“It doesn’t exist,” Mandalay said patiently. “You’re not the first to think it does. But all we can do, all we’ve ever done, is sing the songs we were given.”
“You mean it doesn’t exist yet,” Bronwyn insisted. “A line came to me the other day. Maybe more will come. It could be a new song for her.”
“That’s a dream, Bronwyn. A beautiful one, one we’ve all had, but no more than a wisp of a thing. And you have a greater concern. You have to accept what the night wind has willed to you, and you must learn your mother’s song.”
“I will. But we don’t know for certain we’re reading the signs right, do we? I mean, the clock thing could mean you’re going to die, Sandy, not my mama. Maybe it’s all a coincidence.”
“I’ve read plenty of signs, especially death signs,” Peggy said sadly. “It ain’t a coincidence.”
Mandalay put her hand over her own heart. “And you must agree, you must swear, to pass the song on to your daughter.”
It took a few seconds for the words to register. Bronwyn almost blurted out, “But I don’t have a daughter,” and then realized exactly what she was being asked to agree to. They wanted her solemn word that she would find a consort among the Tufa men, many of whom were already related to her. They wanted her promise to breed a daughter.
“Fuck that,” she said. Her voice trembled not from fear, but from outrage. “I’m not swearing to that.”
Mandalay climbed off the rock, walked over, and looked up at her. The girl’s serious face, bathed in cold moonlight, gave Bronwyn the willies, and when she spoke, her voice bore no hint of childishness. “Bronwyn, listen to me. I know all the stories of you, how you hate to be told what to do, how to behave, who to be with. The Bronwynator was a legend here long before the rest of the world heard about you. But this is probably the most important thing anyone’s ever asked of you. We, your sisters and mothers and daughters, all need you to promise this. We need the certainty that the song will be saved. You won’t face this alone, you know, and it’s not like we’re choosing a mate for you.”
“What do you know about mates, you still play with Barbie dolls,” Bronwyn snapped. She looked at the others. “This is exactly the kind of crap that made me want to leave in the first place. Just because we’re ancient doesn’t mean we can’t make new ways. Are we mud-stuck like the Christians or the Jews? Do we have to take our instructions from a book written for a culture that died two thousand years ago? Or do we write our own songs?”
None of the others responded. The shadows over their eyes made their impressions hard to judge. Even Bliss seemed implacable.
“Fine,” Bronwyn said with a scowl. “Fuck y’all, anyway.”
“Bronwyn,” someone scolded.
She ignored it. “I’ll learn the damn song because I said I would, and because I love my mama. But I’m not promising to add my daughter to this silly-ass girls’ club. You can’t just put me in a field and send a prize bull around to see if I’m in season.”
Mandalay continued to gaze up at her. “Then there’s nothing more to say.”
“No,” Bronwyn agreed, although the child’s eminently reasonable tone made her even angrier.
Mandalay turned to the others. “Thank you all for coming, and for being true to our songs. And I include you in that, Bronwyn.”
Bronwyn said nothing. She turned and began climbing the trail back toward the cars. The others passed her in silence, not out of disdain but simply because idle conversation seemed inappropriate. Only Bliss remained with her, and by the time they reached the vehicles, hers was the only one left.
23
When they reached the Hyatt residence, Bliss asked, “Are you all right?” It was the first time either had spoken for the entire ride.
“Yeah,” Bronwyn said. “I’m just tired. And my leg hurts.”
Bliss stopped the truck at the gate and looked up the hill. The house was completely dark except for the porch light, left on for Brownyn. “Want me to drive you to the front door?”
Bronwyn laughed. “Good Lord, no. Dwayne already tore up the yard when I sent him packing; Daddy would have a fit if somebody else drove all over it.”
“Well… I’ll check in with you tomorrow.”
Bronwyn did not look back. “Sure. Thanks for the ride, Bliss.”
As Bliss drove away, Bronwyn opened the gate enough to squeak through and slowly climbed the hill. By the time she reached the porch steps, she had to sit down and catch her breath. For a moment she watched things only a Tufa could see in the night, and smiled as they recognized her as well.
Why did she care about the First Daughters, anyway? She understood their purpose, but didn’t share their belief in its importance. So what if the “true Tufa way” died out? The Tufa themselves would remain, maybe diluted into the general population but still there, ready to awaken when the music was right and the night wind called them to ride.
She slid the dress up her thigh and ran her hand along her injured leg, feeling the little bumps of scars. They would fade with time, but she didn’t really mind them. She knew that if she wanted a man to find her attractive, he would.
She slowly opened the screen door, pausing just before it squeaked. She’d learned that trick as a preteen, and it had served her well all through high school. The inner door opened without a sound. She stood in the darkened living room and was about to move forward when something made her freeze.
She turned toward movement in the shadows off to her right. Something was on the couch, moving slowly, the fabric creaking as it did. Bronwyn stared, trying to resolve it into a shape she could recognize.
Then a head popped up, tossing black hair back from a face shiny with sweat and effort. A face she recognized as her own.
The face turned to her. It wasn’t her, of course; it was her mother, naked and astride her father. They moved together as silently as they could, since Aiden and Kell were asleep in the house. Apparently her father had not heard Bronwyn enter, because he continued to nuzzle Chloe’s breasts as his hands roamed over her skin.
Chloe’s eyelids fluttered, and she gasped. Bronwyn wanted to look away, but couldn’t. She watched her mother have an orgasm, silent except for a sharp exhalation, and then curl around Deacon like she was molding her limbs to him. She looked again at Bronwyn, and their eyes locked for a moment. I am alive, her mother’s defiant gaze seemed to say. See? I’m not dead by a damn sight yet.
Bronwyn ran into her room, the first time in months she’d moved that quickly. She fell halfway onto the bed and began sobbing, clenching her teeth against the sound. She didn’t want to wake either of her brothers, and she sure didn’t want her father to know she’d seen anything. My God, what were they thinking, carrying on like teenagers? They were both in their forties.
She crawled onto the bed and curled up clutching her Dollywood souvenir pillow. Everything she’d counted on was changing into something else. The First Daughters, until now mainly a ceremonial thing that meant nothing, actually expected something from her. Her parents, those solid, reliable figures she’d always counted on even as a wild-child teenager, were humping in the front room. Even Aiden was on the verge of turning from a boy into a young man, and Kell would soon have to decide if his song led him away from Cloud County or back to it. And then there was Craig the minister, and Terry-Joe, and Dwayne. There was nothing left to hold on to, she thought grimly, except this stupid pillow with Dolly Parton’s face embroidered on it.