The Night Walk Men

by Jason McIntyre

  These words are yours now.

  You do what you want.

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  Fourth: Braille the Rail

  He comes on a mist, you see, brings the cold when there is warm, the warm when there is cold. But silence. Always silence. Never does he bring calamity. He is the reversal of noise, the reversal of haste, the reversal of disorder.

  Obsidion, like all Night Walk Men before him, lives above the rest of us. You don’t know about this, and will likely forget it shortly after I tell you, but there is a secret valley on a hidden moon called Cruithne, which orbits past the clouds and the air over the northern magnetic pole. True north, they call it. And back before you were born, when they said ‘True North’ that’s what they were talking about, the valley above the clouds: Cruithne.

  There was a time when Obsidion savoured his duty. No, he didn’t like what he had to do, but he felt there was genuine meaning in it. He knew that it was important Work, perhaps the most important. And so there was salvation in that.

  There isn’t down-time from this Work, not in the same way you can imagine. Night Walk Men don’t punch clocks or commute to a saw-mill to begin a shift and then punch back out at the stroke of five. But there are reprieves from Duty. And, not too long ago, it was in those short interims where Obsidion, like anyone, could find solitude. He would come down from the Perch of Cruithne and walk among the living, savouring their lives, learning from them, watching them. He used to revel in these pieces of personal time, when he could visit with those that populated the world, and in particular with the artists that He so much admired and that so much enthralled him. I tell you that He was obsessed with your kind, found it hard to believe that you could deal with so much negative and still, some among you could remain so positive. How, He wondered, could you create works of art out of a life of pain. It intrigued Him and He was drawn to your ways of life.

  One of the artists he so admired and cared for was a musician, a blind sax-man who could play better than so many more who had the full advantage of sight. Can you believe it? A sightless man who lived alone near the train station and could play music that would soften even the most hardened soul. If that’s not an artist, Obsidion might have said not too long ago, then there is no such thing as art.

  Now the thing about this sightless man at the train station is that he couldn’t see Obsidion. No one could, right? But with him, it was a-okay. He just assumed Obsidion was like anyone else. A frequent passenger passing through Grand Central and paying homage with a coin tossed into his case.

  Obsidion knew his real name, knew the real names and all the real deals of every one in his flock. But he called the sightless sax-man by his nick-name, out of respect and genuine friendship built by years of passing visitations, conversations and, of course, songs. Braille the Rail, they all called him, this heavy-set black man who would stand and play in the station for hours straight, facing the wall because it carried the sound of his saxophone out into the theatre of the gates. His audience was the traversing crowds. Just men and women moving to and fro, all of them bent on Being Somewhere Else. None of them paid too much attention to the trials in-between their various Somewheres. Destinations were their core and nothing else mattered to them except for flagging comfort in the meantime. At these middle-roads, tips to a blind man playing saxophone were large. No one thinks their pockets hold real money out here in the Nethers.

  To Braille, all shaggy whiskers and dark shades, Obsidion garnered his own little name. Obo the Hobo. He was a traveler, he told Braille, a salesman who only carried two cases. One filled by his personal belongings and one giant rolling beast filled with his wares, musical instruments. Brass mostly. Trumpets and clarinets, the odd obo (which Braille wanted badly to hear played) and, of course, a saxophone or two.

  But enough about me, Obo the Hobo would say. I just sell ‘em. You actually make ‘em sing. Play me a tune, Braille, old friend, play it slow, so I can learn the notes and remember them when I’m on the road and away from my home.

  They were long years of steady friendship, but often the sporadic visits were short and badly-timed. Sometimes two or three years passed between a meeting of Obo the Hobo’s ears and Braille the Rail’s lips and the whetted reed of a finely procured saxophone. Despite poverty, Braille the Rail always had a flawlessly tuned and expertly shined instrument to play, because, as Obo saw it, such raw talent should flourish with a fine instrument in hand, and would only whither and die otherwise. To give a second-rate gift to such an artist would be a grave sort of sacrament. And since the conjure of most anything--air, stone, fire, even precious metals--is second-nature in the domain of the Night Walkers, the finest saxophone was virtually a costless commodity. Why wouldn’t he deliver a new one every few years to his closest friend, to his only friend?

  But Duty, Montserrat would say, comes before friendship. O come, Brother, he might say to Obsidion, Come sit with me and drink tea while I tell you again your lot. You were borne of duty, you are duty. You must to this attest your unflagging support. It is duty that makes you...and makes all the rest of us carry on. Without you, there would be no reason for anyone to live at all.

  And Obo the Hobo would have to forget his nickname when Montserrat stood before him and handed his orders. Obo the Hobo didn’t exist while there was duty to perform.

  You should know that there is no God, at least not in the sense that you have come to understand since your birth and your upbringing, no matter what faith (or lack of it) derives your wisdom. But there is a Word that comes from a higher place down a chute and into the ears of lesser beings. There is, as there should be in a universe that calls itself ‘ordered’, a chain of command. I am the second last in that chain. And Obo the Hobo, he is two links up from me. Demotion is not an option. But punishment has happened in the past. Punishment is final and there’s no coming back from it. His marching orders had arrived from Montserrat, who is one link up from him, and like all the times before, his duty spoke in volumes.

  When the Word is said, the harbingers must throw out the nets. And so, like countless moments before, countless since, the nets were thrown.

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  “There he is!” Braille would always say when He arrived, as a coin flicked from a gentle turn of His wrist into the black sax case near brown leather slippers, made ratty and comfortable with time. With regulars and strangers alike, he could tell how much you threw in and he could tell if kids scampered by and swiped some. Petty thieves would think he’s just an old cripple. But he’d always catch them in the act. As they slyly reached in to snag one of the bigger bills, the music would stop on a pin and out would come Braille’s fingers like pinchers, latching onto your arm or your shoulder like a giant insect with strength that fooled you coming from an elderly blind man who smells of liquor and cigar. He’d hold onto you until you dropped whatever it was and if you were stubborn, he’d holler for the station security. Some people swore that we wasn’t blind at all, that behind his black glasses, he could see better than anyone. Twenty-twenty vision for this undercover cop, or this transit patrolman, or this simple-minded scammer who just wants to play sax and milk the system for its sympathy, falling through the flaws year upon year.

  Thieves didn’t bother him anymore. Nowadays, Braille the Rail was a fixture at the station, like the wall sconces and the newsstand. To some he was as old as the trains, had been there before the longest-standing employee, a man in his late sixties who had managed to outlast everyone else on the payroll, even the top brass. And even to him, Braille was a myth, a living legend of dark flesh and bone. And his predecessors had swore to him thirty-five years ago when he started, “The Rail Man, well he’s always been here. For years and years, was here even before I was...” and with that kind of longevity, word spread that you didn’t mess with that old blind geezer. Bad Karma. Just enjoy the music, if it’s your cup of tea. Or walk on by if a scraggly welfare case without a real job makes you uncomfortable.

  “He’s back,” Brai
lle would say, coming off the reed of his saxophone, not even out of breath after thirty or forty minutes of playing straight on through. “Obo da Hobo is back in the Station House, everyone listen up, you gotta know. There’s a special coin in the case to-nite. And now at long last, Obo and Braille, we gon’ do what they call a doo-ette.” The tradition was unbroken, their first few moments together unfolded like they always had on any number of nights over the years. Obo flicked a coin into the sax case and Braille said his short piece, same as ever. Then, like he always did, he put out his hand, steady as it had been when he was a young man. Obo always appeared at the end of a tune, never in the middle, never interrupting the flow of the impromptu jazz that spilled through the hollows. And it was always out of nowhere, almost as if he’d descended from the sky.

  And Braille? He would always be excited. After the coin toss and their handshake, it would be a few pleasantries, then some of the ol’ “How’s it treating you?” or “Where they paying you to go these days, young man?” or “You still up to the same tricks ol’ feller?” Obo would reach out and take the old man’s arm -- firm, but not forceful -- just as he always did. Then he would lead Braille away and the two would sit at a table near the coffee stop. It was dark in the station tonight – no trains on schedule for a few hours. The hallows were empty except for the two souls.

  On this night, nearly the same as any other, they talked for a good long while. A good long while, for sure. And then Obo the Hobo did what he always did. He stood up. He led Braille back out onto his ages-old stoop, where, on this night, a misty rain had begun to blow in, laying a blanket of damp down. Braille’s dark glasses clouded with spittle and he moistened the reed with his tongue and his lips. For these rare occasions when Obo was present, he would stand facing the tracks, his back against the brick – and not the other way ‘round.

  “Play me a tune, old friend,” Obo said, “Play it slow, so I can learn the notes and remember them when I’m on the road and away from my home...”

  And so Braille played. And on he played. Loud and proud, for an hour or more, giving everything he had left to the song. And to his friend.

  As he played, Obo moved in closer to him. Minutes of long languid music would pass and still he played. And Obo would move in closer. More minutes of music would ring out. And still Obo the Hobo would move in closer. A bridge and then a heartfelt solo. Obo moved closer. And then a return to the first verse. Obo moved closer. And then back up into the heights of the song. And here was Obo, his lips wet from the rain next to Braille’s ear, so close they were almost touching.

  “Someone dies,” He said to His friend. “Every day, every minute. Every continent, every island, every everywhere. Could be you.”

  And then He was gone.

  Brailled stopped playing.

  He crept out from his spot near the brick wall. He called out for his friend. But Obo was nowhere. The station was empty.

  Where did He go? No trains had come for him, Braille knew that much because he knew the schedules like he knew the keys on his sax. A train would arrive in moments but wasn’t here to pick up passengers yet. So where did He go? And what did He mean? What was He saying?

  The rain came harder then.

  It doused the old man.

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  Fifth: Gabriela The Great

  Little Gabby was running from her brother when she took a tumble on the cold tile of the train station. Her parents were taking her and Galbraith on the early train out to Dow Lake where they owned a sizeable resort home. Braille the Rail’s long drawling music had faded for the moment and a light rain had begun and turned harder.

  The twins were three now, old enough to know better but young enough to still stir trouble up. When Gal threw Gabby’s dolly over the edge of the train platform, the children’s daddy was at the ticket counter asking if their train was still running on schedule and their mommy was digging in her purse to find a hairbrush or a bit of lipstick or some other trivial necessity.

  Gabby didn’t think twice about moving out from under the overhang and into the rain then right over the edge of the concrete and tile platform. She did it without thinking, as three-year-olds do. She had scraped her knee when Gal had been chasing her moments before but that pain didn’t stop her, didn’t even make her cry, so why would the edge of the platform and a bit of rain hold her back now? She had no idea how deep the pit was and over she went, onto the dirty tracks below with a bad thumb, bruising her hip and bloodying her arm from her elbow to her armpit. Her beautiful summer dress was scuffed and filthy now, black with dust and wet with the rain. And her hat took a breeze and landed some twenty feet down the track in the mouth of the train tunnel which led out of the station and into the rest of the world.

  But Gabby reached –strained—to get hold of her favourite dolly, thinking only that she would be in trouble from mommy for getting her dress dirty and losing her hat.

  When her fingers touched the hem of the doll’s dress, that’s when she felt the first rumble and that’s when her mommy let out a scream.

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  Braille the Rail had let the reed of his friend’s saxophone fall from his lips. He had heard a short discourse whispered next to his ear and found himself alone in the rain, coming to grips with what it meant when he heard the little girl go over the edge of the platform. A dog had been loosed in the station years ago and before it had been crushed by the coming train he could tell by the echoing of its whimpers that it was down in the track pit.

  The little girl’s whimpers and grunts of effort had that same distinct hollowness and Braille knew in his bones that she was somewhere down below the platform, just as that dog had been.

  The mother’s scream confirmed it.

  Braille’s sax hit the tile floor hard. And he was off across the distance and into the pit before he could rationalize the decision.

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  He’s lived past his due, Montserrat had said to Obsidion, as they had drank tea. He’s old and he’s tired and he’s slipped through the cracks for too long. No good can come of his creeping existence. You must perform your Duty.

  Obsidion thought for a long time. The two of them sat in silence, Monserrat sipping from his cup, Obsidion saying nothing, only looking into his own lap.

  Finally, he spoke.

  But she still has so much life, Obsidion said to Montserrat, ignoring his own tea, not caring for its bitter taste any more.

  Yes, but understand the Word, my brother. The Word says it’s her time as well as his.

  And so Obsidion had. He bowed his head to Montserrat, as He had always done, and had set forth to perform his Duty yet again.

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  The train roared into the station, not easing on its brakes as usual but trying to slow down faster than intended when the engineer saw what appeared to be two people on the track ahead. The window of the ticket booth shuddered. The brakes squealed.

  As he scooped up the little girl, Braille the Rail had a recollection of Obo the Hobo’s final discourse, whispered to him only a half-minute before and finally understood what it meant. Moments after the blind sax man reached up to the platform with a dirty three year old girl in his hands, handing her off to the girl’s daddy, the train came in and took his place.

  A panic-stricken father, only three or four paces behind the old blind man who had ambled over the edge faster than his age should have allowed, was now cradling his little girl, wet faced and shocked, still bawling at the ordeal. A similarly-shocked mother and twin son soon huddled them as other station employees began to crowd around.

  Gabriela the great was healthy, save for bruises and that long gash on her arm. She would grow to be a young woman. But the Night Walk Men will come for her.

  They always do.

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  Braille the Rail, the old blind saxophone player, living long past his run, to the age of one hundred and nine, was finally taken at his train station on that rainy night in September, 1964. Before the t
rain hit his body, Obsidion gently let his heart stop. Along with his music.

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  Last: The Flowing Robes of Montserrat

  You’re greedy. Look at you: you’re still here. Still wanting to hear the sordid details, still wanting for every last crumb. Can’t you let our Gabriela live her life, what’s left of it? Must you have your nose in it all?

  You think you know so much. You think you’re so special, that you’ve done this and you’ve done that. The truth is that you think you know it all. But I’ve been around a lot longer than you have. I’ve seen a whale of a lot more in my ten lives than you have in your one life. The truth is, I’m probably more human than you are.

  Fine. You’re still here. I can accept that. Let’s finish this then. It won’t matter much. You’ll still be the same as you were before.

  I told you that I’d share what I know. Fine. Let’s share.

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  What is a Life?

  If you would ask Obsidion, standing with your feet in the warm sand, his robes of black touched lightly by movement off the ocean, He would tell you that a lifetime is a beautiful, throbbing piece of work. Obsidion is a lover of art, you already know this. But what you don’t know is that He often speaks in riddles and in infinite loops. So you should not be surprised that He would also tell you that real art cannot be seen in real life. A lifetime is a beautiful thing. But a Life, capital “L”, is nothing at all like true art. He would say this to you without an ounce of self-righteousness, without a mote of pretentiousness.