Chapter Four

Within the ramshackle house a shrine to blues music existed—everywhere. Pictures of Jimi Hendrix, B.B. King, Buddy Guy, Ella Fitzgerald, Albert King, all the greats hung from the walls. The frames made the room seem almost homey, instead of homely. Almost. It smelled like something had died in there, long, long ago. The man who sat in the rocking chair in front of Muddy seemed familiar—very familiar. Then it dawned on him. This old guy was in every picture on the walls with the greats of the blues! Hugging Jimi, jamming with B.B., getting a kiss from Ella; the man knew all of them.

Geez. This guy, living in this broken down shack, with his ugly dog over in the corner, half-growling, half-drooling, he knows, or knew all these famous people. And now, he lives in the worst part of town? Without a pot to pee in? Muddy’s mind reeled.

At first, when they saw the man behind the door, Muddy almost laughed. The older guy looked anything but threatening. Maybe thirty or forty years ago the man might scare the group, but not now.

That mongrel that he'd originally thought to be a demon was only an old beagle. Yet when she howled in this old house, her little voice echoed through the walls, transforming into something deeper and darker.

Corey fed her doggie treats from a bowl on the table, but the dog kept glaring at him. Black eyes locked onto his even as she chewed away.

The black man ambled over to his rocker, motioning with a wrinkled hand for all of them to sit wherever they could find a spot. Piles of old newspapers and old vinyl records filled most of the space but they managed to find openings on the floor. Poe snagged a ratty couch covered in beagle hair. It was probably better, Muddy mused, that her vision wasn’t so sharp.

The guy looked about seventy, but with a hundred years of wear on the tires. Wearing a moth-eaten wool blazer and sky blue pants, he looked like he could fit in any senior citizens home. He was a bald Bill Cosby without all the smiling. When Muddy finally got a good look at his face, he winced.

The old man's eyes were mismatched. The right one was cocoa, but the left was silver! Not icy blue, or one of those colored contacts that Chelsea or the girls at school would probably wear to prom—it was shining silver where the color should be. The teen wondered if the old man could see out of it.

He looked deeper. Yes, those eyes had seen a lot. The hair stood up on his neck as he held the gaze.

“Seen too much,” said the old man, jarring Muddy from his stare. “Way too much.”

“What?”

“You in charge of this little posse?” Old Silver Eye asked him.

Again, Muddy swallowed. “I guess so. Yes, sir.”

The old man chuckled to himself, coughed then drank a swig of iced tea. “Yes sir,” he repeated and shook his head. “Most kids out this way are disrespectful little runts. They come and spray paint my house, kick my dog, shoot each other, whatever. I should’ve never come back.” His head dropped a bit.

“From where, Memphis? Chicago? That where you’re from?”

He shook his head, still dropped. “Nope, not what I meant at all, but you might find out if you’re unlucky enough.”

“What do you mean? I just want to find my brother. Where did he go?”

“Where do you think? You don’t seem like an idiot to me. Are you?”

Poe, once again, jumped into battle for her friend. “Relax there, Mr. Music Man. Just because you know all these famous people,” she swirled with her arms, “doesn’t mean you can put us down. We’re not stupid. We’re just…different.”

Muddy smiled at the angel of his life, his secret angel. Could she really see who was in the photos? No, he guessed, but she things figured out real fast.

“You don’t say?” he asked, amused at her reaction. “I can tell. Easily.”

The whole gang tensed up. They'd always had to deal with that stuff in school. They didn’t need it here, too, not with Zack missing. Something, or someone, was going to explode.

Corey stood. “What does that mean?”

More laughter erupted from the old guy. “Relax, relax.” He waved at them to sit down. “I didn’t mean anything derogatory by it. Look, I just met you. I have no idea what you’re about. All I meant were two things.”

Muddy felt his muscles untangle a little. “Oh, yeah?” He still wondered where the old man had stashed the gun he'd heard click. “And what’re those?”

The man downed the rest of his iced tea then called Sally over to sit by him. “First, some of you are going to be surprised at what the crossroads can do to a person. It ain’t natural—at least to this world.”

“What do you mean?” Corey asked. “There’s no such thing as supernatural…stuff. And what do you mean by some of us? Why not all of us? Aren’t we different enough?” He’d spent his life labeled as different, just like all of them. Nothing got under his skin more.

Poe tried to diffuse the stress. “So, you said there were two things. What’s the second?”

“Hmmm,” the man replied. “You guys have no idea what music really is all about.”

“You old dog!” Otis was never one to mince words.

“Otis!” Poe sounded disgusted. She turned to the man, who still had not introduced himself. “Who do you think you are to tell us what we know about music? Is it because we’re not famous like those people you posed with on the wall? Because we’re young? Not from the ‘ghetto?’ What?”

Otis drew back and leaned into Muddy. “Are you’re sure you want to date her?”

“Shut up,” he whispered, hoping she'd missed Otis’ comment.

The old man still sat there, shaking his head. “No ma’am. It ain’t any of that. That there was ‘Silver Eye Watkins’ up there on the walls with those so-called famous musicians. They know what it means, what it takes to be the music. When ol’ Silver Eye brought them over, their talent exploded from little seeds into whole fields of song. So, unless you’ve been over, my beautiful little dear, you have no idea what music really is, or can do. Got it now?”

Poe’s expression changed to something else, as though she’d just smelled Otis after leaving Taco Bell. “Umm… I have no idea what you’re saying at all. What do you mean by over?”

She turned to the rest of them. They simply shrugged.

“Bottom line,” he added. “If you want to find your brother, sit down and tell me what happened so you can go over there and get him back. But unless he’s got it, he’s probably dead by now.”

* * * *

After Muddy finished his story, sweating in the stuffy living room, nervous as all get out, the silence washed over the group like a swampy wave. His fingers drummed the coffee table, thoughts rolling through the possible options.

Would Silver Eye believe me? Would he laugh or think I’m nuts? What was up with that eye?

When the tension swelled in the room, Otis broke the taut line.

“Well? How do we get Zack back? Can you help us or are you just going to stare at Muddy there with that freaky silver eye?”

The old man’s head came up, and instead of telling off the little drummer, he gazed around the room. “Who the heck is Muddy?”

Poe leaned toward her friend. “Edgar here likes that nickname. It goes well with his last name, Rivers. We’re all big fans of the blues and classic rock.”

The eruption of laughter from Silver Eye Watkins shook the photos on the wall. His eyes teared up and his one foot stomped the floor.

“Muddy Rivers? Muddy Rivers? You named that, kinda like Muddy Waters? Was ‘Dirty Stream’ or ‘Cruddy Creek’ already taken? Come on, speak up, blues boy.”

The boy burned with pure embarrassment. He'd always felt confident with the name, but now this old coot had stripped him of his armor in one fell swoop.

It started with Otis then Corey, and after a few seconds of those two giggling to themselves, even Poe fell apart. Suddenly, everyone cracked up, even Muddy.

“I like the name,” Poe said. I think it fits him.”

The older bluesman gazed into Muddy's eyes. “Okay, Edgar.”

More waves of laughter shook through the group.

“Please,” the Muddy begged.

“Okay, boy. You want that name you call yourself?”

Muddy stared right back at the old man, suddenly serious again. “Definitely.”

“Then earn it.”

I will, Muddy thought stubbornly to himself. I will.

“When do we start looking for Zack? I want to find him before something bad happens.”

A deep breath vibrated through the old man. “Oh, but something bad has already happened if he’s over there alone.”

“I don’t even know where he is. Where is he?”

“First,” Silver Eye said. “You need to know, it’s not a picnic. He went someplace many musicians and artists and writers went before, but not all have returned.”

“So?”

“So,” he said, staring at him with that one dark eye and one unblinking silver eye, “are you willing to take that risk?”

No doubt about it. He’s my brother, Muddy thought, but the man’s comment did scare him a little.

“I’m in.”

“So am I,” Poe added.

“Him too,” Corey replied, pointing his big finger at the drummer.

“I don’t have a date until this weekend, so why not?” Otis, always hiding behind his jokes. Thankfully, they had the old man with them.

Silver Eye shook his head. “Good, ‘cept I’ve never crossed over with kids before.”

“I’ll try to leave my pacifier here if that makes you feel better, gramps,” Corey said.

“Watch your mouth, boy.” He slammed his fist into the arm of the chair. Muddy watched the thick veins on the dark hands grow and shake. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with over there.” Fire burned in his one eye. “Take it seriously or go home and cry when your brother never comes back.” Why did the man seem so angry? What did he know about where they would go?

None of them still had any idea what “over there” meant, but they figured he would show them the light—or lose them in darkness soon enough.

“What’s the second thing?” Muddy asked.

He kept his gaze on him. “We leave tonight.”

“But how? We have school tomorrow.”

“You chicken,” Corey said. “It’s your brother!”

“Yeah,” Otis chimed in, “you’re not scared, are you?”

The old man stomped his foot again to get their attention. “You’re all scared. Or should be. It’s a messed up world over there. I still get the trembles every time I go.”

“Besides,” Silver Eye continued. “Time doesn’t listen to any of our rules over there. So, you might not even miss one of your arithmetic classes if you’re lucky. If you’re not, I hope whoever comes back can spell the words right on your tombstone.”

“What is over there?” Muddy asked, ignoring the taunt.

Now Poe jumped into the fray. “Is it beyond that landfill? Some isolated part where people don’t go to anymore?”

The old man looked directly at Muddy. “You can’t walk there. You know that, so why are you asking? It’s not on a map. It’s not past the landfill, but it is somewhere that people hardly visit anymore, at least from this area.”

Otis smirked and had to add his two cents. “So…you’re saying it’s somewhere only you can take us, but it’s not past the landfill and it’s not across the river.”

The old man went silent.

“So…are we gonna click our heels together like in the Wizard of Oz and float there?”

The old man suddenly stood. “Listen, you little… I don’t need this crap. You don’t believe me, fine. Let that boy die over there. It ain’t my issue. You wanna cross over with him, fine, but don’t go making me out to be no crazy idiot.”

Damage control time. It always happened when Otis got riled up.

“Wait, Mr. Watkins,” Muddy pleaded. “I need to get over there, wherever there is. I know it’s something weird—I saw it with my own eyes. I believe you, but they don’t. Can you tell them what this place is?”

“Nope,” he said, shaking his head again. “You either believe and go with me, or run home to mama and let them have at it with your kin.” He stood, walked over to a closed door and leaned against it. “I shouldn’t even be taking you there.”

“Yes, you should,” Poe insisted. “Whatever, wherever this place is, we’ve gotta go there, for Zack’s sake. Please.”

A minute of silence ensued. Then his eye moved as his gaze slowly rolled over them. “You really think you’re up for this? You’re not afraid?”

“Of course we’re scared,” Corey said. “We’re not stupid. The three of us haven’t even seen the place yet.”

“When’s the last time you went there?” Poe asked Silver Eye.

“Never mind that. I know what I’m doing.”

“But,” he warned, “You can’t go there unarmed. You go in there with empty arms, and you might as well be dead now. You need instruments. Otherwise, you won’t last a minute.”

“But, we didn’t know,” Muddy said. “All our band equipment is back home. Heck, I don’t even have a guitar pick!”

The old man just smiled and pushed open a door in the back of the house. “Welcome to ol’ Silver Eye’s toy store.” The door swung wide and a musty stench wafted out for all to choke on, but only until they saw what lay inside. The room loomed massive yet it couldn’t be—not inside a house as small as this.

“Now, come on back here and find something to play.” He gestured to the back room where a bevy of assorted instruments lay scattered around as if a Hard Rock Café had exploded in there. “Pick one, something that you feel fits you. Calls to you.”

“Calls to him?” Poe mused, as she ventured into the mess. “That makes it a little easier for him.” Even though she primarily sang with the voice of a siren, she also tinkered on keyboards. “Wait. Some of these don’t look normal.”

“Where we’re going is about as far from normal as you’ll ever see, ma’am, so choose carefully!”

Otis wandered straight to the back corner where a jumbled stack of percussion lay. “Okay, I’m cool,” he called out, picking up a set of ebony sticks and something that resembled a small snare drum with a leather strap, but decorated in oddly striped colors with carvings of objects that eluded comprehension.

Hanging on the wall, a tenor sax, hued in silver, not brass or golden color, must have screamed out to Corey by the way he rushed over to it. “Wow, even a fresh reed on it! And spares!” He removed it, cradling the instrument as a man would embrace the love of his life.

“But,” he spoke, obviously confused. “This isn’t brass, or even silver. Is it?”

The old man just smiled. “You gonna complain or play?”

And so Corey played with the skill that life gave him.

“Aha! There you are.” A glissando, a quick, effortless flurry of notes rang out from where Poe stood. She held up something Muddy couldn’t identify, something that sort of looked like a xylophone, but smaller. A leather strap hung over her shoulder. “Very cool, whatever it is.” Her long, smooth fingers danced over the slender metal keys, unleashing another pleasant flurry of notes one might expect from an angel’s harp.

“Something tells me that the only thing you’ll need is right inside your lungs,” Silver Eye said, looking over her shoulder, “but go ahead and tinker.”

Where’s mine? Muddy thought. As usual, everyone else had their pick and luck with the music. If Zack were here, a vintage Fender or Les Paul would probably leap out of a pile, straight into his arms. But Muddy? Nothing even remotely resembling a six-string lay anywhere.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder.

Spinning around, he found Silver Eye standing there with a battered, natural wood-toned acoustic guitar. Dull brass tuners jutted out of the headstock like buckteeth. The neck and body held more scratches and chips than his grandfather’s 1972 Chevy. Stranger though, was the end of the neck. It curved into a horn. Near the sound hole mushroomed out a blossoming opening, sort of like an old Victrola record player.

The man held it out like a proud father. Muddy took it, but it felt more like cradling a nephew from the circus sideshow than a bundle of beautiful joy.

“Sweet, ain’t she?” The old man offered this “prize” to Muddy with a smile.

“Uh…yeah.” Muddy never could lie well. “Sweet.”

“Know where this has been?”

Pulled out of the Jersey swamps? A member of the original landfill?

When the teen shrugged, the old man clapped his hands together and leaned against the wall.

“No one’s sure when she was built, but let’s just say she’s been to the Memphis delta, down to the bayous of Louisiana, even hit the Chicago strip.”

“And then…”

“You’ve brought this thing over there?”

“Son, this thing has saved more people than the number of guitar picks you’ve lost.”

That IS a lot. But how? That thing is a piece of crap!

“Yeah, I know,” he said, nodding at the condition of the instrument. “But strap it on over there and I guarantee it’ll save your crack over there.”

Muddy threw it over his shoulder and pulled the strap tight. The leather looked like it had jumped off an alligator a few eons ago.

Silver Eye tossed him a pick that looked like it had fallen out of that gator’s mouth.

“What’s this made of?”

Again, that mysterious smile. “Eventually, boy. Eventually.”

He strummed a chord and then a quick rock riff. The “thing” sounded like nothing he had ever heard before, but where was the amp? The volume?

Silver Eye must have sensed this and called out as they tested their new toys. “Remember, things operate differently over there. Things sound different there. Amplification will be provided.”

Corey’s voice sounded from behind them. “What do we do with these? Are we going to play a concert where we’re going?”

“More important than that,” the old man said. “Much more important.”

Otis let loose on his newly found toy with a drum roll. “Okay, enough with the hoodoo voodoo vibe. When do we hit it?”

Muddy checked his watch. Ten minutes to eight. Darkness would overtake the town within a half hour. How they would get home safely through this part of town at night, he had no clue.

He could swear that silver orb in the bluesman’s eye-socket saw right through him at that moment. “We’ll be there in no time. Let’s go. Remember—different place, different rules.”

Muddy wondered if they were following a crazy man to their graves, but realized they had no other choice.