Marc Zicree - Magic Time

Devil night. That’s what old Granny Marxuach had called it, making him tremble and quake back when he was a little pissant on the rancho . All the demons and witches and hell shades take to the sky, so you better dig yourself under the covers and keep tight your soul.

But Papa Sky hadn’t believed any of that crap for the better part of eighty years. Real life had been woolly enough.

His own brand of night had come on him back when he was straight and smooth-skinned and fine, his hair black and gleaming like oil. At first, it had been merely ripples in his vision like smears on glass, then a fog, and then darkness.

Still, it hadn’t been all bad. He hadn’t had to watch himself grow bent and lined and worn, a lank tree that had stood too many storms. And he had his axe, the 1922 Selmer alto sax that was part of his body, that he could make sing like Jesus himself humming. Blind as he was, he could still cut his own reeds, shaving down the Le Blanc bamboo with the straight razor he kept by his bed, in the one-room walkup he’d had since that glory night when he’d subbed for Johnny Hodges with Ellington at the Cotton Club.

How New York had changed since then. The elegance and grace and courtliness had sluiced away, leaving the young who had never known it desolate, abandoned, longing.

Of course, it had changed a good deal more in recent days, now wasn’t that the truth. He could smell it in the wind, feel it on the air. And the stories he’d been hearing, like hophead D.T.s out of Bellevue. Some crazy badness was running the streets, no two ways about it.

But for some reason, no one messed with him. He’d gone about his business, gigging on street corners for quarters and dimes, that butterscotch sound booming up sweet and mournful along the concrete canyons. And the take had been good . The coins jingled warm in his pocket, a tambourine accompaniment to the tapping of his fiberglass cane as he made his way home along the uneven stones of the familiar alleyway. He’d sensed the desperation in the listening ones, their fear. They needed to be soothed, and maybe that was the answer: they hungered for just one thing that wasn’t all screwed up, even if it came wafting off some old blind black Cubano.

And sometimes, when no one else was around, there’d be a soft shuffling of something in the corners, swaying to “Body and Soul,” to “Stardust,” saying nothing. He’d catch a musky stink at those times, and a shiver would run up his back. He’d be glad he couldn’t see whatever it was that was hearing him.

Now it was late night, the summer heat leeched away and the cold seeping into him as he eased along the path like a shadow, his case clutched tight, the axe silent and drowsing.

Ahead of him, a low moan sounded, a timber that swelled and tremored through him. A hot liquid iron smell assailed him, like a whole lake of blood, like a slaughterhouse.

He was seized with a panicky, frantic urge to turn, bolt headlong away, never mind what he might plow into, what stick-thin chalky bones might snap.

But then the moan faded down, was broken by something like a sob of pure anguish. This cat’s in a world of pain. Papa Sky’s heart rose in him. And he’s alone, in the dark.

Tentatively, he stepped forward. The tip of his cane found a shape along the ground, resilient and large. He could feel heat radiating off it, hear a raspy, resonant breathing.

Nervously, Papa Sky licked his lips, tongue running over the ridges of callus. “How we doin’ there?” His throat was dry, the words shaky.

The breathing stopped, and there was a long, hanging silence. Finally, a voice croaked through the pain, “I’ve had. . better days.”

Papa Sky laughed, and there was tenderness in it. He bent down, put a gentling hand on the figure’s back. Slick with blood, the leather felt hard as armor, bone projected at odd angles.

“Well, you just take it slow.” Papa let out a breath that would have been exquisite through the axe. “We gonna see what we can do for you.”

NEW YORK

They got Tina to the apartment without incident. Fortunately, few were out on the lightless streets. She drifted between them as though air had become water, as though the gravity and atmosphere she inhabited were of an alien world.

Her tears subsided, Tina drew back from Cal, from, it seemed, his touch, and did not speak all the long way home. Stung, Cal ached to hold her but did not press the issue.

Once safely inside, Cal let Doc examine her. He changed his clothes, cleaned the congealed offense of Stern’s blood off him as best he could, then joined Colleen and Goldie by the open window of the living room. Peering silently out at the night, they were drinking coffee made on the camp stove. Cal braced his shoulder against the side of the frame and let the cool air waft over him, grateful for the quiet. His mind felt washed out, his body leaden.

In the room behind, he became aware of a growing darkness. The shine about Tina that had cast the space in shifting pastels had softened. He glanced to where she sat curled on the sofa, or rather floated just above it, her face to the wall. Doc rose from her side and approached him.

Even in the gloom, Cal could see his face was disturbingly pale, drawn. He motioned Cal off a bit from the others.

“Is she suffering?” Cal asked. “I mean, is she in pain?”

“No, I don’t think so. Not physically.” He looked to Tina, and Cal saw that Goldie had joined her, crouching by the sofa, his lips moving softly.

Doc turned back to Cal. “The plan you had before, it was a good plan. Smart people are leaving; they sense what’s in the wind. High time for you to leave, too.”

“And what about you?”

Doc looked toward Tina; pain flashed in his eyes. “Calvin, if my bag of tricks could help her-” He trailed off, shook his head. “Roosevelt General might have use of me. I don’t think they’ll be too picky about credentials.”

Cal thought of the dreadful corridors crowded to bursting with the stunned, frantic ones. “You sure you want that?”

Doc nodded, then fell silent. Cal sensed a tension in him, as if he were deciding whether to speak further. Finally, he said, “There were those in Ukraine-Chernobyl-like a light had gone out in them. They could summon no hope, you understand? And they would want. . an end.”

“What are you trying to tell me?”

“Calvin, your sister, she asked if there was something in my bag that could-she wanted me to-”

The air in the room suddenly felt cold. Cal shivered. Doc’s fingers brushed his arm. “I’m sorry, my friend, but I thought you should know.”

As he drew near the sofa, Cal saw that Tina had fallen asleep. The glow about her was gone and, cradled by gravity, she lay on the deep cushions, her hair like spun glass across the pillow.

Goldie squatted nearby, singing softly to her, a sweet, mournful hymn. “There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole/ There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul. . ”

Seeing Cal, Goldie cut his song off and rose.

“Thanks for finding her,” Cal murmured.

“Hey, Mr. Keene, Finder of Lost. .” Goldie’s voice faltered; he grew serious. “Sorry, man.”

Cal nodded. Goldie left them alone. Cal settled in the tatty burgundy recliner. Tina looked younger than her years and troubled even in repose, as ever. But she was terribly changed.

She wanted to die. Anguish flooded him. A vicious wind was battering her, trying to tumble her away, to sever them.

Whatever caused all this. . it’s calling us, Stern, that psychotic monstrosity, had said. Could it be true? If so, what in God’s name did it want them for?