Sonant

by A. Sparrow

  Folks peered around the corner to see what was going on. No one dared enter.

  John sighed. “Yeah. I did. But I don’t think it was such a big deal. We should have just let Jerry do his thing. We would have been fine.”

  “You’re not yourself,” said Cindy. “Something’s happened. You’re not acting normal.”

  “I told you … I’m tired.”

  “It’s those spirits. They’re infecting you.”

  “I’m not infected. That’s ridiculous. I’m just tired.”

  “Put the knife down, John.”

  “What?”

  “The bread knife. Put it down.”

  “Jesus Cindy! I’m not gonna stab anybody. I’m just slicing bread.”

  Cindy kept her distance, studying him as if she had found a stranger in the kitchen.

  John sighed and reached into the cupboard for a stack of little custard bowls to use for the olive oil.

  “You’re making dinner. That’s good. That’s a good sign.”

  “Dinner? It’s not even two. I’m just throwing together a snack.”

  “John, I told you. We’re eating early. Remember? People are starving. Some have been here all day without lunch.”

  “That’s why I’m making them a snack. I’ll put this out along with some sharp provolone. That should tide people over.” He stacked the breads on a clean tray.

  Cindy’s mouth hung open, too exasperated to speak.

  “What?” said John. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “These people went way out of their way to help us. We need to feed them a decent meal. Some of them skipped work today … for us … to help us. Alfred, with his heart condition, shouldn’t even have come out here. The least … the Christian thing to do … is to give them all a decent meal. This deliverance, once it starts, Donnie says it could go on all night.”

  “I fully intend to feed them. Why do you think I bought all that chicken? But … you said we’d eat at four.”

  “Three. I’m sure I said three.” She ransacked the counters. “So where is this chicken you keep ranting about?” She touched the stove. “You haven’t even turned on the oven! How do you expect—?”

  “Calm down. It’s in the fridge, marinating. Takes time for ginger and garlic to work its magic.”

  “Magic? Listen, you’ve got to cracking on dinner. We’re waiting on a couple more carloads of folks, but as soon as they get here, Donnie says we need to begin the deliverance.”

  “Fine. I’ll start dinner. I can have something edible by … maybe three-thirtyish. Okay? Don’t blame me if it doesn’t come out great.”

  Cindy’s face went blank. “Don’t you hear that abominable noise out there? Don’t you hear it?”

  “Yeah. I hear it, alright,” John said, morosely. He stuck a wedge of provolone on the tray and shoved it at Cindy. She took the tray and left the room, scowling.

  John set the oven to preheat. He threw open a window. The jam was in full swing, its rhythms more intricate and driving than usual, and there was a wild new horn weaving in and out, occasionally lapsing into snatches of jazz. John could have sworn he heard parts of Au Privave and Oleo.

  At this distance, Aerie’s bass lines carried a disproportionate presence in the mix, seeping into the walls, as well as his bones, as he seared the chicken parts one batch at a time in a hot skillet and arranged them into oiled roasting pans. Feeling these emanations and knowing they were triggered by her fingers somehow warmed him. She might as well have been whispering into his ear.

  The oven beeped when it hit roasting temperature. He managed to cram four pans of chicken onto the racks, plus a bunch of sweet potatoes on the side.

  After he washed up, his first instinct was to seek refuge from the madhouse downstairs. Donnie had taken over the study for a prayer meeting with his elders, so John slinked away into a store room off the den, still filled with moving boxes that had never been unpacked, and furniture from his old apartment that Cindy had rejected.

  He curled up on an old love seat with a National Geographic and lost himself in an article about Madagascar and lemurs. One extinct species had been as large as gorillas. Who knew? There was a picture of an aye-aye probing a rotten tree with its creepily elongated middle finger, like a withered witch’s. Villagers believed them a harbinger of death, a property that did no favors for their conservation as Malagasies tended to kill them on sight.

  His eyes closed and he drifted off, lulled into slumber by the faintest emanations of Aerie’s bass reaching even here in the farthest corner of the house. The creak of the oven door snapped him awake. Glass pans clinked against granite.

  “What the …?” He checked his watch. It was almost three. There was no way that chicken was ready to come out. It needed at least another twenty minutes before it was even close to being done.

  He burst up out of the seat and wove through the mass of people crowding the rooms. He slipped into the kitchen to find Cindy stooped over a pan with a heart-shaped oven mitt and a pair of metal tongs.

  “What are you doing, taking it out?”

  “It looks done.”

  “It can’t be done. It just went in.”

  “Well … people want to eat and Donnie wants to get rolling on the deliverance. Let me just put a few of the more done pieces on this platter here.”

  “None of them are done. They went in fifteen minutes ago. And I haven’t even started the rice or veggies.”

  Cindy cut a piece off and nibbled on it. “Oh, it’s okay. Just a little chewy, that’s all.”

  “It’s not supposed to be chewy. Chicken should be tender.”

  “It’s fine,” said Cindy. “Just a little rare.”

  “You don’t eat chicken rare. It’s not a dang porterhouse steak!”

  “Calm down! Look, I’m putting the rest back in the oven.”

  John exhaled in exasperation, and reached for a sauce pot. “Let me throw together some quick saffron rice.”

  “No time for that. Donnie wants us to assemble on the back patio. How about I take some soft rolls out of the freezer? Between this and the dishes to pass, we’ll have plenty.”

  John lacked the energy to argue. He stood aside and watched Cindy transfer a good two pounds of half-cooked chicken onto a platter.

  Donnie popped his head into the kitchen. “Inner Circle? We need you now for the next round of prayer. He turned to the folks milling in the dining room. Everyone else, grab a candle and prepare to join us. Jerry made us a few wind screens, but I see we got nowhere near enough. There’s a roll of aluminum foil on the patio. Maybe y’all can fashion your own.”

  Cindy carried the platter into the dining room and nudged aside some of the other dishes to clear a space for it.

  “Man, that looks good! Don’t mind if I do.” Donnie snatched a chicken thigh. “Now, if you all will follow me.”

  Cindy smiled and trotted after Donnie. John tagged along reluctantly.

  They found the rest of the inner circle waiting outside on the patio. A fire blazed in their little potbellied Weber grill. Those not among the inner circle, cleared off the patio and formed a semicircle out on the lawn. Mac’s security team sat and watched from their commandeered lawn chairs in each corner of the yard.

  “Everyone! Take your neighbor’s hand. We’ll start off with another Prayer of Protection. This time, number two on your list.”

  Mac held up his hand and strode to the center of the patio. “Hang on, Donnie. I’d like a chance to say a few words. To remind folks why we’re all here today, if it isn’t obvious from the hellacious sounds coming down off that hill.”

  Donnie stepped back. “By all means.” He thrust his hands into his jacket pockets. His eyes darted nervously between Mac and Jerry.

  Mac rippled his shoulders and shook his fingers like a sprinter readying for a hundred yard dash. His head tilted back and gazed up at clouds that looked particularly heavenly today—gold beneath and rosy-tinged on their flanks.

  “Pr
aise the Lord Jesus Christ!”

  “Praise Jesus!” all responded.

  “God bless you my flock for coming here today. Your bravery, your devotion to your neighbors will not go unnoticed in Heaven. We have come here to Cindy and John’s abode to rid them of an abomination, a curse Hell-sent from the Fallen Angel himself whose name—”

  “Satan!” shouted someone.

  Mac blinked. He gathered his breath and continued. “Whose name, we do not speaketh. Ever.” His scolding eyes panned around the circle. “My friends, we have monsters in our midst. They are subtle monsters. They have no fangs or horn or pointy claws. They don’t look like murderous psychopaths. Some of them even look like us, but don’t let that fool you. These are insidious monsters, ministering their evils through music.”

  John felt his bile curdling.

  “Wait a minute,” said John. “That’s not what this is all about. This isn’t why we’re all here. It’s not those people, it’s—”

  “John … hush! How dare you interrupt him?”

  Mac coughed and gave John that was the essence of condensed bitterness. “Let me continue. As I was saying, some people … these people up there … the ones pouring this desecration of sound into our ears … they are insidious monsters. Now, we all know the power of music over ministry. It’s no secret. We in the clergy wield it for the good. But these monsters in our midst—these subtle monsters—call them demons, call them devils, call them what you will. They know the power of music and they wield it against us, in the name of evil.”

  “Who knew such evil could pour from such innocuous things as fiddles and clarinets? I mean, we all know about death metal and its blatant hell-begotten paraphernalia, its black clothes, its morbid and infernal imagery, bands named Incubus and Necrophagia, the way they desecrate their God-given bodies with metal piercings, and the songs they sing of death and the dark one’s kingdom. But who knew such darkness could be spawned with acoustic guitars and mandolins? Insidious, I tell you, and a danger to us all.”

  “And not only does it assault us directly, but it has summoned the minions of the dark one whose name shall not be spoken. Some of you have heard of the terrible things that have been spawned in these woods, which prowl these woods. And it’s terrible but true. Some of us here today have witnessed them. Imagine now if these forces ever found their way from Connecticut Hill to your own communities and into the wider world and the populace at large, worming its way from iPods through ear phones like parasites into the brains of our children. Apocalypse I tell you. It would be an—”

  Donnie coughed. “Um … Mac?” He reached over and touched Mac’s shoulder. “We should probably get rolling.”

  Mac gathered himself. He was breathing hard, almost panting. “In sum. We’re all here today, not only here to help our neighbors … our congregation. We’re here to take one small step towards freeing our world of this hellishness, against the worshipers of evil and the things they spawn.”

  “Amen!” said Donnie, prompting a chorus in response. He stepped into the circle, patting Mac on the back and shaking his hand, murmuring some faint praise. “Okay. Now, once Tammie’s done passing out the prayer sheets. I’m going the light the first candle. We’ll say a blessing and a protection before we use it to light the torches. Okay? Everyone ready?”

  People responded all around with nods and grunts and hallelujahs.

  “Alrighty then, here we go.” He clasped his hands together, clenched his eyes tight and ducked his head.

  John realized that he was the only one with his head up, watching, and he quickly followed suit.

  “Dear Jesus. We … pray … for healing from the works of the demons. We ask the angels to be stationed on our properties to guard us. We bind all demons until they can be cast out or leave of their own accord. We pray that you unleash godly spirits from the Lord to operate in our lives. We cleanse our beings, our hearts, possessions and homes of unclean objects, unclean thoughts.”

  “We use the Name of our Lord Jesus Christ and cover us with the Blood of the Lamb. We agree with the Covenant of the Blood. We use the Psalms as imprecations and pronouncements against the enemies of God, and call down the wrath of God upon spiritual foes. We will sing songs about the Blood of Jesus. We command that every knee to bow and tongue to confess that Jesus Christ is Lord.”

  Donnie opened his eyes and looked up, and surveyed the circle gravely.

  “Amen.”

  He took a long beeswax candle and tipped it into the flames. He lit the tiki torches one by one and they were passed to everyone in the inner circle. When he was done, he handed the candle to a woman who shuttled it indoor to light all the other candles of the parishioners.

  Donnie led the way around the corner. The security crew rose up to join them, keeping their distance along the flanks. John noticed that Jerry had his shotgun with him.

  “Jer? Is that really necessary.”

  Jerry tossed a glance over his back to Mac’s shady crew. “What do you think?” he said, his eyes intense. “Just in case things get out of hand.”

  Donnie clapped his hands. “Everyone. Sing as we march. Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

  Torches lighted against the deepening shadows of a sinking sun, they advanced on the hell house.

  Chapter 48: Fire

  As smoke is driven away, so drive them away;

  As wax melts before the fire,

  Let the wicked perish before God.

  Psalm 68

  Aerie dropped to the floor in a panic, fearing what damage the fall might have done to Scotty’s Prescott. She ran her hand along the neck all the way to where the block met the bouts. To her relief, her fingers found only smooth sanded maple, no breaks, no splinters. The bridge remained intact, the strings taut and lined up as they should. She had lucked out.

  Aaron rushed over. “What the heck happened?”

  “I just lost my grip. It slid with the rug.”

  “Hehe,” said Hollis. “I seem to have that effect on the women.”

  Aerie glared, half pissed, half flummoxed by the sight of Hollis in the same room with her, after all this time—this specter with his tattered black case. He wore a wary and diffident grin, and he seemed more than a little intoxicated. She took a breath and collected her bearing.

  Aaron helped her lift the bass back up, making sure the rubber tipped end pin stayed on the hardwood this time. They spun it around to check for damage, finding a few spots where the finish had flaked off and a hairline crack through the back left bout.

  “Oh God, Aaron, I’m so sorry. I’ll pay for the damages.”

  Aaron sighed. “We’ll tell Barry it was the change in the weather. It just popped a seam.”

  “Don’t lie to him. Tell him exactly what happened. I told you I’ll pay for the damages.”

  Aerie studied Hollis as he bantered with the rest of the band. He looked all spindly. He had lost a lot of weight and some more hair as well. It was teased out into a sparse, salt and pepper afro. He wore the same old rumpled suit he had favored in Tokyo. Style wise, he fit right in with Mal and Ron.

  Hollis put his case down and came sidling over to Aerie with the caution of a feral cat approaching a spinster with a bowl of Friskies.

  “Baby girl! It’s so good to see you! You look … more grown up. You don’t got that little girl look anymore.”

  “You’re saying, I’m aging,” said Aerie, fingering the new crack in Scotty LaFaro’s precious bass.

  “Oh don’t worry about that little crack. Nothing a little hide glue wouldn’t fix. That ain’t even yours, is it? Looks like some old beater.”

  “Yeah. A beater.”

  “Glad you could make it down,” said Aaron. “Wasn’t exactly expecting you.”

  “Once I heard Aerie was here, I had to come. I couldn’t live with myself.”

  He lunged over and hugged her, colliding with the bass and nearly knocking it again from her grip. Aaron hopped over in time to brace her.

  Hollis smell
ed like a wino, with overtones of mothball and aftershave. His woolen sweater scratched her cheek.

  “Why didn’t you tell us you were going to Amsterdam, instead of just ditching us?”

  “This opportunity came up all of a sudden like. I didn’t ditch you. I left you guys sitting pretty with that hotel gig in Tokyo.”

  “They fired us the instant you left.”

  Hollis shook his head. “That ain’t right. They promised they’d keep you.”

  Ron butted in. “Hey Aerie. So this is that guy?”

  “Yup. The one who thought I was dead.”

  “No way!”

  “Who’s the quiet guy?” said Mal, whispering.

  “Paolo, everyone, everyone Paolo,” said Aaron. “He’s our new percussionist.”

  “Aerie, you gotta forgive me,” said Hollis. “You know how muddleheaded I can be.”

  “You thought I was dead, Hollis. And you didn’t even bother to come to my funeral.”

  “What funeral? I—”

  “Exactly.” She extracted herself from his grip. “You reek. You drinking again?”

  “Again? When did I stop? I just gave up the blow.”

  Aerie looked at him, eyebrows rising. “Are you?”

  Hollis rolled up his sleeve. His arm was peppered with little dark scars, but no fresh needle marks. “Since Amsterdam, I’ve been clean. You won’t believe what a difference it’s made in my trade. I’m back in demand again in New York. Word’s getting out that the old Hollis Brooks is back.”

  “I’m glad for you,” said Aerie. “But we had things good in Tokyo. And you said you’d take us with you.”

  “That was before the Amsterdam thing. I honestly thought I’d be gone a month or two then hook back up with you all. I left you all in a good situation. I had no idea things would crumble for you all that fast.”

  “No? You really thought the Hollis Brooks Quartet minus Hollis Brooks was really doing to fly?”

  “I didn’t think you’d miss me. You had great people sitting in every night. You had you, Koichi and Frank. Man, you were a crack rhythm section, the best I ever had. You would’ve made one fine trio.”

  “Yeah, well. The management didn’t think so. They put us out on our butts. Frank had to take a teaching job in Osaka. Koichi found us a fill-in but he wasn’t a jazzer. We got lounge gigs. General business crap. Weddings. Anniversaries.”