Dark Arts

by Randolph Lalonde

  He started playing the ominous opening riff, Bernie falling in step on the bass, and Scott pounding an almost tribal beat on the tom drums and was happy to hear Miranda join in on time with the rhythm guitar line. There was no doubt in his mind that their album was regular listening to her. She also had talent of her own, forgoing the pick for effortless finger picking, something he would have noticed before if he paid any attention to the callouses on her fingers.

  They broke from the intro into the main song, keeping to ominous minor keys. He sang the verses to his best ability, sticking to his comfortable range, they had the audience’s attention, and most of the younger people seemed to enjoy it.

  When it came to the chorus, Miranda sang with a strong tone that wasn’t harsh in the least, but it had a slight rasp that Maxwell enjoyed. The little girl was gone from her voice. It had been replaced with the powerful tone of a confident woman.

  One More Party (Wake the Dead)

  Abandon your slumber

  Your lasting repose.

  We ain’t done with you yet,

  Wake, shake, rattle those bones.

  Master necromancer,

  I stand on this hill

  To bring you forth

  You’ll abide my will.

  [CHORUS]

  Rise for this night

  Drink from death’s cup.

  Keepers of the light

  Come at sun up.

  Dance down the avenues

  Make merry one last time

  Your dead I return to you

  Before I make them mine.

  [CHORUS]

  Rise for this night

  Drink from death’s cup.

  Keepers of the light

  Come at sun up.

  Here comes the day

  Find your headstone,

  Return to your graves

  I will not be known.

  They finished the song. Maxwell smiled at Miranda, nodding.

  “You love it?” she asked a little too close to the microphone with a cocksure smirk towards Maxwell.

  He couldn’t speak over the applause without a microphone, so he kept nodding, pointed at the main microphone and stepped aside. “What do you want to sing?” he mouthed as much as yelled. There were at least forty people filling the barn and spilling outside.

  “Anything?” she asked.

  Maxwell looked to Bernie, who nodded and shrugged. “We’re a top forty hotel band, name it,” he shouted over the calming crowd.

  “Slow Ride?” she asked, smiling.

  “Let’s do some Foghat,” Maxwell said into the microphone he used for backup vocals. More than half the audience knew who that band was, and applauded. He knew the rest would recognize the song as soon as Miranda started singing. He pulled his bottleneck from his pocket and slipped it onto his little finger, then nodded.

  Scott started with the drum opening a second later. Road Craft did have original music, but they mixed the better songs from their album with rock songs from the late sixties and more recent radio hits. There was no way to fill eight sets a weekend with only their music, they just didn’t have enough, and it wasn’t what hotel or bar owners wanted. They wanted bands that played popular music, so playing covers was the price they paid to play their own work. It was one they usually played gladly.

  Miranda hopped up and down on her toes. She was so excited that she missed the first bar, but the band repeated it and she picked it up. Maxwell and Bernie didn’t take long to find the melody, and backed her up. He went low, Bernie sung higher. The overall sound of them together was good, as far as Maxwell could tell. The audience was the real indicator though, and they were thrilled.

  They kept their chain of songs going for a set that took them into the early afternoon. By the time they were finished the barn felt like a furnace. They played covers of Rebel Rebel, Dream On, Heart for the first time, which had its difficult moments, but the vocals were spot on and the audience didn’t seem to notice that Maxwell had to fake much of the solo, and they finished with a Beatles tune that felt more like a theme for the jam session, A Little Help From My Friends. There were many other songs, but they were a blur. He played most of them as though they were by reflex, his eyes were for Miranda, and he played to her.

  “Break time, folks,” Bernie said into the microphone, grinning at the groans of disappointment from the audience. “We’ll be back, just need some beach, barbeque and beer time.”

  Maxwell knew trouble was coming when he spotted Zachary coming out of one of the few stalls that hadn’t been cut out of the barn. He put his guitar back in the case as fast as he could and locked it. Miranda looked at him, then Zachary, whose face was stretched into hard, angry angles.

  “I’ve got this, it’s all right,” Maxwell reassured her. “Are we on the way to the beach?” he asked.

  “Sure,” she replied.

  “I’ll see you down there,” Maxwell said.

  “So this is how it is?” Zachary started, screeching as loudly as Maxwell ever heard.

  “Zack!” Maxwell said, holding up a finger and rushing down the stage stairs to meet him. “People are having a good time here, we’ll talk outside.”

  “No more of this band leader shi-“ Zachary started.

  Maxwell grabbed him by the scruff and dragged him to the back of the barn, then through the door. He could barely hear Scott say; “Oh, shit, this has been coming for three years.”

  Zachary tried to slap his hand away, and Maxwell let him go with a shove. “Now, this was just a bit of fun,” he said, trying to keep his voice low and his head clear. “I thought you’d be on stage by the end of La Grange, like always,” he said.

  “But you got your new chick up there instead, I know when I’ve been replaced you thankless son-of-a-bitch. I was there, getting ready to go on stage when she was singing one of our songs with you. That’s my shit! I helped write it!”

  “No, you wrote some bullshit lyrics about your uncle’s Mustang for one song, and Scott had something better the next day, so nothing tried to do for the album measured up. No surprise, either, you couldn’t show up on time if your life depended on it.”

  “Don’t you dare attack my art, man, no one can do what I do for you on that stage!”

  “Looks like someone just did,” Maxwell said, snickering. “And-“

  Zachary swung at Maxwell, throwing himself off balance when it was easily sidestepped. He squared up again.

  Maxwell wanted to teach Zachary a lesson, or at least end the fight quickly so his sore shoulders and neck wouldn’t have to suffer. That wasn’t the way to finish a relationship with a lead singer he’d played behind for years, he knew. There was a harder way, but a better way. His father may have taught Maxwell an incredible amount about the Occult, but his real father, Allen, taught him how to be a man. Bernie taught him how to be a brother, and he knew those lessons didn’t allow him to do what he wanted, only to do what was best. Zachary was a scrawny, tall man. If Maxwell actually fought him, it would end with his lead singer bleeding on the ground.

  “All right,” Maxwell said, standing squarely in front of Zachary and putting his hands behind his back. “Take your shot. You think I fucked you over today, so go ahead. Take it out on me. If this is the fastest way to get you back with us, brother. Let’s get it over with and have some fun this week.”

  Some of the anger drained from Zachary, and Maxwell decided to use the opportunity to get the rest out on the table. “Nickel City called, there’s no gig this weekend. Whatever you’ve got in your pockets is what we end the tour with.” He said calmly, his chin still held out for a punch Maxwell suspected may never come. Bernie, Scott, and Miranda came through the back door, and Bernie stopped the other two from going further.

  “No way, they can’t cancel,” Zachary said.

  “They did,” Maxwell said calmly. “Call came in this morning.” Maxwell cleared his throat and continued with his next bit of news. “We’re not touring again either, I’m done, Scott’
s done, Bernie’s done. Road Craft’s just another rock band that was lucky enough to get a record made as a souvenir.”

  Zachary’s hands dropped slowly, and his anger became sadness. “So, next summer’s off.”

  “You didn’t hear me the first twenty times?” Maxwell said, letting a little of his irritation come through. Everyone in the band started talking about what they would be doing after the tour weeks before. There had been no official band meeting about it, but Maxwell couldn’t see how someone couldn’t catch on. “You’re about as smart as you are punctual.”

  “Fuck you!” Zachary shouted, his anger resurging. The sound of Scott’s laughter from behind him didn’t help, Maxwell guessed. “I bet we’d be hitting the road again next year if you said you wanted to.”

  “I’m sorry, Zach, I didn’t mean it. Listen, it’s been a great time, but it’s just not good out there, we’re not breaking through. The bars are becoming dance clubs; I don’t think we could book enough to buy Kraft Dinner and keep fuel in the tank. Time to grow up, end things right,” Maxwell said. He stepped forward, starting to extend his hand to offer it to Zachary.

  Maxwell was not prepared when Zachary kicked as hard as he could, and thanks to Max’s forward momentum, his shin impacted squarely between his legs. Maxwell fell to one knee and held up his middle finger, barely able to stay up. The pain in his middle seemed to throb and worsen, and he relented, falling over onto the grass.

  “Fuck you, Max. You won’t see me after this week,” Zachary said as he walked away. “I want my share when you sell the bus, too.”

  “You didn’t pitch in when we got it,” Bernie said to Zachary as he passed. “So you’re out, bye.”

  Scott was about to step in front of him, but Bernie stopped him with a hand on his shoulder. “Not worth it,” he said. “If this is the exit he wants, then that’s what he gets.”

  Miranda was at Maxwell’s side, helping him up slowly. The pain was not lessening quickly, but he breathed deeply and forced himself to his feet anyway, refusing to stay down. “Oh, I wanted to pound that bastard until he was a stain,” he said, exhaling. “Next time he puts his hands up, I’ll cave his head in.”

  “Doesn’t look like you’ll get the chance,” Miranda said. “I’m sorry, I feel like I was the cause of all that.”

  “No, been coming for a while. Bugger’s just not the kind that gets along with anyone who doesn’t worship him. Can’t believe he cracked my nuts though,” Maxwell groaned.

  “Are you going to be okay?” Miranda asked, half smiling through her concern.

  “Just need a few minutes, maybe a dip in the lake,” he replied.

  “I’ll get your guitar, put it in your room,” Bernie said. “Just in case he gets brave and stupid.”

  “Thanks, mate,” Maxwell said. “We’ll start making our way to the beach.”

  Scott handed Maxwell a smoke and offered him a light. “He got you really good, huh.”

  “Never been hit like that,” Maxwell replied, shaking his head and exhaling a lung full of cigarette smoke. “Good riddance to him. Wish it could have ended better.”

  “I wonder where Darren is?” Scott asked. “He’ll probably get all the news from Zack, I wouldn’t be surprised if we never see him again.”

  “Afraid you’re right,” Maxwell said. “No way for a band to end.”

  “It’s better than some,” Miranda said. “At least three of you are still friends.”

  “Yeah, any time you want to play, Max, I’ll get behind the drums,” Scott said. “Bernie’s the same, but on bass, of course.”

  “You’ve got me if you want me,” Miranda said.

  “I’ll play guitar for any of you,” Maxwell said. “It’s good days again, music is fun again.”

  “Yeah, about time,” Scott said.

  X

  The four of them returned to the main cabin for a late lunch, and April was waiting for them on the bottom floor, helping with cleanup. She pulled her apron off and greeted Scott with a kiss that made Gladys stifle a smile and a few of the older ladies coming from the kitchen shake their heads.

  “She is not her father or her mother, this one,” Susanne whispered to Miranda and Maxwell. “A light came from the Sands family, she is a sweet girl.”

  “I haven’t seen her in ten years, probably more,” Maxwell said. “She’s the butter to Scott’s bread when they’re in sight of each other though.”

  “We left food out,” Susanne said a little louder. “Barbeque on the beach again tonight.” She looked to Miranda then and said; “The proper beach.”

  “I’ll see you there,” Miranda said. Suzanne was the last of the ladies who were working in the kitchen to leave, with the exception of April, who grabbed Scott by the hand and headed for the main stairs. “I left my bag in your room, I have to change into my swimsuit.”

  Maxwell popped a cherry tomato into his mouth and enjoyed the tart burst of juices. Miranda picked up a plate of cherry tomatoes, cut celery, carrot and quarter sandwiches and started following the pair. “I have to change too,” she said.

  Maxwell was reaching for another cherry tomato when she stopped and looked over her shoulder. “You comin’?”

  They were in his room scant moments later, and he realized that none of Miranda’s things were there. He turned in time to see her lock the door and put the tray down on the dresser. Maxwell smiled, “What’s on your mind, luv?”

  Miranda kicked her shoes off, ran two paces and leapt the last four steps. He caught her, turned and fell backwards onto the bed. The smell of her, vanilla, rose and something a little spicy, was all around him.

  He held her as he enjoyed playing past her soft lips with his, Max’s hands slipped under her loose shirt, his fingers pressing their way from her hips to shoulders. Her skin was soft, and her braless back was a smooth track for him to run his hands up and down.

  Their lips remained locked until the sounds of their excited breathing calmed a little. His hands wandered down, under the hem of her jeans, and he kneaded the soft spot on her back there. She moved against him, groaning against his mouth. Maxwell noticed she was distracted, her kiss was slowing down, and he took advantage of the moment, plucking at her full lips for a moment before kissing her neck.

  She sat up and pulled her blouse off, then looked down at him, biting her lip. Maxwell ran his hands up from her waist to her ribs and then pulled her down on the bed beside him. He sat up and pulled his shirt off, then lowered himself onto one elbow to look at her. His silver medallion dangled between them. He rested his hand on her smooth stomach, gently tracing his palm across her soft skin.

  “It’s like I only forgot I loved you, Max,” she said. “I remember now.”

  Maxwell stroked her cheek with a feather light touch. “I don’t have those memories,” he said. “But you’re it, luv, the light I’ve been looking for.”

  Miranda’s widening eyes and little smile was a reward in itself, and he leaned down to kiss her. He felt a tug on his belt, looked down then back up at her. Her smile had become impish. She unbuttoned her jeans and began pulling them off. “I don’t want to wait,” she said.

  Maxwell rolled towards the end of the bed then opened the trunk there so he could get to his saddlebags.

  “Where ya goin’?” Miranda asked as her jeans hit the floor.

  “I’ve got condoms in here somewhere,” Maxwell replied, rifling through his bags with reckless abandon. “Think they’re under these things,” he said, pulling a pair of leather pants he’d only worn once out of the bag and dropping them beside the chest with a plop.

  He felt her breasts press against his back as she embraced him from behind. “I’m on the pill,” she whispered against his ear.

  Maxwell didn’t bother turning around, but undid his belt and started pulling his jeans off. She helped push them off with her feet as she kissed him on the cheek, behind the ear, and down his neck.

  He turned around and fixed her with a devilish grin as soon as his jeans
were off. Miranda was caught off guard; her expression of surprised amusement encouraged him. She had never been more beautiful, and he tackled her with an embrace that made her giggle as they rolled across the bed together.

  Some time later, they sat up together in bed. The heat of the day was fully in the room, but Maxwell and Miranda were too hungry to leave yet. They sat on top of the sheets, nude, picking from the large plate of sandwiches and vegetables resting between them.

  “You’re full of surprises, luv,” Maxwell said.

  “Good ones, I hope,” she said, munching through a carrot stick.

  “I have to admit, I was bowled over when you picked up that guitar. I think you’re better than I am.”

  “No way, mister. I have technical chops, maybe, but you have a feel for it that I never picked up,” Miranda said. “It’s like a part of you, like your voice when you’re playing. It’s still notes, and strings and technical stuff to me. I like it, but I’d rather sing.”

  “Where’d you learn?”

  “Spain,” Miranda said. “My father had an old guitar and he showed me a few things. I liked it enough to start lessons the next week, and they set me up with a classical guy who almost made my fingers bleed. I’ll never forget those blisters.”

  Maxwell caught her left hand and looked at it. Her callouses weren’t as thick as his, or as hard, but they were there, surprisingly small on the pads of her fingertips. “What’s your father like?”

  “He’s a deadbeat,” Miranda replied, absent vitriol. “I like him, don’t get me wrong, but he’s more a boy who got old than a man. Lives in a little house he and his family made for him behind my grandparents. He rides a bike around, delivering things in town, sells the odd thing he picks up here and there, it’s more like having an older friend than a dad.”

  “You miss having him around?” Maxwell asked.

  “You know, I had a big fight with my Aunt Susanne about seeing him after we were in Italy for a while, I wanted to go early because school was over. I think I screamed at her for a week and she finally gave in. She said something it took almost two years to realize – that I’d get tired of him just like my mom did. By the time I left I was used to him borrowing money, not being where he said he’d be, getting really down and drunk at random times, then popping up out of no where as though he’s got sunshine in his pocket, like life couldn’t get better. He was so up and down, but never someone you could depend on, always taking the lazy way through life. I think I was in New York a month before I realized I didn’t miss him at all, is that terrible?”