Granny Wine & the Visitors: Episode 3 - “Safety in the Holler”
If you ain’t started at the start, you’re missin’ half the story.
Catch up with Episode 1 here: Episode 1 - The Fire on the Hill
Morning on Whiskey Ridge was slow and silvery.
Mist curled around the scorched edge of Granny Wine’s sweet-grass patch, rolling like low riverwater. Inside the wavering shimmer-field, the Visitors’ vessel held its tobacco disguise—tidy rows, honest dirt—while the air within tasted of heat and struggle.
Granny touched the shimmer and stepped through.
The smell hit first: skunk and char—sweet-grass burned to tar.
Outside, the hull kept its dignity; inside the open bay dangled cable, scorched panels blinked, and the light breathed shallow.
Some distance off, Captain Laurel, Flint, and Cricket were already at work. Laurel moved like command made flesh—calm, exact. Flint tracked everything with careful eyes. Cricket kept glancing toward the seam in the shimmer as if the doorway might sprout teeth.
“Quit lookin’ at the door like you owe it money,” Granny said, not unkind.
Cricket straightened and focused. Laurel’s mouth almost smiled.
Laurel approached. “Your neighbor will report us.”
“Kermit Bramble?” Granny snorted. “Born snitch. Sheriff’ll likely think he’s full of beans, so Kermit’ll go waterin’ the Gossip Tree—callin’ every cousin with a lawn chair and a signal. By suppertime, three porches and a feed store’ll each have a version.”
Flint tilted his head, precise. “A decentralized, informal alert network.”
“Mm-hmm,” Granny said. “Church-parking-lot hotline.”
Laurel started to answer in a low hum—two sure notes—then caught Granny’s eye. “Apologies. We’ll keep to your language. I intend no discourtesy.”
“It’s pretty,” Granny said. “Sounds like a creek thinkin’. But English’ll do fine.”
“Anyone we ought to expect?” Laurel asked—plainly now.
“Sheriff’s a local boy,” Granny said. “Knows me. He’ll come with whatever uniforms finally shake loose, but he’ll stop at the bridge and holler polite. We got an understandin’.”
Flint said, “We must begin repairs. We require a conductive, malleable rod.”
Granny raised one finger. “Alright.”
Laurel: “A heat-stable bonding medium.”
Second finger. “Mhm.”
Cricket (earnest, a little fast): “Universal fasteners. Small. Strong.”
Third finger.
Flint again: “And a flexible conductive filament capable of shaping an arc.”
Fourth finger.
Granny nodded. “That’s a grocery list I can work with. Y’all stay put.”
She turned toward her shed. The fog curled around her ankles like a cat, purred there a second, then parted clean to let her pass and stitched itself shut behind.
Cricket whispered, “She is… not afraid of us.”
Flint folded his arms. “She does not match the typical human profile.”
Laurel’s gaze moved over the bay—the misting air, the quiet woods beyond, the shimmer itself—then back to Granny. “No. She matches… this place.”
A clean THUNK from the shed. A rattle. One muted cuss.
Granny backed through the shimmer carrying a battered cardboard box like she’d robbed her own supply closet and was pleased with the haul.
She dropped it between them. She plucked items out one by one:
Coat hanger. “Malleable rod.”
Duct tape. “Heat-stable bondin’ medium.”
Baling wire. “Flexible filament—with teeth.”
Zip ties. “Universal fastener. Old-reliable.”
She reached back into the box and added a butter knife.
“You think that’s cool?” she said, eyes bright. “Wait till you see what I can do with a butter knife and a whole lotta curse words.”
They stared like she’d laid relics on the ground.
Flint scanned the hanger. “Composition is ideal.”
Cricket, scanning the tape, breathed, “Adhesive performance is… exemplary.”
Laurel ran two fingers along the baling wire. “Tension strength exceeds our minimum requirement.” The corner of her mouth admitted a sly approval.
They fell to work inside the service bay. No bandages on the skin—only guts tended.
Coat hangers made quiet spines behind panels.
Duct tape layered under a ribbon of alien resin, sealing a fracture.
Zip ties snapped cables into disciplined bundles.
Baling wire tightened with a small, musical ping.
While they worked:
Laurel: “Your ridge interferes strongly with our technology.”
“Messes with human tech too,” Granny said, cinching a tie. “Folks get turned around easy. Ridge don’t like strangers.”
Flint: “Define stranger.”
“That’s between the ridge and the stranger,” Granny said, and winked.
No breeze came. The air hung like low gauze. Laurel and Flint kept to English now—brief, exact exchanges—each reply spare and perfectly placed.
Cricket, distracted by a tangle of cable, blurted something in his own tongue—a bright little run of notes that meant, roughly, Is the isolation relay secured?
“Already done,” Granny said, tightening a last screw.
Cricket took three steps, stopped, and did a full double take. “I… spoke incorrectly. You understood?”
“I understand,” Granny said, easy as rain. “Don’t fret it. Go on.”
He went on, eyes wider than before.
Granny’s stomach rumbled—low and undeniable.
Cricket leaned in, concerned: “You have not eaten.”
“Nope,” Granny said. “Kermit disturbed my mornin’ wake-and-bake.”
They did not ask what that meant. Laurel simply opened a compartment and handed her a shimmering ration pack.
“As you are within our vessel,” she said with formal warmth, “hospitality is due.”
“Well ain’t that sweet,” Granny said, taking a bite. She squinted, chewed, and nodded. “Tastes like a granola bar that went to college.”
Cricket brightened at that, as if he’d passed some invisible test.
By afternoon the mist had lifted to the tree line and slid back again like a curtain not sure whether to open.
“Kermit’ll be busy,” Granny said, tightening one last wire. “He’ll hit the church ladies, the feed store, the men who fix tractors on their lawns. Sheriff’ll hear eventually—shake his head, then pass it to someone in a uniform who loves forms.”
Flint listened to the quiet. “No engines near enough to matter.”
“Not yet,” Granny said. “Phone tag’s a garbler. Give it time.”
She tapped her cane toward the track winding up the ridge. “One lane. No pull-offs worth mentionin’. Hairpins and a straight drop on one side, a mean climb on the other. If two trucks meet, somebody’s backin’ up near a mile.”
She added, almost casual, “I’ll let Fred know about a dead tree he can lay across the road at dusk—accidental-like. Gives us room to breathe.”
Laurel considered this, approving. Flint, precise: “A controllable delay.”
They headed for the house as the day leaned into dusk.
A fine, needling rain stitched through the mist without tearing it.
The ridge grew very still.
Flint paused. “Acoustic traffic increases—far from here. The pattern is… organized.”
“Word found boots,” Granny said. “Figures.”
They reached the porch. On the mantle, the green stone sat quiet and dark, like it was listening.
Granny looked east. A seam of cloud at the horizon flickered—once, then twice—lightning showing bone under skin.
Laurel asked, level: “What further strategies do you advise?”
“We make ’em take the long way ’round,” Granny said.
She turned and clicked the porch lights on. “Come on, pretties—let’s get some rest. We’ll sort it at the table.”
They stepped inside. From the mantle, the green stone gave one soft pulse—like a held breath deciding—then went still.
Out beyond the trees, the rain narrowed itself to a road no map could find.
End of Episode 3 — “Safety in the Holler.”
“Well, honeys, that ain’t the end of it. Come Yule-time, this ridge’ll have more to say.”
Episode 4 The Walkabout.
Offer whatever name you wish to be known by at the hearth today — real or imagined — we look forward to welcoming your words into the circle.
