"The Morbid Tabernacle Choir"
"The Morbid Tabernacle Choir"
7/14/1963
I.
They drew a few interested looks at the gas station. Their vehicle was a brand new, gleaming white Chevy van with the words WENT LOOKING FOR AMERICA airbrushed on one side in flowing Art Nouveau lettering. The other side displayed a droll image of a disgruntled Bald Eagle walking along with its head down. The attendant finished filling the tank, then took some paper towels and a bottle of Windex from a rack on the pump and cleaned the windshield.
As he was wiping, the middle-aged man's eyes bugged out. Sitting behind the wheel was a face he had seen on magazine covers and albums, as well as guest appearances on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. Still in his very early twenties, thin to the point of seeming starved in his red long-sleeved shirt, the driver had a face marked by a prominent beaked nose and shaggy dark blond hair which passed his collar on both sides. From one corner of the thick-lipped mouth dangling the stub of a nearly finished cigarette.
"Yeah, it's me," said the driver without enthusiasm. "Michael Sean Cadogan, better known to my screaming fans as Mick Jackal."
Accepted a few dollars for the gas, the attendant grinned. "My daughter would wet herself if she saw you, Mr Jackal. She cuts out every picture of you she can find and pastes them into scrapbooks."
The young man behind the wheel flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Have you heard the band's music, eh? What yer think?"
"Not for me. I still like big band music, it's what I grew up with. But it's a new generation, let them enjoy themselves with that they go for."
A huge smile split the pleasantly homely face. "I like that! I like you, mate, you've got a live and let live attitude."
"Very pleased to have met you," put in the seraphic-featured young blonde in the passenger seat. She gifted the attendant with a blissful smile. On this muggy July afternoon, she was wearing a blue piece of thin cloth with tied around her neck to leave her shoulders and arms bare. She was slim and looked fine without a bra.
Not knowing how to respond, the attendant merely stepped back and waved as the van pulled away."
"He was right smitten with you, Jane," said the singer, digging in a shirt pocket for another cigarette from the crumpled back. "Appears to me the front of his pants got tighter."
"Oh, please," Jane York scoffed. "It's so hot out that I bet he sees a hundred half nude young women today."
From the rear of the van, another young woman leaned forward to peer between Mick and Jane. She was still a teen, quite short and full-bodied in a loose pullover sweater. Her friendly roundish face was noticeable for a pair of round-rimmed glasses with remarkably thick lenses. "I'm not getting anywhere with that song about the ticking clock," she grumbled. "All I've got is something about 'time hurtles on/like a car without brakes/The gifts it bestows are not half what it takes.'"
"Eh, that could work. Keep at it, Tamster. I need something strong to close the first side."
"Side Two could open with an alarm clock going off and kickstart a livelier song," Tamster suggested.
"Write all this stuff down, wilyer?" he said. "Even phrases and scraps. One never knows what pieces will fit together."
"And I need a spotlight song to show off my wonderful crystal-clear tenor," Jane put in.
From the rear of the van, a sleepy male voice added, "Don't forget, this album is supposed to be about finding the real America. Beneath all the corruption and greed and race hatred, we find MORE corruption and greed and race hatred."
"Back to daydreaming with you," Mick Jackal laughed. "You're still high, Ragged. Tamster, do you think that Sooner needs a walkie?"
"He seems quiet. You're okay, aren't you boy?"
For the first time, a hard edge crept into Mick's voice. "After what he did last night, he really should be tired."
II.
Eight hours of washing dishes, mopping the floor and scrubbing the bathroom in the little bistro had put fifteen dollars into Gitano's hand. This was almost twice minimum wage, but the owner had been pleased by the way the young wanderer had done so much extra cleaning without having to be asked. He had also given Gitano a brown paper bag full of leftovers, including two fried chicken legs, a hamburger wrapped in a napkin, some biscuits and a couple of apples. It was more than the wanderer often had for a meal.
While he was cleaning the bathroom, Gitano had also washed out his own spare shirt, socks and underwear in the sink, then hung them out of sight behind the bistro to dry. Just before leaving, he gave himself a quick sponge bath and rinsed out his longish hair as well. He often resorted to streams and ponds along his journey to do this.
When he started on the road out of town, the wanderer had eaten more than usual, had some money in his pocket for a change and felt clean. What gave him some happiness though was that the restaurant owner had liked him, told him to come back often, and shaken his hand firmly. That was more satisfying than anything else.
At twenty, Gitano was a wiry young man of average height, strong from constant walking and hardened by sleeping outdoors nearly every night. He had thick black hair which covered his ears and reached his collar, and a curly beard, both of which he kept trimmed as he walked with a pair of short scissors. The sturdy hiking books, well-worn jeans and flannel shirt under a denim jacket were all he had to wear. Not even a knapsack but a small shoulder bag held the few personal items he owned, but his only possession of any value was strapped across his back.
The Gibson L-45 was at least as old as he was, in decent condition but with a few inescapable nicks and gouges it had collected before it had come into his hands. Someone had used a woodburning kit to etch six esoteric symbols into the body of the guitar. No one he had met so far could identify these ideograms, though many said they resembled medieval Alchemy symbols.
Like his own past, even his name, the symbols were a mystery Gitano seemingly had little interest in solving. He walked. Most of his waking time was spent putting the road ahead of him behind. He carried no maps, had no idea how far it was to the nearest town or even what part of the state he was in. None of that seemed to matter to him. A stranger might have wondered if Gitano was traveling toward a goal to be reached or away from something to be fled. Nearly always, he turned down offered rides.
At one point, he paused as he saw a likely branch near the side of the highway. It was thick as two fingers held together, six feet long and mostly straight with a jagged offshoot near one end. Gitano picked it up and held it before him thoughtfully.
The wanderer's hands were oddly mismatched. His left hand was long-fingered, slim, artistic. The right hand was much wider, with thick gnarled fingers and nails curved like claws. This was another anomaly about himself he could not explain. Holding the branch with his left hand, he gripped the broken offshoot and snapped it off cleanly with the brutal right hand. Now he had a walking stick, very useful when climbing hills.
Hours passed without his noticing. Gitano dwelled in a timeless limbo of thought as he walked mile after mile. To his right, a creek fifty yards across rippled and burbled like the music he loved. As he turned a curve in the road, he saw a cleared area where cars could turn around. Parked there was a white Van, sitting along the bank facing the creek were four young people, two boys and two girls. The blonde girl was tuning an acoustic guitar and going, "Mi mi mi," as she did so. Gitano smiled at the sight. Sitting up as he approached and fixing a wary eye on him was the biggest Great Dane he had ever seen.
III.
The four had not noticed him. Gitano leaned back against an oak more than a hundred years old, unslung his guitar and picked at it, singing "This Little Light of Mine" is a fine clear voice. They all swung around at the unexpected music.
Picking up the tune, the blonde went on, "'Until then. I'm gonna try/To brave the dark and let my little light shine..."
"Gah-DAM," said the longhair young man, scrambling up to his feet. "Hey there. Come on down and introduce yourself."
Gitano found these four travelers were surprised and a bit stung that he had not heard of their group, the Morbid Tabernacle Choir. ("We had two songs on the Top 40 at the same time in March...") But, he explained, he didn't get to listen to the radio much and had not watched a television show for longer than he could remember. He stayed outdoors as much as he possibly could.
"We're on a sort of road trip ourselves," Mick Jackal explained. "The record company wants a new album by September. Something more accessible than our first one, SHADOWS WITH EYES. We're gathering material, trying to work up a concept album. And our manager is hassling us for a single. He tells us the public will soon forget the Morbid Tabernacle Choir unless you keep the band right up front."
"Love your guitar," Jane said. "I went electric because that's the market, what with the British Invasion, but my heart lies with acoustic."
"It's the only thing of value I still own," said Gitano, feeling a strange pang he could not have explained. "Mostly I know the older folk songs, a little gospel. I can pick bluegrass although it's better on a banjo of course."
The member of the band who still had the pong of marijuana smoke in his light brown hair gestured for the wanderer to sit near them. "Let's get to hear each other. Maybe you could play some back-up on a few songs. Your voice sounded decent."
The Great Dane did not growl but his deep eyes never left the wanderer. Gitano's instincts screaming warnings to him. Was that dog following the conversation? Did those eyes hold human awareness? No, of course not and yet....
"You're far away even when you're sitting next to use," Tamster ventured after a pause. "Always thinking about something?"
"Yes," Gitano replied. "A few days ago, I passed through a town back that way. All that they could talk about was some wild animal that had killed two dogs. German Shepherds, good-sized animals. And a housewife said she heard something following her in the bushes by her back yard. She ran into her house and locked the door before there was a thump against it."
"Stop it! You're creeping me out big time," said Jane. "Are there wolves in the woods here? We're really far upstate."
"Wolves don't usually attack people, at least that's what I've heard," Gitano said. "Were you guys camping out in the area then?"
Mick Jackal and Jane York glanced at each other. "We didn't come from that direction," said the blonde guitarist. "We were west, out by Riversend around that time."
"Yeah," Mick agreed. "We stopped to see the Waterslide but it was too crowded to suit us."
Gitano nodded and studied his mismatched hands. "There were other sightings of some strange animal this Spring. One missing person, too, a ten year old boy. All they found was his bicycle and a sneaker."
"Sheesh. Now I'm getting freaked out too. It's a good thing we have Sooner here to protect us. Hey, boy, you can chase away any mangy old wolf, right?"
The huge dog turned his head and regarded Mick somberly. Maybe he simply recognized his name.
IV.
Until dusk, Gitano unofficially auditioned. He and Jane played well together, they both liked old Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie songs, although the demand was for rock and roll, especially with a British slant. "You're a funny player," she said while taking a break to get a bottle of iced tea. "When you play with your left hand, you're delicate and precise. When your right takes the lead, your style becomes much more aggressive and masculine."
"I'm kind of complicated," Gitano admitted.
"His singing won't fit in, though." Mick had cracked open a can of Budweiser and carefully added the detached tab to a chain of such bits he had made. "His voice is too close to me own, innit? We'd compete. Having Ragged back me up on vocals works better, and his drums are exactly the backbone the band needs."
"We've got the Morbid Tabernacle Choir pretty damn tight," Ragged said. "If it's not broke, don't mess with it."
Gitano did not reply immediately. He was gazing up as the stars started to become visible.
Cuddled up rather close to the wanderer, Tamster said, "Aw, he's going to be moving on anyway. Aren't you? You seem like roaming is what you want to do."
"Yes. I'm not even sure where I'm heading. West, apparently."
Mick Jackal dug around the dashboard and handed a business card to their visitor. "Here yer go. We'll be recording in New York in early September. We got a week scheduled to use the Dunlop Studios, with their arrangers. If you do show up a few days earlier, I got a feeling we can put in as back-up, maybe a solo or two."
"I'd like that," Jane added. "Having him play would free me for some more singing."
"Perhaps." Gitano got to his feet with the ease of youth, fastening the strap of his Gibson across his chest. "I need to get going now."
"Hold on a minute," objected Mick, also jumping up. "We're about ready to fire up our little propane stove. Hot dogs and beans, a couple potatoes baking in aluminium foil, get some beers down our gullets."
Leaning up against the wanderer, Tamster rubbed his lower back in circular strokes. "Please stay a while. We'll drop you off anywhere you like when we get rolling tomorrow."
"Thank you all. For once, I'm not wet and freezing, just hungry." Gitano undid the guitar again and leaned it carefully up against the side of the van. "Besides, it's getting dark enough that the creatures of the night will be stirring."
"That wolf business again?" snorted the drummer Ragged. "Don't worry. If a wolf gets within miles of us, Sooner here will be barked so its echoes off the mountains. Eh, Sooner?"
They started getting the camp stove going, opening some cans and getting into a cooler of beer cans and soda bottles. "Hah, it makes me laugh it does," said Mick. "When we were on tour, we stayed at posh hotels and feasted on everything from lobster to caviar, with plenty of champagne. Now we're eating like hoboes."
Popping open a big bag of potato chips and passing it around, Jane said, "We had a rough year when we started, honey. No one was interested. We opened at county fairs and played graduation parties until we started getting some airplay."
The impromptu meal was devoured on paper plates using plastic cutlery, five healthy young people ravenous from the chill mountain air leaving nothing to waste. Sooner had his own bowl of dry dog food with hot dog chunks mixed in, but he begged for scraps anyway.
Eventually, there was nothing left. One by one, they took a big flashlight and some washclothes down to the icy creek to clean themselves up. Gitano had been saying less and less.
Opening the side panel of the van, Mick said, "Got a blanket here fer you. Jane and I normally sleep inside, Ragged and Sooner like camping out on the ground."
"You can climb inside my sleeping bag," Tamster offered.
"Oh come ON, Tam!" said Ragged. "Can you be any more obvious? Why don't you just pull his pants down here and now?"
"We may never meet again," the petite girl replied without taking offense. "We don't have to, you know, do it. But I'd like to cuddle with you, Gitano."
Ten minutes later, everyone had settled down with the understanding that dawn meant getting back on the road. Tamster took her down-filled sleeping bag behind a cluster of birch trees still within earshot of the others. He unlaced his boots and she pulled off her sneakers but otherwise they remained dressed as they wiggled into the bag facing each other.
"I want you to know my real name is Tammy, Tammy Parkinson," she whispered, "They call me 'Tamster,' short for 'Tammy the Hamster,' because I'm so short. I know 'Gitano' is the Spanish word for Gypsy, but what's your real name?"
"All I have is 'Gitano,'" he answered.
"It's enough." She raised her face and started kissing him in a slow, gentle way.
V.
When they heard the rustling in the bushes down by the creek, they both froze motionless. Gitano's left hand was up inside her sweatshirt and he released her breast to sit up.
"Mmm, don't stop," she murmured. "I love your touch."
"Wait, there it is again."
"It's a possum or woodchuck or something, let's get back to smooching."
But Gitano had slid out of the sleeping bag as quickly as if it had been turned upside down to shake him out. His skin was crawling with the prickly tingle he had come to dread. The Midnight War had come to them. Even as he shot to his feet, he saw a misshapen form rushing toward him. Under the crystal light of a starry sky out in the country, it was a dog walking on its hind legs like a man.
Sooner! He knew it. That was no ordinary beast that had stared at him all day.
In an instant, the creature snarled and pounced at him. Gitano planted his feet well apart, drew back his right arm and drove a straight jab into the monster's muzzle. A crackling noise and the stench of burning hair followed, the creature howled and drew back.
A brilliant white cone from a flashlight shone across the clearing from the van. Mick's voice could be heard crying, "Bloody Hell...!"
The unnatural beast growled and charged again. Gitano seized him by the throat with a hand that seemed much larger and sinewy than it had before. In the flash beam, black smoke could be seen rising from the creature's neck. The beast shrieked and struggled, convulsively trying to get free but with no success. There was a soft snapping sound that no one there could ever forget.
The monster fell limply to the ground as Mick and Jane hurried up, pulling on their clothes and stumbling in the effort. "Sooner! Oh my God, Sooner!"
"I don't understand," Jane yelled. "Ragged always took him at least a few miles away when he wanted to hunt. Why would he attack you?"
"That's not Sooner," said Gitano. He flexed his hand as it visibly shrank down to a more normal size.
At their feet, the corpse shuddered, dwindled and became the naked body of the drummer called Ragged. No burn marks had been left on his throat after the transformation.
"He was a shape-shifter," Gitano said. "He blamed the attacks and the killings on Sooner. Did he tell you Sooner was a Skinwalker or something?"
"Yes. Yes he did. He claimed Sooner was under a curse. Once a week or every two weeks, he would take the dog off looking for something to kill. Or someone." Jane wasn't audibly crying but tears made her face wet. "All the time, it was Ragged!"
"You're going to have to report this to police," Gitano said. "No signs of violence on him. I imagine they'll think it was a drug overdose."
"He did like his weed and pills," Mick admitted. "Oh, Ragged, your poor old sod, why couldn't you be honest with us? We'd have helped you somehow."
"I think I'm going into shock," Tamster said. "How can things like that happen? He- he changed shape. I can't understand it."
From out of the darkness, the Great Dane slowly loped toward them. He sniffed at the body, then threw back his head in grief. As the big dog howled, emotional dams broke and everyone began to cry.
7/15/2020
7/14/1963
I.
They drew a few interested looks at the gas station. Their vehicle was a brand new, gleaming white Chevy van with the words WENT LOOKING FOR AMERICA airbrushed on one side in flowing Art Nouveau lettering. The other side displayed a droll image of a disgruntled Bald Eagle walking along with its head down. The attendant finished filling the tank, then took some paper towels and a bottle of Windex from a rack on the pump and cleaned the windshield.
As he was wiping, the middle-aged man's eyes bugged out. Sitting behind the wheel was a face he had seen on magazine covers and albums, as well as guest appearances on THE ED SULLIVAN SHOW. Still in his very early twenties, thin to the point of seeming starved in his red long-sleeved shirt, the driver had a face marked by a prominent beaked nose and shaggy dark blond hair which passed his collar on both sides. From one corner of the thick-lipped mouth dangling the stub of a nearly finished cigarette.
"Yeah, it's me," said the driver without enthusiasm. "Michael Sean Cadogan, better known to my screaming fans as Mick Jackal."
Accepted a few dollars for the gas, the attendant grinned. "My daughter would wet herself if she saw you, Mr Jackal. She cuts out every picture of you she can find and pastes them into scrapbooks."
The young man behind the wheel flicked his cigarette butt to the ground. "Have you heard the band's music, eh? What yer think?"
"Not for me. I still like big band music, it's what I grew up with. But it's a new generation, let them enjoy themselves with that they go for."
A huge smile split the pleasantly homely face. "I like that! I like you, mate, you've got a live and let live attitude."
"Very pleased to have met you," put in the seraphic-featured young blonde in the passenger seat. She gifted the attendant with a blissful smile. On this muggy July afternoon, she was wearing a blue piece of thin cloth with tied around her neck to leave her shoulders and arms bare. She was slim and looked fine without a bra.
Not knowing how to respond, the attendant merely stepped back and waved as the van pulled away."
"He was right smitten with you, Jane," said the singer, digging in a shirt pocket for another cigarette from the crumpled back. "Appears to me the front of his pants got tighter."
"Oh, please," Jane York scoffed. "It's so hot out that I bet he sees a hundred half nude young women today."
From the rear of the van, another young woman leaned forward to peer between Mick and Jane. She was still a teen, quite short and full-bodied in a loose pullover sweater. Her friendly roundish face was noticeable for a pair of round-rimmed glasses with remarkably thick lenses. "I'm not getting anywhere with that song about the ticking clock," she grumbled. "All I've got is something about 'time hurtles on/like a car without brakes/The gifts it bestows are not half what it takes.'"
"Eh, that could work. Keep at it, Tamster. I need something strong to close the first side."
"Side Two could open with an alarm clock going off and kickstart a livelier song," Tamster suggested.
"Write all this stuff down, wilyer?" he said. "Even phrases and scraps. One never knows what pieces will fit together."
"And I need a spotlight song to show off my wonderful crystal-clear tenor," Jane put in.
From the rear of the van, a sleepy male voice added, "Don't forget, this album is supposed to be about finding the real America. Beneath all the corruption and greed and race hatred, we find MORE corruption and greed and race hatred."
"Back to daydreaming with you," Mick Jackal laughed. "You're still high, Ragged. Tamster, do you think that Sooner needs a walkie?"
"He seems quiet. You're okay, aren't you boy?"
For the first time, a hard edge crept into Mick's voice. "After what he did last night, he really should be tired."
II.
Eight hours of washing dishes, mopping the floor and scrubbing the bathroom in the little bistro had put fifteen dollars into Gitano's hand. This was almost twice minimum wage, but the owner had been pleased by the way the young wanderer had done so much extra cleaning without having to be asked. He had also given Gitano a brown paper bag full of leftovers, including two fried chicken legs, a hamburger wrapped in a napkin, some biscuits and a couple of apples. It was more than the wanderer often had for a meal.
While he was cleaning the bathroom, Gitano had also washed out his own spare shirt, socks and underwear in the sink, then hung them out of sight behind the bistro to dry. Just before leaving, he gave himself a quick sponge bath and rinsed out his longish hair as well. He often resorted to streams and ponds along his journey to do this.
When he started on the road out of town, the wanderer had eaten more than usual, had some money in his pocket for a change and felt clean. What gave him some happiness though was that the restaurant owner had liked him, told him to come back often, and shaken his hand firmly. That was more satisfying than anything else.
At twenty, Gitano was a wiry young man of average height, strong from constant walking and hardened by sleeping outdoors nearly every night. He had thick black hair which covered his ears and reached his collar, and a curly beard, both of which he kept trimmed as he walked with a pair of short scissors. The sturdy hiking books, well-worn jeans and flannel shirt under a denim jacket were all he had to wear. Not even a knapsack but a small shoulder bag held the few personal items he owned, but his only possession of any value was strapped across his back.
The Gibson L-45 was at least as old as he was, in decent condition but with a few inescapable nicks and gouges it had collected before it had come into his hands. Someone had used a woodburning kit to etch six esoteric symbols into the body of the guitar. No one he had met so far could identify these ideograms, though many said they resembled medieval Alchemy symbols.
Like his own past, even his name, the symbols were a mystery Gitano seemingly had little interest in solving. He walked. Most of his waking time was spent putting the road ahead of him behind. He carried no maps, had no idea how far it was to the nearest town or even what part of the state he was in. None of that seemed to matter to him. A stranger might have wondered if Gitano was traveling toward a goal to be reached or away from something to be fled. Nearly always, he turned down offered rides.
At one point, he paused as he saw a likely branch near the side of the highway. It was thick as two fingers held together, six feet long and mostly straight with a jagged offshoot near one end. Gitano picked it up and held it before him thoughtfully.
The wanderer's hands were oddly mismatched. His left hand was long-fingered, slim, artistic. The right hand was much wider, with thick gnarled fingers and nails curved like claws. This was another anomaly about himself he could not explain. Holding the branch with his left hand, he gripped the broken offshoot and snapped it off cleanly with the brutal right hand. Now he had a walking stick, very useful when climbing hills.
Hours passed without his noticing. Gitano dwelled in a timeless limbo of thought as he walked mile after mile. To his right, a creek fifty yards across rippled and burbled like the music he loved. As he turned a curve in the road, he saw a cleared area where cars could turn around. Parked there was a white Van, sitting along the bank facing the creek were four young people, two boys and two girls. The blonde girl was tuning an acoustic guitar and going, "Mi mi mi," as she did so. Gitano smiled at the sight. Sitting up as he approached and fixing a wary eye on him was the biggest Great Dane he had ever seen.
III.
The four had not noticed him. Gitano leaned back against an oak more than a hundred years old, unslung his guitar and picked at it, singing "This Little Light of Mine" is a fine clear voice. They all swung around at the unexpected music.
Picking up the tune, the blonde went on, "'Until then. I'm gonna try/To brave the dark and let my little light shine..."
"Gah-DAM," said the longhair young man, scrambling up to his feet. "Hey there. Come on down and introduce yourself."
Gitano found these four travelers were surprised and a bit stung that he had not heard of their group, the Morbid Tabernacle Choir. ("We had two songs on the Top 40 at the same time in March...") But, he explained, he didn't get to listen to the radio much and had not watched a television show for longer than he could remember. He stayed outdoors as much as he possibly could.
"We're on a sort of road trip ourselves," Mick Jackal explained. "The record company wants a new album by September. Something more accessible than our first one, SHADOWS WITH EYES. We're gathering material, trying to work up a concept album. And our manager is hassling us for a single. He tells us the public will soon forget the Morbid Tabernacle Choir unless you keep the band right up front."
"Love your guitar," Jane said. "I went electric because that's the market, what with the British Invasion, but my heart lies with acoustic."
"It's the only thing of value I still own," said Gitano, feeling a strange pang he could not have explained. "Mostly I know the older folk songs, a little gospel. I can pick bluegrass although it's better on a banjo of course."
The member of the band who still had the pong of marijuana smoke in his light brown hair gestured for the wanderer to sit near them. "Let's get to hear each other. Maybe you could play some back-up on a few songs. Your voice sounded decent."
The Great Dane did not growl but his deep eyes never left the wanderer. Gitano's instincts screaming warnings to him. Was that dog following the conversation? Did those eyes hold human awareness? No, of course not and yet....
"You're far away even when you're sitting next to use," Tamster ventured after a pause. "Always thinking about something?"
"Yes," Gitano replied. "A few days ago, I passed through a town back that way. All that they could talk about was some wild animal that had killed two dogs. German Shepherds, good-sized animals. And a housewife said she heard something following her in the bushes by her back yard. She ran into her house and locked the door before there was a thump against it."
"Stop it! You're creeping me out big time," said Jane. "Are there wolves in the woods here? We're really far upstate."
"Wolves don't usually attack people, at least that's what I've heard," Gitano said. "Were you guys camping out in the area then?"
Mick Jackal and Jane York glanced at each other. "We didn't come from that direction," said the blonde guitarist. "We were west, out by Riversend around that time."
"Yeah," Mick agreed. "We stopped to see the Waterslide but it was too crowded to suit us."
Gitano nodded and studied his mismatched hands. "There were other sightings of some strange animal this Spring. One missing person, too, a ten year old boy. All they found was his bicycle and a sneaker."
"Sheesh. Now I'm getting freaked out too. It's a good thing we have Sooner here to protect us. Hey, boy, you can chase away any mangy old wolf, right?"
The huge dog turned his head and regarded Mick somberly. Maybe he simply recognized his name.
IV.
Until dusk, Gitano unofficially auditioned. He and Jane played well together, they both liked old Pete Seeger and Woody Guthrie songs, although the demand was for rock and roll, especially with a British slant. "You're a funny player," she said while taking a break to get a bottle of iced tea. "When you play with your left hand, you're delicate and precise. When your right takes the lead, your style becomes much more aggressive and masculine."
"I'm kind of complicated," Gitano admitted.
"His singing won't fit in, though." Mick had cracked open a can of Budweiser and carefully added the detached tab to a chain of such bits he had made. "His voice is too close to me own, innit? We'd compete. Having Ragged back me up on vocals works better, and his drums are exactly the backbone the band needs."
"We've got the Morbid Tabernacle Choir pretty damn tight," Ragged said. "If it's not broke, don't mess with it."
Gitano did not reply immediately. He was gazing up as the stars started to become visible.
Cuddled up rather close to the wanderer, Tamster said, "Aw, he's going to be moving on anyway. Aren't you? You seem like roaming is what you want to do."
"Yes. I'm not even sure where I'm heading. West, apparently."
Mick Jackal dug around the dashboard and handed a business card to their visitor. "Here yer go. We'll be recording in New York in early September. We got a week scheduled to use the Dunlop Studios, with their arrangers. If you do show up a few days earlier, I got a feeling we can put in as back-up, maybe a solo or two."
"I'd like that," Jane added. "Having him play would free me for some more singing."
"Perhaps." Gitano got to his feet with the ease of youth, fastening the strap of his Gibson across his chest. "I need to get going now."
"Hold on a minute," objected Mick, also jumping up. "We're about ready to fire up our little propane stove. Hot dogs and beans, a couple potatoes baking in aluminium foil, get some beers down our gullets."
Leaning up against the wanderer, Tamster rubbed his lower back in circular strokes. "Please stay a while. We'll drop you off anywhere you like when we get rolling tomorrow."
"Thank you all. For once, I'm not wet and freezing, just hungry." Gitano undid the guitar again and leaned it carefully up against the side of the van. "Besides, it's getting dark enough that the creatures of the night will be stirring."
"That wolf business again?" snorted the drummer Ragged. "Don't worry. If a wolf gets within miles of us, Sooner here will be barked so its echoes off the mountains. Eh, Sooner?"
They started getting the camp stove going, opening some cans and getting into a cooler of beer cans and soda bottles. "Hah, it makes me laugh it does," said Mick. "When we were on tour, we stayed at posh hotels and feasted on everything from lobster to caviar, with plenty of champagne. Now we're eating like hoboes."
Popping open a big bag of potato chips and passing it around, Jane said, "We had a rough year when we started, honey. No one was interested. We opened at county fairs and played graduation parties until we started getting some airplay."
The impromptu meal was devoured on paper plates using plastic cutlery, five healthy young people ravenous from the chill mountain air leaving nothing to waste. Sooner had his own bowl of dry dog food with hot dog chunks mixed in, but he begged for scraps anyway.
Eventually, there was nothing left. One by one, they took a big flashlight and some washclothes down to the icy creek to clean themselves up. Gitano had been saying less and less.
Opening the side panel of the van, Mick said, "Got a blanket here fer you. Jane and I normally sleep inside, Ragged and Sooner like camping out on the ground."
"You can climb inside my sleeping bag," Tamster offered.
"Oh come ON, Tam!" said Ragged. "Can you be any more obvious? Why don't you just pull his pants down here and now?"
"We may never meet again," the petite girl replied without taking offense. "We don't have to, you know, do it. But I'd like to cuddle with you, Gitano."
Ten minutes later, everyone had settled down with the understanding that dawn meant getting back on the road. Tamster took her down-filled sleeping bag behind a cluster of birch trees still within earshot of the others. He unlaced his boots and she pulled off her sneakers but otherwise they remained dressed as they wiggled into the bag facing each other.
"I want you to know my real name is Tammy, Tammy Parkinson," she whispered, "They call me 'Tamster,' short for 'Tammy the Hamster,' because I'm so short. I know 'Gitano' is the Spanish word for Gypsy, but what's your real name?"
"All I have is 'Gitano,'" he answered.
"It's enough." She raised her face and started kissing him in a slow, gentle way.
V.
When they heard the rustling in the bushes down by the creek, they both froze motionless. Gitano's left hand was up inside her sweatshirt and he released her breast to sit up.
"Mmm, don't stop," she murmured. "I love your touch."
"Wait, there it is again."
"It's a possum or woodchuck or something, let's get back to smooching."
But Gitano had slid out of the sleeping bag as quickly as if it had been turned upside down to shake him out. His skin was crawling with the prickly tingle he had come to dread. The Midnight War had come to them. Even as he shot to his feet, he saw a misshapen form rushing toward him. Under the crystal light of a starry sky out in the country, it was a dog walking on its hind legs like a man.
Sooner! He knew it. That was no ordinary beast that had stared at him all day.
In an instant, the creature snarled and pounced at him. Gitano planted his feet well apart, drew back his right arm and drove a straight jab into the monster's muzzle. A crackling noise and the stench of burning hair followed, the creature howled and drew back.
A brilliant white cone from a flashlight shone across the clearing from the van. Mick's voice could be heard crying, "Bloody Hell...!"
The unnatural beast growled and charged again. Gitano seized him by the throat with a hand that seemed much larger and sinewy than it had before. In the flash beam, black smoke could be seen rising from the creature's neck. The beast shrieked and struggled, convulsively trying to get free but with no success. There was a soft snapping sound that no one there could ever forget.
The monster fell limply to the ground as Mick and Jane hurried up, pulling on their clothes and stumbling in the effort. "Sooner! Oh my God, Sooner!"
"I don't understand," Jane yelled. "Ragged always took him at least a few miles away when he wanted to hunt. Why would he attack you?"
"That's not Sooner," said Gitano. He flexed his hand as it visibly shrank down to a more normal size.
At their feet, the corpse shuddered, dwindled and became the naked body of the drummer called Ragged. No burn marks had been left on his throat after the transformation.
"He was a shape-shifter," Gitano said. "He blamed the attacks and the killings on Sooner. Did he tell you Sooner was a Skinwalker or something?"
"Yes. Yes he did. He claimed Sooner was under a curse. Once a week or every two weeks, he would take the dog off looking for something to kill. Or someone." Jane wasn't audibly crying but tears made her face wet. "All the time, it was Ragged!"
"You're going to have to report this to police," Gitano said. "No signs of violence on him. I imagine they'll think it was a drug overdose."
"He did like his weed and pills," Mick admitted. "Oh, Ragged, your poor old sod, why couldn't you be honest with us? We'd have helped you somehow."
"I think I'm going into shock," Tamster said. "How can things like that happen? He- he changed shape. I can't understand it."
From out of the darkness, the Great Dane slowly loped toward them. He sniffed at the body, then threw back his head in grief. As the big dog howled, emotional dams broke and everyone began to cry.
7/15/2020