MORTAL COILS (72 page)

55

SYMPHONY
OF EXISTENCE

Eliot
stood in front of his open locker at Ringo’s.

He
was at a crossroads. Go one way—run off with Julie to a new life—or stay at
home, face his troubles, and probably get himself killed for being so
responsible.

Eliot
had left Julie in the park an hour ago. She had to get a few things from home
while her parents were out, but he had a terrible feeling something was wrong.

He
could call the police. They might not be able to solve his family problems, but
they’d be able to help Julie.

Or
maybe it wasn’t Julie’s problems that filled him with unease. Eliot had plenty
of his own to think about: the next heroic trial and his sick sister.

That
was the real issue. He couldn’t decide whom to worry about more, Julie or
Fiona.

He’d
come to Ringo’s in case he was really leaving. He wanted the extra set of
clothes stashed here. Neatly folded at the bottom of his locker was a pair of
Cee’s home-sewn pants. If checkered corduroy ever came back into style, he’d be
ready.

He
wished the Mythica Improbiba volume were here, too, but he’d left it in his
room. Reading about both families had intrigued him—especially his father’s
side.

According
to Mythica, the fallen angels were divided into thirteen clans with leaders
such as Satan, Lucifer, Beelzebub, Leviathan, and Azmodeus. Those names tolled
like funeral bells in his mind, familiar, and shaking him to the core.

Eliot
laughed.

Who
was he kidding? Really? Running off with Julie was just another of his wild
daydreams.

Fiona
needed him. She couldn’t face the third trial alone. No matter how much Eliot
wanted, he wouldn’t turn his back on his sister or his responsibilities.

He
slammed his locker shut—angry at having to do the right thing—and wandered back
into Ringo’s dining room.

The
tables and chairs had been removed. Sheets of plastic draped over the salad bar
and the soda fountain. The plastic rustled as the kitchen door swished closed
behind him.

Eliot
thought he saw the shadows move.

“Hello?”
he whispered.

No
one replied.

Eliot
hurried to the lobby. He didn’t like being alone in here.

He
picked up the phone and dialed home. He should’ve called earlier to check on
Fiona. She probably had the stomach flu or just eaten something bad—and with
Cee’s cooking this was highly likely.

Now
that he thought of it, though, Eliot didn’t remember Fiona eating or drinking
anything for the last two days except those stupid chocolates. No wonder she
had thrown up.

The
phone connected and rang.

In
the dining room the plastic sheets continued to rustle . . . although no door
was open to make them do so.

No
one answered the phone.

Eliot
hung up, marched to the front door, squeezed through, and let it lock behind
him.

He
didn’t look back and quickly marched up Midway Avenue. The walk home felt
dangerous without his sister’s company. As he passed the alley where Louis
lived, however, Eliot stopped.

He
called into the shadows, “Hey . . . Louis?”

Eliot
wanted to talk to him. He had questions about the music. The last time he’d
played Lady Dawn, the earth had moved as his song ran away from him. And in the
carnival—he was certain he hadn’t imagined it—he had brought the place to life.
Those horses on the carousel had chased him, almost trampled him to death. All
because of his music?

That
was crazy.

Even
eccentric Louis would think he’d lost his mind.

It
was getting dark, unnaturally so for a summer evening. Midway Avenue was
deserted. Eliot imagined every demon in the Mythica book lurked in the shadows.

He
nonetheless took a step into the alley.

There
were piles of pizza boxes, discarded crusts, mounds of fast-food wrappers, and
everywhere lay empty screw-top bottles. No Louis, though.

As
his eyes adjusted to the weak light, Eliot saw graffiti on the cinder-block
walls. It wasn’t ordinary, normal spray-painted letters, either. In crayon and
felt-tip pen and drippy paint were straight lines, tiny circles, arcs, and
triangles.

It
looked part geometric proof, part puzzle, and part poetry. Those pages in
Mythica Improbiba that Eliot hadn’t been able to read, they had looked like
this.

Eliot
felt static electricity—lightning about to strike—the sensation strongest in
the soles of his feet.

He
glanced down. Weird writing covered the asphalt, too.

Had
Louis drawn this all? In places it looked as if he had written over it many
times, making the already jumbled symbols a riot of abstract patterns.

One
section, though, near the cardboard boxes, was different. There were parallel
chalk lines, then dots and arcs scribbled over them. It was musical notation.

Eliot
reached out to touch it, but stopped, realizing he’d only smudge the notes.

As
he stared, however, some notes seemed to penetrate deeper into the street while
others rose over the asphalt.

He
blinked. It must be a trick of the fading light.

A
lightning flash reflected off the walls and thunder crackled.

Eliot
didn’t flinch. His entire focus was on the music.

The
notes started simple, then increased in complexity until they became a tangle
at the end.

The
last bit was only a blur of pink chalk. It looked as if new notes had been
written over that part many times, smeared again, and then there was one last
frustrated indecipherable scribble.

Eliot
went back to the beginning and read the first bit. It was “Mortal’s Coil,” the
very first thing Louis had taught him.

Eliot
hummed it and traced the notes with his finger.

New
phrases and inventions were quickly introduced, music that he had used in his
own compositions.

As
he neared the end, the music became wild. The last part didn’t fit the style of
the earlier sections. It sounded . . . wrong.

Eliot
stared at this part: dots and arcs represented highly contorted finger motions.
Some of these seemed to need six or eight fingers to attempt to perform.

But
then at the end—as the piece built to a climax—it fell apart. The last phrases
blurred into a chaos of Louis’s half-erased scribbles.

Eliot
desperately wanted to hear the whole thing.

Maybe
he was trying too hard. Maybe he had to relax the way Aunt Dallas had shown
him, let his mind wander with the music as a willing partner.

As
he tried this, however, raindrops fell, dotting the asphalt.

Eliot
panicked and huddled over the chalked lines to protect the music from being
washed away.

He
couldn’t cover it all, though. He grabbed a cardboard box and used it as an
umbrella, but before he could, a few drops spattered onto the piece.

Eliot
froze.

While
the raindrops obliterated parts of Louis’s frustrated smears . . . in doing so
they ended up looking like notes themselves.

The
right notes.

Fascinated,
he watched as more raindrops appeared.

Yes.
He heard the music in his head . . . that last bit, and it felt correct.

As
before, he imagined a choir of voices singing along. Gone were the childlike
voices, though; these were panicked and mingled with shrieks.

   
Nothing left and lights all gone, Music lingers echo song, God lies down and
fades to dust, Darkness and Death’s end a must.

It
was dangerous music; Eliot felt this deep in his bones. It was a symphony of
sorts, and Eliot knew what it was about: everything.

“Mortal’s
Coil” had a simple beginning. That was about creation and youth and innocence.

The
middle part was about life and love and growing old.

The
last bit was about the end. The end of one’s life. The heat death of the
universe. The end of days.

Raindrops
pelted the music and washed it away.

It
didn’t matter. The symphony burned in Eliot’s mind. He could never imagine
having the courage to play the entire thing . . . but he would never forget it,
either.

Rain
soaked his shirt. Shadows enveloped the alley, and he felt watched again.

He
left the masterpiece to melt and wandered to the sidewalk. Shafts of sunlight
struggled to break through the thickening clouds. Lightning flashed on the
horizon. Three crows sat on the telephone lines, cawed, and took to the air.

“Mortal’s
Coil” echoed through his mind.

What
if it was all true? That you only got one life to live, and there was nothing
after? Forever?

Why
shouldn’t he make the most of the one life he got? Find love and adventure
while he could. Tomorrow he might be dead.

Actually,
in all likelihood, tomorrow he would be dead.

He
wasn’t sure what to do anymore. He was sure, though, that he was going to the
bus station to see Julie one more time . . . even if it was only to kiss her
good-bye.

56

LEFT
BEHIND

Eliot
entered the lobby of the Del Sombra Greyhound bus station—ready and willing to
start a new life. Two hippies with long beards stood by a vending machine. One
other man was sitting near the restroom, a newspaper covering his face. He wore
a black suit.

Julie
wasn’t here, though.

Eliot
sat on one of the wooden benches. He noted the time on the clock over the
ticket counter. Ten minutes until their bus left.

He
imagined himself on a Hollywood street corner, playing his violin or maybe even
a guitar. Could you make a living doing that? The people in Los Angeles must be
nicer than in Del Sombra. They’d have to be; so many people living so close
together. Otherwise, everyone would get on each other’s nerves.

They’d
pay him to play in a club. Everyone would applaud.

He
made himself stop.

This
was just another fantasy. Becoming a star wouldn’t be easy. It’d take a lot of
work, but he thought there was a chance . . . especially with Julie at his
side.

It
was unusually dark outside now. Streetlights flickered on and made orange cones
of illumination.

Eliot
pulled out his violin and stroked the strings. The hippies looked at him. The
guy with the newspaper set it down. Eliot plunked out a few notes from the
middle section of the symphony.

   
Young girls and boys run far too fast, wheel o’ life turns and never lasts, too
soon grown and knowing sin, that’s when real fun begins!

That
was the good part. Life was worth living. You had to take a chance . . . or
have no chance at happiness at all.