Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“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 disorder, 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.”

“Right, and you’re taking his.”

“Colleen, I believe you didn’t see anything. I also believe Goldie did . Does that seem so strange?”

“Well, it-”

“Tell me, when was the last time you made fire leap out of the tips of your fingers or heard the Source whispering in your ear?”

Another pregnant pause. “That’s not fair. He’s a head case, Cal. Ask Doc. If you don’t think he’s worried about Goldie’s mental state, you can think again.”

“All right, Colleen. If it will make you feel better, I’ll talk to Doc about Goldie’s mental state. But I’m not going to make a snap decision. I think the best thing we can do is sleep on it and see where things stand in the morning. We’re sure as hell not going anywhere tonight.”

“Fine,” says Colleen. Leaves crunch underfoot, then she says, “Cal, I’m really sorry. I know I’m a bitch. There are times I pride myself on being a bitch. This isn’t one of them. I just don’t want to see us … pulled off course.”

“Don’t worry. I won’t let us be.”

There’s a moment of silence, then leaves crunch again, this time with an air of finality, and I sidle back to my bedroll.

Bitch. Witch. Snitch.

I run out of rhymes and concoct a plan: I will wait for Doc to commence snoring. They may not be going anywhere tonight, but I am. Of course, I’ll leave a good trail so they can follow me-and they’ll have to follow me. One way or another, we are going to find the Bluesman.

As luck would have it, Doc has trouble sleeping tonight, and I am half asleep myself, rapids or no rapids, when the window opens in my head and music comes cascading through-loud, clear, and achingly close.