Not-For-Profit / Simon: Time Displaced Knight

Raiding the unfinished novel again to make the word count this week, As well as a small fragment of Simon: Time Displaced Knight.

The first piece is how I imagine the perfect gig playing with my band should have gone, had a couple nearly like that. 
The second is a Simon: Time Displaced Knight flashback I wrote, but I haven't decided where it should fit into the main narrative, 
A thought on Simon, what you're reading is definitely a first draft. when I reach the end the whole thing will get an extensive rewrite and perhaps reappear somewhere in complete form.

Not-For-Profit

     

That night Green Goddess were second on at a not-for-profit DIY night in a cellar in Camden, Neal considered these to be the best kind of gigs really.  They were put on by someone with a lot of time (or some maniacs who had way too much to do already!) and all the door money was split between the bands. There were no fancy light rigs, or those tacky revolving disco things, and the musicians usually preferred to the sound between themselves, twiddling knobs at random until they arrived at something all were happy with.  Better that than someone calling themselves a ‘sound guy’ or worse, ‘engineer’ who would do the exact same thing, before demanding payment, or worse, payment in beer.  The alternative to this DIY philosophy was the scabs who were trying to make money from the venture!  The audacity of it!  As if anyone expected a band to make money these days, a stupid idea.

      The crowd was respectable, about 50 or 60 people in a rotating roster between the main room where the bands played and the outside seating where they could smoke and talk loudly about themselves.  The challenge was to play something that would bring the self-centred tossers in to watch you, normally it worked around the time of the penultimate song.  Though a decent number were loitering inside, and they seemed to be waiting expectantly, Neal had noted this recent development, and put it down to Izzy’s influence.  They hadn’t been playing together long, but she had something, magnetism and charisma that left people staggered, him included. 

      She wasn’t, in any sense what ‘girls in bands’ were supposed to be like, she wasn’t a girl even! Izzy was, definitively and defiantly, a woman, a female musician, but never a girl.  The closest comparison Neal could think of was Poison Ivy Rorschach, the guitarist of The Cramps. 

      Everybody remembers Lux Interior deep throating the mic and running round in high heels and his PVC thong, but Ivy was the one in charge, she wrote all the music, did all the arrangements, she even took over as the band’s manager when the man who had been responsible for them fucked the whole thing up royally.  She strutted round the stage with this look, it just said do not fuck with me. These knee high boots conceal deadly weapons and I will fuck you up while my husband holds you down. See my husband? He’s the one in the bondage gear over there humping the speaker stack, I’m the boss of him, do you think anything in the world scares me?

     Izzy had the same look.  And people loved her for it.  She didn’t state any of this explicitly, or preach anything, she just lived it.

    Woody went up to the ‘stage’ first (one corner of the main bar.  The one place that didn’t obscure the route to the bar or the toilet), his own snare and kick pedal under one arm.  They were sharing a lot of gear with the first band which made this entrance look even more slick than it was.  He settled himself behind the kit, adjusting the distance of everything by fractions of inches, then stretching out his arms, a stick in each hand to gauge the positioning, and making further minute adjustments.  When he was satisfied he waved to Neal, who was ordering drinks in his most affected nonchalant way, doing his best to hide the nerves.  Neal in turn waved to the friendly bartender he’d talked to earlier, who obligingly turned out all of the lights in the room, just as Woody plugged in the strip of blue LED lights that ran right across the stage, running along the tops of the amplifiers and the PA cabinets, and was now the only source of light, a dull blue glow that made everything look cold, evil, and awesome!  Woody started drumming now, a lazy, yet thunderous beat that he kept up as Neal worked his way to the front of the crowd, carrying a pint in each hand, one for him and one for Woody, who always forgot to get one, but would be gasping three songs in at the latest.

    Neal picked up The Pig, his cheap, heavy, shit bass guitar that he bought with money he saved from his paper round in 1999, preserved for gigs, the thing sounded nasty in just the right way, but couldn’t be relied upon for anything but trouble and strife.  One day soon, when the moment felt right, Neal was going to smash it on stage, a sacrifice in the name of art and noise.  He couldn’t wait.  The Pig rumbled and burped out the bass line for the first song, slow and ominous in the blue gloom, and a few people cheered, either they knew the song of they were just enjoying themselves, could go either way.  Neal smiled to himself, concealed in the dark as Izzy stepped up and plugged in her guitar.  She’d put her game face on and that always made Neal laugh, to see his mate, normally so chilled and happy-go-lucky suddenly become this stonehearted mean faced killer, it was excellent.  The Gretsch came to life in a scream of feedback and Neal jumped into the air as Woody seemed to hit everything at once, the whole room tipped 45 degrees and the crowd howled at the sudden release of energy.  Just a few seconds in and Neal could feel the sweat gathering in the small of his back and soaking his hair, dripping from his fringe.

They must have doing something right as the room seemed more packed by the second, the smokers and the talkers were being drawn in and taken under Izzy’s spell.  One bloke, and that was the best word to describe him, except maybe ‘ape’, duck egg blue shirt stained with spilled beer and revealing some hairy belly along it’s lower perimeter, made a lunge for Izzy and managed to lay a paw on the strings of her guitar, the song faltered and hung in the balance for an agonising moment, a half second that stretched on forever.  Neal stepped forward, the headstock of The Pig pointed at eye level like a spear, but Izzy didn’t need him, probably didn’t even notice him as she kicked the guy squarely in the crotch, and shoved him back using the guitar, the crowd cheered even louder and Izzy dropped back into the song without missing a beat as the bloke was dragged away by a bouncer, what became of him after that, Neal could only speculate.

   

    The bar had a backstage of sorts, it had previously been a restaurant next door owned by the same guy, who also did the cooking, but when he retired his daughter took over and didn’t bother keeping the restaurant going.  Now when bands played they dumped their gear there and slumped amongst the tables and chairs when they had finished their sets to recover.  There was a sofa which a shirtless Woody had claimed, he was now soundly asleep and snoring loud enough to compete with the DJ next door.  Neal was sat on the floor with his back resting on the same sofa, head back and eyes closed.  Izzy sat on a wooden chair, putting her guitar back in its hard case and stowing away leads and doing all the myriad little fiddly things that you have to remember when gigging.  She sighed and smiled in a satisfied way.

“That was intense man,” No response, “Neal?” She snapped her fingers in his face and his eyes flicked open “Neal!”

“What? I wasn’t sleeping.” He protested as he dragged himself into a more upright position, his muscles squealing in protest.

“You were!” she insisted, “I said that was intense, people were actually into us tonight.  Nice one.”  Neal rubbed his eyes to get some life back into them after the total energy expenditure of the performance.

“It was you Izzy, they love you. You ARE a rock star, in the proper sense of the word.”

“Shut up,”

“I mean it, you’re so, and excuse me for being American here, badass! I’m a bit in love with your stage persona, She is terrifying.”

“I didn’t realise I had one.”

“Well you do,”

“Neal, can I ask you something?”

“Go on,”

“I’m really serious about doing this for a living, I know it’s stupid but I don’t want to do anything else with my life.  I need you, I don’t want to spend another two years finding the right band, you boys are it.  Can I count on you to stick with me Neal?”

Neal looked into her eyes, there was no way he could afford to keep doing this full time, his sister refused to lend him any more money and his parents didn’t speak to him all anymore.  By his estimates he could go without a job for maybe another two months.

“I’m with you all the way Iz.”

Simon: Time Displaced Knight

Medieval France

“Again!” Sir Guillame barked from his balcony above the courtyard.  Down below his sons had hoped to snatch a moments respite to catch their breath and allow the hurt from their cuts and bruises to recede,

“My lord…” Jean began to protest, but Simon laid a gauntleted hand on his shoulder,

“Save your breath brother” he whispered, but Sir Guillame was already rising from his bench and shouting the down from the rail.

“The English will not grant you respite Jean! Nor will your opponents in the Melee! And nor will I! AGAIN!”

Jean and Simon rushed forward before their father had finished his last word, charging with shields locked together at Marius, rangy Italian and the D’avanche blacksmith.  Legros L’enfonceur was by far the strongest warrior of the group surrounding them, armed with shield and blunted practice swords, but the boys had attacked him first to great success in the most recent fight and wished to now catch their opponents unawares.

They were rewarded with a startled squawk from the blacksmith as he was barged to the ground by a pair of shields. His arms pinned, he yielded quickly to Jean’s blade as Simon turned and desperately blocked attacks from two directions on sword and shield.  He shoved Charles Grognard back hard with his shield, then Jean was up again, surging into the gap, leaving Simon free to face Legros.  The fight, after their initial success now degenerated into an affair of planted feet, stood ground and traded blows.  All the antagonists were weary from fighting all afternoon.  The boys were on the cusp of manhood, Jean was 16 and Simon 14, years of training for knighthood had brought them up lean, fast and strong. They fought in full armour and the four grown men they faced, seasoned warriors all, hadn’t held back in their attack. Out of four rounds of fighting the score currently stood at two victories a piece for the young knights and their opponents. As the brothers stood side by side, fending off blows and gradually being backed into a corner of the castle wall,

“I’m tired of this! Come Simon!” Jean pushed forwards into the mass, swinging wildly about him, hitting Legros plumb on his helmet and sending him staggering.  Simon tried to follow his brother but Marius planted a kick on his shield, and sent him sprawling to the floor, holding his blade up to the boy’s throat before he could rise.  Simon yielded.

“Stop!” Sir Guillame shrieked.  The combatants paused, some in mid swing, and turned to look up at the balcony, “Jean, your brother is now dead!  Was your glorious charge worth that?” Jean looked over to where Simon was still lying in the dirt, a blade at his neck, Marius remembered himself and sheathed his sword, allowing the younger boy to rise onto his elbows. Jean hadn’t seen this happen and now his arms hung limp by his sides, he looked ashamed. 

“Get out of my sight you damn fool!”

Simon found Jean hacking chunks from the bark of a tree in the woods behind the castle. His sword blurring and chips flying in all directions.  He put an arm on his brother’s shoulder,

“It’s my fault Jean, we would have won if I’d kept up.”

“Maybe,” said Jean, “But its Father that vexes me so, not losing. He hates me.”

“I don’t believe that Jean” Simon said, “He wants us to be strong, so he is harsh. It matters not anyway, you and I will be grown men soon, then we shall join the crusades and make our names and fortunes.  Then some bitter old knight in a drafty castle will have no power over us.”

Simon put his arm around the shoulders of his elder brother and walked with him back up the hill.

Simon: Time Displaced Knight - Part Two

This week I managed to stick to my own arbitrary date for putting stuff up. Nobody is going to hurt me for missing a deadline I set myself, but that's half the problem, having a deadline and sticking to it is what will motivate me to get to the end of this.
anyway, enjoy part two...
PART ONE HERE

2.

There is a period, of indeterminate length, of which I was completely unaware, having been rendered unconscious somehow.  My dreaming mind ran through recent events in a jumbled, confused fashion.  I remembered my chase across the dusty plain, but the men I unhorsed were now both my brother, and the Great Khan spoke with the voice of Father Anjou, the town priest, reciting canticles in latin as his horde bore down on me.

When I finally regained consciousness, I found myself in a room, small and windowless, like some form of dungeon, though the walls were made of smooth steel, with no joins or rivets, and no door presented itself. The ceiling hung low, so that I could sit up from my prone position, but had no chance of standing upright.  I was still wearing my armour and surcoat, and my wargear was on my person, though the shield I had flung away in the chase was presumably lost. Finnegan was not with me.

I began to bang on the walls, searching for an exit, or hoping to attract attention from outside.  Before long I was pounding with all my might, and shrieking myself hoarse, crying to be let free, for my gaolers to advance and be recognized.  But there was no sign of life, no sounds beyond those I made.

I did discover however, that one of the walls was not truly made of steel as it had appeared.  When I struck it with my gauntlet, instead of the ringing clang of the other, metal, walls, there was only a dull thud.  Upon removing my helm and inspecting more closely I saw there appeared to be a sheet of glass directly in front of the wall.  At least, glass I assumed it must be, but more perfect and precise than anything I had seen a glazier make back home by several orders of magnitude.

What follows here is the telling of my first experiences as what you might call a ‘chrononaut,’ or ‘time traveler’.  If you are reading this then you will know the significance of events heretofore described in ways which I did not understand as they occurred to me.    This will continue to be the case.  As our tale progresses I will behold many objects, events and locations which will seem commonplace to you future dwellers, but to a French Knight Errant plucked from his time these things are not just unknown, but so far beyond my ken as to be totally unfathomable and indescribable.  For the sake of expedience I may furnish my descriptions of characters, objects and events with more detail and background knowledge than I possessed at the time.

For example, the metal prison I found myself in was one of seventy five Reclamation Capsules, used for storing valuable cargo either recovered from space or salvaged from wrecked starships and space stations.  These capsules were contained in the hold of Harvester 110010110010001111, a vessel belonging to The Machine Imperium.  Harvester 110010110010001111 was currently entering orbit around Meat, a planet covered by a vast, densely populated jungle, and the centre of bushmeat hunting and export through this corner of the galaxy as well as the home of a number of rich, but dangerous to exploit, mineral reserves. When a stable orbit was achieved, the Harvester released the seventy five capsules from its armoured belly, like a shark, birthing live young into a cruel, cold ocean.  The metal boxes drifted downwards in formation, friction with the atmosphere of the planet causing their undersides to glow red, then orange, and finally blinding white with the heat of re-entry.

I, contained within one of these boxes and perfectly safe in the computer controlled descent, cowered in the corner, as terrified as a base creature caught out in a thunderstorm.  The metal wall behind the glass was of course, the interior of the spaceship, and had seemed to lift away as my capsule was dropped, revealing the emptiness of the void and the sight of a planet from orbit to my unprepared mind.

So then, that was my first experience of the new world I found myself in, the far future, more than 1000 years hence from my own time, and for some while yet in our tale, set to be a total mystery to me in all but it’s most basic aspects. Though at least my arrival on the planet Meat would put me in a situation that had an equivalent in the past and a dynamic I could comprehend.

Slavery.

Upon landing, coming to rest relatively gently on a cushion of air, my capsule sat for a moment, before opening outwards in sections, much like the petals of a flower.  Leaving me sat, to my shame, in soiled armour, upon a flat surface of metal. 

The area around me had once been dense forest, but the trees had been felled at some point over an area of around a square mile, their trunks stacked in great heaps here and there, and the stumps ripped up, leaving potholes filled in with fresh earth.  It gave the appearance of an area beset with monstrous moles digging as they pleased.  What it was, of course was a landing zone for the capsules, which delivered supplies to forces on the ground.  Those supplies, for the most part, were slaves.

There were fifty of us, or thereabouts, scattered about the clearing, along with two dozen stacks of metal boxes and devices, the purpose of which were unknown to me and remain so. We began to rise uncertainly, me most of all, staggering drunkenly, foul liquid leaking from beneath my plates. 

No sooner had I gained my feet than I had the first glimpse of my captors, a wonder it is that my mind did not break once and for all at their arrival.  They were all of a height, and as they emerged from the trees my first thought, on seeing the gleaming metal and uniform step as they marched forward, was what a finely drilled company of men that is, but as they advanced on us and I saw them more clearly and registered their oddity.  They were, to a man, seven feet tall, with limbs of freakish slimness, so it appeared they should not be able to support their bodies, or hold their weapons, arrangements of long metal tubes which they held as I might have wielded a crossbow.  One of my fellows ran at the sight of them and was met with a bright, concentrated beam of lightning, which seemed to emit from the ‘crossbow’ of one of the armoured warriors, and envelop the fleeing person, a woman I believe, who felt dead and burned to a cinder no less than twenty paces from me. 

I started at this immense display of power but before I had time to fully react, a great, booming voice filled the clearing.  I didn’t understand the language, but it seemed to me that the voice was saying the same phrase, over and over in many different tongues.  As the monstrous company approached, I saw more of them coming from the trees behind and to either side of me, no hope of escape. Then suddenly I could understand the voice.

“Puny humans.  You are now the property of the Machine Imperium.  Do not resist.  Non-compliant humans will be obliterated.  Assemble now for decontamination.  Obey without question.” The voice was speaking French, many of the words were strange to me, but I could understand the greater part.

We were herded into a huddled mass, shivering despite the intense humidity and commanded to remove our clothes. I looked up at the ironclad beings surrounding us and knew at last these were no men.  Their metal skins were seamless with no sign of how they could be removed.  The head of each one was occupied with one great eye, which glowed with a deep red light and as they moved they all emitted strange rapid clicking ticking sounds constantly, later I learned that this was their own language.  They communicated extensively to such an extent that they appeared to act and think as one.  The words ‘machine imperium’ repeated themselves in my head, was it possible these were some sort of manufactured man?  Mechanical constructs of gears and levers contained in a shell so much like my suit of armour.

I could not remove my armour unaided, normally a squire would assist me, so I struggled uselessly with it as the other captives stood, trying in vain to cover their nakedness as one of the machines waved a device like an incense thurible over their bodies, the decontaminator. When that was finished another machine threw each captive a plain grey garment, much like a shift or tunic which hung down to the knees and a pair of pair of box-like shoes of the same colour, which shrank to fit the wearer’s feet.  One of the machines stepped up to me, barking a phrase in several tongues until he came to that odd French,

“Remove you coverings and prepare for decontamination. Do not resist.”

“I cannot!” I cried desperately “I cannot remove my armour alone.”  The machine looked me up and down before speaking again,

“Scanning…This human’s covering contains low-background steel.  Radioisotopes nonexistent.  This material will be of use to the Imperium.  This human will be decontaminated unaltered.”

The machine man with the decontaminator waved it over me.  I felt nothing, but afterwards when I examined myself I saw that all the dirt and grime accrued during my journey and subsequent ordeals was gone.

Threatening constantly with their weapons, the machines directed us lift the crates, boxes and other items that had come down in the unoccupied capsules.  I took one end of a long, wooden crate over my shoulder, the other end was carried by a woman with short black hair, I was too wrapped up in my own fear and misery to notice much else about her.  She said something to me as she took the weight but I didn’t understand, I tried to say so in french but I think my meaning was also lost on her.  In time, when we were all assembled and carrying our loads, the machines lead us away from the clearing and into the jungle.

The march progressed for at least 20 days, though I lost the exact count somewhere along the way.  Each day on the march progressed according to a set routine. We slept where we had dropped after the previous day, on the bare floor with the mud and countless crawling, scurrying creatures of the jungle.  The jungle, as I’ve since learned, covered almost the entire world, from dense bushland, thick with undergrowth and ten thousand different creatures which crawled and hopped and flew, to the vast mangrove glades which encroached on the many rivers, to the mighty floating jungles of kelp and seaweed which dominated the entire expanse of Meat’s single ocean.  Animal life was rampant everywhere, though the larger animals were often heard but rarely seen, smaller creatures often scurried about us, as if curious.  Particularly persistent were a flock of small lizards, much like the kind to be found basking on rocks in the Mediterranean.  These however, ran on two legs, in a similar stance to a chicken, and were often to be found scurrying under my feet. In time I came to ignore them as they blended into the routine of the day.  We were woken by the bellowing of one of the machines, exhorting us ‘puny humans’ to our labours, with the constant threat of violent, fiery death for those who failed in their task or tried to escape.  As we prepared to set out we were issued with a cube of some foul tasting black jelly substance to eat.  It made me sick to my stomach at first, but kept me and the others alive, just.  Then there remained 12 hours or so of daylight, during which we marched, carrying our loads with a torturous, shuffling step, before stopping to eat another block of gelatinous horror.  It rained almost hourly, and this we drank, tipping our heads back with mouths agape.

My world reduced to the area just in front of my feet, as I focused the sum total of my will on simply placing one boot in front of the other.  Within a few hours on the first day a man had fallen, and when he could not rise after three attempts, the machines executed him, leaving the body where it lay.  By the time I passed his corpse it was already thick with a covering of flies and beetles, feasting.  I kept that image in my mind whenever I considered stopping. 

Nor did I think to try and fight my way out, as much as it stuck in my craw.  The machines had left me, alone amongst the captives, with my clothes, and with it my sword.  It in no way resembled their weapons, and so perhaps they did not recognize it as such, but neither did I see how I could hope to harm the metal men with such a weapon, nor how I could hope to even get close enough to try, lest I be cooked alive by one of their lightning guns.

A knight must be brave, and defiant to the last, giving his all to protect the innocent, but in those black days I was no knight, merely an armoured, craven boy, concerned only with my own survival while all around me, folk died of exhaustion, or were callously slain.

I did form one alliance on the march, the woman who shared my load.  Though I had studiously avoided her gaze at first, I came to realise it was in my interest to help her through the ordeal along with me, lest I should have twice the load to carry if she fell, I wagered that she saw things similarly and so, on the third day, as we trudged down a gentle slope and the going was slightly easier, I began my attempts to communicate.  Our captors seemed not to care if we spoke to each other, as long as we continued to make progress, so I tried simply speaking at first in my own tongue.  This she did not understand, so I tried the two other tongues I had any knowledge of, English (what you would call Middle English) and lastly, the few words I had of latin, which I had learned from the monastic scribes who lived near to father’s castle.  At this her head whirled around, an expression of surprise and some delight spread broadly across her face and she responded in the same tongue.  At last!

It took hours, days even, of pointing at things and repeating the woman’s name for them, but I set myself to learning, so I might have some hope of understanding where I was, what was happening to me, and what we could do next.  The first thing I discovered was my ally’s name, Charon, Captain Mira Charon. 

She was a woman of some fierce intelligence, I recognized that in her eyes at once.  Her features and build did not ascribe to the conventional standards of beauty as I knew them, yet the confidence and wit within her was magnetic, her wry, knowing smile infectious, even in the fix we found ourselves in.  It felt good to be doing something positive finally, though we never dared to speak openly of escape, she managed to hint to me that she had a plan, that I must be patient.

New York City – 1929

The man opened the window of his office on the twentieth floor and stepped out onto the thin, brick ledge outside, which ran the circumference of the building. As he did he felt the panic and stress that had gripped his heart in a vice for the last week release him and a kind of serenity descend. Everything was so simple now, no more checking the paper for share prices, or raging on the telephone at brokers. No more migraines or palpitations, just a brief sensation of floating, then nothing.  His only regret was not spending more time with his family, instead of chasing those dollar bills all these years, but it was too late to change that now, and he could barely look at his wife and daughter now, knowing he had impoverished them with his avarice.  No, better to go now and free those poor angels of the wretched millstone they called husband and father.

He had one foot off the balcony and was just at the very edge of letting go when a series of crashes, like a silver service dropped down an elevator shaft, followed by coarse, Texan, cursing.

“Do you mind pal?!” he roared into the open window, some of his trading floor pluck returning for a moment, “I am trying to have a moment here!”

“Well shitfire!” replied the Texan, from around the corridor outside the office, “Ah have not the faintest clue where’n the Sam Hill Ah have ended up, but the décor sure is fancy! Hey, what in tarnation are ya doin’ out there?”

A horse had walked into the office. Light brown in colour, with a saddle on his back and reins hanging down from his bridle, and one of those all-round skirt things knights put on their horses in olden day, the man didn’t know the name for it.  It seemed to be the one doing the talking. 

“Woah! Yer not thinkin’ of tossin’ yerself off that are ya?” the horse said, taking a few steps back in astonishment.  He gathered himself, as if trying to remember a phrase he’d once heard. “Think of all that you have got to live for.” He said, looking proud.

The man slowly climbed back into the room, as he got down from the window the couple of bystanders who had gathered on the street below dispersed, disappointed. 

“Thas the spirit!” said the horse, “what’s yer name boss?”

“What?…er…Bailey, Mick Bailey,” the man said distractedly, approaching the horse. “My cousin owns a circus you know?”

“Bully for you!  Ah heard the circus is a hog-killin’ time and no mistake, but Ah need yer help, boss.  Ah got myself in a fine situation and Ah’m a little at sea as to where Ah am now.”

“Sure…sure thing boy,” said the man, edging as close as he dared thinking the horse might bolt or something.  He had no idea how this trick was achieved, but there was money to be made here, maybe enough to resurrect his sunken fiscal fortunes.  He reached for the bridle.

Finnegan saw the sudden movement and, on instinct, reared up as much as the low ceiling would allow.  He kicked out with both his front hooves and struck Mick Bailey squarely on the chest.  The force of the blow broke three ribs and collapsed a lung, and flung the destitute banker backwards out of his open office window.

“That’ll learn ya, tryin’ to apprehend a fella going about his honest business.” Finnegan yelled out the window, sticking his head right out to look at the street below.  People on the sidewalk pointed with equal parts amazement and horror at the corpse on the ground and the animal twenty floors up.

When police officers finally broke into the locked office, bailiffs dispatched by Bailey’s creditors on their heels, they found nothing untoward and no sign of a horse, as if such a thing was possible! How would it have even got into the elevator?

One officer thought he had seen an odd blue light beaming from under the door before they had entered, but he was a known alcoholic and was ignored.

Untitled Blues Horror Fantasy Thing

Here's a segment from my first, glorious, failed attempt at writing a whole novel. While I didn't finish, I still hide behind the death of my laptop as an excuse, not admitting to myself I was already running out of steam when it happened. 

The Story involved Demonic Possesion, 1930's Blues Musicians, Punk Bands, North Korea and Time Travel, it was essentially several ideas mashed together to make something I could conceivably string together up to novel length. I won't finish it in it's current form, but may reuse some of the ideas in future things. 

Anyway this is the first, and probably best, bit that I wrote, It is presented in it's original, unproofread form, for added stream-of-conciousness authenticity.

The rain poured hard against the windscreen of the model t ford as it bumped and rattled down the highway, the wipers ran madly in a futile attempt to keep the screen clear of water as more and more fell from the sky with each passing moment, the man at the wheel hunched over and squinted into the feeble glow of the headlights trying to see his way through the rain and the gloom of the storm. The man kept his foot firmly on the gas though, and the model t hurtled on regardless, on to its destination and to hell with any risks or consequences.

The Ford bumped down into a puddle and kicked up a great splash of muddy water, squarely over the head of Son House, as he squelched along the grass verge on the side of the road, sticking his clothes to his skinny body and drenching his fedora hat so that it flopped down over his face and eyes. Another person might have cursed and raged and shook their fist impotently at the driver and vehicle as they sped around a bend in the road behind a tree, but Son simply gathered his coat around him, sighed and trudged on, beginning to shiver. His preachers collar began to chafe him in the damp so he removed it and put it into an inside pocket, just after this he moved the carpet bag he was carrying from his left hand to his right, for a more comfortable grip.

He had been walking all day, except for a break for lunch by the side of the road, others might have tried thumbing a lift from one of the cars that passed along this route, but Son preferred his own company and in any case he knew very well how easily any person could be turned from righteousness to casual sin, to the outright diabolical, something he was out to address this very day. And now was nearing his destination, and this sudden downpour was not about to deter him any, especially since he would not be surprised to learn that the man he was travelling to confront could well have had a hand in its creation.

Some minutes after the car had given Son its ungracious soaking ad made off into the night; House rounded the bend himself and saw his destination, a Shotgun house a little way back off the road. A light was on to one side of the door and smoke curled from the chimney, firewood had been piled up on one side of the house to such an extent that the pile was taller than the house itself.

Son House considered how best to approach the house, considering the welcome, or lack thereof he was likely to get, the rain had stopped and would no longer mask his approach as he had hoped it would, he was tempted to try and sneak around the back and try to gain entrance there, surprising his quarry and muttering the catechism as quickly as he could before escaping, the chances that this plan would work seemed low, but walking straight up to the door seemed even less promising.

The decision was taken from him in any case, because as he approached what had initially appeared to be mere shadows on the front porch resolved itself into a figure, leaning back in a rocking chair, feet resting up on the rail at the front of the porch, with a guitar across his lap. Stupidly, Son froze, all options gone as his adversary stared straight at him, smiling, it would be foolish to run now, so all that was left was to go straight in, as mad as that might be. Son stood up straight, adjusted his hat, which had gone from soaked to merely damp and recovered some of its shape and strode over to meet the enemy, who turned his head and spat before speaking,

“Good evenin’ preacher man, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon after our last meetin’, though you seem to have grown a little raggedy since then.”

Son stopped in front of the house and dropped his carpet bag to the floor, reaching inside he pulled out a small book, and a wooden crucifix. The man on the porch chuckled,

“Oh my goodness! Am I supposed to recoil in terror from that symbol?”

“Be quiet boy,” Son growled, his voice rough from the whiskey he had drank to give him courage on the last stages of his journey, “Keep you silver tongue behind your black lips, you shall not frighten me!”

“No, I expect you’re too drunk to be scared o’ anythin’ much right now ain’tcha buck? You wanna keep an eye on that Son, too much Dutch courage and you’ll start needing a drop with your breakfast even.”

Son ignored this taunt, He had wrestled with the bottle much of his life and this obvious ploy would not rattle him. Though he knew this man could throw much worse at him and in all likelihood he would never walk away from this house, that knowledge gave him a kind of peace. His life had been, by and large a struggle between the two halves of himself, the sinful side winning out more than he’d like to admit, but at least if he were to die today he could die doing the lord’s work and saving the soul of the man in front of him, a young man who had been his friend.

“Robert Johnson! If you are still in there, know that I mean to bring you salvation tonight my son!”

Son then opened the book and began to read aloud the words, which were Greek and meant little to him, though he was glad of the money he had spent paying a scholar at Old Miss university to transcribe the words phonetically into this notebook, ready for this moment, sometime country preacher and occasional drunkard Son may be but he was also nobody’s fool.

As Son began to read, Robert Johnson stood up from his chair, put aside his guitar and walked into the light for the first time.

He had dressed himself in a fine new double breasted suit and hat, paid for with the money he made playing guitar in bars, clubs and juke joints as well as the occasional classy hotel if the rich white clientele felt like slumming it by partaking of some race music. He had grown in stature as well from the boy Son had known back in Robinsonville, Mississippi, and now seemed to radiate confidence in such magnitude that it approached, or even became, arrogance.

When Son Had first met him as a youth on the cusp of manhood, Son himself was drifting into middle age, his pastoring days behind him and more well known in the delta as blues musician and a band mate of Charlie Patton, which was perhaps why Robert had sought him out. He had been a skinny little boy with a guitar over his shoulder that he could not play for love nor money, though he did blow a mean harmonica in those days. He had wanted Son to teach him, but Son had been too wrapped up in his own guilt at the direction his life had taken to impart anything to Robert beyond a lecture about ‘The Devil’s Music’, something which Robert seemed to have taken to heart in a most unexpected way.

As Son continued to read from the book, and Robert moved to walk up to the preacher, the clouds in the sky began to thicken and the wind picked up, swirling about the two men madly. Robert, started to stagger, crouching slightly with a pained look on his face. Son raised to his voice to be heard over the sudden wind, still reading the meaningless text and hoping like hell it did what it was supposed to. Robert was moaning now, pained, clutching his belly and crying aloud,

“Stoppit Son! I can’t take no more boss! Please have a little mercy!”

“You done brought this on yerself boy!” Son hollered back, breaking his chant for a moment. This was all Robert needed, As the power of the incantation waned, he jumped up as if a great weight had fallen from him, and lay the preacher low with a haymaker punch strong enough to fell an ox, and seemingly one that could only have come from a much stronger man. Son fell face first into the mud, losing book and cross in the process, as he turned back over he found Robert standing over him, seemingly ready to deliver a killing blow.

“I’m sorry boss, I wish you hadn’t seen to making a quarrel with me, I would have left you well alone.”

As he lifted his foot to stomp in the older man’s head, Son reached into his pocket and pulled out his last resort, a .41 Derringer, as unnaturally strong as Robert had become, this was still likely to hurt, perhaps long enough to buy Son time to escape.

The first round hit the younger man in the chest, and should have punctured a lung, a killing shot all on it’s own, though if Robert noticed this he gave no indication and took another step forward. The Derringer had another three rounds loaded and Son fired them all, two bullets hit in the trunk with no more effect than the first. The final round, more by luck than judgement, hit Robert Square between the eyes, blowing of his hat and lodging in his brains. Johnson sank to his knees, blood dripping down off the end of his nose and staining the stiff collar of his shirt round the back of his neck. He looked at Son and opened his mouth to speak, but only a garbled nonsense came out. Son stood up, soaked again and covered in mud, he looked down at the bloodied man

“I’m sorry i had to do this boy, I hoped you could be saved, but it seems you done and gone too far mixed up in this foolishness to be brung back out. May god have Mercy on you.”

Robert looked back, still mumbling gibberish until the light went from his eyes and he fell to the ground.

While Son was burying his body, Robert Johnson woke up with a great intake of breath and a piercing scream of agony. Son caved his head in with the shovel he had been using to dig the grave.

Opting instead to burn the body, Son dragged the nearly headless corpse into middle room of the shotgun house, found a bottle of liquor in the kitchen, smashed it on the floor and set light to the whole mess, then stood outside and watched the house burn to the ground. As the rafters began to cave in, Son glimpsed some movement in the woods behind the back yard. A burning figure had lept from the back door and was now running through the trees, some way away, Son made to give chase but back luck lead him to trip on a root and knock himself out cold not ten feet into the forest. When he came to nothing remained of the house but ashes and of Robert there was no sign.

Those were the first three times Son House killed Robert Johnson.