Blue Light (35 page)

My second encounter with death in ten minutes and I was moving again. I was stalking him now, looking for a mistake, an opening, a chance to end him.

He stopped at the edge of the grove of Bellowing Trees, leaping suddenly behind the ruined trunk of a ruined singing tree. He appeared again with Addy in tow. She buried the blade of a large wooden knife in the side of his neck, but he was unaffected.

He went into the grove then, dragging Addy in his wake.

I followed him to the very edge of the grove, but then I could go no farther. The deep tones coming from the Bellowing Trees hit me like ten-foot waves at the shore. I couldn’t penetrate their power. Even Gray Man was struggling against their incredible strength. Addy was knocked senseless, but Death pulled her on.

It was all I could do to hold my ground.

Toward the center of the grove stood Juan Thrombone and the rest of the Blues. Alacrity was naked again, her bow drawn and notched. Reggie wore his camouflage, and Fargo wielded his ax.

“To your trees!” Bones commanded loudly.

“I wanna fight!” Alacrity cried out.

I could feel their struggle in the center of my brain. It was wisdom versus rage.

Gray Man laughed.

Alacrity was still young, and the derision of Death unnerved her.

“To your trees!” Thrombone cried.

Five trees surrounded the great throne tree. Each one was attended by one of the Blues. As soon as each one stood next to a tree, white tendril roots crawled out of the ground to fasten them to the trunk. Alacrity and Winch struggled a bit, but Reggie, Wanita, and Nesta were resigned to the ritual.

“I am too strong now,” Grey Redstar said. “I can kill you and your whole forest with the strength released from the old redwood. No alliance you can achieve is more powerful than death.”

His words were confident, but he did not press forward.

“Join me, Three Lights,” Gray Man said in a tone that approximated friendship. “You can see that this desire, this plan to sire, is foolish and wasteful and weak. Join me. Tell your trees to drain their lives, and I will leave you to your forest. You can even have this woman.”

For a long moment Juan Thrombone stared into the face of Death. Maybe for an instant he considered the promise of life for his trees and his First Light.

“Never,” Bones whispered at last.

“Then watch her die, abomination within an abomination,” Gray Man said. “Watch her die.”

“Come, Death,” Thrombone replied. “Come to
my
embrace.” He held out his arms. “Take me to your cold heart.”

No sooner had Bones spoken these words than the waves of energy from the trees ceased. Gray Man lurched forward and so did I.

Next to the helpless Winch Fargo, on the ground, was his big metal ax. I hoped that it would be more deadly than the small pistol. I hefted the ax and ran, yelling like a fool, at Gray Man’s back. I swung, aiming for his head, but he was faster than me.

He reached back with his free hand, grabbing the haft: and pulling me off balance. I fell between him and Juan Thrombone.

Gray Man looked down on me and smiled. He bent forward to take me by the shoulder. It was the strongest grip I had ever felt, but it was colder than it was strong. For the third time that day I felt the life draining out of me. Gray Man was leaning toward me, smiling.

“Come,” he said, almost kindly, the anticipation of my death somehow bringing out what little love his evil heart housed.

“Got ya now,” Juan Thrombone said. He leaped and grabbed Gray Man by the arm, dragging him back to the throne. Gray Man released Addy and me to struggle with his attacker.

There they stood before the throne tree, a black man and a brown one, though they had both given up the human race long ago, flexing muscles that could have easily felled one of the god trees that were now all humming a deep and frightening note. My friends were all unconscious or dead. Addy was as cold as stone.

Gray Man and Juan Thrombone fell into the hollow of the throne tree. Gray Man cried out and pushed Bones down. The roots of the big tree flailed helplessly at Death while he closed his icy fingers around Thrombone’s throat.

My left side was numb, but I rose up and threw myself on Death’s back. The three of us fell deeply into the hollow. It seemed much deeper than it could have possibly been. I put a headlock on Death and pulled with all my might. From behind I was aided by someone. I dared a glance and saw a man who was the image of Gray Man but I knew by the fear in his eyes was really Horace LaFontaine. I didn’t understand, but there was no time to think anyway. The roots surrounded us, and suddenly Gray Man yelled with frustration. I saw a root of the great tree press into one of his eyes.

“You can’t kill me!” he shouted.

Juan Thrombone laughed. Then, suddenly, my headlock was on Thrombone, though not from behind. Our embrace was like an adolescent attempt at a first kiss. I released my hold, and Thrombone pushed me clear of the hollow.

“Last Chance,” Thrombone said and then winked. “Not yet.”

He threw himself back on Gray Man, who was struggling with the roots. They were pushing into his sides and chest, but he was breaking them off faster than they took hold. Horace LaFontaine was in there trying to wrestle Gray Man down. Juan Thrombone jumped in and grabbed Gray Man’s hands. The roots ate into Bones and Horace then. They seemed to be rejuvenated by what they found in those men’s blood. The attack against Gray Man was redoubled, and they all were lost in a tangle of writhing roots.

A screaming shout that started at the edge of the grove of god trees made me turn. It was Miles Barber, running and holding something above his head, something that was burning. Miles shouldered me aside and threw his burning missile into the tree. Flames jumped high into the air, and a concussion threw the ex-detective backward. He flew into me, knocking me down and nearly unconscious.

Over the years I’ve wondered about Miles Barber and that last desperate act. In our time together as friends, sharing a whole dimension of mingled dreams, I never perceived this plan. It is true that he once carried a container of gasoline that he intended to use to incinerate Gray Man, but that had been a long time before. All I can figure is that the approach of Death rekindled the hatred that dwelled in Barber’s heart. He didn’t want us to keep him from his vengeance; that’s why he hid from us the moment this dark desire returned.

When I came to my senses all the Bellowing Trees were burning. Wanita and the rest had been freed from their bonds. The whole company of gods lay unconscious under the burning woods, them, Addy, and Miles Barber. I got myself to stand and dragged them, one after another, out of the fire.

Wanita was first and Winch Fargo was last, but I saved them all. The whole wood was blazing by the time I pulled out Fargo. The heat on my skin spoke to me and for once I understood, but I have since forgotten the truths revealed at that time. They’re hidden from me in a charred and smoky place in my soul. I lost consciousness then. The last thing I remember was rolling downward.

When I came to, I found myself beneath a mass of prickly vines. I was burned pretty badly along my left side. Everyone was gone. Bear and butterfly, friend and foe. The Bellowing Trees were burned black. I made it to the throne tree, walking over hot embers and ash. There was a sticky mass of hot tarlike stuff in the hollow. That was all that was left of Gray Man and Juan Thrombone.

I stumbled out through the silent woods. Every once in a while I’d come upon the blackened remnants of a singing tree. Gray Man’s fingers sought out and destroyed every one of Bones’s beautiful trees. I feared that maybe the other Blues had suffered the same fate. I looked everywhere for a sign of their survival or demise but found nothing.

I was badly hurt but I treated the burns with poultices and salves that Bones had given me. If I had rested a day or two, the burns would have probably healed, but I had made a promise to look after Alacrity’s boyfriend and intended to keep that promise.

The forced march brought me to his cabin door in two days’ time. But the cabin was empty. The clothes from his closet were gone, along with the trunk that sat at the foot of his bed.

I don’t remember much of what happened after I got to the cabin. Distraught over the disappearance of my friends, I rushed out, hoping that they had only recently been there. I don’t remember how far I got. The infection from the burns must have overwhelmed me. In the hospital I was told that I was found by hikers. I guess with all that had happened, I went a little out of my head. The doctors had me in a straitjacket and had been injecting me with powerful tranquilizers every six hours.

The next few months are only spotty in my memory. I remember a man, Dr. Lionel, who told me that I was under arrest for setting fires in a national forest. But because of my burns and irrational behavior, I was remanded to the hospital for recuperation and observation.

That conversation was just a small island of clarity. Other times I was in Treaty making love to Addy or fishing with Gerin Reed. Sometimes I was in darkness and Alacrity was calling to me. I wanted to go to her, but my arms were tied and I couldn’t get to my feet.

At one moment I faded into consciousness, finding myself dressed in an ill-fitted tan suit and talking to a middle-aged woman, a judge I believe, about Treaty and blue light and Grey Redstar, who kept Horace LaFontaine in an Attica cell behind his eyes. When I finished the sentence, I could see that the henna-haired woman thought I was crazy. I yelled and leaped at her, but strong men grabbed me by my arms and legs. I was strong enough to throw them off, but before I could get my balance, someone injected me with the tranq. The last thing I saw were the judge’s frightened eyes.

I’ve been at the state mental hospital at Camarillo since then. I came in diagnosed as a paranoid schizophrenic, but they changed that diagnosis to borderline psychotic with a new administration in 1988. I explained to the doctors that I was proof of my own story because I looked like I was twenty but my driver’s license said I was forty-three. After a week or so of that tack, a kindly orderly allowed me to see my reflection in a handheld mirror. My hair had gone completely white and the left side of my face was roughened by small scars left by the fire.

That’s when they started to brainwash me. I don’t mean on purpose like they did to those POWs in North Vietnam. They thought that they were helping me. They just could not believe in blue light.

It was impossible for light to contain consciousness, they said. I looked my age and should be thankful that I was in such good physical health. They threw away my lichen stone while I was out of my head, so I couldn’t prove my claims with the stone liquor.

At least they let me keep my
History
. When I sit down and read these words, I know that it all must have happened. No one could make up all of that.

After a year I found out that my mother died in 1976. I think that hurt me worst of all. I never got to see her and apologize for all the years that I ignored her letters.

It’s been more than seven years now, and I’m learning how not to use my second sight. All the drugs they give me help dampen the visions. They keep me sedated and in isolation because I’m so strong and I want to get away.

But they let me use a computer, and I have mail privileges to take out materials from state and local libraries. I guess they know that as long as I can work on my book, I won’t get too violent or wild.

My hope now is that they’ll release me, that they’ll find me sane and let me go, so I can go looking for my friends. I am sane but I know more than the fools who keep me here. I know too much. That’s why I’m trying to close my eyes to the history of light and matter. Because if I stop seeing things the way the Blues do, I’ll become less like them and more like regular people.

I’ve almost done it. I’ve almost stopped seeing. The only problem I have now is at dusk, when I’m drawn to the high window of my cell and I search the twilight skies for colored lights that I know to be the teardrops of God.

Walter Mosley (b. 1952) is the author of the bestselling mystery series featuring Easy Rawlins, as well as numerous other works, from literary fiction and science fiction to a young adult novel and political monographs. His short fiction has been widely published, and his nonfiction has appeared in the
New York Times Magazine
and the
Nation
, among other publications. Mosley is the winner of numerous awards, including an O. Henry Award, the Anisfield-Wolf Book Award, a Grammy, and PEN America’s Lifetime Achievement Award. He lives in New York City.

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Copyright © 1998 by Walter Mosley

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978-1-4804-2207-0

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