by David Simms
Otis’ hand turned white with a fearful grip on his sticks. Corey’s fingers tapped out a jittery rhythm on the sax’s pearly keys. Poe sunk into Muddy’s side, whether to be comforted or to comfort, he had no idea. It was just nice, even if this scared them.
Above the thick carpet of grass, swaying in the wake of the thunder, walls of trees stood, surrounding the group in a claustrophobic embrace. Nearly black against the night, they rustled and shook arm-like boughs, tossing creepy shadows across the trails. If the teens wished to run, which direction would it be? Rumbling around them shook everything by whatever caused the thunder.
Another sonic boom shook the air, ground and their bones. The trees trembled at the edges of the pathways. The sound pained Muddy’s ears as he strained to keep his eyes open and focused on the rumbling walls of green. Thunder never lasted this long, nor did it actually hurt.
A moment later, that thunder walked right through the trees.
At first, he thought the trees themselves came to life and decided to attack. Then he noticed the fur. The long arms. Trunk-like legs. And then, the face.
With a mouth as wide and oval as a dinner plate, but blacker than the soul of a math teacher, the thing ambled toward the band, in rhythm! When the thing’s feet hit the ground, it sounded like a rock song two and four beat. Loud. Boom – cha. Boom – cha. Just like the beat of a good song. Bass drum, snare drum, then a cymbal crashed with the vibration of a gong, shaking them off of their feet. Muddy and the others dropped to their knees in agony. The sound pummeled them with high and low pitches, rattling teeth and vibrated bones.
“Holy cow…” Corey whispered, although even if he had screamed, they wouldn’t have heard it. “Look,” he said and pointed, obviously guessing the rest couldn’t hear him.
The cymbal didn’t exude from a rock drum kit, Buddhist monastery or marching band. When the lumbering, thundering thing slammed its mouth shut and then sprung it wide open again, Muddy imagined himself in the front row at the heaviest of metal concerts. It blew a gale force wind at them, knocking leaves and twigs from the trees. Yet, the creature stood firm, those massive legs holding its stance steady, arms swung back for better projection, Muddy guessed. Then, it lifted one of those limbs up and out, ready to beat on an imaginary drum. At the end of the arm grew not a hand, but a stubby lump, rounded with the girth of a volleyball.
Silver Eye raised his head and yelled for Otis to do something.
What did he expect Otis to do to that thing? Bite its ankles? Did it have ankles?
Otis waved at the man, signaling that he didn’t understand.
The branches in the thick curtains of green parted again in a rolling wave of sonic pain. Two, three, four more behemoths of fur and massive mouths burst forth and lock-stepped their way to form a semi-circle. Just like a bigger mouth. Opened in their direction.
Silver Eye yelled again. Otis waved once more, but Muddy stopped in his tracks. The lead creature wore a guitar string around his neck with a shiny, silver triangle dangling from it. Could it be...?
He almost charged toward them to get a better look, but suddenly all five ogre-like creatures raised their arms, as if waiting for a drum major to commence a marching cadence.
The little drummer’s eyes danced in fear and confusion. Muddy could see him mouthing “What? What do I do?” along with some other choice words.
The old man raised his hand and began thumping the ground. Slowly at first, then both of his withered palms sped up into a full-fledged drum roll on the path. Otis nodded like a bobble head on speed and readied his sticks.
The first creature swung his mallet hand down in a powerful arc, straight into the middle of a chest that resembled a swollen kettle drum. Muddy felt the beat before it hit his eardrums. A fist of sound punched him, sending his body flying across the grass. He landed in a lump of pain about twenty feet away.
Immediately, he looked for Poe. The deep grass split to his right. Seconds later, a hand rose through the shaking blades. It was Corey.
“Get out of there, man!” Corey’s hand swallowed his and yanked him back toward the path. The grass shivered and swayed. Something had been waiting for one of them to stray. Muddy booked it back to safety almost before Corey did. He kneeled on the trail shaking with deep breaths and scanned the scene for the others. Still on the path, but much farther back lay Otis and Silver Eye.
Where was she?
He couldn’t stand to think of the possibilities of what might happen to her if one of those goons got a hold of her. Did one step on her? Could one swallow her in that cymbal-sized mouth?
As the echoes of that boom faded, whispers assaulted him from every direction. Muddy turned and found the others, not whispering, but screaming to each other. The old man furiously signed at the band to grab their instruments and stand.
Still, where was she?
The other four things readied their arms, waiting to knock them into the dark of the forest.
Then they froze. At first, Muddy swore he heard an eagle’s cry. Piercing, yet beautiful, it rose with the parting of the razor-like grass. From it sprouted Poe.
What the?
She sang like they'd never heard her sing before. Toward the creatures she strode, eyes wide open, as if she could see them—clearly. Her voice rose in pitch, intensity and volume. She sounded like a cross between an angel and a ticked off eagle. The creatures remained still as the band took up their instruments and ran behind her.
“Watch it,” Muddy yelled to her as she came within a yard of the beasts, arms frozen in midair. “They’re right—”
“I can see them.”
“What?”
She stared straight ahead then turned to each one of the band members individually. “I can see them.” The excitement in her voice shook her skinny frame. “Look at their faces. Look at them. There’s nothing past their mouths. Only blackness.” When she stopped singing, the ice in their movements began to melt. “I can see here.” She had lost her sight so long ago, when that monster back home had hurt her.
Chapter Six
“Then dang it, girl,” Silver Eye hollered, “don’t stop singing!” He pulled his harmonica to his lips and motioned for the rest of them to start playing.
Start playing? Start playing what? Muddy's mind was still stuck on what he saw hanging from the lead creature’s neck.
Yet Corey, after a few fearful squeaks, began echoing the old man’s staccato bursts of blues. His tone grew more confident with each deepening breath.
Otis beat a simple blues rock pattern, locking up easily with the others. Muddy knew his friend felt just as scared as he was, but when someone faced dying early every day like Otis did, fear was a bit easier to swallow.
Knowing his behavior to be cowardly if he remained frozen, Muddy picked a few notes in the pentatonic scale, the easiest scale there was for a rock guitarist. Silver Eye turned to him and winked, a signal that things would be fine. How, he had no idea. Yet it infused the guitarist with fire as he hit a few chord stabs here and there, weaving in and out of the beat, creating a weird syncopation.
An off the beat rhythm.
The creatures stood their ground, staying still until the biggest one slowly raised both of his hands. Despite the spell of the music, he’d broken free and set himself for a strike.
If the coming explosion knocked them hard enough, their instruments might break—or worse, their bodies themselves. Without the music that the band played, only a fool would believe they would survive their attack.
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 wha
t 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.”
