If Souls Can Sleep

by David Michael Williams

  “Naw,” Jerry said, his eyes glued to the volleyball game. “But my last roommate…a philosophy major from Waterford…threw a big party that got busted. I was damn lucky none of the cops found my stash. Anyway, college kids never have any money. When they’re not moochin’ your food, they’re moochin’ your weed.”

  “Well, that’s something you don’t have to worry about with me.” Vincent paused. “I’m going for a walk.”

  Jerry suddenly stood up, and for a moment, Vincent feared the big guy was going to invite himself along. Instead, his roommate went to the pantry and retrieved a bag of potato chips. On his way back to his threadbare throne, Jerry said, “Alrighty. I’ll probably crash soon. See ya tomorrow.”

  “See ya.”

  Vincent was halfway out the door, coat in hand, when the phone rang. Something made him stop.

  “Hello?” said Jerry with mouth full of chips. “Oh, just a sec.”

  Vincent turned around. Jerry held the phone against his chest. “It’s for you. I think it’s your mom again.”

  Christ.

  “Tell her she just missed me.”

  “Dude—”

  Vincent shut the door and pounded down the hallway stairs. He refused to feel guilty about ditching his mother, but he did regret leaving Jerry to deal with her. For all of his foibles, Jeremiah Weis was a good guy. He also was the closest thing Vincent had to a friend.

  More than a dozen bars called Milwaukee’s East Side home, and most of them were within walking distance of the apartment. The bulk of them lined Brady Street, which was one block from home.

  Vincent went in the other direction.

  Chapter 2

  The door slammed, and Vincent jerked upright.

  He braced himself for what would follow—the relentless nightmare’s retelling of the worst moment of his life—and even turned to where he knew Bella would be grappling with the grocery bags.

  But it wasn’t Bella lingering in the doorway.

  Vincent stared uncomprehendingly at a figure covered head to foot in a frayed gray garment. Long sleeves dangled down past the man’s hands, and a hood hid his face entirely. The stranger was a dead ringer for the Grim Reaper, sans scythe.

  And Halloween is still a month away.

  The tang of smoke tickled Vincent’s nose. An open fireplace on the opposite of the room sent shadows dancing on bare wooden walls. The dozen or more people gathered around small, square tables spoke quietly, their indistinct words punctuated by the crackling of roasting logs and the clinking of cups against the hard tabletops.

  Vincent knew a bar when he saw one, even if this one looked like something ripped from the pages of a history book.

  The other customers all wore period costumes—tall boots, heavy leather cloaks and other drab garments whose colors were lost to the dim lighting. One bushy-bearded man even had a sword strapped to his back.

  Where the hell am I?

  Vincent stood up. The strange scene blurred, and he lost his balance. On his way back down to the bench, his thigh hit the table in front of him. Something made of metal clattered to the floor. The empty mug came to a stop a few feet away from the table.

  “Easy does it, man!” yelled a squat man with patchy red beard facial hair from behind a long counter to Vincent’s right. “You’ve quaffed enough spirits to topple a giant. Take it slow!”

  Vincent’s mind was spinning. It had been months since he stepped into a bar. How could this have happened?

  He struggled in vain to remember how he got there—wherever it was. As far as he knew, there weren’t any Renaissance-themed festivals in Milwaukee, and the nearest Medieval Times was in Illinois.

  “What is this place?” he asked the bartender. He nearly didn’t recognize his own hoarse voice.

  The short man barked a laugh. “No more ale for you, friend!”

  Before Vincent could reply, the ghostly, cloaked stranger swept past his table and approached the bar. From his seat a few feet away, Vincent saw that the dark gray fabric was tattered in places. A ring of what might have been moisture discolored the bottom few inches of the coat. Vincent caught a whiff of something earthy.

  “What’ll ya have, friend?” the bartender asked. His mouth smiled, but his eyes did not.

  The stranger had a good half-foot on the bartender. Vincent expected to hear a loud, ominous voice. Instead, he had to strain to make out the whispered words.

  “I am…looking…for someone.”

  The bartender grunted. “Most folks who come to my outpost are lookin’ to warm up with a fire and a stiff drink. Names are not Orson’s business. Coins, on the other hand…”

  Vincent thought the bartender—Orson?—was fishing for a bribe, but the hooded stranger didn’t take the bait.

  “A traveler told me the man I seek lives in this village and frequents your tavern,” said the soft, raspy voice. “Do you know of the one called Valenthor?”

  Orson’s frown deepened. “Mayhap I do. A piece of silver might aid my memory.”

  “Please, sir.” The billowing sleeve shot out, and a pale hand closed over the bartender’s wrist. “I have no money. Your kindness—”

  Orson wrenched his arm away. His heavy brows reduced his beady eyes to slits. Vincent expected him to slug the other guy.

  After several tense seconds, Orson muttered, “Kindness is rarer than a pretty whore in the frontier lands. But fortune smiles upon us both. That is Valenthor sitting right behind you. He has drank his fill this night, and like you, beggar, he has no money to his name. Why don’t the two of you take your leave, hmm?”

  When the stranger turned to find Valenthor, Vincent did too. Although none of what was happening made any sense him, he was caught up in the act. If nothing else, it was easier to watch the show than worry about how he had fallen off the wagon. He wondered if the guy with the sword was Valenthor. It sounded like a warrior’s name.

  “Wake up, Valenthor. You have a visitor.” The bartender was looking at Vincent.

  So was the stranger.

  “Me?” Vincent braced himself against the table and slowly pulled himself up. He winced as the floor teeter-tottered beneath his feet. “You must be mistaking me for somebody else.”

  Orson scowled. As for the stranger, all Vincent could see was a pointed white chin. Everything else was lost within the sagging hood.

  “I have come so far to find you, Valenthor.”

  The half-whispered proclamation, coupled with the Grim Reaper getup, gave Vincent goosebumps.

  “My name is Vincent, not Valenthor.” He looked to Orson for help, for an explanation, but the bartender didn’t so much as blink. Vincent was suddenly aware that the other customers were staring too.

  I gotta get out of here.

  Keeping the table between himself and the stranger, Vincent moved as quickly as he dared toward the door.

  “Wait!” The stranger’s voice had gone up a notch in volume as well as pitch.

  Now Vincent wasn’t so sure it was a man after all. Reluctantly, he stopped.

  The stranger came closer. “You do not look how I had expected, but I am certain it is you.”

  “What do you want from me?” Vincent demanded.

  “I need you to return with me to my homeland.”

  “What homeland? Why me?”

  “Because you are the Chosen One.”

  His own laugh caught him by surprise.

  That’s the best you can come up with? Even for a cheesy restaurant, that’s really lame.

  Long, slender fingers clutched Vincent’s arm. “Please, Valenthor! My people are in danger. You must fulfill the prophecy, or the forces of darkness will conquer all nations.”

  Vincent wasn’t listening anymore. Without quite realizing what he was doing, he reached out and pushed back the hood to get a better look at the stranger. His eyes lingered for a moment on the oversized eyes that were too green and glittery to not be wearing contact lenses. Then he took in the smooth, porcelain skin and prominent cheek
bones. Her honey-blond hair spilled down a long, flawless neck.

  She was damn gorgeous, in spite of her pointy ears.

  A shared gasp filled the room.

  “Ye gods, it’s an elf!” someone shouted.

  “Don’t let her escape!” Orson cried.

  Vincent couldn’t make sense of the other customers’ hate-filled expressions. Almost all of them were on their feet. The big bearded man unsheathed his sword and stomped across the room.

  The look of sheer terror on the woman’s face stole Vincent’s breath.

  Supermodel looks and real acting talent to boot. She should be filming in Hollywood, not doing improv in this dump. Oh well, might as well play along.

  “Leave the…uh…damsel alone!” he shouted.

  But the swordsman kept coming, and his blade looked awfully sharp for a prop. Vincent stepped in front of the woman, not at all certain what he was supposed to do next. His foot came down on the tin cup that had rolled off his table earlier.

  His legs flew out from under him. He fell in slow motion, affording him just enough time to realize that while he wasn’t experiencing the recurring nightmare about Clementine, he was dreaming nonetheless.

  He woke up the instant before his head struck the worn, wooden planks.

  ***

  Vincent stumbled into the living room. The light from the tall, slightly tilted lamp stabbed at his eyes. Jerry’s lava lamp was on too, but the TV was off. He gave no more thought to his roommate as he plopped down onto the Low Rider.

  Head in hands, he stared at the hardwood floor and tried to put reality back together.

  His confusion slowly faded as he mentally replayed the ordinary events of yesterday. A wave of relief washed through him when he realized that he had not, in fact, given into the temptation to drink. But he had been drunk in the dream, and it had felt very real. All of it had.

  Except for the nightmare about Clementine, Vincent almost never remembered his dreams. He doubted he would soon forget the medieval tavern—or the elf with the sparkly green eyes.

  The rattling of silverware snapped him back to the real world. The sound of running water immediately followed. Jerry was home, and he was doing dishes.

  He repressed the absurd impulse to run back into his room. It had been a while since Vincent had washed any dishes, but then again he couldn’t remember the last time he cooked. Maybe not since Clementine died. He figured half of his paycheck went to the sub shops, pizza places, and a certain greasy spoon on Farwell.

  Jerry’s voice drifted into the living room, “I wouldn’t take it too hard. You’re probably just an easy target, ya know?”

  Company? He waited for a second voice but then saw the phone was missing from its dock on the desk. Vincent had been grateful when Jerry offered to share the landline with him, but now that he had his own cell, Vincent wondered why Jerry didn’t trade the cordless relic for a true mobile phone.

  Maybe he’s strapped for cash. Who knows how much he spends on weed?

  “Hey, no problem,” Jerry said. “I’ll let him know you called…sure…buh-bye.”

  Vincent uttered a wordless greeting, as Jerry walked into the room and hung up the phone.

  “Oh, you’re up! You missed your mom again.”

  Vincent shrugged. “I’m sure it’s nothing important.” His thoughts caught up with him suddenly. “Wait, were you just talking to her now?”

  “Uh-huh.” Jerry folded his arms. The perpetually cheerful man’s lips twitched into something resembling a frown. “I know it’s none of my business, but maybe you should call her back.”

  “Why’s that?” Vincent asked, trying to sound nonchalant.

  “’Cause she’s worried about you, man.”

  Too bad.

  “I’m just sayin’—”

  “You had it right the first time, Jerry. It’s none of your business.” He got up from the couch, skirted the coffee table, and headed for his bedroom. He opened the door, but stopped suddenly. “Wait a minute, what exactly did my mother tell you?”

  Jerry opened his mouth, but no words came out.

  Vincent’s stomach did a somersault. Jerry knew…

  “I’m really sorry about your dau—”

  “Don’t!”

  Trembling, Vincent entered his bedroom. His thoughts were a blur as he got dressed. He felt rage boiling beneath the surface, but he pushed it down. He didn’t want to think about Jerry’s conversation with his mother. He didn’t want to think about anything.

  When Vincent returned to the living room, Jerry was still standing there. He brushed his shaggy blond hair out of his eyes. For once, the light blue irises weren’t bordered by crisscrossing red spider webs. The whites were glossy with gathering tears.

  Something inside Vincent exploded.

  “The least you could’ve done is invite my mom over and get her stoned first,” Vincent snarled. “The old Evangeline would’ve been all too happy to stay all night…smoking, telling stories…whatever else you wanted.”

  Pale-faced and wide-eyed, Jerry managed to utter a single, quiet word: “Dude.”

  “But let me guess,” Vincent said. “She didn’t get around to telling you about her days as a druggie. Or that she used to be a slut. No, I’m betting she didn’t tell any stories about her days as a neglectful parent, did she?”

  Jerry scrambled out of the way as Vincent stormed past him and out the front door. He was half a block away from the apartment before he realized he had forgotten his coat. He didn’t care. The autumn wind cooled his feverish skin.

  She had no right to tell Jerry.

  Vincent stood at the corner of Brady and Arlington for several minutes. He was barely aware of the passersby—a group of college kids, a pair of stout elderly women speaking Russian, a panhandler who wisely did not to ask Vincent for charity.

  The neighborhood contained as motley a collection of residents as Vincent could imagine. A haven for misfits. Down the street, he could make out the red script lettering of the neighborhood drugstore.

  Across the street was a high-dollar lounge where yuppies happily pissed away their money on overpriced martinis. To his right, past the Italian restaurant, was a bar for the blue-collar crowd. The jukebox always played classic rock. Farther down, there was a small building that boasted an array of beers from around the world. Young scholars and would-be Bohemians flocked to the outdoor seating in summer.

  Vincent had never been to any of them, but at the moment, he wasn’t feeling at all picky.

  Working-class watering hole, it is.

  Heart pounding, Vincent hurried over to it, stopping at the bottom of the steps. A neon sign promising a refreshing light pilsner on tap beckoned him.

  She had no right to tell him about Clementine. How does she expect me to move on with my life if I can’t escape the past?

  He rested his hand on the doorknob. The sounds of drums, electric guitar, and voices trying to talk above the music pushed through the closed door. He already could smell the cigarette smoke, taste the satisfying sting of whiskey on his tongue.

  Then Vincent was running back down Arlington Street, past the apartment building, and to the familiar roads lined with houses, a church, and a school. The words of Orson, medieval bartender, echoed in his ears:

  “No more ale for you, friend!”

  Chapter 3

  The rhythmic crunch of snow beneath his shoes was the only sound in the universe. The houses flanking the endless street stood dark and still. No headlights, no traffic sounds. The world slept.

  But not Milton.

  A blanket of clouds wrapped the sky in impenetrable twilight.

  When was the last time I saw the sun or moon?

  Milton pulled back his right coat sleeve to look at his wristwatch, but the glass was fogged, blurring the position of hands and numbers alike.

  He plunged his hands deep into his coat pockets, even though they weren’t at all cold. He supposed they must be numb.

  I’ve been walking
for so long. I need to get warm.

  Even as the thought surfaced through the haze of fatigue, a bus stop appeared in the distance. Milton quickened his pace, feeling more alert than he had in ages. A layer of ice obscured the route number and any hint of a destination. It didn’t matter.

  As long as I keep moving, I’ll stay ahead of them…ahead of…

  An inhuman growl, followed by a long, high-pitched shriek, shattered the silence. Milton spun around, muscles tense, to confront whatever terrible beast had stolen up on him. The dragon in his mind’s eye dissolved as the bus screeched to a stop beside him.

  His sigh of relief escaped on a puff of steam.

  The door folded open, and the entire frame of the vehicle dipped closer to the ground, almost as if the vehicle were genuflecting. The gesture would have felt more welcoming without the mechanical hiss that accompanied it.

  Milton stepped up and deposited a few coins into the metal receptacle, not bothering to look at the driver, who, in turn, offered no greeting. The bus suddenly lurched forward, forcing Milton to take a few unintentional steps down the aisle. Rather than fight the momentum, he performed the awkward dance past rows and rows of empty seats until he reached the back of the bus.

  “The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,” said someone from across the aisle.

  Milton jumped in spite of himself. Hadn’t the bus been empty?

  A young man wearing blue jeans and a hooded sweatshirt sat sideways in the seat, knees against his chest. Reddish-brown curls peeked out from under the hood. He gave Milton a lopsided grin.

  Milton looked away from the piercing blue eyes.

  “They say there’s always one crazy person on every city bus,” the young man said. “I’m sure glad you showed up.”

  Milton reluctantly turned back to him. “I’m sorry?”

  The young man took a drink from a silver beer can that Milton hadn’t noticed before. “If there’s always a crazy person on the bus, and I was the only one here, then that would make me crazy. But now that you’re here.” He waited a few seconds and then scoffed. “Never mind. Obviously, it was a bad joke.”