Dark Arts (19 page)

“Uncle Allen too,” Scott said, “Not that Sam
let him say much.”

Maxwell reached out, put his arm around
Miranda and pulled her to his side, prompting an ‘oof’ and a giggle
from her. “Hold tight, luv, it’s a serious band meeting.”

“Well, yeah,” Scott said.

“Samuel told us that you were planning on
selling that book so you could give us money for college,” Bernie
said. “Man, I had no idea, I would have helped you get it if that
was why you were working so hard to track that thing down. Hell,
you got shot at. If I knew what it was all for, I would have been
there.”

“No worries,” Maxwell said. “Buyers have
dried up for it, and now I know it was a bad idea to track the book
down in the first place.”

“You’re joking, right?” Bernie said quietly.
“Panos had it, even by reputation I know that guy’s crazy, and he’s
hooked up with some weird former Purifiers. Who the hell knows what
they were going to do with it.”

“You did everyone here a favor,” Scott said,
pointing out to the field across the road from the barn with thirty
tents and many more campers. “I don’t know everything you and
Bernie do, but if crazies like Panos get that thing, who knows? Big
problems for peace and love in the world, I’d say.”

“Either way,” Bernie said. “You kept this
band together with the same lineup even though there were days when
one half wanted to strangle the other. Sometimes that bus got
pretty small. I guess what I’m saying is thank you, and we’ll be
all right.”

“Never had a doubt,” Maxwell said. “Couldn’t
have kept the peace without you two. It wouldn’t have lasted as
long as it did if I were with anyone else out there. I just thought
you two had a right to a good start after following me out onto the
road. Wish I could have done that.”

“Oh, we didn’t follow you out,” Scott said.
“Well, maybe the first time, but after that I couldn’t wait to get
on the stage, behind those drums. Man, I’m going to miss that.” He
could see the short drummer start to tear up. “Memories like I
never thought I’d make. The things we saw, how far we got, like
having a record together. I don’t know anyone else in town that can
say that, and to do it with you guys? You’re my brothers.” He wiped
a tear away and laughed. “I’m out of words, man.”

“Touring with you guys,” Bernie shook his
head, his eyes closed before continuing. “Best time, man. I’ll
forget most of the bullshit, but those good times will stick. I
wouldn’t change a thing.”

“One last gig, then,” Maxwell said.

“I hate to tell you this, but we got a call
from the Nickel City, they cancelled our gig,” Bernie said. “Looks
like this will be Road Craft’s last stage.”

Maxwell didn’t realize how much he was
looking forward to playing to a crowded bar room one last time. The
wear and tear from months on the road was just starting to clear,
and he had distractions waiting for him when he got home, so he was
just starting to feel like he was actually back on the farm. A week
off from rolling wheels and weekend shows was what he needed before
one last weekend on stage, he knew it would be a show the few there
would never forget. To hear it wouldn’t happen at all was
emotionally gutting. Maxwell didn’t want to talk about it. He gave
Miranda a kiss then let her go and started up the narrow side stage
stair. “Let’s wake the dead,” he said as he put his case down and
opened it.

“We’re not opening with that, are we?”
Bernie asked quietly.

Maxwell strapped his new guitar on, accepted
a lit cigarette from Scott and smiled crookedly with it in his
mouth at Bernie. “La Grange then, yeah?”

Scott started the low-key, drum rim tapping
beat right away, smiling at the prospect of doing one of his
favorite cover songs. Maxwell tuned the guitar, plugged in, and
turned up while Bernie put his bass on then adjusted their ancient,
small soundboard.

There was a feeling about the song, La
Grange, that Maxwell enjoyed, and it was one of the few he could
sing well, with a low, gravelly tone that he’d practiced so much on
the road that he could do it by reflex. He hummed into the
microphone while he started playing the first riff in the song,
repeating it until the microphone turned up.

The sound in the large barn was always nice
and clear, with stalls to absorb extra sound waves, heavy wood that
didn’t rattle enough for anyone to notice, and a large interior in
front of the stage.

La Grange was one of their warm up songs,
chosen so Maxwell could entertain the crowd with his limited
singing skills while Zachary made his way to the stage, an almost
nightly occurrence. “All right,” Maxwell sung, signaling that it
was time to get past the quiet opening of the song. That, easy
going, relaxed mood started to come over him, and then the drums
and bass kicked in. He caught Miranda’s eye and winked at her
without thinking.

She danced at the foot of the stage, slowly
raising her arms over her head as she moved to the music. By the
time the first solo came along, people were walking in, dragging
lawn chairs, and some were dancing their way into the barn. The
morning was still cool, and many of them had been watching
equipment move into the barn with interest, the promise of live
music irresistible to so many.

“We jamming this?” Bernie asked.

Maxwell nodded, and they extended the song
by several minutes, repeating the main vocal parts, but instead of
repeating solos, Maxwell took the opportunity to perform his own in
a melodic blues style. His new Gibson guitar played like nothing
else he’d ever had on stage, inviting his fingers to dance along
the fret board, and the tone had the kind of growl he struggled to
get out of everything he’d owned until then.

He glanced out at the gathering audience and
didn’t see Zachary. With no worries about having to get back on the
bus and deal with his pouting, he decided to sing the one song he
could accomplish that they recorded on their album. He knew he
would struggle with the chorus, it was too high to suit his voice,
but he decided that he’d give it a try anyway, and irritate
Zachary, wherever he may be in the field outside the barn. Their
singer was territorial about his duties, especially since he was
terrible at everything else, especially guitar.

Then a thought struck Maxwell as they
brought their ten-minute version of La Grange to an end, and he
leaned down towards Miranda at the edge of the stage. “Do you know
Wake the Dead?” he asked her.

Her eyes lit up, “Guitar or vocals?”

He hadn’t even considered that she could
play rhythm guitar, and shrugged. “Both?” He pointed to a backup,
an old Greco guitar, a good knockoff of the Gibson Maxwell was
playing, on a stand beside the drums.

She nodded and ran up the stage side stairs,
plugged into their backup amplifier and had the guitar tuned in
seconds. Maxwell could see Bernie and Scott were happy with her
addition at a glance, even though they seemed just as surprised at
her familiarity with a guitar as he was.

“What parts am I singing?” she asked.

“The chorus is all yours, luv,” Maxwell
said, hoping she had a good sound. He cringed at the very thought
of her having a voice that he wouldn’t want to follow on stage. The
last time he heard her she was thirteen years old, and her voice
was positively angelic, but a lot could change.

He started playing the ominous opening riff,
Bernie falling in step on the bass, and Scott pounding an almost
tribal beat on the tom drums and was happy to hear Miranda join in
on time with the rhythm guitar line. There was no doubt in his mind
that their album was regular listening to her. She also had talent
of her own, forgoing the pick for effortless finger picking,
something he would have noticed before if he paid any attention to
the callouses on her fingers.

They broke from the intro into the main
song, keeping to ominous minor keys. He sang the verses to his best
ability, sticking to his comfortable range, they had the audience’s
attention, and most of the younger people seemed to enjoy it.

When it came to the chorus, Miranda sang
with a strong tone that wasn’t harsh in the least, but it had a
slight rasp that Maxwell enjoyed. The little girl was gone from her
voice. It had been replaced with the powerful tone of a confident
woman.

One More Party (Wake the Dead)

Abandon your slumber
Your lasting repose.
We ain’t done with you yet,
Wake, shake, rattle those bones.

Master necromancer,
I stand on this hill
To bring you forth
You’ll abide my will.

[CHORUS]
Rise for this night
Drink from death’s cup.
Keepers of the light
Come at sun up.

Dance down the avenues
Make merry one last time
Your dead I return to you
Before I make them mine.

[CHORUS]
Rise for this night
Drink from death’s cup.
Keepers of the light
Come at sun up.

Here comes the day
Find your headstone,
Return to your graves
I will not be known.

They finished the song. Maxwell smiled at
Miranda, nodding.

“You love it?” she asked a little too close
to the microphone with a cocksure smirk towards Maxwell.

He couldn’t speak over the applause without
a microphone, so he kept nodding, pointed at the main microphone
and stepped aside. “What do you want to sing?” he mouthed as much
as yelled. There were at least forty people filling the barn and
spilling outside.

“Anything?” she asked.

Maxwell looked to Bernie, who nodded and
shrugged. “We’re a top forty hotel band, name it,” he shouted over
the calming crowd.

“Slow Ride?” she asked, smiling.

“Let’s do some Foghat,” Maxwell said into
the microphone he used for backup vocals. More than half the
audience knew who that band was, and applauded. He knew the rest
would recognize the song as soon as Miranda started singing. He
pulled his bottleneck from his pocket and slipped it onto his
little finger, then nodded.

Scott started with the drum opening a second
later. Road Craft did have original music, but they mixed the
better songs from their album with rock songs from the late sixties
and more recent radio hits. There was no way to fill eight sets a
weekend with only their music, they just didn’t have enough, and it
wasn’t what hotel or bar owners wanted. They wanted bands that
played popular music, so playing covers was the price they paid to
play their own work. It was one they usually played gladly.

Miranda hopped up and down on her toes. She
was so excited that she missed the first bar, but the band repeated
it and she picked it up. Maxwell and Bernie didn’t take long to
find the melody, and backed her up. He went low, Bernie sung
higher. The overall sound of them together was good, as far as
Maxwell could tell. The audience was the real indicator though, and
they were thrilled.

They kept their chain of songs going for a
set that took them into the early afternoon. By the time they were
finished the barn felt like a furnace. They played covers of Rebel
Rebel, Dream On, Heart for the first time, which had its difficult
moments, but the vocals were spot on and the audience didn’t seem
to notice that Maxwell had to fake much of the solo, and they
finished with a Beatles tune that felt more like a theme for the
jam session, A Little Help From My Friends. There were many other
songs, but they were a blur. He played most of them as though they
were by reflex, his eyes were for Miranda, and he played to
her.

“Break time, folks,” Bernie said into the
microphone, grinning at the groans of disappointment from the
audience. “We’ll be back, just need some beach, barbeque and beer
time.”

Maxwell knew trouble was coming when he
spotted Zachary coming out of one of the few stalls that hadn’t
been cut out of the barn. He put his guitar back in the case as
fast as he could and locked it. Miranda looked at him, then
Zachary, whose face was stretched into hard, angry angles.

“I’ve got this, it’s all right,” Maxwell
reassured her. “Are we on the way to the beach?” he asked.

“Sure,” she replied.

“I’ll see you down there,” Maxwell said.

“So this is how it is?” Zachary started,
screeching as loudly as Maxwell ever heard.

“Zack!” Maxwell said, holding up a finger
and rushing down the stage stairs to meet him. “People are having a
good time here, we’ll talk outside.”

“No more of this band leader shi-“ Zachary
started.

Maxwell grabbed him by the scruff and
dragged him to the back of the barn, then through the door. He
could barely hear Scott say; “Oh, shit, this has been coming for
three years.”

Zachary tried to slap his hand away, and
Maxwell let him go with a shove. “Now, this was just a bit of fun,”
he said, trying to keep his voice low and his head clear. “I
thought you’d be on stage by the end of La Grange, like always,” he
said.

“But you got your new chick up there
instead, I know when I’ve been replaced you thankless
son-of-a-bitch. I was there, getting ready to go on stage when she
was singing one of our songs with you. That’s my shit! I helped
write it!”

“No, you wrote some bullshit lyrics about
your uncle’s Mustang for one song, and Scott had something better
the next day, so nothing tried to do for the album measured up. No
surprise, either, you couldn’t show up on time if your life
depended on it.”

“Don’t you dare attack my art, man, no one
can do what I do for you on that stage!”

“Looks like someone just did,” Maxwell said,
snickering. “And-“

Zachary swung at Maxwell, throwing himself
off balance when it was easily sidestepped. He squared up
again.

Maxwell wanted to teach Zachary a lesson, or
at least end the fight quickly so his sore shoulders and neck
wouldn’t have to suffer. That wasn’t the way to finish a
relationship with a lead singer he’d played behind for years, he
knew. There was a harder way, but a better way. His father may have
taught Maxwell an incredible amount about the Occult, but his real
father, Allen, taught him how to be a man. Bernie taught him how to
be a brother, and he knew those lessons didn’t allow him to do what
he wanted, only to do what was best. Zachary was a scrawny, tall
man. If Maxwell actually fought him, it would end with his lead
singer bleeding on the ground.