Dark Muse (10 page)

Oh, crap
. “They all found the
crossroads?”

Silver Eye nodded. “They found at least
one
of them.”

“But—”

“Shh!!” he admonished, getting louder,
irritated. “Just
listen.
”

Silver Eye circled the room, setting off the
cat, kicking the chair where the dog obviously hid behind. The old
creature howled and took off running. He mumbled an apology to both
animals. “This is where it gets real. This is science, boy. At
least, it starts there. I have no idea where it ends up.”

“Wait,” Muddy interrupted. “You’re
saying—”

“Yeah,” he said, “there are
many
crossroads and they work both ways.”

The look on Muddy’s face must have said it
all.

“I know you don’t get it. And I hope you
never do.”

* * * *

By the time Poe, Otis and Corey arrived, old
man Watkins and Muddy had immersed themselves in training. He
barked out directions and the guitarist followed.

“Play a line in D pentatonic, first
position.”

“Bend that F up to a G, barely.”

“Add some vibrato. No! Don’t shake like
you’re carrying the smallest bladder in history. Use your body to
move the note. Pretend like you have more rhythm than week old road
kill.”

And on it went.

When the bluesman finally took a break from
wringing Muddy through the Jedi-like guitar boot camp, they noticed
that the others had gathered round, watching them like a musical
freak show. All sat around Silver Eye’s sorry excuse for a living
room, slack-jawed and ready to burst out laughing, but had enough
respect for Watkins to hold off until he’d finished with their
friend.

“Wow,” Otis crowed. “Luke Skywalker rides the
short bus to Bluesville.”

Flames of embarrassment burned Muddy’s
cheeks, knowing even Poe couldn’t keep from grinning ear to ear. So
deep in the music, he must have seemed nuttier than a politician
without
the lobotomy.

“Shut it, Q-tip.”

He only pulled that term of endearment out
when the drummer really got to him, but his brain was flat-out
fried. Otis sported a mini-afro of black on his skinny head,
skinnier neck, and slim frame. Once, when the band had been
swimming, he’d toweled off and Muddy found himself cracking up with
the image of a life-size Q-tip—
after
someone had cleaned
their filthy ear with it. Thankfully, the joke had remained in
their little group and his family, after his mom had overheard.

“Oooh,” he said and whistled. “Now we know
this is serious training.”

Once again, the old man slammed his
non-coffee cup. “Don’t you kids take anything seriously?”

Poe, the voice of reason, spoke up. “Sir,”
she cooed, “no offense, but with all we deal with on a daily basis,
if I didn’t crack up or let these boneheads crack me up, my brain
would have skipped town by now.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, as most did when
she spoke. “But if you aren’t fully ready for what lies ahead in
that place, you might as well get the nails ready for your own
coffin.”

She nodded and added, “I’ll be as ready as
possible for this, I promise you. However, I’ve also had those
nails for a long time.”

Muddy wondered if she could see the
incredibly odd look he gave her at that moment, but somehow he
doubted she would be surprised at anyone’s reaction to her words.
At least, to anyone who knew her.

“So, why did you guys come here? Was it that
obvious where I’d go?” Muddy stared incredulously at his
friends.

“Actually,” Poe said, “we’re kind of
surprised you made it here alone safely.”

The old man clapped his big hands. “So, since
we’re all comfy and opening up like babbling babes, it might be a
good idea to shut your yaps and get practicing. You’re gonna need
it.”

Poe glared at him, but likely knew the old
guy was only egging them on.

So they continued, playing alone, playing in
pairs, playing in as many permutations as possible. Unlike the
music on the “other side,” no matter how they blazed or hooked into
a groove, nothing magical happened.

“But, why?” Corey asked. “We’re playing the
same way as last night, even better some times. Does it only work
over there?”

“And if it does only work over there,” Otis
chucked in his two cents, “why the heck are we practicing here when
we can’t see what it does?”

If that mug slammed one more time, Muddy
expected shards to shatter into a cloud across the room. At least,
if Silver Eye’s stare didn’t burn it straight out of the air.

“Better watch your mouth little man. It might
get you killed some day.”

Of course, that only set the drummer off
more. “You threatening me?” he asked, twirling a stick as he
sauntered over to the man’s chair. “Cause if you are, let me know
now. I stopped taking crap a long time ago and stopped caring way
before that.”

The stare continued for a tense moment, then
Silver Eye cracked a smile. Guttural laughter ensued, which soon
shook the bluesman’s entire body. “You guys are a little young to
be such fatalists, don’t you think? Personally, I think that if you
saw what’s
really
in charge over there, you’d pee on
yourselves in a heartbeat and pray to whoever makes your world go
round.”

Corey stepped up, acting as the bodyguard
again, but maybe this old man wasn’t what he seemed. “You don’t
scare me. So, I’ll ask you only once, please show
us
a
little respect. We don’t see much of it, but after last night, I
think we deserve it.”

“Last night?” Silver Eye asked, face
cracking, obviously holding back. “Are you kidding me? If you went
there alone, you’d be in pieces right now.”

“We kicked those things’ butts!” Otis
chirped. “Even you saw that.”

“Such an ignorant fool, little drummer boy.
Did you think you’d be alive right now if I hadn’t shown you what
to do?” His dark, wizened hand held up the mug. “Do you think you’d
figure out how to whip those chest beaters without my help?”

“Okay, Obi-Wan.” Otis backed away, though he
kept eye contact. “You made your point, but make sure you know
we’re not a bunch of wusses here.”

“If you want respect, if you want me to take
you seriously, finish your training here. Your brother, if he’s
still alive, will still be kicking for another couple of days. You
wouldn’t go into Iraq without knowing how to drive a tank, shoot a
machine gun, know who the enemy was, or even venture into the
country’s boundaries without a map, would you?”

“This isn’t Iraq,” Poe said. She had lost a
cousin there, the only relative she’d truly gotten along with.
“This is a forest with some goons stumbling around. Big
difference.”

“Girl,” he said, leaning back in his
recliner, face softening, though his gaze never wavered. “Whatever
you know about the crossroads, it’s
nothing
like the Middle
East. It’s
nothing
like
anything
on any map. What you
experienced last night was just a tease of the real thing.”

“I thought we were here to be trained like
little Jedis, not listening to some mumbo-jumbo about your
adventures.”

Silver Eye just hung back, taking it all in,
biding his time. “You kiddies done now? There’s so much wine, but
where’s the cheese?”

If anyone else got the joke, they didn’t show
it. “My mom used to use that line on me. Took me a few years to get
it.” Muddy’s face almost allowed a grin.

“Used to?” Silver Eye asked. “You finally
stopped annoying her?”

“No, she died this past year.” His heart
hitched in his chest. Even joking didn’t cut the pain. “Unless my
prayers get a great long distance plan, I don’t think I’m bugging
her anymore.”

“Son, moms
always
hear. Don’t matter
where they are. I’m sure mine has wanted to use those angel wings
to fly on down here and give me a whuppin’ for so many of the
things I’ve done in my life.”

Muddy wondered,
if only she knew what we
were getting ourselves into…

“Muddy,” Otis said. “Your mom would kick
yours if she found out about last night.”

“Keep it up, Q-tip,” Muddy replied, “and I’ll
let big Maggie in on what
you
do.”

Otis’ mom was a nice woman, but not easily
fooled. Cross her once and you might only have endure the “tongue
of hellfire.” Cross her twice and you’d likely end up with mental
scars that would leave you drooling, trembling and scared of your
shadow for life.

“Anyway,” Silver Eye continued, “getting back
to un-reality here, you need to know a little story about the
crossroads before we go any farther. If there’s to be a journey, a
funky trek deep into that other world where most humans have never
returned to talk about, then you need to sit your tails down and
listen to my little yarn from when I was younger.”

“And had both eyes?” Otis just
had
to
ask.

The mug missed the top of his head by
inches.

“Okay,” the drummer said, still ducking.
“We’re waiting.”

Chapter Nine

Sucking in a deep breath, Silver Eye leaned
forward and began his trip down memory lane. Muddy could swear that
when he first spoke, the look in his eye seemed twenty years
younger.

“Back in ’45, right after they shipped my
crack home from Germany.”

Otis lean in, staring. “Hold up the pooch
here. You were in World War Two? But you look—”

Silver Eye waved him off. “The River does
many things to many people, some good, some not so.”

Muddy nodded at the others. World War Two
vets tended to be about ninety. This guy couldn’t be a day past
sixty-five.

“Anyway,” Silver Eye continued, disturbed by
something in his memory, “the only thing I could find that would
give me money to eat and live in a shack was music. Playing this
harp, some guitar, singing, whatever. It got me through when this
country said only white veterans were eligible for the pampered
treatment.

“Anyways, I digress. So there I was, pulling
in the big nickels and dimes at night, slinging away at the blues
in clubs that would have us. By us, I mean any group of musical
misfits we could slap together into something that sounded
good.”

“But how’d
you
learn about the
crossroads and that place?”

“Will you shut your trap already?”

The rest of them just sat and waited. Muddy
knew something would spill from those old lips that would gear them
up for Zack’s rescue, and scare the heck out of them as well. All
color sunk from the man’s eye, when the tide washing away from a
moonless beach.

* * * *

“The one steady band that rocked the pants
off most of Jersey had this guitarist, Tommy Houston,” Silver Eye
began. “This dude, he burned the finish off the fretboard. When he
took a header into the River, it was Olympic. With one foot in that
deep blue and the other on the pulse of the rhythm section, that
man balanced heaven and earth, good and evil, blue and the blackest
black in his hands. His mind was a direct connection to the power
source of the other side. Of course, that irritated whoever was in
charge over there, but I’ll get to that soon enough.

“I finally stopped him one night in the back
alley. Asked him how he did it. True, he was talented, but heck, we
all were. You had to be the cream on top of the cream just to get a
gig back then. But one day, about six months before we spoke about
it
, everything changed. He went from everyday workman-type
blues guitarist to slam-bam wunderkind. It’s like he suddenly
became a new person. We let it go long as we could then I
broke.

“What happened to you, man?’ I said.

“‘
What ‘chu talking ‘bout, one eye?’ He
regarded me, not like a friend, but more of a child facing a wise
old professor.

“It’s Silver Eye, Houston,” I said, “and you
know what I’m talking about. You on something?’

“He just chuckled. Kinda like a kid who finds
a hundred dollar bill on the street every day. ‘Yep, but not what
you think. Ain’t no wacky weed or snuff or voodoo queen. Found
myself a new spring for my soul. My own little fountain of youth,
but it juices my playing, like setting my muse on fire.’

“‘
You
must
be on something,’ I
said. ‘If you’re serious,
show
me, don’t snow
me.’

“He shook his head. ‘Can’t man, can’t. This
comes with a price, and it ain’t one you pay off with cash. This
can be bad.’

“‘
Man, you gotta bring me to this
guy.’

“‘
Ain’t no guy. It’s a
place
. A
special
place.’

“I grabbed hold of him, thinking of my
rumbling belly, empty pockets and shoes with no sole. ‘
Tell
me,
’” I said: ‘I can’t live like this no more. I play music for
food. It was easier dodging grenades and tracer bullets than
fending off rats at
American
restaurants and grocers. C’mon,
man.
Tell me.
’

“He inhaled, deep as if he were about to sink
to the bottom of some ocean—or if he was already there. Air or
water, didn’t seem to matter which filled his lungs at that point.
Then he stared right through me as if he saw something far away,
something that both amazed and frightened the crap out of him.

“He nodded and agreed to take me there, but
refused to talk about it until we reached the destination. We
walked the same path you all did last night, he with his guitar and
me with my harp in my pocket, right to where the trails crossed.
Houston stopped a few steps short of where we played. Only one set
of footprints marked the spot and I knew then and there that he was
the only man who knew of its power—at least around here—at the
time.

“‘
Watkins,’ he said, ‘I know this
sounds wacky, but we’re standing right there on that X and we’re
gonna play like our lives depend on it. Mine does and yours could,
too.’