Gutbucket Quest (20 page)

Slim nodded his head. “Yeah,” he said. “It seems like it’s been too easy.”

“Easy?” Nadine snorted. “How do you figure that?”

“Well, it’s just that—that when you read about stuff like this in books, adventures and stuff, other worlds, people are always going from one fight to another. There’s always action going on, and danger. The bad guys are always attacking. And if they’re not fighting, they’re stealing something or planning something, talking about something or doing magic.”

“And we haven’t encountered that?” she asked derisively. “The black sedan, the theft of the Gutbucket, the Glory Hand, my abduction—these don’t count?”

Slim had long been a fan of fantasy novels and, like many readers,
considered himself something of an amateur authority on how quests and adventures should be run. “Of course they count! I guess we could call what we’ve been going through, what I’ve gone through, an adventure. Or maybe a quest, after the Gutbucket. But it’s not happening the way it should. It’s too easy and there’s an awful lot of talking and thinking.”

“I
don’t
think so,” Nadine said sternly. “Daddy’s laid up at Belizaire’s, hurt. I was kidnapped and they’ve tried to kill us all a couple of times. And there’s not nearly enough talking and thinking for
my
satisfaction. You call that easy?”

“I dunno. I’ve just got this foreboding that the other side is letting up, and I don’t trust that. We haven’t beaten them, we’ve just foiled them, so far. Something’s missing.”

“Well, then,” Nadine said. “If you don’t know, then what are you worried about? This is real life, baby. It doesn’t go on as you read in books. We
have
been fighting and planning and we
have
been in danger. What more do you want?”

“I don’t know that either, Nadine. I feel like I’m all in pieces. There’s things coming out of me that I’ve never let out before. I’m more together and in better shape than I’ve ever been, but I still feel all in pieces. I need something to grab on to and center around. Something—I mean, I came here from another world on a lightning bolt. I don’t even fucking know if this is all
real.
What happens when it’s over? Do I have to go back there? Am I
dead
in that world, or just gone? I need something to hang on to.”

“Stop the van,” Nadine said.

Slim pulled over to the side of the road and stopped. Nadine got out of her seat and knelt on the floor beside Slim. She looked up at him with almost-tears in her eyes, grabbed his hand and put it under her T-shirt, on her breast.

Like many men who had lived lonely, insecure lives, holding a lover’s breast made him feel secure, safe and loved. Nadine seemed to
understand that. Many women didn’t, or couldn’t. Of course, holding on to a breast usually led to further sexual activities. But there was always that first, all-important contact, that holding on, that search for home and safety and peace.

“Hold on to
me,”
Nadine said. “I won’t let you go back. This is your world, now.
Our
world, and you and I are in it together. This is your life, and this is me,” she said, squeezing his hand against her breast. “I understand more about you than you think I do, so just hold on to me, okay?”

Slim nodded and pulled her close. “I have been,” he said. “I’m just a worrier. I can’t help it. Most of the women in my life have said I wouldn’t be happy if I wasn’t worrying about something.”

“Were you?” Nadine asked.

“Were I what?”

“Happy?”

“No,” he admitted. “I haven’t been happy very much. Making love and playing a good gig is about all that does it for me. Or used to, anyway. I know that when I’m involved with someone, I should be happy, but I can’t be. In my head, I’m always wondering and waiting. How long will it last? How much of my life will I lose when she dumps me? How badly will I have to hurt? Damn it, I know it’s not the right attitude. But, see, I’ve never known anything different. The only way I know how to survive the hurt is to expect it.”

“Oh, Slim,” she said. “That’s no good. That’s rotten.” Nadine’s shoulders slumped. “I’m no better, I guess. The first man I loved hurt me so bad I haven’t loved anyone since. Here I am thirty-one years old and you’re the first genuine lover I’ve ever had. Outside my imagination, anyway. You, at least you kept trying to find love.”

“I
had
to,” he said. “I’m not like you. Maybe I’m not like anyone. You can get by on your own, by yourself. Me, I can’t live without a woman. I can’t survive. My life just goes all to hell and I walk around
like a fuckin’ zombie. I get to the point where my whole life is aimed at finding a woman, any woman, who’ll put up with me for a while. I fall in love with the first woman who attracts me and shows me any attention. And right from the first I know she’s not gonna stay there the rest of my life, that she’s gonna hurt the hell out of me. But there’s no life for me without a woman to share it with. So I keep on throwing myself into the fire.

“The worst mistakes in my life were with women,” he continued. “I’ve ended up penniless and homeless more than once after they’ve gotten rid of me. One time I damn near starved to death, didn’t eat for a month or more. And I remember every woman I’ve ever loved, every tit I’ve ever seen or held or kissed, every time I’ve made love and every hand I’ve ever held.”

Nadine leaned her head against his shoulder and rubbed his belly. “What about me, Slim? How do you feel about you and me?” She could feel him trembling with her touch.

“I love you,” he said. “I love you so much. You know that. And I’m scared shitless. If I lose you, I don’t think I could survive it. I don’t think I’d want to survive it.”

“You wouldn’t, umm,
do
anything to yourself, would you?”

“Suicide?” He laughed bitterly and held up his left wrist. “No. See these scars on my wrist?” There were faint scars following the veins, whiter than his skin and chelated. “Those were from a particularly horrible hurt. But I lived, even though I tried hard not to. Since then, I just don’t have it in me to do anything like that. But see, after you’ve been hurt again and again, you reach a point where you can’t take any more. The hurt gets so bad and so deep that you don’t care if you live or die. I had a friend in my world, called himself Uncle River. He was actually a trained psychiatrist or psychologist or whatever one of those he was. He said that what it is is spiritual, mental, physical and emotional exhaustion. Just using up all your resources
until you’re empty except for the hurt, and then it’s the hurt that keeps you going for some reason. Well, I’ve been on the edge of that for a long time.

“The last woman I was in love with was everything I thought I wanted. She was smart and strong and sexy. Man, she was sexy. Not what she looked like, but what she did and how she did it. She wasn’t what you’d call pretty, I guess, but she had an interesting and a cute face. Sometimes, in the right light she could be real pretty. But she got all tangled up in bullshit and a bad situation. She lied to herself, broke her promises to me, and she was cruel. I mean, she was the most heartless woman I’ve ever met. No compassion at all. Cold as ice and twice as hard to get to pay attention. It damn near killed me.

“And now here I am with you, and you’re the sweetest love of my whole life. I’ve never been able to trust anyone like I do you, or talk to anyone like this. You’re opening me up and it scares me to death.”

“Why?” Nadine asked, puzzled. “Isn’t that good?”

“That’s what people say, I guess. But I’m scared you’ll open me up and I’ll trust you and give you everything, and then you’ll decide you don’t want it. That you’ll trample all over it. And if I give you
everything,
if I don’t hold anything back, then the hurt’ll go right to my heart and kill me deader’n shit.”

“I don’t love that way,” Nadine said angrily. “Nothing would have ever happened between us if I wasn’t ready to go all the way with it. I’m not interested in any other man or any other life. And I want to know what’s inside you. I’ve never needed a man to get by, Slim. But I do need you.”

“That’s what they all say,” Slim blurted without thinking.

Nadine sighed. “I know, baby. But I’m not all of them. I’m just me. I can only tell you how
I
feel. It’s okay to be angry at all the people who have hurt you, but please don’t be angry at me before I’ve even done anything.”

“Aw, you’re right, Nadine. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “It’s even okay if you want to let the hurt and anger out with me. Talk about it. Yell and scream and shout. Break things for all I care. But don’t direct it at me. I’m not going to leave you. I’ll be here whenever you need me. Talk about it. You need to. Let me know when you’re hurt or angry or scared. But talk
with
me, not at me. Don’t chase me off just because you’re expecting something that’s not going to happen.”

“I’ll try, Nadine. It’s just, I’m all fucked up about things. I don’t know anything about love, not really. Lots of times I don’t know
how
I feel.”

“Listen, Slim,” Nadine said firmly. “Maybe you don’t think you know about love. But I’m getting to know
you,
and I think maybe you know more about love than anybody.”

“Well,” Slim said, “I don’t know. It’s very hard to be me, you know. I have this stupid idea in my head of how it’s supposed to be, and I can tell you, it sure isn’t anything like I’ve found in the real world.” He paused, thoughtfully. “Until now,” he said.

18

I have spent my days stringing and unstringing my instrument while the song I came to sing remains unsung.

—Rabindranath Tagore

I
t was two days before the festival. They had talked to Progress regularly on the phone. Belizaire had adopted Stavin’ Chain, and Progress was almost healed except for scabs, aches and pains. Around town, posters had been put up, tickets had been passed out and, at the site, the stage was ready. It had been nearly a week since Nadine had been kidnapped. Aside from going to Mitchell’s to eat, she and Slim had stayed peacefully in her apartment. There had been no further attacks, on anybody.

Slim and Nadine speculated that Pickens was uniting his forces for the festival. Progress said that he was sure Pickens would have the Gutbucket there, somewhere. The man’s ego, Progress said, would not let him do otherwise. Slim raised the issue of trying to find and steal the Gutbucket before the festival, but Progress said the Gutbucket was likely being held in the safest place Pickens could think of, well guarded.

“Where was that?” Slim asked.

“Deep in the helium mines,” Progress said.

“Why didn’t he hide Nadine, then?”

“Two reasons,” Progress replied. “First of all, T-Bone gots a whole special bunch of Vipers that just work in the mines. Blind maybe, no one knows what they are, but they know those Vipers never leave the mine. Chances are, Pickens thought maybe they wouldn’t take too well to havin’ Nadine down there with ’em. And, too, I don’t rightly think Pickens’ idea was to keep Nadine. My thinkin’ is, he was tryin’ to draw you and me in so’s he could kill both of us.”

“Me?” Slim asked. “Why me?” He’d been astounded that Pickens even thought he was
worth
killing.

“Don’t you know, son?” Progress replied. “You the key to all this, somehow.” Progress waved his hand in negation. “No, don’t ask me. I don’t know. But I feels it inside me. And, I’d wager, so does T-Bone. I think even Nadine sees it a little. Son, you don’t have to like it, but there it is and that’s the fact.”

Slim hadn’t been able to deny it, and still wasn’t able to. He could feel it himself. Every person of power he’d met in this world had tested him in some subtle way, had forced him to think or do things that were somehow sideways to where he was. But what he found odd was that, while he didn’t understand it, he accepted it. He was comfortable with it, even liked it in a way. There was that inside him which reveled in the feeling of importance it gave him, like a delightful secret. Not egotism, but wry amusement that someone like him could be a turning point.

Now, though, he wanted to understand it, needed to know why. So he and Nadine were on the road again, headed to Elijigbo’s. It seemed to Slim that if anyone knew, Elijigbo would. There was something about the man that fascinated Slim, while at the same time frightening him. But Elijigbo knew more than he had said, and Slim wanted answers.

He pulled the van up, finally, in front of Fluorescent City, but he didn’t get out. He sat in the seat, staring straight ahead.

“Slim.”

He turned. Nadine was looking at him, concern clear in her eyes and expression.

“Yeah, I know,” he said tiredly. “I know. I’m just not sure.”

“Of what?”

“I don’t know if I really want answers to my questions. I don’t even know if Elijigbo
has
any answers.”

“What are you scared of
this
time?” Nadine asked.

Slim blushed, but answered. “I don’t know,” he said shaking his head in doubt. “I’ve been going along here, thinking I was important. Then Progress tells me that I’m the key to all this. I don’t want to find out that it’s just an accident, just my being here, you know. I guess I’m a lot like you. I want to know that it’s
me,
something I can
do.
Not just the fact that I exist.”

“What makes you think it isn’t?” Nadine said. “Besides, you’re never going to find out anything sitting here, so go on and get your raggedy ass moving.”

He hadn’t told her or anyone about his conjecture that the enemy was not trying to kill him, because he wasn’t sure that was so. But if it
was
so, then he was important, not necessarily as a person, but because he occupied a particular role. He had some power of the blues, it was said, and he had been brought here because of that. T-Bone didn’t want to have to deal with whatever would replace him, if he died here. Thus he was leading, perhaps, a charmed life, because of no virtue of his own. But that wouldn’t protect Progress or Nadine or anyone else—and that scared Slim. Was he in fact a curse on them, bringing them danger they didn’t understand? Would it be better for them if he did depart this world? He just couldn’t bring himself to share the guilt of this speculation with Nadine, yet.

. . .

They sat waiting in one of the small white houses this time. The interior was a riot of color. The walls were entirely acovered with intricately detailed paintings, in bright hues and a realistic style, paintings which reflected and pondered the religious foundation of the community. Floors were decorated with braided rag rugs and every table and shelf was topped with fresh flowers. No corner, no niche, no forgotten square inch was allowed to go colorless. It was almost enough to hurt Slim’s eyes.

“Aha.” The resonant voice made them jump. “It’s the hardheaded woman and the softhearted man. Greetings, Nadine. Greetings, Slim. Welcome to my home.”

“Hello, Elijigbo,” Slim said, after he had calmed down, “I’ve come to ask a few questions.”

“Ah, yes. I rather thought you would get around to me. Very well then, ask your questions. I will answer with what truth I know.”

Slim hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy, so that, now, he wasn’t sure what to ask. “There’s so much I want to know,” he said. “How I got here, what I need to do, why I seem to be so important in all this. Questions I don’t even know how to ask.”

“Yes, I can see that your mind is troubled. Well, then,” Elijigbo said, beaming a wide, dangerous smile. “As to how you got here, I suppose I brought you.”

“
You?”
Slim said, stunned and absurdly unsurprised. “Why? How? I mean—”

“Wait. Wait,” Elijigbo interrupted him. “Perhaps if I explain a little of who we are and what we are and what we believe, you will be able to understand the answers to your questions. Be patient, please, for I must tell the tale in my own way.”

Slim caught Nadine’s eye. She was as surprised as he was, though perhaps for a different reason. Would Elijigbo confirm Slim’s guilt?

“We are, as you know, the Torriero called Fluorescent City. The name is my own vanity for the modern world. Our lives, such as they are, seem simple to us, and are the way we want them. We raise goats and chickens, sell the eggs. We bake and fry bread and sell that, as well. Many of our men and women weave cloth to sell, and many more go outside the walls to gain knowledge and work at outside jobs. It may seem to you, seeing us like this, that we are isolated, but that is untrue. We have many friends and interests outside these walls. But inside, ah, inside we desire a community which is dedicated to our Gods and our own way of life which we have lived for thousands of years.

“Our Gods, what we call the Orishas, they dance with us, talk with us and are a fact of our lives. Oshum, the Orisha of sweet water, of freshness, love and the sea. Yansan of the wind, the trees and the sunlight. Shango, Orisha of lightning, storms and of sex between men and women. There are these, and many more of their brothers and sisters, whom we honor each day of our lives. Our people dance and let the Orishas ride them, so that we can live and enjoy our Gods coming to dance with us.”

Elijigbo fingered the strand of rough, reddish-black beads that hung around his neck. Beads similar to those worn by all the people of the Torriero. “These beads are a sign of which Orisha favors us,” he continued. “Each person is favored by a single Orisha, and never any other, though the Orishas may favor many people at the same time. We seek energy. We seek power. A bead, a rock, a song or a dance, the way you play an instrument, all those things and many more have ways to increase energy and power if you know how to search. Do you understand this?”

Slim and Nadine nodded their heads. It was strange concept, but Slim was able to relate it to other religions from his own world that he knew about.

“Very well, then,” Elijigbo said. “One of the duties we owe the Orishas, is to hear their warnings of trouble and to use the power they
give us to prevent great evils. Not cruelty, for the Gods are often cruel and that is life and the way it is to be lived. But evil. For evil magic is far easier than good magic, so very many people choose a dark path to power. It is our responsibility, as the people of the Orishas, to combat those people and those choices.

“Progress has long been a friend of the Torriero. He is not quite a believer,” Elijigbo chuckled, “though there is still hope. But he is a good man who stands with respect for the Orishas. We know, also, of the Gutbucket, of the man whose spirit became an Orisha. It has become a legend for us here, a thing never before seen. So we have, with Progress’ permission, studied it, and talked much about it, trying to understand.

“Many months ago, our Houngans felt a disturbance among the Orishas, centered around the Gutbucket. We knew that evil was trying to touch the power of the Gutbucket. We asked the Orishas to come among us and advise us. Only Shango of the lightning came, only he would talk to us. He told us of a man in the other world, the world we know in dreams. A man who, not knowing Shango by name, nevertheless honored and loved him. This man, Shango told us, could take hold of the power and defeat the evil with it. We asked Shango to bring this man to us, to our world from the other. And so, here you are.”

“Me?” Slim asked. “But—what do I have to do with this Shango? I don’t have any religion.”

Elijigbo smiled. “Do you not? Truly? No matter. Each person in the world—your world, too, for Candomble lives there as well. Each person is drawn to the qualities of one of the Orishas. You will see it in their behavior, in their passions and their fascinations. Are you yourself not unusual in your lusts and loving? More ardent, more needful? And have you not loved the lightning, listened to its voice, watched it, walked in it, understood it and tried to take it into your heart and spirit?”

“Yeah,” Slim said. “That’s true. I
do
love the lightning. And I am pretty odd sexually. At least that’s what everyone has always told me. But still—”

“Can you not believe?” Elijigbo asked, looking Slim in the eyes. “It is a simple thing. You are here. Shango brought you.”

Slim was forced to believe. There was the bare possibility that there could be some other explanation. But it was
very
bare. The things Elijigbo said had to be true, just by process of elimination. The facts stared him in the face. He was here, in Tejas, and he had been brought here by a lightning bolt named Shango, evidently. “But what about me?” he asked. “Don’t I have any choice in this? What about Nadine? Was that arranged by Shango, too?”

“Of course you have a choice,” Elijigbo replied. “Are you not a free man, with your own decisions? It was only for one moment, a moment I think you must have asked for, when you were brought to our world. Only in that one moment did Shango control your fate. From that moment on, the things you did were your own choices. As to Nadine, she is favored strongly by Yansan of the wind. And does not Yansan always accompany Shango, coming before and after, moving the storm and carrying the sweet smell of the rain?”

“Okay,” Slim said. “I’ll buy all this so far. But what am I supposed to do with all this? I mean, I’ve got the will, but I can’t find my way.”

“Ah.” Elijigbo drew the sighing exclamation out. “That is the most difficult thing, you see. But there will come a time when the spirit of the man who became an Orisha is in your hands. We have seen this. The Gutbucket will be yours. But the man who became an Orisha favors all instead of one. He is a perverse and troublesome Orisha, and must be brought under control. That will be
your
fight, but you cannot do the combat alone, for more rests upon the battle than simple control over the power. To be victorious, you must see the moment and open your heart to Shango. Shango also is a difficult Orisha. He favors very few, very rarely. It has been more than three centuries
since Shango has favored any human, in the Torriero or outside the walls. Our records tell us this. So you must open your heart to him and let his power work through you. Only in this way will the evil be defeated and only in this way will you emerge victorious.”

“But,” Slim said, “how can I let Shango—how can I let him
possess
me? I can’t stop being me. I
won’t
stop being me.”

“No” Elijigbo was obviously angry. Then the hardness melted from his face. “Pardon me,” he said. “I realize that you do not understand. This is not a matter of possession. That is an evil act, not an act of freedom. The Orisha will
share
your body for a time. You will not be pushed out or controlled. You will know what is happening and you will be in control of the dance. Shango will only share his power with you. The Orishas only ride us, they do not control us. In our love for them, we share our world and our lives, we share the dance and the music, so that in their power, they do not forget what it is to be human, and so that in our humanness, we do not forget the greater powers of the world and of life.”