Painted Black

by Greg Kihn

  He writhed before Brian like an eel with an arrow in its head. Brian looked on, a bemused expression on his face. The old man keyed on Brian for a while, then moved on. He couldn’t spook him. The Golden Stone never flinched.

  The music lasted until dawn. Clovis used up most of the tape he had with him. They were exhausted and their heads throbbed. The incessant music had been such a driving force during the night, now its absence was deafening. Clovis took some aspirin with a swallow of brackish water and trudged back to their host’s house. Brian, Clovis, and Dust Bin Bob crashed on the floor, too tired to move. Conversation evaporated. The Pipes of Pan had drained them body and soul.

  The next day, Brian was up early. “Wake up, Clovis. A new day has begun. There’s much to do.”

  “What the hell time is it? My watch has stopped.”

  Brian shrugged. “I don’t wear a watch, man. Time is a bummer.”

  Time is a bummer?

  “Is there any food around? I’m starving.”

  “Yeah, Gysin’s gone to fetch some breakfast. I suppose it would be too much to ask for some bacon butties.”

  Bobby sat up. “Did somebody say bacon butties? That sounds wonderful.”

  Clovis laughed. “I hear the goat’s good.”

  Brian lit a cigarette and squinted at Clovis and Bobby through the smoke.

  “Could you believe that old man last night?”

  Bobby shook his head. “That was insane.”

  “Did you take pictures?”

  “Hundreds.” Bobby sniffed his fingers. The aroma of goat turned his stomach. “I got everything: sight, sound … and, unfortunately, smell.”

  Gysin and Mahmoud entered with bowls of rice and steaming tea.

  “Breakfast is served.”

  Brian said, “What was all that last night about the Master of Skins?”

  Gysin settled next to Brian.

  “That was the reenactment of the legend of Bou Jeloud. The Master of Skins is supposed to be the god Pan himself, half-man, half-goat. It goes way back to before the time when Saint Sidi Ahmed Sheikh introduced Islam to this region around eight hundred AD. He gave moral authority to the Master Musicians of Joujouka. Since then, they’ve been venerated. They are a living link to the Holy One. But in fact, they are pre-Christian and pre-Islam. They go all the way back to the time of the Pyramids. There’s no one else like them in the world.”

  “I’m sure the goat didn’t appreciate it,” Bobby said.

  Gysin raised an eyebrow. “The goat was chosen. It was a great honor.”

  “Tell that to the goat.”

  Brian raised his hand, as if in school. “Question? Will there be more music to record today?”

  “Oh, absolutely.”

  Brian looked at Clovis. “How much tape is left?”

  “I used almost half of it last night. My guess is we’ll be able to record another four reels, if we conserve.”

  “Good. That’s settled, then.”

  Brian clapped his hands together. He turned to Gysin. “All right, man. Let’s talk about mirror gazing.”

  Gysin smiled. “Yes, of course. That intrigues you, doesn’t it? The mirror you bought is very powerful. You want to try it out? I can understand that. Today is the last day of music. Why don’t we stay tomorrow, and I’ll show you the technique.”

  They spent the day recording music. The old man did not make an appearance. Clovis used every inch of tape he had, filling each with the weird, hypnotic keening of the horns and the raging cadence of the drums. If you listened to it, it drove you crazy; if you didn’t listen to it, it drove you crazy. It was impossible to tune out. When the second night of music was over, Clovis felt relieved. He’d done his job. Brian seemed satisfied.

  Gysin acted as tour guide through the ancient stones of Joujouka, answering Brian’s questions and pointing out sacred sights. It seemed that almost everyone in the village was a musician related to the Attar family.

  Brian Jones walked through the town like a holy man. People wanted to touch him, to be near him, to gaze upon him. He smiled and waved, blond hair radiating in the sunlight.

  During the afternoon, Clovis began to feel sick. Something he’d eaten (possibly the goat) didn’t agree with him. His stomach began to gurgle and heave. He developed terrible diarrhea. He went back to the room they had slept in and laid down on the dirt floor in his sleeping bag. He began to shiver.

  Bobby, ever prepared, brought some Pepto-Bismol along with aspirin in his toiletries. He gave some to Clovis and told him to rest.

  Dust Bin Bob turned to Brian and said, “Clovis is pretty sick. We have to make sure he’s hydrated, but the water might be bad. I suppose we could boil it.”

  “We better keep an eye on him. It would be a bummer to have a medical emergency way out here.”

  Bobby looked at Brian.

  “Could you postpone the mirror gazing? I don’t want to do it without Clovis.”

  Brian made a face. “Are you scared? Come on Bobby, it’s just a mirror.”

  “Don’t lie to me, man. It’s much more than a mirror.”

  The mirror gazing began at dusk. After eating a few of Mahmoud’s hash cookies, Brian was anxious to try it. In a room lit by dozens of candles, Gysin explained the technique. He sat Brian on some pillows on the floor and placed the mirror in front of him so his face filled the glass.

  “Look past the mirror. Concentrate just beyond the plane of the glass. Remember, this is a form of meditation, so complete relaxation is essential. After we leave the room, take a moment to clear your mind. Focus on your breathing. Try not to think any thoughts, just keep your mind blank. The third eye will open only after the conscious mind shuts down.”

  Bobby rolled his eyes as he listened to Gysin speak. All that third-eye jazz was a little too esoteric for him. Besides, something about the mirror still upset Bobby, and he’d didn’t felt comfortable with the whole experiment.

  Gysin said, “Think not so much of it as a mirror, but as a portal.”

  “A portal to what?” Brian asked.

  “Why … the other side, of course.”

  Brian was keen on seeing it through, so after making his feelings known, Bobby remained silent. It was Brian’s party now.

  Brian pulled Bobby aside. “Hey, man, I found a way to do this.” He pointed to an open window behind him. “You’ll be out there, using the zoom lens and a tripod. You can shoot over my shoulder and still get the entire mirror in view. No glare because of the distance. If something appears in the glass, get a picture of it. Shoot at an oblique angle with a zoom.”

  “But, Brian, that’s impossible.”

  The weight of Brian’s hand on Bobby’s shoulder surprised him. He wasn’t a very physical person, but he shook Bobby hard.

  “Wake up, Dust Bin Bob! Nothing’s impossible! If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being a Rolling Stone, it’s that nothing, absolutely nothing, is impossible. It may be difficult, it may be hard as shit, but nothing is impossible. I would only expect you to do your best.”

  The worried look on Bobby’s face must have troubled Brian.

  “It’s all right, man. Nothing bad will happen. Why are you so spooked by this thing?”

  Bobby’s voice quivered slightly. “I don’t like supernatural stuff. Never have. Gives me the creeps.”

  “Hey, man. It’s all part of nature. Too bad Clovis isn’t here to hear you whinin’.”

  “Nature, my ass. It’s evil.”

  Brian raised his eyebrows. “Anyway, this is just an experiment. Can you do it? Are you capable?”

  Bobby sighed. “Aw, shit, Bri. … All right, I’ll do it.”

  “Great! Okay! Let’s rock!”

  “What if nothing appears in the glass? I mean, what if you’re the only one that can see it?”

  The Golden Stone shr
ugged. “Then shoot a picture of the blank glass every three to five minutes. We’ll examine the film later.”

  “The frame of the mirror is pretty small. Do you want me to stay well within those parameters?”

  “Of course! We’re only interested in things that happen in the mirror.”

  “I don’t know, man. … This whole thing sounds pretty squirrelly to me.”

  Brian was losing his patience. “It would mean a lot to me, man. Look, I’ll pay you extra.”

  “Money’s not the issue.”

  “Humor me, Dust Bin Bob. Just sneak up and snap off a picture every few minutes. Easy as pie. If there is something going on inside the mirror, I want to see.”

  “I wish Clovis was here.”

  “But he’s not, is he? He’s conveniently sick. Leaving you alone to face the unknown.”

  Gysin called Brian to the mirror.

  “Stare into your own eyes, until your face dissolves, then look beyond.”

  Brian glanced at Bobby conspiratorially. Bobby looked away, not wanting to goad him on. Gysin adjusted Brian’s position.

  “Stay here for as long as you can. It could take many hours. Remember, keep your mind blank.”

  Gysin exited the room, leaving Brian Jones alone. Surrounded by a dozens of flickering candles, he stared intently into that strange little mirror. Brian glanced back over his shoulder at Bobby and winked.

  Brian sat like a child with an expectant, curious look on his face. Candles flickered as the disturbed air rushed past. Bobby could see their reflection in the dark glass of the mirror.

  Gysin and Mahmoud went to get something to eat, leaving Bobby skulking around the back window of the house with his camera. Feeling like a voyeur, Bobby watched Brian through the window. He sat very still, his glorious blond hair hanging down around his shoulders. Bobby noticed that his breathing had slowed. It was barely perceptible now by the slight rise and fall of his back. Bobby checked his camera. He had the right film and lens for the job, allowing for the lowest light. All he could now do was wait.

  Twenty minutes passed. Bobby decided to take some pictures. As quietly as he could, he snuck up to the window, aimed the camera over Brian’s shoulder and focused on the mirror. Its surface seemed as black and liquid as oil. Bobby took three quick exposures. For the next several hours, he took pictures every ten minutes. No change in the mirror.

  Bobby felt silly carrying out Brian’s request and was about to sod the whole thing, when something happened.

  He was preparing to take another set of photos, and he aimed and focused the camera exactly as he had before, but now the mirror looked different. Instead of reflecting Brian’s face, it seemed lighter. Bobby thought he could discern a cloudy image coalescing behind the glass. The camera whirred and clicked, and Bobby felt an involuntary chill. Brian’s doin’ it, man. He’s actually doin’ it. Whatever it was, Bobby got it on film, but it was like photographing smoke.

  Slowly, the new image became more defined.

  The reflection of a weeping young girl in a long white dress came into focus. Eleanor Rigby put her hand against the glass on the other side of the mirror. It was small and pale.

  Her hand seemed to strobe and flicker as it touched the glass. It flashed in and out for second or two. Bobby was glad he’d chosen to use super high-speed film. He kept his finger on the shutter release button and the camera shot continuously for several seconds. The image faded. He stood ready to photograph the next. But none came. He stayed there for another hour, sweating as if he were in a sauna, waiting for some change. The image had not returned. He took a few pictures anyway, just for the hell of it. Bobby had the camera aimed the same way, about to depress the shutter release, when suddenly Brian’s head turned. His face loomed in the camera’s viewfinder, red eyes blazing, looking utterly mad. He reminded Bobby of the old naked Master of Skins. He had that same manic look. It startled Bobby and he pressed his finger down, taking another rapid burst of pictures of Brian. Brian’s pale face, with bags under his eyes, nostrils flared, upper lip quivering, seemed to glare at him through the lens. Bobby captured it all.

  “I’m … out of the group,” he whispered. “The Stones go on without me. …”

  Bobby didn’t know how to respond. Was Brian hallucinating? He certainly looked like he was tripping. He eyes were dilated and his mouth was dry.

  “Brian?”

  “Huh?”

  “Brian? You okay?”

  Brian blinked. “What’s going on?”

  “You were mirror gazing. Then you turned around said something to me. Do you remember what you said?”

  Brian shook his head. “I don’t remember.” He looked dazed.

  “Let’s get some sleep, man. We’ll talk about it in the morning.”

  “Did you take the pictures?”

  “Yes,” Bobby said. “I took lots of pictures.”

  “Was there something there?”

  “Yes,” he said. “I think there was something there.”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Dear Doctor

  “Get me out of here,” Clovis rasped. “Please … I’m gonna die if I stay here.”

  “You’re not gonna die,” Bobby said. “You’re just dehydrated. We’ll get you to a doctor today. You’ll be fine.”

  “I can’t walk anymore. My legs are cramped.”

  Clovis was unshaven and pale. The dark circles under his sunken, haunted eyes looked like Night of the Living Dead zombie makeup. He was alternately glistening with sweat or shaking and feverish. His voice was parched.

  “I call upon the power of the great Dust Bin Bob,” Clovis whispered, “Please … Pull off another of your miracles, pardner. Take me home. Just get me the fuck out of here. I don’t care about anything else.”

  Mahmoud felt Clovis’s forehead and shook his head. He left the room after conferring briefly with Gysin.

  Bobby put a hand on Clovis’s sweat-soaked, greasy hair. “Don’t worry, old buddy, I’ll get you out of here if I have to carry you on my back. And I might.”

  “Is that a promise?”

  Bobby said, “Damn straight.” Clovis managed a weak smile and held his hand out for Bobby to grasp. He squeezed his friend’s hand. “I got you covered. We’re getting out of here right now.”

  The two buckets that Clovis had filled during the night, one from his diarrhea and one from his nausea, were reeking in a corner near the sleeping bags. Bobby picked them up and emptied them outside in a shallow pit, which he covered over. He found a towel and cleaned Clovis up as best he could. Clovis trembled uncontrollably. Gysin brewed him some weak mint tea with clean boiled water. Clovis sipped tentatively.

  Gysin said, “The mirror gazing went well. According to Dust Bin Bob, he was able to photograph several images in the glass.”

  Clovis looked at Gysin. “The mirror’s a fake. You guys are wasting your time.”

  “We won’t know until the pictures are developed, but there was definitely something there,” Bobby said.

  “Bullshit.” Clovis pulled the blanket in which he was wrapped tighter around his neck. “I’ve never felt so sick in my entire life. I can’t believe you dragged me all the way out here for this dog-and-pony show.”

  Brian Jones entered the room like a rock star, stretching from his ten-hour sleep resulting from the hash cookies.

  “Jesus, those hash cookies kicked my ass,” Brian said. “How’s Clovis today? Will he be able to travel?”

  “He’s not good,” Bobby said.

  Brian went over to get a closer look at Clovis. He looked rough. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re definitely not shooting the album cover today.”

  Presuming what Brian said was a joke, Bobby didn’t laugh.

  Bobby said, “I’m worried about Clovis. We can’t waste any time getting him to a clinic.”

  Gysin ex
plained his plan. “We may have to carry him out. I sent Mahmoud to rent a camel, and he can ride on the camel until we get back to the Land Rover.”

  Brian said, “How do we get rid of the camel when we get to the car?”

  Gysin said, “The owner of the camel will come with us so he can lead the beast back to the village when we’re done. Everyone in the village who owns a camel is in the camel-renting business. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

  Clovis moaned. He bent over the bucket and dry-heaved. When nothing came out, he leaned back and gasped for air.

  “There’s nothing left. I’m runnin’ on fumes, boys. I’m empty. If I don’t get some serious fluids soon, I’m gonna shrivel up like a prune.”

  Gysin said, “There is no medical clinic here, but there is in the town of Chefchaouen on the way back. We should be able to get an IV in your arm in a few hours.”

  “I’m too weak. I’ll never make it.”

  Bobby said, “We’ll carry you out of here. We can take turns. I told Erlene I’d look after you.”

  Clovis laughed, which turned into a cough. “That’s funny. I told Cricket the same thing.”

  “You want to carry me?”

  Clovis shook his head.

  Suddenly, a big silver-and-gray pigeon with a band of green iridescent feathers around its neck, landed in front of them. It lighted on Bobby’s knapsack and looked at them. The pigeon nuzzled the knapsack and Bobby opened it to reveal a tiny wooden pigeon cage.

  “Kevin’s racing pigeon!” Bobby said. “He made it!”

  “You mean that bird flew all the way out here to find that cage?”

  “This is no ordinary pigeon. This is a champion racer. I let him go yesterday, and he’s already been to Tangier and back. Racing pigeons have been clocked at over one hundred miles per hour with a tail wind. Once he leaves that cage, he’ll always find his way back.”

  “That’s unbelievable.”

  “Here’s the unbelievable part. That bird will take a message back to the cage it came from.”