Dark Muse by David Simms Page B

like Dad and I would ever...
    Muddy had his music. Dad had his stories. Eye
to eye, it just wasn’t happening.
    “Now, enough old lady talk.” Silver Eye
walked back to the center of the crossroads. “Pick up your guitar
and follow me in D-flat. Shuffle, twelve bar blues.”
    “D-flat? What the..? Who plays in that
key?”
    “Yeah,” Otis chirped. “We’re not some jazz
be-bop guys.”
    “Shut your yap,” Silver Eye snapped.
“ Any self-respecting musician knows how to jam in any key. It ain’t that hard if you’ve got a little soul in ya.”
    “Still,” Corey added, “that’s an odd key. I
play piano…”
    “Goodie for you, big windy,” the old man
retorted. “If you play the ivories, you should know D-flat is the
opposite of G. Six steps away, three whole tones. A tri-tone,” he
said, visibly shivering as he said it. “Can’t get more opposite
than that.”
    “But—” Looking at Muddy, he spoke in a
serious tone. “Play.”
    The guitarist looked at his fingers,
twitching like a stepped-on spider. All he could think of was the
simple blues scale pattern a guitarist could use on any fret, any
key. With the knowledge of what the man called for, it was akin to
driving on the turnpike with a Schwinn.
    “Play,” came the stern voice, tinged with
anger, maybe a little fear.
    The teen chugged out a few power chords in a
simple shuffle rhythm. A series of waves began, as if Silver Eye
had tossed a stone into his soul then sat back and watched the
ripples fan out, growing more intense each time.
    Silver Eye joined in, switching to a new
harmonica. Muddy looked at the old man’s baggy pants and assumed he
could’ve had a different one for each possible key. Or at least the
ones that did something over there . Still, the boy felt no
real comfort in the key.
    Silver Eye nodded at Muddy, giving him a look
that said, “Let it go.” Something in the old man’s eye broke the
floodgates.
    First, Muddy spun a lick that turned the
crushed spider into a hyperactive, five-legged demon that just
happened to be attached to his arm. His right hand picked away like
an angry hummingbird, beating through the strings with speed,
precision, and attitude. Then he coaxed a cry out of the guitar
with a nasty bend. Pushing it a little more, it morphed into a
scream.
    He fell into that zone, that place where
musicians lose themselves to the world. The music grew until it
surrounded him in a cool, comforting blanket. Notes and melodies
emanating from the Les Paul became who he was, all he thought, all
he breathed.
    Everything around him dissipated as he became
the music.
    * * * *
    The next thing Muddy knew, a strong hand
shook him back to earth. Like waking from a sleep when you’re sick,
the world curled slowly into focus.
    Corey’s voice penetrated the fog. “Dude, you
okay?”
    “Hey,” someone else called.
    “Muddy?” As usual, Poe dragged him back to
earth.
    “Yeah,” he answered, not quite sure of where
he was yet.
    “What did you just play?” The voice sounded
like Otis.
    “I don’t know.” The last thing he remembered,
he was launching into that bend. “I have no clue.” Poe grabbed his
hand.
    “What happened to him?” she asked Silver
Eye.
    “The River.”
    The what?
     

 
    Chapter
Seven
     
    Otis looked around like he expected a Tsunami
to crash into him at any moment. “Where? He isn’t wet.” He spun to
give his black eyes the 360 degree view. “That dirty old toilet
ain’t a river. The Raritan has more sewage than water. You don’t
need to be Jacques Cousteau to figure out you could walk on
that water.”
    “It’s not that river, you dolts,” the
old man said. “It’s another dimension of creativity; genius, to be
exact. Although, back in my day, it was an actual river.
Anyway , even though it’s not a real, water flowing river,
you could get pulled under. In fact, I know of a bunch of folk who
did sink so deep, they never came back out again. You’d probably
know their