Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“What are we up against here?” Cal asked. “You say we’re facing a monster-do you mean that literally? We’d gotten the impression that Primal Records was still run by a group of people .”

Tone opened his eyes so wide, I could see the whites gleam in the dim light. “Who told you that?”

“Howard Russo, not in so many words.”

“Russo? Shit, he’s nobody you’d want to be givin’ head space too. That rodent sold out I don’t know how many devas before we got on to him.”

“I knew it,” I said. “I friggin’ knew it. He delivered us right to the front door. Like Chinese takeout.” I remembered five lousy words of Shakespeare. They twisted in my head: All the world’s a puppet theater .

Enid’s face had lost most of its color. “Why, Tone? Why would he?”

“T’save his own ass, I s’pose. He’s under contract, too, isn’t he?”

Cal sank into Doc’s chair and leaned across the table, eyes on Tone’s face. “What is Primal?”

“We don’t know.” Venus slid off her bar stool and moved to our table, her arms wrapped around herself as if keeping out a chill. “Says it was the first thing the Storm birthed.”

“Then you’ve seen it.”

“I came close one time,” she said. “Too damn close.”

“I seen it.”

The voice came from the darkest corner of the room, where a hallway fed back into the private quarters. I didn’t see anyone at first, then there was a shuffling sound and a dark figure moved unsteadily into the light of the room.

It was an old man. A tall, lean old man, a little stooped, hair grizzled white, clothes the same tones and colors as his skin-a walking, talking gingerbread man. Lamplight fell across his face. His eyes were completely white with cataracts. It’d been a long time since he’d seen anything. “Now, Papa…” said Venus.

“I seen it,” the old man insisted quietly.

“Who …?” Cal looked to Tone and gestured at the old guy.

“They call me Papa Sky,” the old man said. “You must be our travelers. Welcome to Legends.”

DOC

Goldie was not all right. And it took no medical degree to know it. Like a man whose fever had just broken, he quivered in icy perspiration. He sat hunched over the bar, clinging to his mug as if it possessed powers of salvation, while Magritte hovered in suspended animation by his side.

I slid onto the bar stool next to him and leaned in, keeping my voice low. “What’s wrong, Goldie?”

He raised his eyes to my face, giving me a fleeting glimpse of a place even my deepest grief had never taken me.

I caught his shoulder in a hard grip. “Goldie, I have some valproate … enough to start you on a course-”

Lips pressed tightly together, he shook his head. “That’s not what this is, Doc. Valproate won’t help.”

“What, then?”

He looked me fully in the eye, and might have told me, when the old man came into the bar. Goldie’s revelation was lost in the moment, for here was Tone’s oracle-a living, breathing man. A blind man, appropriately.

We made introductions and he seated himself in a pool of lamplight between Tone and Enid, turning his face to Cal. “Bet you’re full of questions. Young people are, as I recall.

They think old folks like me are full of answers. Or just plain full of it.”

Cal said, “What can you tell me about Primal?”

“No patience, either. Want all their answers this minute.” He shook his head. “Primal. Well, I can tell you it’s not what it seems.”

Beside me, Goldie stirred, a strange mixture of pain and fascination in his face. He slid from his stool and moved toward the old man with the languid motion of a sleepwalker.

“You said you’d seen it,” Cal persisted.

“Papa Sky is real big on metaphors,” said Jelly. “He means to say he saw it in a vision.”

“Now, don’t you ever scoff at a blind man’s visions, Mr. Jelly,” said Papa Sky. “I see things a whole lot clearer sometimes than folks with two good eyes.”

“What did you see?” asked Cal.

“Chaos. With a kernel of will. A tiny, tiny kernel of will. The first shall be last and the last first,” he added cryptically. “The least shall be greatest and the greatest least.”

Cal traded a glance with Enid, disappointment written on his face. He erased it with a sigh.

“Papa Sky’s big on riddles, too,” said Tone. He turned to the old man. “If you could answer these folks straight up, Papa, it’d be best.”

“Sometimes a straight answer ain’t the best answer,” Papa Sky observed.

“Our friend Calvin is on a quest. His sister’s been taken by the Storm and he means to get her back.” Tone grimaced. “And save the world while he’s at it. But first he’s gotta pry Enid free of Primal.”

Papa Sky’s head swiveled toward Cal. “Imagine that. That’s a pretty tall order, boy.”

Cal twitched. “So everybody keeps telling me. But that’s it. That’s the quest. Crazy or not. We have to try.”

Papa Sky nodded as if in time to the music that drifted down on us from upstairs. “Oh my, yes. We have to try. Lord, if I’d’ve gave up every time I was so inclined, I’d’ve never made it all the way out here from New York.”

“New York?” echoed Enid. “That’s where they’re from.” He made a sweeping gesture that took us all in.

“Are they, now? Ain’t that a fluke?”

“What the hell possessed you to come to Chicago?” Enid asked.

“I come with a friend. He needed me. Turned out, I needed him, too. Never would’ve made it but for him. Would’ve died right there in Manhattan. He got me here an’ I got him here. So, I know what loyalty is and I can see that you do, too.” He leaned forward toward Cal. “Your sister’s name’s Tina, ain’t it?”

Cal was visibly stunned. I suspect he wondered, as did I, whether our new friend was a sage or a madman. “How … how did you know?”

Papa Sky laughed. “Well, maybe I overheard you talking about her. Or maybe that kind of knowing is what God give me to make up for these bunged-up old eyes. Or maybe-” He broke off and smiled. “What’s your plan, Mr. Cal?”

Cal told him, then added, “Before we can do anything about Tina, or the Storm, or anything else, we have to get into the Black Tower-the Chicago Media Building-and deal with Primal.”

Papa Sky scratched his bearded jaw. “Well, I have to say, that ain’t gonna be as easy as you make it sound. But, now the thing is, I might just know somebody who can help you out. I can’t promise, but I can ask.”

“Somebody… this friend you mentioned?” Cal asked. “The one who brought you here?”

Papa Sky nodded, then pulled himself to his feet. “Don’t you folks go runnin’ off and doin’ anything crazy now. You wait for Papa Sky to check things out.”

Cal glanced from Enid to Colleen to me, seeking accord. “I … I suppose we could wait a little,” he said, “but-”

The old man pointed an arthritic finger at Cal’s nose. “Don’t you do nothing crazy, Mr. Cal. Let’s see what my friend has to say.”

Colleen cleared her throat. “About what, exactly?” she asked. Her voice was frayed, her head propped on her hand.

I considered ordering her to rest, then discarded the idea as fruitless.

“Well, my friend is a queer sort of fellow. He got a lofty point of view, you might say. Gives him insights.”

“Could you bring him here so we can meet him-talk to him?” Cal asked.

Papa Sky smiled crookedly. “Oh my, no. He don’t go out. Well, not where folks’ll see him, anyway.”

“Shy guy?” asked Colleen, rubbing her eyes.

“A tormented soul,” answered Papa Sky thoughtfully. “A massively tormented soul.” He held out his hand. “Toney-boy, can you help me get where I’m going? You can come back to your new friends after, if you like. But I need a guide dog.”