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Stories from the Verse
Con Version
Chapter 123: Brown 326
Table of Contents
Previous chapter: Takano 122
At Monday’s rehearsal, Derek took the time to share what they had discovered. He went into some detail on the information about the vampires.
Lei He looked very nervous.
“What’s wrong, Lei?” Vashti asked.
“A woman was found dead in owa neighbohood,” he said. “Old women say it look like goblin spidah; no blood in body. Mission say, no such thing. But people scayad.”
“It sounds like your vampires are getting an early start,” Pierre suggested.
“What do we do?” Vashti asked. Derek didn’t know. For all that Mister Hunter had written about vampires, he had not included how to find them.
“For the moment,” he said hesitantly, “we gather information. If this is Scratch's work, they’ll come after us soon enough.
The next day as the Band arrived at Missus Johnson’s diner for their lunchtime gig, Derek heard a roar of fury from the back. Bolting forward he ran in and across the open restaurant space that was only just starting to fill with the lunchtime crowd. The clattering of feet of his bandmates behind him, he ran into the kitchen following the yells, and the banging of metal pans. Inside, he saw Hannah Johnson, her cook, and several others using a broom and a large knife and pots and pans to try to brain or shoo about a dozen rats out of the kitchen.
“Quickly, quickly. I get known for having rats, and I’ll lose half my customers in one day,” Missus Johnson said in a forced whisper.
Derek knew the lady kept a clean kitchen so this seemed odd to him. He attempted to reach out to the rats, but the sounds and sights of huge humans trying to kill them were too much for the little rat brains to have a conversation at the same time. Derek gave a low yell, and no one listened to him. He took out his trumpet and pumped out a short, sharp toot.
“Be still,” he ordered, and everyone froze, except for the rats. He then reached out to the one closest to him.
Why are you here?
Ayaiiaaahiaiiahaaiiia!
Calm down, little ratty. Derek tried to extend soothing to the terrified beastie. It paused to look at him, and its shivering began to subside.
Why are you here?
I--do not know. Wait--there was this man. No, not a son of Adam. A follower of the Crooked Man. He told us to come here, and we had to obey him for his voice was like a god.
A figure of a man came to him in his mental sight, a man with a deeply pale skin, sweat on his face, and consuming eyes. Derek rather suspected he was looking at the rat’s memory of one of the Carter Brothers. They were serial killers who had filled their apartment with drained bodies, until an escaped female with bloody wrists had gotten to the police. The malevolent brothers were executed, more than seventy years ago. According to legend, they were still around, and no one knew where their bodies were. Mister Hunter had been practically certain they were vampires. According to his files, these vampires could become rats or bats, but they could also sometimes control them.
Derek paused, and shrugged, and decided his newest idea might work.
“I am a son of Adam, and also I work for the daughter of Eve who owns this place. This place is not for you.”
Can we leave? We won’t come back.
Derek grabbed several slices of bread and walked over to the back screen door. He showed the bread to the rats, who were by now very attentive, and tossed the bread out the back door. The rats all trundled up to him, and passed him in a line while he held the back door open. Once that was done, he closed the door.
“Pied Piper of Hamelin,” Pierre said from the doorway.
“I counted thirteen rats,” Maurice said. Everyone glanced at each other at that point. It was pretty clear that this was not a normal rat problem, or even a strictly malicious rat problem where an enemy dumps rats into your house. No, this was something done by the Powers of Wickedness.
“Get Reverend Ishmael down here to pray over this place,” one of the kitchen girls said. Missus Johnson looked questioningly at Derek.
“I don’t think the rats will be back, but that doesn’t mean you won’t have other attacks. I think bringing the Reverend over here is a good idea.”
The impromptu meeting ended with Missus Johnson clanging a metal spoon against a pot.
“What do I pay you for? Get back to work. Lunch crowd is coming.” Taking their leave, the band went back out into the main room. They began playing, and it was like they were touched by fire. Even as the crowd filled the room and additional chairs were scrounged up the music went on. Winding, twirling, diving, and flying all over the place the music went, and with it was brought joy and tears.
Finally, to everyone’s regret, the music ended. They had played every one of their songs through, and Saints twice. Reverend Ishmael was standing in back, and he led off with a ‘Hallelujah.’ Many others were shouted as well.
“My friends, if you would but wait a moment. I think perhaps Old Mister Scratch wants to stop this good work here, and so the lady of the house has asked me to pray for her house. And so I will do, and for you, and the band, and our great City as well. In just a minute--anyone who wants to leave can.” No one did, and heads were bowed, and the Reverend went on for a few minutes and closed with a simple plea for protection for the diner.
As Derek and his band left, the old Black man who had given him a penny as a lagniappe on his first day came up to him, and spoke.
“Boy, I’se sure glad I was right. You’uns did work hard, and wow, that was a treat. Better’n rock candy. I’d give you something, but my pockets are empty right now.”
“No need,” Vashti said, and bent over and kissed him on the cheek. He laughed, and did a tiny jig.
“I’ll have to tell my missus that. A pretty girl done kissed me.” With smiles, they parted, and the Band wended their way home even as they absorbed the great effort they had made, and the unexpected beauty of the song.
Finally Pierre spoke. “I think that was the power of unity you were talking about, Derek.”
Maurice shook his head. “It was more. Yes, but more. D’ya see?”
Everyone paused in the roadway, and after a moment Derek nodded. His pride and lack of understanding had been getting in the way. Also, the unity that had replaced this made things so much better, but something greater than human had come from his trumpet. A bit of Maurice’s skill and pain with the ‘bone, of Vashti’s precise practice with the ney as a young lady in a rich house, of Pierre’s pure love for Sousa, and of Lei’s groundedness had been mixed in, and added to his playing. He had done nothing strictly impossible, or miraculous, but he also knew he had played better than he ever had before, and not by a short bit either.
“Yes, Maurice, I do see.”
As to the old stories that have long been here:
