Wisp of a Thing: A Novel of the Tufa (Tufa Novels) by Alex Bledsoe

from the two grave markers kept running through his mind, finding their own meter and melody.
    He knew from experience that there was no fighting the muse when she struck. He pulled up the pictures on his phone, quickly transcribed the words to a piece of motel stationery, and began quietly noodling on his guitar, trying out the stanza in different ways, breaking it at different points. It worked best as a simple 4/4 rhythm, a basic chord progression, simplest thing in the world.…
    “Soul to earth” was a weird metaphor, he realized. Souls normally sprang to heaven, not earth. And yet it couldn’t be a euphemism for decay, because the next line explicitly covered that. He knew of no branch of Christianity that allowed the soul to return to the earth; so what religion had these people practiced?
    And “through his wings”; what could that mean? Wings were reserved for angels, yet the subject of the verse was clearly not yet dead.
    His cell phone rang and he jumped. He set the guitar aside and answered it. “Hello?”
    “Hey, tough guy,” Doyle said, amused. “I hear you had a donnybrook on Main Street this morning.”
    “Yeah, with some Neanderthal hill woman named Tiffany.”
    “She’s a monster, all right. So did she beat you up too much to come over for that dinner tonight?”
    “Not at all. I don’t know how much fun I’ll be, but I could sure use some home cooking.”
    After Doyle gave him directions and hung up, Rob got online and tried a search for the poem or song that had inspired the epitaph. He got no results that fit. This thrilled him even more, for it meant he might be on the track of the secret, magical song that had brought him here. And they were right where the man had said they’d be: on a hill, long forgotten, carved in stone.

 
    10
    The Collins’s trailer home looked isolated and vulnerable in the twilight. The trees around it were thick, old, and more densely packed than the rest of the forest. A creek ran along one edge of the lot, crossed by a small decorative bridge.
    Rob parked next to Doyle’s truck beneath a solitary old oak that shaded most of the front yard. One branch had grown so long and heavy that halfway along its length, a makeshift metal brace supported its weight. The yard was neat and boasted no half-assembled cars or sleepy dogs, something Rob realized he’d expected to find.
    Berklee greeted him at the door. She wore khaki shorts despite the chill and a criminally tight white T-shirt, and looked absolutely stunning. She held a beer, and the slight red flush to her cheeks said it wasn’t her first of the day. She stepped aside to let him enter and said, “Hi, glad you could make it. See you found us okay.”
    Rob tapped the brim of his Royals cap. “Sorry for wearing a hat indoors. I know better, but I’ve got fresh stitches and Vaseline in my hair, and I just didn’t think I could stand shampoo on it just yet.”
    “You’re not the first person Tiffany Gwinn’s made get stitches,” Berklee said sympathetically. “Seems like every town’s got someone like her, doesn’t it?”
    Berklee took his jacket and hung it on the rack by the door. The trailer’s living room was furnished in matching couch and recliner, while the little dining area had new-looking table and chairs. Everything was neat and organized, in contrast to the cliché image of trailer people. Rob took a seat on one of the barstools in front of the counter that divided the kitchen and living room.
    Doyle came down the hall in jeans and a dark sweater. “Well, look who took on the Queen Bitch of the Mountains and lived to tell about it. Quite a shiner you’ve got going there.”
    Rob touched the skin around his left eye. It felt tender and hot. “Apparently, I don’t have to tell about it, everyone already knows.”
    “Someone usually gets their head busted when the Gwinns come to town. You ever hear of Great Kate Gwinn?”
    “No.”
    “Back about seventy years ago, she was the biggest