Downtown in Jonesborough, Tennessee, sits a punk hillbilly on a weathered barstool in a smokey tavern directly across from the buttercream Chester Inn. 

"Imagine" he wails, fingers pirouetting the guitar strings like a rootworker sewing dolls spells, "imagine a place where magick ain’t confined to dusty professors or high priests in cathedrals. Ain’t no crystal ball or sacred robes.” 

He pauses and takes a sip from a fat jug of moonshine and sighs a breath of relief before going on to tell the story of a nearby ghost city run by outlaw technicians and backwoods occultists. 

"That bunch there calls it physicalist magick. They ain't religious, but they ain’t evil, neither. They're for the people, the principles of physics, and the buzzing countryside — crickets, combat drones, June bugs, electric fences — gadgets that make a moonshiner’s still look like child’s play,” he takes another stout swig. 

His smoke-stained fingers, inked skin, and ragged overalls speak to a life lived on the outskirts of conformity. He exhales the apparition of a Kentucky Gentleman cigar juggling air molecules around the room. It’s nostalgic and reminiscent of tobacco leaves curled up on wooden barn slaps and hour or so up the road in Sneedville. On a hot summer’s evening, take a drive down Mulberry Gap, crack open the windows, and let the sweet savor of dried tobacco mingle in with tall field grass, Wisteria, and earthy riverbeds. Relax. 

“It’s a rebellion against the mystical elite. A reclaiming of magick for the masses. Rogue scientists bought a bunch of abandoned churches, barns, and houses up on the ridge and in surrounding states. They’re turning them into occult art studios and agnostic research centers." 

He pauses briefly as if he’s recalling a significant encounter, “one of them doctors was studying mussels up on the Clinch one day I's there fishin’ redeyes and bluegills. Caught me real curious what she was doing scoopin’ all them mussels.” 

 “What ye reckon’s causing such a big’ol perish?” the storyteller hollers to the scientist. 

 She drops a shell into a bucket after closely inspecting it. 

 “Depends which ones you’re asking about. The shinypearls? Pigtoes? Snuffboxes?” a lady with bright, curly red hair and army green water waders looks up at him and grins. 

 “It’s a mess of things,” her smile deflates to a scowl, “pesticides, pollution, invasive species, pathogens. It’s a shame people don’t know how magickal these mollusks are, or this water," she holds one up to a sun ray with concern and reflects its iridescent mantle. 

 The storyteller spits a line of tobacco into the water, and she notices but quickly redirects focus back to her job. 

 “Our team has sensors we’re implanting in the streams to monitor conditions and get a clearer answer. We’re doing some DNA sequencing on the mussels to assess their health. Then, we’ll integrate the data and bring the community together to discuss our results and come up with a game plan for keeping the river and endangered species safer. It’ll be fun. You should come," she closes the bucket and treads closer to him in the water, "Make any nice catches today?” 

 “Nawh, nothing’s biting. It's too hot this time of the day. I knew better coming out here but did anyways. It’s my spot,” the storyteller slings a line back into the river, “Say, what brought yuns out here? No offense, but y’all ain't got better things to do 'sides poke around an ole poor folks' plateau?” he asks playfully. 

 For generations, humble families have been tilling fertile Appalachian soil, clinging to faith, and working devotedly with the cycling of seasons. Folks weren't sure how to take up to eccentric outsiders, Frankenbots, and space cowboys populating the mountain with them, but one thing is certain — Appalachians know how to make use of a melting pot.  

 With so many grudges held over wars and rumors of racist cults in the terrain, lend ear to stories about Native Americans, Afro-Romanis, German-Scot-Irish, and others who lived side by side, shared crafts, traded tales, and learned from one another in the mountains. They shared spirit. There’s a reason this district is the global narrative hub as well as one the most praised places on Earth for biodiversity, resilience, adaptability, integrity, and independence. 

 Jonesborough, home of the storyteller, is also home of the storytelling capital of the world. Every year, the town hosts professionals and newbies alike at The National Storytelling Festival for a weekend of storytelling and workshops. The International Storytelling Center has a vision that their work be filled with performance, practice, and preservation. Locals wield tremendous respect for storycraft and entrench it in every nook and cranny of life, from church sermons to song lyrics, even to science lessons in public school. 

 “When I was a little girl,” the scientist peers at the mussels in the rippling water, “my father was a geographer. We lived in Massachusetts but did a lot of traveling for his work. He studied radionuclides in this same river back in the 60s. I bet you’re familiar with Oak Ridge. There were concerns about plutonium in the water, and he was here helping with surveys. They did a lot to transform the way waste and toxins are transported out of the plant. Dad fell in love with the Appalachian region after that, and so did we. We came back every few years or so to camp, fish, swim, and ride ATVs. I used to collect mussels in this same river. It’s a special place. Good to be back. 

 “I finished my PhD at UC Davis,” the scientist continues, “I decided to move permanently after a friend told me he and a leader team with Open Science were investing in property and research projects in East Tennessee. Weather’s been terrible on the coast, and real estate isn’t terribly expensive this way. I'm happy with the decision,” her eyes are wide and reverent as she absorbs the landscape. 

 “This land, ma'am” the storyteller peers at her, “this is your’n, too. The spirits brought you back.” 

 She chuckles, “I’m not sure what your definition of spirit is. I'm an atheist. I do love my job, though, and this land. Thanks for your warm welcome of me being newly Appalachian." 

 “An atheist, huh?” he asks contortedly. 

 She’s shy to respond but eager, “I don’t know if God’s real, but I don’t believe in Him. Or she. Or it. I’m not closed minded to God, just don’t see a reason to believe.” 

 “Hmm. Strange, but I appreciate your honesty. What do you — ah, you know what, let's not go there. It's been a peaceful day. Appreciate your honesty,” he ponders and fastens a worm and cheese ball onto the fishing hook. 

 “Strange, indeed, sir. Hey, I've gotta run, but it’s been a pleasure speaking with you. Hope to see you again soon to talk more about these mussels. My name’s Annie. And you?” she wades over to shake his hand. 

 “Nice meeting you, Annie.” he accepts her greeting gently and removes his aged boonie hat, “I’m Lucian.” 

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