Dark Muse (7 page)

Silver Eye stopped his song and turned to the
little drummer. “My man, rip it up. Shut those oafs
up
.
Now!”

Otis looked as if he had just heard a war cry
in Swahili, but nodded, maybe in comprehension, maybe in
resignation. He answered those doubts in the start of a twelve bar
pattern, something that rocked on its backbeat. He twirled his
sticks then pointed them at the beasts. With a deep breath, he
launched into the rhythm that caught the creatures off guard. Its
offbeat nature, similar to what the greats, the drummers of Led
Zeppelin, Aerosmith, Cream, Metallica, etc. played, countered the
straight ahead bass and snare rhythm heard in just about every
popular song nowadays. The power of what Otis played rocked their
insides—hard. One creature took a step, tried to steady itself
using the rhythm then tumbled. When it hit, its eyes glazed over
and arms flailed in confusion. Its fall and inevitable crash shook
the entire band off the ground at least a foot, but they kept the
music going.

Otis intensified his drum retaliation.
He
became the thunder and shook all of the creatures in
their stances. One by one, the creatures attempted to rush the
teens but encountered the same fate as the first one. Each
stumbled, unable to lock onto the complicated, syncopated,
off-the-beat rhythm. Their crashes turned the path and grass into a
spongy springboard, sending each of the quintet into the air, back
down, then up again. Yet somehow, they remained locked into the
groove of whatever magic was created by the music. The harder the
drumming, the harder they fell. Otis’ thunder, their crashes.
Together, they formed a backbeat that any self-respecting rocker
would die for.

Once all the creatures were down, quivering
and in obvious pain and confusion, Silver Eye conducted the song to
an end.

Muddy saw his chance and before fear could
take him he ran right up to the fallen “thing” and lifted the
guitar string over the creature's head with a shaking hand.

“Nice job, boy,” Silver Eye said, patting
Otis on the head.

“Man, if this didn’t just happen, with those
things and that music, I’d pop you for that,” Otis replied, with a
semi-smile. “Nobody pets me.”

The man retreated a bit, sincerely. “I
apologize, music man. After that show, no one should cross you; not
if they want to stay on their feet.”

Otis nodded. “No prob. That was awesome.” He
looked at his sticks. “How did I do that?”

Poe approached, slow and with arms spread as
if the quaking might resume.

“I
saw
them,” she said. “How?”

Silver Eye took her hands in his. “Girl, in
this place, strange things happen. Not sure exactly why some of it
does, but music
breathes
here. It’s alive, part of
everything.”

“But how? My eyes, things went from shapes in
a deep fog to near crystal clear.”

His own eye scanned the scene. “All in good
time, my girl. But we’ve gotta move our cheeks outta here—now.
Those things won’t stay down long.”

The group drew together again. “The way
back?” Muddy asked.

“Same way we got here.” He lifted his harp
and began playing, thus ceasing further conversation.

Both scared and fascinated, the band simply
followed. All of them repeated the same jam that brought them
there. Only once did the old man gesture for them to pick up the
tempo and power. Then the rolling began.

As they had experienced during the trip
there, a “curtain” shimmered then parted.

All stepped through without moving and the
images of the forest with the fallen creatures faded away like a
reflection on a pond after a rock was tossed into it.

Muddy shut his eyes as dizziness infected his
vision. Behind the lids that shut out the changing land, the
journey from one plane of existence to another, the music slowed
then halted altogether. Curiosity pried them back open, only to
find that the landfill and reeking air had returned.

The band stood on the path, looking as though
they just stepped off the Six Flags’ newest, wildest
rollercoaster.

The music stopped, suddenly, probably due to
the “wow” factor that they had just survived whatever they’d just
traveled though. The silence struck a stronger chord than the
drumming things they’d escaped. Deafening nothingness pressed on
them, hard, causing them more than a little fright.

“What the heck is
wrong
with you
people?” Silver Eye yelled.

His voice sent a shudder so wild through
Muddy that his fingers flung the guitar string into the air.

“What?” Otis stared at him, composed.

The old man waved his arms as though he
wished to fly off to the Bahamas. “Were you kids raised in a dang
barn?”

What?

“We haven’t closed the
door
yet! You
don’t leave the door wide open at home, do you?”

But it wasn’t a question. He was either mad
or scared. Either one was bad. Very bad.

His old shoe stomped the ground sending a
cloud of dirt and dust into the air. It gave Silver Eye a mystical
aura that scared Muddy for some reason. Then again, the whole night
had scared the crap out of him.

Poe broke the silence. “What door? We’re
back, safe. Aren’t we?”

“No, we’re
not,
” Silver Eye replied
sounding cranky, as though someone had just stolen one of the old
records they saw in his house. “We need to
close
the door.
You don’t want something from over there to follow you home, do
you?”

“What things?” Otis asked. “We kicked the
crap out of those oafs…didn’t we?”

The man walked up to Otis and stared deep
into the kid's unblinking black eyes.

“Son, that’s just the tip of the ugly iceberg
that we saw over there. You have
no
idea what else is there,
just itchin’ to creep on through and wreak some havoc in our
world.”

His eye went a little crazy. His hands
twitched. “Know how a few thousand people go missing each year? No
bodies ever found?”

Otis shook his head, just like an obedient
dog.

“Ever wonder what happens to them?”

Otis found his voice. “Serial killers?”

He turned toward Muddy. “He’s been reading
too many of your daddy’s books. Or not enough.”

“How’d you know about my father?”

Silver Eye belted out a laugh, melting the
tension somewhat. “I ain’t stupid. Or illiterate. I do know who’s
living in this town, good or bad.” A half-smile crossed his face.
“Smart dad you have there. Maybe one day you can ask him about
where we went. He’s got imagination and more.”

Yeah, like Dad and I would ever...

Muddy had his music. Dad had his stories. Eye
to eye, it just wasn’t happening.

“Now, enough old lady talk.” Silver Eye
walked back to the center of the crossroads. “Pick up your guitar
and follow me in D-flat. Shuffle, twelve bar blues.”

“D-flat? What the..? Who plays in that
key?”

“Yeah,” Otis chirped. “We’re not some jazz
be-bop guys.”

“Shut your yap,” Silver Eye snapped.
“
Any
self-respecting musician knows how to jam in
any
key. It ain’t that hard if you’ve got a little soul in ya.”

“Still,” Corey added, “that’s an odd key. I
play piano…”

“Goodie for you, big windy,” the old man
retorted. “If you play the ivories, you should know D-flat is the
opposite of G. Six steps away, three whole tones. A tri-tone,” he
said, visibly shivering as he said it. “Can’t get more opposite
than that.”

“But—” Looking at Muddy, he spoke in a
serious tone. “Play.”

The guitarist looked at his fingers,
twitching like a stepped-on spider. All he could think of was the
simple blues scale pattern a guitarist could use on any fret, any
key. With the knowledge of what the man called for, it was akin to
driving on the turnpike with a Schwinn.

“Play,” came the stern voice, tinged with
anger, maybe a little fear.

The teen chugged out a few power chords in a
simple shuffle rhythm. A series of waves began, as if Silver Eye
had tossed a stone into his soul then sat back and watched the
ripples fan out, growing more intense each time.

Silver Eye joined in, switching to a new
harmonica. Muddy looked at the old man’s baggy pants and assumed he
could’ve had a different one for each possible key. Or at least the
ones that did something
over there
. Still, the boy felt no
real comfort in the key.

Silver Eye nodded at Muddy, giving him a look
that said, “Let it go.” Something in the old man’s eye broke the
floodgates.

First, Muddy spun a lick that turned the
crushed spider into a hyperactive, five-legged demon that just
happened to be attached to his arm. His right hand picked away like
an angry hummingbird, beating through the strings with speed,
precision, and attitude. Then he coaxed a cry out of the guitar
with a nasty bend. Pushing it a little more, it morphed into a
scream.

He fell into that zone, that place where
musicians lose themselves to the world. The music grew until it
surrounded him in a cool, comforting blanket. Notes and melodies
emanating from the Les Paul became who he was, all he thought, all
he breathed.

Everything around him dissipated as he became
the music.

* * * *

The next thing Muddy knew, a strong hand
shook him back to earth. Like waking from a sleep when you’re sick,
the world curled slowly into focus.

Corey’s voice penetrated the fog. “Dude, you
okay?”

“Hey,” someone else called.

“Muddy?” As usual, Poe dragged him back to
earth.

“Yeah,” he answered, not quite sure of where
he was yet.

“What did you just play?” The voice sounded
like Otis.

“I don’t know.” The last thing he remembered,
he was launching into that bend. “I have no clue.” Poe grabbed his
hand.

“What happened to him?” she asked Silver
Eye.

“The River.”

The what?

Chapter
Seven

Otis looked around like he expected a Tsunami
to crash into him at any moment. “Where? He isn’t wet.” He spun to
give his black eyes the 360 degree view. “That dirty old toilet
ain’t a river. The Raritan has more sewage than water. You don’t
need to be Jacques Cousteau to figure out you could
walk
on
that water.”

“It’s not
that
river, you dolts,” the
old man said. “It’s another dimension of creativity; genius, to be
exact. Although, back in my day, it was an actual river.
Anyway
,
even though it’s not a real, water flowing river,
you could get pulled under. In fact, I know of a bunch of folk who
did sink so deep, they never came back out again. You’d probably
know their names—Hendrix, Morrison, Stevie Ray. Hendrix and
Morrison didn’t drown,” he replied, “unless you consider their own
vomit from overdosing as drowning. Amazing artists, but drugged out
of their minds. Stevie cleaned up his act and died in a plane
crash.”

His head swung to and fro like the pendulum
on those old-time grandfather clocks. “The River got to them. Too
much swimming in it. There's never any excuse for the drugs, but
people are human and humans are weak. They got hooked on the River
long before they found the ganga or the spoon. Heck, I even had my
run-ins with them—both addictions, pharmaceutical
and
metaphysical—and look where it left me.”

Muddy didn’t understand. From the looks on
the rest of the band’s faces, he wasn’t alone. “But, you’re a great
musician.”

“Without a pot to pee in. If I'd played it
right, I’d be spinning out records like B.B. and Buddy and even
McCartney. Incredible River, incredible obsession.”

Muddy opened his mouth to delve further, but
something in the old man’s voice told him to zip his lip. “Hey,” he
managed to say. “Look at this.”

In his hand he held a solid silver guitar
pick—the one his brother used. It even had Zack's initials engraved
in it, except this one had teeth marks, deep ones, through most of
the letters.

“Zack’s definitely there. We need to get back
there before he winds up like this.”

The old man whispered so that they barely
heard him. “If he’s not already.”

They gathered their instruments and began the
trek back to Silver Eye’s home. No one spoke or made any noise. It
seemed as though none of them felt any fear of walking through the
worst part of town in the middle of the night with only an old man
for guidance.

One feeling that did register with Muddy was
a tingling of sorts, like each finger and each toe had been shoved
into electrical sockets while his body splashed in water. Weird—he
vibrated
.

The empty streets glowed under the
streetlights. Litter fluttered and danced in the shadows, every
dismal color jumping from wrappers, magazine strips and plain old
newspaper. Oil spots on the asphalt shimmered as though a pot of
gold might await at one end. In the sky, beyond the smoggy clouds,
stars forced themselves through in elaborate
constellations—something they noticed only in a blue moon.

He doubted he was the only one to notice the
change by the silence that blanketed them. For now, they avoided
each other as the space between them spread. Only the bluesman, who
hadn’t said a word since leaving the crossroads, had any spring to
his step.

The night had scared them to their cores.

Muddy felt it had only begun.

* * * *

Silver Eye Watkins sent them home with the
instruments, despite their protests.

“Trust me, you’ll need them,” he said,
without giving any explanation. “Practice on them. It’s not like
they’re something you get at the store.”

Like kids leaving an odd Santa Claus, they
lumbered through the dark, somehow finding their way without
encountering Vince or any other perils. One by one, they slunk away
into their respective homes, dropping Poe off first, everyone
gazing into her windows to make sure her dad wasn’t home. If he
happened to be home early from the bar or the police station,
punches would likely be thrown, first by him, then by one of the
band. The fact that he was a cop and could arrest them didn’t
matter. The man drank so much, chances were he wouldn’t remember
what the heck happened.