Shadows Over Main Street, Volume 2 Page 5
“There’ll be fog soon enough. Best get inside afore you catch a chill, boy.”
I looked around—apart from a few wispy clouds there was only clear sky. But then I saw it—far downstream to the south—a thin bank of light gray, a sharp line across the sky and river, edging closer. John saw me looking and smiled.
“You’ll get to know the ways of the water when you’ve been here as long as I have. Come away in—I’ll get some breakfast for us, then we can get round to what brought you here.”
—
Breakfast proved to be enough pancakes to fill me twice over, more coffee, and another two smokes. It was almost noon before John went to a cupboard in the parlor and brought out a battered old National guitar. The soundbox was tarnished and dulled and the body had been dinged more often than my old truck, but it rang high and clear through the house when he struck an open G major chord. He took a glass bottleneck from his vest pocket and slid into a chugging blues. His voice was deep, but almost as pure as the old National’s as he sang. I recognized it immediately—I felt like I’d already heard it all, in my dreams.
He sleeps with the fish, in the depths far below.
He sleeps with the fish, in the dark.
He dreams where he sleeps as we watch from the shore
And the Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
It sounded like something I’d heard of Leadbelly’s down in New Orleans, but scored for a higher pitched voice—almost as if it was meant for a woman to sing, and not John’s clear, low bass. The old man strained slightly on the higher notes, then, just as I was expecting him to launch into a chorus, started to cough from deep in his chest with a rumble that sounded like something was broken in there.
He waved me away when I tried to help. He stroked the old guitar, gently, then looked up at me.
“Not yet, it seems. Betty will let us know when it’s your time.”
—
John was smiling, but I was frustrated as hell—I’d come for the song—that song—and to hear the snatch of it, then have it taken away, was just going to make my wait that much more unbearable for me. I’m afraid I whined, like a petulant, demanding boy half my actual age.
“What did you mean, time? Who is this Dreaming Lord the song is about? And nearly time for what?” I asked.
To his credit the old man didn’t tell me off for being a brat—he just smiled sadly.
“Questions like that make me thirsty,” the old man said. “Will you join me in a glass or two?”
It was more of an order than a question. Over the next few hours I drank more of his rye but no matter how much I probed, I got nowhere with my questions, either about the song, or the events on the quay in the depths of the night.
“It’s not something I can rightly tell you,” John said. “It’s something you have to see for yourself, something you have to feel.” He put the rye bottle away. “Go for a walk lad, down to the shops and inn by the river. Have a beer—and a good look around. We’ll talk later this evening over dinner.”
“Are you coming?”
“No—I’ve had enough excitement for one day. I need a lie down.”
The old man scratched idly at the back of his hand. Skin flaked off onto the arm of his chair. It was still there as I stood to leave. It caught the light strangely—iridescent, oily. When John left the room I went for a closer look. I had to lift it between my fingers to make sure I wasn’t dreaming, but my first impression had indeed been right—it wasn’t skin at all, but a scale—a rainbow-hued fish scale, as big as my thumbnail.
—
Longdock had definitely seen its best days. It looked to me like a town on a slow but inevitable slide to ruin. The few shops that were open had no customers, just bored staff behind dusty counters in dimly lit stores. The bar in the riverside inn was empty save for a sullen girl behind the counter. I ordered a beer—more rye would have been pushing it that early in the afternoon—and tried to start up a conversation. It proved to be hard work—as if English was her second language and she had to struggle to formulate any kind of reply whatsoever.
The girl scratched idly at the back of her hand and something fell to the countertop. Then I did what John had asked me to—I looked, closely. The countertop, the tables around me, and the area of floor I could see, were all littered with the same kind of large fish scales I had seen John shed in his parlor. The more I looked for them, the more I saw. They lay strewn, discarded, everywhere.
The girl asked if I wanted another beer, but I turned it down—the first tasted dull and lifeless, like the turbid river water that flowed just yards away. As I turned to leave I looked back. She stared after me, still scratching, still shedding scales. In the dim light her eyes looked too large, too bright, and her mouth opened and shut, not speaking, just gulping in air as if it was unnatural to her.
Now that I knew what I was looking for I saw it everywhere along the main street going back to John’s place. Many of the shop attendants had the same blank stares; they flapped their gums but none spoke, just stared with their too-bright, too-large eyes. As I turned my back on them, the singing started, soft and low, like a spiritual sung by a distant choir. The ground underfoot seemed to throb and beat in time, and I felt my senses swim, threatening to send me insensate to the ground.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
I hurried back to the relative safety of John’s kitchen. When he looked into my eyes he didn’t speak, just fetched the rye and two glasses.
—
Over a drink I told the old man what I saw in the inn and through the doors of the shops, and about the singing that had followed me all the way along the road. He did not seem in the slightest surprised.
“He was here before us. Before the Choctaw, too, if the old tales are to be believed,” he said.
“He? You mean there is a person at the bottom of it all?”
The old man laughed.
“At the bottom, yes—but not in the way you mean. The dreaming lord is singing where he lies.”
“The Dreaming Lord? What in blazes does that mean?”
John shrugged.
“He’s a god, of some kind—at least that’s what I think. He’s down there in the river—sleeping, singing—dreaming. And when we go, we go to sing with him.”
It all sounded so matter of fact—simple even, but I was still struggling to understand.
“What do you mean, go?”
“Down to the river to pray,” John said, singing the line, his deep voice raising a sympathetic vibration from the guitars in the other room. “It’s almost my time—it’s almost time for a lot us who have been here for a while. The town is just about spent now. I think we old un’s will all go together.”
“Is that why I’m here? I thought I came for a song but it feels like there’s something bigger going on here. There is, isn’t there? Tell me!”
I was close to whining again, and once again he indulged me more than I would have in his place.
“Oh, you came for a song all right, lad. We all came for a song—it’s in our heads, our hearts, our very bones. But you know that already. You’re one of the choir, aren’t you?”
I felt something open up inside me at his words, as if he’d just led me to a window that I had always been too scared to look through. I couldn’t speak—the guitars in the parlor answered for me, ringing softly, tuned to match the pitch and timbre of John’s voice. I remembered what I’d heard—both here in the house and out in the street.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
I had a sudden urge to sing as the old National—Betty—rang out loud. John looked at me.
“She thinks you’re ready—you look like you’re ready. It’s time you learned why you’re here.”
I fetched my guitar as he picked up the Dobro. The old Martin sounded thin compared
to the National but once I’d got it tuned to open G and followed John’s lead, the two instruments created a sum greater than their parts, an almost orchestral effect amplified by the old timbers of the house and echoing around us.
John launched into the verse I’d heard from him earlier.
He sleeps with the fish, in the depths far below.
He sleeps with the fish, in the dark.
He dreams where he sleeps as we watch from the shore
And the dreaming lord is singing where he lies.
I joined in with the chorus—or at least I started to.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
I felt the floor vibrate underfoot.
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
The whole house shook as the guitars and voices merged into a wall of noise that threatened to deafen me. We were in perfect harmony as we went straight into the second verse—John didn’t have to teach me, it was already there, fully formed in my head, just waiting to be sung.
He dreams of the days when he laughed as he swam,
He dreams with the fish in the dark,
He sleeps and he dreams of the times that will come,
And the Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
Dust fell from the ceiling, glasses tinkled in the cupboards and old John’s own voice faltered. I saw fear and confusion on his face as I brought the chorus to an end on my own, but those emotions were quickly replaced by something else—a calm, serene smile that looked like acceptance.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
The room rang with a final, fading, chord and the house hummed in time then slowly, almost regretfully, went quiet.
John looked at me and nodded.
“As usual, Betty has the right of it. You’re definitely one of us—and it’s nearly time.”
Betty might indeed have it right, but I was still confused. I had my song—I’d got what I came for—but there was more here, something that felt like peace—and home. I wanted more of both—I needed more of both.
“What happens now? Can we sing it again?”
John poured us each another large shot of rye.
“Not yet. But it will be soon—maybe even tonight, if what you tell me you saw downtown is true.”
“And then what?”
John echoed what I’d been thinking moments earlier.
“You’ve got what you came for. You can go any time you like. But just so you know—wherever you go, you’ll always have the song with you—in your head, in your heart—in your bones. It never really leaves us if we leave his side. At least here on the dock we can sit and be with him, sing with him. At least here we have some peace.”
“Peace sounds real nice.” I said—and I meant it. I’d found something here I never even knew I’d been looking for—it scared the hell out of me just about as much as it attracted me—but it was also a damn sight more appealing than shoveling coal. John motioned towards the door. I knew what he was asking. I stayed put.
There was more yet to learn.
—
We spent the evening in small talk. The guitars occasionally joined in if John raised his voice, then, more often as the night went on, started to ring in accompaniment to my own speech, to which John merely smiled and nodded.
After a supper of ham and fries we switched from rye to coffee and smokes on the front porch, watching the sun go down far to the west over the river. As I looked over the quay, I asked again about the events of the night before.
“George got the crap from the rotted timbers in his lungs and went too early,” John said. “Damned shame—especially if the rest of us go tonight.”
“He hasn’t gone to sing with the Dreaming Lord then?” I seemed to be slipping into the same strange modes of speech as the old man—after the rye and coffee it somehow didn’t feel unnatural anymore.
John laughed bitterly.
“No—he died, the old fashioned way—but we put him in the river anyway, just in case.”
The old man went quiet for a while, and darkness fell while we finished the coffee and smokes. I was about to remark on the stillness and silence when John looked up. I was surprised to see tears in his eyes as he whispered:
“It’s time to go.”
I saw that his skin was dry—parched almost—and flaking—more of the same thumbnail sized scales. He picked at one recalcitrant scale and it came away leaving a weeping wound behind—it oozed white, not red, and I smelled fish, not for the first time that evening.
John didn’t seem to notice. He stood. As we went into the kitchen I heard the guitars ring to welcome us. John fetched the National. I moved to get my own instrument but the old man put a hand on my shoulder.
“Old Betty here will do us both just fine. Come and enjoy the show—I can guarantee it’s one you’ll never forget. Besides, you’re in the choir now. There’s singing to be done.”
—
I followed John out onto the quay. It wasn’t long before more folks started to turn up—everyone in the town at a guess. The ones nearest us, on the quay itself, started to sing—some had guitars of their own, others played harmonica, squeeze box, tin flute and fiddle, while some just stamped their feet and sang.
The song built slowly and I joined in as if I’d known it my whole life. I felt the song swell up inside me like a sudden rush of water, and my voice sounded higher and purer than I ever believed possible.
He sleeps with the fish, in the depths far below.
He sleeps with the fish, in the dark.
Only halfway into the first verse and everybody was singing, the guitars were ringing out across the river and the whole quay thrummed and bounced in time. I remembered what John said about the old timbers and hoped they’d stand up to the strain, then everything was forgotten but the swell of the song in my head and in my heart—in my bones.
He dreams where he sleeps as we watch from the shore
And the Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
The air was filled with song, John’s old National ringing loudest and clearest over the top of everything else—singers, instruments, stomping, clapping—the quay had become a church, and John was leading the choir in hymn.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
Out in the river, a god paid heed to his worshipers. The river rose and fell in a swell that perfectly matched the stomping feet and ringing chords. A light, faint at first and almost oily in its sheen, rose up from a hundred yards off shore.
A new voice joined the song—high and ethereal, full of tonal shifts and flurried clusters of quavers providing a backdrop solo to our hymn.
Old John moved beside me and put a hand to my shoulder—his skin glistened now—no longer dry but moist and shining. His mouth opened and gulped air, twice before he spoke, his too-large eyes staring into mine.
“Will you serve?” he asked.
I didn’t have time to stop and answer—the chorus demanded my full attention.
Where he lies, where he lies, where he lies, where he lies,
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
A deep calm filled me up and rose through me, ecstatic in its fervor. I could only look at John and nod—of course I was staying—how could I leave now?
John looked in my eyes and nodded back.
“I knew it as soon as I laid eyes on you. Welcome—choirmaster. The house is yours now—so is Betty, if you’ll have her?” And with that he passed me the old battered National. “Keep the song in your heart and bones—she’ll let you know when it’s your time.”
It didn’t seem proper to just hold her, so I strummed the chords, louder as I got more confident, helping to provide a march—not a funeral march—never that—for John and a dozen others as they walked down off the quay and into a long row boat. I saw two others I rec
ognized—the girl from the bar, still staring, still gulping, and the man from the auto shop—I guessed my truck wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
The song rose to a crescendo as they rowed away. The light out in the river danced and hummed, a shimmering aurora of green and blue and gold, rising up and opening out like great wings of singing light that fell, softly, over the boat and sank back into the water. We reached the end of the hymn, the final chorus fading and echoing down to silence as darkness fell on a quiet river.
The Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
—
I use the National most evenings now as the sun goes down and the Dreaming God sings—Betty rings in the yellow house in a way my own guitar never will, and she makes me feel closer to the old man. It’s a quiet life for the most part. The town is running down slowly into the river—down to the river to pray—and there’s hardly any life of any sort left in us—just the song, ebbing and flowing like the water that goes by, and goes by, and goes by.
I spotted a dry patch of skin on the back of my hand today. It itches like crazy. Someday—not tomorrow, not next week, but someday, I’ll scratch at it, scratch at it and see a clear, rainbow-hued scale flake off.
Maybe if I left here, left Betty, I’d be able to hold it off for a time. But the song would be there—always there, in my head, in my heart, in my bones, and it would bring me back sooner rather than later. I’m guessing the choir is always right where it should be when it’s needed—and a choirmaster is needed more than most.
So for now, I have my smokes, I have my rye, I have old battered Betty—and I have my song. And on a someday, another will come to learn from me, and then I’ll go down to the river to pray and maybe meet John again, in the deep, in the dark, singing with our God.
This is who I am.
He dreams where he sleeps as we watch from the shore
And the Dreaming Lord is singing where he lies.
A GLIMPSE OUTSIDE
Erinn L. Kemper
June 27, 1974. Mason, Alberta, Canada