by Marc Zicree
My weary nerves failed to leap. “Hey,” I said.
“You’ve been suspiciously sphinxlike for a very long time. Anything?”
“Goldie, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”
“I believe ‘legal loophole’ is the operative term.”
“What good would a legal loophole do? This thing’s not operating in the same continuum it was written in.”
“Ah, yes, and…” He perched on the corner of the little table, rocking it. “… if the contract is tweaked, then any loopholes in it would be tweaked, too, right?”
I laughed. “You’re trying to apply logic to the situation?” “Meaning Goldie doesn’t do logic or logic doesn’t apply?” “Meaning, logic doesn’t necessarily apply.”
“Yeah, but I’ll bet twisted logic does.”
He had a point. I gave my faltering attention back to the contract, smoothing the paper. My fingertips left a smear of pale violet light across the page.
“Whoa,” said Goldie, and leaned in closer. “Do that again.”
I brushed the paper a second time, tracing a line with my fingertips. Where I touched violet, the type glowed and gave up an answering charge of green static.
My skin crawled, my scalp tingled, and hair rose up on the backs of my arms. While I watched, the letters and words began to wriggle as if trying to free themselves of the paper. In a matter of moments the sentence had rearranged itself on the page.
“God,” I whispered, “are you seeing this?”
“God’s not answering,” said Goldie. “But Goldman saw it. Nice light show. What does it mean?”
I read: “ ‘The Creator hereby agrees that he will know no other Master, nor will he enter into any covenant by which his creation will be employed for the benefit of any entity but his Master, without his Master’s express permission.’ ”
“Pardon me? Where are you reading that?” He put his head next to mine and squinted at the page.
I pointed. “Here. Right here. Where the text rewrote itself just now.”
“Whoa. Back up. What do you mean, rewrote itself?”
I raked a hand through my hair in frustration. “Just now-the light, the living word. You said you saw-”
“I saw the light; I didn’t see… Read that again.”
I did.
“Okay,” he said. “When I look at it, it says: ‘The Artist hereby agrees that he will sign no other contracts for his services, nor will he enter into any agreement to perform, record, or write original lyric or music without the express written permission of Management.’ ”
“Damn. It would sure make me feel a lot better if you could see it, too.”
“Why? I’m a nut case, remember?”
“See what?” Enid had padded over to us, quiet as a cat. I pushed the contract across the table and indicated the passage that was still giving off soft green radiance.
His brows rose. “What language is that?”
“What do you mean?”
He ran his own finger over the passage. “This part, here, is in some weird language I never seen before. What is it?”
In answer, I translated the next passage, whereupon I saw English words that were entirely arcane; Enid saw words that were not even English; Goldie saw the glow of light, but no change in the text.
At least we all saw something.
Goldie wasn’t content with that. He seemed to go inside himself for a moment, silently chewing his lip. Then he said, “Give me your pen.”
“My-”
“Your pen-your pen! The one you’ve been making notes with.”
I fished it out of my breast pocket and handed it to him. He took it and laid a hand on the contract, clicking the pen top in a snappy staccato.
Just when I found myself fighting the urge to hum “Black Magic Woman,” he chuckled. “Bingo,” he said, and read the arcane version of the first clause.
“I don’t-”
“Transference. An inanimate object with which power is channeled transfers power. In layman’s terms, it rubbed off on me.”
“Where did you pick that up?”
“Irrelevant at the moment.” He nudged my shoulder. “Come on, Dr. Jones! Decipher the rest of that hieroglyph.”
There was a strange creeping sensation in the pit of my stomach, not unlike the day I first stood, solo, in front of a judge. My skin was tingling with something I couldn’t name; first the map, now this. I had begun to think I was impervious to the Change. Now, I felt as if it had trailed a cold, slimy finger across my soul, leaving a slug trail.
I took a deep breath and passed my fingertips over the remaining text. The words wove themselves into an arcane tapestry describing an unnatural covenant. A covenant that resulted in nothing more or less than the spiritual bondage of Enid Blindman.
“ ‘If the Creator should strain or break the bonds of this covenant of blood and spirit without the Master’s leave, the consequences shall be upon him, and upon those creatures to whom he binds himself in spells of mist.’ ”
“ ‘Like acid and oil on a madman’s face,’ ” Goldie murmured. “So that’s the backlash-the consequences visited on Enid and the people who hear his music.”
“But not all of them,” I noticed. “It’s random. Or at least inconsistent.”
“Spells,” repeated Enid, sounding dazed. “It says that? Spells?”
“It says that,” I assured him. Which in itself made me wonder how this contract was still binding. I read on, looking for a possible mechanism for Enid’s liberation. Near the end of the contract I found one.
“ ‘If the Creator wishes his release from the bonds of this covenant, he must seek such release from the Master alone. Face-to-face and spirit-to-spirit must the suppliant Creator seek his deliverance in the place where the covenant dwells. The Master, alone, may grant it.’ ”
I sat back in my chair.
Goldie echoed the movement, making the table groan. He let out a low whistle.
“The Master,” repeated Enid. “That’d be Howard?” “Presumably. I wonder if he’s even aware of what’s happened to this contract.”
“I dunno. Howard’s kind of a shithead capitalist sometimes, but he’s not mean.”
“You mean he wasn’t mean before,” Goldie observed. “He might’ve turned into something that’d make a Ferengi look like a Keebler elf.”
Enid was nodding rhythmically, as if affirming something whispered by an invisible companion. He looked down at me finally, face set. “I gotta go to Howard. That’s what all this means, isn’t it?”
Goldie and I exchanged glances. Had I just uncovered something that was going to send us on yet another detour?
I glanced at Magritte, still sleeping peacefully in the arms of gravity, her aura dimmed almost to invisibility. Her flesh no longer glowed; it was merely pale. Her hair was no longer flame; it was merely strawberry blond silk. She looked almost like a normal woman, with little about her of the dryad. She looked completely vulnerable … and reminded me forcibly of Tina.
I brought my eyes back to Enid’s face. It was more gray than brown and gleamed with a sudden cold sweat.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” he asked me. “I gotta find Howard
and get him to let me use my music the way I want to use it.
But how do I do that? What do I say? What’s the loophole?” “There is no loophole,” I said. “You don’t need one.” “The hell I don’t. This thing’s sucking the life out of me!” “When did you sign this contract, Enid?”
“Last February. Why?”
“And did it say any of this stuff about ‘spells of mist,’ and ‘spirits,’ and ‘covenants’ at that time?”
“Hell, no. Think I would’ve signed it if it did?”
“Well, when you track Howard down-”
“Shit, I don’t have to track him down. I know where he is.” “How?” Goldie asked.
“You know that little something you got goin’ with the Storm? Well, I got something like that goin’
with Howard.” I kept my lawyer face on. “Where is he?”
“Chicago. Didn’t imagine he’d ever leave. He hasn’t.”
“Oh, shit.” Goldie murmured the words just loud enough for me to hear, then got up and went to the window, arms wrapped around himself as if he’d caught a sudden chill.
I half watched him as I spoke to Enid, wondering if I’d ever be completely at ease with his sudden mood shifts. “Well, what you say to Howard is that this contract is not the same one you signed in February of this year. It’s changed. Basic law, Enid: no party may change a contract after it’s been signed. This is no longer legally binding.”
“Then why’s it still eating at me?”
I tapped the release clause.
“So, I gotta meet the little shit on his turf? Well, so be it.”
We woke Mary and the others then, in the deep, dark heart of the night, and told them what we’d found. When the telling was over, we sat in silence for a moment, listening to the newly set fire roar in the grate while Doc fed it wood and Colleen poked it into submission.
It was Mary who ended the hush, her eyes on me. “My God, it’s like something out of somebody’s Book of the Dead. So you think if Enid goes to Howard and confronts him with the changes in the contract, he could get out of it?”
“If this legal twist parodies real law, yes.”
“And that will cure him?” She glanced at Enid, worry darkening her eyes. “That will keep these … side effects from happening?”
“I can’t be sure, but it seems to me it’s the only chance he’s got. Unless he stops playing music altogether.”
Enid stared at me. “I can’t do that. Music’s in my blood. In my soul. If I stop playing, I lose myself and…” His eyes moved to Magritte. “I lose everything, everybody I care about. There’s no way in hell I can do that. No, I gotta follow this thing through. I’m going back to Chicago, and I’m gonna settle this-” He hesitated, looking to me again. “Chicago wasn’t where you were headed.”
“Enid, I’m not exactly sure where we’re headed. We follow Goldie’s lead in that. Chicago may not even be out of our way.”
“It’s not,” said Goldie quietly.
I glanced over at where he sat, perched on the arm of a chair, Magritte hovering beside him. “What? Something about Chicago we should know?”
He shook his head, his eyes on the frayed knee of his jeans. “Don’t know.”
This was really the wrong time for Twenty Questions. “Did you… see something? Hear something? What?” “Nothing I saw. Or heard. Just… a feeling.”
“Convenient,” murmured Colleen.
Goldie glanced at her, then met my eyes. “Look, if we expect Enid to help us free anybody from the Source, we need to free him first. That puts the Windy City on our itinerary, wouldn’t you say?”
He was right; Enid wouldn’t survive the trip otherwise. “And of course, Magritte is going with us.” Colleen stirred the fire absently, not looking at us.
“Sure she’s going with us,” said Enid. “Why wouldn’t she go with us?”
Colleen gave the logs a sharp jab. Sparks shot up into the flue. “Because if she does, you’ll have to shield her. And if you shield her-”
Magritte’s aura flashed azure and violet. “I gotta go with you,” she said. “I gotta protect Enid.”
“If he doesn’t play, there’s no reason to protect him,” Colleen argued.
“No, you don’t understand,” Enid said. “If Mags doesn’t cover for me, Howard gets control.”
I shook my head. “Gets control?”
“Of me. Of my music. He pulls me to him. He … Look, you know that old story about the red shoes?”
Know it? I lived with it. I used to tease Tina that she practiced as if she wore those damned slippers and that if she didn’t take them off once in a while she was going to dance herself into a coma. “One of my sister’s favorite stories,” I said. “You put the shoes on, you can’t stop dancing.”
Enid nodded. “Howard gets a hold of me, I can’t stop playing. I can’t control what I play. And I can’t control what the music does.”
“Well, considering what it does when you do control it,” said Colleen, “that’s a damn ugly thought.”
Damn ugly. I wondered how many more dire revelations Enid had tucked away in his guitar case.
He sank to the sofa, eyes on his hands. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper. “I’ve turned trees to glass and rocks to powder. I’ve turned water to blood and I’ve made rain burn. And worst of all, I’ve twisted people, and those people know what I done to ’em. My songs are supposed to soothe souls. To lift them up. D’you know what it feels like to have them…” He lost his voice and struggled to recover it. “I gotta get free of this thing, dammit! I’ll do anything to get free of it.”
“Well, I always say,” said Goldie, “when God opens a door, He closes a window.”
Enid ignored him. “Every time I use the music outside the Preserve, I have this dream. There’s a chain around my neck and there’s a chain on my guitar. And the chain leads to this tower. I try to pull myself off the chain, but the Tower says, ‘You can’t go, boy. You belong to me. Your songs belong to me and your soul belongs to me. Read it.’ And then this wind comes up and the pages of that contract dance all around me while I try to gather them up. But I can’t lay a hand on ’em.”
A chill from the heart of a Manhattan January had risen up out of my breast. “A tower?” I repeated. “What was it like?”
Other voices echoed mine. “Was it shiny and black?” demanded Colleen, and Doc asked, “Did it glisten, as if wet?”
“Sweet Cherry Garcia.” Goldie, half standing, sank back to the arm of his chair, his face ashen.
I could see it in their eyes. “We’ve all dreamed…” Everyone spoke at once, fear and discovery tumbling out into the room. I raised my hands. “One at a time! Doc?”
He nodded, flashing a haunted look, before he turned his face back to the fire. “In my dreams of Chernobyl, the Black Tower is there. It watches everything I do. I, too, wear chains.”
“Marionette strings,” murmured Colleen. “We’re all connected to it by marionette strings and it’s making us dance.”
Goldie picked at a frayed patch of denim on the leg of his jeans. “I’m inside it. Or maybe it’s inside me.” He kept his eyes averted. “I try to get out, but there is no way out. Except to die.”
“I’m inside it, too,” I admit. “I’m trying to find Tina, but instead of finding Tina… I lose all of you.”
“I…”
The whisper of sound drew every eye to where Magritte hung, still, in the air next to Goldie. Her usually bright aura seemed smudged and muted, and she had wrapped her arms about herself like a cocoon. She quailed a little under our collective gaze, gliding backward. Goldie reached out a hand to her, stopped just short of touching her. Soft light seemed to pulse between them, or perhaps I imagined it.
“It calls to me in my dreams,” she said. “It has my uncle Nathan’s voice, and the voice makes pools of black, like oil on a road. I try not to, but I fall into a pool and it gets all over me. It gets inside me.” She looked at Goldie then, and I realized that her aura had completely taken him in. “And I drown,” she finished.
The fire made sounds that should have been comforting. Then Doc spoke the words we’d all been thinking: “What does it mean? That we’re being called? All of us? By what? Is this the Source? Or is it something else?”
“It can’t be the Source,” said Colleen. “The Source is in the West.”
“Chicago is west,” murmured Goldie.
“Yeah, Northwest. You never said it was in the Northwest.”
“I never said it wasn’t.”
I cut across the argument. “Is it, Goldie? Is the Source in Chicago? The last time you talked about it, you said something about the Badlands.”
“I said, ‘what if.’ What if it’s in the Badlands.”
“We’ve all
dreamed about the same place. Are we going to find it in Chicago?”
He shook his head. “I wish I knew. But I don’t know. I won’t know until we’re moving again. Maybe it’s the Preserve. Maybe it distorts my Source sense just like it distorts the space around it. I don’t know. All I know is, I’ve dreamed of that tower for weeks. In all that time, I never thought of it as an actual place. I thought…”
“That it was the Source?” I finished.
“No, that it was connected to the Source in some way. That it was … um … something the Source had put … in me.”
“Looks to me like it’s put something in all of us,” said Enid.
“Well,” said Colleen, “it really doesn’t matter, does it? Either way, we’re going to Chicago. Question still remains, if Magritte goes along to protect Enid, how do we protect her?”
“I’m strong,” protested Magritte. “I’ve got real good at jamming the Storm all by myself. Enid’s so weak sometimes, I’ve had to. Besides, you don’t have a choice. One way or another, I’m coming with you.”
Doc murmured something in Russian and sketched a gesture over his heart. He turned from the hearth. “And I am not,” he said.
Colleen stood, poker in hand, staring at him. “What? What are you talking about? Of course you’re coming with us.”
He kept his eyes on my face. “I am a liability to you, Calvin. Events have conspired to teach me this. This leg …” He patted his left thigh. “This leg will not let me go where you need to go. It has refused to heal as I might have wished. I am slow to move and I doubt I could sit a horse all day-”
“Then we’ll wait until you’re better healed,” I said. “We’ll rest more often on the road.”
He smiled without humor. “You see, already you are planning around my disability. On the road, I would only slow you down, Calvin. At best. And if you face the Source sooner rather than later…”
“That’s ridiculous. I’m sure we can deal with your-”
“Perhaps I don’t want you to deal with it.” His voice was harsh, ragged. He took a deep breath and went on in gentler tones. “Soft tissue damage is difficult to recover from. Aggravate it and you take a chance of causing a chronic injury. Something from which there is no recovery.” He lowered his eyes. “I have no desire to be a cripple.”