We ride until dark, then set up camp near the river. From our campsite we can hear one of the things that’s different about the Ohio these days-it’s not the gentle, meandering giant of lore and legend. This new, post-Change Ohio doesn’t gurgle and murmur, it roars.
A short hike up the back of a low bluff in the waning sun, and we can see the difference, too. The Ohio is a froth of whitewater rapids, and our camp is downwind of a very impressive, if abbreviated, waterfall. It’s loud enough to make sleep difficult.
Of course, I have the added impediment of guilt. For his faith in me and my abilities, I have repaid Cal by losing contact with our Pied Piper. I can no longer hear him. And because we are in an area of low brush, there are few glass leaves sending out good vibrations.
The river rapids are not loud enough to keep me from overhearing a muffled but heated disagreement after I’ve turned in. The participants are Colleen and Cal, and the first inkling of the subject comes when Our Ms. Brooks raises her voice to announce that Goldie is unstable and not to be trusted and, furthermore, Cal knows it.
This is not an unusual observation for someone to make about me, but since I realize it’s leading up to something more portentous, I roll surreptitiously out of my sleeping bag and sidle up to the back of the rock behind which this fascinating debate is taking place.
“Look, Cal,” Colleen is saying, “I know you don’t want to say it, or even think it, but we both know damn well that Goldie is two tacos short of a combination plate.”
I hear the delicate sound of Cal’s eyes rolling. “He has a kindled mood disorder,” he defends me. “It means he has … bad spells. It doesn’t mean he’s hallucinatory.”
“He has a disorder, all right. One that causes him to have a very skewed take on reality. He was hallucinating, Cal. I was there. I saw reality. And in reality, there was no flare.” “Then how did you end up in that tree?”
“In spite of what Goldie says, I think it had to have been the musician. He’s able to pull people to him with his music. He could just as easily push people away.”
I could picture Cal giving her that almost catlike look of puzzlement, hands on hips, skepticism in every word of body language-a lawyer’s pose. “I have to take the chance that he’s right, Colleen. I think you understand that.”
“All right. Let’s pretend for a moment that there is a flare. We have no way of knowing what her situation is. Maybe Mr. Blues Guy isn’t protecting her. Maybe he’s imprisoning her or maybe she’s … I don’t know … defective or weak or something and the Source didn’t want her in the first place.”
“If she’s imprisoned, shouldn’t we try to free her? If she’s been passed over by the Source, wouldn’t you like to know why? It might help us figure out why the Source is taking flares in the first place. It might even give us a tool to use against the Source.”
Colleen utters a growl of pure frustration. “Yeah, and it might lead us on a wild goose chase that takes us in a completely wrong direction. We don’t have time for wild goose chases, Cal. This world is unraveling a little more every day, and there’s no way of knowing when it will stop-if it ever stops. You think following this guy might take us to the Source? I think it could just as easily take us away from the Source.”
There is a long and pregnant pause, into which, at the most critical moment, Colleen murmurs, “God, Cal, I hate saying crap like this to you. I hate always being the-the prophet of doom. But this feels like a false trail to me. And a waste of time. Tina’s time. Everyone’s time.”
No fair! The family card and the humanitarian card played in one deft move. And with a self-deprecatory spin, no less.
There is a crunch of leaves, and Cal says, “Do you think you need to remind me of that? Look, Colleen, you’re asking me to make a choice based on a complete uncertainty. It’s your word against Goldie’s.”
“Right, and you’re taking his.”
“Colleen, I believe you didn’t see anything. I also believe Goldie did. Does that seem so strange?”
“Well, it-”
“Tell me, when was the last time you made fire leap out of the tips of your fingers or heard the Source whispering in your ear?”
Another pregnant pause. “That’s not fair. He’s a head case, Cal. Ask Doc. If you don’t think he’s worried about Goldie’s mental state, you can think again.”
“All right, Colleen. If it will make you feel better, I’ll talk to Doc about Goldie’s mental state. But I’m not going to make a snap decision. I think the best thing we can do is sleep on it and see where things stand in the morning. We’re sure as hell not going anywhere tonight.”
“Fine,” says Colleen. Leaves crunch underfoot, then she says, “Cal, I’m really sorry. I know I’m a bitch. There are times I pride myself on being a bitch. This isn’t one of them. I just don’t want to see us … pulled off course.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t let us be.”
There’s a moment of silence, then leaves crunch again, this time with an air of finality, and I sidle back to my bedroll.
Bitch. Witch. Snitch.
I run out of rhymes and concoct a plan: I will wait for Doc to commence snoring. They may not be going anywhere tonight, but I am. Of course, I’ll leave a good trail so they can follow me-and they’ll have to follow me. One way or another, we are going to find the Bluesman.
As luck would have it, Doc has trouble sleeping tonight, and I am half asleep myself, rapids or no rapids, when the window opens in my head and music comes cascading through-loud, clear, and achingly close.
I wait for nothing.
SIX
COLLEEN
Goldman was gone when I went to wake him and Doc for their watch. At first I hoped that he might’ve just hit the bushes to take a whiz (What was I thinking?), but I realized pretty quickly that some essential items were missing-his pack, canteen, and a machete-things a guy doesn’t usually take along to the latrine.
We scrambled, packing up bedrolls and supplies and loading up the horses in record time. It was dark and misty and our lamps bounced light back at us from every billow. It was hardly ideal for tracking anyone, not even Goldman, who obviously wanted to be tailed. But at least we didn’t seem to be drawing lurkers.
He had about a three-hour head start, but he was on foot and he didn’t cover his tracks any better than he had the last time. In fact, to make damn sure we could track him, he’d left all sorts of crap helter-skelter in his wake. A game die, a little wooden top, a couple of bright-colored magnets, a red bandanna, the occasional comic button. (Never meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and good with ketchup.) When he ran out of his pack-ratty odds and ends, he switched to bits of buckskin fringe.
Two hours into our little trek we entered an area of weirdness where the terrain was strangely lumpy. There were mysterious gullies and groves and eerie little hills that were just too neat and regular and flat on top. Now, I don’t have a lot of imagination, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that huge prehistoric beasts were crouched along the trail.
When the moon slid out of the clouds my mental image morphed big-time. I’ve been in houses where the owners have covered over everything with sheets for a long vacation. It’s damn spooky. Suddenly, I felt like I was a mouse in one of those places, just waiting for something big and toothy to come flying out from under the sheets.
We came out onto a paved road, and I caught the scent of wood smoke. Less than a mile to the north we caught sight of a stand of trees that seemed to have a million tiny stars caught in their twigs. Campfire. We tethered the horses out of earshot of the camp and left Doc on guard. Cal and I crept up on the circle of light.