by Marc Zicree
We’re silent for a long time, thinking private thoughts. I’m thinking about the flare-about her huge, bottomless, gold, cat-slit eyes-when Colleen says, softly, “You got people you wonder about, Goldman?”
“Wonder about?”
“Yeah. Like where they are, what they’re doing. How they’re doing.”
“Yeah. Some friends in the tunnels. Some of the guys at a flophouse I lived in for a while.”
“A flophouse?” she says incredulously.
I smile at the memory. “In the Bowery. Ten bucks a night, six-by-six room-but it was my room. I even had a guinea pig-Einstein. Anyway, I wonder about some of the guys there. I’d worry about them, but frankly, I think they’re probably more suited to the life we have now than to the one we had. They’re used to extremes in weirdness.”
“What about your family?”
She had to ask. “Them, I try not to think about. And I seriously doubt they think about me. I doubt they even know I’m alive.”
“Ouch. Don’t go there?” When I’m silent, she says, “Okay, then, what about the folks underground? D’you ever think about that family you told me about-Gino and Agnes and… Rachel, was it?”
I’m surprised she remembers. “Yeah. I do think about them… a lot.”
“Can I ask you something? How did people like that end up in the sewers? For that matter, how did you?”
“Subway tunnels, Colleen, not sewers. Some got into drugs or alcohol. Some just stopped believing in what they were doing. Some just couldn’t manage what we laughingly call real life, and we stopped trying. Some… just weren’t equipped to manage in the first place.”
“And you?”
“Let’s just say I had a disagreement with Mom and Dad about my college curriculum. So, I did what any red-blooded, Jewish-American boy would do-I ran away from home to find myself and… and got lost. That was a lifetime ago.”
“What curriculum did you have in mind?”
“Art. Music. Religion. Mom protested that those were not practical pursuits. When I persisted, she got my father into the act. They’d put me through college if I wanted to study- you’re going to love this-law.”
She laughs. “Herman Goldman, Esquire, huh?”
“Over my dead body… almost.”
I could just see her turn her face toward me in the uncertain moonlight. “Lawyers make good money.”
“Uh-huh. And you’ve seen what it’s done for Cal. Ely Stern had him whipped and he hated himself for it. Besides, I’m a musician at heart… or a monk.”
“Lucky for us, I guess.”
I like the thought. “Yeah, you’re right. Huh. Imagine that. I’m in the right place at the right time. First time in thirty-five years.”
“I wonder if that’s what makes you more sensitive to the Source.”
“What-being a musically inclined monk?”
“No, being… different. Thinking differently, I mean. Seeing things in the world-in people-that most of us don’t.”
Whoa. I am taken with the absurd idea that Colleen Brooks has just paid me a compliment, but before I can get all self-congratulatory, she says something that totally screws the mood.
“What’s it feel like? When the Source… when it whispers at you, or whatever it does?”
Deep inside, something dark pushes up toward consciousness. I press it back down. “It feels like hell. That’s, um, not a metaphor.”
She won’t give up. “You hear voices? Actual voices?”
I breathe out, watching the steam from my mouth dissolve into nothingness. Be here now. “I hear, I feel, I see. It’s … complicated. You ever watch Star Trek?”
“Uh … yeah.”
“Well, it’s like the Borg. All those voices, coming out of nowhere, coming into your head, pulling at you from someplace dark and cold…” I see her shiver and add: “It’s like I’m Unit Four of Unimatrix One, and the Source is the Borg Queen.”
“You’re putting me on, right?”
Actually, I’m putting her off. “You ever think about your ex?” I counter. “What was his name-Grumpy?”
“Rory. And that’s a dodge,” she accuses me. “If you don’t want to tell me, just say so.”
“So.”
We talk for a while about the things we miss about so-called civilization. Oddly enough, we discover that we have the same number one item-truly hot showers.
The rain has let up and our conversation has degenerated into a laundry list of Most Missed when the horses suddenly get the yips. Words curl up and die on our tongues. We’re on our feet then, and I quickly realize why Colleen kept shifting her position under the tarp.
“Should we wake them?” I whisper, nodding at Doc and Cal and trying to shake the cramps out of my legs.
“Not yet. Let’s make sure it’s worth waking them first.”
Colleen moves to the horses-possibly to read their grapefruit-size equine minds-while I squint into the misty woods, hoping not to see fiery eyeballs peering back.
“Shit,” I hear Colleen growl above the whinnying, then, “Wake up! Doc, Cal! C’mon, c’mon, come on!”
Behind me they stir, they stretch, they come to befuddled wakefulness, they realize where they are and bolt from their bedding. They are taking up weapons and stations when I see the first pairs of eyes. I glance behind me and wonder if the rocky outcropping before which our very nervous horses now quiver will be help or hindrance.
Lanterns flare at the periphery of my vision. I rip the lid off my fire pit and light up. The flames are sluggish, but they go. To my right and left I hear the rustle of tarps being whisked aside. Flames leap.
“Doc, stay with the horses.” Cal’s voice comes from my left. “Keep them calm. If the twists get past us, take them across the stream and get as far away as you can.”
Doc argues, albeit unsteadily, “We should all leave. If we move now-”
“We could be separated,” Cal finishes. He dumps wood on his fire; it spits bright cinders into the air.
On my right, Colleen hunkers down behind her own column of flame, crossbow locked and loaded. None too soon. Dark shapes materialize out of the shrubbery. As we watch, they go from solid to vapor-black on black, smoke on ink. They may not be able to surround us, but they can easily push us up against the rocks or into the creek if they attack.
They don’t attack. They just melt into the trees and watch us. All we can see of them is those burning red eyes. After about an hour of this, they glide into a different formation. I can feel all four of us clench, expecting an attack. None comes.
Another hour ticks by. We speak in whispers, keeping each other alert. Cal wonders aloud what they’re waiting for. I don’t want to find out, I seriously don’t.
“Just pray they don’t start singing,” Colleen says.
I take that as an order.
It occurs to me that we could be sitting here till dawn, and I wonder if our fires and lamps will last that long. We are destined to find out. My pile of wood is dwindling and Cal is dropping on his last log when Colleen swears.
“Dammit, the lamps.”
They die as we watch. Then it begins to rain again. It’s a gentle rain but it’s killing our fires, and the dimmer the fires get, the closer the menace moves. I recall that Colleen theorized our shadowy friends were afraid of rain. I could say “I told you so,” but decide it would be exceptionally bad timing.
The twists begin to make a sound that’s less like singing than like wind through high-tension wires. Then they move, oozing toward us like sentient oil slicks. Like the thing in my nightmare. Our pathetic horses are freaking. I can hear Doc desperately trying to calm them.
“Torches!” yells Cal, and lights one. Firelight gleams down the wicked length of the sword he readies in the other hand.
The twists dance at the edges of the light, shapes shifting, now solid, now ephemeral, always distorted, as if they’re dressed in clothing that twists and deflects sight. They advance, they retreat, they keen and wail, they eddy
like candle soot. And I realize that they’re more than just sensitive to the light. They’re terrified of it.
The fire I shelter behind leaps no higher than my thighs. I drop the machete and hold out my arms-palms up, eyes closed-and imagine four people and six horses inside a snow globe. My palms tingle. My eyes open to a veil of blue-white light.
“Sonofabitch!” Colleen squeals like a five-year-old and leaps back from the shimmering curtain.
Beyond the veil, our would-be gourmands shriek in fear and fury. I want to laugh, not at Colleen (although I have to admit she looks damn funny-kind of like a guerrilla goldfish), but at the sheer exhilaration of what I’m doing.
If they came like smoke, they leave like a buffalo stampede. When the thrashing fades, the wood is as tranquil as a Robert Frost poem. There is only the whisper of rain and the breathing of ten relieved creatures in a bubble of light.
I hold the globe of light around us for another several minutes, until I’m sure I hear nothing in the woods beyond. Then I let it go. It does a Fourth of July fireworks fade. So does my energy. Hands on knees, I pant like a dog.
“Bozhyeh moy,” says Doc softly, and I think he crosses himself.
“What the hell was that?” Colleen demands, her eyes still raking the woods.
Cal utters a single bark of laughter. “Cool.” He grins at me sideways in the flicker of struggling firelight. “That,” he says, “was a step above your usual parlor tricks.”
“I’ve expanded my repertoire. So, what do we do, boss? ‘Do we go or do we stay?’ ” I half gasp, half sing this last bit, then pull myself upright.
Cal sends me a quick glance before sinking to his haunches. “If we could count on them staying away…” He shakes his head, flinging water from his hair. “This weather is miserable for traveling.”
“Look, here’s an idea-why don’t you and Doc stand watch while Colleen and I grab some sleep? If the horses act up again, wake me and I’ll blow another bubble.”
Cal surveys our soggy campsite. “I don’t suppose there’s any way you could set up a ‘bubble’ and have it stay put?” “I … I don’t think so. That took a lot of effort.”
“Could I get you to try? Anything, Goldie. All it needs to be is flashy.”
Flashy. “Okay. Lemme see what I got.”
I fashion a ball of blue-white light, rolling it between my hands, feeling the texture of the power against my palms. They all slog over to watch me, looking like a gathering of drowned cats in the pale light. Rain drips from their hair, glitters on their eyelashes, and trickles down their cheeks.
I take my ball of light, set it about four feet off the ground, and let go. “Stay,” I tell it, and step away.
It stays.
“You’re still thinking about it,” says Cal. “Walk away and make another one.”
I do as asked. When I’ve finished and set the second globe, I glance back at where the first one was-and still is. Cool. A little Goldie goes a long way.
When I cozy down in dry clothes inside my pup tent, a perimeter fence of obedient light-balls stand guard over my sleep. I send them my last conscious thoughts.
When I wake at dawn, the rain has stopped and the sky is a bright blue, streaked with flame. The light-globes are gone.
“How long did they last?” I ask Doc over a hasty breakfast of dried fruit and flatbread.
“Almost two hours. It appears they extinguished when you entered deep sleep. But we had the fires up again by then.”
I get my bearings, listening to leaves, and we mount up, striking out due west. Just after noon something changes. We are within sniffing distance of the Ohio River. Behind me the others discuss whether to ford the river or try to find a bridge. I’m idly wondering if there might be trolls under bridges these days when a window opens in my mind through which I catch the scent of a melody.
This is neither my memory nor the memories of leaves, this is the real deal. Without a moment’s thought, I turn my horse and head due north.
“Goldie?” Cal comes up beside me. Sooner (a nervous Nellie if there ever was one) prances and rattles his bit. “Don’t we need to find a place to cross the river?”
I only half hear the question. “River? No… he’s on this side. Up ahead. North.”
“Where?”
“Don’t know. Somewhere. I hear him.”
“What are we doing?” demands Colleen from behind. “We’ve been heading west all day. Why are we turning north all of a sudden?”
“Because, that’s where he is.”
She swings her horse-a big, red roan named Big T- right around in front of Jayhawk and cuts us off. “Look, Goldman, we are not out of danger here. Every night we spend in these woods is a night we risk attack. Crossing the river is our best chance of losing our Shadows.”
“What makes you think they don’t live on that side of the river, too?” I ask. “Besides, this isn’t about avoiding Shadows. It’s about finding the Bluesman and his flare friend. Crossing the river is also our best chance of losing them.”
She gives me a hard glance and turns to Cal. “Look, Cal, I vote we cut our losses and get the hell out of these woods while we still can. We’re heading west. Let’s keep heading west until we find what we’re after.”
“I can handle the Shadows,” I say.
“Oh, come on, Goldie. You did it once. Next time it might not work. Your juju doesn’t exactly come through every time, does it? Besides, they might figure out that the fire isn’t real.”
“It wasn’t the fire; it was the light.”
Colleen snorts. “Says you.”
She is about to say more, but Cal’s patience has evaporated. “Cut it out-both of you. You sound like a couple of stubborn kids. I happen to think Goldie’s right. I also think we don’t have time for this argument. We have to keep moving.”
“We sure do,” Colleen says. “West.”
“Yes, after we’ve tracked this guy down and answered some questions.”
“It may turn out to be nothing,” Colleen argues.
“Or it may turn out to be everything,” Cal counters. “For now, we go north.”
She meets him eye-to-eye for a moment, then shrugs and reins Big T out of my way. They follow me north along the Ohio River, down a corridor of crystal trees.
We ride until dark, then set up camp near the river. From our campsite we can hear one of the things that’s different about the Ohio these days-it’s not the gentle, meandering giant of lore and legend. This new, post-Change Ohio doesn’t gurgle and murmur, it roars.
A short hike up the back of a low bluff in the waning sun, and we can see the difference, too. The Ohio is a froth of whitewater rapids, and our camp is downwind of a very impressive, if abbreviated, waterfall. It’s loud enough to make sleep difficult.
Of course, I have the added impediment of guilt. For his faith in me and my abilities, I have repaid Cal by losing contact with our Pied Piper. I can no longer hear him. And because we are in an area of low brush, there are few glass leaves sending out good vibrations.
The river rapids are not loud enough to keep me from overhearing a muffled but heated disagreement after I’ve turned in. The participants are Colleen and Cal, and the first inkling of the subject comes when Our Ms. Brooks raises her voice to announce that Goldie is unstable and not to be trusted and, furthermore, Cal knows it.
This is not an unusual observation for someone to make about me, but since I realize it’s leading up to something more portentous, I roll surreptitiously out of my sleeping bag and sidle up to the back of the rock behind which this fascinating debate is taking place.
“Look, Cal,” Colleen is saying, “I know you don’t want to say it, or even think it, but we both know damn well that Goldie is two tacos short of a combination plate.”
I hear the delicate sound of Cal’s eyes rolling. “He has a kindled mood disorder,” he defends me. “It means he has … bad spells. It doesn’t mean he’s hallucinatory.”
“He has a dis
order, all right. One that causes him to have a very skewed take on reality. He was hallucinating, Cal. I was there. I saw reality. And in reality, there was no flare.” “Then how did you end up in that tree?”
“In spite of what Goldie says, I think it had to have been the musician. He’s able to pull people to him with his music. He could just as easily push people away.”
I could picture Cal giving her that almost catlike look of puzzlement, hands on hips, skepticism in every word of body language-a lawyer’s pose. “I have to take the chance that he’s right, Colleen. I think you understand that.”
“All right. Let’s pretend for a moment that there is a flare. We have no way of knowing what her situation is. Maybe Mr. Blues Guy isn’t protecting her. Maybe he’s imprisoning her or maybe she’s … I don’t know … defective or weak or something and the Source didn’t want her in the first place.”
“If she’s imprisoned, shouldn’t we try to free her? If she’s been passed over by the Source, wouldn’t you like to know why? It might help us figure out why the Source is taking flares in the first place. It might even give us a tool to use against the Source.”
Colleen utters a growl of pure frustration. “Yeah, and it might lead us on a wild goose chase that takes us in a completely wrong direction. We don’t have time for wild goose chases, Cal. This world is unraveling a little more every day, and there’s no way of knowing when it will stop-if it ever stops. You think following this guy might take us to the Source? I think it could just as easily take us away from the Source.”
There is a long and pregnant pause, into which, at the most critical moment, Colleen murmurs, “God, Cal, I hate saying crap like this to you. I hate always being the-the prophet of doom. But this feels like a false trail to me. And a waste of time. Tina’s time. Everyone’s time.”
No fair! The family card and the humanitarian card played in one deft move. And with a self-deprecatory spin, no less.
There is a crunch of leaves, and Cal says, “Do you think you need to remind me of that? Look, Colleen, you’re asking me to make a choice based on a complete uncertainty. It’s your word against Goldie’s.”