by Jim Stein
An old pickup rolled in from the street, distracting me from the problem. To be fair, all our cars were old because there was no one to run the manufacturing plants. Pete drove a circa 2020 Ford four-by-four salvaged from the derelict cargo containers down on the waterfront. Highlighter-blue paint made the thing visible for miles, and the extra-long bed helped him get tons of produce to market.
Pete was a farmer, through and through. The big black soles of his field boots swung out of the cab first, followed by his dingy overalls and long-sleeved plaid shirt. At least he didn’t have a piece of straw sticking out of his mouth, but his messy straw-colored hair framed a square face and sturdy build that just screamed hayseed. Pete was maybe five-six, more than half a foot shorter than me. I had put on a little muscle in the past year so no longer looked like a beanpole next to my friend, but my Native American heritage, dark-olive skin, and wavy black hair were in pretty severe contrast to his Dutch genes.
“What ya up to there?” Pete pulled a long canvas bag from the back seat and joined me at the fountain.
“Damn bottom cracked.”
“Whoa.” Instead of examining the damage, Pete plucked one of the octopus plants out of my hand. “This is freaky.”
“What is it, farm boy?” I knelt to pull the last of the plants free and stuck my finger into the cracks. They didn’t go very deep, which surprised me because the water had certainly gone somewhere.
“No idea, but I’ve seen something like it coming up in our new soybean field. You know, the one you helped me clear the other month? Not a lot of em, but Pa is checking around to see if other farms are having issues.” Pete pronounced it Paaw, as if his dad was an animal’s foot. Gotta love that earthy accent.
“Damn things grow like weeds. I wanted to test out your pump today, but I have to fix these cracks first.” I eyed the bag he leaned on like a crutch.
“More Earth hoodoo, I bet. Worked good on our stubborn boulder, though I would have rather gotten rid of it completely.”
“It was hard enough sinking and leveling that monster. All its mass had to go somewhere.” Wasn’t anything good enough for people?
“Hey, I’m not complaining. It doesn’t block the machinery and makes a parking area to dry the beans.” He flipped the end of the canvas bag open. “You’ll get a kick out of this.”
Pete withdrew what looked at first like a slim piece of metal fencing about four feet long with six slender rods running parallel along its length. Burnished disks were scattered along the rods in three groupings that looked vaguely familiar. He kicked two wings out from the bottom so the contraption stood upright.
“Okay…”
“It’s a mic stand for the band. See?” Pete twisted a connection at the top of one of the rods, revealing a c-shaped clip. With another twist the rod telescoped until the clip was at head height. “Mic goes in here, and you can adjust the height.”
“It’s a guitar neck, with the A chords!” I saw it now, six strings with disks where your fingers would have to be placed to form chords, A-major, A-minor, and A7 reading from top to bottom. “Quinn will love it. I mean, the band will,” I amended when Pete smirked.
The band in question was named the A-Chords, so his design was perfect. I worked with Billy, their pianist and lead, down at Main Line Studios and had been recording their music since last fall. Over the winter we sold a ton of albums, broadcast a few late night concerts, and really started to put the group’s hard-core original rock on the map. Billy had a backlog of booking requests, including calls from out of town—a phenomenal achievement showing how rife music was for a resurgence. We often recorded or jammed in my basement, thanks to the newly completed sound stage Pete built. The band members were close friends and Quinn, their bassist, even more.
“Yeah, we can set it up downstairs and surprise ‘em tomorrow night.” The knowing grin hadn’t left my friend’s face. “You and Quinn are getting pretty tight, huh? She’s hot, and I don’t mean just her temper.”
By now, I should have been immune to Pete’s jibes, but his wink and nod sent blood rushing to my face. He always fished for details, but there wasn’t much to tell—unfortunately. Quinn and I were friends. We kissed sometimes, and held hands, and snuggled. We even practiced magic together. I passed along what I’d learned from Koko and Pina to help Quinn control Spirit, but the Water element inherited from her mother was beyond me. I wanted more out of our relationship, but the time never seemed right.
“What do you think?” My fingers found the ring and drew it from my pocket.
“Smooth.” Pete inspected my creation. “Silver and copper, but how’d you get it to glisten?”
“Salt.” I smiled, happy to have someone appreciate the gesture.
“Magic salt, I bet.” Pete gave me an evil grin. He’d designed gadgets to disrupt evil magic. All of them involved the mineral traveling at high velocity. “Do you think she’s the marrying kind?”
“What!” I choked. “No, it’s a friendship ring.”
“Oh?” He handed the ring back and scratched his chin. “I thought you wanted to be more than just friends.”
“Well…yeah, it’s like a going-steady ring.” How hard was this to understand?
Pete headed inside to set up the stand, and if I was any judge of things, to hit on my sister. I turned back to the fountain with a grimace, resolving to make my move Monday night while the band tuned up in the basement. But first, I had to get these cracks sealed.
I knelt on the wall, reached for the stone slab forming the fountain floor, and dredged up the opening beat of The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm.” The mellow tune was one of my go-to melodies for working Earth magic. I let the snares, brushed cymbals, and keyboard flow with the power into the stone. The fractures were shallow, but oddly persistent. The magic pooled and ebbed back on itself rather than closing the offending gaps. My pocket grew warm, the Earth token from Koko responding as I pushed more power. The faceless coin heated up when I focused magic. I resisted the urge to bring out the artifact, having weaned myself off the need to use the three coins and external music. It was a matter of pride, but still the rock would not cooperate.
I sat back on my heels and scratched at a sharp prickling on my left shoulder. Under my collar, a paw print stood dark against the skin, looking as if Max had stepped in ink and pounced on me. Billy dubbed it a tattoo, but a bit of miracle self-healing had left the ever-lasting bruise with four toes and curved red nails. The itching was a new sensation that made it hard to concentrate.
Over the past six months I’d worked with a variety of natural materials, but had never met this sort of resistance. This felt like stone, but perhaps a manmade compound had been added during the fountain’s construction. My magic might not affect polymers and synthetics. Still, I could give it one more try, up the ante. I shifted to another mellow opening, but this one gave way to the double beat of a driving bass drum and crashing cymbals.
Even before I discovered my unique heritage and magical potential, I collected songs of power. Too young to know any better, I scavenged old disks and tapes from the city ruins. My natural affinity led me past the fluff to music with drive, passion, and—yes—power. Most of the old songs I remastered for entertainment proved well suited for driving my Earth, Spirit, or Fire spells. The A-Chords’ music also had that special quality—the power of the original artist. At first, I’d floundered matching songs to elements, but through trial and error developed a good feel for what worked.
A handful of songs were magical equivalents to a nuclear strike. Imagine Dragons’ “Radioactive” was one of them. The slow, deliberate wave of music entwined with my magic. I pushed hard, giving the heavy, over-modulated beat all it deserved. The chorus consumed the power with a hunger of its own, drawing my magic forth, insistent and implacable. The driving beat pushed past the resistance—showing the stone how to reform.
The edges of the cracks softened in response. I bobbed my head to the imagined beat and to my success. The stone f
lowed faster, leveling the bottom of the fountain, sealing it tight, and closing the last fissure with a final snap
A howl ripped through the air, breaking my concentration. I’d practiced enough to keep the spell from unravelling. I tied it off as the noise crescendoed to a high keening that made my teeth ache.
“Max!” I yelled back toward the house.
Pete and my sister shot out of the front door, the former brandishing an aluminum baseball bat and my sister waving what looked like her lucky rabbit’s foot.
“What the hell!” Pete shouted.
“Nothing out here. Max, shut up!” The tattoo shifted from tingling to burning, and I couldn’t think through the pitiful noise from my stupid dog. You would have thought someone was pulling his legs off.
I hustled inside. The others exchanged confused grimaces and followed. Max huddled beneath the bay window, back to the corner and tail tucked tight. He howled for all he was worth, only pausing to suck in a huge breath. His brown eyes were wide with the whites showing as he stared into the front yard. I scooted over on my butt. Max was as mellow as they came, but I only got him last fall and didn’t know his history. He let me put a hand on his neck. I massaged his shoulder, trying to soothe him.
“It’s okay, boy. Shhh…Shhh.”
His wailing strangled off to whimpering yips. He stayed rigid for a few more seconds, then hung his head and made pitiful little whines, snuffled my leg, and rolled onto his back to let me rub his belly.
“What got into him?” Piper asked.
“Dunno.” Max ignored me as I checked his feet and legs. “I don’t see anything wrong.”
“Maybe someone blew a dog whistle,” Pete offered.
We checked around out front again, but couldn’t find anything out of the ordinary. I kept an eye on Max throughout the night. He slept soundly—if you don’t count the rumbling and snoring—in his usual spot next to my bed, so I felt okay about leaving him for work Monday morning.
My day at Main Line Studios was uneventful, but I was a nervous wreck by evening when the band showed up at my house. The ring sat tucked into a little envelope. I strung it onto a necklace that probably wasn’t real gold, but should at least make my intentions clear. Nobody puts an engagement ring on a chain.
The A-Chords were a great bunch. Except for our occasional pizza nights, they brought their own snacks and left my place as clean as when they arrived. Since we’d just finished recording their second album, tonight was more of a jam session. The guys arrived well before Quinn, which had my palms sweating. I didn’t want an audience.
Billy unloaded his keyboard and hooked into my modest sound system. With a full set of cords and amps at the house, setting up was a breeze. The big lanky black man popped his stand up in no time flat. His massive beard dusted the keys as he stretched across to plug everything in.
Jinx, on lead guitar, was ten years older than me. He arrived mopping his shiny pale head. His neatly trimmed copper beard and matching hipster glasses managed to make him look cool and collected in spite of the perspiration.
Randy unpacked his electronic drum pads, for once forgoing his favorite high-hat cymbal. I never really pegged his age. His long, dirty-blond hair constantly whipped about because he tended to beat out rhythms twenty-four seven. His face registered as a blur in your memory, longish with a sharp nose and probably eyes, but few other details. Tonight was no different. He managed to play while setting up his gear, albeit without amplification.
Surprisingly, no one stumbled upon Pete’s gift. The custom mic stand sat center stage under the canvas sack. Some sort of spring planting emergency came up at the farm, so I got to unveil Pete’s artwork.
Just before eight, Quinn wandered down the steps that plunged into the center of the basement. She wore black riding gear with her metallic-blue bass guitar slung over one shoulder. Her bike was a customized import, loud but not obnoxious. With the sound deadening panels, nothing short of a jackhammer penetrated the basement, except the doorbell, which was wired to a small light and speaker by the stairs.
I couldn’t help imagining her riding up my drive like an avenging Valkyrie, hair blowing in the wind and guitar rising over one shoulder. I had no problem remembering the contours of her face, from button nose to liquid-brown eyes to how the sharp elegant curve of her cheeks swept to merge with a narrow chin beneath pouty lips. Quinn boasted a bit of Asian ancestry.
Her smile made my heart race even though she headed straight for the stage. I jammed my hand into my pocket, clutched the ring, and crossed over as she set down her guitar.
“Hey, Quinn. Got a minute?” I grabbed her free hand and tried to steer her to the alcove behind the stairs.
“Hey, yourself.” She planted a kiss on my cheek, which drew a chorus of oohs from the guys. “I’ve gotta plug in. It’s almost go time.”
“Only take a sec.”
“Important, huh?” She shrugged and followed me to the other side of the room.
“Um…” Clammy sweat gathered in my left palm. My right hand grew numb, and I wasn’t even certain it still held the gift. I’d rehearsed this all morning, but the words slipped away.
“Spit it out. We really do have to get started.” Then she gave a pretty little gasp, and her eyes sparkled. “You know, don’t you?”
“Know wha—”
“Whoa, dude! What’s this?” Randy’s voice rang out from across the room.
I frowned at Quinn’s words, then looked to the stage. Our drummer was down on his hands and knees leering up under the canvas bag like a kid sneaking a look at a Christmas present—a big lanky kid who for once in his life wasn’t mindlessly drumming on something. He had to pick tonight to get curious? Pete was so proud of his creation. I couldn’t stint on the unveiling.
“Randy, pull off that sack,” I called over my shoulder and shrugged an apology to Quinn.
It took him a minute because mic cords were wrapped around his legs. He had apparently been looking for the mics themselves. Randy did a good job with the unveiling, removing the cover with a game-show flourish and managing to not knock the stand over. The room fell quiet.
“Courtesy of Pete Easton.” I stepped closer to the group, unwilling to totally abandon my chance to give Quinn the ring. “He really appreciated all the support during his recovery and thought this was a fitting centerpiece to our new sound stage. Designed and made it out on the farm. He wanted to be here, but—”
“The chords!” Jinx’s jaw dropped.
“A minor.” “A7.” “A major.” Everyone shouted at once.
Well, they certainly got it. The band gathered around Pete’s gift, running hands over the strings, fingering the burnished disks, and generally oohing and ahhing. Billy adjusting the clamp heights to see if they extended far enough for his six-foot-five frame.
I pulled Quinn back from the group, determined to do the deed. The envelope shook in my hand. I have this.
“Quinn—”
“Ed, this is amazing.” She turned from the stage, a huge smile stretching her lips. Hell, it lit up the room. She was so gorgeous.
“Quinn, I want you to have something.” The ring shifted as I lifted the envelope up, and I snatched it back to keep the chain from falling out.
Quinn’s hand gripped my left, sweat cold between our palms, but she didn’t seem to mind.
“This is—”
“I know, right? This is perfect for the tour.” Her hair slapped me across the face as she looked back at the damned mic stand. “Billy, this has got to go to California with us!”
Quinn gave me a hug and hurried back to her fellow band members. I stood alone in the corner, dazed, my gift dangling between numb fingers. The band was going on the road.
4. The Relationship
T HE SUN reflected painful and blinding off the river to our right. My feet crunched through debris scattered on the weathered concrete dock as prim seagulls huffed in indignation and deigned to scurry a few feet to make way. Several strutted about, lettin
g out plaintive calls for food, while others wailed warnings from atop the pier pilings. I eyed the little bastards, worried about the pack of peanuts tucked in my back pocket.
Quinn and Billy strode ahead of Pete and me. We wore jeans and tee shirts for the dirty job ahead. The smell of damp algae rose thick from the lapping water as we approached the giant ship propped on blocks rising from the waterline. The rusted sides were an orange fortress that gave way high above to dirty white deck edging and black stacks. It was difficult to imagine the huge rectangle floating, let alone being hoisted from the river all those years ago. A gaping doorway jutted out to form a permanent ramp into the vessel’s stern, looking much like some medieval drawbridge. Mesh netting hung over the opening to keep the marine birds and other critters out.
“I can’t believe you wimped out,” Pete said.
“Not so loud,” I whispered and cast a furtive glance at Quinn’s back. The tailored outfits she always managed to find made it hard for me to tear my eyes away. Even her graphic tee hugged her waist, flaring out perfectly with the contour of her slim hips “It just wasn’t the right time. They were all fawning over your gift, wanting to take it with them.”
“Wimped out,” he repeated with a curt nod as we clanked up the ramp. “I don’t want to hear you bitch all summer about her traveling cross-country without acknowledging your relationship. And why help them find a bus? It’ll make ‘em leave sooner.”
“Double-M records is moving fast. They’ll leave next month in cars if they have to. Billy is great with electronics, but they need your homespun gift with engines and industrial gear.”
“More like four years of vo-tech. All I can say is you better find the right time to give it to her.”
“Give what to whom?” Quinn stopped at the entryway, waiting for Billy to unlock a wire rope stitching the curtain closed.
