by David Simms
“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.
Instead of crumbling and walking away like at a baseball game, he swallowed it whole.
His gaze locked onto the old man's and dug harder into the rhythm. His fingers scurried up the neck in fiery cascade that ended in a screaming bend before falling back into the groove. The others followed suit and upped the tempo, and intensity.
After about a minute passed, it happened.
One moment, his gaze was pasted onto Silver Eye, matching him lick for lick in the song. The next, the landfill began to quiver behind the old guy. Muddy’s legs buckled as he attempted to focus his vision.
What happened to Zack was now happening to them.
The tingling intensified, as if a million tiny bugs dug into his skin and danced to some hyper speed song. It didn’t hurt, but it didn’t feel great, either.
Muddy glanced at each of his band mates to make sure it was actually happening and that no one was simply hallucinating. Then his gaze skittered back to the world around the crossroads.
As if some designer of the universe had wrapped them in a clear shower curtain, everything they saw shimmered. With each passing beat, the curtain wavered faster. Muddy nearly had to close his eyes as his stomach felt woozy. The tickling didn’t help, either. He wondered what would happen if he puked during the process.
Still, they played.
Then the curtain shook so fast that everything beyond it lost clarity. One moment, the landfill and the paths leading to where they were seemed normal. The next, he couldn’t see a thing, even though the moon still illuminated the scene.
It shook, shook some more and the tingling forced Muddy’s eyes to shut. He shook so hard that he dropped his pick. Afraid to see what it fell into, his fingers plucked the strings in its place. Even before he forced himself to look, he knew what they wouldn’t see.
“We’re here,” announced Silver Eye Watkins.
And their lives changed in a heartbeat.
* * * *
Muddy opened his eyes when he heard someone gasp. The curtain had parted. Act two of their lives, destinies, fates, etc. had just begun.
The band still stood on the crisscrossing paths, but that was the only similarity to where they were just moments ago.
Gone was the landfill. Lush greenery exploded everywhere in a forest that bordered on jungle status. The wind whistled in an odd key. Trails ran off into the dark north, south, east and west. Other than that, it seemed like nobody had been here in ages.
“We’re not in Jersey anymore,” Otis muttered, unable to keep the fright out of his voice.
Poe lifted her head. “Definitely doesn’t smell like New Jersey.”
“All of you—shut your traps!” Silver Eye looked scared enough for all of them. Whether he was scared for himself or for the band, Muddy didn’t know, but the expression on his face quieted them in a heartbeat.
“You don’t want to let anything know we’re here.”
The guitar nearly shook from Muddy's hands. “Who’s here?”
“We don’t need to worry about whom just yet,” he said. “Right now, the what around this place can kill you before you tune that thing.”
The what? We’re in Jersey, aren’t we? This area didn’t have any wildlife that could harm us, at least not without guns.
“And yes,” he continued. “The trip does screw up your guitar. Now tune that thing before you get us killed.”
Just as Muddy twisted the first tuning peg, thunder roared all around them. This time, the ground did shake. He turned his gaze skyward and saw nothing but stars in the coming night.
“Hurry!” Silver Eye’s fright burst out of his voice. Then he did a strange thing. He played a melody on the harp that sounded out of the norm. Blues, yes, but more methodical, more co
mplicated in pattern.
“Why?” Muddy wondered aloud. “It’s just a thunderstorm. Don’t worry, I’ll cover the guitar.”
Silver Eye shook his hands while his neck craned left and right. “That ain’t no storm. Lightning is not what you need to worry about tonight.”
“But, what is it?”
“Just tune the dang guitar,” he said, placing a vise-like grip on the boy’s arms. “Drummer, sax boy, get ready for my cue.” As their mumblings began, he cut them short. “Quiet! When I yell, blow out the best low C you've got. Pound that skin as if your life depended on it.”
Poe sidled up to the guitarist, obviously scared out of her mind. “Eddie,” she said, using a name she only called him when she was upset, “what’s going on? What do I do? What’s out there? I can’t see anything—or sense it.”
The bluesman answered for both of them. “Little girl, you just sit tight for this one. I’ll be needing your golden voice soon, but it won’t help much here. Just stay out of the way and don’t mess with me.”
Wrong thing to say, part two. Yet instead of flipping out and tearing out the guy’s other eyeball, she bit her lip and turned to Muddy. “You’re still a little flat.”
Muddy knew that, but looked up at her and forced a smile. “Thanks, Poe.” Using her ears, they tuned the guitar to perfection within a minute. Trembling just a bit, he turned to the group. He went to move in closer, with Poe in tow.
Silver Eye’s hands shot up like an armed rifle. “Don’t move! Stay on the path. Do NOT step off the trail, definitely not at night.”
Poe stared into the waving green blades. “The grass is alive!”
Before anyone could register her comment, the thunder roared again. And again. Then once more. What kind of storm was coming? Why did he say it wasn’t one?
As if reading the teen’s mind, the old man’s voice filled in the space between the booms. “Son, this is much worse than any storm, hurricane, tsunami or what-have-you.” He motioned for all of them to pull tight and face outwards, away from each other and toward the forest.
