by Aaron French
“Have you found the sign?” it asks.
He turns and runs.
The girl walks on, away and into her own life, unaware that anything has happened.
***
He dabs his brush into a patch of black and applies a thin line along the base of one of the towers. He does all right at first, his trembling hands only mildly disturbing him. It is the wings that break him. A loud flutter and then a thud against the window cause his brush to stray off the tower and into the black starry night. In this instant he remembers being back on the yard after solitary and Whitey ambling up to him asking him if he’d caught a glimpse of The King, after all, he’d been his neighbor for two weeks, hadn’t he seen anything? The most whispered about inmate…
The shades are closed. He flings them open, blinded by a brilliant golden sun splash. A great black bird, a crow perhaps, hovers there, wings beating the air. It is the size of a cat, its beak shiny and curved. He stares at it for a moment, hypnotized, then it lunges upward, toward the nest. The doves dive and peck at the crow, defending their eggs. He beats his fists on the window as the nest is pulled from its ledge. The eggs scatter and roll across the fire escape like pearls torn from a broken necklace, yellow yolks dripping from cracked shells. The crow goes for them, the doves fly in small, furious circles, confused.
He steps back, repulsed, and trips over the shoebox at the foot of his easel. His whole body convulses when he notices the yellow envelope full of newspaper clippings. Some have spilled out, their headlines glaring black, as black as the towers of Carcosa. 5th Girl Taken From Mason Park reads one, Police Hunt Park Slasher declares another. He remembers sitting in his cell, remembers the warm feeling that began in his stomach when he thought of those whispered words. He remembers hearing another man in another, far-off cell, screaming. And that screaming sounded like the doves do at this moment.
***
There is no real pain at all. There is only the slow, dreamlike beauty of his blood mingling with the warm bath water, spreading in all directions. He drops the razor onto the tile floor, then lies back in the tub.
He thinks of his canvas, unfinished. He thinks of the Yellow Sign and the words of The King. Carcosa is black, silent, empty. Exactly like his vision and the place he is going to.
About the author: Mike Lester is the author of An Occasional Dream, published in 2002 by indie crime publisher UglyTown. He currently lives in South Carolina.
The First and Last
Performance of Varack
John Claude Smith
Omnibus Exclusive
You wouldn’t call me a fan, but I appreciated where Varack was going with his music. The first two releases—Genesis and Mutation—were dry, trying too hard to be different. Which meant most of my fellow music journalists, in a fit of faux hipster aspirations and bandwagon hopping most unpleasant, found them deep, meaningful, blah blah blah—they were mediocre and unfocused as far as I cared.
With the release of his third CD, Revelation, it suddenly made sense, this devolution of his sound. He’d refined his intentions and reached a place where I could say it was unique—it was different—and not forced or phony. It even helped me make sense of his previous efforts, the downward spiral of an artist exploring his blackened soul.
Over the years his voice had matured and morphed into a clotted, phlegmy stew that still escalated into registers which most singers—besides those specializing in opera—would never attempt. Though his primary singing tone was more akin to a crinkled rasp: a wrinkled, brown paper bag containing an empty Jack Daniels bottle. I was reminded of Tom Waits, however because of Waits’ poetic lyrics, he was firmly entrenched in the fallacies and foibles of what it meant to be human. With Varack’s oblique lyrics, there was considerable doubt he had similar desires, only to express whatever it was he was trying to express. It was gobbledygook to most people, yet that undefined quality worked for a small audience, of which I was now a member. The music matched the lyrics, indecipherable distinction between instruments congealing into a droning miasma.
My fascination heightened by the transition—perhaps metamorphosis would be a better word—yet most of my cohorts detested it.
With a fourth disc allegedly ready for release, here I was, entering a bar off the coast just south of Half Moon Bay in California. A desolate place swathed in fog that crept up from the beach, adorned with an appropriate moniker, Ocean Mist. I was about to interview the elusive Varack, “an exclusive, no-holds-barred interview,” his assistant had said a week ago on my cell phone. “And he wants you, only you.”
As in me, only me. Not even my photographer girlfriend, Bree, who usually assisted on these endeavors. She’d been grumpy when I left and I missed her, sure, but it was Varack and if I had to make this trek alone, then I would do so. I was told he would supply “whatever I needed.” I was hoping for a CD of the new material at the very least.
I was surprised Varack knew who I was, even if I’d followed up the review I did for his third disc with an overview of all three, pointing out my take on the evolution (or perhaps devolution) of the music. On the patterns, ideas and all that came through loud and clear to me, even though the lyrical side was still draped in obscurity. Yet I felt I was in a way able to peek behind those drapes and into something—that undefined something—that touched me. Without knowing what exactly he was saying, I sensed an allegiance to end-time prophecies of some sort; or perhaps new beginnings as intertwined with the original perceptions.
I heard no similar observations from any other music journalists. Even Bree couldn’t get a feel for it, and she enjoyed the first two releases. The tonal shifting, as if approaching the work from a different angle, skirted past her. Yet, I knew I was on to something. But that was five years ago. I’d almost forgotten about Varack.
This was his first interview in eight years.
In some circles, Varack remained a big deal. His reemergence was sure to stir things up, especially if he was talking again after so long. Being the first to interview him, as well as the first to hear his new music—I hoped—this was a coup that should catapult my music journalism career into the sights of the biggest publishers, Rolling Stone, Chaotic Audio—you know the roll call.
I scanned the mariner-themed interior, all kinds of boat tools, a harpoon, and fish “art” adorned the walls, hung from the ceilings. Everything except the frozen in mid-leap sturgeon was coated in rust. There were even large hooks hanging from the ceiling, seeming a bit dangerous to me. I wondered if any of the regulars here were into suspension hanging. I smiled inside at the thought, yet kept a stern look to my exterior.
As I entered, weird, swampy music addressed my ears. Not exactly blues, with somebody moaning and groaning that “she left me for another man, I just can’t go on,” or some like-minded lament to the God of Pain. I liked it, but even as outré as it seemed, it had nothing on Varack’s music. At least from five years ago.
What would it sound like now?
A hand raised in a far corner. The body attached to it did not turn, but I instinctively knew the figure was Varack.
The other patrons sat on barstools and leaned over half-filled steins of beer. They sagged into the architecture, as if they were a part of the foundation. I expected by their hang-dog appearances that they spent all hours here, stuck in the same position as life passed by unattended. The morose atmosphere they shared made my blood freeze, but not for long. I had a purpose here as I walked to the corner booth.
The figure did not look up as I scooted into the seat across from him. I had a moment to wonder if this person wearing a large, hooded fur coat amassed with filth, lending it an almost leopard pelt quality, was Varack, or some poor slob wanting for company. Companion to the lost souls at the bar. Still holding onto something before the architecture of despair claimed him as well.
My misgivings were swept away when a soft rumble of a voice said, “Welcome, Jarrod.”
I could not see his face clearly, could not make out features.
The only photos I had seen of him were always distorted in some manner. Manipulated to show nothing, but suggest so much. The suggestion here made my stomach clench. The dim light in the bar did not help the situation.
“Yes. Hello, Varack.”
I tried for casual, yet my voice cracked as if puberty had arisen to taunt me once again, my quest toppled so easily.
“It’s time the world got to know the true purpose of my music,” he said, as I pulled my recorder from my jacket pocket and fumbled to click it on. I hadn’t expected him to start up immediately, but what did I really expect? Small talk from a man of few words—or at least few words that I, or most anybody else, could understand?
He moved his hand in an odd fashion, as if swiping at my recorder as I set it down between us. The hand was gloved, the fingers stiff and at odds with the delineated slots for each one. Two fingers and the thumb moved as he did this, but the two end finger-slots seemed unfilled.
The observation made me uneasy, yet I figured my discomfort was a product of this dreary place as much as the large, enigmatic man seated across from me.
I decided to leap in feet-first with his lead. Common courtesy and formal introductions were discarded for spontaneity.
“Let’s start with that, shall we?” I cleared my throat, a light cracking again woven into my words. “The lyrical content to all three of your previous releases—”
“There are no lyrics.” I sensed the darkness around his face thicken and bunch together as a fist.
“Your vocalizations—”
“My music. My symphony.”
His interrupting was annoying, but at least it was not as bad as some musicians I’d interviewed who couldn’t make heads or tails out of whatever passed for brains in their drug-addled skulls.
Varack’s interruptions had the same hesitant quality as his assistant’s halting manner on the phone. It made me wonder if they were one and the same. Perhaps he had no assistant, no nothing, it would seem. There was a terrible aloneness to him that made me empathize with the ideals of a true outsider. Not exactly solitude or self-imposed isolation-based, either. He was somehow separate.
Varack shuffled in his seat, rearranging himself without really doing anything that seemed to adjust his posture. Low rumbling sounds littered with something fluttering accompanied the movement. I leaned back, wondering if we should order something to eat or if this was a natural gastronomic condition for this strange man. I banked on that latter, probably because I wanted nothing to do with food from this place.
I realized even a drink would require getting up and going to the bar, as no waitress was making her rounds. I opted to get whatever I could out of an interview and hit the road posthaste.
This place was creeping me out.
This place and Varack.
“Your music. Your symphony. But it’s your voice that elicits the most attention.”
“My voice is an instrument within the atavistic orchestra, nothing more.”
Atavistic orchestra? I latched onto an impression I remembered when first listening to Revelation.
“There is a quality to your songs or at least the sounds that always make me wonder as to their origin. As if they are from an ancient time, yet not one catalogued by historians. A lost language, in a way—”
“Ritual and mantra. Call and response. Those who have been here since before cognizance registered in the first one-celled life-form are restless. Their time is near. Their time is now.”
What was he going on about?—his personal mythology as interview fodder, without foundation in reality? Or was this line of thought related to my catch-all article that suggested Varack was a prophet for the end times and these were the songs we would hum as the apocalypse commenced?
It was obvious Varack was not here to answer questions. He was here to spew his philosophy or fantasies and nothing more. I would have to take a different tack.
“Is there music for me to hear? Rumor of a new CD?”
“Rumor is reality as seen through the telescope of fiction. Reality is fiction as seen through the eye of the individual. Neither of these interests me.”
Sounds chattered from beneath his bulky coat. It sounded like rats scratching at walls or perhaps ants converging on a dead beetle, amplified, yet muffled by the coat. I was at a loss as to where to take any of this.
“Why are we here? If not to promote new music—”
He laughed. The sound was obscene, watery. The hairs on my neck dueled with each other as I leaned my neck sideways and a loud cracking sound brought a smile to his face. Not that I could see it clearly, but the distinction within the shadowy booth was clear.
“Why laugh?” He was pissing me off. “Why am I here?”
“Finally, a question of substance. The only question that matters.”
“Well?”
“My first and last live performance. Tonight is the night.”
Dear gods, goddesses, and those who tag along as if they share responsibilities as well, was I going to hear a live performance of Varack? The ultimate rarity and worth my whittled-to-bone impatience. Of course, the obvious question needed to be asked.
“Here?”
“No, of course not.” He turned that cowl-shielded head toward the wall to his right. “Out there.”
“Out there” was the beach and Pacific Ocean. No venue, sound man, and instruments, as far as I saw on my way into this gloomy joint.
I had no time to contemplate or question. Varack rose up, taller than I had envisioned, and massive in girth. The sizeable coat hung to the ground, although I could see the toes from what I thought were well-worn leather boots peeking out from beneath.
My coup had turned curious. I got up and followed him, joined by the lumbering souls who had lingered as toadstools around the bar—his band?—and clutched my recorder with the knowledge that if this was a one and only performance, the financial gain could be substantial. At least in a manner fitting the cult status of the performer.
I noticed the bartender, large eyes and slack mouth, gazing at me with an expression I would say belied his appearance. As if, even within that bland face, joy or perhaps anticipation were at hand.
Out the door, I was right. The beach would be his arena. While most bands preferred to mask the stage in fog, the fog here parted as the Red Sea, Varack the modern-day Moses of the bleak and disaffected; of the morose audience filing out of the bar.
I watched as he ambled toward the water. With the fog unfurling away from him, it was an extraordinary sight.
There was something inherently wrong with whatever was in motion, yet my fascination prompted me to catch up to him.
“No need to follow any closer, Jarrod. You’ll hear it all with clarity and a clean conscience from where you are.”
He hadn’t turned to face me. Another big man who had been sitting at the bar put his hand up and forcefully stopped me. He shook his head, mouth slack as the bartender’s, as if about to speak but no words came. I roughly shoved his hand aside. I’d say he smiled, but as with Varack, all certainties were vague at best.
“You won’t need that, either,” Varack said, as the big man snatched the recorder from my hand.
“Hey,” I said, stretching to grab it back, but the big man had already crushed it in his meaty palm.
“I just wanted—”
“It does not matter what you want, Jarrod,” Varack said. “All that matters is what you witness.”
“Witness? I was hoping to catalogue your only concert for prosperity—”
“Prosperity. What a joke. Financial gain will mean nothing once you understand.”
“I did not mean financial gain as much as a historical record of a one-time event.” I lied, yet there was truth interlaced into the lie.
“You do not understand yet why you are here, do you?”
“I figured it was my article. I… I get your music.”
He laughed, that same gurgling sound coated in phlegm.
“ ‘Varack�
�s metamorphosis portends a future bereft of hope. A flare shot into the sky, with no one to watch it flame out as it streaks toward extinction. Humanity deserves the death knell ballads he has etched into the crystal ball. There is nothing here but darkness eternal.’ ”
He quoted from my article, me wrapping it all up with a bit of zombie culture mindset masturbation. Sure, I heard within his songs the reverberations of the death knell, of some sort of apocalyptic serenade, but my final statement was simply me taking what he inspired and letting my brain run with it. I did that all the time. All writers did. It made for compelling writing, perhaps a way to get noticed. Of which he had definitely noticed.
“What’s your point?”
“What do you believe?”
“What do you mean?”
“What do you believe? You wrote those words. What if you are right?”
I was baffled and about ready to head out of there. The vibe had grown discomfiting and I could taste its bitter tang as it filled my mouth and mind in a bad way.
“I’m… I wrote those words as a response to your music. I don’t understand how it seems you are implying a literal foundation to what I wrote when it’s just what a writer does, shape words into something perhaps captivating to read. It’s not like I believe—”
“What do you believe, Jarrod?” He said this with force, the pitch of his voice slicing through the sky. I swear I saw stars dodge the invisible knife he wielded with his throat.
“I believe if you’re going to perform, get to it.” I just wanted away. “I believe you’ve probably got more than a few screws loose and this place puts the Overlook Hotel to shame.” I laughed. I had had it. “I believe—”
“I believe you were correct in your assessment, yet afraid to face the truth,” he said, as he turned around and opened his coat wider than seemed possible.
That’s when I realized it was not a coat.
That’s when I realized he was not human.
