Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  “Hell house. Pfft! I don’t know why Donnie’s so fixated on that place. These woods are where he should be focusing. This is where the action is, not with them hippie punks or whatever they are. They probably don’t even know what they’re music does to these beasties, or that these things even exist.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that,” said John.

  “Oh?” Jerry gave him an inquisitive look.

  “No reason we can’t do both,” said Tammie. “Cover all the bases.”

  “Yeah, well. No offense, Tammie, but I kinda wish you and Donnie would’ve stayed put in Athens. All this commotion here kinda cramps my style.”

  “Well excuse me, but we’re here to do a deliverance.”

  “I’m just sayin,’ I’m not sure these things are addressable by Donnie’s methods. That’s all.”

  The driveway was empty when they reached the house. Mac had gone inside. Tammie pulled off the pack frame and laid it down on the pavement.

  “There’s crackers and cheese in the family room if you guys feel like a snack,” said John. “Dinner won’t be till seven-ish. I think we’re ordering out Chinese tonight.”

  “I could really use something to drink,” said Tammie.

  “There’s Diet Coke and ginger ale in the fridge,” said John.

  “What do you say, Jerry?” said Rand. “Can we take a break?”

  “Sure. Go ahead. I’ll join you in minute. Just let me just stash this stuff in the garage and set these batteries up on a charger.”

  Rumbles and screeches emanated from the hell house. They were getting ready to commence one of their jams.

  “After, I can show you my gear,” said John. “I’ll be right in. Just got a few errands to do in the yard.”

  He fetched a rake went down to the long bed of red mulch bordering the road. He pretended to tidy it up, watching through the corner of his eye until he saw Jerry go in the front door. He waited a few seconds after the door closed to make sure Jerry stayed inside, and dashed across the road, into the woods.

  Chapter 40: Scotty’s Ax

  Aerie paused in Aaron's driveway beside her balky Sentra. The scent of burnt oil hung in the air. Her poor car, lurching and sputtering, had barely made it up the hill this time. It was no longer just a radiator problem anymore. This car had major issues. She had hoped ignoring them would make them go away, but things were only getting worse.

  The wind rattled the trees on the hillside and whipped her hair across her face. It felt weird showing up here without a bass, without her band mates. She gathered her courage, sidled past an unfamiliar minivan, and knocked on the door. Tingles scurried down her fingers. A splash of heat surfaced on her cheeks.

  The door squealed open. Aaron, masticating, peered at her over a cereal bowl, his eyes sleepy and red. The sight of her perked him up. “Hey! Long time no see. Come on in. Want some Grape Nuts? Yogurt?”

  “No thanks.”

  A wild and complicated conga beat reverberated through the house. Aaron rolled his eyes. “Sheesh! Mr. Bongo over there can’t seem to go five seconds without whacking at something.”

  “Mr. who?”

  “Our percussionist.” Aaron called into the music room. “Yo Paolo! Come meet Aerie.”

  The drumming ceased and a slender, bronze-skinned man came bustling around the corner. He had shoulder-length black hair salted with gray. Aerie was impressed by the whiteness of his teeth. He could have been a toothpaste model. He stuck out his hand. “Paolo Ribeiro.”

  Aerie shook Paolo’s uncallused hand. “So nice to meet you.”

  “Paolo has played with Hermeto Pascoal. You know his work, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” she said, although the name was only vaguely familiar.

  “Fellow travelers, eh?”

  Aerie could only shrug and nod and smile.

  Aaron flicked his chin towards the music room. “Come on, I’ve got something to show you.”

  Aerie followed him in, her eyes drawn immediately to the little table in the center. A new bell jar sat atop it, only this one was empty and perfectly transparent. Not a smudge marred the glass, inside or out.

  “There’s no birdie.”

  “Of course not.” Aaron narrowed his eyes. “Weren’t you there when—?”

  “Well, yeah. Just seems strange seeing it all uncovered and empty like that.”

  “I’m an optimist. It’s not like these are not singular or solitary creatures, and I know where they prowl. One of these days, I’ll pick up another. We need to be ready for Production when the time comes.” He came close and touched her elbow. “Paolo here has no clue what we’re talking about,” he whispered. “Let’s keep it that way.”

  Aerie blinked back at him.

  “That’s for you … over there, on the floor.” He pointed to a well-padded Mooradian case, much fancier than the raggedy nylon gig bag she had used to protect her Juzek.

  She knelt beside the bass and tugged at the zipper, revealing maple ribs with a subtle rippled figure, nothing gaudy, just enough eye candy to make the owner know they possessed the magic of wood. An oil finish brought out auburn tones in the grain.

  She unzipped a bit more, revealing edges and linings sculpted from wear and scalloped with dings in all the usual places along the bouts. She tapped the front. It rang as only a solid spruce top could ring. At least this was not some cheap plywood tank of a student rental.

  More quality revealed itself as she peeled the padded nylon from the bouts: Busetto corners, simple and elegant purfling and bindings, a persimmon fingerboard.

  When she saw the f-holes, she gasped. Each ends was separated from the sinuous main slot by an isthmus of wood. She had only seen such a feature in a Prescott.

  “What kind of bass is this?”

  “Abraham Prescott, 1825. Concord, New Hampshire.”

  “I knew it!”

  “Before you get too excited, this is a loaner, not a gift. We need to take very good care of it. It used to belong to some guy named Scott LaFaro.”

  A wave of awe ravaged her innards. Could it be? An equally intense surge of disbelief quelled it.

  “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “No. It’s true.”

  “But Scotty’s bass was destroyed in the wreck that killed him.”

  “Well yeah, but all the king’s horses and all the king’s men—actually a guy named Barry Kolstein—managed to patch it all together. Too bad they couldn’t do the same for Scotty. Wasn’t he like twenty-two when he died?”

  “Twenty-five,” said Aerie. “Same age as me.”

  “You’re twenty-five? Funny, you seem older … I mean, in a good way. Maturity-wise. Anyhow, Barry happens to be the guy who’s working on your old bass.”

  “My … bag of bones?”

  “He’s warned me though that it’s gonna take a while. It’s a big job.”

  “I don’t know what to say,” said Aerie. “I can’t believe he would swap Scotty’s axe for a sack of wood scraps.”

  “He didn’t,” said Aaron. “Not exactly. This bass was on exhibit at the Geneva Historical Society. They’re closed for renovation, so I managed to have it loaned out for a weekend … with Barry’s permission, of course.”

  “I’m afraid to touch it, never mind play it.”

  “Aw, go on,” said Aaron. “Instruments like that are meant to be played. It’s a crime just having it collect dust in some museum.”

  Aerie gingerly lifted it out of its case. Now she could the places where Kolstein had spliced new wood to replace what had been destroyed. It was done so neatly, it seemed as if the wood had grown back and healed. Only a slight disjunction in the width of the grain betrayed presence of the grafts.

  Someone rapped on the door. “Yay!” said Aaron. “I was getting worried those other guys wouldn’t show.”

  He went out to the foyer. The door creaked open. “Oh, hey! Howdy neighbor. What’s up?”

  Aerie stood abruptly and peeked around the corner. John stood there,
all fidgety.

  “Can I come in? I don’t want anyone to see me standing out here.”

  “Um, yeah, sure,” said Aaron, pulling the door open wider to let him through. “What’s going on?”

  Aerie stepped out into the hall.

  John’s eyes widened at the sight of her. “I came to warn you. You all need to lie low the next couple days. The deliverance folks are planning another intervention for tomorrow and—”

  “Oh, I don’t care about that shit,” said Aaron. “I mean … as long as they don’t trespass.”

  “The thing is … there are people at my house with guns.”

  “O-kay.”

  “I’m talking automatic weapons. Uzis. Machine pistols. They say it’s for our protection, but—”

  “From what? We’re no threat to anybody.”

  “I mean, they didn’t come right out and say they would attack you, but I’m worried. I’ve seen what happens to these people when they get a little too much of the Holy Spirit in them. Something could go wrong. Terribly wrong.”

  “Jeez. All because of a little noise?”

  “Not just because of the noise,” said John. “Cindy saw one of those things. It came charging at us across the lawn. The Reverend’s back and he’s convinced they’re demons.”

  “Wait a minute. What things?”

  “You know. The things you call birdies,” said John.

  “It came back? On its own?” said Aaron. “All the way from Ithaca?”

  “It’s not the same one,” said Aerie. “Can’t be.”

  “How would you know?” said Aaron.

  “Because Mal has it … the one that got away.”

  “What’s this?” said Aaron, his voice cracking.

  “Mal caught the birdie … your birdie … just outside of Ithaca proper.”

  Aaron’s chest heaved. A flush of anger rose behind the grey stubble frosting his cheeks. He turned to John. “What exactly did you see? Tell me about it.”

  “It was just like the one at the Co-op, only bigger.”

  “And you saw it here? At Connecticut Hill?”

  “Right in my backyard. And there’s more in the woods as well. If you go up into the hills you can see their tracks in the moss. They seem attracted to your house.”

  “How long have you known this?” said Aaron.

  “You mean, you didn’t know?” said John.

  “I never would have taken this place for a haunt,” said Aaron. “I usually find them in disturbed areas: Superfund sites gone wild, no-man’s-lands between strip mines. This place is too pure. Not completely undisturbed, but still ….”

  “You make it sound like they’re common,” said John.

  “No,” said Aaron. “Not common. But more common than you might think. Most folks don’t notice them, take them for dust devils and heat ripples.”

  “Are they dangerous?”

  “Only when cornered,” said Aaron. “Sort of like snakes.”

  “Listen, I really have to go,” said John. “You all take heed of what I said, and keep a low profile tomorrow. There’s some loopy folks hanging out at my house these days.”

  “Thanks for coming by,” said Aerie, attempting to latch on to one of John’s shifty glances with her gaze. “It was awful brave of you.”

  ***

  Aaron had retreated to the kitchen to place a series of frantic calls, his tone impatient and aggressive with the unfortunate parties at the other end. Aerie sat cross legged on the floor of the music room staring at that icon of a bass that she had listened to so many times on Sunday at the Village Vanguard, the album that had first lured her into jazz.

  Paolo hammered softly on the marimba, playing a Jobim tune loose and unhinged to time. Aerie knew the words and melody, but the name escaped her. She didn’t dare accompany him on bass. Instead, she sang along softly under breath.

  “In … my loneliness … when you’re gone and I’m all by myself … and I need your caress. I … just think of you. And the thought of you holding me near … makes my loneliness soon….”

  Aaron marched into the room. “Question for you.”

  “…disappear.”

  “How can I get a hold of Mal?”

  “Call him.”

  “I tried. I keep getting shunted directly to voice mail.”

  “Leave him a message.”

  “Where’s he staying? Sounds like you spoke to him recently?”

  “I … promised not to tell.”

  “What the fuck? Why? What does he plan to do with that thing?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “It’s the diamonds, isn’t it? He’s found out about the diamonds.”

  “I can’t say,” said Aerie.

  “It’s not going to do him any good if he can’t keep the damned thing alive. Listen, next time you see him. Have him contact me.”

  “Okay.”

  Aaron sat down on a stool. His hair was mussed, his face all twitchy and agitated. “Yo Paolo. Enough with the bossa nova, okay?”

  Paolo killed the vibrations with his forearm and laid the hammers down.

  “Did you see it?” The sonant?”

  “The what?”

  “I call them sonants. Birdie’s just a name the kids made up. Did you see it?”

  “Um … well, yeah.”

  “How was it looking? Bigger? Smaller? More transparent?”

  “It was quite a bit smaller,” said Aerie. “About half the size it was when it got loose.”

  “Not surprising,” said Aaron. “Exposed to the open air and all.”

  “Ron and Mal played for it.”

  “Yeah, well … that’s not gonna be enough sustenance.”

  “Aaron, if we’re not going to play. Maybe I should get going?”

  “No. Let’s play.” He plucked his fiddle off a rack.

  “You, both Ron and Mal feel bad about what happened. They would both jump at the chance to—”

  “Fuck ‘em. Let’s play,” said Aaron. “Paolo, give us something sounds like raindrops. Think of like … the first drops before a thunderstorm. Aerie, don’t just sit there, pick up that bass.”

  She lowered the end pin, and pivoted the bass up off the floor, her palms were lubricated with the dew of anticipation. She felt unworthy to handle such an instrument. She almost expected Scotty’s ghost to appear and put a stop to this travesty.

  Paolo played something random and sprightly on the marimba. Aaron droned on an inharmonious double stop that, if Aerie didn’t know better, she would have said was out of tune. She dug in and plucked an open string. The top responded instantly, sending vibrations out to every corner of the bass and into floor.

  “Whoa!” said Aerie. “Not as loud as I expected, but it sure is lively.”

  “You ain’t heard nothing yet,” said Aaron. “Wait till you break some bonds and loosen up those fibers. It’s probably been a year since this bass was properly played.”

  Aerie got a shuffling, herky-jerky figure going, battling against Paolo’s more conventional rhythm. He responded by going syncopated himself, fighting fire with fire.

  Aaron grinned over his wailing double stops. “Do I sense some chemistry here?”

  Out of nowhere, came a sing-song, chiming piano. Aaron put down his fiddle and dug deep in his pocket, squirming as if a squirrel had run up his trousers.

  “Shush! I’ve got a call.” He fished a black slab of a phone out of his pants pocket and glanced at the face. “It’s him. Maybe he’s lost.” He flipped it open.

  “Hollis?” said Paolo.

  Aerie’s head turned so fast she almost gave herself whiplash.

  “Did you say Hollis? Hollis Brooks?”

  “Yeah,” said Paolo. “He plays sax. Aaron got him and Isaac a gig in the town here.”

  Aaron’s side of the conversation was peppered with little other than expressions of disappointment like: ‘oh, really?’ and ‘that’s a shame’ and ‘that’s too bad.’ The creases in his brow solidified. He looked at Ae
rie, and his eyes went cold with calculation.

  “Hey Hollis, this was supposed to be a surprise, but I want you to know that I’ve got someone here you might know. Pretty well, actually. A friend of yours … from Japan. Let me put you on speaker.”

  Aerie waggled her palms at Aaron. “No, that’s okay,” she whispered. “I don’t need to talk to him.”

  Hollis’ tinny voice spread across the room. “Son of a gun! Koichi? Is that you?”

  Aaron looked at Aerie, eyes narrowed in puzzlement. “It’s Aerie,” he said. “Aerie Walker.”

  Paolo, oblivious to the proceedings, played air marimba, arresting his hammer strokes an inch above the bars.

  “Now, that’s … just … sick,” said Hollis. “Why would you say such a thing?”

  “Huh? What are you talking about?” said Aaron.

  “Aerie Walker’s dead. She committed suicide a year ago in Tokyo.”

  Aerie hadn’t intended to speak, but she couldn’t believe what she was hearing. The words just bubbled up. “Attempted,” she said. “Not committed. I fucked it all up.”

  “Holy fuck! Don’t do this to me. That sounded just like—”

  “It’s me, Hollis. I’m alive … no thanks to you.”

  The connection hummed like a distant and faint swarm of honeybees.

  “Oh my Lord. I had no idea. I sent flowers … for your funeral.”

  “What? How could you not know I was alive?”

  “Koichi said you committed suicide.”

  Aerie inhaled deeply. “You never could understand his English.”

  “You know … you know I’m playing Ithaca … next week? I think it’s next week.”

  “Yeah, I heard.”

  “Oh, it would be wonderful if you could come to our show. Tell all your friends. Tickets are reasonable, I hear. I mean, it’d be really great if we could fill that hall. That’s what I worry about, coming out to play in the boonies. That people don’t show and the place is all empty. It just makes you look bad … feel bad.”

  Again, Aerie couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “It’s always about you, isn’t it?”

  “What’s that?”

  “I said, fuck you, Hollis.”

  “What? What’d I say?”

  “Hang up, Aaron. I don’t want to talk to him anymore.”

  “Just a sec. We’ve got a bit of business to—”

  “Hang up the fucking phone!” Aerie shouted.

  The line clicked off, from Hollis’ end.

  Aaron looked at her, his face all blank and wide. “So sorry about this. I really thought this would be nice for you. I didn’t realize you guys had … issues.”