Local musician/songwriter/storyteller releases song about the Brown Mountain Lights

GRANITE FALLS, NC (October 26, 2016)…Jimmy Atkins, a local musician/songwriter/storyteller recently released a song entitled “Ghost Lights” about the mysterious Brown Mountain Lights. Most of you may know Jimmy as the leader of his band, Second Hand City. Jimmy is also a worship pastor at a local church.

Ghost Lights was written about the Brown Mountain Lights in western NC, a phenomenon that perplexes scientists and adventure-seekers today. Recorded sightings have gone back as far as 1200 A.D., and as a result, a great many legends have arisen to try and explain them. As natives to the area near Brown Mountain, Jimmy and his wife, Chassta, wanted to write a song that encompassed what their home has to offer, as well as their love for the acoustic tradition of Appalachian story-telling through folk music. What transpired was a song that began at a traditional place and ended in terrain Atkins is known for…rock-infused acoustic songwriting.

“Ghost Lights” is out now! Get it wherever you buy your music online. “Please leave reviews, as it does help my tune get a little higher in the store rankings, and it also helps others know what they’re missing!”

iTunes

Amazon

Look below for the companion story entitled “Flickering Fires…A Tale from Brown Mountain” that Jimmy wrote specifically to go with this new song.

www.jimmyatkinsmusic.com

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Flickering Fires…A Tale from Brown Mountain

The amber glow of an early autumn sunset casts shadows upon the sides of the steel shouldered hills. These dark silhouettes play along the natural scenery in a way that only untouched acres can replicate, with no human eye to capture the view. In eons to come, indigenous people will call this area Tsakonage, the Place of Blue Smoke. Even the later settlers will refer to this particular expanse of mountains as “the Great Smokies,” or “the Blue Ridge” because of its cyan spectrum of colors. And later still, one of the mountains in this swath of land will be named Brown Mountain. These monikers, however, will merely be second-rate descriptors of a place that will come to be known as the home of the mysterious lights found near the foothills of North Carolina. But for now, with not one soul to see, this space is sacred, with its multicolored blankets of foliage swaying in the last breezes of the fading summer….and the lights, flickering like the dancing of torches in the night sky.

“Daggum it! Ain’t it just like me to up and lose ‘im again?” Zechariah tightened his grip on the wooden torch he carried high above his head, straining to see in the fast approaching dusk. “If Jackson hears telluh dis, I’s sho to lose some skin,” he muttered under his breath, now visible, as the temperature fell along with the precious daylight. He’d followed the rustling leaves long after the hounds’ bays had wandered out of earshot, and now he wasn’t sure if it was simply the wind, rather than eager paws, that led him astray. He knew in his gut with certainty now that the last left he’d taken at that fallen oak should have been a right. “Right, Zee…if they’s eva’ a doubt, take the RIGHT!” The missus at the big house wasn’t going to like this, not one bit.

The chill that began sweeping up from the valley and down from the peak was only matched by the cold dread that tightened Zechariah’s chest as the full weight of what was happening presently crashed down on him. It was an honor to accompany Sheldon, the man who owned a mighty plantation just two days’ ride southwest of this ridge, on one of his hunting excursions, especially this far from home. Not only did it get him away from his work there, but it also gave him a chance to get to know the man that all the others believed to be Zechariah’s father. Octavius Sheldon, the man who consequently owned Zechariah, was legendary in his insatiable need to win. If he wasn’t conversational (he wasn’t, much to Zechariah’s chagrin), he was driven. The competitive spirit that often emboldened him to stray from known paths in order to stalk his prey was his signature, and this time, his seeming farewell.

Zechariah shook his head furiously, as if to shake out some insect that was attempting to poison his thoughts with hopelessness. “No, no, not a FAREWELL. Jus’ a wrong turn,” he cajoled himself, imagining Jackson, the farmhand, wringing his hands in anticipation at the poor soul who would be tied to the whipping post next. “I done found ‘im once before, and that only an hour ‘go…ain’t but a matter o’ time ‘fore I find ‘im again.”

But what was that? Just then, he noticed what could only be a dimly-lit lamp. It didn’t glow like the fire on his torch, but then again, Sheldon had been out on this mountain as long as his slave, and probably traveled faster due to the adrenalin-laced blood he was so well-known for. Either way, hope had come within sight of the young servant, and in his rediscovered excitement, he hollered, “There you are, Massah!” With renewed vigor and not a little relief washing down his spine, he straightened his back, pulled his hat further down on his head, and marched on into the darkness, pushing the encroaching gloom to the edges of his vision with the solitary flame from his waning brand.

“We’ve been at this for four hours now, and I swear there ain’t nothin’ out here but dead leaves,” said Benson. Four feet to his right, Duggery just shrugged as if to say, “We’re out here till Jameson says we’re done.” They both knew how stubborn the man was. Heck, the whole town knew how stubborn he was. How they got themselves volun-told to help this search party was lost on them. They had to hand it to him: Jameson was a clever rascal. “At least the scenery’s nice,” said Dillon, a glass-half-full kind of fella, even if he was a few cents short of a dollar. “What scenery?” complained Benson “Can’t see a blasted thing out here…sun’s going down, and these trees ain’t helpin’ nothin’.”

The why to their investigation was a little more straight-forward. Apparently, Greg Madsen’s wife, Eloise, had gone missing. Now, why she’d decided to go missing in this terrain with all but a handful of daylight left defied explanation, but that was the prevailing theory, and when theories are all you have, theories are what you work with. Especially when your search party is concocted by none other than the hopeful mayor-to-be, Christopher Jameson. He’d descended on Benson, Duggery, and Dillon when they were but a mere ten feet from the tavern door, and before they could scrounge up an excuse to go home to care for their wives (they had not one between the three of them), they’d been enlisted to “find the good woman and restore her to safety.”

Safety…ha. The only folks who didn’t believe that Madsen was a raving drunkard who took his every rotten day out on the frail frame of his unfortunate spouse were those who feared he’d do the same to them, or out-of-towners…and there weren’t many of those in these parts. But, hey, it couldn’t hurt to get on Jameson’s good side just in case he actually did sit in town hall come November. So, on they marched. The hours grew longer, the miles steeper, and all the while, the party’s torches hissed and popped out one by one.

At last, something changed, just as the last torch gave in to the charred remains of the branch it once danced upon. “What is that?” whispered Dillon. Benson motioned for Duggery to get closer to the increasing glow of what appeared to be a camp site straight ahead. Duggery headed off gently to the left, Dillon shifted right, and Benson called back to Jameson and the others, who… now, where the heck did they git to? Benson continued straight. Silently, but quickly. The glow brightened, but where others might hear the crackling of timber in a fire pit, the trio heard nothing. Not a sound. Curiosity turned sour now, as Benson began rethinking this mini ambush he’d set in motion.

He was now three trees deep into the woods surrounding the clearing. He could see Dillon almost directly across the clearing from him, staring, mouth agape at the sight in front of both of them. Duggery came into view then, and although each of the men understood that they were now all standing straight up on the edge of the bald patch of earth, none of them acknowledged the other. Their faces, bright with the glow of ethereal lampless light, were set in a position of sheer terror and awe. Without a word, they stepped forward, not noticing the small pile of brushwood stacked neatly against the tree nearest Benson, or the dark stained dirt beneath it.

Summer was coming to a close. It would be harvest time soon, a time of celebration. A time to dance and to thank the spirits for their gifts of food and life and provision for the harsh winter that was sure to come after. There would be a feast. There would be laughter. There would be joy.

But not today.

Nanye-hi followed the other women in their paced hike around the side of the mountain. The passage narrowed and swelled at points, but overall, the journey was easy. There was no rush. All things took place according to the will of the Great Spirit. And although she understood this was just the way things were done, Nanye-hi could not help but wonder why something so practical was dressed up to be so decorative.

Summer was coming to a close. The season to make war was over. Earlier that day, Degataga, Atohi, and Gawonii had returned, bloodied and weak, from the final battle of the long-standing feud between their tribe and the others across the blue mountains. That they were standing meant they held the victory; that they were alone meant that all the other young men were dead.

A fitting death for Adahy, Nanye-hi pondered. To be named “in the woods” and to claim the forest as the place to breathe his last in this life was not only prophetic, but also honorable. She was proud of her husband. He had fought bravely to defend their tribe, and through his loss, the people had gained might and life to live through another winter.

And so, the women, in long-standing tradition, pulled their animal skin cloaks around their shoulders and began the trek into the trees to both mourn for and seek out their dead husbands. Firebrands held above their heads, glowing dimly alone, but brightly together, they marched on in rapt silence as the heaviness of the tax Death had excised from them bent their necks low towards the ground. In the gloaming dusk, even the nesting birds fell silent as the maternal line of Cherokee natives meandered beneath the branches.

What am I to do now, with no husband and no child? Nanye-hi had always believed she was destined for sorrow, though her hopes had been lifted, if only for two winters, by her marriage to Adahy. It was during times like these that she allowed herself to question why her father had named her “goes about.” It was vague, as many names in her tongue were; vague enough to mean almost anything so that prophecy could be fulfilled and belief could live on. There were times she scoffed at it, but only inwardly. Even in this patriarchy, what could a man know about the heart of a woman? Why, Nanye-hi did not even presume to really know herself! Nevertheless, it was easy to believe that she had been named all along to be a woman who wandered wherever the sorrow would lead her. And here she was.

After several miles had passed and all the light had faded from the sky overhead, Nanye-hi straightened her neck to see that the group of women was coming up on the bend in the path ahead, the turn that would open the road to the battlefield. They were almost to the dying grounds.

The women began to whisper, allowing their song of mourning to begin subtly…as they drew nearer, their song would begin to crescendo, air from their aching lungs rushing ever more forcefully over their already-pained vocal chords. Or, at least, that was what was supposed to happen at this point. But their whispering went silent, like a violent wind that turns leaves on trees over and over, only to die out before blowing a body backwards. An apparition.

Around the corner of the rocky wall of the mountain, ruddy light played along the granite
stones. Are we now to meet the widows of our enemies? Nanye-hi asked herself, not daring to make her thoughts known to the others (who, undoubtedly, only thought the same). What would this foretell? She steeled herself to endure the awkward, and possibly violent, tension of quietly greeting her mirror-self, the other tribeswoman who had lost as much as she. Indeed, that woman would have lost more.

But where was the wailing, the indignant sorrow? Where were the cries of anguish? Truthfully, though the light set a lively visual, it gave no sound. All was still. She looked at her peers; daughers, sisters, wives, mothers. All of them, as if controlled by some unseen force, turned their heads unanimously and stared at her. In that moment, Nanye-hi knew…she KNEW. Goes about, she thought. I am the one who goes about. And I will fulfill my purpose. For Adahy. For these women. For myself.

Her companions watched as she rounded the corner. They furtively looked at one another. And they followed.

“I heard it was aliens. They showed up a long time ago, and they take people with ‘em every time they come back,” Pete veritably shouted. Chuck elbowed him in the gut and hissed, “Shut UP!” Pete reached for his abdomen, whimpering and glaring at his friend, or at least the kid he called his friend.

“Yes, well, that has been one theory, although it lacks any substantial evidence,” conceded Scout Master Davis. Inwardly, he rolled his eyes. If that kid’s parents hadn’t let him watch so much TV…

“Well, those stories you just told us don’t seem to have no evidence,” said Tommy, a killjoy if Davis had ever met one. The Scout Master zeroed in on the spot across the valley with his night-vision binoculars. “Thomas, that’s because they’re stories that have been around for centuries, some of ‘em.” He focused the lenses. “But lack of evidence isn’t necessarily evidence to the contrary.” Geez, so much for good old-fashioned Boy Scout ghost stories.

“Huh?” Tommy grunted, clearly outwitted by the adult’s logic. Davis absent-mindedly grumbled, “Never mind.” Then, looking up at the cloud-covered sky, he looked back at the troop and sighed. “Fellas, I’m sorry, but it doesn’t seem like we’ll be seeing them tonight. Let’s pack it up and get you back home before it gets too late.”

The scouts turned unenthusiastically toward the 15-passenger van they’d piled inside to come all this way, seemingly for nothing. Their faces showed their contempt for the situation, so Davis tried Plan B. “Hey, maybe we can hit up an ice cream parlor on the way back, yeah?” Instantly, the boys came back to life, whooping and shouting as if they’d just climbed the peak of Everest.

Just before they pulled out onto the highway, though, with the others making all sorts of noise in the back of the old Dodge, Chuck leaned up to the driver’s seat and quietly asked, “Scout Master Davis, what do YOU think the lights really are?” Davis looked in the rearview mirror, thought a moment, and said, “You know, Chuck, a lot of folks think they’re gaseous vapors coming up out of the ground and mixing with the air above Brown Mt. Others think they might be reflections from town. There are plenty of good, logical reasons for why they exist, but again, no substantial evidence. I mean, these things have been here for a long time.” He started the van up, put it in gear, and rolled out onto the road. Just as the red taillights of the old rusted minibus turned away from the overlook, an amber twinkle flitted across the valley. “When it comes right down to it, I don’t think anyone knows what really happened between those trees.”

Written by Jimmy Atkins…