Slim turned to Elijigbo. “What about Shango?” he asked.
Elijigbo shrugged. “Gone,” he said quietly, almost sadly. “The task he came for is done. If you call on him, or he needs you, he will come again. But he is a solitary Orisha. He will not bother you.”
“Then I’m okay?” Slim asked. “We won?”
Progress nodded vigorously. “Yep,” he said. “Thanks to you and Nadine. You’re gonna have a mighty sore leg for a while, and your fingers need to heal, but you okay mostly.”
Slim held his hand in front of his face and looked at his fingers. They were cut and bloody from the strings that had snapped on the final chord. He felt the pain only as he saw the wounds.
“Nadine,” Slim said, almost frightened and whispering. “Is everything all right?”
She shook her head side to side and laughed. “No, stupid,” she said. “Everything’s not okay. You’ve got a fucking bullet hole in your leg, no food in your gut, you’re about five shades whiter than you should be, you need a bath and we have a honeymoon to get started on. Now, you want the full report, or are you ready to go home?”
“Oh, I’m ready,” he said. “I’ve been ready for years.”
“Then grab your axe and get up off your butt and let’s go.”
He leaned on Nadine as they walked to the van. But, to tell the truth, he didn’t even really feel the pain in his leg.
24
All along there have been good reasons to play—I like it, a lot of other people like it, it’s fun. But beyond that, it can help us out in all kinds of ways. Music really is a way to reach out and hold on to each other in a healthy way. It’s helped me to open up and take a chance on loving people, instead of just isolating and suspecting everybody I run into.
—Stevie Ray Vaughn
Man you go through a lot when you’re out there playing. I done been through so much . . . I could write a book . . . . man, I could tell you some facts.Blow your mind.
—Albert King
It was the first day he had been able to get out of bed. Progress and Belizaire had told him to stay there, and then they had gone fishing. Nadine insisted, and when Nadine insisted, it was no use even trying to argue with her. Besides, she had ways to keep him in bed, and it hadn’t been a hard order to follow since his leg wouldn’t support him. But he’d woken up this morning and decided to fix breakfast.
It had been two weeks since the festival, since he had . . . No, it would do him no good to remember what he’d had to do. Better to remember what he had been able to do.
He played. He was finally a bluesman, all the way. But, more importantly than that, he had the good, sweet woman who was still asleep in the bed they’d shared almost constantly for the last two weeks. They’d made love, they’d talked and they’d played silly games that made them laugh. And they knew each other, knew there was little difference between them.
He slid thick slices of ham onto two plates, put some hash browns beside them, then took easy-over eggs from the frying pan and placed them carefully on top of the ham slices. As he put the plates onto a tray and was turning to get the coffee, he heard noises from the bedroom. He smiled, knowing that when Nadine woke fully and had eaten, she would want to make love. And today was the day he was getting out. They were going to go see about getting some gigs.
“Nadine?” he yelled. “Honey, is that you?”
The only answer he got was the sound of a yawn and a stretch and the image in his mind of what Nadine’s breasts and stomach looked like when she stretched. He put two cups of coffee on the tray, picked it up and headed for the bedroom. He still limped, but carried it all easily.
When he went in the bedroom, Nadine looked up at him, tousle-haired and sleepy-eyed. The sheets were drawn down to her waist, leaving her upper body bare. It was an almost painful sight, seeing her naked, caramel skin limned in yellow sunlight from the open window. Slim had always thought women looked awfully soft and cute and vulnerable when they first woke up. A wave of desire washed over him, and he realized how very much he loved this woman he’d been through such a lot with, through everything with. Everything he now felt was important in his life, anyway.
“Rise and shine,” he said happily. “After this, you can bring me breakfast.”
“Why?” she said. “I’ve been getting your breakfast the last two weeks. Besides,” she said, smiling wickedly, “I think I like it this way.”
Author’s Notes
PIERS ANTHONY
I answer an average of 150 letters a month, always hoping that will diminish. All of the collaborations in this series grew out of that correspondence, because I am sympathetic to the situation of others, especially hopeful writers. I know how difficult it can be to make that first sale and publication, having taken eight years to make that breakthrough myself, and I know how hard it can be to maintain a career in writing, having been blacklisted in the 1970s for being right. My position is now secure, but that seems to be the exception rather than the rule, in this business. There are those with talent and good will who nevertheless struggle, and Ron Leming is one of them. Thus, I have done what I can to help him get established. In a better world, such as the one he created in this novel, no such help would have been necessary.
I first heard from Ron in 1989 as a reader of my novels, and a professional writer and artist in his own right. Over the years there were a number of intelligent, thoughtful, feeling letters from Ron, as he explored the truths of the world as he perceived them. But his mundane situation was deteriorating, and there came a point when he was broke, having no money to buy food. He was slowly starving, literally. Somehow the social services manage to miss a number of real folk, and not necessarily by accident. I phoned the police in his region of Texas to ask them to check on Ron, and they told me that such a request had to be originated from my home state, Florida. So I called the local police, and they told me that such a request had to go to the home state of the person concerned. It was, in short, a runaround. I pushed the issue, and finally the police in Ron’s area agreed to check into the situation. But they never did.
I do what I can for my readers, in my fashion, but there are constraints. I gave Ron two pieces of advice. One was to check with the Author’s League, which offers financial help to writers in need regardless of their membership or lack of it. The other was to write the first draft of his novel in pencil on scrap paper, because though he had no computer or typewriter he did have time. The creative process does not require an expensive computer system; I wrote my own novels in pencil for seventeen years before switching reluctantly to the computer. He followed both bits of advice, and that impressed me; there are those who seek help but who aren’t interested in actually helping themselves in practical ways. So when the Author’s League help was not enough, I loaned him money myself, to get him out of his immediate fix. And when he completed the novel, but couldn’t sell it, I took it over collaboratively, adding my name, expertise, and experience to it. Thus did The Gutbucket Quest come to be the present volume.
I don’t like to interfere in the lives of others, but sometimes it seems warranted. I am not certain that what I am doing with these collaborations is right, either technically or socially, but hope that it is. I think that this novel would not have existed had I not acted as I did, and perhaps that is my justification. My concern is of course for human need, but also more specifically for human expression. The world may not care whether The Gutbucket Quest exists, but I do. It has helped to broaden my horizons, because though I have always liked folk songs, my knowledge of the blues is close to nothing. Thus I would never have produced a novel like this on my own. The language differs from what I would use, but I believe in authenticity. I hope others appreciate the novel for its totality, rather than taking narrow issue with its vocabulary.
And those interested in further information about me may check my Web site at www.hipiers.com.
Author’s Afterword
RON LEMING
It’s been a ha
rd life. I sit here now, a few years after this book was written, an ill, broken man. A completely different man than the one who wrote this book. I’ve lived one of those lives that leads some people to wonder why I’m still alive, and others to wish I wasn’t. It’s been one misfortune after another, ending up, at the present moment, with me suffering from chronic fatigue syndrome, extreme poverty, crushing loneliness and wondering if I’ll still be alive by this time next year. I’m rich only in one thing. I have the best friends in this world. Piers once called me a Sad Sack, after the comic strip character, saying that no matter how good my intentions, things always went wrong for me. He was accurate in that assessment.
My life has been called a tragedy, a disaster and a great crying in your beer song. I’ve gained and lost weight, been in accidents, done drugs, quit doing drugs, been drunk and been abused. I’ve laughed sometimes, cried most times, beaten my head against the wall and had my head bashed by others. I’ve seen oceans, mountains, forests, deserts, watched a shitload of TV and made friends with hawks and squirrels. I converted to computers only to discover I was a born computer geek. I’ve attempted suicide, had homicide attempted against me, had gall stones and kidney stones and driven on sharp stones that shredded my tires. If anyone has a right to sing the blues, it’s me.
I’ve loved some wonderful, horrible women. Annette, the love of my life, whose insanity led her down paths with dark tolls and even darker nightmares and who is unable to love or be loved. To this day I wish she was still speaking to me. I miss her friendship and advice.
Donna Gail, who taught me that tomboys had hidden charms and how abusive and hateful drinkers can be. Sweet Michelle, who abused the living hell out of me while at the same time opening my mind and imagination up to things I had never considered before. Sammi, whose father was an old riding bud of mine and whose need for love was almost as deep as mine. Her body betrayed her and she died before we even had a chance. And Jenn, my little Jenn, my present love, who is the only human being I’ve ever met who’s been abused more than I have, and whose mind and soul and hunger are fully equal to mine. We wait on new beginnings, hoping to change the ending.
I recently reviewed a pre-release of Carlos Santana’s Supernatural album. I predicted it would go straight to the top, and it has. I mention that because it’s inspiring for me to see things and people I love rise to the top despite any odds, while I can only wish to have that same luck. Music is a big part of my life. I create. I don’t just write, though that’s my first love, I CREATE. Whether it’s art, writing, music or building furniture, the act of creation is the central anchor of my life. Though it’s evolved from paper to the computer screen, it’s still creation, and it’s all I have. It’s what I get up for in the mornings, when I can get up. It’s what I live for. My life is a piece of art. It may be sad or tragic art, it may not be a piece of art you like, or admire, but it’s a creation, just the same. It’s only regretful that love, the greatest act of creation, has always been the one thing that was denied me.
I am Native American, and my people have a belief that we are born as animals, and that life, if lived rightly, is the process of becoming a human being. Piers Anthony is the most human of all the beings I’ve ever known. He is an unfailingly honest, deeply caring, thoughtful man whose life, mind and talent have been vastly underestimated by those whom he frightens with his life and work. It’s been said that what we don’t understand, we fear. If I may change that slightly, I would say that what critics don’t understand, they criticize. Piers has saved my life more than once, and perhaps saved my soul as well.
Though his work always has something to say, if one is willing to listen, he is a creator who understands that the act of entertaining people, taking them out of themselves and away from their problems can be one of life’s greatest callings and hardest jobs. He has been a mentor, a friend and a hero to me.
I could not create a work about the blues without mentioning some of my other heroes. First and foremost, there is always Carlos Santana, who in a different world, at a different time, would be a spiritual leader of great power and compassion. He put three words together which I adopted into my own philosophy of life; Love, Devotion and Surrender. ZZ Top, the voice of Texas and the state’s best ambassadors, whose music inspired much of this book. Jimi Hendrix and Stevie Ray Vaughn, who both died before they could truly create the music that burned in their souls. John Lee Hooker, the shaman of the blues, who understands the magic and power of the music. Buddy Guy, whose every note is like a chisel, chipping away from the stone everything that isn’t the sculpture. Climax Blues Band, who in a fair world, would have been kings. Eric Clapton, whose song “Tears in Heaven” taught a cold world how the blues could touch hearts and souls. Cab Calloway, the clown prince of blues, who engendered laughter and dancing wherever he went. Roy Buchanan, who taught me everything a bluesman needs to know, whose lessons still sneak up on me unawares when I’m working on a midi and find myself inserting a grace note into moments of silence. And last, but certainly not least, my greatest hero, Muhammed Ali, whose life taught me that, no matter what the consequences might be, you must stand up for what you believe, and stand up proudly and honestly.
Life has been hard. I have never expected life to be easy, or fair. It’s neither. But I have never expected to reach a point where simply surviving, staying alive is a struggle. Suffering from an incurable illness that isn’t even well understood is a daily war that you don’t even have the energy to wage. I spent a large portion of my life caring for the handicapped, but it wasn’t until now that I understood what it’s like, facing the spectre of death and knowing that it’s never going to go away, that it’s permanent, and there’s not a thing you can do about it. It does not do good things for either your attitude or mental stability. It’s been said that that which does not kill us makes us stronger. Those who say such things never seem to mention that, quite often, though things don’t kill us, they make us wish we were dead.
I would fail in my duty to myself if I didn’t ask you to visit my Web sites. Rosewort, a magazine of horror and dark fantasy, at http://www.geocities.com/Soho/Den/3712; Dragonglass, a magazine of science fiction and fantasy at http://www.50megs.com/users2/bone; Niversa Films at http://www.geocities.com/Hollywood/Park/1287; and Silly Ole Bear Web design at http://sillyolebear.freeservers.com. These sites all contain parts of my life and soul and heart.
Ron Leming
Amarillo, TX
October 29,1999
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2000 by Piers Anthony Jacob and Ron Leming
ISBN: 978-1-4976-5750-2
This edition published in 2014 by Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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ony, The Gutbucket Quest
The Gutbucket Quest Page 27