Page 8 of Welcome to Blackbird Hollow
My head bangs onto something hard, and I jolt awake. For a moment, I have no idea where I am, and my heart nearly stops. My lungs tighten, thoughts of Sector’s threats and black sites rattling around in my mind.
And then I remember I’m just on a bus—the one I very willingly climbed aboard a few hours ago, the third and final transfer in my journey. I admit I didn’t realize just how far away Blackbird Hollow is or that I’d be signing myself up for an overnight bus trip. But I had to get out. Ihadto.
I stretch my legs, muscles cramping, and then double-check I still have all my shit. I do; my right arm rests on top of my backpack, my wrist looped through a strap. My duffel bag sits between my feet on the bus’s sticky floor with one ankle slipped through the handles. I rub my eyes, the lull of sleep pulling at me.
But then, out the window, I see the sun peeking over the horizon. Something unfolds in me—something I don’t have a name for—as I watch the golden light sweep across the landscape. It’s nothing like the flat, even plains of the city, where most of the forest won’t grow back anytime soon.
Here, trees grow so tall and thick that sometimes they blot out the sun entirely. Rolling hills covered in an autumnal carpet of fallen leaves undulate across the horizon like an ancient serpent. I press one hand to the cold window, my breath fogging up the glass. The bus climbs a hill, revealing a little valley laid out below, a lake—or maybe a large pond—glimmering like a diadem’s jewel in the middle.
I’veneverfelt so sure the Fair Folk are real. The ones with enough number, organization, and power to effectively create the illusion of extraterrestrial life—to keep us looking at the stars and the wide infinity above our heads, instead of the faerie halls right beneath our feet and the dark wood just outside our cities.
I pull my legs up onto the seat, resting my chin on my knees as I stare out the window, transfixed. But the closer I get to Blackbird Hollow, the more anxious I become. What if I’ve made an enormous mistake? What if there’s nothing here for me, either? What if the real problem is that I just don’t belonganywhere?
I spend the last forty-five minutes of my journey biting my nails and picking at my cuticles until they bleed. I try to stop myself a million times. It’s a gross habit, sure, but even more importantly, for most of my life, there’s been no guarantee of access to antibiotics if something gets infected. I slink lower in my seat, resisting the urge to tap my feet or pace the aisle or otherwise draw attention to myself. Instead, I watch the hills roll by as the bus—which is barely more than scrap metal, if we’re being honest—drags itself along the narrow, winding road.
“Pulling into Blackbird Hollow,” calls the driver, shifting down a gear. “Everybody off.”
“Everybody” is me, an elderly man in a plaid flat cap who’s barely moved for nearly an hour, and a bland middle-aged white woman who asked five or six times if she could smoke. Eachtime, the bus driver just tapped the “no smoking” sign above his head.
I gather my things and force myself to walk—not run—to the door. When I step off the bus, I slam to a stupefied halt that causes the elderly man to mutter something at me in a language I can’t even identify, let alone understand.
Speechless, I scurry off to the side, realizing a little too late that I probably just marked myself as a wide-eyed, idiot tourist to anyone paying attention. But I can’t help it. I’mspellbound.
The next breath I draw into my lungs is heavy with the scent of bonfires, rich soil, and fallen leaves. A wide cobblestone boulevard cuts straight up the hill, lined with sturdy streetlamps. The town is still sleepy; only a few businesses have lights on. It’s early, though—about seven a.m., I think. The main drag is charming without being artificial or scrubbed clean of character. Toward the top of the hill, businesses give way to pretty houses that remind me of storybooks and gingerbread.
But it’s what lies beyond the commercial corridor that makes my heart do a strange flip in my chest. Thin ribbons of roads wind into the forested hills, porch lights twinkling like tiny stars. Everything is crowned by the gray velvet swathe of mist, which grows thicker the higher it climbs into the hills.
I let out a long exhale, the cold morning turning my breath to smoke. Blackbird Hollow sits in the palm of a forest, sprawling and impossibly wild, thicket-dark and utterly primordial. Excitement thuds in my chest, and, despite my exhaustion, I pick up a quick pace and head into town.
I pull a folded note from my pocket as I walk. It’s a basic sketch of Blackbird Hollow’s cross streets, enough to get me to the Stardust Motel. According to the travel magazine I stumbled upon at one of the bus stations, the Archer Inn is the more popular choice. But the Stardust Motel is “perfectly adequate for those who appreciate vintage charm.”
It’s also a hell of a lot cheaper, which is really what sealed the deal. I make my way up the hill, mostly alone on the sidewalk. I pass a fantastic-looking diner, the smell of pancakes and syrup making my stomach rumble.
“I’ll be back,” I promise in a whisper as I walk by, longingly eyeing the laminated menu plastered to the front door. Even “adequate” accommodations can fill up fast here during leaf peeping season, and from what I saw on the ride in, Blackbird Hollow wears October like a couture gown. So, as hungry as I am, I’d like to make sure I have a place to lay my head tonight first.
The motel is off the main drag, past a few quiet residential buildings and what looks like an old brick mansion. I see it the second I turn the corner, thanks to a large sign spelling out “STARDUST MOTEL” in neon lettering. The building itself is neat and low-slung, stretching toward the dark overhang of the forest.
The woman at the counter eyes me for a long second—like there’s something she knows about me that I haven’t figured out for myself yet—before exchanging cash for a key to Room 11. To be honest, I barely look at the room beyond noticing that it’s cozy and wood-paneled with lots of botanical art hanging on one wall, the space above the bed decorated with a gorgeous blanket that reminds me of Indigenous folk art. I make a mental note to find out what tribe’s land Blackbird Hollow resides on. Unsurprisingly, the sleek travel magazine’s article mentioned nothing of the sort.
For the moment, the siren song of pancakes is stronger than anything else. I chuck my bags onto a chair, stow my roll of cash—already much thinner than when I set out—and head back into town. Everything except the tiny newsstand is still rolled up tight, so I let my stomach lead the way, even though my curiosity wants to stop and examine everything. I’m one of the only peopleon the street, anyway, so that’s a better activity for when there’s more folks around. It’ll give me more cover.
The day is overcast, threatening to drizzle, as I make my way through the mist back to the diner. From further up the hill, I can see the glow of its neon red sign atop the building: “PINE CONE CAFÉ.” I stuff my hands in my pockets to ward off the chill, and, for a reason I can’t explain, my shoulders relax.
The door chimes when I walk in thanks to a collection of vintage brass bells strung on tattered ribbons hanging from the handle. A worn letterboard sign tells me to seat myself, and I do, sliding into a cherry-red leatherette booth. The walls are clad in dark wood paneling. Along a long ledge, dusty fake plants intermix with worn knick-knacks. Slender pendant lights made of swirling amber glass provide a warm glow in contrast to the cool gray-blue pressing against the windows. Oceanscape paintings of all kinds cover the walls.
I snuggle into the collar of my coat, still a little cold from my walk, as I pick up the menu. I already know what I want—a giant stack of pancakes and about twelve cups of coffee—so it’s hard for my gaze not to stray around the cozy space. Across the aisle from me, there’s a large, curving counter with red stools. It’s busier than the booths, filled with people who seem like locals: worn coats similar to mine, heavy work boots, faded baseball caps, an easy familiarity.
I made sure to sit on the far end of the booth so I could keep my eye on the door, which appears to be the only entrance and exit. When the bells jingle again, I glance up to find a white, middle-aged couple walking into the diner. The woman’s perfect copper hair and the man’s brand-new Barbour jacket seem like dead giveaways that they’re tourists. Ignoring the sign, they call out for a hostess. I frown and look back down at the menu.
“What can I get you, baby?” comes a voice from my elbow. I startle slightly, turning to find a short Black woman in aspotless apron with scalloped edges. Her dark brown eyes are kind, and there’s something deeply endearing about the freckles scattered across her cheekbones. The nametag on her apron reads “Janey.”
“Breakfast combo number two, please,” I ask, sliding the menu to the end of the table.
“Plain pancakes okay?” she asks, pulling a pad from her apron.
“Perfect,” I say. “Thank you.”
“Of course,” Janey says with another smile, making eye contact with me as she grabs the menu. “You new around here?”
