Hold Your Fire

by Lisa Mangum

  Matt threw a denim trucker jacket over his 1979 Waylon tour shirt and headed out to his beat-up old pickup truck. He didn’t have time to spare but was desperate to impress the label. Songwriting contracts were few, far, and in-between, and he couldn’t screw up now.

  The old beater came to life, and the radio blared Charlie Daniels’s “The Devil Went Down to Georgia.” Matt sang along as he eased the pickup forward. “Fire on the mountain. Run, boys, run!”

  It was a cool spring night, and Matt drove across town with the windows cracked. He couldn’t help but think about his grandfather and how he’d spent all those years playing his heart out to sparse crowds in dive bars across Texas. His grandfather was one of the best guitar players he’d ever seen—one of the best songwriters too, he thought. That said, for the life of him, he couldn’t remember one of his tunes. He knew his grandfather was great, but he couldn’t recall a single verse to one of his songs—not a hook or even a melody. That always stuck with him, and he felt bad about it.

  Matt shut the radio off and let his mind wander, hoping it would attach to a feeling or memory that might shift into a song, but nothing came. He tried whistling a melody and drummed his hands against the steering wheel as he pulled into the deserted parking lot. It was a pretty catchy tune, he thought, before realizing it was the Charlie Daniels song he’d just heard.

  “That ol’ muse better be right,” Matt said to himself. He grabbed his guitar and slammed the door shut. He didn’t bother to lock it. The key to the door only worked half the time these days, and he wished any would-be thief luck in figuring out how to time the ignition just right in order for the engine to turn over.

  His scuffed-up dingo boots beat a leathery rhythm along the sidewalk to the weird landmark. Matt always wondered why someone would build a restored version of the Parthenon in the middle of Tennessee; it’d never made any sense to him.

  He sighed as he adjusted the straps of his gig bag along his shoulders and bounded up the steps to the replica temple.

  Strange no one is out tonight, he thought.

  He tested the colossal glass door to the Parthenon and found that it was still open—which didn’t come as much of a surprise since a minor Greek deity had just recommended he check the place out.

  A single bright light shone down on a man in the middle of the wide open room framed in Doric columns. He wore a blue-and-white embroidered Nudie Suit like the old country-and-western stars used to wear. The kind with all the ornate embroidery and sparkling rhinestones. The man stood on the base of the forty-two-foot tall statue of Athena and commanded Matt’s full attention.

  On second thought—Matt realized it wasn’t a man at all. But it sure was something like one. A saccharine-smiling, sparkly-eyed, something or other with a white hat and dark boots. Sure, he looked human, but something about his presence told Matt he wasn’t. He’d been around big personalities before—like that time he served Dolly Parton a pig in a blanket at a party he worked at when he was between jobs. Her laugh could fill a room like no one he’d ever been around before, but even that was nothing compared to whatever this guy was throwing off.

  “Heard you have you a shot at the big time, son!” the man said. He worked a piece of gum between his teeth as if it owed him money.

  “Yeah,” Matt said. He wrapped his hands around the straps of his gig bag and pulled them tight across his shoulders. “I think I do.”

  The man hopped off the base of the statue and swaggered toward him. If Matt didn’t know any better—and he didn’t—he’d have thought the light followed him.

  “Now whatcha got in the bag on your back? Lemme take a look-see.”

  It reminded Matt of the time he went to one of those big-tent revival things where a preacher from who knows where trotted down the aisle to ask him if he’d been saved. Then, not twenty seconds later, he started to whirl around the row behind him to hit up the crowd for money.

  “Just my guitar,” he said. “Figure I’d need it if we’re going to write a song.”

  “Matthew Webster.” The man clapped and beamed a hundred-watt smile. “You humble-talking so-and-so!” He doubled over with what sounded to Matt like the fakest laugh he’d ever heard. He even slapped his knee while he did it. “Now, I know what you got in there. Our mutual friend already told me. A ’59 Tele? Can I see it? Let me see it!”

  He kept walking forward, only now his arms were outstretched, making grabby hands.

  Who is this guy? Matt thought. He’d known his muse for the better part of five years. They’d shared a lot of songwriting sessions together. Deep, soul-bonding sessions. Those don’t just happen—you had to be vulnerable. Matt had shown the muse his soul. Surely he wouldn’t steer him wrong, not in his time of need.

  “Yeah, sure,” Matt said. He begrudgingly slid the bag from his back and unzipped it.

  “Blonde with a white pickguard,” the man said. He whistled as he turned the guitar over in his hands. “Almost looks gold, don’t it?”

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “Everyone thinks so, but it’s just the in-house factory color—at least that’s what my grandpa said. Pretty sure they only made them in that and sunburst.”

  “Mm-mm-mm,” the man said. “It sure is a beaut.”

  “Thanks,” Matt replied and reached out to take it back. It always made him nervous whenever anyone touched it. Aside from its monetary value, Matt had put in tens of thousands of hours on the guitar and guarded it with his life.

  “Now, hold on,” the man said. “Hold on. I understand you’ve come here tonight in search of a song. Is that right?”

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Matt replied.

  “And your muse is on strike?”

  “Yep.”

  “Ain’t no words a-comin’?”

  “Yes,” Matt said. “I mean, no.”

  “Ain’t that a sonuvagun?” the man said and chomped away at his gum like he was punishing a lost soul, and his mouth was hell itself.

  Matt started to sweat. The man in the Nudie Suit was raising more red flags than the entire Communist Party.

  “Okay, boss,” the man said. “I can tell you’re uneasy. Let me just hand this back to you and let you hang onto it.” He gingerly passed the Tele back to Matt.

  The man took off his hat and dabbed his brow with a sequin-spangled handkerchief. “Now, son, I’ve seen ’em come, and I’ve seen ’em go. Listen here, young man. This town will make gods out of God-fearing men. You hear me?”

  The man gazed at Matt with an openmouthed grin that let him know he wouldn’t speak again until Matt said something.

  “Yeah,” Matt said. “I hear you.”

  “Let me tell you somethin’, Mat-thew Web-stah! You got it. You got that X factor everyone wants to see. You just need that song!” The man made a sweeping motion with his hand and looked out into the ether. “That opening melody that sets hearts aloft. That punch line at the end of the chorus that sets eyes a-cryin’! That bridge, that gentle bridge that’ll make a man rethink his whole entire life, every decision he’s ever made.” His attention snapped back to Matt. “How’s that sound, Matt Webster?”

  Matt blinked. “That sounds … really good. That’s exactly what I’m going for.”

  The man ducked dramatically like someone just shot off a twelve-gauge shotgun. “That’s exactly what I’m going for, he says.” He clapped his hands one time. “That’s exactly what I’m going for!” He clapped his hands again. “Son, that’s what I like to hear.”

  The man hunched over and waved Matt to him conspiratorially. “Now come close to me, boy, come near.”

  He looked Matt in the eye and dropped his smile for the first time since Matt had walked in. “Now, you may ask yourself, what is the price of such a celestial gift?”

  “Fire on the mountain. Run, boys, run!” The lyrics stampeded through Matt’s brain, and his heart pumped so much adrenaline through his body he could barely stand still.

  “No,” Matt said. “I hadn’t been asking myself that. My
muse and I were talking, and he said there would be someone here to help me.”

  The man looked wounded. “Oh, but there is. I’m right here. Your savior in bright shining sequined tailoring.” He took off his hat and held his arms out wide.

  Matt doubted a savior would have such a bad comb-over, but that deadline was looming large, and he was clearly in the presence of a higher power. Why not hear him out? Besides, he didn’t want to anger a celestial being. Not on a Tuesday night.

  “Okay,” Matt said. “Let me hear it; it’s time for the close. What’s the price for the song?”

  The man wagged his finger. “Nuh-uh-uh, not just any song.” He started strutting around, flapping his arms and doing some sort of chicken dance.

  Frankly, it was embarrassing to watch, and Matt found himself looking around to make sure they really were the only two people there.

  “The song of the year,” the man shouted. “A song they’ll never forget. Wouldn’t that be something, boy?” The man flashed his pearly whites. If Matt didn’t know any better—and he didn’t—he’d have thought one even glinted cartoonishly. “Don’t you want to watch people rush the dance floor for that one slow dance when they hear the opening notes? Don’t you wanna watch people hold each other tighter as the chorus kicks in?”

  “Yes!” Matt yelled. “Of course I do! Just tell me what you want!”

  The man leaned back on his heels and smirked.

  Matt knew he’d just played into the man’s hands, but he’d do anything—anything short of selling his soul. No, he’d make sure to keep that for himself.

  The man made prayer hands under his chin. “All you have to do—”

  Here it comes, Matt thought.

  “Is hand over—”

  Don’t say “soul,” Matt thought.

  “That guitar.”

  What? Matt had been so focused on his immortal soul that he’d somehow forgotten about his one prized possession. The guitar he’d spent decades watching his grandfather play. The guitar he’d spent thousands of hours playing himself. The one thing he had left of his grandfather that connected them more than anything else.

  But it was just a thing, right? This was his dream. This was a new life, potentially. It wasn’t a trick. If a god said they’d do something, they’d do it.

  Right? They were a god, after all.

  Right.

  Probably.

  Matt kicked himself for not being better versed in mythology. Did gods normally keep their promises?

  “Well,” Matt said, “how about I just let you borrow it for a while?”

  The man in the Nudie Suit doubled over with fake laughter again, only this time, he bent all the way down the floor and slapped his hand against it for effect. After what seemed like forever, he finally stood back up and wiped his eyes with the sequined handkerchief. “Now, that was funny. You sure you don’t want to be a comedian?”

  The man had that look on his face again. The one where Matt could tell he wasn’t going to talk until Matt said something.

  “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  The man rubbed his hands together. “Okay, then, what will it be?”

  Matt closed his tear-filled eyes and thrust the guitar forward before he could talk himself out of it. He felt the weight leave his hands, and soon, heard the man strum a chord.

  He blinked and stared at the floor for a moment before something caught his attention. He initially thought the man had been wearing dark boots, but those weren’t boots at all—they were hooves.

  He scanned slowly upward and saw that the man was no longer holding his grandfather’s guitar but a set of panpipes—and he had horns on his head … and a beard.

  He looked awfully familiar with that beard. Even more so after he donned a pair of aviator sunglasses.

  It was his muse.

  The man laughed.

  “Why?” Matt asked. “Why would you—How could you?”

  The Greek god Pan stepped forward and put his hand on Matt’s shoulder. He wasn’t sure how he knew it was Pan; it was like the god’s transformed presence informed his soul—and not in a warm and comforting way.

  “Son,” Pan said, “in five years, did you ever think to look up what exactly a muse is? Or more to the point—who they are?”

  Embarrassment mixed with the anger and sadness broiling inside Matt. Why hadn’t he researched the minor deity who had visited him periodically? It was clear from the first night that the muse was otherworldly, so why wouldn’t Matt try to find out more about him?

  And, maybe more troubling, why was Pan asking Matt that question right now?

  “No,” Matt said. “I didn’t.”

  “Yeah, that’s obvious, Matthew. It was more of a rhetorical question, to be honest. The muses are the daughters of Mneme and Zeus. Daughters, kid. That was the dead giveaway.”

  Matt didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything. He remembered something someone once told him about being a star on stage. It’s all about how you look when you’re nervous. The greats look like they take the stage the same as they’d stroll into their living room.

  “Aw, don’t look like that, son,” Pan said.

  “Don’t look like what? I just found out I’ve been tricked by a Greek god on the most important night of my life, and worse, I just traded away my favorite thing in the whole world—” Matt cut himself off. He was getting choked up, and he didn’t want the man—the muse—the god, whatever, to see him cry.

  “There, there, now,” Pan said. “I’ll admit, I pulled one over on you.” He took a step back to collect himself, but still laughed. “I mean, you bought that the muses were on strike, like it was some sort of Santa’s elves situation—”

  “Are you telling me Santa Claus is real?”

  “What?” Pan said. “No! No, son, that’s ridiculous. Santa’s not real.”

  It wasn’t that ridiculous, Matt thought. He was talking to the immortal god of the wild, a guy with horns and hooves—and a stupid flute. He’d always hated panpipes, but doubly so now.

  “Listen, kid,” Pan said. “I wasn’t lying when I said I like you. I do. Now, your granddaddy, not so much, but you—I like.”

  “You knew my grandpa?”

  “Hell yeah, I knew your grandpap. You know that Charlie Daniels song?”

  “‘Devil Went Down to Georgia’?”

  “Yeah, that’s the one!”

  “You going to tell me you gave that one to Charlie?”

  “Hell no,” Pan said. “No, son. That was about me and your grandpap.”

  “What? No, it wasn’t. It was about a fiddle player.”

  “No, it weren’t,” Pan said with a lilt at the end of the grammatically incorrect sentence. “Ol’ Charlie Daniels played the fiddle, so he probably felt like he made it his own with that tweak of the story. No, truth be told, I got to drinkin’ one night at this old honky-tonk, and there was this band playing. They was as hot as an afternoon summer sun in Waco. And I mean to tell ya, kid, your granpap was just pickin’ fire all night long. Well, anyway, I got a little jealous, as I tend to get from time to time, and before I knew it, I’d hopped up on the bandstand and challenged your grand old man to a guitar duel.

  “From there, it went pretty much how the song played out except it was in Texas instead of Georgia, but Charlie probably thought that tweak made it his own too. I mean, it’s a great song, so he’s allowed some poetic license.”

  “Wait,” Matt said, “Charlie Daniels was there?”

  “Yeah, son,” Pan said. “It was the seventies. Musicians were everywhere.”

  “But it’s about the devil, not Pan,” Matt pointed out.

  “You gotta admit,” Pan said. “Devil sounds better.”

  Matt scrunched his face and shrugged. “That’s true.”

  “Plus,” Pan said, “the hooves and the horns—eh, it could be confusing.”

  Matt nodded; the god had a point. “Just want to make sure I have this straight,” he said. “You turned your pipes in
to a guitar.”

  “That’s right,” Pan said.

  “Then you challenged my grandpa to a guitar duel and lost.”

  “You got it.”

  “You wanted your pipes back, so you pretended to be my muse for five years?”

  “Yep,” Pan said.

  Matt scratched his head and exhaled a deep breath. “Talk about your long cons.”

  Pan shrugged. “Five years ain’t that long for me, and truth be told, I enjoyed the company. Also, I cursed your grandpap after that. He could be the best guitar player in the world, but no one would ever remember a single thing he wrote or sang ever again.”

  “What?” Matt exclaimed.

  Memories of his grandfather pouring his heart out through those strings flooded his mind. All those years of blood, sweat, and toil—for nothing. Just because one night he bested a drunk, old, goaty-looking god.

  “Yeah,” Pan said. “I kinda feel bad about that. That’s part of why I helped you out here and there, but now it’s time for me to move on.”

  Matt rubbed his hands over his face. “I can’t believe this.”

  “Just the cost of doing business, kid. At least I didn’t turn him into a swan or nothin’.” Pan snapped his fingers. “But before I go …” He chirped a riff across his annoying, reedy pipes and called forth thunder.

  Smoke billowed throughout the temple—the same smoke that reminded Matt of those old honky-tonks he’d visited with his grandfather.

  A beautiful woman stepped through the haze. Dressed in jeans and one of those understated designer jackets that look subtly amazing and cost, like, four thousand dollars. She grinned at Matt and passed something to Pan.

  “Calliope, Matt—Matt, Calliope,” Pan said, introducing the two. “Now, this is what a real muse looks like, by the way.”

  “Hi,” Matt said. “Need a job?”

  Calliope waggled her fingers in a wave before stepping back into the mist.

  “Thanks, darlin’,” Pan said.

  “You owe me,” her trailing voice replied.

  Pan laughed, shook his head, and hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “We trade back and forth all the time. Here, take this.” The god held what looked like a phone out toward Matt.