When Devils Sing(27)
Grant made stars, but he’d never be one himself, no matter how much he pretended otherwise.
“How long you home for?” Reid asked.
Grant tugged at the roots of his dirty-blond hair, mussed and wavy, falling to his ears. “Through the Fourth, actually. I’m overseeing the Cicada’s Song in person this time around.”
Reid’s eyebrows raised. “You expecting anyone big this year?”
Grant smirked. “Anything is possible.” He then nodded across the lawn, to the sight of Jonah as he came from around the dogwood tree, rubbing his nose. His makeup had begun to melt off from the unbearable heat. “Goddamn—what happened to your brother?”
Reid plucked a handful of grass from the ground. “Russ happened to him.”
There was a beat of silence between them.
“Fair enough,” Grant finally said. “And you? Your birthday’s coming up in a week. Any big plans?”
Yeah, to get the hell out of Lake Clearwater and never look back, Reid thought. Except, his best friend was missing, and he had to pretend it was just another summer. Instead, he answered with a shrug, “Same old, same old.”
Harp music sounded from the porch, thankfully interrupting any further interrogation.
“It’s starting,” Grant sighed, rising from the ground. He helped Reid up, then dusted dirt off his slacks.
“Any tips?” Reid asked in a low voice as they approached the long, white-cloth table at the center of the lawn.
Grant chuckled. “It’s not so bad. Just, uh, hold your breath.”
All around them, attendees gathered at their respective seats. Elegant, shining dishes and glassware had been placed before each person. Reid took his seat near the head of the table, where his father would sit. The harp’s melody gathered speed, reaching its crescendo.
Then the grounds went still.
Heads turned toward the house. The quiet was pierced by the sudden scream of cicadas. His father then descended the white steps of the Langley home, flanked by Reid’s siblings. Pointed gazes flicked to Reid, undoubtedly taking note of his absence beside his family.
Each of the Langley siblings had been offered a role in the ceremonial luncheon that morning, but Reid politely declined. “The cicadas make me squeamish,” he’d said. “Besides, you only need two sets of hands and there’s three of us.”
“It’s for the best,” Farris had agreed. “You’d probably trip anyway.”
His father hadn’t challenged him but merely replied, “Son, there will soon come a day when you can no longer go against what’s expected of you.”
Thankfully, today is not that day.
His father held a large wire cage in his hands, the sides supported by Jonah and Farris. Inside were hundreds of swarming cicadas, fresh and bright from their thirteen-year slumber in the earth. They vibrated within the confines of the cage.
Murmurs and veiled grimaces rippled among the guests, but they fell silent as the buzzing cicadas drew closer. His father took his place at the head of the table. Farris and Jonah scrambled to help him set the cage on the tabletop.
“From the earth they rise, and to the earth they return,” his father began, his voice somehow louder than the cicadas themselves. “We gather here on this momentous day to celebrate this bountiful land and the cicadas that bless our community every thirteen years. To our founder, William Langley.”
To William Langley. As one, the guests murmured in agreement. Reid found himself murmuring, too.
His father smiled, meeting the eyes of every person, lingering on Reid. “Let us feast.”
He opened the cage. Reid expected the cicadas to swarm out, but they only continued to seethe and scream inside the wire bars. His father reached his hand inside. When he pulled it out, his arm was covered in dozens of pulsing brown insects that clung to his skin.
His father picked a live cicada off his arm and held it up, whether to inspect it or to show it to the crowd, Reid wasn’t sure. With his eyes looking out across the assembled guests, expression placid, serene—he placed the insect in his mouth and swallowed it whole.
SECRETS OF THE SOUTH
SEASON 4: EPISODE 1
HOST: The acclaimed Southern writer Janisse Ray once said that in South Georgia “everything that comes you see coming.” There’s no better way to describe the land, flat and yawning toward oblivion. Unlike the foothills of Appalachia or the swampy marshlands of the southern coast, there is nowhere to hide in these flatlands. Even thunderstorms can be spotted, miles and miles away, long before they flood the muddy earth.
In Carrion, they have a saying: The devil can be seen coming from a mile away. That is where our story begins.
(Intro theme song)
All towns have legends that shape them.
Before there was ever a Lake Clearwater, there was Carrion. And before there was Carrion, there was nothing. Nothing but a plot of nameless land owned by the likes of a man called William Langley.
The records say that he was a farmer at a time when the land was barren, the soil was dry, and dust blew across the United States in apocalyptic black clouds. With that dust went any hope for survival in Southwest Georgia.
But William Langley was a devout man. He prayed every morning and every night for rain to bless the scorched earth and give life to long-dead crops. He prayed for a savior. He prayed for relief.