Dark Muse (5 page)

“Wait, Mr. Watkins,” Muddy pleaded. “I need
to get over there, wherever
there
is. I
know
it’s
something weird—I saw it with my own eyes. I believe you, but they
don’t. Can you tell them what this place is?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head again. “You
either believe and go with me, or run home to mama and let
them
have at it with your kin.” He stood, walked over to a
closed door and leaned against it. “I shouldn’t even be taking you
there.”

“Yes, you should,” Poe insisted. “Whatever,
wherever this place is, we’ve gotta go there, for Zack’s sake.
Please.”

A minute of silence ensued. Then his eye
moved as his gaze slowly rolled over them. “You really think you’re
up for this? You’re not afraid?”

“Of course we’re scared,” Corey said. “We’re
not stupid. The three of us haven’t even seen the place yet.”

“When’s the last time you went there?” Poe
asked Silver Eye.

“Never mind that. I know what I’m doing.”

“But,” he warned, “You can’t go there
unarmed. You go in there with empty arms, and you might as well be
dead now. You need instruments. Otherwise, you won’t last a
minute.”

“But, we didn’t know,” Muddy said. “All our
band equipment is back home. Heck, I don’t even have a guitar
pick!”

The old man just smiled and pushed open a
door in the back of the house. “Welcome to ol’ Silver Eye’s toy
store.” The door swung wide and a musty stench wafted out for all
to choke on, but only until they saw what lay inside. The room
loomed massive yet it couldn’t be—not inside a house as small as
this.

“Now, come on back here and find something to
play.” He gestured to the back room where a bevy of assorted
instruments lay scattered around as if a Hard Rock Café had
exploded in there. “Pick one, something that you feel fits you.
Calls to you.”

“Calls
to him?” Poe mused, as she
ventured into the mess. “That makes it a little easier for him.”
Even though she primarily sang with the voice of a siren, she also
tinkered on keyboards. “Wait. Some of these don’t look normal.”

“Where we’re going is about as far from
normal as you’ll ever see, ma’am, so choose carefully!”

Otis wandered straight to the back corner
where a jumbled stack of percussion lay. “Okay, I’m cool,” he
called out, picking up a set of ebony sticks and something that
resembled a small snare drum with a leather strap, but decorated in
oddly striped colors with carvings of objects that eluded
comprehension.

Hanging on the wall, a tenor sax, hued in
silver, not brass or golden color, must have screamed out to Corey
by the way he rushed over to it. “Wow, even a fresh reed on it! And
spares!” He removed it, cradling the instrument as a man would
embrace the love of his life.

“But,” he spoke, obviously confused. “This
isn’t brass, or even silver. Is it?”

The old man just smiled. “You gonna complain
or play?”

And so Corey played with the skill that life
gave him.

“Aha! There you are.” A glissando, a quick,
effortless flurry of notes rang out from where Poe stood. She held
up something Muddy couldn’t identify, something that sort of looked
like a xylophone, but smaller. A leather strap hung over her
shoulder. “Very cool, whatever it is.” Her long, smooth fingers
danced over the slender metal keys, unleashing another pleasant
flurry of notes one might expect from an angel’s harp.

“Something tells me that the only thing
you’ll need is right inside your lungs,” Silver Eye said, looking
over her shoulder, “but go ahead and tinker.”

Where’s mine?
Muddy thought. As usual,
everyone else had their pick and luck with the music. If Zack were
here, a vintage Fender or Les Paul would probably leap out of a
pile, straight into his arms. But Muddy? Nothing even remotely
resembling a six-string lay anywhere.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Spinning around, he found Silver Eye standing
there with a battered, natural wood-toned acoustic guitar. Dull
brass tuners jutted out of the headstock like buckteeth. The neck
and body held more scratches and chips than his grandfather’s 1972
Chevy. Stranger though, was the end of the neck. It curved into a
horn. Near the sound hole mushroomed out a blossoming opening, sort
of like an old Victrola record player.

The man held it out like a proud father.
Muddy took it, but it felt more like cradling a nephew from the
circus sideshow than a bundle of beautiful joy.

“Sweet, ain’t she?” The old man offered this
“prize” to Muddy with a smile.

“Uh…yeah.” Muddy never could lie well.
“Sweet.”

“Know where this has been?”

Pulled out of the Jersey swamps? A member of
the original landfill?

When the teen shrugged, the old man clapped
his hands together and leaned against the wall.

“No one’s sure
when
she was built, but
let’s just say she’s been to the Memphis delta, down to the bayous
of Louisiana, even hit the Chicago strip.”

“And then…”

“You’ve brought
this
thing over
there?
”

“Son, this thing has
saved
more people
than the number of guitar picks you’ve lost.”

That IS a lot. But how? That thing is a piece
of crap!

“Yeah, I know,” he said, nodding at the
condition of the instrument. “But strap it on over there and I
guarantee it’ll save your crack over there.”

Muddy threw it over his shoulder and pulled
the strap tight. The leather looked like it had jumped off an
alligator a few eons ago.

Silver Eye tossed him a pick that looked like
it had fallen out of that gator’s mouth.

“What’s this made of?”

Again, that mysterious smile. “Eventually,
boy. Eventually.”

He strummed a chord and then a quick rock
riff. The “thing” sounded like nothing he had ever heard before,
but where was the amp? The volume?

Silver Eye must have sensed this and called
out as they tested their new toys. “Remember, things operate
differently over there. Things
sound
different there.
Amplification will be provided.”

Corey’s voice sounded from behind them. “What
do we do with these? Are we going to play a concert where we’re
going?”

“More important than that,” the old man said.
“Much more important.”

Otis let loose on his newly found toy with a
drum roll. “Okay, enough with the hoodoo voodoo vibe. When do we
hit it?”

Muddy checked his watch. Ten minutes to
eight. Darkness would overtake the town within a half hour. How
they would get home safely through this part of town at night, he
had no clue.

He could swear that silver orb in the
bluesman’s eye-socket saw right through him at that moment. “We’ll
be there in no time. Let’s go. Remember—different place, different
rules.”

Muddy wondered if they were following a crazy
man to their graves, but realized they had no other choice.

Chapter Five

Within ten minutes, they reached the
crossroads. A cascade of oranges, reds, and much darker shades
crept over the top of the landfill as they moved to the “X” cradled
in the epicenter of the two roads. Bathed in light that seemed much
too much like blood, Muddy shivered. Looking around at the others,
he wondered who else felt the dread that lay ahead of them. Poe
appeared calm, spotlighted in an array of earth colors that
accented her beautiful, but cloudy eyes. Corey and Otis jittered a
little in the reds, obviously feeling similar to him. But Silver
Eye simply stood there, eye closed. Was he meditating?

The two paths crisscrossed at the dead center
of the valley between the monster-tall mounds that buried at least
fifty years of human trash. Rumor had it that the Jersey mobs often
tossed their “whacks” there, but the police wouldn’t bother to
search the area.

Who’d want to?

At one time, each path might have been a dirt
road leading to the water’s edge, a path for a fishing boat. They
leaned out as far as they could see. Who’d ever fish there now?
Muddy wondered why the piers were boarded. Was it to protect the
trespassers or mutated fish? Either way, he stood there amazed at
the perfect perpendicular “X” that was born in the middle of a
place where no normal person would ever tread. One thought crossed
his mind; did they build the landfill
around
the crossroads,
to hide it where its supposed secrets were obscured from the eyes
and curiosity of the many? Likely, it was the latter, if anyone did
know about them—or believed.

Corey seemed to be reading Muddy’s mind.
“Hey, did you notice that none of these paths have
any
junk
on them? Does someone actually
clean
here?” They followed
the pointing of his arms. True enough, not one bottle, bag, can or
paper lay on the paths that crossed under their feet.

“Weird,” Otis added.

“Welcome, my new friends.” The bluesman
spread his scrawny arms wide, the dying sun silhouetting him in
shadows. “Welcome to the start of a brand new life.”

Corey spoke first. “Are you trying to scare
us with some hoodoo again?”

The wide smile opened with a wink from the
man’s good eye. “Actually, yes I am.” If you’re not scared then
you’re more messed up than I was when I first stepped here so many
years ago.”

Was this guy serious, or just screwing with
their heads?

“Mr. Edgar ‘Muddy’ Rivers,” he bellowed. “Are
you afraid to step into this journey to find your long lost
brother?”

“I said, are you ready?” he repeated, this
time a bit louder.

No, I’m NOT ready. Definitely not ready to
die.

“Sure thing. When do we go?”

Poe vocalized what he was thinking next. “Is
this going to hurt?”

Corey added, “Has anybody ever died doing
this?”

Of course, Otis had to add his two cents. “Is
there any food there? All this being scared is making me hungry.
How about women? Cute ones, not ones with glass eyes.”

The bluesman continued staring as the teens
babbled. They were scared out of their minds, whether they admitted
it or not. After about thirty seconds of a pure tidal wave of
talking, he'd had enough. “Will you please shut up?” he exploded.
“You want to die over there? You want to get stuck over there like
your dope head brother?” he continued. “What the
heck
is
wrong with you people?”

Nobody had ever talked to them like that.
Most people treated the group like the label on them read “special”
as in special education. Exceptional students.
Those
kids
who tried so hard. Except for a few bullies, no one had mustered
the guts to treat them as “regular” kids.

Somehow, Muddy didn’t think Silver Eye gave a
darn about what they were.

Still...

The old man raised one hand in mock defeat.
“Ok, little lady with the razor throat, I give. But get your
buddies’ butts in gear so we can get moving.”

Muddy hung his head while Poe softened her
stance, just a little. “Sorry,” she said. “I’m just a little
scared.”

As the bluesman dug the harmonica out of his
jeans, he muttered to himself. “So am I. So am I.” He turned to the
band. “Now follow my lead.”

* * * *

A stream of blues scales bled from lips,
hands, and tongues, sending echoes off the landfill’s walls. After
a few cascades of passionate blues sounded, the old blues man
settled into a simple shuffle that Muddy quickly figured out was in
the key of G. His favorite, and that of many musicians, whether it
be for the smooth sound or the ease in jumping into a zone that let
a musician stretch out and lose himself.

Silver Eye winked at him then nodded over to
Otis and Corey. Poe simply began swaying, feeling the beat erupting
in the air. Drumsticks slapped the side of the ancient instrument
and a deep groove was born. A simple two and four beat, the
backbone to most blues, rock, hip-hop, funk, and dance songs in
existence thundered, causing the dirt beneath their feet to
shudder. The saxophone added low bass tones to complete the
framework before Muddy felt connected enough to join the fray.

The guitarist felt his fingers acting on
their own accord, fretting a basic barre chord, followed by pick
hand-slicing into the rhythm, chunking out what now became a solid
blues-rock groove. He knew he was light years behind his brother,
but felt he had
something
in him. Both hands synced up with
the coordination of two entities that were separated at birth, but
had now found each other. As the old man vamped on the twelve-bar
blues, Muddy jumped off the basics and into the depths of more
serpentine chord movements and fills that curled around his
licks.

As the group gelled, Poe’s voice crept into
the mix as she first hummed a simple melody that echoed Silver
Eye’s blistering blues. The voice of an angel, an angel with an
attitude, she completed the group. Normally, when the band hit on
all cylinders like this, an adrenalin rush washed over them,
bathing the teens in a chill that was like no other feeling in the
world.

But another sensation crept into the groove.
Both tickling and shocking, like when someone gave another a static
touch, it permeated the night air. As the music shifted a bit,
Muddy could tell he wasn’t the only one to feel it. The music
didn’t lose the rhythm, but the intensity took a hit.

Silver Eye ripped the harp from his lips.
“Don’t
STOP
playing!” Flames roiled in his one living
eye.

Even though the man yelled the command at the
group, Muddy knew most of the energy careened toward him. For a
long moment, he was back home, back in the first grade, back in
little league. All those people hollering at him for not holding up
his end. Heck, he was so used to hearing it, the harshness of the
man’s words barely affected him. Still, it hurt.