Fire: Demons, Dragons & Djinns

by Rhonda Parrish

  “They’re better than great. They’re legendary.”

  “You think?”

  “I don’t think. I know.”

  His expression turned thoughtful. “Then they’re because of you. You’re the music, baby. You’re my muse. That’s what I’ll call you—Muse.”

  I kissed him, not wanting to admit how much that pleased me. Then I dressed and coaxed him from the roof, so we might fill his belly. We spent the next three nights as we had the first—tripping, making out, and talking about life, death, and other worlds. Then he’d write like a fiend possessed. We were in heaven.

  “You’re going to be famous, Jim.”

  He gave me that lazy smile I’d come to adore.

  “Yeah?”

  “Uh-huh. Together, we can do anything. We’ll do everything.”

  “Everything? So, you’d die for me, Muse?”

  The question left me unsettled. From our conversations, I knew he had a strange fascination with death. It was as if the spectre of it watched him from the corners, a dark and hulking killer that would one day take everything from him. He gave it the finger, while dancing on his grave at the same time. He was death’s clown, death’s fool, both victim and psycho-pomp. I attributed it to the drugs, but I suspected his asking me if I would die for him was also a test of my devotion. It ticked me off. He shouldn’t have doubted. I’d been with him for three days; it felt like three eons. “Don’t talk shit, Jim. Keep it up, and I’ll go.”

  “Chill, baby. You know I wasn’t serious.”

  But he was.

  On the fourth day after he finished his lyrics, we headed for Olivia’s, a diner on Venice. I didn’t have any bread, but we fae are nothing if not lucky. I knew if we timed it right, we’d show up just after Olivia threw out the trash behind the restaurant; there’d be half-finished hamburgers and cold fries. Enough for Jim until he sponged some cash. Most of the pan-handling we did went to booze, smokes, and dope.

  Sure enough, Olivia had just finished dumping a bag into the dumpster as we arrived. She didn’t see us and stepped back into the diner. Jim headed for the garbage, wanting to get whatever was in there while it was still good. He was so intent, he didn’t see the body further down the alley, slumped against a wall with a needle in its arm. Three grey shadows were hunkered beside it, amorphous clouds that kept swelling and shrinking. I didn’t have to look hard to know what they were—leeches, sucking up the soul of a soon-to-be-dead junkie.

  I grabbed Jim and pulled him around the corner, hoping they were too involved in their feeding to see us.

  “What’s the deal, Muse?” I’d yanked him hard. He was hungry, strung out.

  “We need to split.”

  “Why? I wanna scarf—”

  “So we’ll go somewhere else.”

  “Hell, we will.” He pointed at the dumpster, never one to waste anything if he could help it. “There’s perfectly good food in there.”

  “Listen to me. This place isn’t cool, right now.”

  “You’re tripping.”

  “Whatever. There are things down that alley. Bummer shit. They’ll come for you, especially if they see you’re with me.”

  “Let ’em! Didn’t you say we’d experience everything together, Muse? Bring ’em on! We’ll fuck ’em up together.”

  “I’m not kidding, Jim!”

  He saw how freaked out I was and began to laugh and laugh. I didn’t care. It was enough to get him out of there. After that, I left him to fend for himself for a time. He needed to miss me, realize what he had lost. Besides, I feared the leeches would follow him. A type of diabolical, they like nothing better than to destroy our favourites. They sniff them out like hell hounds on the hunt. A fae in the company of a mortal is a sure give-away.

  I didn’t leave him completely alone, though. I watched him from a distance, and I kept busy. I’d made him a promise—to make him great. He needed friends to help him get there. A month later, I made sure he ran into Ray.

  Ray was solid; they’d been together in film school at UCLA. Ray played in a band. He was what Jim needed. After a few minutes of rapping, Ray coaxed him into singing one of his new songs, “Moonlight Drive”.

  “That’s far out, man,” Ray said, and with that, they were on their way. They began to rehearse. John joined the band as drummer, and later, Robby, as guitarist. They called themselves “The Doors” after the William Blake quote: “If the doors of perception were cleansed, everything would appear to man as it is, infinite.”

  They got gigs at the London Fog, which didn’t pay much, and later, at the Whiskey A Go Go, which did. I liked the Whiskey. The place was hip, all red exterior and black awnings, with a psychedelic marquee that vomited names in tie-dye colour—The Byrds, Buffalo Springfield, Van Morrison. Inside were cages for the go-go girls who shimmied and shook, and red patent leather booths that swallowed you whole and made you their oyster. Everybody who was anybody made the scene at the Whiskey.

  On stage, Jim kept improving, overcoming his shyness. In leather, he was mesmerizing, sometimes an electric god, sometimes the shaman who paid homage. He made love to the music, hypnotizing us with it. His words, with the organ, guitar, and drums in steady syncopation, lulled us like a drug, and then he’d explode, slay the crowd in a screaming orgy of love, lust, and hate—all of it pure and potent and real. It didn’t matter what he sang, the crowd dug him. And it was my influence behind it all. The whole band was better off because of me.

  When Jim sang, “Hello, I Love You,” he’d look right at me. All the girls thought he was eyeing them, but his gaze held mine, deep, hooded, and huge. It was his way of honouring our first night when I said “hello” and refused to tell him who I was. As for the leeches, there was too much fire inside the Whiskey for them to tolerate. They kept to the edges, sniffing and floating about dark alleys where deals were made, urine pooled, and blood smeared.

  My own addiction for Jim kept growing. I didn’t realise how bad it was until she came onto the scene. A perky red-head, too pretty for her own good, it was easy to see Jim was into her. It’s true what they say: we fae are a jealous lot. I was possessive of him. He was mine.

  He didn’t agree. Or maybe he still thought I was just a figment of his imagination. All I know is when he finally balled her it tore me up. I wanted to burn her to a crisp and torch him in the process. I did neither. I might be made of fire, but I never let it burn away my ability to think things through, to strategize.

  She kept a bungalow in Laurel Canyon. The next time they went there, I followed them. Jim was unaware of me, too stoned or oblivious, which was the way I wanted it. I watched as they giggled and clung to each other as they climbed the long stairs into her house, both drunk on whisky and high on acid. In the living room, several people had already flopped. A joint, now cold, had rolled from an ashtray to the floor. Jim ignored the sleepers, and swept aside the beaded curtain that passed for her bedroom door. They collapsed on her bed.

  She pulled at his clothes. He clawed at hers. And then he was between her legs, doing it. It gave me some pleasure to see she wasn’t happy. No foreplay as she expected. Jim wasn’t concerned about it. As he thrust his way to climax, I slipped inside her, willing him to open his eyes.

  He did. He saw me. She was no more. I lay in her place, a fae of fire, spread-eagled beneath him, consuming him as only fire can, my hair a torch of orange and yellow, my eyes, red and glowing, rubies of fury and desire.

  Who am I, Jim? I forced him to say it.

  “You’re Muse,” he muttered.

  Fucking right. Don’t forget it, or I’ll leave you forever.

  “What are you saying?” Beneath us, Pam heard him. I felt her need, her longing for him to love her.

  I hated her. Tell her to shut up.

  “Shhh, baby,” he replied, a far cry from how I wanted him to say it.

  She did, good little groupie, that she was.

  LATER, PEOPLE THOUGHT his song, “Love Me Two Times” was about a dude leaving for th
e Vietnam War, or the band leaving their girlfriends to go on tour, but I knew better. Jim was mine. I gave him what no one else could. If I had to take her place whenever they did it, I would. She was the usurper.

  On Sullivan, they wanted him to change the lyrics of “Light My Fire” to “Girl, we couldn’t get much better,” but he spit the real words at the camera with such venom that the suits said he’d never appear on Sullivan, again. I think that was the point I started to feel differently about him. I was jealous and possessive, yes, and flattered by his acknowledgment that I was his muse, but this feeling was something different, something I’d never felt before. It was softer, warm, like a banked fire. I started to think about death—his—and it terrified me. I didn’t want him to die. I had to find a way to make him immortal.

  With his belief in me finally set, he felt he could do no wrong. And perhaps that was the downside of hanging out with a fae—fire made him dangerous. He took risks he shouldn’t have. He didn’t play safe, on stage or off. He and Pam began to fight, shouting matches I encouraged and enjoyed. She suspected there was someone else. And when he trashed the president of Elektra Records’ office, people said he was possessed.

  It wasn’t me or the acid. He was allergic to whisky and didn’t know it. As for the acid, hallucinogens fall under my element, fire: the visuals and rushes are pure mental and physical energy. Alcohol is the opposite—heroin too, especially if injected. Main-lining was something the leeches liked, watery vampires, they sucked the souls of their victims dry.

  It was around this time Pam started to chip smack to numb her heartache, but I didn’t care. Jim had more women, and I had enough to contend with, slipping in to take their place. When he was aware of it, he would just laugh.

  I drew the line at the witch, though.

  He was fascinated with her; she was a link to his shamanism. Perhaps he went with her to better understand me. I admit, she had some ability. There was no slipping into her; she knew how to ward herself against interference. The worst I could do was to knock over candles in the hope they might set the bed on fire. As a last resort and to punish him, I turned him impotent. Bitch countered it by having him drink her blood.

  One night, after he had finished with her, I had it out with him. My fires were burning so fiercely, I thought I might burn out; jealousy riddled me, my fingers left fiery after-images wherever they passed. He had vacated the bedroom, leaving her to sleep so he could toke up in the garden. It was three in the morning, and the moon was full. They’d been celebrating Imbolc, the Spring Sabbat. Outside, tiki torches were burning beside the pool. He stood, mesmerized by one, staring at the flames. As usual, he was tripping, so it made it easier to reach him.

  I appeared in the torch, a face aflame. He startled briefly, then took a long pull from the joint he had been bogarting, staring at me all the while. He’d been expecting me.

  I delivered my ultimatum. Her or me.

  “You know, I never did like pushy women.” He exhaled the smoke in a long, even breath and looked away.

  I’m no woman. You know it.

  He turned back to me, irritated. “And you know what else, Muse? I don’t think I dig you, anymore. You’re a downer. A real drag.”

  I could hardly believe what he was saying. I’d given him everything I’d promised on that roof in Venice Beach. The lyrics, the fame . . . and here he was, dumping on me, as if I were nothing.

  Maybe fae are nothing, when no one believes in them.

  You bastard. I go now, I don’t come back. I take it all away. Your inspiration, your voice. You’ll have nothing, be nothing!

  “Yeah? You said that before, and here you still are. Good riddance, you god-damned firefly. Screw off! The world loves me. I do just fine on my own.”

  You don’t mean it.

  “I fucking do!” He grabbed the shaft of the tiki torch as if it were my neck and started to throttle it. His hands didn’t hurt me, but his hatred did. I felt the punch of it like a blow. Something inside me cracked and broke. I felt as if I were made from glass, that I was shattering into a thousand pieces. Every shard cut me more, severing my wings from my back and leaving them in tatters on the ground. And then, as if to douse me from his memory forever, he threw the torch into the pool.

  We were done.

  I came to with barely enough energy to keep myself alive. I was an ember, smoking at his feet. He didn’t see me there. He blinked once, as if not quite knowing why a tiki torch was on the bottom of the pool, and then he stumbled for the house, grabbing a bottle of whisky from a table as he went.

  After he disappeared inside, I lay there for a time. There was a dampness about my eyes, and for a while, I thought the water had splashed me which was why I couldn’t move. I finally realized the impossible had happened. The wetness was tears. I was a fae, made from fire, and I had shed tears.

  How could that be?

  With the question came the truth, and it stunned me. I actually loved him. And he had spat on my love as if it meant nothing.

  Fae don’t love. If they do, they become less than what they are. Something closer to a mortal. With the potential to die.

  Why did he loathe me so much? Every morning, the fires of the sun renewed me. Dawn was a few hours away. I would have to wait to recover until then. I stared up at the moon and stars and took what comfort I could from them.

  If I loved him, why hadn’t he loved me in return? Was he as incapable of love as I had been? Or was my attempt to keep him tied to me not a loving thing? What was love, anyway? I understood desire, and passion, and jealousy. If he came back out of the house and said he’d been wrong, I would forgive him. Why was I so quick to do that, even now? Was that love, or was it something darker—addiction?

  I was addicted, plain and simple. And the only way to deal with it was to go through cold turkey. There could be no Jim. I would do as I said—more for my sake, than for his. I would leave him.

  And I did for a time. But like any addict, the lure of the drug is almost impossible to resist. I’m fairly certain that in his song, “When the Music’s Over”, I was his butterfly’s scream.

  WITHOUT ME, HE drank more than ever. Whisky now seemed to be his drug of choice. By the time the band hit Miami he was out of control. Back then, Florida was still part of the Bible Belt. Jim hated the repression it represented. In true form, he insulted the crowd by telling them they were all “a bunch of fucking idiots”, and then later, invited them to take off their clothes after a fan doused him in champagne. Several people claimed he exposed his penis while on stage. At the trial months later, he couldn’t remember if he had.

  Through all of this, the witch disappeared, but the groupie remained. Finally, faced with jail and hard labour, she convinced him to go to Paris while he waited for his appeal.

  I should have been there for him. He needed saving. I should have protected him from the full-up junkie she’d become.

  When I finally relented and looked in on them at their French apartment off La Rue Beautrellis, I was horrified by what I found. The place was lousy with leeches. Slug-like and amorphous, they gibbered in corners, slid across the floor like swill, and hung off her like she was some kind of blood sausage. She was so riddled with them she lost focus; I couldn’t see her beneath their putrid grey cloud. They hadn’t attacked him, yet—I suspect because Jim hadn’t yet fallen prey to her blow—but they eyed him, waiting.

  He had put on weight, as if the extra mass gave him protection, or perhaps he knew on some level, he was surrounded by a swarm. He’d grown a full beard, another way to hide. I could see he was sick. The whisky and the drugs had taken their toll.

  I was at his side in a moment. Hissing their annoyance, the leeches drew away from him. As much as I try to avoid them, it also costs them to tangle with me; fire and water don’t mix. Their touch might snuff some of my fire, but I also have an adverse effect on them.

  Baby, I’m back, and I’m sorry, I told him, sick at heart. I’ll never leave you, again.

&
nbsp; He closed his eyes. I don’t know if he heard me. I’d like to think he did.

  I’ll make it right, Jim. I promise you. I love you. I tested the word on my tongue. Because, yes, I could finally admit I’d given in to my own addiction. He was worth it, even if it meant I was less than what I was. We were worth it. I needed to get him right again.

  I nudged him and poked him, a hovering, frantic presence, and convinced him to take a walk the next day, although I know he thought it was his own idea. He needed sun and fresh air. So did I. I especially needed to get him away from her. She let us leave without a fight, likely because she wanted to drive a spike up her arm. The leeches let us go, content to remain with their food supply.

  It was a beautiful July day. The weather was perfect as we walked down a narrow cobbled lane. He’d had a couple of beers for breakfast—not great, but I wasn’t able to talk him out of it. At least he wasn’t high on acid although it made it harder for me to reach him. On our walk, he paused before a jewellery shop. A glass Star of David dangled in the window, catching his eye.

  It might be the only opportunity I had, so I took it. The Star was a mirror of sorts—a religious symbol for Jews, representing God and the teachings of the Torah and Israel. In broader terms it was also a symbol of the divine permeating and providing existence to all worlds. I straddled two of those worlds—Jim’s and mine. As the sun caught the Star’s bevelled edges, I slipped inside the glass, willing my face to form.

  He gasped as he caught sight of me. His eyes tightened as if the Star was too bright, or perhaps my fires were hard for him to endure. I could see his pain reflected in his gaze. “Muse,” he murmured. He reached a trembling finger to touch the window. It was a stroke, a caress.

  I’m here, Jim. My throat grew thick.

  He nodded, swallowed, and didn’t say another word. To my shock, tears filled his eyes and two wet lines spilled down his cheeks. I felt my own eyes spark as my heart burned. All was forgiven between us. He had missed me as much as I had missed him.