THE NIGHT RAY BRADBURY DIED
A Tale of Lost Midian
Kevin J. Wetmore
Nobody walks in Los Angeles, but he walked as he always had. It almost never rains here, but tonight, during the “June Gloom,” drops fell from the dark skies. And so he walked, alone. Always alone.
He walked the thousands of miles to the city of lost angels and now he walked everywhere, mostly at night. With a face like his you cannot simply walk into the DMV and apply for a license. Didn’t matter. He couldn’t pass the driver’s test anyway. He had never had much use for words. Not with a face like his. But at night, hidden under hats and clothing and hoods and darkness, he could walk unmolested.
He had been born with a wolf’s snout where a Natural’s nose and mouth would be. He couldn’t speak. He tried to communicate through gestures and through tapping out messages. His birth parents hated and feared him. He couldn’t even remember the name he was born with. When they finally left him at a highway rest area, he wandered, walking, until he found Midian. Midian gave him a home, and a name and a function. He spoke through rhythms and percussion, so they called him “Drummer” and let him drum. It was his gift to Baphomet and Baphomet’s gift to him. The drums spoke for him and gave him a role in Midian. His voice, through the sticks in his fists, summoned the Breed, warned of danger and marked the rituals in honor of Baphomet. He had a name, a place, a purpose.
Then Midian fell. And once again the Breed now known as Drummer walked. He walked by night to the one other city he knew of where he might survive. Unlike some Breed, he had a silhouette that could pass for a Natural’s, but his face, specifically his muzzle and teeth, gave away that he was something else. But Los Angeles was a superficial city. The people looked but did not see. One might blend in, if one didn’t draw attention. Because once those superficial people saw, they hated anything not beautiful. And then they would try to hurt him, try to kill him. Yet again.
There were a lot of Breed in LA. Some knew they were, some were unawakened, but you could see their yearning. It was in their hair, colored in shades not found in nature. It was in metal, pushed through lips, and noses, and nipples, eyebrows, cheeks, chins, and other areas less visible. Ink covered arms, legs, backs, and even faces—images dark and beautiful, their meaning sometimes only known to the one whose skin they covered and sometimes not even to them. A lost tribe of addicts, runaways, dreamers, the lost, the broken, and the damned, seeking to fill a hole in them with something, sometimes anything.
He had a new name, too. To live in a real city you needed more than one name. So Drummer became his last name. Now he called himself Iblis, after stories an old man told him when he first got to the city. The man was blind, but had memorized the Koran. Under a bridge, during Drummer’s first winter in the city, he heard the story:
We have established you on earth, and We have provided for you the means of support therein. Rarely are you appreciative. We created you, then We shaped you, then We said to the angels, “Bow down before Adam.” The angels all bowed, except Iblis; he was not with those who bowed. Allah said, “What prevented you from prostrating when I ordered you?” Iblis said, “I am better than man; You created me from fire, and created him from mud.”
Drummer decided he had been reborn as Iblis, as he had been created in the fires of Midian that night, and while he would try to blend with man, he would never bow down to him.
He lived in a small basement apartment next to the laundry room on the bottom of Coldheart Canyon where it emptied out of the Hollywood Hills onto Sunset, just a few blocks north of Hollywood Forever Cemetery. When he was lonely or homesick, he would spend hours quietly beating rhythms on the tombstones in Hollywood Forever, drumming on the faces laser-etched on granite or marble, next to names written with letters he did not recognize and could not read. He meant no disrespect to those buried there. While he drummed, he sometimes thought of those buried there and offered his drumming up to them. He walked among the graves and felt at peace.
It also allowed for the cosmic joke of his life. He drummed one February night on a tombstone and heard a voice nearby. Ordinarily he remained vigilant and ran at the first sign of anyone—the police were unkind to those in the graveyard after dark and everyone was unkind to Breed. But he thought of the fires of Midian and all he had lost and his arms moved with wild abandon, marking a beat that sang of both a broken heart and a vengeful fury. He was a catastrophe of a creature, and his music that night spoke eloquently of his pain while assuaging it at the same time. He just needed a second or two more to finish the song.
“Shit, man, you’re good!”
Too late he saw the two young men. They stumbled toward him. Sticks in his hands, he began to move away from them.
“Hang on, dude! We need to talk to you!”
Too late to run. They approached, but their speed was not aggressive. He knew what that looked like. His hood was drawn low and he had a scarf over the lower half of his face. He tried to look indifferent, but his heart was pounding louder and more rapidly than his drumming had been.
“Dude, that was fuckin’ metal!”
“Naw, dude, that was like fuckin’ Lars Ulrich combined with Neil Peart combined with, I don’t know—a whole fuckin’ African tribe or something.”
They were excited. Glassy-eyed and looking at him like he was some sort of god. Dressed alike in black leather jackets, covered with writing, torn jeans and boots. Ink on all visible skin. They weren’t Breed, but they were a breed unto themselves.
The one with long, greasy hair said, “Me and Ian here, we heard you and were like, ‘That guy’s the shit we gotta go meet him.’”
Iblis just looked at him.
“What dude here is trying to say is, are you in a band or anything?”
Iblis shook his head, no.
Ian gave him a look, took a long pull on his beer. “You fuckin’ mute or something?”
Iblis returned the look, trying hard not to seem scared. He couldn’t believe it when he nodded.
The other one spat. “Shit, man, that’s fucked up. Still, who needs to talk when you can play like that.”
Ian was still looking. “What’s your name, man?”
Iblis held out a piece of paper that said, “Name Iblis Drummer. I am poor and hungry.” He had had a junkie write it out for him. Sometimes you can panhandle and get money and not worry about being hated and hunted, because all the beautiful people avoid looking at poor people asking for money. It was how he paid the rent most days.
“‘Drummer,’ huh? No shit? Whatever. Everyone in this town is bullshit.”
Ian was still looking at him. “Okay, look—we’ve got this band, and we need a drummer. You’re the fuckin’ best thing I’ve heard in a long time.”
Iblis nodded, as if he agreed.
“So anyway, you think you might be interested? Here’s the thing. We’re kinda like a speed metal band and we wear costumes and masks when we play, like Gwar, you know?”
Iblis nodded, as if he did know.
Ian took another pull, draining it, then threw the bottle into the darkness, where it hit something and may or may not have broken.
“So anyway, if you’re interested, we’ll get you a mask and a costume and you can jam with us. The money’s not great, but it’s cash under the table and we can usually get free beer.”
“Plus pussy. Man, metal groupies love us!” said greasy hair.
“This is Damon, he blows bass. I’m Ian, lead vocals and rhythm guitar. You’ll meet Zack. He’s lead guitar. He’s like you—doesn’t talk for shit.”
Damon belched. “Yeah, but he plays that guitar like he’s fucking a porn star.”
And that is how Iblis, without ever speaking or showing his face onstage, became a drummer for a speed metal band. He would perform, drumming in front of people, for those brief hours passing as something else: a Breed pretending to be a Natural pretending to be a Breed. He even wore the mask and costume to rehearsals. At first the others in t
he band made fun of him for it, but as he played they came to see and treat him like some kind of percussion saint, and they left him alone to do his thing, take his cash, and never go out with them afterward.
But tonight, as small drops fell, he began walking. Something in the world had changed, and he felt it in his soul. His fingers nervously beat a tattoo as he walked. He kept his head down, but could not stop his fingers and hands from pulsing over objects—mailboxes and phone poles, parked cars and parking meters. He was sending some code he didn’t even speak out into the universe, not knowing why, just knowing it had to be sent.
He walked farther than he ever had, passing the clubs on Santa Monica in West Hollywood. The pounding dance music, rhythmic and ritualistic, drew him, but he might not enter. The men in these clubs were beautiful, their bodies hard and their faces sharp, carved by hours in the gym. Beauty and desire. Rejected elsewhere, in small towns and suburbs, they came here to their own kingdom, where they were the beautiful ones, where they were the Naturals and the norms. Like Iblis, they were drawn to this city to find a safe place to be what they were, but Iblis had no place among them. His body was hard, his muscles like steel wire from the drumming, but no one looked upon his face with desire. He was not welcome among the flashing lights and sweaty bodies. More people pretending to be Breed. And more people who would fear and hate and hunt if they actually saw one.
He passed through the enclaves of wealth and learning, those on the top, on their way up and some on the way back down again. He walked all the way to the ocean. He didn’t know why, but this was where he needed to be.
He sat on the sand, head wrapped tight, hooded sweatshirt under jacket with baseball cap and scarf. One must always hide from one’s public.
The ocean’s susurrus was its own rhythm, and his fingers began to match it on his thighs. Slow, at first. Then going in rapid counterpoint to the waves. It was mindless to him, yet also comforting. It was his way of communicating with the world. Even if the Naturals didn’t understand it.
That’s when he heard something. It sounded like crying. Keeping his head down, he shifted and looked around. Twenty or so feet away was a dark lump. His eyes had always been good in the dark (one needs good night vision when one lives underground, after all—not all of Midian’s gifts had abandoned him), and he was startled to see it was someone dressed like him. He stopped drumming on his thighs and just listened.
A sniffle. A low moan. A woman. Or more like a girl.
Against practice and instinct, he got up, walked over, and sat down five feet away from her.
“What?! Am I bothering you? It’s a public beach, you know.”
He could not see her face, but he could see her pain. She was hiding, too. It was cold out, but not enough to justify the layers of clothing, not to mention the hat and scarf. She could have been his twin, at least when it came to attire.
“What are you staring at, huh? What? You think I’m a Muslim or something? You want to make fun of me? Why don’t you say something?… You want to see? Fine! Fine!” Her words were slightly slurred.
She pulled off the hat and scarf in one awkward motion and he saw.
There was a small hole where her left ear should have been, surrounded by whorls of pink scars and tissue. The eye on that side was milk white, the hair burned away as well. The disfigurement clearly went down her neck into her collar, and left a very distinctive border between the not-quite-pretty girl she once was and the burned, malformed features that she was trying to hide.
“Happy now? Now you know I’m a freak? Happy?” She sobbed quietly and began to wrap the scarf around her head once more.
He waited in silence. Iblis had found not doing anything usually resulted in people continuing to pour out their feelings and thoughts.
She sobbed for a while and he began beating out a rhythm on his shoes.
“You’re not grossed out?” Quiet, but genuine.
He shook his head no and kept gently banging on the sides of his boots. It was almost hypnotic.
“I didn’t always look like this. I was pretty … once. My stepfather was kind of a jerk, and was smoking in the apartment one night and fell asleep on the couch. My room was right next to the den, so I smelled the smoke and got up, but by then…”
Iblis nodded. Not Breed, but broken. She knew the pains he knew. Hide away from the eyes of others. Especially if you don’t like what you see in them.
“It was over two years ago, but the doctors say this is what it’s going to be like, and we can’t afford … and sometimes I just…”
She cried some more.
He thumped some more.
“You want to know the stupid thing? I’m not even crying about any of that.”
She picked up a handful of sand and threw it. The wind caught some, the rest fell to the ground again.
“Tonight Ray Bradbury died.”
Iblis nodded. As if he knew who that was.
“You know who that is?… I know, it’s dumb. It’s not like he was my father or my friend or something. I never met the guy. I dunno. It’s just when I read his stuff I’d forget myself. I’d disappear and the only thing left was a world he created. Better than this one, or the one I was living in back home.”
She shifted on the sand and just sat. He stopped drumming.
“I didn’t know him and it’s not like I read his books and I was like, ‘Oh, he gets me.’ I mean I’m not in high school or something dumb like that. I just … I just read the things he wrote and they made me think we’re not alone and the world is a pretty amazing place. It’s like an amusement park closing for the winter. You drive by and you know it’s still there, but somehow the life is somehow missing and there is a little less light in the world. A little less joy. Cotton candy won’t smell as sweet ever again.”
Iblis nodded. This time he knew.
“Okay, I’m just being stupid. So, what’s under your scarf? You burned too?”
She reached toward him and he instinctively pulled back.
“It’s okay. I won’t hurt you,” and she continued to move toward his face. Gently but firmly he grabbed her hand, suddenly moved it down, and she stumbled into him, landing on the sand next to him so they now sat side by side.
He held her hand with one hand and began to drum on her palm. He could feel the tension and shock of being manhandled in such a way drain from her.
“Not a talker? Okay.” Yet somehow the rhythm began to soothe her. Not taking away the pain, but making it a familiar presence, so it lost its bite.
A few minutes passed. A hundred yards away, couples walked hand in hand on the bike path. In the distance in the opposite direction, large ships slowly moved through the dark water. They sat, not speaking, but listening to the drumming of his fingers on her palm, and for one minute, each knew peace.
She wiped away a tear and got up, but only to walk over to her backpack. She pulled out a tattered paperback and handed him the book. He couldn’t read any of the words, but the picture captured him. It was a man, sitting with his legs crossed, facing away. His body was covered in tattoos. Iblis wondered if he was Breed. Wondered if she was showing this to him because she understood Breed.
“It’s a buncha short stories called The Illustrated Man. It’s about this guy who has tattoos that tell stories that come true, but the stories themselves are about all kinds of things. He’s intense, but there’s a truth to him.” She looked Iblis right in the eye. “Kinda like you.”
She stood up, brushed off the sand, and gathered the backpack.
“Keep the book. A gift. You made me feel better for a few minutes, and that is a rare thing. Maybe Ray here,” she said, tapping the book, “can help you feel better for a few minutes. He’s good at that.”
She turned away. “Night.”
He did not watch as she began to move from him, but then he heard her coming back again. As he turned to look, she was already standing over him, bending down. Her lips touched his forehead, brushed against his skin, and
then were gone again.
“Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks. And you don’t need to be so sad. Read the book. Maybe it will bring a smile to whatever it is you’re hiding behind that scarf.”
As she straightened up, he dropped the book and slowly pulled down the scarf. She looked at him, and did not scream. Did not wince. She just looked. And then whispered, “Thank you.”
She turned again and walked away. Iblis sat for a long time. He sat until he knew he had to leave in order to walk back to his home before the sun rose.
As he walked, he looked at the picture on the book. The man faced away. You couldn’t see his face, but his body screamed power. His sinews were taut and tight and ready, yet at rest. You could almost see the small images on his body changing.
As the sky slowly began to change from black to blue, he knew that someone or something had left the world. It wasn’t like Midian had fallen again. Just that it had gotten smaller. The Naturals had grown closer. That’s when he realized. He didn’t know her name. He knew nothing about her but her pain and her loss. But he was able to lessen those.
He walked past the temples of the beautiful, now silent. No more loud rhythms enticing the crowd. They stood empty and abandoned, like Midian. He saw the homeless sleeping in the doorways.
He felt changed. Was this what Cabal had gone through? He shifted in his skin, under the scarf and the hat and the jacket and the hood. Sometimes the walk back to what passed for a home simply reminded him of how alone he now was. Not tonight. Tonight something had been lost, so something must be gained.
Instead of turning on Coldheart, he kept walking, back to Hollywood Forever. That was what was missing. He had been putting on the costume and mask and drumming for the band so much recently he had not been here in a while. He needed, before the sun was fully up, to drum again. Not for crowds of people pretending to be monsters, not for the beautiful to dance and seduce and judge, not for crowds at all, but for the lost and the broken.
Midian Unmade Page 3
