The Night Marchers and Other Strange Tales Read Free

He was new age before there even was any new age. Music of the Spheres, is what they call it. Pretty far out philosophy. Complicated stuff.” 
    “Try me.” 
    “Okay, for starters, it was the dominant worldview before the renaissance. As in what everyone believed in as to the nature of everything. The big thing was sacred intervals. Had to do with the space between the planets, and some sort of correlation to the space between everything. You ever see those books where they show telescope pictures of far out galaxies side by side with pictures of cells under microscopes and they look the same?” 
    “Nope.” 
    “Of course not, you’re some punk-ass kid and this is Nineteen Ninety-nine. Don’t feel bad, I only know ’cause I’m so into the Shepherd. You know I do the jazz show Sundays, midnight to four on WNGO?” 
    “The kid told me.” 
    “Right on. All right then, check this out.” 
    He fumbled through a box of video cassettes under the counter, then went over to the VCR beneath the wall-mounted TV and took out the Sarah McLachlan video and put another in. The screen filled with a full brass orchestra assembled in the Hollywood Bowl. 
    Noah Sol stood before them in long, colorful robes and what looked like a cheap foil crown. He conducted, danced, babbled, and played his piano. The players were out of their chairs, some dancing solo, trance-like, and others marching off the stage, and into the crowd. It was wild.  
    “You dig it?” 
    “Yeah,” I said. “Not what I expected,” I admitted. “But it’s cool.” 
    “You into jazz, taking a class, or what?” he asked. 
    “Research, honestly. Helping out a friend.” 
    “Right on. Okay, okay, here’s one more fucked up thing about him, then. Sol claimed to be working on a song based on the sacred intervals that would bring about the end of the world. The rumor among Music of the Spheres purists is that such an end-all song is possible, but the debate is whether it would lead to the end of the world or a gateway to a new reality.” 
    “Is it real?” 
    “Stupid question—we’re still here. But he did die before he could complete it, so who knows? Supposedly his old players have resurrected the ensemble and are still working on it. But that’s all bullshit.” 
    I wandered out of the store and into the street feeling dazed. It was all bullshit like the guy had said, but I still had a bad feeling. 
    I phoned Jack’s place. One of his roommates told me he had left hours earlier with his guitar. Of course. I knew where he was going. I headed towards Tenth. 
    **** 
    Saint Robinson was a tiny side street right at the base of the Meat Packing district where renovated warehouses, now chic and trendy lounges and eateries, mingled with meat and fish distribution centers. 55 was an old walk-up plastered with faded paper flyers advertising shows and parties with dates long past. I went up the steps and found the front door unlocked and ajar. Then I heard the music. 
    A soprano sax played a whispering refrain, like a bird waking up in the dark of night. You could hear the darkness, and the bird singing despite it. Roger. Congas moved the beat beneath, and then I realized dozens of other instruments had joined in, their simple parts together forming a complicated whole. I walked inside. 
    The front room was packed with black music stands and folding tables. Notebooks covered the tables. Musical scores. Star charts. All annotated in a wild, flowing scrawl in a language I did not recognize. The music was louder, more layered, but I couldn’t figure out where it was coming from. 
    I cut through the room and into the kitchen. Two construction workers, who looked like they had just come off work sat at the table, strumming guitars. Their playing was sloppy, but they were intensely focused and didn’t bother to look up at me. As I realized their amateur chops somehow fit into the song, the bad feeling I’d been carrying around began to vibrate