Chapter Eight

They left class shaken—none more than Muddy—but things had to be done. Any plans they had to pursue the person in their collective dreams had to be put on hold, at least for the moment. Set up and auditions for the Battle of the Bands was scheduled right after school.

“How am I supposed to practice now with that image in my mind?” Otis swirled his sticks, but without the usual finesse.

All of the bands were set up on the auditorium stage, many sharing amps and drum kits, much to the chagrin of the pickier musicians. Yet with only one PA system, they had to get along for this one day. Each group was allowed to play two songs. The Accidentals had yet to decide on which ones they were going to play.

Muddy shook his head, unwilling to meet anyone’s gaze. “Just play. Pretend we’re in the basement. Just focus.”

“Okay,” Otis replied. “Okay.”

As they watched one lousy band after another, butchering cover songs to the point where even the student advisors couldn’t decipher what they were hearing, the memories of the previous night faded enough so that the group could concentrate on the deal at hand.

When it came time for Bentley’s group to gear up, the butterflies in Muddy’s stomach grew rusty barbs on their wings and spit fire through his insides. Bentley was the school’s cover boy and thought life revolved around him. He believed that because he had good looks, money, and a hot car, he was better than any of his peers. Muddy felt like a one-fingered, lobotomized accountant compared to his nemesis’ speedy, fleet-fingered runs. True, not much soul existed in Bentley’s flashy playing, but no one seemed to care. A good-looking guy playing fast guitar would usually win over the high school crowd, especially the girls. Plus, Bentley could sing. Girls like Chelsea and Porshe fell for that every time. Muddy wondered if Poe ever would.

Even though six-stringing seemed to be embedded in his genes, his vocal cords must've had some connection to the president of the Tone-Deaf Club. Thankfully, Poe’s voice made up for any torture he inflicted on anyone’s ears.

Bentley’s singing fell way short of Poe’s angelic style, but when you were popular, audiences forgave just about anything. He might as well have sung the theme song to Barney. Most of the student body would have still applauded.

They launched into an up-tempo version of a classic Van Halen song (of course, classic rock had rushed like a tsunami through American high schools in recent years, thanks to Guitar Hero and other games). Simple to pull off, technically, but with that band, it was never about technique, but about soul and rhythm.

As Bentley rambled toward the end of the song, the waiting foursome readied themselves. Muddy wondered if the others ever felt those same rusty butterflies.

“Hey, where’s Brian?” asked Corey.

He must have given Corey a dumb stare in return because Corey slapped the back of his head. “Our bassist du jour? Does he know the audition is today?”

Sighing, Muddy thought about their four-stringed situation. Most bands employed a full-time bass player, usually someone who couldn’t handle guitar, a friend who’d do anything to be part of the band, or a singer who couldn’t sing while playing. Few these days actually loved to play the instrument. Even fewer could play it well. Nobody wanted to be Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers anymore.

His dad called their problem the “Star Trek” situation. The teen had never watched the show, but the writer said that when the spaceship explored a strange new planet, they sent out a scout team to scour the area for life forms and ominous danger. In every single episode, one member never lasted for more than that one episode, always falling prey to whatever terror lay in wait. He died within minutes of the show’s opening, before anyone even learned his name or background.

The Accidental’s bass players lasted only a bit longer, thus adding another reason for their moniker. True, no aliens ever chomped down on their brief, four-stringed friends, but odd incidents usually befell them. Most of the time, a freak accident took the blame. The other incidents weren’t as colorful, but usually ended with stitches or at least an ice pack.

While anxiety readied its attack on Muddy in the form of hands twitching and his back sweating, the auditorium doors burst open and in sauntered Leo Lumley, a lanky goof who had close to zero musical skills. Slinging his vintage Fender P-bass over one shoulder, he approached the stage with a smile that suggested flatulence would soon follow.

“I’m here,” he announced in the deep voice of a junior who still hadn’t found his niche in school. Very similar to the band in many respects, but he could hold his own, and that was all that mattered.

“Um,” Muddy said, still anxious. “Where’s Brian?”

“You expected him to show up?” The towering bean pole nearly tripped over the PA. “Seriously? He got suspended yesterday for hacking into the school’s computer system and putting a screensaver of Principal McIlveen in a bikini on the school’s homepage.”

They laughed, but time was tight. Muddy wondered if this guy could pull it off.

“All set to knock out some “‘Sweet Emotion?’”

“Sure thing,” the gawky teen replied, hooking up his bass straight through the PA system, using only an EQ box to tweak his sound.

Muddy hoped Leo remembered the original. They loved the guy, often jammed with him when he was bored, but never considered him family. Loners will do that to a group. Still, he was likeable—and dependable.

As they entered the stage, the pompous leader of Silver Shadow had to toss in his two cents, of which Muddy was sure he thought was worth much more. “Good luck, Puddles.”

Inside, the teen’s blood seethed, but Muddy kept cool, mostly from fear of retribution if he decided to give the guy dental work via a Les Paul. “It’s Waters, Chevy. Waters.”

He sneered as only a constipated-looking, anal-retentive snob could. “Waters. Dirty Waters,” he said with a chuckle. “Is that like a retarded version of James Bond?”

“Hey, you,” Corey said, “yeah, you—the proctologist’s dream. Feel like chewing on a size fourteen boot today?” Corey served as all of their bodyguards, even though he’d considered himself a mouse in a snake pit back in his old neighborhood called Iron.

“Oh, hey, Chambers,” Bentley said, trying to remain calm, but his eyes sunk just a bit. “You still hangin’ with these dorks? You should try out for a real band.”

Corey moved to within a few inches of Bentley, giving him a hard stare. “I’ve got myself a real band, not like that soulless thing you put up on stage. And…you screw with my friends, you screw with me. Got it?”

The pale boy backed up, saluting him. “Got it, sir. Sad to see your talent go to waste though.”

“I’ll give you one last chance. You mess with them, you mess with me.” From the look in his eyes, one last ember of living in Carter Hill’s hood still burned. Muddy, for one, didn’t want to stoke that fire. It would be almost as fiery as his. Or Vinnie’s.

Bentley grabbed his guitar and walked off the other side of the stage. The battle was over for now, but they knew the war would still rage—at least until graduation, or until something from the “other side” ended his life. The way things happened in Muddy’s life, either fate had a good chance of happening.

Poe laid her hand on his shoulder and the stress of the whole world went away. “Concentrate, Muddy. Remember, Chelsea will be out there watching.”

Why did she have to say that? To set him off? To derail his anxiety? Did she even have an inkling that he wanted her? He might never have her. Why did so many people think he preferred Chelsea, a high maintenance socialite who would never stoop to dating one of “his” kind? He’d need a miracle bigger than the crossroads to help him in that area.

They hit the stage and blasted through their three song audition: “Sweet Emotion,” “Travelin’ Band,” and “Walkin’ The Plank.”

Not surprisingly, he ambled through the set with his mind in another world, literally. When Otis crashed down on the cymbals to end their original song, the guitarist barely noticed.

“And that was ‘The Accidental Muses,’” one of the judges said.

People rarely mentioned the band’s name and they hardly ever used the second word. It had two meanings; one was musical and one was demeaning, in a self-deprecating way. The first meaning was obvious. The second came from music theory, where a note out of a given key was added, usually a flat or sharp. It added character.

“You guys truly are accidents up there,” Bentley said. He made sure to connect visually with Muddy. “If I’d spawned one of you, I’d probably keel over and die, too.”

Son of a…

Muddy finally understood what “seeing red” meant at that moment. “I’ll kill you, you stuck up—”

“Ooh,” blubbered the smarmy prepster, waving his finger. “A threat. They might lock you up for that, Puddles.”

Corey had to hold Muddy back. Everybody knew he wouldn’t stop until blood covered the floor, even if it was his own. Then Leo grabbed Corey, as they all knew that if he took a swing, the golden boy’s father would have the big boy from the bad side of town expelled on some false charges.

“Edgar!” Poe’s voice cut through the throng of people and noise. That was all she had to say. The anger raged through him, but the magic in that voice bathed him in peaceful waves. “Edgar!” she repeated. “Don’t. We’ll be kicked out of the battle.”

“Right,” he grumbled. “Let me go, Corey.”

When Bentley realized Muddy wasn’t going to race to his demise, his armored pythons uncoiled and Bentley slipped free, just like airplay from those reality show one-hit wonders butchering someone else’s one-hit wonder.

Rage nearly punched through the barrier of restraint. Muddy could tell Corey was about to blow as well. Both nearly bolted for the idiot, but instead, he ripped free of Corey’s grasp. Rather, Corey likely let him go, sensing his friend wouldn’t do anything so stupid. Not to someone else, at least. Nearly tripping over the tangles of cords and cases, the guitarist must have kicked a dozen random items. Back in the recesses of his head, Muddy knew he would regret most of the afternoon, but still would want to take a swing at that rich momma’s boy.

Kicking open the gym door, he tore into a sprint and didn’t stop running until he hit that same street which changed his life the previous night. The boy stood breathless, wishing he had the slightest athletic ability. Despite that fact, he’d managed to run about two miles without a hitch. The tears in his eyes almost blinded him from seeing where his subconscious landed him.

Muddy stood in front of Silver Eye Watkins’ red house. The old man would be waiting inside. Something within him assured him that the blues man knew his new protégé would be coming, and knew much more about the days to come than Muddy ever would.

* * * *

“Took you long enough.”

“It’s called school,” Muddy said, pushing the door wide, nearly tripping over a gray cat. “They kinda get annoyed if you don’t go. Wasn’t this fur ball a dog last time I came here?”

Silver Eye waved the boy off. “Dog, cat—who cares? They come and go, just like my women, my friends and my family. At least when I put out food, I know they’ll be back.” He snapped his fingers at the ball of charcoal-colored fur and it sauntered over to him, but not before hissing in Muddy’s general direction. A far cry from Marshall, his Maine Coon, who would snuggle up to a serial killer.

“Whatever.” Half of him still was choking back the tears of embarrassment and frustration of that afternoon, while the other half just was happy to be in a place far away from that soulless place named high school.

“What kinda critter skittered up your butt and died today?” Silver Eye asked with a crooked grin and a snicker.

Muddy’s fist cracked against the door frame, causing more pain to shoot up his arm than paint chips to fly. “Don’t mess with me, old man. Please. Not today.”

“Well, don’t go asking me for a hug or anything. I ain’t no grandfather-type guy.”

“Don’t worry about it. I wouldn’t think of it.”

The silence between the guitarist’s words and the ones that he said next stretched into a long and tortuous moment. He just thought about the trip—and the guitar pick. Of course, Muddy had to be the one to break the silence.

“What happened last night? Is he still alive? When are we going back there to get him?” His pulse ran into hyper drive, anxiety bursting into millions of tiny spiders that scampered up and down his veins. His lungs sucked air in and out so fast he must have sound like a psychotic, confused vacuum cleaner to the cat who’d escaped the living room in a cloud of dust.

Finally, Silver Eye relented. Raising his hands in defense, he spoke. “Okay, I give. Just relax.”

Muddy attempted to speak in a normal voice, but instead, a Disney creature spoke from within his belly. “My brother might be dead in that weird place and you tell me to relax?”

Silver Eye waved down the teen as if an out-of-control jet came barreling straight at him. “Hold on,” he said gently. “I was gonna tell you everything, anyway. Ain’t you ever seen Star Wars?”

“Which one?”

He shot Muddy an odd, quizzical look. “The one with the force and those light sword thingys?”

“Yeah, I saw that one. There’s six of them now, you know,” Muddy said. “Guess you haven’t seen them all.”

“What was your point?” Silver Eye kicked at the upright chair next to him and gestured to him to park his butt in it. “This might take a while. You know how us old dogs like to reminisce about the good ‘ol days.”

Muddy parked it and within minutes, totally forgot his crappy day, but felt his blood run as cold as a math teacher’s…foot.

“Anyway, back to that ‘Star Wars’ movie. You remember that whole ‘force’ thing they talked about?”

The teen nodded, wondering where this lecture was going. Darth Vader with the blues?

“The guy who thought that up knew there really is a force, or something like it. Has nothing to do with light sabers or Wookies or little furry creatures, either. Most of it has to do with music—and its power.”

“So…the Death Star could’ve been a blues club?” Muddy couldn’t resist. Humor was the best stress reliever he knew.

That one eye pierced Muddy like a switchblade. “Don’t mess with me, kid. This is serious. Especially when we’re talking about lives. Not just your brother’s—yours, too.”

Muddy’s icy blood froze over. “What’re you talking about?”

“Promise to sit there and just listen now?”

“Gotcha.” Muddy gripped the arms of the chair and felt his circulation already begin to slow.

The old man grasped a beat up coffee mug that the teen doubted held only coffee and brought it to his lips. “How do you write a song?”

“Huh?”

“How do you know when you’re in that ‘zone’ when nothing you play is wrong? When all the notes are sweeter than honey?”

Muddy’s mind swirled. “I don’t know. I just do it.”

Silver Eye stared again. Even his one eye seemed to bore into the teen. “You do know. You just don’t realize it.”

“What? Do you want to try English now?”

“You just do it. The ideas come from somewhere else, correct?

Yeah, Muddy thought. When the guitarist simply played, ideas seemed to fall out of the sky. When he tried to compose something, he might as well have been yanking a brick through concrete with a strand of thread. But when he didn’t think, when he just let it flow, that thread became a thick chain that pulled him into the song. Of course, dexterity, speed and chord knowledge took endless hours of work, but when he was able to truly let go, bits of song rained down as he slid through a greased tunnel toward that….River? Is that what Silver Eye called it?

“Yeah, man, the River.” Silver Eye nodded as if he’d read the boy’s thoughts.

“It’s pure magic, but that’s like card tricks compared to what you began to see last night.” He rubbed his hands together in excitement like a kid on Christmas morning.

“Harry Potter magic,” Muddy offered, knowing it would draw a stomp, but his mind was riddled with awe and tumbling thoughts.

“No!” Silver Eye downed the rest of his so-called coffee. “This is real.” He slammed the cup down. “You need to hear this, need to understand this if you want to save your brother, if he’s not already lost to—”

“To what?” Muddy really didn’t want to hear the bad news, but had to know. “Lost to whom?”

The man twirled a harmonica in his left hand. “In the River, in that world we went to last night, lives a figure that would send old Darth Vader, Freddy, Jason and even Hitler back to their mamas needing a change of pants. You sink too low in that river and that’s where his power awaits.

“We call him the ‘Dark Muse.’ “

“Who’s we?” Muddy wondered aloud. His band? His family? His…whatever?

“All of us,” he whispered. “Everyone who ever swam in those waters, tasted the music or other arts that mattered.”

“What does this muse do? Inspire bad songs? That would explain what plays for music on today’s radio.”

Again, that one eye bored through him. “It. He. She. Who knows what. All I know is it fuels what is wrong with that place, almost as much as the River does. Almost. You don’t want to meet this person. All I know is that everyone who’s been in the River too long, who looked him in the eye wherever he resides, is buried. Along with their secrets.”

“What do you mean, everyone?”

He huffed, staring at the walls, the myriad photos staring back at him.

“Son, this River’s been flowing long before I came along. Long before man. I don’t know who started it, or if anyone started it. Maybe it always was.

“But I do know where it began. And I do know how people like Plato, Mozart, Robert Johnson, Zeppelin, even that caveman on those stupid commercials brought music into this world.”

“The other side?” Muddy guessed. “Where we went? But this is New Jersey. None of those guys were even near here.”

Silver Eye stood and wandered around the room as though he’d just told the teen a dirty secret that would change everything. “Yeah, I know. Jersey. No way Mozart or Johnson would ever soil their feet here, but you know the other names. Springsteen. Sinatra. Bon Jovi. Etc. Etc. Etc.”

Oh, crap. “They all found the crossroads?”

Silver Eye nodded. “They found at least one of them.”

“But—”

“Shh!!” he admonished, getting louder, irritated. “Just listen.”

Silver Eye circled the room, setting off the cat, kicking the chair where the dog obviously hid behind. The old creature howled and took off running. He mumbled an apology to both animals. “This is where it gets real. This is science, boy. At least, it starts there. I have no idea where it ends up.”

“Wait,” Muddy interrupted. “You’re saying—”

“Yeah,” he said, “there are many crossroads and they work both ways.”

The look on Muddy’s face must have said it all.

“I know you don’t get it. And I hope you never do.”

* * * *

By the time Poe, Otis and Corey arrived, old man Watkins and Muddy had immersed themselves in training. He barked out directions and the guitarist followed.

“Play a line in D pentatonic, first position.”

“Bend that F up to a G, barely.”

“Add some vibrato. No! Don’t shake like you’re carrying the smallest bladder in history. Use your body to move the note. Pretend like you have more rhythm than week old road kill.”

And on it went.

When the bluesman finally took a break from wringing Muddy through the Jedi-like guitar boot camp, they noticed that the others had gathered round, watching them like a musical freak show. All sat around Silver Eye’s sorry excuse for a living room, slack-jawed and ready to burst out laughing, but had enough respect for Watkins to hold off until he’d finished with their friend.

“Wow,” Otis crowed. “Luke Skywalker rides the short bus to Bluesville.”

Flames of embarrassment burned Muddy’s cheeks, knowing even Poe couldn’t keep from grinning ear to ear. So deep in the music, he must have seemed nuttier than a politician without the lobotomy.

“Shut it, Q-tip.”

He only pulled that term of endearment out when the drummer really got to him, but his brain was flat-out fried. Otis sported a mini-afro of black on his skinny head, skinnier neck, and slim frame. Once, when the band had been swimming, he’d toweled off and Muddy found himself cracking up with the image of a life-size Q-tip—after someone had cleaned their filthy ear with it. Thankfully, the joke had remained in their little group and his family, after his mom had overheard.

“Oooh,” he said and whistled. “Now we know this is serious training.”

Once again, the old man slammed his non-coffee cup. “Don’t you kids take anything seriously?”

Poe, the voice of reason, spoke up. “Sir,” she cooed, “no offense, but with all we deal with on a daily basis, if I didn’t crack up or let these boneheads crack me up, my brain would have skipped town by now.”

“Fair enough,” he conceded, as most did when she spoke. “But if you aren’t fully ready for what lies ahead in that place, you might as well get the nails ready for your own coffin.”

She nodded and added, “I’ll be as ready as possible for this, I promise you. However, I’ve also had those nails for a long time.”

Muddy wondered if she could see the incredibly odd look he gave her at that moment, but somehow he doubted she would be surprised at anyone’s reaction to her words. At least, to anyone who knew her.

“So, why did you guys come here? Was it that obvious where I’d go?” Muddy stared incredulously at his friends.

“Actually,” Poe said, “we’re kind of surprised you made it here alone safely.”

The old man clapped his big hands. “So, since we’re all comfy and opening up like babbling babes, it might be a good idea to shut your yaps and get practicing. You’re gonna need it.”

Poe glared at him, but likely knew the old guy was only egging them on.

So they continued, playing alone, playing in pairs, playing in as many permutations as possible. Unlike the music on the “other side,” no matter how they blazed or hooked into a groove, nothing magical happened.

“But, why?” Corey asked. “We’re playing the same way as last night, even better some times. Does it only work over there?”

“And if it does only work over there,” Otis chucked in his two cents, “why the heck are we practicing here when we can’t see what it does?”

If that mug slammed one more time, Muddy expected shards to shatter into a cloud across the room. At least, if Silver Eye’s stare didn’t burn it straight out of the air.

“Better watch your mouth little man. It might get you killed some day.”

Of course, that only set the drummer off more. “You threatening me?” he asked, twirling a stick as he sauntered over to the man’s chair. “Cause if you are, let me know now. I stopped taking crap a long time ago and stopped caring way before that.”

The stare continued for a tense moment, then Silver Eye cracked a smile. Guttural laughter ensued, which soon shook the bluesman’s entire body. “You guys are a little young to be such fatalists, don’t you think? Personally, I think that if you saw what’s really in charge over there, you’d pee on yourselves in a heartbeat and pray to whoever makes your world go round.”

Corey stepped up, acting as the bodyguard again, but maybe this old man wasn’t what he seemed. “You don’t scare me. So, I’ll ask you only once, please show us a little respect. We don’t see much of it, but after last night, I think we deserve it.”

“Last night?” Silver Eye asked, face cracking, obviously holding back. “Are you kidding me? If you went there alone, you’d be in pieces right now.”

“We kicked those things’ butts!” Otis chirped. “Even you saw that.”

“Such an ignorant fool, little drummer boy. Did you think you’d be alive right now if I hadn’t shown you what to do?” His dark, wizened hand held up the mug. “Do you think you’d figure out how to whip those chest beaters without my help?”

“Okay, Obi-Wan.” Otis backed away, though he kept eye contact. “You made your point, but make sure you know we’re not a bunch of wusses here.”

“If you want respect, if you want me to take you seriously, finish your training here. Your brother, if he’s still alive, will still be kicking for another couple of days. You wouldn’t go into Iraq without knowing how to drive a tank, shoot a machine gun, know who the enemy was, or even venture into the country’s boundaries without a map, would you?”

“This isn’t Iraq,” Poe said. She had lost a cousin there, the only relative she’d truly gotten along with. “This is a forest with some goons stumbling around. Big difference.”

“Girl,” he said, leaning back in his recliner, face softening, though his gaze never wavered. “Whatever you know about the crossroads, it’s nothing like the Middle East. It’s nothing like anything on any map. What you experienced last night was just a tease of the real thing.”

“I thought we were here to be trained like little Jedis, not listening to some mumbo-jumbo about your adventures.”

Silver Eye just hung back, taking it all in, biding his time. “You kiddies done now? There’s so much wine, but where’s the cheese?”

If anyone else got the joke, they didn’t show it. “My mom used to use that line on me. Took me a few years to get it.” Muddy’s face almost allowed a grin.

“Used to?” Silver Eye asked. “You finally stopped annoying her?”

“No, she died this past year.” His heart hitched in his chest. Even joking didn’t cut the pain. “Unless my prayers get a great long distance plan, I don’t think I’m bugging her anymore.”

“Son, moms always hear. Don’t matter where they are. I’m sure mine has wanted to use those angel wings to fly on down here and give me a whuppin’ for so many of the things I’ve done in my life.”

Muddy wondered, if only she knew what we were getting ourselves into…

“Muddy,” Otis said. “Your mom would kick yours if she found out about last night.”

“Keep it up, Q-tip,” Muddy replied, “and I’ll let big Maggie in on what you do.”

Otis’ mom was a nice woman, but not easily fooled. Cross her once and you might only have endure the “tongue of hellfire.” Cross her twice and you’d likely end up with mental scars that would leave you drooling, trembling and scared of your shadow for life.

“Anyway,” Silver Eye continued, “getting back to un-reality here, you need to know a little story about the crossroads before we go any farther. If there’s to be a journey, a funky trek deep into that other world where most humans have never returned to talk about, then you need to sit your tails down and listen to my little yarn from when I was younger.”

“And had both eyes?” Otis just had to ask.

The mug missed the top of his head by inches.

“Okay,” the drummer said, still ducking. “We’re waiting.”