by Tim Pratt
I look down at the rabbit who still seems to be following the conversation like he understands what's going on. There's a nervous look in those big brown eyes of his, but something smarter than you'd expect of an animal, too. I lift my gaze back up to meet Staley's.
"I think I know someone we can talk to," I say.
The way William had talked him up, Staley expected Robert Lonnie to be about two hundred years old and, as Grandma used to describe one of those old hound dogs of hers, full of piss and vinegar. But Robert looked to be no older than twenty-one, twenty-two--a slender black man in a pin-striped suit, small-boned and handsome, with long, delicate fingers and wavy hair brushed back from his forehead. It was only when you took a look into those dark eyes of his that you got the idea he'd been a place or two ordinary folks didn't visit. They weren't so much haunted, as haunting; when he looked at you, his gaze didn't stop at the skin, but went all the way through to the spirit held in there by your bones.
They tracked him down in a small bar off Palm Street, found him sitting at a booth in the back, playing a snaky blues tune on a battered old Gibson guitar. The bar was closed and except for a bald-headed white man drying beer glasses behind the bar, he had the place to himself. He never looked up when she and William walked in, just played that guitar of his, picked it with a lazy ease that was all the more surprising since the music he pulled out of it sounded like it had to come from at least a couple of guitars. It was a soulful, hurting blues, but it filled you with hope, too.
Staley stood transfixed, listening to it, to him. She felt herself slipping away somewhere, she couldn't say where. Everything in the room gave the impression it was leaning closer to him, tables, chairs, the bottles of liquor behind the bar, listening, feeling that music.
When William touched her arm, she started, blinked, then followed him over to the booth.
William had described Robert Lonnie as an old hoodoo man and Staley decided that even if he didn't know a lick of the kind of mojo she was looking for, he still knew a thing or two about magic--the musical kind, that is. Lord, but he could play. Then he looked up, his gaze locking on hers. It was like a static charge, that dark gaze, sudden and unexpected in its intensity, and she almost dropped her fiddlecase on the floor. She slipped slowly into the booth, took a seat across the table from him and not a moment too soon since her legs had suddenly lost their ability to hold her upright. William had to give her a nudge before she slid further down the seat to make room for him. She hugged her fiddlecase to her chest, only dimly aware of William beside her, the rabbit in its bag on his lap.
The guitarist kept his gaze on her, humming under his breath as he brought the tune to a close. His last chord hung in the air with an almost physical presence and for a long moment everything in the bar held its breath. Then he smiled, wide and easy, and the moment was gone.
"William," he said softly. "Miss."
"This is Staley," William said.
Robert gave her considering look, then turned to William. "You're early to be hitting the bars."
"It's not like you think," William said. "I'm still going to AA."
"Good for you."
"Well," William said. "Considering it's about the only thing I've done right with my life, I figured I might as well stick with it."
"Uh-huh." Robert returned his attention to Staley. "You've got the look of one who's been to the crossroads."
"I guess," Staley said, though she had no idea what he meant.
"But you don't know who you met there, do you?"
She shook her head.
Robert nodded. "That's the way it happens, all that spooky shit. You feel the wind rising and the leaves are trembling on the trees. Next thing you know, it's all falling down on you like hail, but you don't know what it is."
"Um..." Staley looked to William for guidance.
"You've just got to tell him like you told me," William said.
But Robert was looking at the shopping bag on William's lap now.
"Who've you got in there?" he asked.
Staley cleared her throat. "We were hoping you could tell us," she said.
William lowered the cloth sides of the bag. The rabbit poked its head up, raggedy ear hanging down on one side.
Robert laughed. "Well, now," he said, gaze lifting to meet Staley's again. "Why don't you tell me this story of yours."
So Staley did, started with Butch dropping her off on the county road near her trailer late the night before and took the tale all the way through to when she got to William's apartment earlier that morning. Somewhere in the middle of it the barman brought them a round of coffee, walking away before Staley could pay him, or even get out a thanks.
"I remember that Malicorne," Robert said when she was done. "Now she was a fine woman, big horn and all. You ever see her anymore?"
William shook his head. "Not since that night she went off with Jake."
"Can you help me?" Staley asked.
Robert leaned back on his side of the booth. Those long fingers of his left hand started walking up the neck of his guitar and he picked with his right, soft, a spidery twelve-bar.
"You ever hear the story of the two magicians?" he asked.
Staley shook her head.
"Don't know what the problem was between them, but the way I heard it is they got themselves into a long-time, serious altercation, went on for years. In the end, the only way they were willing to settle it was to duke it out the way those hoodoo men do, working magic. The one'd turn himself into a 'coon, the other'd become a coonhound, chase him up some tree. That treed 'coon'd come down, 'cept now he's wearing the skin of a wildcat." Robert grinned. "Only now that coonhound, he's a hornet, starts in on stinging the cat. And this just goes on.
"One's a salmon, the other's an otter. Salmon becomes the biggest, ugliest catfish you ever saw, big enough to swallow that otter whole, but now the otter's a giant eagle, slashing at the fish with its talons. Time passes and they just keep at it, changing skins--big changes, little changes. One's a flood, the other's a drought. One's human, the other's a devil. One's night, the other's day... .
"Damnedest thing you ever saw, like paper-scissors-rock, only hoodoo man style, you know what I'm saying? Damnedest thing."
The whole time he talked, he picked at his guitar, turned the story into a talking song with that lazy drawl of his, mesmerizing. When he fell silent, it took Staley a moment or two to realize that he'd stopped talking.
"So Mr. Rabbitskin here," she said, "and that other thing I only caught half a glimpse of--you're saying they're like those two magicians?"
"Got the smell of it to me."
"And they're only interested in hurting each other?"
"Well, now," Robert told her. "That'd be the big thought on their mind, but you've got to remember that hoodoo requires a powerful amount of nourishment, just to keep the body up to fighting strength. Those boys'll be hungry and needing to feed--and I'm guessing they won't be all that particular as to what they chow down on."
Great, Staley thought. She shot the rabbit a sour look, but it wouldn't meet her gaze.
"Mr. Rabbitskin here," she said, "won't eat a thing. I've tried carrots, greens, even bread soaked in warm milk."
Robert nodded. "That'd tempt a rabbit, right enough. Problem is, what you've got here are creatures that are living on pure energy. Hell, that's probably all they are at this point, nothing but energy gussied up into a shape that makes sense to our eyes. They won't be eating food like we do. So far as that goes, the way they'd be looking at it, we probably are food, considering the kind of energy we've got rolling through us."
The rabbit, docile up to now, suddenly lunged out of William's lap and went skidding across the smooth floor, heading for the back door of the bar. William started after it, but Robert just shook his head.
"You'll never catch it now," he said.
"Are you saying that rabbit was feeding on me somehow?" William asked.
"I figure he was building up to it.
"
Staley stared in the direction that the rabbit had gone, her heart sinking. This whole situation was getting worse by the minute.
"So these two things I called over," she said. "They're the hoodoo men from your story?"
Robert shrugged. "Oh, they're not the same pair, but it's an old story and old stories have a habit of repeating themselves."
"Who won that first duel?" William asked.
"One of 'em turned himself into a virus and got the other too sick to shape a spell in reply, but I don't know which one. Doesn't much matter anyway. By the time that happened, the one was as bad as the other. Get into that kind of a state of mind and after awhile you start to forget things like kindness, decency... the fact that other people aren't put here in this world for you to feed on."
Staley's heart sank lower.
"We've got to do something about this," she said. "I've got to do something. I'm responsible for whatever hurt they cause, feeding on people and all."
"Who says it's your fault?" Robert wanted to know.
"Well, I called them over, didn't I? Though I don't understand how I did it. I've been playing my music for going on four years now in that meadow and nothing like this has ever happened before."
Robert nodded. "Maybe this time the devil was listening and you know what he's like. He purely hates anybody who can play better than him--'specially if they aren't obliged to him in some way."
"Only person I owe anything to," Staley said, "is my Grandma and she was no devil."
"But you've been at the crossroads."
Staley was starting to understand what he meant. There was always something waiting to take advantage of you, ghosts and devils sitting there at the edge of nowhere where the road to what is and what could be cross each other, spiteful creatures just waiting for the chance to step into your life and turn it all hurtful. That was the trouble with having something like her spirit fiddle. It called things to you, but unless you paid constant attention, you forgot that it can call the bad as well as the good.
"I've been at a lot of places," she said.
"You ever played that fiddle of yours in one?"
"Not so's I knew."
"Well, you've been someplace, done something to get his attention."
"That doesn't solve the problem I've got right now."
Robert nodded. "No, we're just defining it."
"So what can I do?"
"I don't know exactly. Thing I've learned is, if you call up something bad, you've got to take up the music and play it back out again or it'll never go away. I'd start there."
"I already tried that and it only made things worse."
"Yeah, but this time you've got to jump the groove."
Staley gave him a blank look.
"You remember phonograph records?" Robert asked.
"Well, sure, though back home we mostly played tapes."
Robert started to finger his guitar again, another spidery twelve-bar blues.
"Those old phonograph records," he said. "They had a one-track groove that the needle followed from beginning to end--it's like the habits we develop, the way we look at the world, what we expect to find in it, that kind of thing. You get into a bad situation like we got here and it's time to jump the groove, get someplace new, see things different." He cut the tune short before it could resolve and abruptly switched into another key. "Change the music. What you hear, what you play. Maybe even who you are. Lets you fix things and the added bonus is it confuses the devil. Makes it hard for him to focus on you for a time."
"Jump the groove," Staley repeated slowly.
Robert nodded. "Why don't we take a turn out to where you've been living and see what we can do?"
I call in a favour from my friend Moth who owns a junkyard up in the Tombs and borrow a car to take us back up to Staley's trailer. "Take the Chevette," he tells me, pointing out an old two-door that's got more primer on it than it does original paint. "The plates are legit." Staley comes with me, fusses over Moth's junkyard dogs like they're old pals, wins Moth over with a smile and that good nature of hers, but mostly because she can run through instrumental versions of a couple of Boxcar Willie songs. After that, so far as Moth's concerned, she can do no wrong.
"This guy Robert," she says when we're driving back to the bar to pick him up. "How come he's so fixed on the devil?"
"Well," I tell her. "The way I heard it, a long time ago he met the devil at a crossroads, made a deal with him. Wanted to be the best player the world'd ever seen. 'No problem,' the devil tells him. 'Just sign here.'
"So Robert signs up. Trouble is, he already had it in him. If he hadn't been in such a hurry, with a little time and effort on his part, he would've got what he wanted and wouldn't have owed the devil a damn thing."
Staley's looking at me, a smile lifting one corner of her mouth.
"You believe that?" she says.
"Why not? I believed you when you told me there was a boy under the skin of that rabbit."
She gives me a slow nod.
"So what happened?" she asks.
"What? With Robert? Well, when he figured out he'd been duped, he paid the devil back in kind. You can't take a man's soul unless he dies, and Robert, he's figured out a way to live forever."
I watch Staley's mouth open, but then she shakes her head and leaves whatever she was going to say unsaid.
"'Course," I go on, "it helps to stay out of the devil's way, so Robert, he keeps himself a low profile."
Staley shakes her head. "Now that I can't believe. Anybody hears him play is going to remember it forever."
"Well, sure. That's why he doesn't play out."
"But--"
"I'm not saying he keeps his music to himself. You'll find him sitting in on a session from time to time, but mostly he just plays in places like that bar we found him in today. Sits in a corner during the day when the joint's half empty and makes music those drunks can't ever forget--though they're unlikely to remember exactly where it was that they heard it."
"That's so sad."
I shrug. "Maybe. But it keeps the devil at bay."
Staley's quiet for awhile, doesn't say much until we pull into the alley behind the bar.
"Do you believe in the devil?" she asks before we get out of the car.
"Everybody's got devils."
"No, I mean a real devil--like in The Bible."
I sit for a moment and think on that.
"I believe there's good in the world," I tell her finally, "so yeah. I guess I've got to believe there's evil, too. Don't know if it's the devil, exactly--you know, pointy horns, hooves and tail and all--but I figure that's as good a name as any other."
"You afraid of him?"
"Hell, Staley. Some days I'm afraid of everything. Why do you think I spent half my life looking for oblivion in a bottle?"
"What made you change?"
I don't even have to think about that.
"Malicorne," I tell her. "Nothing she said or did--just that she was. I guess her going away made me realize that I had a choice: I could either keep living in the bottom of a bottle, and that's not living at all. Or I could try to experience ordinary life as something filled with beauty and wonder--you know, the way she did. Make everyday something special."
Staley nods. "That's not so easy."
"Hell, no. But it's surely worth aiming for."
William drove, with Staley riding shotgun and Robert lounging in the back, playing that old Gibson of his. He worked up a song about their trip, a sleepy blues, cataloguing the sights, tying them together with walking bass lines and bottleneck solos. Staley had made this drive more times than she could count, but all those past trips were getting swallowed by this one. The soundtrack Robert was putting to it would forever be the memory she carried whenever she thought about leaving the city core and driving north up Highway 14, into the hills.
It took them a couple of hours after picking Robert up at the bar to reach that stretch of county road closest to Staley's t
railer. The late afternoon sun was in the west, but still high in the summer sky when Staley had William pull the Chevette over to the side of the road and park.
"Can we just leave the car like this?" William asked.
Staley nodded. "I doubt anybody's going to mess with it sitting here on the edge of Indian land."
She got out and stretched, then held the front seat up against the dash so that Robert could climb out of the rear. He kicked at the dirt road with his shoe and smiled as a thin coat of dust settled over the shiny patent leather. Leaning on the hood of the car, he cradled his guitar against his chest and looked out across the fields, gaze tracking the slow circle of a hawk in the distance.
"Lord, but it's peaceful out here," he said. "I could listen to this quiet forever."
"I know what you mean," Staley said. "I love to travel, but there's nowhere else I could call home."
William wasn't as content. As soon as he got out of the car, a half-dozen deerflies dive-bombed him, buzzing round and round his head. He waved them off, but all his frantic movement did was make them more frenzied.
"What's the matter with these things?" he asked.
"Stop egging them on--all it does is aggravate them."
"Yeah, right. How come they aren't in your face?"
"I've got an arrangement with them," Staley told him.
They weren't bothering Robert either. He gave the ones troubling William a baleful stare.
"'Preciate it if you'd leave him alone," he told them.
They gave a last angry buzz around William's head, then zoomed off down the road, flying like a fighter squadron in perfect formation. William followed their retreat before turning back to his companions.
"Nice to see some useful hoodoo for a change," he said.
Robert grinned. "It's all useful--depending on which side of the spell you're standing. But that wasn't hoodoo so much as politeness. Me asking, them deciding to do what I asked."
"Uh-huh."
Robert ignored him. "So where's this trailer of yours?" he asked Staley.
"Back in the woods--over yonder."
She led them through the raspberry bushes and into the field. Robert started up playing again and for the first time since they'd met, Staley got the itch to join him on her fiddle. She understood this music he was playing. It talked about the dirt and crushed stone on the county road, the sun warm on the fields, the rasp of the tall grass and weeds against their clothes as they walked in single file towards the trees. Under the hemlocks, the music became all bass and treble, roots and high boughs, the midrange set aside. But only temporarily.
