbilly Hercules," he had to fold his six-foot-four frame into the plane almost like a contortionist. He wasn't tall and skinny, but thickly muscled from a childhood of hard manual labor. He sat on the bench seat along the back cabin wall, with his long legs stretched out straight before him. His heels reached the far end, and he had to keep his head bent forward because of the contour of the wall behind him. This accommodated both his height and the brace that supported his left leg. It was a miserable position for five minutes, let alone for an hour, but it was still better than the alternative.
He'd been hurt in a motorcycle accident while working as a courier during his stint in the army, and his choices were to wear the brace or lose the slowly withering leg entirely. It gave him almost constant pain and discomfort, but most of the time didn't dampen his friendly personality. And for those times it did ... well, he had his own hidden flask. And while the alcohol helped his leg, it did the opposite for his temperament.
But he was sober now, and delighted to be on the plane, which would accomplish in an hour what their old, broken-down tour bus would need almost a day to achieve. They would be in Knoxville soon, checked into a warm motel, where they could sleep in beds, eat freshly cooked food, and wash their sweaty stage clothes.
These were, in fact, at that moment, the three most popular musicians in the country. Their songs were known by everyone sixteen and under, and by many older than that. They had appeared on national television, and in the movies, lip-synching their hits to the screams of studio audiences. And now their joint winter tour, in this new genre called "rock and roll," played to sellout houses across the Southeast.
"Did you guys meet that old banjo player that opened the show?" Guy said. The boy had had two small regional hits in Texas before his third single, "Bonnie Jo," skyrocketed him to stardom.
"What about him?" Byron asked.
"He had six fingers on each hand. And they worked! I ain't never seen nothing like it!"
Large Sarge nodded. He coasted on a single novelty record, "That's What I Think," but understood exactly how lucky he was, and how to maximize his time in the spotlight. He knew that by this time next year, he'd be back at his old radio station spinning platters, and that was okay. He appreciated the ride while it lasted. "His name was Rockhouse Hicks," Sarge said. "Used to play with Bill Monroe, I think."
"Hell, everybody in these parts used to play with Monroe," Byron said. Byron had the most substantial career of the three, with a half-dozen hits for himself, and three songs he'd written for others on the charts as well. In his last movie, Riot in P.S. 105, he'd even been given a few lines of dialogue, and there was talk he might be up for bigger parts in the near future. "He finds 'em, trains 'em up, and then off they go. I hear he's a mean SOB."
"Well, if he trained this fella, he did a great job," Guy said. He shook his head and repeated, "I've never heard anything like it."
"Well, that's 'cause he's a Tufa," Large Sarge said.
"What's that?" Guy asked.
"Nobody knows for sure. They got black hair like Indians, but you saw him—he don't really look like one. A lot of 'em look like they could be part Negro, too, but they swear they're not." He gestured toward the window. "They live up in these mountains somewhere, and don't come out very often, but when they do, it seems like every last one of 'em is a great musician."
"They all play banjo?"
"Naw, they play all sorts of things. And they know damn near every song you can think of. But you can't get much out of 'em otherwise." He took a drink from his own flask and offered it to Guy, who politely shook his head. He continued, "Some folks say they were here when the first white folks came over from Europe. Hell, some stories say they were here when the first Indians arrived."
"What do they say?" Byron asked.
Sarge laughed. "They don't say shit."
"So they ain't Indians," Guy said.
"Nope. Nobody knows what they are. But if you're around one, watch yourself. They're sneaky, like Gypsies."
"Somebody's pulling your leg," Byron said. He slapped his injured leg. "And believe me, I know about leg-pulling."
"Maybe. But you didn't hear that ol' boy play tonight, did you?"
"Naw, I was restin' my leg in the dressing room," Byron said. It sounded like an excuse for partying, or meeting a girl, but it was the literal truth—his leg needed all the rest he could get before a show, because he performed like his injury didn't matter at all. Oftentimes it meant flinging his leg about like a dancer might, except that the extra weight of the brace was even harder on its already weak muscles. But the crowd loved it, and he couldn't imagine not doing it; the screams of the girls alone made the pain worthwhile. Right now it throbbed with a dull regular beat, 4/4 time, which was the rhythm he'd used for most of his hit songs.
"Man, the sound in that place tonight was awful," Guy said. "I hate playing in gymnasiums."
"One time I had to go into this gym, and they didn't have a stage or nothing," Sarge said. "They just had bleachers on both sides, and they sold all the seats. Then they made the whites sit on one side, and the coloreds on the other. So I had to set up in the middle and try to play to both of 'em. Everybody was too nervous to be the first one to start dancing. It wasn't until right before the end that a few people came down from each side, but they stayed in little clots, making sure they got nowhere near each other. Man, I tell you what, we need to stop screwing up our kids with our problems, you know that?"
"I had something worse happen," Guy said with a grin. "It was my first band in high school, the Furious Ones. We had this guitar player named Pete who thought he was hot shit on toast. He liked to sneak Dexedrine from his cousin who was narcoleptic, and toss one down before the show. Usually it didn't do much—he was pretty wild anyway, and this actually kind of calmed him down—but I think he took more'n usual on this night. So he was bouncing off the damn ceiling.
"Anyway, he had this super-long cord for his electric guitar, and he liked to dance all around. So on this night, he got his feet all tangled up, but he was too into his music to realize it. He jumped way up in the air, like he always did, and usually he came down with his feet spread apart. But this time he couldn't, and he landed flat on his back. His guitar flew headfirst into his amplifier, and it made this god-awful shriek that I swear probably messed up my hearing to this day. The drummer jumped over and unplugged his guitar, and we looked up to see everybody starin' at us. Then the announcer's voice came over the PA: 'Let's give a big thank-you to Guy and the Furies.'"
They all laughed. Byron took a swig from Sarge's flask; then Sarge said, "What about you, Byron? You got to have a story, too."
"Hey!" Guy cried. "Did you see that?"
"What?" Large Sarge asked.
"Outside the window. Something flew past."
Sarge leaned over and looked. He saw the plane's wing, the moonlight on the clouds, and the stars in the cold air. "I don't see anything."
"Maybe it was a bird," Byron said.
"At night?" Guy protested. "And it was big!"
"Owls are pretty big," Byron suggested.
"Do they fly this high?" Guy asked.
Before anyone could respond, the plane suddenly lurched and threw them first against the right cabin wall, then the ceiling. Guy screamed, his voice high pitched and panicked. Large Sarge, who'd been in the marines in World War II, reacted calmly and tried to find a handhold. Byron, who'd been in the army but never saw combat, was blinded by pain as his limp leg wrenched in its socket.
Then there was noise, and fire, and the sensation of being inside a blender, followed by stillness and cold.
* * *
Byron Harley took a deep breath and pressed his palms flat against the metal covering him. It was hot to the touch.
His head ached like his first hangover, and he felt tight and hot all along his left side. He'd lost consciousness at some point, because he remembered seeing treetops scrape the cabin windows as they shot past, and then he was here, trapped under some big sheet of steel.
He pushed with all his considerable strength, and felt the weight mostly in his back where it pressed against the ground. They didn't call him the Hillbilly Hercules for nothing, after all. The plane's wing rose enough for him to get his pinned leg out from under it.
He slid his bad leg to one side. Ironically, the brace had taken the wing's weight, protecting his damaged limb. Then again, that leg was numb in so many places, he couldn't be sure it wasn't snapped in half.
"Okay, okay," he said aloud. "One more time."
He lowered the wing slightly, gathered his strength again, then pushed hard and fast, flinging it up into the air. He rolled, and the wing crashed back down onto the spot where he'd been pinned. A cloud of sparks from the smoldering leaves rose around it.
Byron lay on his back gasping, staring up at the bare branches silhouetted against the orange-tinted haze high above. The air smelled of burning gasoline and heated tree sap. Smoke rose from the wrecked plane, mixing with the fog and blocking all view of the stars. The ground beneath him was cold and wet, now that the heat had melted the frozen leaves.
He coughed and rolled onto his stomach. With supreme effort he got his hands and knees under him, then shoved himself to his feet. His leg brace, bent by the impact of the crash, pinched his thigh. He wiped his watering eyes and took his first look around.
The little plane had crashed into the mountain slope at full throttle. There had been no warning: one minute he and the other two passengers were chatting about their upcoming show, and the next their world was filled with screeching metal and screams.
No, wait, there had been something. Guy thought he saw something flying around the plane, something big. Could an owl have really caused this, tangling in the propeller and sending them earthward?
His brain gradually sorted out the debris so he understood what he saw. The engine was on fire, the bent propeller blades visible like huge fingers reaching up through the flames. The crash had sheared off both wings, and the fuselage was crumpled like an accordion. The fog and smoke hung close, and the fire turned the whole vista softly orange. Like a glimpse of Hell, he thought.
How had he gotten out in one piece? He'd been in the backseat, pinned by his height, and should've been crushed on impact. But somehow he'd been thrown clear. That meant that the others might have ...
"Guy?" he called. "Sarge?" He didn't recall the pilot's name, so he couldn't shout for him. He kept calling their names as he stumbled to the plane and peered in through the shattered cockpit window.
The pilot was still strapped in his seat. Byron could tell by the limp way the man sprawled forward that he would stay there until someone took him out, and there was no hurry on that. He threw handfuls of wet leaves onto the flames, hoping to smother them, but all it did was generate fresh surges of smoke that blew right into his face. He coughed, wiped his eyes, and gave up. He realized he had no idea where the gas tank was on a plane like this, so he had no idea if the wreck was about to explode.
As he stepped back, he saw something else. Near the front of the plane, a body lay wrapped around a tree trunk, as if thrown there like a child's doll. It wasn't Guy or Sarge: he could tell by the clothes, and the small size.
He knelt beside the body and turned it over. It was a boy of about twelve or thirteen, with jet-black tangled hair. He was barefoot and wore overalls. His face was stuck in a look of surprise, and there was a huge bloody gash in his side that allowed his insides to fall out.
Byron fought not to throw up. How much dumb luck was that? Some kid wandering through the woods in the middle of the night gets hit by a crashing plane.
"Too bad, kid," he said as he closed the boy's eyes. His skin was still warm. "Too damn bad."
He got to his feet, coughed again, then called out, "Guy? Sarge? Where are you? We gotta get outta here, man!"
Nothing answered, except the crackle of flames and a distant owl. Then he spotted a hand protruding from beneath a seat torn free in the crash.
He hobbled over to it and pushed the cushion aside. Guy Berry lay on his back, his eyes open behind his trademark thick-rimmed glasses. His hair, and the skin from which it grew, was sliced away from the left side of his head, exposing the bone. Like the boy, he looked startled, not afraid. And of course, he was dead.
Byron swallowed hard. He flashed back to the first time he'd heard one of Guy's records. It was on a jukebox in a Utah diner, when Byron had been traveling from Northern California to St. Louis. He remembered thinking that it was the first time he could actually hear the singer's smile, and he just knew Guy had been grinning the whole time he recorded it. And when they finally met a year later, he realized it was true. Guy was infectiously happy when he was performing.
And now that smile, that music, was silenced.
He found Large Sarge still in the plane, crushed between a section of roof and the fuselage floor, his body almost bent in half. His fallen toupee covered his face. He was dead as well.
Byron stumbled back and sagged against the nearest tree trunk. Hot tears burned his eyes, but wasn't sure if they came from the smoke or his own feelings. "Goddamn it," he muttered. Then he screamed at the sky. "Goddamn it!"
He thought of his daughter, little Harmony Harley, barely two years old. Perhaps God had saved only him from the crash because he knew there was a baby out there who needed her daddy. Guy had no kids, Sarge's were all grown up, and the pilot had mentioned he was getting married in the spring; only Byron had a young child. Had that made the difference?
If so, then why had God arbitrarily killed the boy hit by the plane?
He was exhausted and sore, but he had to keep moving. He attempted to bend his leg brace back into alignment, but he'd need to take it off and get a hammer to do it right. For the time being, he'd just have to be careful flexing his knee.
Now that he had a moment to catch his literal and metaphorical breath, he felt a rush of total panic. Where the hell was he? Which way led back to civilization? Should he try to move his friends away from the crash site in case it did explode?
Then something at the edge of the illumination caught his eye. "You gotta be kidding me," he whispered.
His guitar case lay flat and undisturbed in the middle of an open space, as if gently placed there by a kind and unseen hand. He stared in disbelief as the firelight reflected off its shiny surface. From this angle, it looked almost as if the case itself were burning but not being consumed, like the bush that spoke to Moses. He limped over and carefully knelt, wincing at the pinch as his brace bit into his skin.
Excerpted from Long Black Curl by Alex Bledsoe. Copyright © 2015 Alex Bledsoe. Excerpted by permission of Tom Doherty Associates.
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