I entered the shop, and the Goblin at the counter came out to greet me. “Welcome, can I show you anything?”

We were alone in the shop. I looked at his name tag and said, “Hi, Vic, I'm Phil. I usually play a cajon. I’m way out of practice and was never much good on a guitar, but I have an odd question. Can you get a dobro with no steel in it?”

Vic looked at the guitars hanging above him. “Chet Atkins played a resonator with nylon strings. The electronic pickups would have to be piezo. The cover on some of them is wood and the spider and cone could be aluminum. If you went with a biscuit, there might be less problems since that would be wood anyway.”

I said, “I was thinking all acoustic.”

Vic winced, showing teeth. “You’ll probably sacrifice a lot of punch when you go back to nylon. You could probably put together a cigar box guitar that would be fun to play with and experiment, but for performance, not so much. A good luthier could probably give you a better answer, but a really good luthier might take a year or more before they delivered, and they might refuse just ‘cause the project didn’t interest them. Is there a reason why you might want to not have steel in it?”

I said, “I was just thinking Fairies might not like the steel.”

Vic said, “If you’re being silly, I really can’t help you.”

I nodded since that made sense. “What I’m really looking for is contact with some other Goblin musicians.”

Vic shook his head. “Never heard of that kind of music. Sounds wild, do they use a dobro in the bands?”

I reached up and felt my ears. I could tell Vic was a Goblin without looking at the scars on his ears, but sometimes my family would say I didn’t feel like a Goblin. I never let it show that it bothered me, and I never figured out what they meant, but maybe, I really didn’t feel like a Goblin.

I said, “I got my ears altered. I got tired of getting them trimmed.”

Vic looked at me like I was crazy and said, “I think I’m going to have to ask you to leave. Please don’t cause any trouble.”

I shadow stepped to the door and past until I was out of sight then walked back to the shop. I opened the door and looked inside.

Vic looked up from his cell phone and gestured for me to come in. “You a shadow racer?”

I shrugged.

Vic gestured with one hand still and the other like it was zooming past.

I shook my head.

Vic said, “You should be. Your family religious?”

I smiled. “Haven’t been to church for over fifty years, but we kept a Bible handy. My family left me behind, though.”

Vic asked, “Drugs?”

I shook my head. “Just being careful and the old man we lived with needed care, so they left me with him. I’d be back with them, but I didn’t know how to find them. Then things changed and I got involved with the sort of folk my family didn’t want to mix with.”

Vic looked at me suspiciously.

I said, “A Fairy fixed my ears.”

Vic said, “They scared you’re gonna fade to Fairy?”

I nodded. “My experiences so far are pretty mixed. As far as the before and after, I came out good. As far as the ‘Oh, my, I am about to die’ feeling, I went through that a few times. Right now, I’m looking for a group to play some music with.”

Vic said, “Bring your cajon and come back to the shop. I’ll take down a guitar and play with you. It helps pass the time, and sometimes it sells instruments. If someone wants help, I’ll have to get up, but we can play for a bit. I haven’t played with a cajon. I was tempted by them, but our shop is small, and the owner doesn’t usually go for modern experiments. He’s Goblin savvy, but if he comes in, don’t bring it up.”

I nodded and shadow stepped back to get my old cajon. I felt nervous at the thought of taking a brand new instrument into a music store.

I sat and mostly listened. Vic didn’t play anything I knew, and he didn’t know anything I played. Since all I had was my voice, crate, penny whistle, triangle, and shaker, I couldn’t teach him the harmonies and songs I grew up with. I kind of gave up on the band idea as Vic played. I might be able to play the triangle with another group, but I’d started out copying Randal on the bongos, and he had just pulled his bongos out of a trashcan minutes before the trashcan would have been dumped.

Don’t get me wrong, I’d listened to other music and copied things I’d heard. I didn’t think I was talentless, but a genius at playing a waltz might not be what a hard rock band was looking for.

I mostly just listened and added a gentle rhythm when he played. I softly tapped some of the more complex rhythms I had, just to remember playing with my family. Thinking about it, Jordan said I could visit. I was tempted.

A man in the shop, took a bass guitar down from the wall, and plugged it in. “Phil, is it?”

I nodded.

He looked at the crate I was sitting on and stuck his hand out. “This is my shop. I’m Mr. Gibbs. The rhythm you were just playing, can you start over with it?

We shook hands then sat and improvised together. He did that sort of lean in towards each other thing guitarists do when they’re enjoying playing with another person.

Mr. Gibbs got a pair of bottles from the vending machine and gave me root beer. He looked me in the eye and asked, “You a Goblin?”

“What gave me away?”

Mr. Gibbs said, “Vic texted me, but it's obvious when you know what to look for. The foot in shadow when I came up, and you’re playing on a wooden box that looks like someone had seen a cajon and managed to do a damn good job of making one. You have rhythms that feel old and classic, yet you innovate on them like you—Well, I have to thank you for coming in and letting me play with you. I feel like I got to glimpse a way that folk music or rock could have gone, but never did and probably should have.”

I smiled, thinking I might have a chance with a band after all.

Mr. Gibbs asked, “Do you need any money?”

I was surprised by the question, and I guess it showed.

He shook his head. “Don’t take it wrong and don’t let pride get in the way. Everyone can use some help from time to time. But this would be pay for work. I would love to record a few jam sessions with you.” He pulled out a business card, wrote an address on the back, and handed it to me.

I didn’t really need the money, but I thought my family could probably use a bit. There were always expenses, so I took the card and said, “I think I might enjoy it.”

#

Uncle Anthony said, “You might want to reconsider this. If Mr. Gibbs has connections, they might take your rhythms, and you end up with chump change. You have a unique sort of edge to your playing. Kind of like the early jazz back when the rhythms flowed and shifted. You could end up hearing your own music and wondering why you gave it away.”

I said, “I’m a Goblin. No way I can go public. Little kid that never gets old? Then, after I skip out, everyone thinks I look just like that famous kid. Eventually, I get found out, and some rich guy cuts me up to try to find the secret of immortality. For me, the best I can get is a handful of cash for playing in a studio. If I get ripped off, that just means I was good enough to be worth robbing.”

#

I’d expected a studio with sound equipment. Instead, a stage was set up just inside an open hangar at what used to be a private airport. The runway had seen better days, and there were cement tables and benches on it, so no planes would be landing anytime soon.

Mr. Gibbs waved me over as soon as he saw me. “Phil, we have a cooler with drinks in it and a big thermos of lemonade fresh squeezed this morning.”

They also had a keg of beer he hadn’t mentioned, but despite me being old enough in years, I didn’t look old enough to drink, and a lot of folks might have issue with me drinking.

I walked over to where Vic was serving and got some lemonade.

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I gestured with my cup to the tables on the runway. “Is there going to be an audience?”

Vic shook his head. “We have crab and crawfish boils here from time to time, but our Sunday jam’s just for musicians. You should go ahead and put your bag down by the stage. No one will be playing for another thirty minutes.”

I walked over to the stage and stood there not knowing what to do. If I kept carrying my huge square bag around, I’d look odd. I’d look silly carrying around my cajon, and since I was shorter than anyone here, my sitting down on it was going to be the sort of thing folks noticed. Everyone else was being trusting and leaving their equipment by the stage, but no way was I going to just leave my cajon somewhere.

I got up on the stage, took it out of the bag, sat on it, and started playing softly. Just a slow comforting rhythm. A calm steady heartbeat with a few throbs thrown in for variety.

I hadn’t wanted to draw attention, but I’d already done it. The speakers made a few electronic noises as Mr. Gibbs connected and moved around a few microphones. A kid got on stage and went to the double bass that’d been sitting on the stage along with some chairs and microphone stands.

I did a double take. The boy tuning the double bass was another Goblin, so there were going to be three of us on stage. The Goblin on the double bass was good—No, he wasn’t just good, he was brilliant.

He paused for a moment and gestured for me to move closer. I picked up my cajon and put it where he pointed, and I sat close to him and we played. Mr. Gibbs ran over and moved some mikes around.

In my family, Hugo played the bass and was a great player. He got into the groove when playing and made it work. This fellow I was playing with on the stage was a genius. He played the groove perfectly, adding taps on the face of his bass and wove in melodies and flourishes of movement.

I was so into the moment I hadn’t noticed the bottleneck guitar music come in until a measure of the music had slid by. Slowly, the sound shifted from deep counter rhythms to deep, dark creepy resonance that spoke of Spanish moss covered trees and things that hid in the dark. Since the bass player and I were both on the list of those comfortable in scant light, we welcomed the shift in the music.

The bass player was softly echoing the dark tone and turning the feel of slowly gliding over dark water into a visceral, lower, and uneven glide over the deep, dark water below. I took my shaker in hand and added a rattlesnake sort of threat where it felt right and tapped a simple slow heartbeat sound to add to the feeling that you might have taken a wrong turn at the last cypress.

This wasn’t the lively gotta move sort of music I usually backed up, but my long habit of joining in soft and exploring the feel before adding my touch to the tune let me blend in easily. Odd how I felt lost playing with Vic and felt at home with these two. I opened my eyes and looked at the other four musicians on the stage.

Mr. Gibbs had his guitar slung in front of him ready to play, but his hands were on the mixer in front of him.

Vic had his eyes closed, and he slowly moved his head as the music flowed. The three other musicians just watched. A man with a saxophone met my eyes and smiled at me. I nodded to him. I think he took that as a cue to come in, so he lifted his sax and started in with a slow, low wandering wail that faded out before the next faltering, but perfect, note came in. The feeling of gently paddling an overloaded boat with the water scant inches from flowing in and something large moving in the deep water below came to mind as he played.

He explored a few variations then stopped playing. The guitarist finished the line he was playing, and that left me and the bass player who echoed the guitarist’s last phrase a few times and stopped. I gave one last rattle with my shaker and slowly faded out the heartbeat, sped it up a moment unevenly, then let the sound drift away.

My part in this had been simple. Not much more than a sort of double pat on the cajon and an occasional shake of the shaker. But I was happy to have been part of it.

The double bass player nodded to me. “Call me Gumbo Dan, everyone else does.”

My feeling about the name must have shown. He explained, “Years back, I was with a group talking about what sort of nickname we wanted. I said, ‘As long as we avoid trite names like Gumbo Dan, we’ll be okay.’ The name stuck with me. I even thought I had left it behind, but an old friend showed up and used it. I have given up fighting about it.”

I said, “I’m Phil. I don’t know if I even want a nickname.”

The slide guitarist said, “Pleased to meet you, I-Don’t-Know-Phil. They call me Overkill Jones. I rather like it, but I don’t know where they got Jones from or overkill. My name’s Jake. I hope the recording’s good, ‘cause I want to hear it again.”

The sax player and the slide guitarist got up, so I had a chance to talk with the double bass player. “Your family live near hear?”

Gumbo Dan pointed to the microphone Mr. Gibbs had put in front of my cajon then put his finger in front of his lips to indicate our conversation might be recorded.

I nodded and gestured to the table with the lemonade on it. “Join me for some lemonade?”

He got up and carefully placed his bass in its stand. We walked off the stage to get fresh drinks.

He looked around and poured a drink. “My family got rounded up in the seventies, I think. How about you?”

I said, “I had some encounters with a few interesting folk. My family’s more than a bit skittish, so they fled and left me. I have an invitation to visit but not to stay.”

He winced. “Harsh that. Getting abandoned twice. What sort of interesting folk?”

I took the drink he handed me. “Well, for one thing, I got abducted by Fairies. They probably think I’m gonna fade to Fairy and don’t want to be dragged in with me.”

He asked, “You plan to visit Fairy anytime soon?”

I cocked my head. “Maybe. If you find a nice one, they have been known to be kind to musicians. But I can’t even see them, so that might not be the most sensible plan.”

A couple of the other musicians came up to us so our conversation died.

Odd thing about music, sometimes it flows like it was meant to be. Other times, it’s nice but not a revelation. The music that followed was nice. Maybe it was the full set of drums being played, and maybe it was just a magic moment that was over, but when I added in with the triangle or shaker or cajon, I felt like it was a contribution and the music was good, but I didn’t feel that lean in sort of jam feeling.

The drummer smiled at me, and we worked well together, but there was no magic. He was the big-toothed handsome sort of surfer guy women fell for. When I explored an odd rhythm, he backed me up, but I didn’t want to take over the music and make it all about me, so it was more easy listening than stuff that made you want to get up and dance.

The sax player had to leave early, the slide guitarist gave me a nod and pointed like he wanted to jam with me again. I smiled but he turned and left. Mr. Gibbs was talking with the group gathered around the keg and Vic was serving, so I started packing my cajon up. It was late and clouds had rolled in, making for one of those hard travel nights where you used the street lights as best you could.

I looked over at Gumbo Dan, and he nodded to me. “Looks like we might have to get a ride or wait it out in shadow.”

I shook my head. “The way they’re going after the beer, none of them should be driving, and we probably shouldn’t wait.”

He looked at his huge double bass and shook his head. I could tell he didn’t want to slog home with partial light on a night that was looking like rain.

I asked, “Is there someone close that would bring us to them if we summoned them?”

He gave me a hard look then softened it. “You aren’t joking, are you?”

“Nope. It’s the only magic I know, but I can manage it if you think whoever I called wouldn’t get too creeped out.”

He thought about it for a while and looked at the group around the beer keg. “Normally, I can sneak off and take to the shadows. This sucks. By the way, my name really is Dan, and I really hope the recording of that first piece was good. Sometimes, problems with the sound happen, and it all comes out muddy.

I said, “I might be able to take us somewhere. Let me try.” I summoned Mr. Hebert. “Roland Hebert, Phil the Fishmonger summons thee.”

Mr. Hebert answered, “Phil, I was worried when I checked the weather.”

I said, “I have a double bass player with me that might need a place to stay the night.”

Mr. Hebert asked, “Can I have a look at him first?”

I connected so he could see the surroundings. Mr. Hebert said, “Bring him in. The storm is looking worse where you are.”

I put my bag over my shoulder. “Dan, hold onto my hand and hug your bass.”

When we were ready, Mr. Hebert brought us through.

I introduced Dan, “Mr. Hebert, this is Dan, Dan this is Mr. Hebert.”

Mr. Hebert asked, “Dan, do you need to use a phone?”

He said, “No, no one’s going to be worried about me.” He gave me a look.

Mr. Hebert asked “Is anyone hungry?”

“Starving,” I said.

I set my bag down and noticed Dan’s nervousness. “Dan, no one will take it amiss if you keep your bass with you. You just met us.”

He nodded but he left his bass beside my cajon.

In the kitchen, I started cutting vegetables while Mr. Hebert dug around in the freezer.

Mr. Hebert called to me, “Phil, we’re going to need to stock up on lamb soon.”

I stopped chopping and made a note on the whiteboard so we didn’t forget.

Uncle Anthony came in and nodded to me as he went to the sink to wash dried clay off his hands. “Phil, we either need to move your clay room to a sink or get a sink in your clay room.”

I said, “Dan, this is Uncle Anthony, Uncle Anthony, this is Dan, the best double bass player I’ve ever heard. You won’t even believe what he can do on a double bass.”

Uncle Anthony hung up the kitchen towel and shook hands with Dan. “I look forward to hearing you play. So, Phil, I met a fellow when I was out on a walk. He wanted to make sure there were no hard feelings about you getting stuck in a tree. Before he moved here, he had a place up in Maryland where he had some issues with wild boys. Between you and me, I think the long years have made him a bit paranoid, but I would advise anyone traveling in the neighborhood to stick to the streets and not venture too far off into shadow.”

Dan asked, “Is this a nice house in a bad neighborhood?”

Mr. Hebert came in with a package of ground lamb. “This neighborhood has a lot of Daemons. A lot of nice houses, with rich neighbors that trade out every twenty years or so. I hold onto this place, but I’ll probably be moving again in another few years. Phil, how do you feel about moving to Vermont for twenty years or so?”

I kept chopping. “I’ve only been out of Louisiana the one time, but it sounds fun. Snow and all. Is this enough onions?”

Mr. Hebert asked, “Dan, do you like onions?”

Dan said, “Looking forward to whatever you’re making and thanking you for the meal.”

Mr. Hebert nodded to me, and I grabbed a couple more onions to chop.

Dan rubbed his head. “You know, I was always told to avoid Daemons.”

Uncle Anthony said. “Really good advice, in my opinion. I mostly do, but I was out on a walk and couldn’t just shadow step away. When a Daemon’s leaning over a hedge and has a shotgun with him, I try not to look too alarmed and keep everything friendly.”

Mr. Hebert took down the large wok. I smiled at Dan. “You’re in luck, Dan. Mr. Hebert spent years in China. His stir fry’s amazing.”

Mr. Hebert gestured to Uncle Anthony. “Can you show Dan to his room while we cook? Dan, I ordered a bunch of clothing for Phil that was too big for him. We washed it all, hoping it might shrink but it didn’t. Some of it will probably fit you, so you’re welcome to it if it suits you.”

Uncle Anthony asked, “Is it the stuff in the hall cabinets?”

I said, “Yeah. Later, I’ll check my closet. I have a suit that will probably fit him.”

Dan followed Uncle Anthony. “Are all of you always so generous?”

Uncle Anthony said, “More desperately lonely than generous. We aren’t too proud to buy friends as long as they stay bought.”

After they were gone, Mr. Hebert asked, “No pressure, but do you think he’d work out for a traveling band?”

I shrugged. “Just met him. He’s more than good enough, but I barely know him.”

Mr. Hebert said, “Just checking. Don’t press or pressure him about Fairies. If it works out, great, but I would rather make friends. You know me. Always plotting and then regretting my wicked plans.”

I nodded.